The Surviving Son (Valkyrie Book 2) (12 page)

For twelve days, twelve grueling and debilitating days, I was a
slave. Not by lawless raiders, nor any other faction or colony, but by
a six year old boy with a heart full of anger and contempt. There was
no rhyme or reason for it, and much like ancient history, my
thralldom was a long series of work, punishment, and more work.
There is so much mystery within Abel that it baffles me, however
the cruel acts that he calmly demonstrates is something that no child
should find commonplace.

It began on
the morning after his father’s overdue passing, the
morning after a long and mournful night of grief and anger. For
hours Steph and I watched as the boy stood motionless by his
tranquil father, the only God he knew, and after his silent goodbyes
he transitioned into a rapid dance between sorrow and rage. I patted
his back with compassion during those moments of wailing tears,
and hid away in the corner while he stormed about on a rampage,
uttering indiscernible insults towards both me and his father. Steph’s
motherly instincts kicked in, and was able to console the boy better
than I.

There was even a moment that Abel conversed with his father,
conjuring about old memories, and reacting as if his father was
communing from beyond. In a normal world this spectacle would
have been considered eerie and nerve-racking, however it passed me
by as just another dreadful cliché of a world built on pain and
misery. What intrigued me more was the moment the boy sliced off
a lock of his father’s hair and soon after he mended it with that of
his mothers, as if to give them an ethereal embrace.

By the time daylight had slowly crept up and over the
landscape, a dark and thick storm-cloud billowed overhead, and
Abel had found the acceptance and closure he needed from the
night’s ordeal. Independently the boy dragged his father out of the
cabin and towards the fire-pit. I assume the same pit that has
cremated many of the Infected, and even those demonic wolves that
Adam spoke about in his first journal.

Refusing my assistance, the boy built up a shaky funeral pyre
before lifting his father’s corpse atop of it, and all we could do was
watch his struggle and pain. Gently he placed Adam’s arms over his
chest, and straightened his leg while brushing miniscule debris from
his ragged clothes. After he was satisfied, he retrieved a rusty gas
can from the shed, and then silently ventured into the cabin. A low
rumble of thunder rolled over the mountains, echoing between them
as Mother Nature prepared for a timelytempest of Adam’s last rites.

Abel exited the cabin shortly after, with his head low, and
marching like a lone pallbearer. As he reached his father’s dry and
brittle alter, he casually place something within Adam’s left hand. It
wasn’t until the boy stepped back that I caught a glimpse of the
object, and in an instant my heart ached. As the winds picked up the
golden strands of Mia’s hair and the silver fibers of his fathers
fluttered transcendently in the breeze, brushing lovingly against this
fabled survivors hand like it was the last earthly kiss from his
beloved.

“Do you know how to pray?” The boy asked, breaking the
mournful silence.
“A little.” Steph spoke up with compassion, and he looked up
at her with those cloudy eyes that stated a simple and pathetic
‘please’ without ever utteringaword. Steph remained silent, racking
her brain, trying to remember even the simplest verses from her past,
but eventually she did recalled one. Her reiteration may not have
followed true gospels, but instead was conformed to befit the boy
and his late father.
“O Gaia, we are honored to be here as you take this loving
father; forgive his trespasses; and allow his only son to see him again
in the joy of your everlasting spirit. Through your supreme
guidance, Amen.”
Although her face blushed with embarrassment by her lack of
originality, the boy still threw her a thankful glare and a quick nod.
Abel then turned back to his father as he picked up the gas can and
generously poured the black sludge all about the pyre as a hefty blast
of fumes entered my lungs and choked my airways. Quietly he set
the can back down just a few feet away before retrieving a
homemade tinderbox from his pocket and casually prepped to ignite
the platform before us.
With the swift whoosh, the pyre exploded into a gulf of flame
just as Mother Nature released her hounds with a blinding flash that
instantly split a not-so distant oak straight down the middle
milliseconds before the deafening clap of thunder shook ground like
a war-torn battle field. A thick black smoke rose from the inferno
like the ghosts of the plague, blacking out the raging storm above,
and blanketing the area in a dull smog.
Thunder and lightning continued for a few more moments, but
not once did it rain, instead the clouds slowly moved off towards the
west as the sun fought for dominance. We stood there for hours,
watching the remains of his father slowly reduce into ash until there
was nothing more than a heap of smoldering cinders and charred
bone. And as if an Angel reached down to pull Adam up, the cloud
of soot dissipated and a surreal beacon of sunshine bared down upon
his remains. We stood side by side, in silence, and wallowed in our
own anguish and depression.
“On your knees!” The boy eventually muttered.
Slowly I turned towards him, confused and unsure if he was
speaking to me, but the pistol aimed at my head made it very clear.
“Abel!” Steph cried. “What are you doing?”
Carefully I raised my hands before me, struggling to find the
words, hoping this was just a temporary lapse of judgment in the
boy. But, when he cranked back the hammer and tightened his aim,
I knew that he was in full control of his actions. Contempt had
overcome him, he was thirsty, thirsty for vengeance. My fears of
Adam and his son’s private conversation was justified and
anticipated, but still I was taken aback, bewildered and frightened.
“Abel, you don’t have to do this?” I pleaded.
“Knees!” He cried out, and I hesitantly complied.
“Killing him won’t bring your father back.” Steph shouted.
“I no kill him.” The boy said.

Abel never came clean with purpose behind his actions, not
once did he converse with me on any topic, but instead carried
himself as a narcissistic slave driver. My first task was to spend the
remainder of that day digging a shallow grave beneath a tall birch at
the edge of the tree line before transferring what was left of Adam’s
charred remains into it. Once he was buried I was escorted into the
wood shed, hot and dirty, before Abel locked me inside to lay in my
own stench throughout the night.

The days that followed was met with mostly silence, as well as
oppressive and grueling labor. From fetching water, to chopping
wood and of course long overdue cabin repairs. I was held captive
by the innocent face of a tortured bloodline. Any defiance, or even
signs of fatigue, was met with the painful sting of a dried alder-wood
switch. Even worse was the blatant beatings I endured for simply
mentioning Adam or Mia in any context.

Steph on the other hand was treated like a queen, aside from
harsh criticism for trying to interfere with my enslavement, she was
always treated with respect and given the freshest of food and
cleanest water. She was also kept by his side at all times, and was
even allowed to sleep inside with him. Abel had become quite fond
of her, and a few times I caught him taking a peak whenever she
changed clothes or used the outhouse. There is still so much human
nature left within his infected body.

The boy who would never
stray from his father’s set path, who
would not dare cross his father’s wishes, was somehow led afield by
misunderstanding. At least, that is was I presumed. Although Abel
has regained much social etiquette, there is still an unpredictable
feral quality within him. Only he, and maybe his late father, could
understand the complex emotions guiding his actions.

By the sixth day of my enslavement I witnessed something both
remarkable and fear inducing, something that enhanced my urge to
obtain the boy’s blood, to find the cure. Even during all the abuse,
my mission was always at the forefront of my thoughts. After a hard
morning of re-shingling the roof I was met with a cup of dirty water
and an offering of a fishing pole and a rusty can filled with
earthworms. As I sucked down the contents of the cup, I stared at
the boy, questioning him without saying a word.

All I could do was nod, snatching up the bait and tackle I
followed the boy down the old tote road and towards the river. Steph
once again remained behind, the boy always kept us apart when
possible. Exhausted, I marched with pride and looked forward to a
nice smoky fish dinner, although dining on raw fish would be more
likely. I just prayed that he did not intend to allow the fish to ferment
and fester. Our palates are wildly varied, and his stomach was far
more rugged than mine.

When we exited the thick forest and set foot onto the old and
crumbling main road I found that the abandoned highway was now
a putrid river of fear. Although sparse, the stretch was scattered with
the Infected, stumbling and fumbling about aimlessly. I estimate a
total of thirty, maybe as much as fifty, scattered up and down the
pavement, and instantly they were aware of our presence. From
either side they turned and lurched towards us, their snarls and hisses
stifled the pounding in my chest.

However the boy had brass, walking amongst the dead like a
ghost in their midst, and it was then that I realized that it was I who
caught their attention, not us. The boy looked back at me, just as
three of them lurched forward, ready to grab hold, and Abel lashed
out in rage. His switch swung fast and hard, slicing a putrid sliver of
flesh from the face of the closest Necrotic as he growled with the
likeness of them.

He stepped between the Dead and me, bumping his scrawny
chest into their wastes, effectively pushing them back. The Dead
appeared confused and almost saddened by the tease of fresh flesh,
but they did not lash back. Astonished and unsure of what was
transpiring, I watched as they snarled in discouragement, cocking
their heads from side to side as they pondered the nuisance that
blocked them from a feast. In the end, they backed away like a
subordinate upon the command of his superior.

I was taken aback, unsure and leery of what I had just witnessed,
I was stuck in a dumfounded stance. The boy gestured me to move
on, but I couldn’t, I was in awe at the retreat of man’s greatest
enemy. Even as they shuffled away, they stared back at me,
watching an easy meal fade away before their eyes. How? Was my
biggest question then, and the only answer that I had is that
Necrotic’s do not feed upon each other. But the way they responded
to Abel, the way they cowered, gave notion that they were selfaware. Possibly even holding some sort of primitive belief system.
Or quite possibly, the boy’s intrusion simply masked my own
presence. I did not dwell on it for very long, the boy lashed out with
the switch, striking my thigh with an excruciating sting.

And I did. Following him closely as we made our way down
towards the river. It was the same stretch of the Dead-River, I
presume, that Adam spoke of fishing many times in his first journal.
The same stretch that Mia met that lone Necrotic, the same stretch
that reunited them and their dearest friend Tugger. However, it was
not the slow flowing bounty of water that he had describe, now it
was nothing more than a drying trickle.

I assume that the damn up river a ways had been overcome with
debris, or even blocked by beavers taking advantage of the manmade structure. Either way, I can only predict that the pressure of
the lake itself would soon weaken it, buckling its supports and
releasing nature’s true power much like that of Flagstaff. The flash
flood that would follow would most surely devastate the riverbed,
old cabins along it would wash away, and any survivors upon its
banks, even those many miles downstream, would have little chance
to escape.

But I pushed fear aside, putting my faith in the boy, and casted
out a nice thick worm into the only deep hole in site. And like a
boiling cauldron, the water came alive with trapped trout as they
fought each other for the bait. Within seconds the worm was torn to
mere bits, but in their frenzy, one managed to snag its tail upon my
hook. Like a schoolboy catching his first fish, I reeled it in with
excitement, only to be met with Abel’s scornful glare.

I asked Abel as I slowly rotating the stick in my hands and
roasting the fish-guts at the end over a smoky and hot bed of coals.
Steph was given the sweet flaky meat, as I was stuck with the all of
the offal. The boy simply shook his head and remained focused on
chewing up a whole trout, uncooked, with guts and bones like it was
merely a candy-bar filled with a myriad of nuts, nougat and caramel.
Yet the sounds of masticated flesh and the crunch of bone was most
displeasing in my ears.

“They are afraid of me.” The boy finally answered.
“They don’t feel fear.”
“They no show fear, yet feel it more than you do.”
“I don’t understand.” I answered back.
“What are you afraid of?” Abel inquired.
“Failure.” I finally muttered after a moment’s thought.
“And Death.”
“Not really. Why would you say that?”
“Life fears death.” He said poetically. “And the dead fear the

living.”
“Fear the living?” I was befuddled, it was a plane of higher
intelligence I had never seen before, nor would expect from such a
young child. “How do you know this?”
The boy tossed all that remained of his fish, its head, back and
forth in his hands then looked up at me slightly annoyed.
“Because they talk to me.”
Abel popped the head into his mouth and crunched down,
chewing slowly and thoroughly as to turn tissue and bone into a fine
mash before gulping the liquefied trout down his throat. I was
skeptical, and intrigued, although the signs were all about, I had
never before seen the clues. From the virus cells faint yet patterned
luminescent, to its precision, and ultimately the mannerisms
performed by Prowler’s themselves, it was all there. I had always
classified it as a sentient being, but never had I expected such and
advanced intelligence.
“How?” I eventually asked. “Snarling and growling?”
“Words have no meaning. They speak to me from here.” He
said while pointing to his head. And it all made sense, some form of
telepathy, primitive but unusually unique. Just like some animals
can communicate with each other through an unseen force,
transferred through instinctual body languages, or be it pheromones,
it is all the same. All creatures are naturally connected to their own,
and in some cases to other species. Valkyrie always seemed so alien
to all other life on earth, but now is appears it may be all too similar.
“What do they say?”
“Fear and want. Mostly hunger, and sometimes…” He paused
a moment, trying to find the word. “Cursy, no, corst… cur…”
“Curiosity?”
“Yes.” He said, grabbing another fish, only this time he began
with the head.
Silently I stared into the fire, absorbing this inside look of the
very thing I knew better than anyone else. A whole other world was
unfolding before me, and unknowingly afraid of how it would all
come in the end. However, I would never fully understand all of her
secrets, that is, not until I was able to dig deeper. I needed the boy’s
blood, I needed another look at this unique strain, another chance to
fully understand the significance and connections between our two
worlds. Or should I say, our world?