The Headhunter (Shorting the Undead & Other Horrors) Read online

  A full twelve months to the day. An illegitimate anniversary: the birth of the first Undead. He doubted anyone was celebrating tonight.

  The trestle’s metalwork rose high above him, a dark spider web against the coffee sky. They intended to cross over the river tonight, a task that Bill had always abhorred. It would be so easy to become trapped on the structure. But, as Reggie reminded him, hunting was better on the opposite shore. The area was dotted with a few small neighborhoods where the rich and spoiled had once lived but which now served as wayside stops for travelers, shelters for hapless squatters. Beyond the rundown mansions, downriver, a cozy little town still existed, still peopled by a few brave souls. He’d call them brainless, but it would just be too ironic, considering what was at stake.

  Upriver, only farmland and scattered ranch houses existed. Most people lived in the cities now, huddled in clusters of apartments like his own; most zombies, too. For the most part, each kept to their own side of twilight if they could, but encounters were inevitable. The city was the front line in the war that seemed to have no boundaries.

  An overgrown path led away from the walkway and tumbled down past the crumbling cement piling and into the blackness underneath. Bill descended, cursing the darkness and his forgetfulness. He could picture the flashlight on the hook next to the door of his apartment and his hand itched to reach out to snatch it from that vision. He thought about going back for it, but the apartment was too far away to return to now. He’d have to make do without it for the night.

  He stopped to listen. The only sound coming to his ears was the whine of the crickets that lined the river’s banks. In such quiet, it was easy to believe he was truly alone in this world. It was equally hard to forget how close to the truth that was.

  The grass was wet from mist and his old worn boots constantly threatened to betray him. He moved slowly, deliberately, concentrating more than he wanted to on staying upright and less on his surroundings. But then his legs did fly out from underneath him and his arms were pin-wheeling for balance, but to no avail. He landed heavily, his shoulder impacting the hard ground with a soft, sickening crunch. Pain immediately radiated outward, coursing over his neck and down his back, before quickly collapsing back in on itself, a cold white ember that he knew would burn indefinitely. He heard his machete ping off an exposed rock next to him.

  From the darkness under the bridge, there came a soft click. Then everything exploded in light, a silent, brilliant, blinding glare. He threw a forearm up to protect himself.

  “Bill? You scared the crap out of me.”

  Bill let out an exhale of relief, dropping his arm and turning his head away from the light. “Wanna turn that off, Reg?”

  “Sorry, brother.”

  He could hear Reggie shuffling around in the darkness, gathering up his backpack and tools. Bill stumbled to his feet, found his machete, stepped back onto the trail. His shoulder throbbed, but the pain was already fading. No permanent damage.

  “Sorry I’m late.”

  There was a soft scraping sound—Reggie’s boot against cement—then the ex-preacher was standing beside him, his white eyes and teeth glowing in the darkness. The unmistakable coldness of polished steel brushed against Bill hand.

  “What’s this?”

  “Gary’s,” Reggie said.

  “When?”

  “Two nights ago.”

  Bill grunted. He remembered the hunter, short and brutally ugly, breath that stunk halfway to Tuesday. Gary walked with a permanent stoop, the result of a close encounter in the chaos that had infected the city in the days immediately following that first attack. His left arm had been nearly torn from his shoulder; afterwards, it remained paralyzed. It was easier for him to just strap it to his side, which partially accounted for the stoop. The sling made it easier to hunt, easier to fight. Easier to run.

  Except this time he hadn’t run fast enough.

  “Where did it happen?”

  “The old mall,” Reggie answered. Bill noticed something new in the other hunter’s voice, something tight and fragile that he’d never heard before. The ex-preacher sounded almost defeated. “I taught him, too.”

  “Sorry.”

  “They ambushed us, a whole gang of them, at least a dozen. It was… It was like they had coordinated the attack. Like they knew we were coming. I barely escaped.”

  “But you did. That’s what counts.”

  “I was the only one.”

  “How many did we lose?”

  “Including Gary? Four. Jed Macon—”

  “I knew Jed. Back in the day. Never really liked him much, though. One of yours?”

  “No.”

  “He was more of a closer, would let someone else do the hard work before he swooped in for the kill. Hated that. Still, a shame he’s gone.”

  “A loss,” Reggie agreed. “The other two were brothers, Charlie and Sev Cartwright.”

  Bill frowned into the darkness. He hadn’t known the other two, but it didn’t lessen the ache that grew inside of him.

  “They’re getting smarter,” he said. He felt his chest tighten. Anger, maybe, or bitterness, although he wasn’t sure who it would be directed at. “Either that or we’re getting dumber.”

  “Neither,” Reggie countered, “but they are getting more desperate. I heard they raided some of the camps over down near the train yards. It was a bloodbath.”

  “Fucking monsters.”

  A click came from Reggie’s throat. Usually he tolerated Bill’s foul language, but tonight it seemed he had less patience for it. Maybe the attack at the mall had set him on edge.

  “What were you guys doing all the way down there? And why such a large group?”

  “Planning,” Reggie answered, though he didn’t elaborate.

  “I take it you prayed for them?”

  “I pray for them all, Bill.”

  He nudged the handle of Gary’s knife into Bill’s palm.

  “No, you keep it.”

  “I already have two, one for each hand. Can’t use it, don’t want it. You take it. Use it…for Karen. And the others.”

  Bill sighed. The knife had good balance, a wide blade, though much too short for his liking. He preferred longer weapons, like the machete. He didn’t like getting so close to his prey.

  “For Karen,” he murmured. “And the others.”

  He slipped the knife into his belt behind him and pulled his shirt over it.

  † † †

  “This is the part that scares the shit out of me,” Bill muttered, as they hurried over the trestle.

  He tried to make out the shapes in the shadows beneath him along the shore, imagining they held hidden armies ready to attack them—the hunter become the hunted. He grew more and more certain that something dreadful was waiting for them on the other side.

  He sniffed the air, but detected nothing other than the reek of the river.

  What would they do if they were trapped up here? They’d have to jump into the river. That, or stand and fight. He thought he’d take his chances fighting, if it came to that. The river current was much too slow to carry them away quickly enough, which meant they’d have to swim. But their attackers would simply follow along on the shore and wait until they either sank in exhaustion or came ashore.

  And what would happen when the sun rose?

  The idea of drowning once more suffused his thoughts.

  Focus.

  So he did.

  They made it safely across. Then, without a word, Reggie headed upriver, away from the abandoned mall and the small town, toward the spread-out farms, much to Bill’s relief.

  They followed a winding road whose surface glistened from the mist, keeping their ears pricked for sounds that didn’t belong to the night. They checked a number of darkened houses, their doors smashed in, their windows broken, taking turns sharing the beam of Reggie’s flashlight. But they found nothing: no evidence of recent habitation, whether by human or zombie.

  At an intersection,
where the signal lights blinked red in all directions, they found a car, its headlights soaked up by the darkness ahead. The hood was still warm, though the engine was silent. The doors were open and the keys were still in the ignition; the driver was gone.

  “Bad place to run out of gas,” Reggie remarked. Bill snorted nervously.

  A baby seat in the back was empty. In the flattened weeds alongside the road, they found a long smear of blood and the bodies of the family. Steam still rose from them in the humid night. Their skulls were cracked open and the tops of their heads were gone. The brains were missing.

  “Fucking monsters,” Bill said, turning away in disgust.

  He went over to turn off the car’s headlights. A strange twilight descended upon them, a red washed glow alternating with the coldness of gunmetal gray.

  “We’re all God’s children,” Reggie commented. He quietly adjusted his backpack, then kneeled over each of the bodies and said a quick prayer while Bill stood on, impatiently scanning the shadows. Except for Reggie’s quiet murmur and the click of the traffic light, the night was silent.

  “Just make it quick. This place makes me jumpy.”

  They walked on for some time, but saw nothing. The newly risen moon gave off a meager, pasty glow from its perch low on the horizon. They eventually came to a farm.

  Once again, no lights showed in the windows. There were no cars parked out front and no animal sounds came from inside the barn. A single white shirt hung on the line, flapping like a ghost trying to warn them away.

  “Check the house?”

  Bill nodded, though the barn would’ve been his first choice.

  Reggie led the way across the patch of barnyard and around the corner to the back porch. He held the unlit flashlight like a club in one hand, a knife in the other. He’d walk a few steps, stop, sniff the air, then take a couple more steps. As far as Bill could tell, there was nothing that indicated they were anything but alone.

  But he couldn’t be sure.

  The first porch step creaked quietly under Reggie’s boot. They paused, but only the wind answered. Two more steps, two more creaks, and then they were fully in the shadows beneath the porch roof. The torn screen door stood open, but the inner door was shut tight, the glass, miraculously, still intact.

  “What if it’s locked?” Bill hissed.

  Reggie fumbled with his flashlight, switching it to the hand that held the knife, but the fog had greased his fingers and the light slipped out of his hands. It hit the wooden floor with a loud bang! The light snapped on and the beam jabbed the darkness around them as it tumbled down the steps.

  “Fucking Christ,” Bill whispered.

  The back door crashed open. Instinctively, Bill stepped back. The figure hurtling out at them narrowly missed him. It howled incoherently and crashed into Reggie, who lost his knife. The blade flew into the yard. The two figures, zombie and human, tumbled down the steps in full embrace, hands grasping, teeth gnashing.

  “Bill!” Reggie screamed.

  Bill snapped out of his stupor and leaped off the porch. His ankle twisted painfully beneath him as he landed and his glasses flew off his face, but he ignored the pain and threw himself at the grappling pair. Hooking his elbow around the attacker’s neck, he pulled it off his partner, but the monster was too strong and twisted out of his grip. Now it turned to face him. Bill swung his foot up and kicked it in the stomach. It backed clumsily away before tripping over Reggie’s knife.

  “Need some help here!” Bill cried. He chanced a quick glance behind him, but Reggie seemed to be having trouble getting to his feet. He was stumbling around like a drunken sailor, apparently still dazed by the fall.

  Bill turned. The attacker was stupidly reaching down for the knife. Taking advantage of the distraction, Bill raced across the yard, willing his injured ankle not to collapse under him. Lunging at the hideous thing, he swung the machete with every last ounce of energy in him.

  For a moment it seemed that he’d missed. The beast continued to bend down, then, slowly, as if it were reconsidering, it paused. Without a sound, it pirouetted on its toes then tumbled onto its back on the dirt. Its head rolled to a rest at Bill’s feet.

  He kicked it away, then fell to his knees. He suddenly felt drained. Hunts were not supposed to go this way. He was supposed to be the hunter.

  He dropped the bloodied machete and crawled over to the porch railing where he tried desperately to vomit, but his stomach was empty and all that came out was a dry cough. He dry-spat, then wiped his mouth.

  After a few moments, he turned. Reggie had recovered and had already bagged the head. He was standing over the body, finishing his prayer. When he was done, he bought the sack over to Bill.

  “You take it,” Bill panted. “You have a family to take care of and—”

  “No,” Reggie said firmly. “Your kill, your trophy. That’s the code.” He pulled it out of the sack by its hair and nodded appreciatively, trying to make light of the situation. “You bagged a good one,” he joked. “A few more like this and you might even be able to retire to the Bahamas.”

  “Put it away,” Bill growled, though he managed a weak smile. He took the sack from Reggie’s hands, tied a knot in the drawstring and slipped the loop through his belt.

  “You okay, Bill?”

  “Think so.”

  “Good. Now get with the program. There’s likely to be more.”

  They made a quick sweep of the downstairs of the house. The staircase leading to the upper floors had long since been torn down, leaving a gaping hole in the ceiling. But all they found was a soiled mattress in the back room, darkly stained and stiff. The barn was similarly deserted. A few stray shafts of hay dangled from the cobwebs, the rest long since carried away by rats or the autumn winds. Stalls stood open and empty, their gates hanging loosely on rusted hinges. In the center of the barn stood a large wooden chopping block, the top softened by blood and scarred by hatchet marks. The hatchet was long gone.

  They headed away from the road then, striking out across an open field that looked as if it hadn’t been sown in several seasons. The weeds stood tall and dry, their seed pods rattling in the night breeze. Bill had never been out this way, and the unfamiliar terrain was playing havoc with his knees. His ankle felt hot and stiff and swollen inside his boot, but like the shoulder injury, it was more an aggravation than anything serious.

  He couldn’t help feeling like he was being watched. He knew Reggie felt it too. Several times he caught him glancing nervously in the direction of the dark trees that crowded them on either side. He disliked the openness of the field and the light of the rising moon, feeling much too exposed. But he also knew that if anything hiding within the darkness decided to attack, the openness would give them ample warning and plenty of room to fight. Or run.

  This time you won’t run.

  “Road’s just up ahead,” Reggie announced.

  Bill reached up a finger to straighten his glasses. “Shit!”

  Reggie turned to him, raising an eyebrow.

  The glasses were no longer on his face. He’d left them lying on the ground in the barnyard.

  “It’s nothing, Reg. Never mind,” Bill said, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. “What’s the plan?”

  “The power station,” Reggie replied.

  “Why there?”

  “Fence, lights.”

  Bill nodded. It was a good plan. Strong lights attracted their prey. And the fence could be used to their own advantage. If they could isolate one or two of them against it, then they could easily corral them before taking their heads. The fence would act like a third hunter, blocking any chance of escape.

  “You know you never talk about yourself, Bill,” Reggie said, startling him with the unspoken question. “I mean, you’ve told me all about…Karen. About what happened. I know that’s why you decided to become a hunter.” He shrugged. “But you never talk about what happened before…you know….”

  “The Rapture?”

 
; Reggie grunted. “Not everyone is willing—or capable—of seeing God’s hand in our lives.”

  “God’s hand? I see only the devil’s.”

  “The Lord’s. I will make your oppressors eat their own flesh; they will be drunk on their own blood, as with wine. Then all mankind will know that I, the LORD, am your Savior, your Redeemer, the Mighty One of Jacob! The dead will rise!”

  “Really? The Redeemer? Then why do I feel like the Damned?”

  “Why do you say you feel like the Damned?”

  “Because the past year has been nothing but hell, Reg, that’s why.”

  “Maybe it is Hell, as you say. And maybe we are the Damned and they are the Damned. We’re all Damned. But even if it is Hell, it doesn’t mean any of us have to be cast forever in this place.”

  “Where else is there?”

  “Canada?”

  Bill laughed, even though it seemed for just a fraction of a moment that Reggie was dead serious.

  “Anyway, I don’t believe we’re the Damned,” Reggie said, sighing. “I choose to believe that we’re the Deliverers. It’s our job to help bring God’s children to His Kingdom.”

  “Even if they’re soulless monsters?”

  “I don’t think you believe that, Bill. Karen—”

  “Don’t bring her into this!”

  “We’re all monsters, Bill, in one form or another.”

  Bill slid his eyes over at Reggie. Tonight his broad shoulders slumped more than usual. Was he having his own crisis of faith? There was clearly something bothering him.

  “I was a desk jockey,” he said at last. “You asked what I did. That’s it.”

  “Disk jockey? You mean you played music for a living?”

  “Desk. As in office furniture. Not disk. I was a manager in Human Resources.”