Wesley knows they are about to start their march, but his curiosity often gets the better of him and this is one of those times. Seeing the strange man with the gross hair leave the pavilion he couldn’t help but wonder what he does alone in his small camp every day. While it’s off-limits to the soldiers by order of the sergeant, he wouldn’t have to enter the camp to spy its contents. And, while he couldn’t hear exactly what was said in the pavilion, the tone the commander took was enough to say the man is no longer in favor with the army. Maybe if Wesley finds out what he’s up to he can tell the sergeant and get the filthy redhead hung for treachery or treason. Already battle equipped and with ten minutes until mobilization, he convinces himself he can scout the camp and run back to his position with time to spare.
Wesley follows the redhead, staying back around 70 yards, keeping trees and brush between them as best as he can. It doesn’t seem necessary as the idiot redhead never looks back to see if he’s being followed. Now a half mile out from basecamp, Wesley needs to make the decision to continue and be late to formation but satisfy his curiosity or turn around and sprint back to camp. His need to be in favor with his superiors wins out and he stops short of his destination.
Then a quiet voice as if it were right behind him speaks, “Do you want to see what I’m up to? Your commander would hate what I’m doing. Come take a look before I leave forever.”
Wesley snaps his head back to look over his shoulder for the source of the voice. There was nobody there. He turns around unclipping his shovel from the strap on his shoulder. He looks around, seeking the source of the voice before noticing the redhead had stopped and is now looking directly at him.
“Come see, you know you want to. Commander will be furious with me when you tell him.”
That was good enough motivation for Wesley. He may not know how the man was speaking to him from 70 yards but the idea of turning the commander against the gross redheaded man is too tempting.
Wesley didn’t give it a second thought. One of the problems of using six- and seven-year-old people as soldiers. It doesn’t matter how much knowledge they have when they are born or how fast their bodies mature and grow in that short span, they will always be incredibly naive and impulsive until life teaches them to be otherwise.
Wesley double timed his way towards the redhead who has now turned his back and is once again walking to his camp. After a minutes Wesley catches up to him as they reach a clearing with a small wooden shelter made of cut trees. At first the scene in front of him makes no sense. Four soldiers who should not be here are standing in random places around the camp, all facing different directions. Their heads all tilted or slightly turned. Some were slouching, others stood almost at attention. Then he started to notice the wounds, mostly head wounds at that. ‘They should be dead,’ is his first coherent thought on the tableau before him. He stares closer at the nearest and realizes he knows this man. It’s Shannan, he was reported as dead when they took the last compound. On closer inspection he is dead, in spite of his standing upright, there was no sign of life. Not a twitch of muscle or stir of breath, the four lifeless soldiers seem frozen in place.
The redhead stops and stands to the side to give Wesley a clear view of the camp and its occupants.
“I should thank you for following me. Like I told your commander the stick golems are useless in a fight. Too many artificial joints to maintain and no ability to sense their surroundings, and most of all no ability to process information. But now I’ve discovered a better medium than wood, these recently deceased friends of yours have been doing much of what I tell them with very little instruction. The only test I have left for them is combat. Don’t try to run, there’s a barrier ten yards out in every direction that will knock you unconscious if you hit it at full speed. Other than that, I wish you good luck. If you survive, I’ll release you to tattle on me to your commander.”
The redhead stops talking and observes Wesley to see if he understands what was said.
Wesley doesn’t understand what is happening, but the army is marching by now and he will have been reported as missing. He shouldn’t be here; this situation is incomprehensible, and he doesn’t like it. He turns and starts running at full speed back the way he came. His mind reeling at the strange proposition he doesn’t give the threat of an unseen barrier a thought.
Ten yards and a handful of seconds later he’s sprawled out on his back staring up at the sky wondering what hit him.
A voice in his ear is telling him something.
“Get up, they have almost reached you. You are going to die if you don’t get up and fight.”
Who is going to reach him? Who is he to fight? Wesley finally starts to process everything he’s learned since leaving camp to follow the untrustworthy late generation redhead. He rolls to his feet and looks around and sees the four soldiers shambling towards him.
“They moved much better when I animated them two months ago. I can’t seem to keep them from decomposing. I removed as much body fluid and all the soft organs from their torsos and used as much sulfur powder as I’ve been able to steal from your medical supplies. I hope you’re ready to fight now. I moved the barrier, placing you once again at its center.”
Wesley sizes up the advancing foes. He doesn’t understand what is happening, but he was built for this exact situation, fighting the known and unknown. Knowledge for fighting humans is pushed aside for the mostly unused category of fighting the unknown. He doesn’t have to think about killing, ever. Every entity that comes into his awareness is considered a threat. Weaknesses noted as well as dangers. This situation is no different, except in the vagaries of options. Nothing comes to mind as precise as the diagrams and lists of weak points of human biology, only theories and suggestions.
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Biological entities share common elements, circulatory systems, and command-and-control systems. He was told these entities have been drained of fluids, that would mean they have no circulatory system to attack. That leaves command-and-control as the best target. Two known locations of command-and-control systems are hardened enclosures located near sensory organs or they can be distributed around the body to control complex systems of limbs in excess of four. They have four limbs so he’s going to assume their heads are his best chance to kill or disable his foes.
He takes up his shovel and advances on the closest attacker. Swinging two handed the sharpened shovel blade sinks into its neck and lodges in a vertebra. The chances of hitting the soft spongy material between the bones in a neck wasn’t likely but not a terrible risk.
His attacker doesn’t seem to care that its head is severed halfway from its body and brings up its own shovel to return the favor.
Wesley kicks it hard in the chest with a booted foot while yanking his shovel, sending the dead soldier backwards into two of its friends. The three tangle themselves but don’t fall down as he had hoped. The fourth attacker suddenly moves faster than the others and steps around them and comes at Wesley’s flank.
Only momentarily surprised by the sudden speed, he swings his shovel again. This time not going for the killing blow outright. He aims low, taking his assailant at the ankle. He doesn’t need to kill them at first. Immobilizing or crippling them will buy him time. His shovel blade bites deep into the boot and soft tissue underneath. Unlike neck vertebra, he knows exactly where to aim to cut off a foot at the ankle. It isn’t a clean cut, but the creature’s ankle is no longer connected and is only held in place by the heavily damaged army issued boot. When it puts weight on the damaged foot, it rolls to the side sending the creature awkwardly to the ground.
Wesley knows it isn’t defeated but needs to return attention to the others. He dances away from the fallen creature that even as it is hitting the ground is swinging its own shovel towards his feet.
The other three have managed to steady themselves and each other. He makes a mental note that they cooperate and help one another. To further affirm that observation the three attackers fanout in a boxing maneuver. They intend to surround him and attack from multiple directions.
Wesley knows his best chance is to pick the weakest opponent and break through the box before they attack. The opponent on the left is the same one he hit first. He hoists his shovel up in front of him so he can attack in either direction. Using the upcoming battle plans for the compound he feints towards the center and rotates to the left. He brings his shovel over for a backhand swing at the other side of his opponent’s neck. The swing is perfect, the vertebra is knocked clean out of the creature’s body as his shovel blade finishes severing the creature’s head. Now he needs to knock the lifeless body out of the way, and he can flank the center attacker.
Wesley did not expect the headless body to grab him as he tried to shove it out of the way with his shoulder. Instead of falling limply as dead things do, it grabbed him with both arms, dropping its shovel, it simply squeezed him in a hug.
Wesley didn’t understand once again, but he is a killer first and you need to be alive to do the killing. He didn’t see the attack but knew it was coming. He lurched to his left, turning his headless clingy assailant to take the brunt of the incoming attack.
Luckily it wasn’t a head shot or he would have caught it in the face. The incoming shovel blade sunk into the back of his hugging attacker and wedged in a vertebra as his first attack did. Wesley momentarily marveled at the genius of human design, while bringing his arms up between them and breaking the hold. Stepping back, he files away the knowledge that these animated bodies are not as fast or strong as they were when alive. His brain stops thinking for a moment as that thought echoes in his head. That’s what he’s fighting, the animated corpses of his fallen comrades in arms. A word bubbles up from an absurd category of made-up fantasy creatures. He is fighting zombies. Not the infectious type that bites people to spread whatever pathogen is fueling their blood lust. These are more like people drugged into thinking they are dead and being forced to do the bidding of their controller. Except they are really dead. This is something new, but not so different.
Agonizing pain snaps his thoughts back to the present. A shovel blade has just left a huge gash in his right arm above the elbow. Wesley dives forward into a roll and stands back up. Blood now flowing from his wound, through a haze of red he sees one attacker crawling towards him, another is headless and walking like a blind man awkwardly in a circle. The other two are approaching him menacingly.
He can’t afford to lose too much blood. Luckily his right arm still functions. He shifts his shovel to his left and gropes for a torniquet in his pants pocket. Walking backwards he slips it over his wrist and brings the shovel back into his now bloody right hand. Using his left, he works it up his arm to above the gash in his bicep and pulls it tight. The pre-tied knot does its job and sinches the loop as tight as he pulls. Not wanting to lose the arm, he leaves enough slack for some circulation, but enough to slow the blood loss. First aid complete, he stops backing up from the approaching zombies.
Hefting his shovel in his left hand, Wesley spins it in a circle to accustom himself to the off-hand grip. Born a killer and soldier, ambidexterity comes naturally, he is comfortable fighting with either hand. Only giving preference to the right hand to keep from interfering with whoever is fighting to his left, as their knowledge and training dictates. This practice also applies to mealtimes; the soldiers all eat right-handed too.
Having the best success with the disabling ankle cut, Wesley decided to replicate the attack. Gaging the speed of his assailants he executes a series of attacks and retreats. Delivering chops to knees and hips on both foes. They feebly swing at him; he knocks aside their shovels before cleaving away chunks of flesh on his back swing. He continues to retreat away from the headless zombie and the one crawling until the other two are crippled and dragging themselves with their now empty hands.
It took another three to four chops per neck to sever their heads. He then learned the last piece of the puzzle to defeat them. Separating the heads from the body by more than a few yards has them stop moving altogether.
Exhausted, Wesley slumps to the ground with his back to a tree.
An unwelcome yet familiar voice speaks, “That was fascinating! You solved them in under two minutes. I had no idea your inherited knowledge would serve you so well against such an adversary. You took them apart like they were toys. Well done soldier.”
Wesley looked at the broken defunct corpses that were animatedly fighting only moments ago and then at the stinking redhead standing over him.
“You’re not going to let me leave, are you?”
“No, soldier. I am not.”