Ragnarok

FIVE

Fenris Kystby, Norway

Rook’s only recourse to the shotgun was to rush the man holding it. If he could get close enough, fast enough, he might divert the angle to the barrel on the weapon.

As it turned out though, he needn’t have worried. When he got up close to the man, he watched in horror as the man pulled on the trigger, only to have nothing happen. Either Peder only had the one round in the damn thing or this man Rook hadn’t met yet didn’t know to cock the weapon for another shot. Rook batted the long weapon away from the man with his stick and thrust his right fist directly into the man’s unprotected throat. The sound the man made was unpleasant but satisfying. The man’s glazed blue Nordic eyes widened as he slumped to his knees.

Rook wasted no time; he sprinted past the other man that had set the barn on fire, and knelt down next to his fallen friend, only to find the old man dead. The blow Rook had seen him take caved in his skull. Rook stood and raced into the flaming barn with dark thoughts filling his head. He flipped the latches on the horse gates. Those animals not already aflame stampeded out of the barn and into the morning air. Unfortunately, the stall where he had been sleeping, and where he had hidden his Desert Eagle, under a pile of straw, was so full of intense flame that he couldn’t get close.

Rook turned to see a few villagers had followed him into the blaze. He barreled into them, knocking them into stalls and the flaming walls. Burning to death was a horrible way to die and he didn’t wish it on anyone, even his enemies, save for a few genocidal maniacs, but his desire to live trumped his guilt over laying a few Nordic nutjobs on the barbeque. For weeks, his thoughts had been a jumbled mess after the failure of his mission and the murder of his support team in Siberia. Now, his thoughts were as sharp as the edge of shattered fine crystal, focused on finding out why a bunch of seemingly normal Scandinavian villagers suddenly turned into a zombie horde. And whoever was responsible for that, and for the death of his friend, was going to find out what it’s like to be a punching bag or a gun range target. Whatever got the job done. Rook wasn’t picky.

The barn was a total loss. Rook bolted for the rear doorway and hoped that he might outrun the remaining villagers. But when he burst out of the door and into the fresh morning air, he knew it wasn’t going to go down the easy way. The villagers had circled the barn and were waiting for him. There were still twenty-five of them and he could see another group coming across the field toward him.

No clever responses this time; he simply crashed into the first villager he saw and snatched his weapon-a scythe-like farm implement. The blade was shorter than that of a scythe and there was no handle halfway down the shaft. Still, it would do. These people had been innocent victims of something. Mind control? A virus? He couldn’t be sure of anything. But it didn’t matter. Now they had killed his friend. If he didn’t hit back hard, he’d be next.

The gloves were off.

Rook swung the bladed weapon through the low fog that had settled. He cut or impaled any villager that got too close. Blood sprayed, coating everyone near the barn.

The horde was unfazed, pressing the attack.

Rook grunted as something slammed into his forearm, knocking the scythe from his grip. His left leg took a blow from behind him and he went down to one knee.

The mob swarmed in close, reaching for him.

He swung out backward, connecting solidly with whoever had hit him, but it was no use. They had him surrounded. Fists pummeled him on all sides, striking with raging hatred, steel and wood.

Rook kept punching and elbowing until the sheer weight of human bodies on top of him crushed him down to the ground.