The Prisoner of the Dead

By Megan Mackie

Only when he loses his freedom does he find hope...

Baron is a man from nowhere in a land that has forgotten its name where the dead walk. After killing a strange man in cold blood, Baron finds himself imprisoned-and inextricably tied to an even stranger woman, Thalia.

Thalia harbors a terrible secret. The daughter o

• Language: English
• Publisher: 4 Horsemen Publications
• Release date: Nov 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9798823201735

Megan Mackie

Beyond the smashing success of her inaugural, Amazon bestseller, The Finder of the Lucky Devil, Megan Mackie is the author of The Lucky Devil Series (urban fantasy/cyberpunk), the Dead World Series (Post Post Zombie Apocalypse), The Adventures of Pavlov's Dog and Schrodinger's Cat (Mid-grade science fiction) and the Working Mask series (wannabe superhero).Her other work can be found on the Yonder app, where she has published three web novels, Cookbooks and Demons (paranormal demon romance), Star Courier (speculative Firefly-like fiction), and Novantis (steampunk political intrigue with sky pirates-think Bridgerton meets Black Sails). Outside of her own series, she is a contributing writer for the RPGs Legendlore and Legendlore: Legacies by Onyx Path Publishing and Sirens: Battle of the Bards through Apotheosis Studios.When she isn't writing, she likes to play games-board games, puzzle boxes, RPGs, and video games. She lives in Chicago with her husband and children, two dogs, two cats, and her mother in the apartment upstairs. She also has a thing for iconic leather hats.

Book preview

Dedication

To everyone at 4 Horsemen Publications, who carried me through my personal apocalypse.

You show up and give me the one thing a man in my situation shouldn’t have… Hope.

-Lincoln Burrows

Acknowledgements

Thank you to my husband, Paul for believing in my dreams as much as I do.

Thank you to my children for warming my heart.

Thank you to my mother for your support and confidence.

Thank you to Aysha for finding every little mistake and fixing them beautifully.

Thank you to the artists at Miblart for creating a superb cover.

Thank you to Four Horsemen for bringing my stories to the world.

Part 1

Chapter 1

The wheels of the motorcycle crunched to a stop as the lone bike with its attached trailer pulled up short on the broken-up old highway. The single figure on its back kicked out the stand to lean the bike, leaving it running as he dismounted. His legs were stiff, and he stumbled a little as a piece of loose pavement kicked out under his feet. The skittering startled a small rodent, who poked its head out to investigate the unusual disturbance. The small rock continued down the hill, colliding with other loose bits of what was left of the highway. From the lone man’s vantage point, he could trace the highway with a finger as it wound its way down into the va lley town.

The large man heaved a big sigh. If it wasn’t for the fact that the once finely crafted machine was going to break further, he wouldn’t even be attempting to approach the farm community below him. But the rubber hosing he used to jury-rig it had already popped out twice, killing his engine each time. The bike’s damage was beyond what he could figure out, and it was a big world to be walking around on foot.

Still, he hesitated, fingering the gauntlet strapped over the leather bracer on his right arm. The worn, grey polymer fit snugly to him. It was a relic but a powerful weapon from the previous age. Coming into the town with an open weapon could be dangerous, but most people didn’t recognize a gauntlet on sight.

Shield, he ordered, and instantly, energy popped out across the back of his forearm, crisp and buzzing blue, about the size of a garbage can lid.

Unshield, he ordered again, and the blue disk collapsed with a static snap. Then he pointed his fist at a nearby tree whose roots were breaking through the weather-beaten pavement. Immediately, the gauntlet powered up with a whine.

Fire. A cold blue beam of energy burst from the ports around the back of his wrist and straight across the road. Chips and splinters burst into the air, leaving a nice patchy burn on the side of the tree. Birds burst from the top in a cacophony of protest. The lone man flexed his fingers. Firing the gun mode always made them feel a little numb. He swung his arm back and forth, recharging it kinetically so he’d have a full battery. If things should hit the fan, he’d have at least an hour of shield or three really good blasts. If he needed more than that, he was probably dead anyway.

Throwing a leg back over his bike, he settled himself back into the seat and kicked up the stand. The bike rolled forward, allowing momentum to pull him down into the valley.

He ran down his list for bad signs as entered the unfamiliar area.

En: There were no sickly green flags anywhere. When a town succumbed, there were almost always green flags.

To: No crows, or rather, no more than usual, flying in lazy circles above. No vultures. No other birds of prey.

Tre: No animals running around.

Fire: The smells on the wind were of fires and cooking food, cut grasses and hay, and living animals. There was a scent of blood too, but no decay or rot.

Journeying into the heart of the town was fairly easy, which was strange. No walls or outside barricades or guards. It was like the sleepy town didn’t expect any of the usual troubles. But then, he hadn’t realized this town was here until a few days ago when he had followed the black helicopter in the sky.

He passed several houses, mostly shacks really, as he coasted down the rolling streets that bounced up and down gently with the wave of the land. A few people were out and about.

Fem: They were reactive to his presence. That was good. Another check off the list.

They didn’t wave, either, but they looked at him with purpose. The large man and his motorcycle elicited suspicious glances from some and openmouthed stares from others. Hopefully, that’s all they would do. Stares he could handle.

Seks: Reasonably clear skin. Healthy pallors. No pustules or open, seeping wounds.

Syv: Eyes of many colors. Not a black-colored pair in sight.

Just get in, just get out.

The market filled the main street of the town. White canvas tents lined each side in either direction, erected in front of permanent structures that a strong wind should have knocked down a while ago. Yet the small town had electric lights set up every few feet along the edges of the street. Baron had only seen them once before that town succumbed to the plague, and he escaped it.

On top of each of the buildings, windmills turned lazily, obviously the source of the town’s power. Amongst the structures of the market, many people moved about from stall to stall, talking and laughing with plenty of haggling being done on either side. No cares, no fears. At least of anything within their town.

The stranger rolled his bike to a stop just as he reached the busiest part of the street. No other vehicles were driving through the people, so he wasn’t about to ruffle feathers by doing otherwise. Despite his attempt at courtesy, all he saw were wary to hostile faces watching him. He knew what those faces meant. The first hint of trouble and the stranger would be blamed. Insular places like this did not like strangers. It was the way of this world.

He needed to take care of his business and get out of there as fast as possible.

He was never sure what other people saw when they looked at him, but whatever it was, most didn’t like it. Those that did, he didn’t want anything to do with either, since they were often farmers’ daughters or wives looking for a little thrill and plenty of danger. The lone male wanted nothing to do with females. It was just safer.

In comparison to other males, he was tall, over six feet by several inches. His hair was shaggy, ending just above his shoulders. Whenever he decided it was too much or getting in his way, he’d take a knife and hack it off. Maybe he should have done that before coming.

The clothes he wore were the color of dirt, both the jacket and pants made of the same thick, heavy canvas cloth with leather panels strapped over the tops of his thighs to create a protective barrier while he rode or scavenged. His well-worn boots came up to his knees, patched and repatched so much that they were neither black nor brown. Yet the soles were still good enough and comfortable and that was all that mattered to a male like him.

Halfway down the street of the market the stranger still hadn’t seen what he was looking for. He needed to ask someone. Clenching and unclenching his hands rhythmically on the handlebars, he scanned over the crowd, trying to find the safest-looking person to ask for directions.

His eyes landed, almost on their own, on a female a few feet ahead of him.

She stood in front of one of the pitched tents taking sips of something warm from a chipped cup as her own eyes scanned the crowd with amusement. Taller than most of the females in the market, her warm brown skin seemed to glow golden in the sun. Her eyes smiled, liquid dark over the edge of the cup. Her long, black, wavy hair was raked up into a scarf of beautiful red. The scarf wove through her hair into an elaborate pattern. The stranger found himself totally mesmerized, trying to figure out how she got her hair to look like that with the cloth woven through it. Too late, he realized she was studying him studying her. She raised an eyebrow in challenge.

Immediately, he felt his cheeks burn red. He dropped his own gaze to the back of his bike.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He didn’t want trouble, but he probably had it now. Before he realized he had done it, he glanced up again at the female. Her barely contained smile burst into a pretty laugh. Unable to bear any more, the stranger pressed on into the crowd, pushing his motorcycle determinedly away from her.

Do you need something? she called after him.

He stopped. Why did he stop? Why on earth was he stopping and turning back to her? Everything about her screamed trouble.

He glanced back.

This time he took in her clothes. She was dressed in a thick denim jacket that cinched about her trim waist with a braided rainbow cord. She played with the end, stroking down it with her free hand in a lazy way as she sipped her cup.

Merchant, definitely. A wealthy one at that.

Garage, he muttered, barely loud enough to be heard. His voice sounded gravelly, even to himself, and it had been months since he had needed to use it.

She raised her eyebrow at him again into a perfect arch. Again, he caught himself being captivated. He never knew eyebrows could do that.

You mean, you’re looking for the garage? For your bike? She drew out the silence between them by taking another sip from her cup. Then she cast her gaze over his machine. That’s a really nice bike you have there, she commented appraisingly before lazily taking a step closer to him.

The stranger’s heart picked up the pace. He held his breath, wondering and hoping she would take another step closer.

Hey, Thalia, called a male behind her, and she stopped her progression forward, her face falling just a little bit.

Great. She had a mate. A female like her, of course she would have a mate.

Damn it.

The garage is down at the end of the street and around the left-side corner. You’re looking for Hector, she said and went back into the soup tent.

A tall male stood there waiting for her by the stall, holding his own cup of soup and a paper bag of fresh, hot bread poking out of the top. He was built like the stranger himself, though the other man’s hair and skin were dark like tree shade, and braids like willow branches burst from his skull. He was dressed similarly to the woman, in well-made denim with the addition of a yellow shirt and a sash of autumnal colors tied around his clearly muscled waist. Baron noticed the handle of a sword peeking over his shoulder. The look on the other male’s face warned the stranger to not come any closer.

The stranger took the message and turned away from the pair to head down the street. Following the directions, he found an old, rough-looking garage with an equally old, rough-looking man sitting in front of it. He seemed to be working on a piece of machinery in his hands, a dirty, white plastic bucket between his feet. As the stranger approached, the old male looked up, first with no interest in him and then with an acute interest in the bike. He tossed the mechanical whatever back into the bucket with a loud clack and stood, brushing his dirty pants off with dirty hands.

My Lord, haven’t seen one of these beauties in a while, he said, caressing the machine like it was a fine steed or a sacred shrine.

The stranger didn’t reply, and the old male didn’t seem to need him to. Instead, he crouched down beside the bike with a grunt and reached out to touch the obvious patch job.

Both lines busted, huh? Well, that is the defect in this model. Who’d you kill to get your hands on a military-grade hybrid?

The stranger bristled at the comment. Found it, he said flatly.

Sure, you did. Well, I don’t care either way, Hector said, not looking away from the prize. Without hesitation or permission, he yanked the rubber hose free of the duct tape, bringing the connector with it.

This is going to take a couple of hours of work. I have the right housing, but the connector you have here is shot to hell. He discarded the hose over his shoulder onto the ground. Then his fingers turned and twisted the connector around like they were doing the seeing instead of his eyes while he studied the bike. I don’t have an exact connector like this. Each military model is unique. The bigwigs always liked things made special, just for them. It was the only thing that made the whole lot of them alike.

Hector cackled at his own joke. The stranger had no idea what the old male was talking about, but he nodded just the same and stayed silent.

While I don’t have this in stock, the old male said as he got back to the task at hand, I do think I can modify something. You going to be around the day?

Yeah, the stranger nodded before adding, If I have … to be.

Don’t come into town often, huh? Hector asked, then continued on before he got his answer. So, then, here is the scary question. How you planning on paying for this?

The big male nodded and went to the back of his trailer to throw the covers off several boxes. The old man limped over and peered inside.

Solar panels, also military-grade. Did you find these where you found the bike? Hector pulled out a dinner plate-sized panel, bending its honeycombed surface to the sun.

No, the stranger said and offered no more details. The old male looked at him sidelong, then pulled out the second one in the box.

Two of these will cover the parts… he said, letting the sentence hang there a minute as he sized the big man up again.

The hackles on the stranger’s neck rose a little. This old troll of a human wanted something more, and he would bet it was something the stranger didn’t want to give. Before he could move to take back the solar panels and cancel the deal, the old male pointed up to his windmill on top of the building. Unlike the others throughout the town, this one wasn’t moving at all.

Don’t suppose a young fella like you would mind climbing up there and repairing my windmill? Chuck keeps saying he’ll repair it for me, but it’s been three weeks now and other things are always more important.

The stranger blinked then eyed the windmill. It looked well maintained enough and had a sort of ladder mounted on the side so climbing it would be no problem. Not that it would have been for him either way. He had climbed higher, less stable things with fewer holds.

I don’t know … much about windmills, the stranger said. It wasn’t a no, it was just a fact.

All you got to do is take out the burned-off belt and put on a new one. I’d do it myself, but this hip keeps me grounded, the old male said, kneading at the hurt with a fist. You do that for me, and we’ll call it even for the labor.

The stranger wasn’t entirely convinced that was a fair trade, feeling fairly confident that the panels covered the labor as well as the parts. However, he also knew the old male could try to screw him much worse if he had a mind to. There would be incredibly little the stranger could do then, so for the sake of goodwill, he nodded once in agreement.

Climbing above the town was actually pleasant. Usually, when he climbed into high places it was dangerous above, below, and all around, whether it was from predators or the undead. This was a real treat.

Breathing in a lungful of fresh, wood-scented air, he paused at the top. Above him in the swirling world of the valley, hawks and eagles danced in lazy circles. Down below him, the very living movements of the townsfolk performed their own dance amongst the tents. A small group was actually dancing in a small circle in front of a band. Almost like a magnet, his eyes were drawn to a bright-red kerchief on the move amongst it all. The beautiful female was laughing freely, trying to pull her male into the dance.

The stranger growled at himself, turning back to his task.

The belt the old male had given him hung around his neck like a dog collar. He hooked a foot around one of the bar struts holding the whole windmill up in the air and perched on the top rung of the attached ladder. He could see the broken belt swinging about in the breeze. The blades were locked in place by a switch the old man had flipped at the bottom of the ladder, his bad hip not stopping the old troll from mounting two sets of stairs to get to the flat, metal roof.

Hey, kid! the old male yelled from below, his voice only a little swept away with the wind.

What? the stranger called down. He had already started to pull out the old belt; why was the old man interrupting him?

What’s your name, so I don’t have to keep calling you ‘Hey, kid?’

The stranger licked his dry lips with his cottoned tongue. He hated that question. Baron, he shouted down.

Baron? The old male cracked a laugh. Well, that’s mighty noble of you. Your mother must have loved you bunches. You can call me Hector.

He already knew that, but Baron nodded, though Hector probably couldn’t see it.

Just drop the dead belt down, don’t worry about it, Hector called, and Baron did as instructed, clearing the shredded pieces that were stuck in the gears. Fitting the new belt took some muscle to get it over the lip of the last gear, but it snapped satisfyingly into place.

Okay, flip it on, Baron called down.

Not till you get your arse back on the ground, Hector called back. Last thing I need is to explain to the sheriff why I got a shredded-up stranger on my roof.

Just flip it on. I’m fine. Want to see … if it works.

Don’t argue with your elders, boy, Hector retorted and spit for emphasis.

Baron wondered what being elder had to do with automatically winning the argument. He backed down the ladder a bit in compromise. Hector hit the switch without another word. The blade of the windmill released and immediately started spinning, sluggishly at first as the new belt settled into its groove. After a few rotations, it turned smoothly, picking up speed to send electricity down the system into wherever Hector kept his generator. The rungs and frame of the windmill now hummed with energy. Baron nodded after a couple of minutes, satisfied, before making the rest of the descent.

Good job, Baron, Hector said, slapping the bigger man on the back just before he set a boot on the ground. Come with me downstairs and have a beer while I get your part fixed up.

The old male’s approval warmed Baron’s insides more than he’d like to admit. Once they returned to the main garage area, Hector indicated for Baron to sit on another overturned white bucket while he limped over to a now-humming refrigerator.

Haven’t wanted to open this to keep the cold from escaping, but I think it’ll be fine now, Hector said and pulled out two unmarked brown bottles. Not frigid but at least it’s not as warm as piss. This here… He popped off the caps with a pocketknife and brought one over to Baron. This is the good stuff.

After Baron took it, Hector clinked the necks together before downing half of his bottle in one long swig. Baron, always cautious, took a sniff first.

Come on, kid, drink up. You’re insulting my hospitality, Hector said when he came back up for air.

So much for not calling him kid. Figuring insulting the male’s hospitality was more dangerous than whatever was in the bottle, Baron took a healthy sip … then proceeded to down half the bottle himself.

Good, isn’t it? Hector asked proudly, cracking a satisfied grin as he hobbled back to a wall of dirty bins covered in smudges of grease.

Baron nodded as he swiped the back of his arm across his too-full mouth before choking out a, Yeah. Hector laughed his old male’s cackle, and Baron could feel the muscles in his back relax as he took another drink, savoring the taste of sour over his tongue. What is it?

Ah, you noticed, did ya? Not barley, you’re right, Hector said. Baron had no idea what the old man was talking about, just took another sip.

Made from apples, that is, got a tree all my own out back. Make my own malted cider. Hector finished his bottle before setting it carefully in a crate of other empties to be reused later. When you finish that, just set it in here. He gave the crate a clattering kick. Then he set about to work.

Content, Baron watched quietly as the man cut and welded, blew and cussed on a metal piece for his bike, punctuating his work with talk about nothing. Baron never responded much, but Hector was satisfied with him listening, speaking enough for the both of them. The easy cadence was only interrupted after an hour of steady work, when a distinct laugh danced its way down the garage’s alley on the wind.

Like a string had been tied to his nose, Baron looked sideways to see the female in the blood scarf walk past, her male in autumn beside her.

Ah, you see those two, don’t you? Hector said, shutting off his welding torch for the final time.

Baron ignored the question, turning away from the view of her leaning against the building next to the driveway.

Do you know who they are? Hector asked amusement in his voice. You ever heard of the ARK, kid?

Pursing his lips together, Baron shook his head.

You’ll see them around these parts this time of year. It’s a traveling caravan, moving from place to place, collecting their tithes from the folk in towns like these. It’s how the ARK sustains itself. They don’t have to trade for anything; we’re all expected to hand over whatever they need. And we do, don’t we? You know why?

Baron didn’t answer as the old male picked up a file and began working away at whatever he just welded.

Scientists. They’re going to save humanity, don’tcha know? Hector finally said, with a contemptuous sniff.

Baron had no idea what a scientist was. He glanced at the female as she watched the street. While she waited, another female, this one bearing a child on her hip, approached her. The beautiful female turned and began speaking to the other, who fluttered and blushed as she responded, almost unable to look up from the ground.

That woman there is one of them. See the gold collar around her neck? That makes her an Atheling. Far away above the likes of us mere mortals, and yet there she is, walking amongst us.

Atheling? Baron asked.

At last! He speaks. I’ve been yammering away for the past hour, and he finally joins the conversation. Hector dropped the new connector into a bucket of water that hissed and steamed dramatically. She’s Immortal, that one.

What does … that mean? Baron’s eyes moved on their own, returning to study her profile.

Not much use for words, have ya? It means she can’t die. None of them can, those with the gold collars. They’re close to gods.

The female stretched out her hand to the child and caressed the soft, baby hair. The other woman bowed to her as she backed off, before turning to scurry away. Others on the street watched the scene with warm, peaceful smiles on their faces. Envy bit through Baron. Oh, to be looked at like that.

A few more figures moved closer to the beautiful female. The male in autumn returned to her side and immediately they all backed off. She turned that smile at him and together they went, disappearing past the corner.

It means you should probably stay away from her. Or you might end up like her Gin there. Another word Baron didn’t understand. I don’t mean the drink, son. It means silver in some old language most have forgotten even existed, or it could stand for genie, who the hell knows. He’s her prisoner, more or less, so that interpretation makes sense, too, Hector clarified as if Baron had asked.

Baron knew what a prisoner was.

Yeah, stay away from any of them that wear a silver collar. Most of the Gin that serve the ARK are criminals anyway, so you don’t want to make trouble with them.

The younger male nodded. He couldn’t agree more. Caravans like that always needed the young and strong. He’d run into a few in his time, and avoiding them was always preferable to fighting them off.

The rasp of filing filled the space between him and the old male. For a long time, they were both quiet. Then Hector straightened, cracking every one of his vertebrae as he stretched.

Okay, need to let that cure, and I need a nap. Go out into the festival, and stop bothering an old man, Hector said, tossing down the metal file into a bucket.

Festival? Not a market? Baron asked. A roaring cheer came up from the street.

Summer festival, yup. I’ve seen enough of them. Hector took a wallet out of his back pocket and pulled out some folded pieces of paper. Here, take this. Go get something to eat. Flirt with a pretty girl. Live while you’re young and handsome. I’m going to take a nap, he repeated.

Baron stared at the paper being offered to him. What’s that?

The currency we use around these parts. Bring me back a bowl of soup, while you’re at it. Then Hector disappeared through the door into the back and that was the end of the discussion.

The younger male hurried out to join the people in the festival. Being an easy head taller than anyone else, he felt awkward as he joined the line for the soup stall, but no one challenged his being there. The older female at the counter took his money easily enough, handing him two bowls when he held up two fingers.

Baron wasn’t sure what started the fight. He rarely did. One second, he was wrapping his hands around a pair of bread bowls of the best-smelling soup he ever smelled in his life, the next second someone slammed into him. He first thought it was an accident, and he simply shoved the male off. It should have been all the situation required to move on. Then Baron felt a sharp pain in his side that could only be a knife. Baron grabbed his attacker and whammed one of his meaty fists into his head. The male’s head snapped back and that was when Baron saw it.

Black-colored eyes.

Chapter 2

The rest of the booth erupted with screams and shouts. A few other males jumped into the mess, against Baron, of course. He took and threw a few more punches before the fight spilled out into the main road of the town.

No! he shouted and tried to point at the newly made zombie standing only a few feet away. But nobody looked at him. All eyes were focused on the stranger. He tried to find the words to explain, but they just wouldn’t come. Not when fist after fist came at him and it was all he could do to block.

Shield! Baron shouted. With a snap, the energy barrier blocked a swinging board, rebounding it back on the farmworker wielding it, taking him out. Sensing something to his left, Baron whipped his shielded arm to the side, smacking hard into a charging body that flew back from the force.

Another roar to his right forced another pivot, and Baron’s shield stopped the momentum of a sword as it came down in a powerful overhead strike. That blow sent him back, his feet plowing up little furrows in the dirt street, softened from spilled soup and drinks. Through the blue wall of his shield, he could see the face of the autumnal male. Intense anger and hatred reflected in his face now. If Baron didn’t end this quickly and run, this male would be the one to make sure he died.

Baron dug his heels in and pushed back, the two large males meeting each other strength for strength. Shouts and cheers from the encircling crowd cut off any easy escape. Baron ignored all of it to focus on winning this contest. His side burned from the knife wound, and he knew if something didn’t shift in his favor, he would break first. Inevitably, someone took advantage of his exposed back to whip a rock at his leg. The sharp impact made his hamstring spring, and Baron buckled under. The weight above crushed him down to the ground.

The sudden drop had the advantage of unbalancing his opponent, who stumbled forward.

Unshield, Baron ordered urgently, and the energy resistance evaporated. His opponent’s weight continued to drop forward. The blade of the sword came down against the gauntlet’s fibered surface, but Baron continued the motion of his arm to redirect the blade away. The point buried directly into the ground. The redirect opened his opponent up, allowing Baron to twist his core hard enough to punch the man in the face. His attacker’s body followed the direction of his head, making him fall to the side. Without the male’s weight, Baron scrambled back up to his feet.

His breathing ragged, Baron backpedaled away from the prone form of the male, whose autumn-colored shirt was bright against the torn-up dirt ground. His opponent would be up in a second. Baron had to hurry.

He looked for a way out, but all around him, the ugly, screaming faces of the crowd at least two or three people deep blocked his way. Many of them were armed with whatever was handy. Panic gripped him as he spun about, desperate for a way through.

He was going to die. He could see the intent in their faces.

Before he could make up his blanking mind, another set of opponents came at him, morphing out of the crowd. They threw ineffective punches, which he immediately dodged. Only one of them aimed for his wounded side. Using the back of his gauntlet, Baron bashed that one good on the side of the head. The male spun away into the frothing crowd.

Stop him!

Stop the monster!

Somewhere far away a female screamed for her child.

Baron looked at one of the opponents lying on the ground before him. His attacker was a ten- or eleven-year-old male, his eyes wide in horror as Baron stood above him, his gauntlet aiming to blast. The boy’s arm was broken. Did he break it? Baron wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter. While he was distracted, a blow came from behind, clipping Baron’s head.

He spun with the hit and saw his truly dangerous opponent again. Swordless now, the autumnal male swung a bloody-knuckled fist.

Baron pitched toward the child but turned his body in midair to avoid crushing the kid. He rolled instead, just in time for a sword edge to crash into the ground next to him, this time wielded by an untrained hand. Because of the force exerted on the blade, it clanged hard into a large rock, cracking it down an invisible fault line in the metal.

The autumnal male stepped up, ripping the blade from the farmworker who cracked it. Rearmed, he swung again, and Baron brought the shield up a final time. Time seemed to slow as the blade sheared in half against the energy surface with a flash of brilliant light.

The autumnal male blinked at his broken blade, a flash of true grief on his face. The blow had knocked Baron to the ground. Lying there, Baron tried to gain his breath and his feet at the same time, but the pain in his side ripped intensely. He could barely move. Taking the chance with what was left of the blade, the autumnal male pivoted. Repositioning the hilt, he raised the broken blade with its wicked sharp tip above his head. There would be no dodging it this time.

Mickey! Don’t! a female’s voice screamed. The command lit something up on the man’s silver collar. He stopped, pausing with the sword high above his head, lifting his gaze from Baron to the beautiful female standing a few feet away with the red scarf in her hair.

Fire! Baron shouted, aiming his fist at the male’s exposed middle. The burst of energy sent the numbing hot-cold feeling down his arm, erupting the last bit of energy directly at and through his opponent, stunning the crowd into silence.

His opponent didn’t look away from her face. He knew what had just happened, and he knew what was about to happen. A deep sadness filled his expression, captivating Baron’s attention too. A small voice said he should be running, but shock pinned him there. Despite the hole in the other man’s chest, there was no expression of pain. It was like he didn’t feel any.

Thalia… the autumnal male managed to say, but it became a croak as his lungs lost their ability to hold air.

Then he fell to his knees. Then to the ground.

Mickey, no! The beautiful female continued to scream as she pushed aside the other bystanders, who stared wide-eyed and fish-mouthed in shock. Baron looked down the length of his body to the corpse he had just made lying just past his feet. The beautiful female reached for it, grabbing at the orange-and-yellow shirt, now turning red.

Baron tore his gaze away. He needed to run, while the town was distracted, but another face stared down at him.

The thing that looked like a male drooled from blackened lips, its eyes lolling without truly seeing. It was the male who had bumped into Baron at the booth and started the whole fight. No one else seemed to notice it, focused as they were on his dying opponent and the female.

The town was infected.

Before Baron could react, the corpse he created grabbed his foot with a blood-covered hand.

Die, the autumnal male mouthed to Baron before he stuck his fingers into the silver collar around his neck and pulled with the remaining bits of his strength. Electricity erupted from the collar, seizing both men as it jolted through them.

And then all was silence.

All of his life, Baron expected to die in a myriad of different ways.

Being mauled by an animal always seemed the most likely. There were certainly enough creatures out there with claws and teeth to do the job. Getting caught up in