Stepping
out from the somber, dark green of the woods, Sgt. Olaf VanVanderson casually
slung his shotgun over one shoulder, pulled the brim of his straw cowboy hat
down low on his forehead, and surveyed the surrounding farmland. He was a tall
man, standing near seven feet in height, with a shock of flame red hair and a
short-cropped beard that darkened towards a brownish hue. The light blue
camouflage of his tattered N.A.T.O. uniform stretched tight across his broad
chest, and the sleeves were rolled up, revealing thickly corded arms that led
to hands strong enough to snap a man’s neck with a simple twist.
With smoldering blue eyes, Olaf VanVanderson
made a quick assessment of the perimeter. A small, single-story farmhouse sat
alone at the base of a tall hill, its windows un-boarded and the front door
hanging lazily adjacent on a single hinge. The fact that the windows were
un-boarded was a good sign that the place was uninhabited…at least by the
living. A short thirty feet from the house, at the base of the hill was a barn
large enough to house a tractor or truck, and a good half a mile farther down a
dirt road was a smaller tin structure, a chicken-coop perhaps or maybe even a
slaughter house.
Olaf knew they were there. He could feel the small
hairs of his neck standing up…he could feel the hungry gaze of dead eyes
watching him. Pulling a cheroot cigar from his front pocket, he fumbled for
some matches, lit the cigar and then took another step out into the open.
Inhaling deeply of the sweet tobacco, he fingered the hilt of his machete in
anticipation. He had long ago named the three-and-a-half foot long blade of
razor-sharp steel, Hrunting, after the epic hero Beowulf’s sword. Hrunting had
saved him in many a tight situation, and in most cases where he only faced a
few or more dead, the blade was necessary in preserving the precious ammo he
needed for his shotgun.
Pensively, Olaf blew a smoke ring out and
watched it dissipate lazily away. Then the moment he was waiting for happened.
The front door to the house lurched crookedly open on its one hinge, and the
door to the barn swung open. There were two of them, and by the thick droves of
flies swarming their bodies, Olaf deduced they had been a long time dead. The
corpse of a skinny farmer in loose coveralls came from the barn, stumbling
clumsily with jerked movements, like a marionette puppet in a children’s show.
Olaf could see the dead, yellow eyes fixed upon him, eyes hungry for a meal of
living meat. From the house came the torpid, shuffling figure of a short,
bloated housewife in a white dress and a pink apron. Her hair was a hoary heap
piled atop her head in beehive fashion, and her skin was peeling away in strips
like rotten wallpaper. The zombies’ skin was a sickly blue-green, and when they
moved Olaf could hear their bones and limbs, stiff with rigor mortus, creaking
with every step. As the housewife made her way down the porch steps, the
croaking of fetid gasses escaped from her rotten body, and the Nordic soldier
was reminded to get his scarf out and tie it around his nose and mouth. If
there was one thing he hated most about the undead it was their stench.
Setting his shotgun down with his backpack,
the tall warrior stepped out across the farmyard towards his foe, his black
boots leaving muddy imprints in the wet grass. He decided to take care of the
old farmer first. With rigid arms the zombie held his hands out, as most did,
seeking to tear into the flesh of the living, but Olaf knew better than to get
within the creature’s grasp. He had seen many a man fall who had underestimated
the primal strength of the dead, but even more so he was cautious of the long,
black nails that grew out from the zombie’s green fingers. The nails of the
undead continued to grow, long after their natural lives ended, and Olaf had
also seen many men die from the myriad of infections it was possible to catch
even from the smallest of scratches from those filthy nails.
With a wolf grin, Olaf pounced upon his
target. Kicking the old farmer square in the chest, he sent the body flying
like a rag doll a good six feet back. Running upon his now fallen foe, he swung
Hrunting down in a great, glistening arc, and with one motion sent the head of
the corpse a good ten feet where it thudded against an old fashioned pump-well
and landed in a small, wooden bucket.
A hole in one! The steely warrior praised
himself before turning towards the tortoise-like movements of the old
housewife. As she sluggishly waddled towards him, her mouth agape, revealing
jagged, blackened teeth, Olaf stopped to tie one of his boot strings. After
making sure the boot was tight with a double-knot, he stood and made quick work
of the fat, little zombie. With a couple of swift strides he ran around her
side to her back, and before her rotten brain could make sense of his
disappearance, he decapitated the corpse’s head with a single vicious swing of
Hrunting. Like a fallen prizefighter, her body slumped straight down. Tearing
the apron off her body, Olaf used the pink fabric to wipe his blade clean.
Returning to his backpack, the warrior pulled his scarf down and contemplated
his find.
Aside from the two inhabitants of the farm,
he doubted there was another walking dead for miles around. The nearest town,
Clearwater, was over fifty miles away and it had been reduced to ashes by a
rogue paramilitary unit over two years ago. Still, if he was going to stay here
for any amount of time he needed to take precautions. Olaf was a soldier by
trade, and the thrill of battle was in his blood…he wasn’t a man who liked to
settle down and stay in any one place for a long amount of time. But this was
the find of a lifetime. With a good perimeter of claymores on the dirt road
leading to the farm, and some flash-bangs spread throughout the woods, he could
kick his boots off and relax for a short little holiday.
Looking forward to what he might find in the
house and the barn, Olaf began work on securing the surrounding acre against
surprise intruders. Dead or living, he was prepared for both, but the truth was
he preferred the dead. Sure, the creatures were gruesome to look upon, and
often the mere smell of their steaming rotten bodies made him retch, but the
dead couldn’t pull a trigger. Emptying out his backpack he counted his supply
of explosives: four claymore mines, five grenades, and a bag of twenty
flash-bangs. Aside from those he had a carton of thirty shot-gun shells left,
as well as a box of 9mm rounds, even though he had no 9mm gun. Any ammunition
he could find he kept, as the stuff was the most valuable commodity at any
survivalist trading post.
It took him over an hour, but sitting down on
the high front porch of the farmhouse Olaf was satisfied. Two mines were set to
go off if anything man-sized or larger came down the road; and the surrounding
woodlands behind the house and behind the barn were littered with flash-bangs.
Several grenades and the rest of the flash-bangs were rigged along the
wood-line facing the house, and in the front yard he had one more claymore
rigged with a long line of trip-wire.
The corpse of the farmer he sat against a
tree-stump by the side of the road, and the housewife he had put a good twenty
feet back in the woodlands behind the house. A strange thing about the undead
was they tended to keep away from unanimated corpses…bodies that had their
brains damaged enough to cease movement. The undead only had a taste for the
living, and the odd repulsion they had towards the real dead worked towards the
survivalist’s advantage. Many communities of the living lined their walls with
corpses staked to posts or hanging from the trees. Regardless of this fact, the
grizzled veteran knew that wandering bands of ten-to-fifty undead could often
sense a living man from miles away, and a few rotting scarecrows wouldn’t keep
them away. There were enough traps set up that he could now relax and get to
the important business of exploring the old house and the barn.
First he went to the barn. Pushing the great
wooden door back he let out a bellowing laugh of joy at what he found. There,
in fine condition was a three-wheeled John Deer tractor. Behind it was a long,
four-wheeled cart big enough to tow a car on. Against one side of the barn was
a wooden shelf lined with a myriad of mechanical tools, and spread throughout
the barn were the other tools necessary for keeping the farm in shape. There
was everything here from shovels to rakes to a propane blowtorch and an
electric table saw. Olaf VanVanderson realized that if he could get any of this
to a settlement he was going to be richer than his wildest dreams.
Rushing through the barn, he tossed oil rags, rakes, shovels, and various
flotsam aside, looking for the most important thing of all. Then, when he saw
the twin, brick red barrels marked diesel fuel he let out another deep,
rumbling laugh. Both barrels were full, and with this much gasoline he could
drive the tractor all the way to what was left of New York if he wanted.
Shutting the barn door and latching the simple lock into place, he took an
extra precaution and rigged a grenade to go off if it was forced open more than
a foot.
The inside of the house was in much better
shape than he thought it would be. The undead housewife had been using a
comfort-chair to sit in for the past few years; its cushions were covered in
dried body fluids and a dozen or so maggots. Setting his supplies down, Olaf
easily hefted the chair up and tossed it out into the front yard. The remainder
of the house was relatively clean save the thick blanket of dust that had
settled down over everything. He found two bedrooms fully furnished with beds,
dressers and closets, and the third room was an office.
He decided to start in the kitchen. He figured he was bound to find
preservatives, and he was right. He had hit the gold mine. Rows upon rows of
canned peaches, apples, and pears lined several bottom shelves and in a small
side pantry canned vegetables were stocked in a bountiful supply. He didn’t
open the refrigerator, as there was bound to be rotten food inside, but went
through the rest of the upper kitchen shelves. There was a decent supply of
flour and wheat, nibbled on here and there, but otherwise relatively untouched
by the mice.
When he opened the last shelf there was a
sudden flurry of yellow fur as a hissing cat sprang out through the air. He
barely had time to duck as small, clawed paws swiped at his face. The cat hit
the ground and sprang for the living room and Olaf sat back grabbing his chest.
He cursed the furry creature, and considered the irony if the thing had given
him a heart attack.
Chuckling, he looked in the cupboard the cat
had jumped out of and found a small supply of bagged cat food. One bag had been
toppled over and chewed through. Grabbing a can of peaches and a fork from the
silver-ware drawer, Olaf wondered if the cat had sensed anything wrong with its
owners. In his mind he could see the zombie of the little old housewife sitting
in her recliner day after day, while the cat came and sat in her lap, wondering
why the old woman no longer stroked its back.
The peaches were damn good. After eating the
juicy sliced halves he drank down every last drop of the sugary syrup and
licked his fingers clean. Then he went through the rest of the house. He found
a good supply of clothes and piled them in groups. One group for pants, one for
shirts, underwear and so forth. The clothes alone would make for good trading
in the markets.
In the top of a closet in the second bedroom he found a hunting rifle.
Handling the weapon as if it were made of
crystal he praised the gods of his ancestors at the find. It was a Winchester
Model 70 Classic, Super Grade. The old farmer definitely knew his guns. The
weapon was 338 caliber, with a barrel length of 28 inches and a 3 mile Tasco
scope. It was worth its weight in gold. With a rifle like this Olaf could take
a man or zombie out with one shot from miles away. Raising the weapon to eye
level, he pointed it out the window and adjusted the scope. A large hill of
woods rose up behind the house, and focusing in on the top of the trees he
caught a blue-jay in his sights. Lowering the weapon he squinted to find the
bird, but couldn’t see it. It had to be over two miles away.
Searching higher in the closet he found
several boxes of 338 ammo and a small cleaning kit for the rifle. Then he went
to the office. There he found stacks of old newspapers, national geographic
magazines and hunting magazines. Sitting back in the leather chair at the desk,
he helped himself to one of the old farmer’s pipes, a time-browned meerschaum.
The tobacco in a large green-glass jar on the desk was a little dry, but
surprisingly good. Lighting a match he inhaled deeply of the smoke and kicked
his boots up on the desk. The old man and his wife must have lived good lives
up here in the woods. He wondered what had finally done them in. Perhaps one of
them died of natural causes, and then when the corpse rose back to life it had
frightened the other to death.
Reaching down, Olaf grabbed the top, yellow
newspaper on the pile. It was dated March 25, 2012, and the headlines read,
“Walking Dead Still Attack. N.A.T.O. To Help and U.S. Troops Recalled From
Middle East.”
Reports from London to Beijing
confirm what we have already experienced here in the United States. What
scientists speculate might be the result of electromagnetic pulses from outer
space, the corpses of the dead have risen back to life and apparently seek only
one thing: to kill and eat the flesh of the living. President O’Brian has
declared a nation wide state of emergency and the National Guard has been
called up to help with the extermination of the reanimated corpses. It has been
discovered that these “walking dead”, as they have been dubbed, can be stopped
by trauma to the brain. A single bullet to the head, or a blow strong enough to
crush the skull stops the creatures.
An immediate curfew orders that everyone stay indoors until the National Guard
secures your area. It seems that in the northernmost countries, the climate is
such that the frozen ground keeps the walking dead from rising as easily as
they do here in the U.S., and so Icelandic and Norwegian N.A.T.O. troops have
been sent into New York City to assist with the crises there. Likewise,
Northern Russia has sent troops to assist in Britain, France, and Germany.
All American troops that can disengage with the Arabic Alliance in the Middle
East will be brought back to the U.S. as soon as possible. Though the resulting
pullback will likely lead to the loss of Jerusalem to the A.A. troops, the
President feels that the need for help in fighting the plague of walking dead
in our homeland is too great.
Wadding the paper up and throwing it across
the room, Olaf pulled his straw hat off and ran his fingers through his hair.
It was hard to believe that he had been in the U.S. for two years now. He
wondered how things were going at home, but he had no desire to return to
Norway. As a young boy, his grandfather had told him stories of their Viking
ancestors, and of the days when men lived by the strength of the sword. He
remembered how he wished he could go back in time and join the ax and shield
armed reavers in their plundering of the weak men of the south. Now he was
living that dream. In New York he had lost his entire unit, and with the
collapse of Washington D.C., the whole United States had fallen into anarchy.
The country was his for the taking and all he had to do was fight the undead,
crazies, and murderous pirates who competed against him and the other
survivalists. He even had a dream of plotting out his own piece of land one day
and settling down with a wife, but that dream was a long time off. For now
there were still too many undead left to kill and too much loot left to be
taken.
Rising from the desk he walked over to a hat
rack and noticed a clean, white, wide-brimmed Stetson with a band of braided
leather and sterling silver disks. Putting the hat on, he turned and looked
into a mirror hanging on the wall. The old man knew his hats, just like he knew
his guns.
That night Olaf brought a bed down from the
second bedroom and set it up in the living room. He went back out to the barn,
disarmed his grenade trap, and found what he needed to fix the broken hinge of
the front house door. After making sure every window was locked, the side
kitchen door was bolted shut, and the front door was locked, he lit some
candles he had found in the kitchen, and selected a book from a dusty shelf in
the living room. It was a Louis L’Amore book, “Passin’ Through”, and soon Olaf
found himself completely immerged in the western classic. After an hour, the
rumbling of his stomach forced him off of the comfort of the bed and he went
back into the kitchen. He selected a few cans of tinned tuna, a jar of preserved
carrots and a jar of preserved beets. Looking farther back in the cupboards he
found half a bottle of vodka and a fifth of whiskey.
After his feast Olaf kicked his boots off,
blew out the candles and settled down with the bottle of vodka. He had
positioned the bed so his feet were facing the front door, and all he needed to
do was raise his head to look out the front window. He nursed the bottle away
in the dark, his pump-action, short-barrel shotgun on his left side, and
Hrunting on the other.
It took him less than fifteen minutes to
finish the vodka. It had been a long time since he had slept on a bed, and the
thick mattress combined with the liquor gave him the sense he was floating in a
billowing white cloud. Dropping the empty bottle over the bedside, Olaf
VanVanderson fell into a deep, alchohol laced slumber, his snores rumbling like
the ominous promise of a distant storm.
Morning came in bright, golden beams that cut
through the windows and forced Olaf to awaken. Growling with the temperament of
a bear awoken from hibernation, he rose from the bed, stripped himself of his
clothing and with Hrunting in one hand walked naked out into the front yard. At
the well he gave himself a bath of cold, fresh water, and then shook his
flame-red hair dry. Stepping further down in the yard he stopped in the middle
of the half-acre, raised Hrunting up towards the clear, blue sky and gave out a
long, mighty yell. Birds rose startled from the trees as Olaf bellowed his deep
cry, and when he finished he smiled upon the land surrounding him. The thought
came to him that this would be a fine place to retire, but he knew he was still
far too young and too full of wonderlust to succumb to such thinking.
The feel of the morning sun and the gentle
breeze upon his nude body was pleasant, so Olaf strutted about the yard,
swinging Hrunting in mock battle. The thick blade whistled as he whirled it
about in a figure eight, decapitating imaginary undead that swarmed him by the
dozens. After finishing the undead he faced a crazed enemy warrior who gripped
a wooden baseball bat with nails driven through the end. The phantom foe swung
his bat in a great arc, aiming for Olaf’s head, but with deft footwork that
belied his size, the Nordic warrior stepped out of the bat’s range and then
rushed in, skewering his opponent through the neck.
After stomping about the yard, Olaf went back
into the house and plopped down on the bed. Looking out the front doorway he
decided it would be a good day to hunt, and the prospect of fresh meat caused
his stomach to growl ravenously. He could tell by the already warm sun it was
going to be hot out, so after putting on his pants and boots he decided to go
shirtless.
Slinging the Winchester 70 over his shoulder,
he stuffed a box of 338 rounds in a cargo pocket and sheathed Hrunting by his
side. Leaving through the side kitchen door he went behind the house and
started picking his way cautiously through the flash-bang traps. Soon he was
halfway up the great hill that overlooked the farmstead, and looking back he
could see the wooden slate roof of the house and the tin top of the barn.
Looking further down the road, he saw the small metal shed he had first noticed
when coming upon the farm, and he made a mental note to go investigate it later
in the day.
Trudging up the consistent slant of the hill
was tiring, but Olaf used the close proximity of slender birch trees to his
advantage by grabbing one after the other to help pull himself up. Before long
he found himself on the top of the hill in a large clearing of short, yellow
grass and small boulders. Sitting down atop the largest of the boulders he
looked out over the hill and woods. A mile away he could see where the woodland
ended and the wheat fields began. Beyond several miles of wheat fields was the
dirt road that eventually led to the farmhouse, and farther down from the dirt
road was a grassy, overrun highway that led to the city.
Squinting his eyes, he thought he saw a cloud
of dust and something moving nearer in the distance on the old highway. Raising
the rifle he adjusted the scope until he could see clearly. Olaf’s heart sunk
in his chest as he focused in on a large group of humans creeping across the
horizon. The convoy consisted of around twenty to thirty savage looking men and
women wearing anything from military fatigues to simple furs, and armed mostly
with makeshift spears, swords, and axes…weapons likely made of car scraps from
along the highways. A few of the barbaric looking travelers carried rusty
rifles, and several more looked to have pistols slung at their sides.
At the head of this motley group rode a
perversely obese black man on a motorcycle, wearing nothing save a tattered
loincloth and a purple football helmet. He carried a long, metallic lance
against his shoulder that rose a good ten feet in the air and was tipped with a
human skull. At the very end of the caravan came a black van with tinted
windows. Banners of human skulls rose from the van, and adjusting the scope
Olaf cursed the gods. A red “X” marked the center of each human skull…the
widely adopted symbol of a large cannibal cult called “The Fisher of Men.” Such
groups scavenged the wastelands like most other humans, but these were not welcome
in the survivalist camps.
The history of this particular cannibal
movement in American was an interesting tale, something Olaf had heard about
around the late night campfires of several different survivalist groups.
Several years after the collapse of the American government, a crazed but
charismatic preacher named Matthew Mohannus, started a bizarre occult that was
half Southern Baptist and half cannibalistic. The new religion was called “The
Fishers of Men,” and their creed was simple…to spread the gospel of cannibalism
and Christianity. It was said that when they captured a victim they gave them
the choice, to either eat of the flesh and blood of another human and become a
convert, or to become a living sacrifice of themselves unto God.
Olaf hoped that the group would bypass the
dirt road and continue down the highway, and so he stood patiently watching
them through the long-distance scope. Olaf himself remembered how the top tin
roof of the barn was barely visible from the highway, and how a single glint of
metal flashing in the sunlight caught his attention. At first it seemed the
motley troop was passing by the dirt road without notice, but then the obese
black on the motorcycle stopped and pointed his lance directly towards the barn.
The others stopped and looked and then took up behind him as he turned his
vehicle onto the dirt road.
Cursing the foul luck that had befallen him,
Olaf jumped off of the boulder and picked his way back down the hill. He had
been looking forward to a relaxing vacation of hunting and then resting back at
the house, but now he had to prepare for an imminent battle with a mob of
crazed, cannibalistic occultists. At the speed they were traveling, he
estimated it would take them a good thirty minutes to reach the farm. At least
he had plenty of time to formulate a plan.
Once he made it to the house, Olaf opened
another can of tinned peaches, and sitting on the front porch he slurped down
the tasty slices while musing over his possibilities. Hand to hand combat had
always been his preference, so he could hole up in the house and deal with them
as they came in…but there were too many of them for that. Besides, he had to
take into account that those he killed with non-head wounds would arise as
walking dead within the hour. Then he remembered the precious weapon he had
found, the rifle. If he could find a perch in a high tree, or possibly on the
barn roof, he could pick them off from a half-mile down the road where it
turned in a straight line leading to the farmhouse. He knew their kind. With
them there would be no discussion, no negotiating, it was simply going to be
kill or be killed.
Finishing the peach juices in one long gulp,
he let out a burp of satisfaction and wiped his beard with his scarf. Pulling
his newfound cowboyhat down over his brow he set to the business of preparing
for his incoming guests.
Twenty minutes later, Olaf lay on the upper slant of the tin barn roof, his
rifle pointed towards the point half a mile down where the dirt road turned
towards the farmhouse. At his side rested several detonation switches for the
claymore mines, and a pile of ammunition, both for the rifle and for his
shotgun.
Using a large piece of cardboard and a can of
black spray paint found in the barn he had made a warning sign and placed it at
the beginning of the roadway to the farmhouse. It simple read, “Intruders will
be shot.” Now all he had to do was wait, and see if the incoming group paid
heed to the warning.
Several moments later he heard the deep
rumbling of an automobile and then he saw the van slowly turning the corner
towards the farmhouse. The fat man on the motorcycle was no longer in the lead.
The van doors were open, and the windows were rolled down, and walking behind
each of the van doors, using them as shields, were two men with rifles. The
tint of the windows on the vehicle was so dark, Olaf couldn’t make out the
driver, but regardless, he knew where the driver was. He waited until the van
rolled slowly past the warning sign, pulled the Stetson up some from his
forehead, and then took aim through the scope. He fired two consecutive shots
at the right front window, in the general area where the driver would be
sitting. Instead of penetrating the front windshield, the bullets ricochet off
the glass, leaving small shattering marks of impact. What is it with my damn
luck? ,Olaf thought, how could such a group of worthless dogs get a hold
of bulletproof glass?
Taking sight again through the scopes, Olaf
aimed at the front right tire and fired. The sound of the blowout seemed to
startle the men walking by the van, and with a second shot, he took out the
other tire. The vehicle slowed down considerably, but continued inching forward
on its flattened tires. Now the men had decided to fire back and were taking
pot shots at the top of the barn. Most of the firing was hitting down near the
base of the barn, but a few rounds came within several feet of where Olaf’s
face peeked over the top. Taking careful aim through his scope and trying to
remain calm, Olaf waited patiently until a head bobbed up from one of the
rolled-down windows. He squeezed the trigger and was gratified to see a spray
of red mist from his target and then the crumpling of a body under the open van
door.
Pulling his head back behind the top ridge of
tin, Olaf waited a second. A part of him hoped they would now pull back after
realizing he was serious about defending the farm, but the other part knew
their kind, and knew that they would fight until every man lay dead. Looking
over again through the scope of the Winchester he wasn’t surprised to see the
van still plodding along on its flattened tires. It was a good quarter way down
the road to the barn, and roughly fifty feet from where he had set up the first
claymore. They were still taking occasional pot shots at the barn, but he
decided to conserve ammunition and wait for them to get within range of the
explosive.
After it was apparent he had ceased firing,
more figures on foot darted from the corner of the road and ran up behind the
van. Smiling, Olaf watched as the vehicle came within ten feet of the claymore.
He had buried the mine face up in the road, and then had covered the front
plate with a thin layer of dirt. A white birch tree to the right marked where
he had placed the device. Waiting, he watched the van slowly roll over the
mine, and right when he deduced the fuel tank must be above it, he pressed down
on the detonation box.
A searing explosion tore through the road,
shaking Olaf on his perch atop the barn. Pieces of smoking metal landed in the
yard, and a few small pieces landed mere feet from him on the barn roof. With a
smug look of approval on his face, he looked at the wreckage that was left of
the van. Various bloody and charred body parts lay scattered amidst the burning
frame and surrounding wreckage…it looked like he had hit the vehicle’s fuel
tank square on. Through the smoke that surrounded the wreckage he could see
more figures running around and shouting. Then there was a long period of
silence.
Pulling a cheroot cigar from his front
pocket, Olaf searched for matches and then lit up. Laying his head down against
the tin roof he listened, but heard nothing. Hopefully the claymore had knocked
the fight out of them…and if it hadn’t then there was the next one, fifteen
feet up the road, and the other at the entrance to the farmyard. Raising his
head above the roofline he peered through the scope. Gray, billowing clouds of
smoke still obfuscated the roadway, and he could see no one moving about.
Taking a deep drag on the cheroot, Olaf considered the possibility that they
actually had given up the assault already.
Removing his hat and using his scarf to wipe
the beaded line of sweat off of his brow, Olaf froze in place as the sound of
flashbangs and then the louder explosion of a grenade trap ripped through the
woods lining the front yard. Turning on his back and grabbing his automatic
shotgun, he waited for the smoke from the grenade to clear. As the cloud
dissipated he saw that several bodies lay mangled across the yard. A moment
later four men burst from the tree-line, around the very spot he himself had
first entered yesterday morning.
Three of the men had shaved heads and wore
simple clothes of tattered fur and straps of leather and carried various crude
weapons of bent and sharpened chrome. The third wore military fatigues and his
long, greasy hair was braided in small bones. He carried a small pistol of some
sort and when he spotted Olaf on the roof he started firing. Ignoring the pings
of the bullets against the tin roof, Olaf casually stood and took careful aim
with the shotgun. The blast took the man in fatigues square in the chest and
sent him flying several feet back. The others hesitated and then one of them
yelled something at the others and pointed down the road at the wrecked van.
Olaf turned to see the gargantuan negro with
the purple football helmet, standing a few feet in the road before the
smoldering ruin of the van and hoisting a mini-rocket launcher on his shoulder.
Even has he jumped from the roof towards the yard, the rifle in one hand and
his shotgun in the other, Olaf could hear the hissing of the rocket as it
ignited and launched towards the barn. The explosion caught him in midair and a
deafening wave of heat propelled him fifty feet across the yard towards the
tree line. The last thing he remembered seeing was a large oak rushing at him
before he was knocked into black insensibility.
A thousand little devils banged an abominable
red song inside Olaf’s cranium, the blinding rhythm of pain dragging him out of
unconsciousness. Opening his eyes he saw that it was night, and he lay in a
great heap of leaves and broken branches, his body mostly covered by the
foliage. Now he realized that there was an actual drum somewhere in the
distance banging out a primitive beat that intermingled with wild whoops and
yells of bacchantic revelry.
Sitting up, Olaf grimaced in pain, and to his
surprise found the only injuries he had sustained from the blast were a few
bruised ribs and a large knot on the side of his head. After the explosion the
cannibals must have searched for him, but luckily the fallen brush had covered
his unconscious body. Having given up on looking for their adversary, the group
had most likely written him off as dead and were now holding celebration.
Searching about in the dark, the Nordic warrior found his rifle and shotgun,
both undamaged save a few scratches.
Taking Hrunting from its sheath at his side,
Olaf cut his shirt into strips and managed to wrap a makeshift bandage tightly
around his middle. Searching his cargo pockets he found only a handful of
shotgun shells, the rest of his ammunition having been lost in the blast.
Noticing something white under the leaves, he pulled out the Stetson, its brim
smudged but otherwise in decent shape. Pulling the hat over his fiery mess of
hair, Olaf filled the automatic shotgun with the rest of the cartridges, and
then with Hrunting in the other hand set out to crash his visitor’s party.
A small bonfire had been built in the middle
of the farmhouse yard, and a ghastly barbeque was in the works as several human
torsos roasted slowly above the flames on a great wooden spit. The ten
survivors of the assault on the farmhouse rolled about on the grass in various
stages of undress, participating fervently in a drunken orgy. Sitting on the
porch, like some Neanderthal king on his throne, the stupendous figure of their
black leader struck up a heathen syncopation upon a great wooden and human skin
drum.
Olaf burst from the woods like a rabid wolf,
his teeth bared in a mirthless grin and his eyes blazing a demonic blue. The
first five fell like saplings before the swing of his broad machete, their
blood splattered in random patterns across his rock-chiseled chest. The rest of
the cannibals formed a line between the sudden assailant and their leader,
brandishing a variety of weapons. A small man wearing tight leather pants
raised a long-barreled shotgun at Olaf, but the Nordic soldier was quicker to
the trigger. With the boom of his weapon the small man’s head exploded like a
pumpkin, showering his companions in red gore.
Screaming like a banshee, a wild-haired woman
with a naked torso covered in woad tattoos, ran at Olaf with a long wooden
spear, the tip of which was a jagged chrome shard. With savage speed she thrust
the spear at the Nord’s face, but with a single deft movement he used the
shotgun to bat the spear aside and then skewered the woman through her stomach
on Hrunting’s long blade. The next three men dropped their weapons and bolted
from Olaf like rabbits before the hound. He took two down with two consecutive
blasts from the shotgun, and then threw Hrunting at the third. The blade
whirled end over end a good ten feet, the red of the firelight flashing off of
the spinning steel, and the man fell screaming in the dirt, Hrunting buried to
the hilt in his back.
Putting a boot on the fallen man’s shoulder,
Olaf pulled the machete out and looked about the yard. There was no sign of the
leader, and then he heard the sound of the front door to the house banging
shut. Olaf crouched down behind the four-foot high bricking of the well and
waited. If the man inside had a gun or any ammo left for the rocket launcher,
then surely he would have fired out into the yard by now. Holding the shotgun
ready for any sudden action, Olaf waited patiently, like a hunter stalking his
prey.
After ten minutes, and no sound from within,
Olaf knew that the man wasn’t planning on coming out. To charge in that front
door or through a window would be suicide, and Olaf had too much tactical savvy
for such a move. Cursing the filthy cannibals for their intrusion, the warrior
scuttled over to the fire and picked up the largest burning branch he could
find. Keeping low and watching the windows for any sign of movement, he made
his way up to ten feet away from the house and then hurled the flaming piece of
wood with as much strength as he could muster. After the breaking glass, there
was a great cry of surprise from within and smiling to himself Olaf ran back to
the well.
It took mere seconds for the curtains and the
living room to spring into flames. Soon thick, black rolls of smoke began
pouring from the broken window and Olaf knew that it would only be a matter of
moments before the gargantuan leader of the raiders would be forced out. Sure
enough, the front door to the house flew open and with a great billowing of
smoke the huge black, still wearing nothing save a small loincloth and a purple
football helmet, came coughing down the steps.
Seeing that the man’s only weapon was a great
wooden club tipped with a human skull, Olaf drew Hrunting out and ran to meet
his foe.
Letting out a mighty battle-cry Olaf swung Hrunting down in a glistening arc
towards the fat man’s shoulder, and with surprising dexterity for such an obese
frame, the black raised his club and parried the blow. Olaf’s blade sunk and
was stuck in the wood of the club, and with another surprisingly deft move the
man raised a leg as thick as a tree trunk and kicked Olaf square in the
stomach. Olaf staggered back and bent forward, held down by the shock of a blow
so powerful it felt as if he had been hit by a truck. Trying to keep from
passing out from the pain, the Nordic warrior looked up in time to see the
massive giant rush at him and raise another thickly obese leg in a great round
kick. Olaf tried to duck, but the shin of the black’s leg caught him against
the shoulder and the Nord thought he heard his shoulder blade crack.
Falling to the ground he tried to raise the
arm that was hit, but found it wouldn’t move. As Olaf looked up he saw an
immense, black foot descending like a great boulder towards his skull. He
twisted his whole body in a wild roll to the side and the foot barely missed
him and sank with the power of the impact into the soft dirt. Taking advantage
of his position, Olaf shot a hand up between the black’s legs and gripping with
all his strength twisted the prize he found there. A great howl of agony came
out from the purple football helmet, and standing to his feet, Olaf kept his
grip and twisted even harder.
His opponent’s hands found Olaf’s neck, and
those black fingers felt like steel cords digging in. But as the fingers
tightened, so did Olaf’s grip, and with the sound of breaking cartilage coming
from the cannibal’s groin, the great man let slack his grip of Olaf and fell to
his knees moaning like a child.
Seeing the skull-tipped club, with Hrunting
buried in it a few feet away, Olaf left the man to retrieve his weapon. It took
a good kick to get the machete blade out of the great piece of wood, and then
Olaf turned towards the cannibal. The man was bent over know, murmuring
incoherently in a soft whimpering tone. With his right arm dangling uselessly
by his side, Olaf sat Hrunting down to remove the man’s football helmet, and
then picked the blade up again. With one clean downward strike he decapitated
the man and stepped back to avoid the spray of blood that shot out from the
neck stump.
With a yell of mixed rage and pain, Olaf
pushed his shoulder up until the bone popped back into the socket. Tearing a
strip of cloth off of a nearby corpse, he made a make-shift sling for the
injured arm. He would have to get to City's Edge as soon as possible, as it was
the nearest survivalist's camp where there was a doctor.
Looking around, Olaf realized that the burning house was bound to
attract unwanted visitors, both alive and undead. With haste he decapitated the
corpses of the cannibals before they could rise again, and then he set about
getting everything worth taking with him together. To his relief, he found that
the missile shot at him earlier only took off the roof and upper part of the
barn, and had left the tractor and the flat-bed trailer unharmed. After filling
the tractor’s tank with fuel he fired the machine up and let it warm up for a
good ten minutes.
He found his backpack and boxes of ammo near
the front steps of the house, along with a few cans of fruit and some blankets.
The scavengers must have been making a pile of loot to take with them. Loading
the flat-bed trailer up with the remaining fuel tanks and all the tools and
machinery he could find in the barn, Olaf pushed the clutch in and put the
tractor into first gear. The John Deere rumbled slowly out into the yard, and
fumbling on the front panel, he found the headlights. Pulling away from the
burning house and onto the dirt road, he remembered to stop and dig up the last
claymore mine he had planted before the barn.
Starting off again, Olaf pulled the Stetson
down on his forehead and searched for his backpack for more cigars. Cursing his
foul luck he realized he had run out, but he knew City’s Edge was two days
travel south and with all the goods on the trailer bed he would be a rich man.
The tractor alone could buy him a motorcycle and enough ammo to last him a
year.
Pushing the vehicle into second gear and
picking up speed he smiled at the thought of visiting a few familiar taverns
and cat-houses in the fortress. Unlike the disaster this little getaway had
turned out to be, there he could kick back and enjoy a real vacation behind the
guarded walls and towers.
© 2003
by Cameron Neilson. Cameron Neilson is a Creative Writing student
at Oklahoma State University. He has
had works of science fiction and horror published in various magazines and
e-zines, and in the past has had both short stories and poems appear in Aphelion. When he isn't reading or writing, Cameron
can be found at the Gypsy Coffee House in downtown Tulsa, Oklahoma. Look for the handsome fellow with the septum
piercing. He is usually sitting in a corner
by himself, reading or typing away furiously on his laptop.