Lurk

Chapter Four

Every man stood still. Every vehicle drew to a halt. Even the trees stiffened in suspense, amazed by the act of sheer madness taking place within their rule.

Roll. Hit. Roll. Hit.

Blood rained and bodies fell as Lurk left his mark, rolling and swinging strategically around the outer layer of Lurkers. They had formed a previously impenetrable ring around the two Scimitars, and one by one he was weakening the structural integrity of their blockade.

He felt no fear during moments like this; moments where he abandoned all real common sense, and aimed to slaughter everything in the way. The bat in his hands was a personal favourite – Smasher – who’d guided him through more fights than he could remember. Reasonably compact, and hand-carved from the radiation-poisoned trees of New Forest, it was ideal for close combat swings and jabs.

Even the weather was on his side – the mud had hardened since yesterday, making it firmer and easier to move across. But as he rolled, an unavoidable factor emerged: dizziness. I think I’m gonna throw up in a second.

The moment he stopped, a pair of shovel-hands ripped into his sides. The cold flesh shocked him into a freak spasm, and his instincts made him kick out with both heels. His attacker unleashed a scream with contact, but the manoeuvre cost him his balance.

Damn.

The ground hit him in the face like an incoming steam train, hard and unforgiving. But the moment his nose bounced off the ground, his body launched him back up again. Lurk was no longer a conscious decision-maker, his body was following the basic instincts which he’d brought upon himself the past months.

Rule #1: Never stop moving

That, he did not. It wasn’t just the zombie outbreak which had made him follow these life rules of his. Life was a constant struggle for sanity, and by taking out his anger on un-dead corpses, the aggression which would otherwise be dished out on people fades away.

Pulling back for a moment, he took a look at the ruptured ring of Lurkers. They were unsettled, beginning to turn around and face off with the man who was getting in between them and a replenishing feast.

Rule #2: Like in rugby, only move forwards.

Much in the same way a middle-aged P.E teacher screamed at his pupils to “move forward” and “head for glory”, Lurk felt a certain responsibility placed on his shoulders. This was his playing field, and the price for forgetting your kit was your life. Thank God I had a bat spare. He knew it wasn’t good to wish bad on the dead, but he’d never forgive Harry for taking “Spike”.

“Come on then, savages!” he roared, testosterone taking a certain hold while he headed into the centre of chaos.

But he wasn’t aiming for the Lurkers. His eyes were set on a much bigger goal: the Scimitars. Particularly the one at the front of the convoy, he reckoned that a good vantage point would make this process much quicker.

A dozen separate hands with yellow fingernails flew his way, clawing and tearing into his arms as he sprinted. Their joints were too rotten for any sudden grip to be made, but he almost tripped up again as a body slammed into his side.

With the hilt of the bat, he retaliated against the Lurker with a hit directly in the nose. The side of its nose tore open from the nostrils, exploding into brown puss and blood. That’ll teach you. When he should’ve kept running, Lurk gave into his spiteful urges. This game of rugby took a terrible turn, as he tackled the dazed Lurker onto its back. Ignoring the tens of rotting faces hanging above, he kept the beast pinned down, and repeatedly battered its face with the bat handle. Bursts of adrenaline coursed through his body, giving him a rush like no other.