Ragnarok Rising: The Crossing (The Ragnarok Rising Saga) (20 page)

“That’s close enough,” he bellowed. “Who the fuck are you?”

“The name is Wylie Grant,” I replied. “I’m looking for my son. He fell in the river and we think he was picked up by that boat over there.”

I pointed directly at the
Jon Boat we’d been following for two days.

“All we want is my son,” I said. “We don’t want any trouble.”

This seemed to confuse the crowd, and a murmur quickly ran through them. I noticed that they all seemed to be deferring to the big tattooed guy. After a few long moments of them conferring, the big guy seemed to make a decision.

“Yeah, we found him,” he replied. “So what?”

“I just want my son back,” I said, trying to keep my tone even. “We don’t want to cause you any trouble.”

“Put your weapons down and come over to us slowly,” he said.

I noticed that they were now pointing their weapons directly at us. No more pretenses about it, we were being covered. I considered reaching for my own gun, but there were just too many of them. We were staring down the sights of at least twenty guns. I’ve always been lucky, but that just seemed like pushing it too far.

However, they do say that luck will save a man, if his courage holds. I didn’t doubt my courage or the courage of Spec-4. I did, however, doubt our ability to survive the attack with little or no cover to be had. In the end, I made the only decision I could make, under the circumstances.

“Alright,” I said, keeping my hands where they could see them, palms facing them. “We’ll keep our hands where you can see them, but I won’t put down our arms.”

“You’ll put them down or we’re done here,” he replied.

I noticed that he hadn’t bothered introducing himself to us. It gave me a fairly good indication that he wasn’t interested in being friends. When he brought up his own weapon, I knew this was not going to go well. He was holding Elliott’s M-4. I recognized it instantly, since I’d given it to him personally. I had also carried it through a number of runs into dead territory, myself.

“What do you think?” I whispered to Spec-4.

“I think it’s too late to turn back,” she replied, never taking her eyes off of the tattooed leader.

“We can
start shooting,” I said, softly.

“They might just shoot Elliott if we do,” she answered, gently.

“If we lay down our guns and go in there,” I said, locking eyes with the leader, “we won’t get our gear back. We’ll be lucky to get out of there with our lives.”

“What choice do we have?” she said, turning towards me. “We’ve got to try to get Elliott back. He might be your son, but he’s still a kid. I won’t leave him to be killed or tortured.”

“Me either,” I said, closing my eyes and sighing.

“Have faith,” whispered Spec-4. “Don’t lose your courage.”

“Courage?” I said, softly, almost tasting the word. “Courage is simply having the strength to do the right thing, no matter what the cost. Going after Elliott is the right thing to do. What other choice do we have?”

“So, what’s it going to be?” shouted the leader.

“Alright,” I shouted back. “We’ll do it your way. What guarantee do we have that you’ll let us go when we’re done talking.”

“There are no guarantees in this world,” he said by way of answer. “It’s your call.”

“How about you just give us my son and keep his gear,” I suggested. “We’ll call it even.”

“I want to know more about you,” he replied. “How many in your group?”

“There’s just us,” shouted Spec-4. “No one else.”

“I doubt that,” he replied. “My scouts say they saw at least two Humvees and several armed men. Don’t lie to me, again.”

“Look,” I said, as soothingly as possible, “we don’t know you. We’re just trying to be cautious. I’m sure you understand.”

“If you want to talk
anymore,” he said, raising the M-4 to his shoulder, “you’re going to have to put down your weapons and come over here. I’m done shouting.”

Slowly, I removed my M-4 and placed it on the fore-deck of the boat, right in front of me. My shotgun went next to it. Spec-4 reluctantly followed suit and lay her weapons beside mine. I didn’t bother to remove my pistols.

Keeping my hands where they could see them, I nudged the throttle forward only a fraction of an inch and started creeping forward. Seconds later, I disengaged the throttle completely as we drifted right along the side of one of the walkways. Two of the locals took mooring lines and tied us securely. Reluctantly, I shut off the engine and listened as silence returned like a sudden wave.

“Welcome to Laketown,” said the big leader, smiling without warmth.

He leveled his weapon right at us and his people quickly moved in to take our weapons and gear. They even stripped us of our body armor and backpacks. As they moved us off towards one of the larger cabin cruisers, I silently prayed that we hadn’t just made a terrible mistake.

We were taken onto a large boat and into a well appointed stateroom. Elliott was laid out
on the floor, unconscious. His hands were bound behind his back and he was stripped to his pants and boots. The rest of his gear was nowhere to be seen. I could see where he had a bruise beneath his right eye. It looked fresh to me. I immediately came to the conclusion that they had questioned him and he either refused to answer or didn’t answer enough. My anger began to boil.

Two women came down a short hallway and took a seat on one of the larger couches. They were both attractive and young, wearing nothing but a bikini top and
cut-off jean shorts. They were both blonde and well-tanned, with large chests. The big tattooed leader walked over and took a seat between them, putting his big arms around them with a leering grin. Neither woman looked particularly comfortable, but they didn’t try to pull away from him, either.

“Welcome to the Kingdom of the
Lake,” he said, gesturing around himself like this was some type of throne room instead of just a boat on a lake. “I’m the King, but you can call me Snake. I’ll answer to
Your Highness
, but you don’t have to call me that. Unless you just want to.”

I bit back a savage retort. I didn’t want to
have to explain it to him, anyway. I kept my calm and started to say something far less inflammatory when I froze in place with my mouth open. I felt like electricity had just ran through my brain in a sudden jolt. Flashes of images shot through my mind at breakneck speed.

They weren’t flashes of events that I remembered
or had experienced first-hand. It was images of the dreams that I’d been having since this all started. I flashed to the dream where we stood on a dock to defend the survivors from the oncoming horde of the dead. We were Vikings, standing shoulder to shoulder.

His face came into sharp focus. The King of the
Lake was one of the men I’d dreamed of on the dock with me as we fought the dead. It was the face of
Bjorgolf
, the warrior who had stood next to me as the dead came for us. He had called me “little brother.” The King of the Lake was one of the chosen of Odin. He was like me. If only I could get him to understand. I just hoped he had the dreams, too.

“Some are born through sorrow, some are born through pain,

Some are born
…through laughter and joy.

We were born to live again.
And we will live again.”

-
                    
Soldier’s Lament

-
                    
By Steve McDonald

While I stood confounded and unable to speak, two of the King’s men came to me and started removing my uniform top and t-shirt. Once I was stripped to the waist, they roughly tied my hands behind my back with what felt like twine. They didn’t seem to care how tightly they were tying it and whatever it was, it dug painfully into my wrists. I flexed my hands and found them to be securely bound together. Breaking out wasn’t going to be easy.

Once I was secured, they proceeded to strip Spec-
4 naked and then tied her hands behind her back. They were too distracted by her breasts to do as good of a job on her bindings as they had done on mine. With both of us bound, the King stood up and began to circle us. He leeringly inspected Spec-4 before turning to me. He froze when he saw the Thor’s Hammer around my neck and the tattoos that I had of different Viking imagery.

“Whoa,” he said s
oftly, almost to himself.

He walked in a complete
circle around me, looking intently at each of the tattoos that adorned my arms, chest and back.

“Do you know what those tattoos actually mean, boy?” he
harshly demanded through gritted teeth.

“Yes, I do,” I replied, turning my head to look him in the eyes. “I know
exactly
what they mean.”

The big man didn’t know what to say to that. He looked at me w
ith confusion on his face. He was now close enough that I could see many of his tattoos were of a similar theme as my own. Some were the expected artwork one would see, like skulls and even a large breasted naked woman on his left forearm.

There was also a tribal Volknut in the center of his chest and Viking runes surrounding his collar bone. I had three of the Volknuts, one on each bicep and one in the middle of my shoulder blades. They were the interlocking triangles that indicated the bearer was a follower of Odin.

He had excellent renderings of Odin’s two ravens on either shoulder. Their wings folded down and met at the tips, holding both the Volknut in the front and a Thor’s Hammer on his back. If I read the runes correctly, they had been properly done. They were not only tattoos, but each a representation of different aspects that he chose to live by. They were all warrior symbols.

“Alright,” he said, with a sneer, “what do they mean?”

I took a deep breath before speaking. I knew I could explain the textbook meanings of each symbol, reciting well-known definitions that could be found in any book on the subject. What I didn’t want to do was to give him an expected answer. I wanted to make him think. Furthermore, I wanted him to
know
I knew what they meant.

“Each of the Volknuts represent major events in my life,” I began, cautiously. “I reaffirmed my dedication to the Gods at the birth of each of my sons. Each Volknut not only represents my allegiance to the Gods, they also represent my sons.”

The King only wrinkled his brow as he pondered my answer.

“The triple horn on the left side of my chest represents unity with the Gods,” I said, my voice growing stronger, “It also commemorates my marriage to my wife and our own devotion to each other and to the Gods. Another major event in my life.”

“Are you planning on adding another image for the Zombie Apocalypse?” he asked, a touch of eagerness in his voice.

“I’m not sure I can find someone who can add one,” I replied. “There aren’t any tattoo shops open for business these days.”

“I’m going to give you the chance to prove yourself worthy of those tattoos,” he said, after a long pause. “If you pass the test, I’ll give you any new tattoo you choose. I’ll do the artwork, personally.”

“What do you mean, ‘prove myself’?” I asked, dreading the answer.