A Thing About Zombies
Zombies.
I hate zombies.
Akarat's arse, why did there have to be zombies?
I hate zombies for a number of reasons. First, they make stupid noises – "urrs," and "arrs," and all other number of assorted sounds that come from having decayed vocal cords.
Second, there's the smell. Imagine the worst smell you've ever smelt, imagine that smell breaching your nostrils and entering your body, making you want to retch, and multiply that feeling by ten, then ten again, and finally, possibly, you have an idea as to how bad zombies smell.
Did I mention that zombies smell? Or that they stink? I forget.
But fine, whatever. Graveyard. Magic. Zombies. You'd think that people these days would learn to cremate their bloody dead, but no, this world is still full of idiots. One would have thought when ninety percent of the human race got their souls sucked out, the survivours would wise up a bit, but no, that was too much to hope for.
People live, people die, they get buried, they get resurrected, and the few nutters like us have to waste more of our time putting the dead down. Like I do now, as my spear pierces a zombie's brain, and it falls down.
I hate zombies. Skeletons, I can deal with. Skeletons are a bit more agile, a bit more deadly, and they've got the nasty habit of popping out of barrels for some reason, but Light, they at least don't smell as bad.
Since the zombies are closing in, I suppose that if I was torn apart, and eaten, and raised as a zombie, then I'd smell a lot too. I take step after step backwards, thrusting my spear forward, and keeping my shield raised, and-
"Watney, where are you?"
Where the Hells is that boy? By all that's holy, I should skin him alive. Or remove his fingers. Or whack him over the head. Or get him to clean my armour. I mean, he's my squire, and he's meant to clean my armour anyway, so that isn't really much of a punishment, but-
"Watney!"
"Here, master!"
Watney has finally arrived in the graveyard. Or at least I think his name's Watney. The last squire I had only lasted a day before having his stomach separated from his body and used by an augury, so I'm really past caring about names. If he lasts a year, then I'll start caring.
"Axe, Watney, axe!"
"Here, master."
He hands me the axe, and I see that the idiot has messed things up. Again. And after using my spear to kill a few more zombies, ending their endless song of "ugh" and "argh," I glare at Watney, and ask, "what the Hells is this?"
"Master?"
"I asked for the Holy Axe of Ebona. What in the name of Creation do you think this axe is?"
"It's…the Holy Axe of Ebona?"
"Wrong!" I toss the axe into the squire's hands. "What do the runes say?"
Watney glances around. More zombies. More groans. More smell that makes him want to gag, by the looks of things. He clearly wants to run, but he signed up to be m squire two weeks ago, so he has to learn to bear it.
"Well?" I snap.
"Master, are you really asking me to read runes here?"
I tap my spear.
"Alright, alright," he said. "This is the Holy Axe of…of…"
More zombies groan. More zombies meet my spear. Watney looks ready to piss himself.
"I asked for the Holy Axe of Ebona, Watney. What does this axe say?"
He looks up at me and whispers something.
"Didn't hear that, Watney."
"It's the Holy Axe of Abone."
"Right. And do you know what that means, Watney?"
"That…you'll kill zombies only slightly less effectively?"
I sigh, and grab the axe from his hands. "The Holy Axe of Ebona is blessed with the power to smite the undead. The Holy Axe of Abone is blessed with the power to smite demons."
"Sorry, master."
"Damn right you are. Now shut up and stay back."
Perhaps I shouldn't be too hard on the brat. The Holy Axe of Abone can still cut up zombies like the Holy Axe of Abone. Indeed, it's a better choice than the Cursed Axe of Obane, let alone the Blessed Axe of Anbano, but Watney leads to learn from his mistakes.
I mean, I did. When I got inducted into the Templar Order, would my master have let me mix up magic axes retrieved among chests of gold and silver? Akarat's arse, I think not!
I laugh, as I keep swinging the axe. Axes are good for zombies. Bring it down, or across, and you cut them apart. It makes a nice squish sound. Not like skeletons, which make a crackling sound when you break their bones, it goes 'squish' and 'squash' and 'blesh.'
"Ever seen anything like this, Watney?" I laugh.
"Last week, master."
I glance at him. "What happened last week?"
"Goatmen."
"Oh yes, the goatmen. What happened?"
"You killed them, saving the villagers' sheep. They paid you with a rack of lamb."
"Oh yes, I remember." A zombie's head goes flying through the air. "Are they still around?"
"I believe so, master."
"Good." I wince as I separate another zombie into pieces. "I could go for lamb. Do you like lamb, Watney?"
"I'm a vegetarian."
Good grief, what fresh Hells is this? I kill the last zombie, but I find no joy. Instead, I toss the axe to Watney, take back my spear, and say, "bath time."
"What, master?"
"I'm covered in zombie guts. I need a bath."
"Master, we're in the middle of nowhere."
"Then find a place, Watney. Return the axe back to my stash, and find me a place to bathe."
He pouts. "You're sending me out into the world, to find you a place to take a bath?"
"That's what I said."
"What if I die? What if monsters find me? What if I perish, and you're left alone?"
I remain silent.
"Well?" My squire asks.
"Sorry, I'm still trying to find the issue."
Watney's mouth is opening and closing like a fish. And I mean a normal fish, not one of those weird monster fish in the Twin Seas that puke up gold when you kill them for some reason. Seeing that the brat needs some encouragement, I rest my hand on his shoulder, and tell him what he needs to here.
"Look, Watney. Normally, I'd impart some grand tale, or moral lesson, as to why you need to do this. But if you're my squire, you need to keep two things in mind."
"Which are, master?"
"One, I'd never send you off to die. I might send you into places where you have a high chance of dying, and of dying in all manner of horrible ways that would give even the High Templar nightmares, but I'd never send you off to a guaranteed death."
"Wow. Thanks."
"And the second thing, Watney, is that I really hate zombies."
Watney doesn't say anything.
"You understand, Watney?"
"You hate zombies, so…you want a bath."
"Yes."
"And because you hate zombies, you're willing to send me into harm's way to have your bath?"
"Got it."
"Wow. You're a dick, you know that?"
"Well, what can I say?" I tap my spear. "I carry a big, long, pointy thing around."
"Except when you're using axes."
"Good point. Now piss off."
Watney clearly wants to say more, but heads off into the gloom. It's midday, but it's still gloom. Because the world is dark, and terrible, and always has been, and always will be.
"Ugh…argh…"
See? The zombie head with twitching eyes agrees with me.