Rule number 6: Keep your friends close and your weapons closer.
It occurs to me that I’ve been remiss in clearly communicating just what fresh hell the world has been plunged into. Well, tough shit. I’m learning as I go, same as you. One thing I can let you in on is just how bad this is. A quarter of the world’s population died in the first week. Men, women, children, it didn’t discriminate. The process was short: the infected begins to have short, shallow breathing followed by intense chest pain. The body loses all tactile sense as numbness spreads to even the fingertips. Next the vision falters and the infected is prone to extreme nausea coupled with dizziness. Then finally, death. All of this in the space of a few, painful hours. The cause of death was, always and without fail, pulmonary haemorrhage.
Drowning in their own blood, the victim sputters the dark red liquid from every orifice available. The result was the skin around the thoracic cavity and nearby areas took on a purple-ish hue like a giant bruise. Not long after, one third of those unaffected began their transformation into the mindless, violent, glow-in-the-dark assholes you see before you today. They thought they were the lucky ones. The universe has a funny way of messing with fortune. The rest of us? Well, we’re just…waiting, I guess. Now I hear you saying, “Aren’t they just zombies? This is basically every gamer’s wet dream.” I wish it was that easy, my sweet, summer child. Trust me when I say this: zombies would have been simpler to deal with. One deep look into their eyes and one can still sometimes recognise a dull sparkle of intelligence lurking behind them. Those are the dangerous ones. They’re Aberrant. And we’re about to crash land into one of them.
The initial excitement of clearing the jump wears off very fast as we speedily approach the ground. It seems that in my haste I forgot to account for the landing. Our current trajectory is going to take us to land atop one of them. The smart one. The Duchess’ right arm flashes forward and something flies towards its head, glinting in the light of a nearby lamppost. So it was a knife after all. Only to seek home in the skull of another Bright standing in the same position the Aberrant was a moment ago. The tires of the bike land square in its chest and the force of the impact pummels it into the pavement. Now, I’m no medical professional but I do believe we just shattered every rib in its body. Not to mention the other less important but equally pulverised organs. If any of the Brights around us are surprised by our sudden, and somewhat barbaric, arrival they do a very good job of concealing it.
We’ve “landed” within a small circle of them, three buildings away from the main congregation under the dangling figure on our left. We’re close enough now to make out the figure’s thin, wiry frame. And just in time to watch helplessly as his hands grasp for the pole that is increasingly beyond his reach. His fall happens in slow, excruciating motion. I can trace every millisecond of it with my eyes. His long black coat flaps softly in the air as his body plummets like a rock. Almost at the end of his descent, his body is swallowed up by the mass of bodies and I’m saved from witnessing the gruesome aftermath. But I can hear it. The sickening crunch when the body makes contact with rigid ground and must yield to a superior force. He’s not dead though; a fall from that height isn’t enough to kill him. However it is enough to cripple him and stifle any hope of his getting away. My chest clenches itself as the next few seconds unfold in appalling real time. Brights waste no time rushing the scene, swarming like ants to a dropped morsel. Soundless as ever. His screams echo into the night, propagated by indifferent winds. They always go for the skull first.
Mouth agape, a horrified wail is lodged in my throat. I find myself unable to even blink. Through the slightly darkened visor of the helmet whose sides are closing in on me at breakneck speeds, I look on helplessly. Viewing them from behind, one could try to accept that they were normal people, albeit dishevelled and shabbily dressed,. Perhaps they could even be reasoned with. But, like I said earlier, normal is a concept far removed from our present circumstances. Normal is a baby bird stolen heartlessly from its nest and upon reintroduction is shunned by the inhabitants of the very nest from whence it came. Foreign. Lost in my own reveries, it escapes my attention that, much like the fallen, we too are bounded on all sides by these creatures.
I’ve landed us right in the lion’s den for nothing. There are five in close proximity to us, including the elusive Aberrant, with eyes locked solely unto us. Their quick, jerky movements towards us snap me back into focus. The Aberrant doesn’t make a move. Out of the corner of my eye, I perceive more movement. The Duchess kicks down at Cassie’s side and reaches down with practised ease to pull up a most formidable weapon; an inscribed axe. Its hickory handle, curved like a collarbone, is just a few centimetres longer than her forearm and the axe head has been sharpened many times. First a Duchess, now a Viking? Who is this girl? Gripped in one gloved hand and directing her noble steed, Cassie, with the other, she performs a feat even the greatest mounted knights would commend. The Duchess whips Cassie around in a crescent shape as she swings the axe at our oncoming foes. Brights go for the head, the Duchess goes for the knees. In seconds, she’s shattered each of their patellas and watches with what I can only assume is satisfaction as their legs buckle under them. She’s opened up a path for us.
That is when the Aberrant makes its move. Straight for me. As if it was waiting for this chance all along. With as much agility as a wounded gazelle, it leaps at me. It’s nowhere near graceful but it gets the job done. It grabs a hold of one of my legs and looks up at me with those eyes that whisper of something else, beyond savagery, as if to mock me. Its weathered and beaten face, framed by a shaggy, brown beard, stare back at me before I twist sharply in my seat to bring my other leg to strike its sides. It doesn’t flinch. I raise my free leg with a frantic energy once more to repeatedly bash its face in with the heel of my runners. On the third hit, its grip falters and the Duchess begins to ride down the path she created. On the fifth, it lets go completely and the Duchess speeds up.
The Duchess doesn’t say a word as we weave in and out of the city’s myriad of streets and roads. She doesn’t need to. I know she must be vexed that I risked both our lives in a stunt like that. A stunt that ended fruitlessly and almost doomed us to the same fate. Every corner we turn leads us to another cohort of the same bloodthirsty creatures. In the city they rule. They are endless. Over time, the tall, metal and glass amalgams in our view are replaced by grasslands and suburban disquietude as we travel Westwards. The number of abandoned cars on the motorway increase the farther away from the city we get. I purposely avert my gaze from their interiors. I know exactly what I’ll find in there. Chasing us, the first rays of the morning sun are beginning to make themselves known like proof of a great watchful eye.
“Are you still alive back there, princess?” She asks with what I think is a hint of concern. I must be imagining things.
“Last time I checked, yes.” I feel for several parts of my body just to be sure. “Are you saying you’d miss me if I wasn’t?” I tease.
“You can still make jokes, you must be fine.” She isn’t baited that easily.
“They couldn’t harm even a hair on my beautiful head.” I reply with as much bravado as I can muster right now.
“Good.”
The word hangs in the air between us for a while. Good. It’s a nice word. It’s been a while since I could use it and mean it.
“This whole ‘princess’ thing isn’t working for me. You can call me L.J.” I pause to allow her a reply. She doesn’t.
“So what’s your real name? I can’t just keep calling you the Duchess you know.” Silence once more. Is my voice annoying or something?
I let out a quiet wince to myself. I was lying before. On my calf is a shallow gash about four centimetres long bleeding under the cover of my grey cargo pants. Conclusion: I’ve been scratched.
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