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The Lost Ones Ch.7
🕑 Added 2023-10-05 09:56:50 +0000 UTCChapter Seven
The Farmer’s Son, Part Three
Denny dug at the built-up mud on the sides of the drainage ditch as quietly as he could. He’d managed to crawl all the way back to the farmhouse without too many false turns, but the growing number of undead was a problem.
Twice already, he had seen a few pushed into the channel by the weight of numbers.
He needed somewhere to hide, and the only place he could think of was back behind the farmhouse.
All he had to do was get through the narrow gap where the garden wall passed over the drainage trench.
His whole body ached for him to pull the clinging mud away and run, get away, get far away. The shambling, shuffling forms were everywhere around him. It would only take a single misstep for one of them to fall on him.
He would be done if that happened.
The moment it groaned, the drainage ditch would fill with the things, and he would be torn apart.
To make matters worse, he was starting to sweat pretty badly.
And his Dad’s long talks about the undead echoed in his head the entire time he crawled.
Now, even more so, because he was starting to smell himself over the stinking mud. That was a problem… because, dumb and slow as they were, zombies did have a terrific sense of smell.
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“You listening to me, Boy?” His Dad had said between draws on the bottle clasped in his hands.
“Yes, Dad,” Denny had said as he and his sister sat in front of the fire and their Father told them the facts of life.
At least those ones he could get away with telling his young teen children while still not breaking the rules of the church.
“The undead are a strange group of creatures, and in times of war, they come.” His Dad’s drawl was more pronounced when he drank. It made him seem dangerous and powerful, like the soldier he had once been.
“They’re abominations, aren’t they?” His sister had asked. “The church says they won’t harm a pure soul.”
“They do say that,” His father’s face had been carefully neutral, but Denny remembered thinking even then that their Dad was not really buying what the church was selling. “But I’m gonna tell you about ‘em anyway.”
“Just in case we need to save someone whose soul ain’t quite clean?” Denny had asked carefully.
“Just so!” His Dad had laughed at that and looked proud of his son. Denny treasured that moment for years. Fleeting as it had been.
“Our old sergeant was the man who told us the facts, and I’ll tell you it saved more men than the medics when the dead rose.” His Dad took a big drink then. “The Zombies are almost easy to deal with, ‘cept in numbers, but people always forget they can smell. The number of people that hide well enough, only to have some zombie sniff ‘em out, it’d make your hair stand on end if I told ya.” He looked sharply at his children. “Girl, how do the undead sense?”
“They see movement and warmth. They hear but not well, and they smell.” She giggled.
Their Dad frowned but went on, changing the subject to the need to keep their family spell a secret.
How the church wouldn’t understand.
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Denny wriggled his mud-slick body through the narrow gap, sure he would feel grasping hands pulling him back at any second.
He was almost there, but the few meters between him and his destination might as well have been miles.
The back garden was not as full as the rest of the place, but the slowly moving figures were still there.
All it would take would be one of them to see him, and his plan would be ruined.
He would be stuck in these drainage ditches till the sun came up, and he was plain to see.
Then he would die.
Thinking about the sun gave him an idea, and he acted before he could lose his nerve. He packed the gap with mud and stones with both hands until it was almost completely closed.
The next bit was so terrifying he almost lost his nerve, but the first light of dawn could not be that far away now, so it was now or never.
With a big lump of mud in one hand, he stuck the other through the small gap and whispered ‘Flare’ as loud as he dared. The moment the spell left his hand, Denny pulled his arm back and slapped the mud over the hole.
With trembling muscles, he pulled himself against the trench wall and waited for the light to come.
The flare Denny had shot off down the drainage ditch glowed fitfully briefly in the mud and detritus before the spell took full effect.
The light explosion was blinding, with the walls of the drainage ditch blocking all but a wide strip that reached up into the night sky like a searchlight.
Every zombie turned their face towards it, the nearest stumbling into the ditch as they tried to get closer to the light and warmth.
Even the ones in the back garden shuffled towards the light, tipping and falling over the stone wall, which crumbled in places under their weight.
Once he was sure they were all looking away from him, Denny scrambled further up the ditch and ran away from the backdoor and toward his target.
Easing closed the door of the old outhouse, Denny gagged. Even after the events of the evening, the smell was horrendous. It wasn’t just the usual privy smell either.
Something had crawled down the hole and died down there, choking on the fumes. It was probably something that was looking for warmth in the icy winter weather.
But when summer came, so did the stench. Something had shifted down there as the months wore on, and in the last couple of days, the stench had been bad enough to strip paint off the inside of the door.
It was awful, but it would save his life.
He could never hope to match the smell, and the shambling figures outside ignored the tiny structure.
Denny flicked the little bar down to lock the door and sagged onto the boards nailed over the hole.
Tiny as it was, this little shed was built to withstand storms, wind, and even ice. It would hold for as long as he needed it, as long as too many didn’t hit it at once.
Looking up through the mesh that covered the small half-moon in the door, Denny watched the night slowly pass while he tried not to throw up.
Every now and again, he would slowly and carefully stand up and peer through the little hole, watching the zombies.
Just as dawn started to break, he noticed their numbers were falling. More than that, he noted the clothes they wore.
Rotted leather, gap-filled scale, and rusty plates covered the undead. He could even faintly see the faded Mage’s Conclave symbol engraved on their armor.
Denny knew there was a battlefield from his father’s day out this way.
Once a year, his dad would head out there, pour some ale on the ground, and simply sit there, drinking all day and all night.
Denny had followed him once out of pure curiosity. His father had spoken to the air, cried, sung, and even slept.
It was the only time he had seen his father cry.
The Mage’s Conclave had fallen to the Paladins, and the smart ones, like Denny’s dad, had thrown their uniforms in the fire and returned to their farms, pretending to the church that was all they had ever been.
Denny saw a shuffling figure pass his hideout as he sat back down and wondered if they had known his dad in life.
He wondered about that, trying not to think about Magda as he fell asleep, crouched in the stinking outhouse as the sun rose.
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Denny dreamed of Magda dancing naked for him. It was quite fun until she turned around. Until then, he had been looking forward to seeing the front.
The axe buried in her face gushed blood as she reached for him, bite marks appearing on her tanned skin, pieces torn free from her shoulders, and the blood turned dark and black as her cold, dead hands grabbed hold of him, dragging him down as she asked where he was going.
Why had he let her die?
“Aren’t we friends no more?” She asked, words garbled by the blood that poured from her mouth.
He woke, screaming in the stinking dark of the outhouse, and slammed his hand over his mouth.
Shaking in the hot wooden box, he waited for the thumps of zombies surrounding the outhouse.
It never came.
As the minutes dragged on, he forced himself to his feet and peered out the small cut-out in the door. Seeing nothing but stubby grass and sunlight, he craned his neck, trying to see further.
Then he tried to listen but heard nothing.
Sitting back down on the boarded-up seat, Denny fretted about what to do.
Should he stay here or try to get help?
The rapidly warming day decided for him as the stench thickened further. He had always been told you got used to smells, but it certainly wasn’t happening for Denny.
He eventually figured that a moment longer in that outhouse would make him pass out. He needed water, if nothing else.
Looking out the hole in the door, all was quiet.
With shaking hands, Denny pushed up the latch and eased the door open, peering suspiciously out the gap and seeing nothing.
The door creaked as he pushed it further, and he stilled, listening intently.
When nothing attacked or even moved, he finally stepped out into the bright sunshine.
Looking about him in wonder, Denny was greeted with nothing but their old farmhouse, a tumbled wall, and a faint breeze.
The Zombie horde was nowhere to be seen.
As he entered the kitchen through the back door, Denny saw scuff marks on the floor; mud and dark stains were all over his mother’s clean floor.
Carefully picking up the broom by the door, Denny held it out in front of him as he searched the house, even going into his parent’s room, which he had not done since he was a child.
Except for some marks here and there and the chairs being knocked over in the main room, everything was as it should be. More importantly, the house was empty.
The bathing room was a welcome sight, and Denny scrubbed himself raw. The mud and blood caked on his body, washing away, felt almost like being reborn.
He had made it through, and now… now he had to get to his parents.
People had to know what was happening. He didn’t know where the zombies had gone, but they had gone somewhere.
He had to warn people.
Magda’s face flashed through his mind, and he fought back tears.
“I think,” He hesitated, looking in the mirror and seeing the haunted face of a man much older than eighteen. “I think I would have preferred to remain a child.”
He stumbled through to his room, grabbing his work pants off the floor. He was just starting to pull them on when a hand closed around his foot, yanking hard.
Denny fell off the bed, both feet ending up stuck down one leg of his pants.
“Shit!” Denny tried to scramble away, tried to free his other foot, tried to think as a figure dragged itself out from under the bed.
His breath left him in a rush when he saw the ruined face. As his blood ran cold, a single eye fixed on him, peeking out from the ruins of its face.
“Magda!” He gasped. For a single moment, he thought she had survived.
Somehow.
Then he saw the blackened veins and exposed ribs and saw the stumps of torn-off legs dragging behind her. Her smile was twisted, hungry, and terrifying.
“Huu-sss-ban—d,” She spoke in moaning, hitching breaths. “Jooi-n meee.”
Denny tried desperately to pull himself away, getting nothing but a gurgling laugh in return. His hands reached for the broom as the creature pulled itself further up his body, soaking his trousers in dark, stinking blood.
“Covetous Dead,” Denny muttered. His Dad had spoken of these things. They were the twisted remains of loved ones or jilted lovers who died angry or lustful. They would follow their target for years… nothing would stop one, not even a bowshot to the head.
“How do I kill you,” He growled as he put both hands on her shoulders and pushed as hard as he could. He threw Magda off him, trying to get his trapped foot free. “Come on, Denny,” He scolded himself. “Think!”
The memory only came to him at the same time the corpse twisted and dragged itself rapidly across the room.
As her hand grabbed his ankle again, Denny threw the broom as hard as he could, sending it crashing through the shutters on the window.
Sunlight crashed into the room, sending what was left of Magda screaming back under the bed.
The bed that was now between him and the door.
Denny eyed the gap as he finally freed his foot and dragged on his trousers.
Could he jump it?
The bed thumped, shuddered, and then flew across the room, crashing into the wall and covering the window.
The darkness returned as a gurgling laugh came again.
“Deee-nn-y,” She groaned. “I wa–nn-t yy-oo-u, nnn-ooo-www.” The thing scrambled at him, running on stumps with incredible speed.
“Flare!” He screamed, both hands firing the light spell as pain tore through his chest.
Both spells hit, sending the creature flying backward. Denny covered his eyes as light blasted the room.
If this didn’t work, he was out of ideas.
When he finally opened his eyes, it was to see the smoldering remains of Magda lying disheveled against the far wall. The flare spells had cored it out; charred flesh and broken bones lay amongst the tattered remains of the skirt she had worn and the last shreds of his sister’s blouse.
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An hour later, Denny slammed the door to the farmhouse behind him. It had taken him a long time to get up off his bedroom floor and even longer to choke down some food and water.
He was barefoot, his new boots were too painful for a long walk, and his old ones… he couldn’t make himself go back into his room for them.
He grimaced slightly as his foot hit a sharp bit of gravel but strode determinedly on. His feet were strong from a life of working on the farm, and the main pass was cobbled anyway.
No matter what, he had to get some help.
As he made it to the exit from the farm, he hesitated. The closest place he could go would be to the neighbors. Magda’s parents.
No, he shook his head, feeling his stomach lurch at the very idea. Anywhere, anywhere but there.
He jogged down the cobbled roadway towards the distant city.
Maybe it would be fine, and he’d meet his family coming the other way.
And maybe the Lady of the Eternal Light would appear and blow him.
Denny started to jog faster.
