The Fall (Book 2): Dead Will Rise (6 page)

The other hand went to his mouth, which he used to yank the heavy armored glove off. Spitting the glove into the creek, he jammed the free hand down to his belt.

His knife left its sheath silently, beneath the water.

With another herculean effort, Kell pulled himself up another few inches. The knife slid between his neck and the closures, a bright spot of pain blooming on the bottom of his jaw. Kell had to throw his head back, leaving only his nose and mouth above water, as he sawed at the cloak.

Come on, Come on!

His arm cramped as the effort of holding his body up became almost impossible. Though he couldn't see the neck of his cloak, he could feel the material parting, the friction of the blade heavy against his hand.

With a terrifying lack of control, Kell let go of the cloak. It wasn't intentional; his body simply lost the ability to keep working at that level. He pulled the knife away at the last second in an effort not to slash his own throat as the water forced his neck against the choking loop of material, though he hadn't managed to slice all the way through.

Death by strangulation or blood loss. Didn't seem like much of a choice, but at least this way he wouldn't effectively be stabbing himself in the neck.

His weight caught on the closure again, and the last strands of material parted under the strain.

“Yes!” he shouted.

Tired as he was—exhausted in the truest sense of the word, if we're being honest—Kell still found enough strength to hold himself up in the water. After a short time, the flow slowed again, the creek widening out. During the confusion of his struggle against his own clothing, he must have gone downhill a fair distance. The land around him, judging by the trees lining the creek, seemed flatter. The banks were shorter and no longer overhung the now-gentle flow.

Taking a deep breath, Kell grimaced as he attempted a clumsy swim. Helpful was the fact that as the creek widened, it became shallower. His feet touched bottom, giving him better forward motion.

It took three tries, but Kell finally managed to grab an exposed tree root dangling from the washed-out banks. That first shock of weight after snagging the weathered root nearly drowned him as he gasped in pain and inhaled a spray of water. The deep, grinding cough hurt enough to distract him from the agony in his arm. The cramps returned nearly the instant he put weight on it.

Carefully, he sheathed the knife and put both hands to the task. Kell was big and heavy even without gallons of runoff soaking his clothes. Pulling himself up would have been a challenge even when rested and well.

As it was, the short journey from the water up the roots of the tree was the hardest distance he had ever traveled.

Fingers dug into loamy dirt as his legs, awkwardly braced against the roots below him, strained to keep him steady. Kell managed to dig his hand into another root on the landward side of the tree, one deeply ensconced in the earth. Using it as an anchor, he pulled his belly onto dry land. With no dignity or shame, Kell writhed forward from there until his legs were safe on land as well.

After a few minutes of lying still, desperate to regain his breath and achieve a measure of control over his pains, Kell worked himself to his knees. Dull realization hit him; this was the wrong side of the creek. Probably not too large a problem, but still. Another annoyance he'd have to deal with if he wanted to locate his companions.

As he straightened, another violent fit of coughing wracked him, persistent and draining. After a few seconds he became worried. Then, when the coughing grew worse instead of easing off, he began to panic. His head grew light, and the world went red around the edges, all spangled with glowing spots as unconsciousness threatened to take over the helm.

It did, ten seconds later, but not before Kell caught sight of several figures along the opposite bank watching him intently. Their grayish skin with its leathery texture caught rays of sunlight, as did their slightly rheumy eyes.

The last thought before he blacked out was a formless hope that he was right, and that the New Breed couldn't swim.

The world faded back to him in a slow black and white revelation.

Logical Kell wondered if head trauma was responsible, if he'd concussed himself while passing out. Then, as the rest of him woke and caught up with reality, he realized it was just the time of day. The sky was cloudy, the trees silhouettes against the dying light.

He must have been out for a long time; he'd left the convoy just after dawn, and it was now only a short time to dusk. Belatedly, he thought to check for injuries, but the lack of pain beyond his sore muscles told him no undead had wandered by. The New Breed were no longer waiting on the far bank for him. In the hours he'd been unconscious, new and more accessible prey had likely passed nearby.

“Crap,” he said.

It was far past the time the convoy would have allotted to wait for him. Half a day was the absolute longest their plans allowed for, a limit imposed by Kell himself over the objections of several members of the unit. If he could get back to the road, it was probable he could at least find the spot where his friends had waited for him. If he knew Laura and Kate, they'd have been absolutely convinced of his survival. They would have left him supplies. That was also part of the plan, but only between the three of them. They would risk losing precious weapons and food for each other.

Wearily for one as well-rested as he should have been, Kell rose. His muscles sang with aches, a less than smooth tenor jumping all over the scale in intensity and pitch.

Moving hurt, but staying still would be death. He was still wet, though a day of laying had dried him out considerably. He was cold—extremely so, which probably woke him—and judging by the stiff breeze dipping through the trees to flutter leaves all around, he would be getting colder soon. It was a wonder he hadn't died of exposure already. Maybe the day had been sunny enough to keep him warm.

Lucky, damn lucky.

He worked sore muscles, stretching and flexing. There was no song going through his head this time, only a wordless mantra for survival. Even in the first days of The Fall he hadn't faced this sort of trouble. Then, he had the resources of an entire city to draw on. He'd hoarded and gathered as needed. Oh, hunting and the beginnings of a food garden were all well and good, but without a bow or even his spear, chances were slim he could manage to catch or kill anything.

The stretching continued, less an attempt to make himself mobile than an evaluation of just how far he could push his limbs. There was a deep ache in his right side from his armpit to his hip, though none of the sharp pain that indicated broken ribs. His right arm hurt from fingers to shoulder, and flexing any part of it brought twinges of pain and muscle spasms. He'd overdone it to a frightening degree.

Alone in unfamiliar territory, without his primary weapons, and with a pouch and backpack full of goods soaked through. The little food he had with him was probably ruined, doubly so because he feared to put anything contaminated with creek water into his mouth. If Kell knew one thing, it was the dangers of microorganisms.

Painful as it was, stretching refreshed him somewhat. He sat, removing his pouch, bag, and weapons, and proceeded to check over his remaining gear.

It wasn't much to work with, at least not long-term. Two knives, both stout and sharp. Two old and often-repaired ice axes. A lot of paracord, his small medical kit, magnesium firestarter, and assorted items like hooks and fishing line. His standard emergency equipment.

The backpack held better news. Kate or Laura must have checked through it while he was alone in the RV's bedroom. His journal was there, safe inside a plastic bag with a few pens and loose paper. Not so much an attempt to protect it from moisture as it was a convenient way to keep the items together. There was a change of clothes—well, the clothes he wore under his heavy gear—and two packages tightly wrapped in plastic. They were labeled, though the marker was washed out from his dunk. One was a brick of granola, the other a bag of chia seeds. Two of his favorite staples.

Again, lucky. It wasn't enough food to keep him going for long, but at least the ladies had picked things they had to wrap in plastic to keep fresh. It had to have been Laura, come to that; she was obsessive when it came to storing food. Kate was like Kell in that area, which meant Laura was constantly cleaning up after them.

Fierce homesickness swept through him, sudden and gripping. It wasn't for a place. No geography meant anything to him, not anymore. It was a longing for them. For the women who had become his family. Here in his hands was food they had given him, prepared with their own hands. Not just a means to survive a little longer, but also a little greeting card. A message of support and love, even if unintentional.

Munching on granola, Kell stripped the other glove off. It was strange to wear just one. He tucked it into his belt and started walking.

His sense of direction was good enough to know which way was east without the sun or other signs to point it out. The trip down the creek hadn't been anything close to ten miles. Even with the run beforehand, he couldn't have gone more than half a mile from where he left the convoy.

He kept one hand free as he walked and ate, ready to snatch one of the axes dangling from his belt at a moment's notice, but all was quiet. Not the unnatural silence often accompanying the movements of nearby zombies as woodland creatures made themselves as invisible and inaudible as they could. This was the more peaceful version, the sound of nature going along as it had long before mankind ever put fire to wood. It was oddly soothing once he accepted the situation for what it was.

There was a path along the creek, overgrown from lack of use but still usable. With no better option, Kell followed it south as he looked for a way across that didn't involve another swim.

It didn't take long to start seeing signs that the path wasn't as abandoned as he thought. There might not be enough regular traffic to keep it from growing vegetation along with the rest of the woods, but someone was using it. Some
thing
, he corrected himself. It could be people. Could be dead people. Or it could just be animals traveling a convenient trail from the creek where they drank to the deeper forest.

If that was the case, they were big animals. A few hundred feet down the way, broken pieces of branch showed at five feet off the ground. No effort at all to hide the trail. Most of the signs were small things, easy to miss if you weren't used to looking for them. As he approached the peak of a small hill, however, Kell noted a larger branch, about two of his fingers thick, hanging from a tree.

It was still halfway attached. He moved in and took a closer look. It was broken, but there were obvious cuts as well. The exposed wood was still fairly fresh. Recent damage.

The familiar ball of ice formed in his stomach, and Kell found himself experiencing another sharp pang of longing for Laura and Kate. For safety, comfort. For being able to nap in the passenger seat.

Shaking his head, he moved on with careful steps. Wishing would do him no good. If there were people nearby, he would need to avoid them if possible. Taking the risk of exposing his presence was dangerous enough, but in his current state it would be suicidal if the locals weren't friendly.

Forcing himself calm, he walked on in search of a safe place to camp for the night.

Full dark fell by the time Kell found a good spot to hunker down. He was tired but not sleepy, thanks to being unconscious for most of the day, so he doggedly worked by the thin glow of the clouds.

Not far from the creek he found a nice shelf of rock. It looked to have been formed by the water in times past, sluicing away over countless years to leave the stone weathered and smooth. The overhang wasn't large, just enough to tuck himself completely under it. Half an hour of gathering fallen pine needles and fallen rock netted him bedding and stones for a small fire.

It was a risk, starting a fire, but parts of him were still soaked, and the night had skipped past chilly and went straight on to cold. Do not stop. Do not pass go.

Still, the shelf faced the creek, which lay two dozen feet away. The light wouldn't be seen from his side of the water. A dozen justifications whizzed through his brain, but in the end sheer necessity won out. If he didn't get warm, he'd die of exposure.

Another half hour of gathering driftwood and carefully stacking a small chimney with it. Ten minutes of making sure the area between the tiny fire and his bed of extremely flammable material was clear. One minute of praying to a god he wasn't sure existed that he didn't light himself on fire.

“Ahh,” he said to himself as the flames began to rise. “That's what I'm talking about.”

Gentle warmth against his hands felt like the fires of hell itself. He knew it was all in his head, just his nerves reacting to the sudden change in temperature. Kell's head twitched in the beginning of a turn to the right to mention that bit of physiological trivia, only to stop when he remembered Laura and Kate weren't there.

Carefully, he removed the armor on his chest. It was layered, and between the outer Kevlar vest and the tactical vest beneath it, he found another surprise, this one his own. In the rush of the day's events, he'd forgotten where he stored his camp plate. The thing was half-inch thick aluminum, deep enough to act as a bowl and grooved on the bottom to conduct heat.

A trip to the creek later, and Kell had a bit of fresh water on the fire to boil. It would only make a cup or so, but it was more than he had.
How
had he forgotten a canteen? How could he have been stupid enough to leave the RV without having a supply of clean water? His own canteen was rated to boil water itself, which would have been helpful.

He went over the day in his head several times. The only conclusion he could come to was tunnel vision. Too much focus on other things. Hadn't Kate said he was fixated on fighting? She was right; he'd let his drive to make sure everyone was ready for battle blind him to the basic preparations he drilled into others.

So here he was, lost in the woods in unknown territory.

Good job, Kelvin.

A shooting pain in his jaw made him realize he was clenching his teeth. Kell tried to relax, slowly forcing his muscles to unclench. Still wide awake despite his body's weariness, he sat up in the small space beneath the rocks.

His boots went close to the fire in an attempt to dry them out. Sitting barefoot, he tried to put his feet into lotus the way Kate showed him. When that didn't work he settled for the loose knot even first-graders could manage.

With an effort of will, Kell tried to block out everything. Meditation wasn't his style, normally, but Kate swore by it. She said it was something like what he did when he was working on a problem, an absolute focus on everything and nothing. He'd never managed to get much from the practice, but she still made him do it and, well, Kate could be scary. So he tried.

For more than two hours, he tried.

Time was passing, he knew it, but maybe the lack of anything else to do kept him from getting frustrated. Little by little he faced the horrific thoughts that chased him through each day and into his dreams. And, little by little, he pushed them away. It wasn't much, but just being able to calm his mind somewhat was like having part of a boulder on his chest lifted away. He had room to breathe.

That was how he fell asleep. Sitting
with his legs crossed and for the first time in months not focused on the guilt haunting his every step.

A breaking twig woke him.

Kell came instantly awake and immediately wished he hadn't. His legs were still halfway under him, stuck there after he'd leaned back against the overhang in his sleep. Pins and needles climbed all the way to his thighs, only ending where sharp cramps in his hips began.

Flopping onto his side, he scrambled to his feet, leaning close to the remains of the fire to avoid smacking his head on the low rock ceiling. He scanned the area nearby for threats, eyes darting across every quarter.

A handful of steps away, a dead man stared at him. Its gray skin and thoughtful gaze made his stomach clench. The thing was watching, weighing. Kell's hand fell to the hilt of his larger knife, the one he used to fight with. The zombie's eyes twitched to follow the motion, then flitted to glance over Kell's shoulder.

It was all the warning he needed.

He leaped low to the side and came up in a roll, spinning on his knees in time to see the second zombie land right where he'd been. The tactical assessment went through his brain instantly; he was wearing armor everywhere but his head, hands, and feet, which were completely bare. Which meant he had to keep them away from the mouths of his enemies.

Not waiting for the second zombie to gain its footing, Kell shot forward and tackled it at the knees. His hand came up with the knife tight in his grip, slashing deeply into the tendons in the back of its knees. He pushed the thing away as it began to topple, legs incapable of holding it up. Something grabbed the back of his vest and pulled.

Kell's elbow—thankfully protected by a hard plastic guard pilfered from a sporting goods store—lashed backward, connecting with the face of the first zombie. A sharp pain went up his own leg as he danced away from the staggering enemy, something piercing his foot and driving deep. Hot, sticky blood began to flow; he could feel it on the sole of his foot.