Metahumans vs the Undead: A Superhero vs Zombie Anthology (5 page)

A smile spread over her lips.

Anne found she was no longer afraid of the dead. Unimaginable power flowed through her veins. She knew impossible things and the truth of Heaven and Hell themselves. Somehow part of Agent Robert Death was inside of her. She understood what life must have been like for him even before the taint. The Light and Dark warred within her very soul for control of her actions. She was no longer limited to this mortal world. With but a thought, she could leave it for the world beyond.

Slowly, she got to her feet and stared at her hands. Blue lightning danced and snapped between her fingers. Anne promised herself then and there that this world would live again. There were others still alive out there . . . and they needed a hero.

Anne stepped into the charred, black and melted portion of the street outside the shop and stared at up the buildings around her. A growl came from the alleyway to her right as the dead sprang their trap. Creatures emerged from the ruins all around her. With a grin, she stood ready to face them. It was as good a time as any to start her crusade.

“Come
on,”
she
called
to
them.
“Let
me
show
you
what
I
got.”

Hellfire roared and blue lightning crackled and danced from her palms, frying rotted flesh, as shouts of excited glee filled the early morning below the cloudless sky above.

Knight of the Zombies

by

J.B. Robb

F
or the first
few months, whispers had followed the man with the cart wherever he went.

The cart itself appeared ordinary. It was made of wood, its close-fitted joints held together by pegs. Its two twelve-spoke wheels were five feet high and rimmed with iron. The load bed was made up of wide boards almost seven feet long, with the joints covered by battens. Its sides rose three feet above the bed, vertical posts with lath woven through them, giving it the appearance of a large wicker basket on wheels. There was a seat at the front, lower than normal, and perhaps because of this it was farther back than normal, intruding into the load bed. It carried whatever the lord abbot needed moved from time to time among the abbey and the village churches within the lord abbot’s wide holdings.

The man who drove it, known as Old Jack, was not entirely commonplace. He looked like he might once have been a fighting man, but if so, those days were long behind him. He wore no armor and carried no weapon. The tunic he wore over his shirt was of brown homespun, as was his cowl: a hood with a short cape to protect his head and shoulders from the elements. From beneath the hood a lock of iron-gray hair occasionally escaped. Although he was tall he had a shrunken look to him, as if a once-powerful build had wasted away. When he walked, as he did when the cart was heavily laden, his stiff left leg gave him a rocking gait.

The horse that drew the cart was most unusual indeed. The magnificent black stallion, said those who boasted a knowledge of horses, was a courser. Such an animal was worth but a fraction of the cost of a
destrier
, it was true, but even so a courser was a good war horse, suitable for tourney and battle both, and had no place between the poles of a humble cart.

So for the first few months, wherever the cart went, villagers and the highborn alike whispered amongst themselves. Eventually, it was the village priests, whose churches were the waypoints and the destinations for the cart’s comings and goings, who finally provided the explanation so eagerly sought by all.

Word soon spread the man had indeed been a man-at-arms long ago, the hero of some minor battle long forgotten. Crippled from wounds and no longer able to fight, he had wandered from village to village taking whatever work he could find. The lord abbot, seeing potential in the man, had taken him on. He had learned the smith’s trade and had worked at the abbey for many years, but as of late an illness had taken his strength. Forced again to abandon his trade, he now earned his keep driving the lord abbot’s cart.

The horse was indeed a courser, the priests explained, but from the first he had shied from lance and sword, and went mad with fear from the smell of blood. The lord who had owned the animal could use it neither for battle nor for sport, and was unwilling to use it as breeding stock lest it pass on its unwarlike attributes to its offspring. Deciding that it was best to mitigate his losses, he had traded the horse to the abbey. The lord abbot had put the powerful horse between the poles of the cart, where it was equal to the heaviest load the cart itself could handle.

Once all knew the story, Old Jack and his cart became an accepted part of daily life.

Still, much to the story had yet to be told.

The cart creaked along the forest road, empty but for a foot of straw in the back and a small but sturdy oaken chest, reinforced with iron, sitting beside Old Jack on the seat. It had been a lovely spring morning, sunny and warm, but now the sky was besieged with dark clouds that threatened rain. This, together with the shade from the newly-greened trees, gave mid-afternoon the appearance of twilight.

Old Jack was little surprised when the men stepped onto the road in front of him. There were five of them, their garb an obvious attempt at uniform dress although no two of them were clothed identically. They were a tough and capable-looking lot, armed with an assortment of weapons
—
one with a bow, two with staves, one with a mace, and one with a sword. The latter, who alone among them wore a helmet, was obviously their leader, and it was he who spoke.

“Last week you carried a full load of pottery from the abbey to the market fair, and now you return empty except for that strongbox. I’m thinking it’s full of coin from the selling of all that pottery.”

“And if it is?”

“Then we will be taking it.”

“You would steal from the Church?” Old Jack made it half a question, half an accusation.

“Without hesitation or remorse,” came the reply, which was obviously the motto of the little band.

Old Jack looked each of the men in the eye, and each grinned and nodded his agreement.

“On your heads be it, then,” Old Jack said with a sigh as he pushed the strongbox sideways off the seat of the cart. In that moment, as all eyes followed its descent, he reached up and pulled the front edge of his cowl down over his face until it touched his chin, and immediately let it go.

The transformation was nearly instantaneous. Old Jack thrilled to the sensation as the years dropped away like a discarded garment, the aches and pains of old age replaced by the strength and energy of youth.

His external appearance changed as well. His cowl disappeared. In its place was a great helm, a steel cylinder with a flat top that covered his entire head, with slits for vision and breathing. His tunic was gone as well, replaced by a white
surcoat
blazoned with a red cross. Beneath the
surcoat
were a hauberk and chausses of mail, and gauntlets protected his hands.

Reaching under the seat of his cart, he pulled a sword and a dagger from the secret compartment beneath the floorboards. The compartment also held a kite-shaped shield, but he decided that for this fight he was better off without it. Then he leaped forward off the cart, landing on the back of the courser. The cart poles fell away as harness became saddle and bridle, and he seized the reins in his left hand as his feet found the stirrups.

“It’s the Crusader,” cried the leader of the outlaw band. “At him, lads!”

The Crusader rode him down. As the man fell screaming beneath the courser’s hooves, the Crusader took a backhanded swing at the outlaw with the mace, who fell with a mortal wound where neck met shoulder.

Wheeling his horse, he lined up the two men armed with
quarterstaves
, aiming his horse slightly to the left of the first man. He in turn ran at the Crusader, holding his staff as if it was a lance. The Crusader parried the staff away easily with his sword, and his riposte nearly took off the man’s head.

The fourth opponent moved to his right, to the Crusader’s off hand, and holding his staff near the end, took a two-handed swing at the mounted warrior’s back. Without conscious thought, the Crusader shifted his sword into his left hand and blocked the blow. Seizing the end of the staff in his right hand, he tucked it under his left arm and wheeled his horse to the left, ripping the staff from his opponent’s grip. Then he shifted his grip on the staff, drew it back, and threw it like a spear. It found its mark, striking the bandit squarely between the eyes.

The Crusader looked around for the last man, seeing him just as he loosed an arrow from his bow. The shaft struck the Crusader squarely at the center of the cross on his
surcoat
. It failed to penetrate his mail, and ended up hanging from the
surcoat
with the arrowhead inside. Seeing this, the bowman wheeled and ran toward the woods, where a man on a horse would have difficulty following. The Crusader took up his dagger and let it fly. It struck the fleeing man between his shoulder blades and he fell forward, clawing at his back with both hands but unable to reach the dagger with either.

The Crusader dismounted and walked to where the bowman had fallen. He reached down and pulled the dagger from the wretch’s back. He took a moment to assess the wound; judging it mortal, he walked back to the road to check the rest of the fallen. All were dead but the leader, who lay on his back near the cart, his chest crushed.