Byron's Legacy Episode 1: Zombie Apocalypse Wasteland Fiction
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Authors: A Roswell
BYRON’S LEGACY
Episode 1
Zombie Apocalypse Wasteland Fiction
A. J. Roswell
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© 2015 by SouthShore Publications & Distribution.
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The sun peered over the horizon, looking on with abhorrence at the desolate wasteland which stretched out endlessly before it. Day was dawning but the light was cold. Kurt Vallance, clad in makeshift armor and draped in assorted weaponry, turned to face its glare, scanning his surroundings. He cast an imposing shadow over the dust. The silhouette reached forward to meet the dangers that lay ahead and his faded leather boots punished the ground as he strode onwards. An inhuman cry rang out in the distance. He knew the sound all too well and what it brought with it. Vallance kept walking. Almost there.
A bolt-action rifle clicked and clacked against the steel buckles of his body armor, the gun’s strap slipping down his shoulder as he soldiered on. He adjusted the strap, still staring ahead, and ran through a mental check-list, one long and detailed. Medicines, ammunition, food, water, gas mask, numerous weapons and much more. He was sure he was forgetting something. But it didn’t matter—he didn’t really even need a list. He could feel the weight of his rifle, his 9mm’s, his combat knife and the trench spikes in his side pockets. They were a part of him. If they were missing, he’d know. Sure as he’d miss his arm. Smiling, he reached for one of the trench spikes—a brass knuckle with a nasty six inch spike protruding from one side. Perfect for puncturing a skull. The brass gleamed in the burgeoning daylight. No matter how much use they saw, Vallance always kept them clean. Made for a smoother entry. Not to mention, they looked damn pretty.
Time had dragged on painfully while Vallance marched to his destination. The sun had since climbed high above the filth and rot beneath it. All the while he roasted inside layers of leather and hand-beaten iron. He should stop and rest, he knew it, but he wanted to get this job over and done with—he was close and this day had been long enough already. If he just kept going, he could have the job done by nightfall. At least then he wouldn’t have to trek back to Haven in this damned heat.
The cracked, dry land before him blazed with white hot light, blinding him; Vallance brought his hood up and draped it over his brow, shielding his eyes from the glare. As his vision adjusted, he saw a leviathan structure rise into view, growing ever larger as he approached. A gargantuan ship which bathed the earth around it in darkness. Unbelievable as it seemed, there it lay, mired in the dirt, miles from the ocean. The bow was adorned with enormous, heavy chains and in its wake were huge, linear indentations. It had been dragged here. Somehow. But Vallance was not concerned with how it came to be in this godforsaken spot, only with why he was there.
He began to make his way along the exterior of the beached vessel. Rust had rotted much of the seafarer’s skin. Only the front half of the vessel remained, looking like it had been cleaved by some divine axe man and its rear half discarded. The once magnificent specimen looked sickly and weary of this world that it did not belong to. The letters C, R, U, S and E could still be made out, though they were fading. Phantoms of a time long since dead and buried under decades of misery and ash.
Eventually, Vallance came upon a rope ladder which descended from the ship’s deck far above. He sighed long and hard and began his ascent. The climb was higher than it had looked from the ground.
Once he’d reached the top, Vallance clambered over the lip and landed on the deck with a thud, disturbing the dust which caked its surface, kicking it up in a miniature storm around his feet. Surveying the area he saw signs of an abandoned camp and what looked like a watchtower constructed atop the smokestack to the rear of the ship. No signs of life. No signs of death either. Just the tell-tale missing corpses and blood stains.
There was a large rectangular hole in one section of the deck—a now defunct swimming pool, filled with dark green sludge and bleached bones. Strange, painted markings lined the wall of the pit. Hieroglyphs of varying colours. Most would dismiss them as the scrawling’s of a deranged vagrant but Vallance knew them well. They were the scripture of a twisted religious sect that drew their faith from the scriptures of the old world. They called themselves the Eidolons of Kane. This pool had once been a fighting pit that belonged to them. Quite a picturesque setting too; those rabid cultists wouldn’t have left this place willingly. Some of them were still there he thought as he looked down into the pool. What was left of them at least. That was all Vallance needed. He spat venomously, his molten phlegm hitting the bottom of the foul trough with disgust. Time to get to work.
Heavy double doors swung open to reveal a grand dining area in disarray. Tables and chairs were scattered to the far reaches of the room and miscellaneous junk was strewn across the floor. The eerie silence hanging in the air was broken by a sudden gurgling noise, followed by a drawling, raspy groan. Vallance drew the trench spike from his right pocket, slipped it on and clenched his fist.
He trod lightly as he followed the noise which led round a corner, to a bar. Skulls lined shelves where fine spirits would once have been displayed. In a darkened corner, a hunched figure lurked, its back to Vallance. Vallance edged towards it slowly and, in one swift movement, drove the trench spike into the base of its skull and withdrew it just as quickly. Dropping like a lead weight, the figure fell out of the shadows, revealing its grey, putrid skin and dead, glacial eyes. Its jaw was hanging off at one side and its right ear was missing entirely. Chunks of flesh were absent from its emaciated body. The stench of rancid meat would have been unbearable if Vallance hadn’t been exposed to it so often. A man can get used to anything. It clung to him and like a good many things, it just didn’t wash out. He looked down at the once-human thing at his feet. It may as well have been a cockroach. Fucking zombies. One down. A ship-tonne to go.
Vallance traversed the expansive dining room, stopping at its far end where two limbless, headless torsos had been nailed to the wall, on either side of the door, with huge rusted spikes. Above it, the words ENTER AND KNOW SALVATION, written in dried and fading blood. Vallance pressed on through the doors and into a wide corridor. Several zombies loitered there, meandering aimlessly. Their wandering was ended in the same manner as the first, by a quick, silent puncture wound to the brain stem. Quickly and quietly, Vallance kept moving, picking the undead off one by one as he made his way through the hallways and side rooms of the uppermost deck.
He knew not to draw any attention or make too much noise. The monsters may have been mindless, but they were not brain-dead. When your only desire is to feed, you are of singular purpose, and all the senses are focused on the hunt for prey. If one of them knew Vallance was there, soon enough, they would all know. So, stealthily he proceeded. As the laborious extermination process dragged on, the sickly “shunk” of iron piercing meat and bone became like the punching of a time card to him. There more of them than he expected. He began to regret ever accepting this job. It had been only two days earlier, on an unremarkable night, that he did.
The moon was shrouded by a thick sable cloud, leaving Haven’s “Rust District” to be illuminated solely by its buzzing neon signs and precious few street lamps. This feeble and flickering kaleidoscope of colour outlined Vallance in a murky rainbow as he sat, slumped forward, at the bar.
The Gas Lamp was especially quiet that night. Vallance had never trusted the quiet. It put him on edge, though that night he couldn’t care less—he had just lost the second job in a row to a bunch of young upstarts who undercut him on price. Those amateurs were probably ghoul food by now. What did he care if someone was sneaking up behind him, waiting to pounce? Not like he had any cash to steal. Besides, part of him was looking for a fight. Most of the entertainment in Haven charged silver at the door, but beating down some would-be mugger trying to pick your pocket or lift your piece—that was a free show that Vallance could catch any night of the week.
It had been an hour since he arrived at the Gas Lamp to meet Jack, who was still nowhere to be seen. The infamous “Jack of Hearts” wasn’t known for his punctuality but even so, this was ridiculous. Vallance would have suspected some tragic fate having befallen his associate if Jack wasn’t the luckiest bastard alive.
The Jack of Hearts was the man-in-the-know. Every day it seemed he had a new and exclusive tale to tell and in the Union, living to tell the tale was a rare phenomenon. But Jack was still ticking. So, it was either dumb luck or very quick wits. Vallance still didn’t know which, even after all these years. His line of thought was rudely interrupted with a loud crash as the door swung wide open and clattered off of the adjacent wall. Suddenly the Gas Lamp wasn’t quiet anymore. The handful of sleepy regulars simultaneously turned their heads toward the thin man sauntering into the bar, singing at the top of his tinny lungs. Vallance knew who it was as soon as the door had burst open and looked around as the squawking peacock stopped in his tracks. He looked almost skeletal in his tight-fit leather ensemble, dressed like some high-fashion, cowboy-biker hybrid. It was a mess of leather and cloth, buckles and studs, functionality and utter lunacy. The outfit screamed Jack. And then, Jack screamed.
“Drink it in boys! It’ll go down smoother than the piss they’re serving here!”
Gus, the lumbering bartender, shot him a disapproving glare. Jack flashed him his puppy fox eyes and feigned a wordless apology.
“I don’t need to tell you how late you are.’ said Vallance. ‘But I will. I’ve been waiting here for over an hour and I haven’t even had a drink. So you’re buying.”
“But of course. How did you survive my absence without the succor of alcohol?” said Jack.
Whiskey was ordered and business began.
“So. What’s new?” Vallance said, taking a hard-won swig of his drink.
“Well, there’s plenty of work but none of it worth more than a handful of the shiny stuff, I’m afraid.”
“I could have heard that from Robbie. You wouldn’t have asked me here if you didn’t catch wind of something worthwhile. I’m tired Jack, so just tell me what it is you came here to tell me.”
Jack laid his hands flat on the bar and exhaled, eyes fixed downwards. He then looked back up at Vallance.
“It’s the ship. This big-time trader wants to turn it into Haven’s next big attraction. Open up a convoy route all the way from Union Central. I told him I knew the right guy and that you’d do it for half-price. It’s a nice little pot of silver but I understand if—”
“Okay. I’ll do it.”
“You sure?”
“Jack,” Vallance sighed. “you worry too much.”
“That makes one of us.” Jack chuckled, shaking his head, and tossing back his whiskey.