The Surviving Son (Valkyrie Book 2) (9 page)

Do not fall victim to the dead, nor the living, for both are seeded by the
same evil that plagues this world. Your mother and I sought sanctuary by
the promises of man, a place to raise you, a place to protect you. But their
promises were but a ruse, a trick, which condemned my beautiful Mia,
your mom, into the pits of hell. For that, I will cut down the living, just as
I do the dead. They declared this war, and as you grow, I will show you
the path of your mother’s heart within the spilling of mortal blood.

Although she never had the chance, your mother dreamed only of the
moment that she could hold you, to kiss your lips, to nurse your hungry
belly. She was a woman full of love and forgiveness, even for those who
would hurt her, and they did. And it is I who will carry the hate and
vengeance that she could not convey.

As I hold you tightly in my arms, I exude all of the love I have for you,
and commit all the love that my dearest Mia was unable to bestow. You
were the sparkle in her eyes, the sweetness of her heart, and all that was
good in her is now yours. She gave you your life, and she is the Goddess
for which you will worship. When my time comes, take comfort that she is
always with you, and will guide you to safety and happiness.

Follow this path, and survival is yours. Do not fall prey to the living,
fear them more than the dead. Seclusion is key, but only temporary. Inflict
no sympathy on those that would take from you. Survive at all costs, for
this world is yours, and yours alone.

We setup a campsite atop a small knoll just across the brook
before the boy returned from his stroll through the forest. Cautiously
I kept my pistol nearby, just in case the boy decided to try and
recapture me. My intention was not to shoot him, which would be
both foolhardy and unjust. Instead my one and only round would be
used as a scare tactic, and I hoped it would never come to that.

It was just after dark when the boy returned, I had just lit a small
fire for Steph and me to keep warm. His reaction to my escape was
both primal and immature. He spotted our campsite immediately,
and without warning began an assault full of rage and hatred. Sticks,
rocks, bones and other odds and ends were hurled towards me, most
of them landing very accurately around me, and purposely missing
Steph. His strength is most definitely enhanced considering he was
chucking everything with ease more than one hundred yards. But, it
was his cryptic threats and insults which baffled me more.

“
Ael ill yo!” “O’yay Maevil!” “No Ecom Aole!” “Is Ael’s om!”
As his tongue spit fire and hate, and Steph jotted down every
word as she could understand, I guarded myself from the occasional
rock. My hope was to unlock the code to his language, to find out
where it was derived from, and how this was passed onto him by his
father. After a while the boy lost steam in his throaty assault and he
retreated back into the cabin, soon after a candle that flickered from
within was blown out.

From what little light I had, I studied his language scrawled down
upon Steph’s notepad, and one word began to stand out. One word
that was the most common in all of his insults, Ael. Its meaning
intrigued me, and could be the clue I needed to decipher his dialect.
As my eyelids became heavy, I slid beneath my makeshift lean-to
and cuddled up with Steph, slowly closing my eyes for the night,
curious of what dawn would bring.

When I awoke at the first gleam of morning light, I was startled
to find that the boy was standing at the brooks edge, staring at me
like a hungered beast. My heart raced, I was still unsure of the depth
of his infection, and feared a ravenous assault would be very near.
But it never came, the boy slew no more threats my way, and within
moments he sauntered off into the forest with a makeshift bow and
a single arrow. As my nerves settled, I stoked the fire, breathing life
back into those embers before placing a can of beans that I had
snagged from the cabin into the coals for my much needed breakfast.
As I waited, I let Steph sleep and skimmed over the new journal,
looking for answers, hoping to discover the whereabouts of the
survivor himself. But there was very little to go on.

Most of the pages described the journey from Fort Rockland back
to this cabin, a long yet mostly uneventful trip. A lot of the man’s
energy was used to raid grocery stores, doctors’ offices, and
daycares in search of formula for his young child. I estimate there
was about a two month period where he became a recluse, hiding
from the wrath of winter in an old school house. It was throughout
this section of his records that he noticed changes in his son.

‘
Abel will not eat, and I fear that he may starve before winters
end. He cries uncontrollably, alerting the dead who claw
continuously at the boarded up windows and doors, snarling
throughout the night. His skin is so pale, like that of the freshly
turned, and his eyes no longer shine with innocence, but are now
dull and almost empty.’

Abel. At last I had a name for the boy, the first born of Adam and
Eve, which was eerily fitting. Many times in his first journal the
survivor referred to himself and Mia as Adam and Eve, and in the
light of this discovery that is how the survivor shall be known.
Although I was ecstatic with this mundane information, as I read
further on I found that Adam’s concerns with Abel’s health were
most warranted.

‘
The temperature has risen, and the dead have wandered off, as
have we. We still have much ground to cover, but at least Abel is
now eating like a hungry little pig. Although his eyes are now grey,
he responds to me much like any other child would. He smiles, coos
and of course cries. The infection that courses in his blood appears
to be contained to just minor symptoms, and it does not deter my
affection for him. My biggest fear right now is in my own anemia,
the loss of blood pains me to no end, but my growing boy needs to
eat.’

In his infant’s refusal to e
at, Adam found the one source of
nutrition that eased the boys hunger, a concoction of formula and his
own blood. Ghastly and in my eyes unacceptable. Even though this
is his son, and to lose a child is unbearable, but to feed Valkyrie is a
crime in on itself. She may not be able to take over the boy entirely,
but she is still within him, and with him the spread will continue.
However, what came next in the journal intrigued me even more, a
side-effect of the infection that gave Adam and edge on survival.

‘We encountered a large herd today, somewhere between Solon
and Highland, not much further from our waiting home. The brood
had to be a few hundred strong, and we were caught in the midst of
them with no escape in sight. Abel cried relentlessly, and every move
I tried to make to maneuver around them resulted in even more
unwanted noise. It would appear to be an unfortunate end to my son,
before even had a chance to live.

However, amongst my own racket and his uncontrollable wails,
the dead never showed interest in us. They wandered passed us,
oblivious or uncaring, I cannot be sure. But I carried Abel on my
shoulder I watched them move along, slowly but surely, southward
towards Embdem. I couldn’t make sense of it, and by the decay of
their corpses it would appear they had not fed in weeks. They were
weak, starving, but unaffected by our presence.

As I gazed around at them, watching their every move, I stumbled
into a tall lanky fellow, still dressed in overalls and a flannel shirt,
and missing his left hand. The bones snapped cleanly away
revealing a sharpened edge surrounded by putrid flesh. This
individual did in fact notice us, as he stared back into my eyes and
hissed at our obstruction. Then, his eyes turned towards Abel, and
it gazed intently at the fussy boy for a moment. Slowly I pulled a
knife from my belt, but surprisingly, the Necrotic let out another hiss
at me before sauntering around us and moving on.

It was then that I realized Abel was what kept them at bay. The
infection acted like bug repellent, masking us from their hungered
eyes. My precious boy is a blessing, in more ways than one. And it
is all the more important that he survives.’

As I turned to the next page I noticed that Abel had returned,
dragging a deceased bear cub behind him for which he quickly
strung up into a tree in preparation of butchering. It was then that
the boy noticed the journal in my hands, and once again I was
barraged with rocks and insults. This time, his aim and strength had
improved, with each stone hitting me with dangerous force. Quickly
I shielded myself with my pack as Steph awoke from her slumber
and pleaded with him to stop.

“THAT’S ENOUGH!” She scolded.
“Stuid obbar! Iv ack ma papa ook! Ael o ike yo!”
As the last stone fell from the air, knocking my head back with a

loud thump, it became so clear. The boy was not speaking some
foreign language, just as Steph said, he was speaking English. Or,
what he could remember of the language. That one word, Ael, still
stuck out like a sore thumb, and it made perfect sense. Ael was Abel,
and within his chant was one word not construed by time, Papa.
With that realization, the rest quickly fell into place.

The feral child, Abel, has been on his own for some time now,
and I fear the bones of his father, the survivor, lay unjustly nearby.
It takes time for a child, or even a domesticated animal, to become
feral. This animalistic reversion just does not happen overnight. But,
based on the fact that the boy is still communicative gives some hope
that he can be brought back from natures control, to rejoin society
with even more tales of his historic father.

The boy had soon quit is temper-tantrum and resumed his task
of cutting up his fresh kill, for which he also feasted upon at the
same time. Meanwhile, I delved back into Adam’s journal, skipping
to the last few entries in hopes that I may uncover what had
happened to him. The very last page, barely legible and dated a little
over a year ago, gave some input into his disappearance, but left only
more questions.

Abel and I crossed paths with the living yesterday. A small
party, maybe a dozen men, well-armed men. Thankfully they did not
see us, and we did not stick around for long. But the thought of them
making camp on our mountain sends needles up my spine. I have an
oath to follow, a promise to uphold, and I pray that Mia will be there
to guide and protect me.

My boy will stay behind, for it is too big of a risk, and I have
listed out some chores to keep him busy while I am gone. It still
amazes me how smart and capable he is at this age, and it gives me
comfort in knowing that he will always survive, he will always
persevere, and any that cross him will witness his true fortitude. A
remarkable child at best.

Those scraps of mankind, however, will never lay eyes upon this
sacred gift. I will spill their blood and burn their bones to ash. I am
definitely outnumbered, and by the looks of them, outgunned.
However I have two advantages, the first is that they foolishly made
camp on low ground, the sheer cliff that rises above them is where I
will attack. And two, the three dusty grenades that lay below the
floor boards should finish the job quickly.

The scraps of mankind that he mentions I assume were raiders,
maybe even the very ones who took Eeamon’s life, we may never
be sure. If that be the case, then his vow was never completed, but
did he die at their hands or did something else happen to him. That
too, may never be known. Yet, his disappearance seems to be more
of a blessing, for me that is. By his own handwriting it would appear
that anyone, infected or not, was systematically put down. I, more
than any other, would be unable to talk him out of it either.

I assume that Adam had never told Abel about his mission,
being that I am still alive that is. Or, it could be that he sees me as
something more than a rabid-man, like food for instance. The
questions just keep piling up, and I hope that the answers are in the
boy’s blood, if I can ever obtain a sample. Tomorrow perhaps,
maybe then I can gain some trust with him, maybe even get some
food. We are desperately running low.

The sun hadn’t even approached the mountain crest, and Abel
had already ventured off into the dark forest with a chicken dangling
from his hands. I assume he uses these animals in traps, for bear, or
maybe even coyote, I can’t be too sure. But, as daylight grew, and I
was positive the boy was out of earshot, I let Steph sleep and
ventured back into the yard. My initial intention was food, we had
choked down the last bits of our only MRE last night and my
stomach still grumbled with pain.

The bear cub that hung in the tree had been picked through
already, and what meat remained now radiated with a pungent
stench that churned my empty stomach even more. I considered one
of the remaining chickens, or even a rabbit roasted over the fire,
however the boy would see that they were missing, and I already
have seen how he feels about thieves. Another violent confrontation
with him would not end well for me, he has made it clear that I have
overstayed my welcome.

The goat behind the cabin should provide some nice warm milk,
I thought, and approached it with care. She was not skittish at all,
and even nibbled on my coat as I stroked her matted white fur. Her
udder was firm and brimming with creamy sustenance. The fact that
I had no cup or bucket in site did not deter my empty stomach. Not
squeamish in the least I scooted under the goat and like a helpless
juvenile I suckled one of her teats, allowing the fatty fluid to flow
down my throat with ease.

Aside from the musty taste of dirt and feces that caked her flesh,
the milk itself was rich and nutty, and quickly eased the pain in my
stomach. However I was unable to completely fill the void in my gut
for the doe became agitated at my invasive behavior, and before I
could pull away, I received a hard kick to the forehead which put
haste in my retreat. Rubbing the stinging welt, I patted the goat on
her side and headed into the cabin to look for more to eat.

Immediately I scrounged through the cupboards finding mostly
an assortment of pots and pans with a thick layer of dust. Apparently
cooking is not a part of Abel’s survival skills for that nothing had
been touched in quite a while. In fact within one cabinet, to my
surprise, I found a healthy supply of canned goods and immediately
grabbed a can of green-beans and corned beef. The condition of their
contents put fear into my gut, but in the fashion of the Great Adam,
I would not refuse such sustenance.

Before making my way out of the cabin and back to my
campsite I searched the floor of the one room domicile, looking,
hoping, to find that secret compartment that Mia was once tucked
away within. It didn’t take long either, only two feet from the edge
of Old Tugger’s blood stain I found one board jutting a half inch up
from all the others, and quickly I pulled it away. For a moment, the
hunger in my stomach faded as my eyes grew wide with delight.

The hold was overflowing with an arsenal that would put those
raiders to shame. An assortment of assault rifles, shotguns,
grenades, pistols and even a mysterious, long cylindrical device.
After closer examination I assumed it was some sort of rocket
launcher, and buried underneath everything I found but one rocket.
Wherever Adam acquired such a collection may always be a
mystery, but it did provide me with comfort that I no longer had to
rely on my one round any longer. With that, I traded out the thirtyeight special for a big and shiny Desert-Eagle and snatched up a few
boxes of rounds before replacing the floor board and exiting the
cabin.

A painful blindness instantly overcame me as I stepped outside,
but it was not the transition from the darkness within to the bright
morning sun. Falling back onto my ass like a sack of rocks, I
struggled to regain my vision and coherence as the egg on my head
doubled in size and a shockwave of needles echoed in my skull.
Squinting up into the sunlight I could see a figure before me, just the
black silhouette of a young boy holding a large makeshift club.

“Ael on eth yo!” He cried out, b
ut the agony of his strike
overcame my ability to decipher his words.
“Abel!” I gasped. “I’m a friend!” I cried for mercy.
“O end, yo evil.” And that I understood, ‘No friend, you evil”
or ‘You’re the Devil’
“No Abel, I am just looking for food.”
I stated as my vision finally cleared and I rubbed the welt on
my forehead. The boy cocked his head to the side to process my
words, the curiosity in his ashen eyes gave me hope that he would
not kill me. And he didn’t, at least not yet, instead he moseyed off
to his rancid bear carcass. With a quick flick of his knife he sliced
off a chunk of grayish-green meat as if it were butter, and returned
before me, handing it out like some tyrannical dictator feeding
rubbish to a peasant.
“Et!” He shouted while mimicking chewing with his mouth.
Hesitantly I reached up and grabbed the pasty lump of flesh,
trying desperately no to breath in its rank aroma.
“Et!” He stammered again.
I could already feel my stomach seething in repulsion, ready to
expel the meat even before it hit my tongue.
“Et! Ow!” he scowled in irritation.
And I did, choking it down like a savage animal, trying to ignore
the sour and tainted meat, trying not to think of the bacteria that
bastes it or even the parasites that live within the tissue. When the
meat finally plopped down into my stomach, the muscles
surrounding it tightened with excruciating pain, but I did not heave.
Rather I stared back up at the boy, trying to smile with gratitude, but
only providing a shimmer of discontent, and in return, the boy
chuckled.
“Issyman, o ike?” But Imyself could onlychuckle at his cryptic
insult. ‘Sissy Man no likes?’
His amusement soon faded back to irritation as he inaudibly
scolded me and pointed with demand at my campsite. And so I
complied, rubbing my forehead with one hand and clutching my
stomach with the other, I shuffled back to my smoldering fire to find
Steph just crawling out from under the lean-to. Quickly I stoked the
embers and pried open the can of corned-beef, hoping to smother
the putrid meat with a hot meal and cook away the brewing cesspool
within.

By late afternoon the foul bear had created a septic sludge
within my bowels, and the grumbling from within was surely heard
back home. First came the tormenting cramps which double me over
as I clutched my gut with all fingers dug in as if it would somehow
ease the agony. Then suffocating retches as a mash of cured beef
and rancid bear expelled from my gullet like a volcano, and before
long the cramps intensified and my backside exploded with a ghastly
stench as I soiled my only pair of denim pants.

The cold sweats were the least of my worries as fatigue
overtook my muscles almost instantly. I was unable to pry myself
off the ground, unable to add more wood to the fire, unable to change
my sodden attire. Steph, bless her heart, took it all in stride. She
selflessly fetched water to boil for me, helped change my clothes,
and even held me as if to comfort my ailing body. But my dismay
did not go unnoticed, and before long Abel approached my camp
site with a cup of what appeared to be tea. Harshly I waived him off,
in no mood for swamp-gut or whatever it is that he had brought me.

“Papa’s cipy, yo fee etter.” He mumbled, but I was too green to
make sense of it.
The boy knelt down beside me and reached bare handed into
the fire pit pulling out a red-hot ember like his skin were made of
iron before plopping it into the cup which created a harsh sizzle.
Casually he set the cup down and grabbed hold of my arms,
forcefully pulling me up into a sitting position before kneeling back
down.
“Rink!” He commanded as he held out the cup. Again, I waved
it off. “Rink!” He hissed again, and I could see in his eyes that ‘no’
would not be accepted.
“Just drink it, Patrick.” Steph urged me.
Slowly I reached out and grabbed the cup, cradling it in my
hands for warmth, and carefully inhaled the vapors. Booze was the
strongest scent, definitely the base of this concoction, as well as a
note of honey. But, there was another aroma that permeated the
fumes, something strong yet not strong enough to overpower the
alcohol. The specks of debris that swirled about the cup told me it
was probably some sort of wild herb, as well as bits of charred wood
from the cooling ember.
The boy held his hand out and tipped the cup towards my lips,
and resentfully I sipped the liquid just before it spilled over, pulling
away in disgust. Abel grunted furiously and pushed the mug back to
my lips, and this time I chose not to taste it, and chugged the entire
cup before pulling away again with an attempt to cough out the taste,
but the boy was not satisfied. Vigorously he shook the cup as the
saturated piece of charcoal bounced around the side with a repetitive
clink.
“Chew, Chew, Chew.” He said clearly and completely.
My stomach gurgled and cramped at the thought, but I knew
Abel would force-feed me if he needed too. Quickly snatching the
cup from him, I tilted my head back and let the chunk for scorched
wood fall into my mouth, chewing fast and aggressive in hopes the
bitterness would pass quickly. It did not. My mouth filled with a
pasty chalk that coated my teeth like cement. Swallowing was the
biggest challenge, my mind said ‘YES’, but my throat said ‘Fuck
You!’ In the end, I was able to painfully gulp it down before I fell
back onto my side in exhaustion. The boy, surprisingly, patted me
on the back with an extrinsic gentleness before sauntering back to
his cabin.
“Awn yo etter.” He mumbled.
I continued to drift in an out of consciousness for the remainder
of the day, with Steph always by my side, and thankfully both the
upchucking and the trots had subsided, but the cramps lingered like
the devil. The boy did return to us, just as the sun faded out behind
the mountain. Although my eyes only opened for a moment, and I
was unsure if it was just a dream, I watched as the boy stacked the
remaining canned goods from his cupboards beside my fire. And
without a word, he retreated back into his home.
“Thank You!” Steph called out to him, but he just waived her
off. “I think he’s warming up to you.” She whispered to me.
“Not sure if Iwill return the sentiment.” Isaid as Ishivered next
to the fire.