Century Z [original fiction]

What if there was a zombie outbreak, and the zombies won?

I might be writing more in this world, and developing more of the story later.

Index
Part One: The Unquiet Dead (below)

 

Century Z


Part One: The Unquiet Dead


Nathaniel Coburn scraped the last shovelful of dirt from the post-hole and cast it upon the growing heap. He paused; the shovel handle felt as though a splinter was working loose, and he didn't need that above all else. Looking around, he saw his elder boy was still keeping an eye on the treeline. Good. At seventeen summers, Matthew was a smart boy; he didn't need to be told what was what. A short distance away, Luke hacked away gamely at the undergrowth to clear the site that Nathaniel had marked for the next post-hole.

From three directions, they were safe. This was to be the western boundary of the farm that Nathaniel and his family were marking out. The cutting and shaping of posts and rails was back-breaking work, but with his older boys helping out, they were getting there. The north, south and east sides were already fenced in, with sturdy gates designed to keep the Unquiet at bay.

Once the western boundary fence was complete, Nathaniel intended to set about digging trap-ditches, perhaps with the aid of his neighbours, to capture such unwanted intruders until somebody could give them final rest. Only then would he accept that they were at least partially secure.

The surrounding terrain was mostly flat. It rose a little to the west, forming a low ridge lined with trees, a double obstacle for seeing what was coming. From any other direction, even if they could get past the fences, Matthew would be able to see them coming for miles. Distantly, to the east, the homestead was barely visible; those buildings had been fenced in first of all.

But Matthew had had his rest, and Luke was starting to flag, even though the fifteen-year-old was still plying the bill-hook gamely. He was making hard work of it, and Nathaniel wondered if the blade might be getting dull.

“Matthew,” he said, pulling out his prized pocket-knife. He was down to using the smallest blade on it; the others had been honed away to nothing, over the years that it had been passed down from father to son. I'll never find another like it, not in my lifetime.

“Yes, Pa?” Matthew turned toward him.

“Take over from Luke. Luke, you're on watch.” Nathaniel didn't have to look at his boys as he spoke. They were good lads; strong, dutiful, obedient. A man could be proud of them.

With the pocket-knife blade open, he worked carefully at the shovel handle, shaving away the splinter. Last thing I need is an infection. He'd seen a man lose a hand that way, once.

“Sure thing, Pa.” Matthew walked over to Luke, who had stopped as their father spoke, and was leaning with his hands on his knees. “Give over, Luke. I have it.”

Luke straightened, brushing his straw-coloured hair back from his forehead. In that, he was a match for his taller, huskier brother, save that Matthew's hair was shorter. Nathaniel's would have been the same, if the grey had not been creeping into it, and into his short beard, these past ten years. “Thanking you kindly, brother Matthew.”

“You're welcome, brother Luke.” Matthew paused in the act of taking the bill-hook from his brother. “Let me see your hands there.”

“They're fine, Matthew,” Luke told him defensively.

“Let him see your hands, son.” Nathaniel knew that he did not have to raise his voice; he closed the knife and stowed it away. Carefully, he ran his fingertips over the handle of the shovel; it was smooth once more.

Matthew was examining Luke's hands. “Near on got a blister here, brother,” he pointed out. “Not holding the 'hook tight enough, seems like.”

“It'll be fine, Matthew.” Luke pulled his hand free from his brother's grip. “It'll be fine, Pa. I can still work.” His tone was almost angry, as if daring them to gainsay him.

Nathaniel nodded, more to acknowledge that his son had spoken than in agreement with him. “We'll see, son. Have your rest and keep watch.”

To his credit, Luke did not even attempt to argue. “Yes, Pa.” He moved toward where the canteen hung on a shrub, and unscrewed the cap.

“Pa.” It was Matthew. “Bill-hook's blunt.” He ran his thumb over the edge a second time. “Might could be why Luke's having the trouble with it.”

“Run the stone over it, then.” Nathaniel was glad that he'd made sure to pack the sharpening stone this day. It was an extra weight, but when it was needed, it was needed. “Don't need the both of you getting blisters.” He smiled, just a little, to show that it was a jest. But not wholly so; he truly did not want either of them getting blisters. Without proper treatment, blisters could be worse than splinters.

Matthew snorted, just a little, as he returned to where the carry-bag hung from a tree branch. “My hands have not blistered in more than a year, Pa. And if they were going to blister, a bill-hook would not do it.”

“Maybe I need to work you a little harder, then.” The threat was hollow, and they both knew it. Nathaniel would not set either boy to a task that he would not do himself, and Matthew had never shirked nor shied from work.

“Pa.” Luke had paused in the act of screwing the lid back on to the canteen. A droplet of water, unheeded, hung at the corner of his mouth. But what got Nathaniel's attention was the tone of his voice. With a sudden sharp prescience, he knew what the boy was going to say next. “We got some, Pa. Four of 'em. Treeline.”

Matthew had been taking the sharpening stone from the carry-bag. He turned fast, bill-hook in one hand, stone in the other. Shading his eyes with the hand holding the stone, he looked hard toward the ridge.

Nathaniel was staring also, a terrible knowledge building in his gut. “Luke, you have sharper eyes than Matthew or I. Please tell me that those are not who I think they are.”

Luke bit his lip. “I'm sorry, Pa. It is. That's Mr Henderson, and …” His voice broke as his face crumpled with grief. “Oh, Christ.”

“Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord our God in vain.” Nathaniel's voice was mild, but it promised a close and personal meeting with the razor-strop in the near future.

“It was a prayer for their souls, sir. That's Joey, and Francis, and Kyle.”

“All three of his sons, then.” Nathaniel's voice was a sigh. Kyle had been the oldest of Jebediah's sons; as Nathaniel recalled, he was rising twenty. Francis was Matthew's age, while Joseph was a year or two younger than Luke. All three had dark hair; in life, they had borne their father's serious look. “I had hoped that one might be a stranger. Might they be just visiting?” There was little hope of that; the stilted walk was a giveaway for the Unquiet, but he had to hold out hope.

“No, Pa.” That was Matthew. “The boys have been bitten, at least. I can see the marks. I cannot see any on Mr Henderson, though.” He began to work the stone on the blade of the bill-hook, the ragged skreek providing a counterpoint to his words.

Nathaniel grimaced. Jebediah Henderson had been a good friend to him and his, for quite a few years. “A Sporer, do you think?”

They hadn't seen any of those around these parts for a few years. Secretly, he had been holding out hope that there wouldn't be any more. If it weren't for the Sporers, the menace of the Unquiet would have been long since dealt with.

The danger posed by an Unquiet was greatest in its first few days after Turning. With the brain still fresh, so those who seemed to know about such things said, it recalled people from its life and how to perform simple tasks. Some said that if you faced an Unquiet who had known you in life, it would try to say your name, which to Nathaniel was a concept simultaneously heartbreaking and horrifying.

However, no matter how much whatever had Turned it worked to preserve the dead flesh, an Unquiet would begin to slow down, its gait reducing to a shamble as those parts of its brain that governed movement slowly rotted away, along with its muscles and tendons. That was when the other part of the infection would come into its own.

It seemed that there was something else involved; nobody knew exactly what. While the Unquiet was slowly rotting away, tendrils of some sort would be extending through the body. When some invisible line was crossed, the Unquiet ceased to be a shambling mindless husk and began acting with purpose once more. Its stance firmed up, the skin took on a mottled orange hue, and it gained the ability to exhale spores on to the wind.

These spores, if inhaled in large quantities, caused uncontrollable coughing that eventually killed the victim, Turning him after death. In smaller amounts, they did not kill the victim, but instead bided their time. If he died in some other way, they then struck; the poor soul still became an Unquiet, but with no warning to those around him. That struck Nathaniel as being even more terrifying than Turning immediately. To have that malevolent evil lurking inside you, for months or even years, only to strike at the hour of your death … what could that be but an act of Satan?

For a rare mercy, a Sporer was even easier to kill than a normal Unquiet. The process of becoming a Sporer ate away at the bones, so that the hardness of the skull was no longer a problem. Whatever the body transformed into was brittle, and so the head could easily be crushed at a single blow. However, doing so would release clouds of spores into the immediate area, putting the attacker at grave risk.

Nathaniel did not know if a Sporer could naturally 'die'. Nobody had ever captured one to find out. It was rumoured, however, that there were some Sporers still remaining from the very first attacks of the Unquiet, back before the Fall.

Fortunately, none of the four Unquiet before them could be Sporers; they were far too fresh. That was the only blessing in what was turning out to be a very dark day.

“Might could be, Pa,” Matthew agreed, the stone still rasping on the blade of the bill-hook. His eyes were on the oncoming Unquiet, his expression unhappy. “What do we do? Should we make for the house?”

Nathaniel shook his head. “No. The newly Turned can move swiftly if they have to, and they do not tire. They would run us down. We fight them here, while we are still fresh.” If there had been more of them, he knew that he would have sent his sons back to the house anyway. But against four, he believed that they could win.

Still, the boys needed to be told what to do. “Luke.” The boy looked around at Nathaniel's voice. “Take the shovel and the carry-bag. Stay behind us. If any come at you, keep them at bay. Do not let them separate you from us.”

Luke, his eyes wide and lips pinched with fear, nodded as he accepted the long-handled implement from his father. “I won't, Pa.” Reaching up, he lifted the carry-bag from the branch and tightened the draw-cord around the neck. Slinging it over his back, he put the canteen over his shoulder without needing to be told. Then he took up the shovel in both hands.

“Good lad.” Nathaniel nodded to Matthew; they had faced Unquiet together before now. Luke was lucky in that he had not. “Keep the bill-hook, Matthew. And mind the stone.”

“What are you going to do, Pa?” Matthew was staring at him, wide-eyed, but he pushed the stone into the pocket of his trousers all the same.

Bending down, Nathaniel picked up the last tool that they had brought out with them. It was an iron crowbar, which they had been using to loosen the dirt at the bottom of the post-hole. He hefted it, feeling the weight of it. The tip was blunt, but that didn't matter. “Show the Unquiet that they should not have come on to our land.”

While they had been talking and preparing, the husks of those who had once been their friends had covered half the distance from the treeline. It was obvious that the Unquiet had seen them; the four were making their way directly toward Nathaniel and his two sons.

“Move back,” Nathaniel instructed the boys, keeping his voice calm for Luke's sake. “Luke, tell us of hazards behind us. Matthew, do not let them surround us. Also, do not strike at the head. The bill-hook can get caught in the skull. Strike at the neck or the arms.”

They began to retreat from the oncoming four, which were coming uncomfortably close. That which had once been Jeb Henderson had drawn ahead, due to its longer legs. Were it not for the odd gait and blank gaze, Nathaniel might almost have thought that his neighbour had dropped over for a consultation on some matter or other. Despite himself, he searched the face of his old friend for some sign that there was still a thinking human being in there.

Behind him, he heard Luke bite back a sob. “Pa – Joey, he looks -”

“Luke.” It was Matthew, speaking before Nathaniel had to. “Joseph is no more. That is an Unquiet wearing his face. Do not be fooled. It wishes to Turn you, no more.”

Good lad. Matthew was keeping a level head. That won more fights than any amount of foolish bravery.

“Watch the other three,” Nathaniel instructed his elder son. “I will deal with … Jebediah.”

Without waiting for an answer, he stepped forward, turning the crowbar so that the flat end was toward the oncoming Unquiet. Gripping the ad hoc weapon firmly, he set himself to drive the end of the crowbar forward into the centre of the walking corpse's chest.

At the very last moment, his eyes betrayed him and he looked into his old friend's face. The eyes were still staring blankly, but the man's expression was so familiar. As he watched, the mouth opened, as if to speak to him.

Almost, Nathaniel's resolve faltered. His stance shifted slightly, and the crowbar struck a little to the left of where he had intended. Where the blow should have unbalanced the Unquiet and tumbled it to the ground, it merely half-turned and stumbled back a pace, letting the end of the crowbar skid off of its chest.

“Pa!” That was Matthew.

Nathaniel did not look around. “I have this.”

Hands reached for him; strong, blunt-nailed hands, the hands of a working farmer. He turned the crowbar sideways and knocked the hands away. Away from me, Satan. I spurn thee.

Stepping back, he eschewed finesse and simply swung the crowbar overhand like a club, down at the top of the Unquiet's head. This time, the blow landed squarely; bone cracked, and the iron bar buried itself a handspan-deep into the dead man's skull. Its brain destroyed, the husk of Jeb Henderson crumpled to the soft ground.

“Pa!” Matthew's voice was higher, more alarmed. Nathaniel looked around, even as he wrenched the crowbar from the skull of his oldest friend.

The fight with Jeb's corpse had taken longer than he'd thought; already, the other three Unquiet had his boys sorely beset. Matthew had taken Kyle's right hand off at the wrist with the bill-hook, but the older Henderson boy had him by the arm and was seeking to draw him in for a bite. Luke had managed to do to Joseph where Nathaniel had failed with Jeb, sprawling the Unquiet on the ground. He was currently shoving Francis desperately away, unable to contend with the older boy's superior size and strength.

Matthew was in dire straits. Kyle had ever been stronger than him; as an Unquiet, the Henderson boy was even stronger, uncaring of pain or danger. The thing was too close for Matthew to lop its head from its shoulders – the bill-hook needed a good swing for that – and the angle was wrong for Matthew to take its other arm off.

As Nathaniel hastened toward his sons, Luke stumbled backward and fell. The Unquiet that wore Joseph's visage was even now climbing to its feet. Francis loomed over Luke, while Kyle's relentless grip drew Matthew's arm ever closer to its gaping mouth.

“Matthew!” barked Nathaniel. “Put the bill-hook in its mouth! It'll not be able to bite!” His elder son obeyed, causing the Unquiet to gnash its teeth uselessly on the iron blade. Darting forward, Nathaniel body-checked Francis, sending the walking corpse sprawling on the ground away from Luke. Taking the crowbar firmly in both hands, he turned, just as Joseph came at him, arms outstretched.

The boy was a little shorter than Luke, so that its head was just at the right height for the horizontal swing with the crowbar that crushed the Unquiet's temple. All of the unnatural life left the animated body, and it fell bonelessly to the ground. Luke was already scrambling to his feet, using the shovel as a prop, as Nathaniel turned toward where Matthew was still struggling with Kyle.

The Unquiet was trying to use its handless forearm to push the blade sideways out of its mouth; Matthew, with the strength of the desperate, did his best to hold it in place, but Nathaniel could see that the only thing holding it there was hook of the blade, caught in Kyle's cheek. Once that tore, and it would tear, then Matthew would have no more leverage on his side.

He came to his decision in a moment; discarding the crowbar, he moved to his elder son's side and plucked the sharpening stone from the boy's pocket. This was a properly-made stone, squared off and designed to sit in a wooden bed while knives were honed upon its upper surface. A close-in fight like this had no room for the space that the crowbar would need, but a sharpening stone was something else altogether.

He grasped the stone firmly, just as the Unquiet's mouth tore open, the blade pushing free of its grinding teeth. Bringing the makeshift weapon around in a short but brutal arc, he buried the end of it in the side of Kyle's skull an instant before those teeth would have closed on Matthew's arm. A rectangular plug of bone was punched deep into the brain, giving the animated corpse its final rest. It released Matthew, sliding to the ground in a lifeless heap.

“Th-thanks, Pa,” gasped Matthew, rubbing at his arm where Kyle had been grasping it so strongly. Then his eyes widened as he heard his brother cry out. “Luke!”

They turned as one toward Luke, but the danger was past. Francis' body was on the ground; standing over it was Nathaniel's younger son, repeatedly stabbing his shovel blade down at where the Unquiet's head had already been severed from its body. The blood smeared on the metal showed how this had been achieved. Luke, however, did not seem to understand this, and kept driving the shovel into the bloodstained earth between head and body, over and over, in an orgy of terrified fury.

Nathaniel took a deep breath, then released it shakily. We are alive. Turning toward Matthew, he eyed his elder son searchingly. “You were not bitten or wounded by them?”

Shakily, Matthew shook his head. “No, Pa. My arm will be bruised, but he never broke my skin.”

“Good lad.” Nathaniel briefly squeezed his son's shoulder. “Keep watch. I will see to Luke. And see if you can't clean this for me.”

“Yes, Pa.” Matthew accepted the sharpening stone, staring at the end which had been soiled by the Unquiet's blood and brains. Nathaniel left him then, approaching Luke cautiously.

He had seen men like this, caught in a berserker fury that caused them to lash out at everyone around, even allies. Just because Luke was still a boy did not mean that he could not be a danger to them.

“Luke,” he called softly. “Luke, son. It's dead. You can stop now.”

Luke took no heed, continuing to churn the earth with the shovel. Francis' head had now rolled a few feet from the decapitated body. Nathaniel had to appreciate the hysterical strength that it must have required to drive the shovel blade through the larger boy's neck, even with leverage on Luke's side.

Taking a chance, Nathaniel stepped closer; Luke ignored him. He placed one large hand on Luke's shoulder, and the other on the shovel, gripping it tightly. Luke wrenched at it, sobbing feverishly, trying to continue his assault on the Unquiet's body.

“Luke. Son. It's safe now. You killed it.” Nathaniel plucked the shovel from his son's grasp – not without some effort – and cast it aside. Luke tried to fight him, but he gathered the boy into a rough bear hug. “You can stop now. The fight is over. You won, Luke. You won. You killed it.”

Gradually, the tone of his voice got through to his son; Luke stopped struggling and began to weep copiously, his tears soaking the front of his father's rough-spun work shirt. Nathaniel was not good at giving comfort, but he did his best, holding the boy close and murmuring wordlessly.

Everyone reacted differently to their first encounter with Unquiet. Some were brave and loud after the fact, no matter how they had acted during the fight. Others were quiet and withdrawn, even becoming catatonic on occasion. A few threw up, or soiled themselves uncontrollably. Nathaniel had seen almost every reaction there was to see; he tended to draw into himself, showing as little of his inner terror to the outside world as he could manage.

Once Luke was quieted, and had shown himself to have borne no wounds, they set about gathering the corpses together. No more post-holes would be dug today, but the shovel would be put to another use. Matthew hacked away at the undergrowth, clearing an area, while Luke set about loosening the dirt. Nathaniel kept watch at first until an area about six feet square was clear, then started to dig. He only went down a foot or so, alternating with Matthew, while Luke kept watch.

Once the shallow grave had been dug, they rolled the bodies into it. Covering it in took far less time than digging it, but Nathaniel was glad by the time they were finished.

As the westering sun lowered toward the horizon, Nathaniel stood with his sons beside the grave of the four Unquiet.

The Prayer had been penned by his great-great-grandfather during the first great outbreak of the Unquiet, at the close of what had then been known as the Great War. As a young army chaplain, James Coburn had scribbled the Prayer into the flyleaf of his own Bible in the Year of Our Lord one thousand nine hundred and eighteen. Unfortunately, over the intervening years, the Bible had been lost. The Prayer itself had survived, passed down by word of mouth from generation to generation. Clearing his throat, Nathaniel spoke the words now.

From the sun and rain, oh Lord, preserve us and shelter us.
From the drought and starvation, oh Lord, preserve us and feed us.
From the illness and disease, oh Lord, preserve us and cure us.
From the beasts of the field, oh Lord, preserve us and protect us.
From the bandits and brigands, oh Lord, preserve us and shield us.
From the unquiet dead, oh Lord, preserve us and save us.
Preserve us, oh Lord.
Preserve us.

“Amen,” he murmured. His sons echoed him, Luke's voice still a little hoarse. Nathaniel did not think badly of him for it; the boy had killed an Unquiet, after all. That was bad enough; giving the final rest to someone whom you had known all your life made it even worse.

His musings were interrupted by a rapid staccato of hoofbeats. Nathaniel turned, wary but not fearful; if there was one thing the Unquiet did not do, it was ride horses. He shaded his eyes against the sinking sun; against the glare, he could see a lone figure on horseback, galloping toward them from the trees. And he saw one more thing; billowing high, almost glowing in the reddened light, a cloud of minuscule particles, being blown to them by the treacherous wind.

The rider's voice came to his ears a moment later, but he already knew what warning it carried.

“Spores! Spores!”


End of Part One