A Shrouded World (Book 5): Asabron Read online

  I’ve had these thoughts in the past when out on operations; that one day I just wouldn’t come home. My sorrow wasn’t because I wouldn’t see them one last time, but because of how sad they’d be at my passing. I honestly believe that’s kept me going on more than one occasion. There were times when things seemed impossible, like there was no way I was getting out alive. Then, I’d think of them and pull myself together, somehow squeaking through. I’d wave at death standing nearby with his scythe and say “not today.”

  “So, come on, buddy boy, we’re not done yet. But, I’m giving this back to you,” I add, handing Otter his carbine.

  We trudge onward through the deepening gloom, panting in the darkness, Otter’s deep gasping inhales signaling when his leg catches wrong. I can see easily, but Otter stumbles over the uneven ground, my grip around him the only thing keeping him upright at times. Sudden, bright flashes of silver light up the bark of nearby trees like quick stabs of lightning. Our expected company has arrived behind us.

  “Well, it wouldn’t be living if it wasn’t exciting,” Otter gasps.

  “You run ahead, I’ll slow them,” I state.

  “I was thinking the other way around.”

  “What? Are you going to Bambi it up?”

  “Something along those lines,” Otter answers.

  “You can’t make a last stand if you can’t, well, stand, now can you? I don’t have time for your bullshit. Get the fuck going,” I say, pushing him forward and pressing a flashlight into his hands.

  Otter runs off, limping as he goes. To be honest, his run isn’t much faster than we were already going. The beam of his flashlight bounces up and down, lighting the trees. Soon, it’s just a fading glow.

  This is just one of those days where everything seems aimed toward culminating at a single point in time. Everything seems to be going wrong, but you just try to live through it because the next day couldn’t possibly be any worse. I just have to accomplish the “living through it” part now. Without time to clean up after our last fight, I’ll be like a flare for the night runners to converge on. Shrieks reverberate through the trees, seeming to come from every direction.

  I start off along Otter’s path, glancing to the sides and over my shoulder. My plan isn’t to race them to the cabin, but to divert them away from him. The cabin is still a distance away, but it would be foolish of me not to get a little closer. Soon, I see figures darting between the trunks, twin spots of silver lighting up as they look in my direction.

  This is everything I’ve attempted to avoid: being out in the middle of nowhere with night runners on the loose that have my scent. It’s the stuff nightmares are made of. I hear the scraping sound of the creatures brushing against trees on the dead run, their quick steps across the beds of fir needles, their harsh breathing and their screams echoing in the dark forest.

  My entire body hurts; my thighs are complaining at the effort I’m asking of them. I’m going to have to ask even more; my only hope is to keep this encounter to a running fight. The only positive is that I’m on par with the night runners with regards to strength, speed, and night vision, although the strength and speed parts are diminished at the moment. I suppose surviving one of their bites has its advantages.

  I turn, bringing my carbine to my shoulder. Verifying that I’m on semi, I take aim at the first fleeting shape I see through the trunks. The night runner runs behind a tree and I quickly adjust my reticle to the other side. A gray figure emerges and I send two rounds toward the gap.

  The soft puffs of the suppressed rounds are lost among the shrieks and the running horde of creatures. The night runner flinches as the bullets strike, and it spins in a complete circle before pitching to the ground. I find another coming around a nearby trunk, streaking through the night directly for me. Aiming center mass, I fire twice more and watch as it staggers under the forceful impacts. It nearly falls face-first, but then catches itself and stumbles forward, the rage in its silver glare easy to see. Blood slowly trickles from its two chest wounds. I fire again and see a small splash of liquid spray outward. The night runner pitches forward and hits the ground.

  I don’t see the creature falling—I’ve already turned to run. There are night runners on both sides and I can’t allow them to get around me. Their legs are fresh and mine are on their, well, last legs. Pausing for a split second, I take aim at a night runner to my left as it runs through a clear lane. Two more shots and it’s thrown, bouncing off a tree. Again, I take off before seeing if I’ve killed it.

  My goal isn’t to make sure they’re dead, but to slow them as much as possible. Bullets anywhere on the body do a good job of that, although night runners can function through a tremendous amount of pain and damage, so great is their rage. I wish I had a few grenades to chuck to the sides and behind. That would surely give them pause. But, if I can make them deviate from their headlong rush, that will accomplish something similar. I need to hurt as many as I can so they’ll take the time to change tactics.

  Turning around quickly, I see a long line of night runners hurrying up the slope, darting in and out of the gaps between the trees. Switching to auto, I send a burst into one as it appears only a few yards away. The rounds stitch their way up its torso, blood splattering in the air as it’s flung backward to tumble down the slope. Another shows, and I fire again. Splashes of blood appear on its upper chest, another bullet hitting the sternum, a third tearing away its throat. The night runner’s hands wrap around its neck, blood spraying out from between the fingers. With a gargling scream, it goes to its knees as it tries to stem the massive outpouring of blood. Then, like a falling tree, it collapses to the side, moving slowly at first, sliding faster until it slams into the ground.

  A third leaps over the dying body of its comrade. I fire a burst at the lunging creature and hear the satisfying thud of bullets slamming into meat. The night runner tumbles to the ground and starts thrashing about. I don’t have enough time to take out any more—I’ve already spent more time in place than I should have.

  The sound of running steps gives me little warning. Glancing quickly to the side, I see a night runner already in the air and nearly upon me. A piercing shriek comes from its wide-open mouth, its eyes glowing fiercely. Outstretched arms reach for me, eager to feel the first grasp of its prey.

  I dive, rolling over my shoulder. Pain screams in my mind as I hit the ground, my body having already endured so much. I hear a heavy thud as I keep my roll going, coming to my knees and facing the direction I came from. The night runner is splayed on the ground, already moving to its knees. A quick burst of fire in its direction halts any further attempt. The figure slumps back down with blood trickling from the newly formed holes in its head.

  I’m immediately back up and moving. My situation has become precarious with night runners closing in from all directions. A quick glance behind shows that the night runners there aren’t racing up the hill anymore, instead taking a more circuitous route around, joining the other flankers. That doesn’t really improve my situation, but it does relieve pressure on one side. I look toward the cleared side down the hill, and then back up toward the cabin.

  “Hey, you fucking morons, I’m over here,” I yell, opening my mind to them.

  Shrieks resound through the woods in answer, along with images of hatred. Loading a fresh mag with a metallic click, I start down the hill, keeping my mind open. My hope is that I’m drawing them all away from Otter, who should be pretty close to the cabin. This time, I won’t pause to hold them up—I want them on my tail. Angling downward, I’m more hopping than running down the hill, my legs feeling it every time my boots hit the ground.

  Images keep surfacing in my mind of the desire to sink teeth into flesh, the warm splash of blood against faces as they tear into prey. I also sense that I have pulled all of them with me as I don’t sense any further up the hillside.

  I don’t know how long I’ll be able to last. I’m already pulling on my reserves and when that’s gone, I’ll just c
ollapse to the ground like a lump of mold. I keep going, leaping over small hillocks, dodging between trunks. I don’t want to outrun the night runners per se, I just want to be fast enough to stay in front. The upcoming part will the trickiest and will depend upon a lucky roll of the dice.

  Going downhill is so much faster than trudging up the slope, so it isn’t long before I see faint figures ahead. I’m now running straight into the horde of zombies Otter and I left meandering in the woods. If I dart to the side now, I’ll more than likely pull the night runners along with me. If that happens, I’ll have accomplished nothing more than having to fight them even more tired.

  From the increasing activity ahead, I know that the zombies have been alerted to my presence. Of course, with my charging run down the mountainside and the noise I’m making, the entire land has to know where I am. Figures turn in my direction and begin moving toward me as I rapidly close the distance. As fast as I’m moving down the hill and with my current energy level, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop my downward run until I’m back down to the highway.

  The world is flying by in varying shades of gray from my enhanced night vision, the trunks of trees whipping by as I dodge between them. Shrieks are erupting behind and to each side, filling the night air. Ahead, the zombies have come to life and turn their focus toward me. All of the while, the little man in my head is screaming “What are you doing?” and trying like mad to pull the emergency brake, hands madly smashing every button within reach.

  To be honest, I really don’t know what I’m doing, but momentum has a nature all its own. What seemed like a good plan at its inception is now looking like a terrible mistake. But, the time to do something about it came and went a long time ago and now there’s nothing but to plow forward.

  Planting one foot firmly, I alter my downward plunge to pivot and run along the hill, my thigh telling me that it’s not happy with the added exertion. Rounding a tree, I come face to face with one of the undead. Without hesitation, I lower my shoulder and plow straight into it. My momentum slows with the collision as the zombie is thrown backward. Digging my boots into the ground, I attempt to recover the impetus I had.

  I’m trying to get through the fringe of the gathered zombies to insert myself deep enough into the group to pull the shrieking night runners into their midst. I don’t know what the reaction of the runners will be, but I wanted to arrange this greeting in the hopes that the two groups will become immersed with each other and leave a solitary human alone.

  As I enter the fringes, I close down my mind to the night runners. The picture images of rage, the thrill of the chase, the eagerness of nearby prey all abruptly leave the recesses of my mind where I had put them. I hammer the butt of my carbine into the face of a zombie that is coming at me like I stole an heirloom. The creature stumbles backward, losing its footing and tumbling back into the arms of nearby friends.

  A cacophony of shrieks erupts as the night runners are introduced to the horde of zombies. I duck under the swiping arm of a zombie, moving forward and turning to hammer at the outside of its knee with the butt of my weapon. The knee gives way with a sharp crack. Tearing forward again, I hold the carbine steady in one hand while pulling out my sidearm.

  A zombie is straight ahead with several others around in a blur of bodies. The smell here in the midst of the undead is horrendous. Having a more sensitive olfactory sense isn’t helping—like, at all. Aiming quickly at the zombie blocking my path, I fire, the sharp retort loud and echoing off the surrounding tree trunks. The creature takes the bullet on the tip of its nose, the face vanishing behind an eruption of viscous fluid. Its head rocks backward and then snaps forward as the round shatters the back of its skull, the air behind filling with clumps of tissue and bone.

  I leap over the falling body, sending another round into the head of another just behind. The pack of bodies is becoming denser as the zombies begin to amass. Not only do I have to dodge around trees, but I’m also having to evade a steady stream of bodies closing in.

  I duck again to get under another swipe. While crouched low, I aim upward with my handgun and send a bullet into the fleshy underjaw. Rising and spinning away as another zombie closes in, I fire close range into the side of its head, feeling a light spray of cool, thick liquid on my face.

  A hand grabs my shoulder, ruined gray fingers appearing in my peripheral. Stepping slightly to the rear, I snap backward with my elbow, hitting something solid and hearing the crunch of bone. Stepping forward as the hand scrapes down my pack, I turn and bring the barrel to within inches of a decaying face. I pull the trigger, and the rotted head nearly explodes from the forceful impact of the bullet.

  It’s beginning to get a little too close for comfort. Zombies are packing around me and I’ve lost any momentum I carried into the fight. It’s time I exit stage left and leave the audience clamoring for more. The last thing I need is to get completely surrounded—the zombies are endless and my ammo isn’t.

  Screams are all around; the sounds of an intense scuffle come from nearby. I’ve arranged the introductions and now it’s time to leave. Turning uphill, two quick shots clear a small path, the bodies of the undead rolling for a couple of feet before coming to rest against trunks. I can’t exactly run up the hill, but I do my best impression of it.

  Suddenly, a gray arm, partially covered in a stained and tattered sleeve, reaches out from behind a tree. Swatting the groping arm down, I round the trunk and fire into another zombie’s face. It’s thrown backward, tumbling down the slope. I dodge and weave my way through trees and zombies, ducking under outstretched arms and placing rounds to keep a clear path as I trudge up the hill.

  I’ve managed to reach the outer fringe again, but two zombies lie between me and my escape. Trickles of sweat run down my grimy face, cooling in the night air. My hair is plastered to my head from blood and sweat. A small clump of something dark falls down, wedging itself next to a mag on my vest. I fire two quick shots at those blocking my route. One round hits square in the throat and the zombie falls, stiff as a tree. It’s not a killing shot, but all I want now is my path to be clear. The other round hits the second zombie in the cheek and it spins around from the force slamming into its head. I lunge between the two, climbing with every ounce of my remaining strength.

  I’m clear of the horde, leaving low moans, high-pitched shrieks, and the sound of heavy scuffling behind me. I glance through the tree trunks ahead, searching for any sign of movement. Within the viewable lanes, I don’t see any. I climb higher, wanting to distance myself from the zombies and night runners as quickly as possible.

  My breath comes fast and heavy. Even though my lungs are filling to capacity, I can’t seem to get enough air. I wish I had the “stay awake” and “this doesn’t hurt so bad” meds I used to take on operations. If I had them, I’d down the contents of both bottles right now. I continue scaling the slope, kind of frustrated that I again have to climb this fucking hill.

  The hands on my shoulders come as a complete surprise, as does the hot breath at my neck and the snarling in my ear. In my tired state, I didn’t hear a fucking thing. The color of the fingers isn’t the gray, decayed flesh of a zombie. Adrenaline floods my system. Pointing my sidearm behind my head, I fire. My ears instantly ring from the close proximity of the gunshot, but the splash of warm blood on my neck and head, along with the release of pressure on my shoulders, tells me that my shot was true.

  A scream from right behind me penetrates the loud ringing in my ears. Hands grasp my pack and I’m pulled backward. Off balance, I trip and fall, the ground sending whatever air was in my lungs outward with a whoosh. A head appears in my vision, just above my face. The skin seems to glow with a pair of eyes staring down at me, burning silver.

  Bringing my hand up to finish off the night runner, I quickly realize that I’ve dropped my handgun. I don’t have time to play feel around for it as the night runner’s head plunges downward. I intercept the thrusting face with my other hand, trying to keep its tee
th from biting into my flesh. The creature’s head twists back and forth, attempting to fight free from my grasp, and succeeding as my grip around its jaws begins to loosen.

  I frantically reach down to my side, pulling my knife free from its sheath. I know that I’ll be too late as the night runner slides out of my grasp and dives forward. I open myself up, feeling the rage and deep hunger coming from the beast on top of me. As it drives forward, I sense its excitement, the eagerness to taste the flesh of its prey and feel the warm blood in its mouth.

  I send a quick image of the sun rising, the fiery orb bathing the land in its rays. The night runner pauses for a moment, its eyes momentarily looking upward. That’s all the time I need as I drive my knife into the side of its neck, warm liquid gushing down the blade and onto my hand. Withdrawing the blade, I plunge it in again, the soft sprays of blood splattering on my face and hitting the needles of the forest floor. Again I drive my knife into its flesh, cutting through gristle. The pulsing of the arterial blood slows and the body goes limp, falling heavily beside my head.

  The number one rule of knife fighting is to not stop stabbing until the opponent is dead; don’t give an inch from which they may recover. I’ve seen too many combatants stab an opponent and step back to see the damage and reaction. Don’t be that person. A knife fight isn’t a tea party with codes of conduct. It’s a brutal affair and must be carried out in such a manner.