The Surviving Son (Valkyrie Book 2) (10 page)

Whatever was in Abel’s concoction was definitely effective,
and if I can ever obtain the recipe I may market it to the new world.
Although still weak and nauseous, I was feeling much better by
morning, well enough to venture to the other side of the brook in the
hope to break down the boy’s defensive walls and open a line of
dialogue. Communication is the only course for answers, and Abel
was in dire need of linguistic reeducation.

He ignored me at first, even after thanking him for helping me,
and continued to ignore me as I assisted in stacking the wood as he
vigorously chopped it. The strength that he possesses would be a
luxury for any grown man, and yet it is second nature to him, but he
seems unaware of the weaknesses in people like me. Although I still
fear the virus within his veins, my curiosity in it outweighs the
dangers, and like a school boy on Christmas morning, I cannot wait
to unwrap his gifts.

After a couple hours of chores, and continuing pressure from
Steph and myself, the boy broke the silence. Of course it was mostly
babbling about ‘not liking me’ and how I was ‘trespassing,’ but the
more he spoke, the easier I found it to understand him. And, vice
versa, the more I spoke to him, the clearer his words became, it was
as if my interactions were slowly pulling him out of his feral state.
“Abel, how old are you?” I queried, testing his awareness.
“Six Hunting Moons.” He responded with irritation.
“Do you know where you were born?”
“Papa say’s at Ocean.”
“That’s right.” I was amazed at how much he had retained.
“Mama was asleep, and Papa took me to wall of rock to watch

sunset.” He said as he swung his axe upon another log, splitting it
like balsa wood.
“Your Papa told you all of this?”
“No, it’s in here.” He said pointing to his head before swinging
his axe once again.
“You remember?” He nodded and my amazement grew.
I’ve read tales of people claiming to remember being in their
mother’s womb, or remembering the hospital room as they were
born. I always thought this was absurd, not that I do not believe the
tales, but I felt they were replacement memories. Visuals from
another time and place that the brain miss-categorizes as one of their
earliest memories. So I assumed such, stories by his father confused
with imagination and stored in a premature mind. But, I had to test
it.
“Do you remember the color of the lighthouse?” I asked.
“White and red.” He muttered. He was correct. The house itself
is white, and the light tower made of red bricks.
“What else do you remember from that day?” Steph chimed in.
“Thunder, screams, crying.” He said.
“Who was crying?” I probed further.
“No more talk!” He scowled. “Work or go.”
It was obvious we had pushed him too far, and by his command
I obediently complied. We split wood in silence well into the
afternoon before he laid the axe down and strutted over to the bear
carcass and cut off a large chunk of putrid meat. Stacking the last
few pieces of wood, I pretended to ignore him, praying he would not
force me to eat any more of that rubbish. Instead he waltzed over to
my fire and retrieved a rusted can of sardines, tossing it onto the
ground before Steph and me.
“Eat.” He demanded.
I cringed at the long-expired can of fish, afraid that its contents
were as rancid as the bear meat. However, as I sat on a log beside
the boy, I was dumfounded to find the contents identifiable and the
smell the same as I remember from long ago. The power of
preservatives is as strong today as it was over a decade ago. On the
other hand, sardines were never my cup of tea, if only I had a bottle
of mustard to drown out the taste. But beggars can’t be chooses, and
with gratitude I sucked down two of the fish and handed the rest to
Steph, all the while ignoring the boy’s table etiquette. Aside from
the smell of his lunch, the smacking of lips and grotesque belches
churned my stomach once again.
“Abel, who was crying when you were born?” Steph broke the
silence.
“My mama.” He stated before biting off another chunk of meat.
“But she was…” I paused for a moment, choosing my words
carefully. “Asleep by the time you were born.”
“Before.” He muttered with a mouthful. “While I swam.”
Swam? I was confused by his answer for a moment, still unsure
that he actually remembered any of this. But, after pondering I
realized he was referring to while he was in her womb. Although
improbably, I suspect the virus could have invaded his brain prior to
Adam’s merciful release upon her. I fear the boy’s blood alone
would not be enough to answer all of my questions as I would
require more resources from the GFS. CT-Scan or even and MRI
would only shed a little light on this devil’s miracle, but a brain
sample would be sufficient however overly invasive.
“What do you know of your mother?” I asked.
“She an Angel, sent by Gaia.”
“Gaia?” Iasked, assuming he meant God. But he answered with
a quick gesture to the trees around us. Mother Nature, the Greek God
of life. It appears that Adam had passed down some of his
knowledge of ancient civilizations to his son, his prodigy. I was
impressed with the information he was providing, but could see his
frustration building, so I proceeded with some restraint.
“I knew your mother, Mia, after she went to sleep that is.” I
mentioned. “She was quite beautiful.”
“You no know Mama.” He stammered. “She here.” He said,
pounding his chest.
“Yes she is. I can see her in your eyes.”
He didn’t respond, instead he chomped down the last piece of
flesh before walking over to the pile of logs to begin chopping once
again. This time he swung furiously, attempting to ignore my
harassment, to ignore me. But I had so many more questions, and
we had made such progress in so short a time that I refused to give
up. So, since Mia was a touchy subject for him, I decided to press a
different subject matter.
“Abel, where is your Papa?” I asked.
He stopped mid swing, dropping the axe as his eye burned with
irritation. My insistent pursuit of his history had crossed a boundary
that I refused to acknowledge, until now. He did not respond, not
immediately, instead he took deep breaths in attempt to control the
rage. After a moment he stormed towards me, fiercely standing
before me with his hand pointing out towards my campsite.
“NO MORE TALK! GO!” He squawked, and I complied, not
daring to push my luck any further. Steph on the other hand was
welcomed to stay, and his infatuation with her brimmed as he
constantly touched her hair, caressed her arm, and stared intently at
her as they continued to work. The longer they spent together the
more they talked, the more he opened up. Everything from the
animals he’s killed, to the best swimming holes he has found. With
Steph, it seemed, that no subject was off the table. So I listened
intently to their conversations from across the brook.
“Where your parents?” Abel asked as they sat down beneath a
tree for another break.
“Gone.” She answered. “Asleep like your mother.”
“Did the dead ones get them?”
“My mother, yes.” Steph sighed, “I was very young, and Idon’t
really remember how it happened.”
“And your Papa?” He asked.
“He was murdered on a supply run.” She said. “His group was
shot down by criminals.”
“Do you miss him?”
“Yes. As much as you miss your Papa.” She said. “Abel, do you
know where your Papa is?” She asked.
The boy nodded as he scooped up a few ants from the ground
and casually munched away on them. Steph didn’t question further,
instead she watched him, waiting for him to answer on his own
accord. The boy took notice, and nonchalantly pointed out into the
forest before popping another ant into his mouth. Steph smiled, and
I could see her contemplating her next question.
“Is he still alive?”
“Yes.” He answered, and I became excited.
“Can you bring us to him?”
“No more questions.” He stammered as he flung the remaining
ants from his hand. “You help me now.”
As I continued watched them with his chores, from picking up
the yard to milking the goat, I would occasionally skim through
Adam’s journal. I hoped to find answers that his son refused to
provide. However there was very little to go on, and as the day
drifted by and night fell, I stoked the fire and settled in. Steph
returned just before the darkness blanketed the area, and I casually
read one last verse in the survivor’s memoir out loud for her, a
sermon of sorts, taken and revised from the book of revelations.
“Behold, Abel, a child of both Angel and demon, and he shall
reign above all else as the master of this Earth, and the master of
my heart”

Abelrefuses to takeme to his father, and the man’s whereabouts
puzzles me all the more. Why would he leave his son alone? Was he
staying at another cabin? Did Abel’s waywardness drive him away
in fear? The way Adam speaks of his son within his journal makes
it all the more perplexing, with love and endless pride, and whatever
it was that pushed him away the boy has yet to demonstrate it to us.
Although he has been childishly hostile, vague and secretive, and in
some cases plan old rude, there has been nothing to truly instill fear
into us. But, it is possible that on occasion Valkyrie shows herself
from within his wavering temper, and when that event does happen,
Steph and I may find ourselves on the run.

Steph tends to get a more cooperative conversation from the
boy, where as I tend to invoke hate and distrust. So I have tasked her
to press him harder than I would ever dare. Although he opens up to
her, his answers remain ambiguous, and in most occasions he
redirects her inquiries with trivial subjects, like fishing or tree
climbing. And as for the subject of the dead, he shows no emotions
and avoids talking in detail about them. It is almost as if he tries to
forget their existence, or maybe he is aware that the same defilement
that condemns them is also infused within his body and he prefers
to ignore such similarities.

But all in all, his demeanor has change drastically over the last
several day. No longer is he belligerent and asking for us to leave,
he appears to be becoming comfortable with us, or at least tolerant.
With that in mind I awoke early this morning and followed the boy
out into the forest to seek out answers to his daily ventures. In truth,
I expected for him to lead me to his father, and I did my best to
maintain stealth in order to reach his destination without
confrontation.

Cautious of each step, I scurried from tree to tree, remaining out
of sight as the rising morning sun illuminated to forest even more
with each passing minute. A mob of feathered carolers helped to
drown out the sounds of my bumbling pursuit, as well as the foliage
and brush concealed my silhouette. We were heading northward,
along the western face of his mountain, crossing brooks, ravines,
and the occasional swamp.

The boy never made a sound during that march, and did not
seem to notice my own faulty steps. Instead he kept his bow in hand,
arrow poised, and with ease pranced, skipped and hopped through
narrow deer trails, over fallen logs, and across rocky streams. It was
as if watching a nature documentary on some rare and exotic forest
dweller, peacefully hypnotic and remarkable. And then there was
me, stumbling, fumbling, and tripping over every little stick or root,
attempting to maintain some measure of slyness.

Before long, though, I lost sight of the boy. Shimmying around
a large boulder I laid my eyes upon empty woodlands, and although
I am no tracker, I was surprised to find no evidence of his path. As
I scanned the area, searching for a sign, it dawned on me that the
chorus of birds had ceased, and a drab silence had crept over the
mountain. My heart began to race from the fear of the unknown, the
fear of separation, and more importantly the fear of being lost in an
unfamiliar landscape.

Fighting to gain my bearings, searching for the boy, a sound of
footsteps approached, and for a moment my fears eased. Turning
around towards the noise, expecting to find Abel’s sneaking up on
me, I gasped at the sight. A lone Necrotic stepped out from behind
the same boulder, arms outstretched and jaw snapping relentlessly.
I panicked, stumbling backwards and crashing down upon my ass as
the sole figure lurched forward in excitement.

But, the beast was the least of my worries as two more came
around the other side of the large rock, they too were highly aroused
by my presence and lunged with uncontrollable hunger. Eyes closed,
awaiting the inevitable, my hand searched for my gun, scrounging
through my pockets with blind haste. I knew this was it, the curiosity
that killed the egghead, the moment of my own demise.

My search for the gun resulted in emptiness, and I sighed in
defeat as my eyes clenched shut even tighter, and the thumping and
fumbling of the dead dropping down to the forest floor to feast
stopped my heart. I waited for it, that first bite, when infectious teeth
pierced my flesh and tore it away. Awaited for the excruciating pain,
the burn to follow, and the cage of darkness to fall over my
consciousness. I waited, prepared, and counting the seconds, but the
inevitable never came. Even the ghastly sounds of the damned faded
and slowly the songs of the birds recommenced.

“
Lose something, Numb-Nuts?” Abel’s voice flowed like a
guardian angel and I pried my eyes open to find him standing over
me with my gun in hand. Quickly I shuffled to my feet while
brushing off the forest debris and awkward cowardice before
snatching the gun back and shoving it into my pocket. The boy just
stood there staring at me with a smirk of satisfaction painted across
his pristine face.

“Numb
-Nuts?” I questioned. “Where’d you come up with that
name?”
“Papa.” He answered. “He called a deer that once, after it ran
from us and straight into them.”
“Them?” But he did not answer, instead he just pointed down
at the three corpses laying at me feet, blood oozing from their skulls.
“Why you follow me?” He asked.
“I’m curious.” But Abel didn’t seem to understand, cocking his
head to the side as he waited for more explanation. “I find you
interesting, I wanted to see where you go every day.”
“Papa wouldn’t like you sneaking up on me.”
“Obviously I wasn’t that sneaky.”
“Nope.” The boy said before sauntering off and quickly I
followed.
He didn’t say anything else, nor did he object to my presence,
but the stalking nature he possessed prior to my incident was
nonexistent. The boy stomped through the forest without a care, his
bow now strapped to his back with an obvious halt to his daily hunt.
A part of me felt bad for intruding, yet, his acceptance of me gave
hope that I was reaching him. That his distrust was fading.
We hiked for about an hour, almost completely uphill, closer to
the summit of the sylvan mountain. When he noticed my aged
feebleness slowing me down we rested, and thankfully he had a
small pouch of water that he generously provided. I sucked it down,
the coolness cascading throughout my body and invigorating my
strength. After squeezing the leathery sack empty, I threw the boy a
quick nod of thanks.
“Interesting pouch.” I mentioned, “What is it made of?”
“Moose scrotum.” He snickered, and my stomach churned.
Abel allowed me to rest further, as he scanned the area, as if
looking for someone, or something. But soon, his eyes turned back
to me as I struggled to catch my breath and stretch my aching
muscles. Quickly he stepped forward and reached out, his hand
grasping my chin and yanking it upwards as he stared down at my
neck. Startled I pulled away and tossed the boy an annoyed glare,
silently asking for an answer to his actions.
“Remove your shirt.” He said.
“Why?”
“Remove it. Now!” I didn’t question him further and complied.
“Ticks.” He said. “You’re infested.”
He was right, looking down at my chest I found a dozen of
them, even more on my stomach and sides. The boy quickly brushed
away most of them as they scurried up my body. Those that were
attached he removed quite effectively, if not abrasively, with a knife
and then focused on my back to remove even more. Never before
had I seen so many, even as a child exploring the woods I may have
found one or two on me. But this was an invasion, and it was
apparent that Adam’s insight of the insect population was correct ‘booming.’
“Pants.” The boy cooed as he cleared the rest of the mites away,
and I complied, only to discover even more on my legs which he
swiftly removed. “Skivvies.” This time I hesitated, until I realized
the alternative to my refusal, and slowly shimmied them off. Abel
immediately snickered, and normally I am not a modest man, but for
a second became slightly ruffled at his rudeness. But once I dared to
look down, I found what he was truly sneering at. Three of the
dreaded arachnids suckled my testicles and one more dreadfully
embedded into the head of my penis.
“Fuck me.” I mumbled.
“They must like you.” He said with another chuckle before
drawing his blade closer to my nether regions. Although I was
highly embarrassed, I allowed him to complete the task, noticing
that he did not seem the least bit bothered by it. With each flick of
the knife Iflinched and pulled away. “Bestill!”He commanded. “Or
else I make you a woman.” And then, with a complete lack of
tenderness, he grasped hold of my shaft, stretching out tight before
flicking the last of the bugs from the tip. With a deep grimace I
sighed in relief.
“Bend over and spread.” Abel snickered again.
“Shit!” I grumbled.
After clearing the remaining few I rushed to put my clothes
back on and attempted to forget such a demeaning endeavor. With
another deep sigh, I sat back down on a rock and tried to ignore the
creepy crawly feeling that tingled all over my body. Abel on the
other hand sauntered off, as if in search for some lost treasure hidden
beneath the forest deadfall.
“Wait,” I called after him. “Shouldn’t I check you over?”
“No need.” He mumbled. “You’re blood much sweeter. Wait
here.”
Swiftly he vanished around a cluster of thick spruce and I stayed
in place as commanded, bewildered at his nonchalant attitude. But,
I soon came to the realization about his lack of concern as I thought
back upon all I have learned about Valkyrie. Much like mosquitoes,
blood sucking insects and parasites tend to avoid the Infected, and
have only been observed feeding upon them in rare occasions. The
boy was right, my own untainted blood is much more appetizing to
them.
Within minutes Abel returned with a bundle of purple flowers
attached to long green and leafy stems. Using two stones he
proceeded to mash the plants together into a thick gloopy paste,
being sure every fiber of the vegetation was masticated and almost
liquefied. Then, with his grimy hands, he scooped up the mass and
handed it out to me.
“Eat.” He stammered.
“What is it?”
“Heal-All.” He said, holding the mash even closer to my face.
“Will fight the sickness.”
Hesitantly I scooped up the sludge and took a quick sniff of its
aromatic juices, much like a combination of roses and fresh mowed
grass. Its flavor on the other hand had less to be desired, overly bitter
as the juices coated my mouth and throat with a tingling numbness
similar to that of Novocain. But still, I choked it down, knowing all
too well the numerous diseases those little bastards carry, and
presumably newer strains that have been undocumented due to the
rise of the dead.
Abel then removed a few Juniper balms from his pouch and
once again began to pound them out with the rocks. This time,
however, he did not grind them into a pulp. Instead he lightly
crushed them, releasing the oils which I was aware would help to
ward off any further parasites. Once satisfied he handed them to me
which I immediately secured on my shoes, belt, and commenced
rubbing the needles all over my exposed skin.
“We go now!” He demanded, apparently no longer enthused
with the delay.
It wasn’t long before we reached the limit of our hike and
slowly made our way downhill towards the south. We travelled for
maybe a half hour before the trees began to thin and the silhouette
of the cabin came into view. Steph sat by the fire-pit reading over
Adam’s journal but soon noticed our approach and rose to greet us.
The look upon her face was that of complete disapproval and anger.
“Do you know how worried I was?” She stammered.
“You check him this time!” Abel spat as he stormed into the
cabin.
“Check you for what?” She asked, and I could feel my face
blush with embarrassment.