Deadcore: 4 Hardcore Zombie Novellas Part 22

They ran across the roof of the jailhouse, slipping on the snow, the jikininki following their progress on the ground, stumbling to keep up.

They dropped down on the south edge, collapsing in the snow and pulling themselves up as the army of jikininki came lumbering like a single, ma.s.sive creature across the courtyard.

Rushing through, Sadahiko and Minoru turned and pushed the ponderous gate closed as Dog picked up the tsukub and kept watch.

The gate slammed shut and Minoru fitted the key in as it began to thud from the impact of the bodies colliding on the other side.

"Go, young master!" Minoru shouted. "My jikininki won't wait long."

Dog and Sadahiko ran, turning south, slipping and crashing in the powder in their haste.

Dog marveled that the old man had survived. What this crazed killer had done to deserve the protection of karma he didn't know.

Sadahiko's eyes swept the courtyard lanes and the dark doorway of the guardhouse almost hopefully. His heart was racing. He could almost feel every drop of blood that coursed through his limbs. The air in his stinging lungs was pure as a wind from heaven. He was more alive than he'd ever been. Tonight he was not the dispa.s.sionate slaughterer his father had called him in his final hours. Tried in glorious battle, he had cut down scores of men like a storied warrior.

Dog was the first to reach the gate. He could see the sky paling over the treetops through the arrow slits.

He turned, and watched Sadahiko looking all around as he approached.

Dog was alive, and more, there was life ahead of him. His family's village lay no more than a few minutes further down the road. And past that? Across the sea? No. Across the ocean, maybe. Somehow. To Chgoku, Kankoku, anywhere. He was going to get the h.e.l.l out of j.a.pan. He didn't understand what was happening in this prison. Maybe somehow the G.o.ds existed, and all the tainted blood of his eta ancestors, of all the people who had bowed down to this government of slaughter and death had sown the ground with some evil and the jikininki were the shoots breaking the killing grounds to tear down the shogun and the bakufu and the weakling emperor, the unavoidable fist of gou. Maybe this world was ending as Minoru said and the start of it all had been born here tonight, b.l.o.o.d.y and screaming and white eyed.

Whatever.

He didn't want to be Red Dog anymore. He didn't want to live in madness and death. He swore if he could find a way, he would leave this land behind him forever. There had to be a place where no one had ever heard of eta.

Sadahiko handed him the keys. With supreme satisfaction, he unlocked the gate crank housing and put his all into lowering the drawbridge.

Sadahiko paced back and forth before the gate, staring up the way they'd come. Surely this wasn't the end. Surely there was more death to be dealt, more cutting to be done. But the night was ending. Even now the east gleamed brightly as the wavy hamon on the face of j.a.panese steel.

"Where is that old man?" he said aloud, giving voice to his annoyance.

"I don't care," said Dog, panting at the wheel, yet blessing the fire in his arms and the wonderful clanking of the drawbridge lowering. "I'm done. Finished. I'm getting the h.e.l.l out of here."

Sadahiko breathed in the cool morning air.

The drawbridge thundered onto the far bank of the moat beyond the heavy gate doors. Dog locked it into place, feeling its final settling reverberate through his bones, through his heart. He ran to throw up the heavy bar. As he stopped to raise it, they both heard the unearthly flute.

It was so still. As still as it had been at twilight, when the newly fallen snow had m.u.f.fled the earth. Even the riotous sounds of the jikininki were suspiciously absent. Maybe the light of dawn had put an end to them. Maybe such things could not thrive beneath the sun.

Then they saw Minoru walking across the courtyard toward them, playing his flute.

Behind him, the entirety of the cannibal dead marched, as if in a Shinto procession.

Sadahiko's lips parted, but he said nothing. Did Minoru truly hold some sway over these creatures?

When the creatures saw Sadahiko and Dog at the far end of the compound, they began to howl and groan as they had before.

Minoru kept up his pace and his playing, even as the things all around him limped past hurriedly.

Dog heaved the bar off the gate and let it crash to the ground. He pushed with all his strength, swinging the heavy doors wide and rushing out onto the drawbridge.

Halfway across he stopped.

Against the sky he saw the dark silhouettes of the crucified dead, still lashed to their execution frames, flanking the path, the bakufu's visual deterrent to the would-be criminals and upstarts who might dare to oppose the shogun's edicts.

They were twitching and rocking on their crosses.

They began to moan.

He stared, horrified. Then he saw the others.

There was a ma.s.s of dark figures moving slowly beneath the trees on the far bank of the moat, lining the road that led to the river.

Dog dropped to one knee and sat down heavily.

Behind him, Sadahiko backed onto the drawbridge, staring.

"Minoru!" he screamed. "What's happening?"

Minoru stopped playing his flute. He was weeping. He raised his arms, the sleeves falling back to his shoulders.

His spindly, s.h.i.t-mottled arms were red, perforated over every inch with bite marks and coursing blood, the white bones exposed in some places where the fatty flesh had been eaten away.

"You're welcome, my children!" he called in a breaking voice. "You're welcome! I love you!"

His voice dwindled as the mindless creatures pa.s.sed him by. Sadahiko could almost imagine he saw Minoru's bulbous eyes clouding white.

Sadahiko stood over Dog's shoulder, gripping his sword with both hands, ready to die fighting.

"Eta or no," he said to Dog. "We will die together as warriors. As samurai."

"What?" said Dog distractedly, watching the dark figures approaching from the far bank. He turned away and looked up at Sadahiko. He didn't want to see their faces.

"Tonight, you and I fought with distinction. Those we slew will attest to that in the next life."

Dog chuckled.

"The next life? You d.a.m.ned samurai, always looking for honor in slaughter," Dog smirked. "We may as well have been mowing gra.s.s. They didn't fight us, we fought them. Feh! It doesn't matter."

He shook his head and put his hands over his ears and closed his eyes, tired.

"You're an idiot, corpse cutter," he muttered.

The drawbridge underneath them shook with the march of the jikininki.

ZOMBIE SAFARI.

by Ben Cheetham.

Ben Cheetham's short fiction has won awards and been published in numerous magazines and anthologies in the UK, US and Australia. Most recently Voice From the Planet (published by Harvard Square Editions) and Fast Forward: The Mix Tape, A Collection of Flash Fiction. He's a 2010 Pushcart Prize nominee. He's recently completed his first novel-a dark psychological tale touching on themes such as the corrupting power of money, grief, love, infidelity, schizophrenia, murder and end-of-the-world paranoia-for which he's currently seeking representation. Sometimes he thinks a zombie apocalypse would change his life for the better.

Day One.

We got up at six a.m. and packed our gear into the boat. I took my APR Single Shot hunting handgun and my Safari 850 rifle. The APR has proven itself over many years as the handgun of choice for serious hunters-shot by seven of the top ten compet.i.tors at the International PZH (Pro Zombie Hunter) Championships last year. It's the only gun in its cla.s.s to have twice broken the world record for one shot knockdowns at 550 metres. Last year, on a trip to the South Western Reserve, I made a 450 metre shot. Luckily Tommy was with me otherwise no one would've believed it.

I firmly believe there's no finer hunting handgun on the planet than the APR Single Shot. Of course, Bob reckons that's a load of c.r.a.p. He maintains that the F-33 Contender is the superior pistol. Now don't get me wrong, in terms of versatility and user friendliness in the field the F-33 is unmatched by any other handgun. If it's accuracy and proven long range performance you're looking for, though, the APR comes out on top every time.

When it comes to rifles, Bob and me are in complete agreement. For anyone who prides themselves on using only the best then the Safari 850 must be the rifle of choice. Power, reliability, beauty-the Safari 850 truly has it all. The only reason Bob doesn't own one is because he can't afford to. Mine belonged to my dad. I inherited it when he went missing in the Southern Reserve last July. He didn't have his Safari 850 with him because it was in the workshop for repairs to its walnut stock.

By 9 a.m. the sun was already hot and we were well on our way to Robertson Island. Tommy and Jim were waiting for us on a shingle beach on the south side of the island. Both looked tired. Tommy especially seemed strung-out. He complained that they were being worked too hard.

Robertson Island was uninhabited until last February and its new residents are still struggling to a.s.sert their dominance over nature. Flash-flooding and infestations of caterpillars have decimated their crops. Their fresh-water well has been contaminated by salt.w.a.ter. And a bush-fire burnt their biodiesel processor to the ground. Worst of all, though, a flesh-eater somehow managed to find its way onto the island and the first anyone knew about it was when it took a bite out of a kid walking his dog.

Jim is Tommy's cousin and only living relative. Most people mistake them for brothers because they look so alike, but any similarities begin and end there. You see what a man's really about when you're in a tight spot with him, and you can take it from me that Tommy's a crack-shot, but liable to panic if it comes to a fight at close-quarters. Jim, on the other hand, can't shoot for s.h.i.t, but doesn't mind getting his hands dirty. In fact, I'm beginning to think he enjoys it a bit too much, if you know what I mean.

Personally, I get twitchy if there's much less than half a mile between me and a flesh-eater. I've seen close up what one of those things can do if it gets its teeth into you. It can get real messy. If you've ever seen video footage of a lion chowing-down on a zebra, you'll know what I'm talking about.

That's why I always hunt with Bob, because he never rattles no matter how up close and personal things get. If I had to describe him in a word I'd say consistent. Bob would be the first to admit that I'm capable of making an occasional shot he couldn't make in his dreams, but he'd also point out that if it came down to say five rounds of ten shots at under 300 metres he'd come out on top nine times out of ten. That's partly because, as my dad always used to tell me, I've got the attention span of a flea and partly because in some ways I'm more like Tommy than I'd care to admit.

As the boat motored across the bay towards the mainland, I turned to Tommy. "What did you go for?" I asked, glancing enquiringly at his holstered rifle.

"The 550 Custom Deluxe."

"Can I?"

"Go ahead."

I took the rifle out and ran my finger down the cold hammer-forged barrel to the bolt. "Jesus, that's nice."

"The bolt's machined from a single forging, there are no weldings."

I examined the rifle's handcrafted rosewood stock. "Beautiful."

Tommy grinned, pleased by my approval. "I can knock a fly off a wall at a hundred paces with it."

Jim scoffed. "We aren't gonna be shooting any flies. Take a look at this." He unzipped his kit-bag and took out an SMG (Sub Machine Gun) that looked very similar to an Uzi.

"What's its rpm?" I asked.

"640 at full tilt. This little beauty'll cut one of those f.u.c.kers in two."

"Tell him what else you've got," said Tommy.

Jim grinned. "Only the best automatic rifle in existence."

"M-16," I said.

"Did you hear that?" laughed Jim. "Mikey thinks the M-16 is better than the AK-47."

"You've got a Kalashnikov," I said, impressed.

Jim's grin reached from ear to ear as he took out the weapon. "Say hola to the AK-47 Kalashnikov a.s.sault Rifle," he announced as proudly as if he was showing off his firstborn. "First developed in World War Two for the Soviet army, it subsequently became the most popular automatic weapon worldwide. Gas-operated, highly-reliable and-"

"It can't hit s.h.i.t beyond three hundred metres," interrupted Tommy.

"Who cares? Where's the fun in using one of those?" Jim jerked his chin at Tommy's rifle. "I like to see the look in their eyes as the bullets go in."

"I can see Cutshaw," Bob called from the front of the boat. I eased up on the accelerator and guided us into the pier.

Bob threw out the mooring-rope and Cutshaw secured the boat while we gathered up our gear. Cutshaw nodded at me as I stepped onto the pier. We stood in silence as the others clambered out of the boat. I knew better than to try and get any conversation out of Cutshaw. Like anyone who spends a lot of time on the reserves, he's a silent, morose man. He's also the best guide in the business-cool, calm, and absolutely collected. I sometimes think if you sliced him open you'd find wires inside him. Dad introduced him to me on my first hunting trip with the words, "Be nice to this man, son. One day he might save your life."

I disliked Cutshaw straight away. I don't like him much better now, but I respect him. I haven't got a clue what he thinks about me or, for that matter, anybody else. I can't remember him ever expressing an opinion on anything other than hunting. And I've never known him to be wrong. I swear, if there was a single stone out of place on his patch he'd know about it.

We slung our packs into the back of the HMMWV (p.r.o.nounced hum-vee). Cutshaw climbed the ladder beside the gate and scoped the landscape for flesh-eaters while we settled into our seats. His Labrador dog, Franz, jumped on me and licked my face. I ruffled his fur, laughing. They say dogs grow alike to their masters, but in Franz's case the opposite seems to be true. Every time we meet he seems more affectionate while Cutshaw seems more aloof.

Jim wrinkled his nose in disgust. "How can you let that thing lick your face like that? He was probably licking his b.a.l.l.s before we got here."

"Franz is a good boy, aren't you," I said, scratching behind his ears.

"Aww man, he's getting a hardon."

"Mikey or the dog?" put in Bob.

"You're just jealous," I said, and I meant it. Franz was a relentless tracker and, if need be, a ferocious bodyguard. My dad once said, "I swear, that dog's nose has eyes." Whoever Franz favoured was likely to bag the best trophies of the trip.

We fell silent as the gate slid open. I knew there was no danger because the land had been cleared and flattened for half a mile, but even so my hand dropped to the grip of my Beretta 92FS. Bob fingered the hammer of his Magnum Revolver. We glanced at each other and a shudder of excitement pa.s.sed between us. The mood heightened as Cutshaw got into the Humvee and drove through the gate. My mouth was dry, my stomach was fluttering and I felt light-headed. This may not sound like a particularly enjoyable mixture of sensations, but believe me you quickly grow to like, even crave it. Anyone who's hunted dangerous game knows what I'm talking about. The surge of adrenaline coupled with the sense of normal duty being suspended is a heady mixture.

Suddenly I couldn't help but grin. I knew without having to look at the others that all of them-except Cutshaw-were grinning like Cheshire cats too. As the Humvee rumbled along, Franz settled down at my side with his head on my lap. I felt the tension drain out of my body, secure in the knowledge that for the next three weeks I'd be doing what I liked best in the world with the people I liked best.

"Has there been any action today?" asked Bob.

"No," replied Cutshaw, succinct as ever.

"I heard there was some trouble over in the Southern Reserve," said Tommy. When Cutshaw nodded, he continued, "It's true then, three hunters and their guide were eaten."