writings-by-chance

[writings-by-chance]

Fire and Dust

Wes Toombs stood up and stared over the vast, arid landscape, wiping his forehead under his sweat-stained sable fedora. The view was magnificent, but it wasn't the beautiful vistas that had brought him to this remote desert. He was leading an expedition team -- he chuckled, thinking how himself, his longtime friend and colleague, and a local interpreter somehow constituted a "team"-- in an effort to find the Ark of the Covenant. He felt like a real life Indiana Jones, and while the hat and accompanying revolver he had holstered at his hip gave a cheesy nod to the fictional archaeologist, Wes knew he was actually on the right trail. Convincing a financier of that fact, however, was harder than digging in the north African sand. Government grants were denied, university staff laughed, museum curators all but chased him out when seeking funds, but finally, Wes caught a break when an eccentric old collector from Seattle contacted him, offering all expenses paid for him and his team. The only stipulation was not to release any information prior to Wes checking with the old millionaire, which Wes had no problem with. He was just baffled that nobody else took him seriously.

~~~~~~~~~

But someone else did take him seriously, and several hundred meters away, an agent peered at the scruffy archaeologist through a pair of binoculars, ready to report to Langley at a moment's notice. The agent kept his watchful eyes on Toombs, until the latter descended back into the dig site. <i>What a waste of time,</i> the agent thought, <i>chasing some academic with a hard on for 80's fantasy. </i> But his bosses -- people who worked for alphabet agencies that also technically didn't exist -- felt Toombs' pitch had some merit, so when it was found that he was being privately financed, the unnamed feds jumped into action. There was no way some random guy was going to be allowed a relic as iconic, and potentially powerful, as the Ark... regardless of how much of a wild goose chase the agent thought it was, especially out in north Africa, thousands of miles away from the holy land where it originated. The agent shook his head, and brought the binoculars back up to his eyes, focusing in on the movement at the dig.

~~~~~~~~~

[writings-by-chance]

Frostbourne

This is just an odd idea for a story I had late at night, and my attempt to flesh it out… Sort of. I’ll most likely make numerous edits, but for now, here you are. ————————- It was another sweltering day in the city of Phal’ar. Hreth looked up to the sky & growled at the sun, beating down upon him as he walked back from his university. He hated this place, hated not having a transport, and hated just about everything, he decided. He wondered why his parents brought him — a frost adept — to this arid wasteland… and what had possessed him to stay here to attend university. Oh, right: the price. Everything was cheaper here, because nobody in their right mind would want to stay here, except maybe the reptilian Slazeer & fire mages. His eyes scanned the pavement for the slightest moisture he could command and freeze to cool his forehead, but to no avail. So he trudged on, eyes turned down to avoid the cruel glare of the sun. This also prevented him from seeing upcoming obstacles, and before he knew it, he had collided with a group of all-too-common fire adepts. “Watch where you’re going, idio–” the largest one snarled, but stopped when he noticed Hreth’s hair: a distinct bluish-black unique to certain frost adepts. The fire leader smiled, revealing a number of missing teeth. “Well, I’ll be damned by Lord Ulfgar himself! We have a frost adept here, guys!” His lackeys, all with hair ranging from a ruddy brown to bright red to even electric blonde, began to circle Hreth. Their ringleader continued to jeer as Hreth slowly backed away. “A bit far from home, eh, frosty boy?” He gave him a shove, and Hreth staggered back, remaining silent, his boots clanking on a manhole cover. “Cat got your tongue? Or maybe it’s sunburnt?” The fire adepts chuckled at their leader’s perceived humor. “Either way,” he said, tone darkening, “we don’t want your kind here.” The runes on his arm began to glow warmly, as a fireball manifested itself in his overturned hand. The rest of the fire gang conjured fireballs or familiars, small fire sprites to do their masters’ bidding, as each elemental adept could do. Hreth’s runes began to glow as well, going from black to a frosty blue as he conjured a defense, considerably weakened due to the heat. But as he looked down to concentrate, he realized the manhole cover was for an underground waterway, not sewage, and a small grin crossed his lips. “What’s so funny, frosty?” One of the fire boys taunted. Hreth took a step back & looked up. “Just you.” Before the fire adepts could react, even before their tempers made their skin burn red from fury at the half-hearted insult, Hreth raised his runed arm to the sky, and the water below shot upward, knocking the manhole cover into the air, and the fire gang onto the pavement. To their astonishment, the water began to freeze and take shape into Hreth’s own conjured familiar: a frost wyrm. The giant creature hovered in the air above Hreth, as the fire adepts scrambled away in fear and awe. Only one remained, the snaggletoothed leader, standing there slackjawed. “How?” he asked, “How is that possible, much less here? Not even the Lord Protector can summon one of those!” Hreth smirked at him. “I have my ways,” he replied, as he flicked his wrist at the boy. The wyrm above roared, and shot searing ice out of its gaping maw, sending the ringleader running away screaming in pain, leaving a trail of steam. The wyrm landed as Hreth heard the first of the sirens; summoning a wyrm was definitely an attention-getter, since a familiar of that magnitude was easily a Tier 3 offense. Before the authorities arrived, however, Hreth extended his arm to the beast. Their eyes locked, Hreth’s hazel and the wyrm’s glowing blue, and then it began to disintegrate into blue sparks, flowing back into the still-glowing runes of Hreth’s arm. He instantly began to feel his body chill, and shuddered as the runes faded to black once again, just as the first police transport came blaring around the corner. Now the real challenge came: talking his way out of this. ~~~ “Hreth, where have you been?” His mother asked as soon as he walked through the door to their home. “Just got held up at school,” he lied, “nothing too seri–” “Dinner’s cold,” his father interjected from behind the daily newspaper. Hreth sighed, picked up his plate of food and exited the porch door to get to the finished shed which served as his apartment. His mother sighed as she watched him. “How two arcane adepts managed to have frost and earth children is beyond me,” she mused. Her husband grunted. “Stranger things have happened… We could’ve had a troll.” She threw a pillow at him, hitting him square in the face through the newspaper. “If we did,” she chuckled, “it would’ve been from your side of the family!” ————————- The end. (Of this snippet, at least.)

[writings-by-chance]

The Aftermath, Part III

“Honey, I’m home!” I called out, jokingly. Shutting the door behind me, I scaled the ladder that allowed humans to traverse the demolished staircase. It was an extra defensive measure: zombies could break in all they wanted downstairs, but after demolishing the only way up, and retracting the ladder, any building two or more stories became a nigh-impregnable fortress. The sacrifice of extra space was considered well worth it.

“Oh hai!” Rosaline said, half walking, half bounding out of her room. We hugged, and she got a little kiss on her forehead as we pulled away. “You ready to go?” I asked, fully aware that she was just in an undershirt & jeans, and that her hair was unkempt, in an endearing sort of way. “What do you think, ya dumb?” I grinned sheepishly. “I think you look wonderful!” “You’re lucky you’re cute,” she said as she rolled her eyes at me, “but I’m almost ready. Just gimme a minute! And make yourself useful!” I took the hint, and loaded her duffel bag in the back of the Jeep, stowing her rifle alongside mine. Before long, she had donned an old tee shirt of mine, and her now-straightened hair was pulled back in a short ponytail, and we descended down the ladder. After stowing the ladder on the floor under the demolished staircase (even the most intelligent of zombies lacked the cognitive aptitude to realize the ladder that was just sitting there was the missing puzzle piece), we crawled into my Jeep & started off to the Hedge, talking to each other and our fellow survivors on the CB.

~~~

As we neared the Hedge, a Watchman stepped out of a small, steel shed and waved. “Howdy, where you headed?” he asked. “Nolon Ranch, for the night.” “Oh?” “Yeah, we’re helping expand the wall tomorrow, decided it’d be better to just spend the night there and get an early start.” He nodded. “Well, better get a move on then.” Gesturing south, he added “There’s a healthy-sized herd on their way, even though we’ve been trying to thin them out.”

That was one thing that befuddled even the most astute of scientists: zombie “migration”. No real explanation, no set path, no apparent reason, but when there was a herd moving, nothing would make them deviate. I nodded in return. “Thank you, we’ll be sure to kick it up a notch then.” He smiled, tipped his hat to us, and pressed the buzzer for the gate guard to swing open the massive doors. As we pulled through, I heard Rosaline chamber a shell; she took the term “riding shotgun” rather literally, judging from the Mossberg 500 sitting in her lap. But then again, a scatter of buckshot from her little Persuader probably had a better chance of finding it’s mark than my Draco, or her custom AR we had built together. She caught me looking at her and smiled, to which I returned a little wink. Hopefully, the drive to the ranch would be uneventful, though I somehow doubted it.

[writings-by-chance]

The Aftermath, Part II

As the students filed outside, I stepped a bit out of the way and pulled out a little cigar. My Zippo ignited the dry tobacco, and I looked around: at least 7 other students were all lighting up before heading out. I smiled. There were easily more smokers now than before the Outbreak, and that was despite the population loss. Hell, tobacco was valued more than any other commodity, except maybe food or ammo. But if you had a decent amount of all three? You were a modern millionaire. At least I could make mine last longer, since I refused to take on the habit-forming nicotine-laden ones. Still, some people condemned it, not so much for it’s lack of health properties, but they claimed it attracted zombies to the smell. I don’t know one way or the other, but it sure beat trying to find a can of chew.

I watched the smoke curl up into the waning sunlight as I sauntered past the smoldering bodies to my old Jeep. It was over 15 years old, but still ran like a champ, especially considering the undead “terrain”. I chuckled. My dad thought buying this rig, plus the brush guard & winch, was a waste of money. “Just sell it!” he’d tell me. “You don’t need that, get something with better gas mileage!” I don’t know if he ever realized the irony when my parents abandoned his car in favor of my mom’s 15 MPG truck during the Outbreak. Taking one last pull on the cigar, I crushed the smoldering butt underfoot and climbed into the rig, turning the key slightly to engage the battery. The drive would be uneventful, at least up til the Hedge… At which point, well, if you were one of the people crazy or stubborn enough to live outside the Hedge, you’d better keep a round chambered at all times, and be one hell of a shot from a moving vehicle. Since my long, heavy FAL wasn’t exactly conducive to firing & driving, I stowed the old girl on the rack in my back window, and pulled out my other pride & joy: a Polish Draco AK-variant, which I slid into a holster of sorts along my driver’s door. Flicking on the CB radio over my head, I turned the ignition all the way & started the engine. I double checked my frequency, pulled the mic from the ceiling, and rolled out of the parking lot. “Anybody got a traffic report for me? Headin’ northeast from the Hedge.” I called out over the radio. “Maven? That you?” I recognized Bash’s voice right away. One of the few people in the county bigger than my own 6′ 3″ frame, he earned his nickname by supposedly using one zombie to beat off the rest of the horde until help arrived, and the zombie-turned-weapon’s head was bashed completely inside of its ribcage. Whether it was true or not, I didn’t want to find out, though Bash was peaceful enough around the living.

“Yeah, it’s me. Just busted outta class & I’m headin’ to pick up Pond.” I’m not sure why we still used callsigns over the radio, since there was no need to be stealthy, but the radio world knew Pond was Rosaline, my girlfriend. “Aw, shucks, Maven! Date night? And you didn’t invite me?” Bash teased, with his light accent coming out. “C’mon, you know I can’t afford that Texas-sized appetite of yours, Bash!” He laughed. “Fair ’nuff, man. Zed’s purty heavy, if you’re truckin’ southeast, but looks like there’s a–” He paused. “Well, a good sized chunk startin’ to migrate north. If ya’ll hurry, you should beat ’em to your Zone.” I clicked my radio. “Thanks, Bash. We’ll kick it up a notch then!”

I hung the CB back up, ignoring the rest of the idle chatter from others getting reports from the Hedge, and focusing on getting to Rosaline’s quarters. They weren’t the best of accommodations, being so close to the Hedge, but at least they were private and relatively quiet, so long as the zombies — Zed over the radio — kept their distance. I pulled up to the complex, what used to be an industrial office building converted to makeshift apartments, parked, and got out. To the east, you could see the Hedge from here, running along the top of the hill like the Great Wall of China. I knocked on the door & let myself in.

[writings-by-chance]

Chapter 1, Part III

Joen opened his eyes. The hand that had seized his collar was still holding on, but he felt as if he were underwater. It was clear all around him, but he couldn’t hold his breath any longer. Gasping, he discovered he could breathe, and there were shapes all around him, shadows of cities on all sides. This all happened in a matter of seconds, and he was pulled out of the portal, where he saw the owner of the hand. Another cloaked figure, stouter and taller than the first, was standing next to his guide. “This is it?” the big one asked. “Tis,” the original archer-guide responded. Joen was taken aback, not for being called ‘it’, but because his first guide sounded extremely feminine. “What–” he began again, but both turned and silenced him. “All questions will be answered shortly,” the broad archer answered gruffly. The female nodded. “Patience,” she added, then turned and began to speak with the other guide in hushed tones as they walked. Joen tried to listen in, but couldn’t make out what they were saying, as it was a language he had never heard before. He looked around as they were walking, and quickly noticed they were surrounded by a village. Houses, shops, all sorts of buildings were hewn straight from the living rock, concealed amongst the shadows, whilst others were intricately woven amongst the treetops. Here, the people weren’t as hidden as outside the strange entrance, but were going about daily business much like at Joen’s home. Before long, they came to a great hall, high above the rocky floor. It was built into the rock face, but extended all the way out and around a great oak, obviously many lifetimes since it was a seedling. It was here that they began to climb. The stairs spiraled up the tree, but to Joen they looked beyond the craft of even the most skilled woodworker: they seemed to mesh with the very bark of the oak, as if the stairs were part of the living, breathing tree. Reaching the top of the staircase, the trio was stopped by a pair of armed guards, to which the male archer whispered the pass-word and they were granted access. A number of thralls opened the huge wooden doors, and they entered the massive hall. The sheer vastness of the building rivaled the ornate decorations, and both competed for Joen’s attention. The entire structure simply took his breath away, from the oaken flooring to the richly woven tapestries. At the end of the hall sat a man. His garb was not richly adorned, save for a small silver circlet with a scarlet stone in the center, but his throne was magnificent. Great beasts and battles were carved upon its face, culminating into an inscription above the man’s head that Joen could not read. Approaching the throne, the two guides knelt, touched their breasts and bowed before the enthroned man. Joen simply stood gawking, but came to his senses and quickly knelt in the fashion of his homeland. This caused a slight murmur to pass through the crowd of advisors and the man to smile. “Rise,” he said, in a voice both kind and commanding. All three stood, and the two guides removed their hoods. The female, Joen’s first guide and rescuer, was of a slender yet sturdy frame, with deep auburn hair that would have fallen to just above her shoulders, if it had not been tied back with a small strip of leather. The man who joined them at the portal also had dark hair, but it was shorn to the nape of his neck, where it light brushed against the fletching of his arrows. It was then that Joen noticed their ears: they were a good 3-to-4 inches long, and pointed at the ends. He choked down a small gasp, realizing that concealed by their hair or other adornment, all those in the hall were like in that factor. “Any news from the Outlands?” the king asked, moving towards a table off to the side of the hall. The guides followed, while the man replied first. “There was much activity to the north amongst the goblins,” he started, “It would appear they’re preparing or acting on some news we have not yet heard.” The king looked up from the map on the table and at the archer. “It’s the fifth clan to be preparing as such, milord,” the archer continued, “I am afraid we have no choice but to gear for war.” The king grimaced when he heard this, but made no attempt to disagree. “And what of the south?” The girl stepped forward. “I never made it to the outlands, uncle,” she said. “I was nearing the border when I found these, and the boy.” She held up a small grey satchel with violet markings when she said this, and gestured to Joen. The king’s eyes grew large when he took the satchel, as if it had some great significance to him. “What else did you see?” he asked her, somewhat worriedly. “One of the uluun, my liege. It was onto the boy, and I had not choice but to intervene.” The king nodded. “You did well, but finding this concerns me without its owner. It belongs to one of the Aejn, and they do not lightly cast such things aside. Were there no other belongings, or –” the king paused to compose himself, “– a body?” She shook her head. “No uncle, just the satchel and the boy.” “I saw arrows that matched the satchel, and some sort of blood on a tree, milord,” Joen spoke. Everyone turned and gaped at Joen, who felt his face flush red instantly. The king smiled. “Well, that is news indeed, but no less disconcerting. The Aejn only arm themselves for journeys outside their monasteries, which is not often.” He turned to the man. “Orod, take your men and go south. Try and find anything regarding the Aejn these belong to.” The archer, Orod, took a slight bow, spun and walked out of the hall.

[writings-by-chance]

Chapter 1, Part II

He turned, and ran up the game path away from the bloodstained tree, as fast as his feet could carry him. After running what felt like leagues, he slowed to catch his breath, and as he did so, his hunter’s ears caught the sounds of movement in the brush to his right. He quickly found a small cove to hide in at the base of a great oak, and he waited for the maker of the sound to appear. Soon, out stepped a beast, of the likes Joen had never seen before: it was a massive golem-like creature, towering a full head and shoulders over Joen. It was a dark black-brown, and the very light and life around it seemed to be sucked away. Shadows around it were great wings, cloaking it in obscurity. The eyes of the being, or at least what Joen assumed to be eyes, were like pits of the blackest night, lifeless and void, seeing nothing and everything. The creature seemed not to be hunting, but merely patrolling on a predetermined route. Joen prayed to the gods that it would not come by him, and he pressed further into the tree, grasping Throngíl tighter. Suddenly, the beast stopped, the darkness swirling around its feet like a sickly fog. It began to slowly turn its head, as if listening for something. Joen’s heart was pounding in his ears again, and he could barely hear the creature’s movements, or lack thereof. Then, the golem locked onto the tree Joen was hiding behind. Brandishing its claws in a slow and deliberate manner, it moved closer to strike at Joen’s hiding place. Poised to strike, there was a dull thud and a howl of pain from the creature, as a feathered shaft suddenly sprung from its bicep like a ghastly flower. The wounded beast shrieked and fled back to the south along the path, with another arrow embedding itself in a nearby tree. Joen didn’t dare to move until the sound of the creature’s wounded flight faded away, and until he could determine if the hidden archer was an enemy of the beast or just hostile to everyone. It didn’t take long for him to find out, however, as out of the shadows and brush stepped a figure, hooded and cloaked. “Come,” the figure said through the mask obscuring the speaker’s lips, motioning with a flick of a gloved hand. Joen had no choice. He picked up Throngíl and began to follow. “How did–” he began, but was silenced by a motion from the cloaked archer, and a slight shake of the head. They were walking for some time, when Joen’s guide stopped abruptly, and out from behind another tree stepped another cloaked figure. Brief words were exchanged, and soon they were on their way again, deeper north and west into the heart of the forest. They continued to trudge on, and Joen began to wonder what the archer was doing so far south, if his settlement was this deep into the woods. Again, he started to ask this question, and again he was silenced. The forest began to thin again, and through the trees Joen saw that they were nearing the foot of the mountains he had seen from a distance. He could see now that there were crevasses running in and amongst each peak, much like the fjords he had heard about back home. They began to move towards one of these cracks in the mountainside, and Joen’s hunter’s eyes began to catch more and more movement around them. Cloaked beings, growing in number with each mile, seemed to be standing guard over the crevasse. The soon came to the edge of the landlocked fjord, and it seemed like a wall of black was there, smothering the curious and deterring trespassers. Joen stood there for a minute, not wanting to go further, but his archer-guide continued, stepping into the dark. But then the figure disappeared! Not just obscured by the earthen colors and the darkness, but was utterly and completely gone. Startled, Joen staggered back. What is this devilry? he thought, when suddenly, his guide’s arm appeared through the black wall. The arm gestured to come forward, then withdrew into the barrier again. Joen stepped forward, looking at the odd wall. As he leaned to get a closer look at what energies may be causing the gaping darkness, a hand was thrust out, grasping his collar and dragging him inside.

[writings-by-chance]

Chapter 1

Joen woke with a start. He sat up, rather too quickly, and felt lightheaded. Putting one hand behind him to steady himself, he touched the back of his neck with his left. Upon pulling it away, he found he was bleeding, and then the memories of the battle the previous night came flooding back to him. He took in his surroundings, but was puzzled: the forest path looked vastly different, and there were no bodies, nor any sign of the carnage that was the night before. “Where am I?” he asked aloud. The only sign of the battle was his bloodied sword lying next to him. He stood, picked it up, and looked around for something to clean off the blood. Following what sounded like running water, Joen soon came upon a small creek, only about a foot deep, and proceeded to wash his blade. As he was washing it, a glint in the underbrush caught his eye; he reached out to grab it, he cut himself. An arrow? he thought to himself. He looked around for other signs of the battle, but there were none. He stood up, continued looking, and froze. Thirty feet in the air, covering and surrounding a sharp, broken branch was blood of like Joen had never seen. A sense of dread fell upon him when he saw it, and he felt compelled to flee the spot, even though he didn’t know why.

[writings-by-chance]

The Prologue

This is the prologue to a story I started to write, rewrite, scrap and pick up again years ago… It finally started to take shape about 2009. I haven’t worked on it much since then, but I’ve been thinking about diving in again. But, I digress. Without further ado, enjoy.

***˜

Prologue ™

The cloaked figure ran through the underbrush, ducking under a fallen tree to stay on the well-worn game path. A screech broke the silence deeper in the woods off to his left. Another cry echoed to his right. He increased his stride so the thud of his boots matched the beating of his panicked heart. Suddenly, a creature burst through the ceiling of the forest, raining debris down on the fleeing hunter. The figure stumbled and fell scattering his bow and arrows across the forest floor. The winged beast scanned the ground, searching for the hunter. The cloaked man lay incredibly still, hoping the darkness of the woods would conceal him. The creature rotated slowly, eyes probing the dusk light. The eyes of the beast and the hunter locked onto each other, with a terrifying moment passing in silence. Then, the beast bellowed and shot towards the man on the ground, some many yards away. The hunter whirled around and crawled towards his bow, but he had no arrows! Panic began to grip him as he fumbled with a small pouch on his belt. Two more creatures he had heard flew over and flanked the first, but the hunter stood and faced the oncoming beasts. A grim smile crept across his face as he raised a dark stone in the palm of his hand. His mouth moved silently as he recited an ancient incantation. The designs on the stone began to swirl as the beasts flew within striking distance. Suddenly, the stone lit up, an aura of light blasting a ring outward. The first creature was thrown against a tree, impaled by a branch, while the others flew away wildly, blinded and shrieking in terror. The hunter fell to his knees, exhausted. Before he faded from consciousness, he saw a face begin to appear in the purple designs of the stone.

***

 “Quiet! Here they come!” hissed someone. In the dusk light and fog Joen could barely make out the other forms of his comrades. Joen had seen a mere 20 winters and six feet tall. He wore a maroon wool tunic under his lamellar armor, with a forest green scarf and earth-brown breeches. He bore his sword over his shoulder; his sword’s hilt, sheath and even the blade itself were jet black, matching his hair color. There was a scarlet band circling the center of the grip. It was intricately wrought; the pommel was shaped like the talons of an eagle, grasping a ruby that matched the color of the grip-band. The hilt formed the head and wings of the same majestic bird. The sword was named Throngíl, and it was a family heirloom – priceless to Joen. And now he was going to use it defending his family and home. They weren’t sure where the invaders had come from, but when one of their scouts came back with a dented helm and blood matted in his beard, they knew that the intruders weren’t friendly. The invaders had blitzed their way across the Peninsula, and were getting dangerously close to Joen’s village. So Thrögan, the village leader, devised a plan to ambush the raiders. He summoned the drótt to meet them, and when the summons came to Joen’s home, Joen volunteered to go. Joen was one of the youngest to come, and now he was second-guessing himself. Oh, well, he thought, I can’t very well back out now, can I? He loosened his sword in its sheath. The sounds of horse’s hooves were fast approaching. He heard the few archers they had draw and nock an arrow. The horses were beginning to pass the first line of defenders. Joen could hear his heart ramming the blood into his ears, nearly obliterating all other sounds. The enemy kept filing by, until finally he heard Thrögan’s deep bellow, followed by the shouts of the other village-warriors. The twang of bowstrings filled the night air, adding to the panic of the ambushed. After those on the edges of the ambush party hedged in the invaders with wagons blocking the road, Joen and about twenty other villagers, some warriors, most just plain farmers, leapt out of their hiding places. Spears, axes, swords and farm implements were all in the hands of the villagers, ready to reap havoc. Throngíl seemed to gleam with delight as Joen slew a crossbowman. Best if we keep the advantage of ranged attacks, he thought. The officers were the ones mounted, so while they were harder to bring down, they made easy targets. One tried to lead a counter offensive on Thrögan, but fell in a hail of arrows. The clashing of steel seemed to go right along with the burning-silver moon, and gave the fight an eerie look. Out of the darkness, a crossbow bolt zinged towards Joen, but it shattered as Throngíl seemed to leap up to block it. Maybe Grandfather was right, Joen thought, staring at the blade. It does seem to have a mind of its own in battle! He looked up and saw the intruders were pushing towards Thrögan, hoping to crush the resistance by killing their dróttin, so he rushed over, using the momentum to thrust his sword through the cuirass covering a soldier’s back. Someone ran into him from behind, pushing him farther into the fray. Joen was fighting brilliantly, but soon he was in a battle with an elite soldier, one that fought with dual swords. Just when Joen thought he had won, a sharp pain ran down his spine as blackness took him. He felt nothing, heard no one.

Save a sinister laugh.

[writings-by-chance]

The Aftermath

“Hey, Chris.” The man in the suspenders looked up. “Oh, you made it,” he said dryly, “Didn’t think a few undead flesh junkies would keep you this long.”

I smiled, and dropped my backpack on the desk with an audible thump. “Eh, it was a little touch-and-go around Van Buren, but they’ve extended the Hedge down to Coolidge now.” Chris looked a little surprised at the news. “Really?” I nodded. “Yep. Some of the Watchmen said they had plans to extend it all the way to Mill Boulevard, but I dunno if that’ll ever happen.”

A throat clearing behind me cut our conversation short.

“Gentlemen, please.” Our professor had come in the door behind me. “Only sidearms at the table!” He nodded at my old FAL slung over my shoulder, then at the AR carbine Chris had sitting atop the desk.

“Sorry,” we both mumbled as we moved our rifles to the rack in the corner of the room.

I smirked as I set my rifle down. Rifles in the classroom, who would’ve thought? But it was a necessity these days after the Outbreak, especially since the university — while behind the Hedge — was still in a less than savory area. We still didn’t know what exactly caused the Outbreak, or where it came from. There were some scientists here, working on their various theories, but from what I’d gathered, it was some sort of super-bacteria. Years of overusing antibiotics probably bred the thing, but what triggered it was unknown. It was supposedly an aggressive, volatile form of Alzheimer’s or dementia, but I’m not a biologist or virologist or whatever branch of science concerned itself with that area. All I knew was that it was transmitted through contact with the fluids of the infected; blood, spit, anything that the bacteria might be hiding in. Lesson being: don’t get bit, and keep your mouth closed.

Most people thought the likely area of the origins of XF01 (the temporary designation of the disease) was some backwater, third-world slum, and while it may have been true, the first documented cases were in urban areas. And it spread like wildfire in an Arizona July. Despite the numerous books, movies, hypotheses, and whatever else we had speculated about a zombie apocalypse (we were encouraged by some not to use the “z-word”, as it may offend the memory of the shambling deceased), we were caught terribly unprepared.

“Alright,” my professor began, jolting me from my musings, “Today we’ll be covering the rise of Alexander the Great.” I sighed, and pulled out a notebook. Laptops weren’t allowed still, even though the university was one of the areas back on the reconstructed power grid. Half an hour and two pages of doodles later, our professor stopped suddenly. A single chime rang out, clear and sharp through the evening air, and without hardly a word, my fellow students began to move. Some went right for their rifles or shotguns, a few began moving tables to the door, and other drew the window blinds shut.

Chris, on the other hand, drew his Raging Bull revolver & headed out of the classroom into the hallway. A moment later, he stuck his head back in & whispered, “Kyle, get out here.” I nodded, threw my FAL over my shoulder, and drew my own prized pistol: a .45 caliber 1911-A1. Chris directed me to the western door, and he headed to cover the east; despite being on the second floor, there were still some among the undead who could traverse stairs. I hadn’t seen any that did, but better safe than sorry — especially when sorry meant you were dead. We all knew there were zombies nearby, thanks to the warning bell, but it was still a little unsettling to think that they managed to get through the Hedge. Soon, we could hear them making their way across the relatively small campus, banging against the doors & windows below. I wondered if there were any classes being held down there, and if they were as prepared as we were, when suddenly, one of the zombie herd appeared at the bend in the stairs outside. It was a petrifying moment, and all I could do was tuck myself behind the garbage & recycling bins. Fortunately, the bins didn’t smell, being empty (all refuse was either burned or salvaged for use on the Hedge), but my stomach was still churning as the creature moved closer to my doors.

I was debating if I should stay hidden or eliminate the threat outside, when an explosion rocked the building and the temperature began to rise slightly. Huh. Napalm trap. I didn’t realize the university had those capabilities. Flames from the blast licked the side of the already-scorched brick building and I could see some zombies shambling away like little lost torches. My zombie was unscathed by the fire, with its pale, dead eyes staring into the hallway. I heard Chris moving at the other end, and hoped that the zombie wouldn’t see him. But that was not the case, and the zombie let out a bloodcurdling bellow and began to ram the door repeatedly. It merely bounced off the glass, but I was concerned it might alert the ones alight below. I unsheathed my worn KA-BAR, a gift I received years before the Outbreak, and unlatched the door. Motioning to Chris, who stood and caught the zombie’s full attention, I opened the door with my foot but left my leg extended. The mindless undead shambled towards Chris, but tripped over my boot, and before it could even bounce on the carpet, my blade found its way into the rotting cranium. Chris leapt over the body and shut the door, firmly but quietly, waiting for the bell outside to chime 3 times in succession to signal the all-clear.

“Did they break through?” a soft voice asked behind me. I looked up at one of the girls poking her head out of a classroom. I shook my head.

“No. Just lured it in to keep it from attracting any others.”

She gave an ‘oh’ look, and closed the door behind her. Chris propped the body next to the door, ready to be disposed of after the end of class, and then we headed back inside the classroom. Soon, we were through with Alexander the Great, and gathered our books, gear, and weapons and prepared for dangerous journeys to our respective homes.