Barrow of the DraugrA Short Story
Toby J Nichols
Contents
Chapter 1
Afterword
About the Author
Other books by TJ Nichols
Chapter One
It was the longest klick Zac had ever run. Shin high grass whipped against his legs. If he stumbled on the uneven ground and broke his ankle, he was dead. He didn’t bother to look behind. They’d be following, whatever they were. Not three feet away Fletcher kept pace, breathing hard, also weighed down by gold and guns.
An easy job, they’d been told.
It was too well paid for such an easy job—and robbing an ancient barrow built to honour a fallen Viking warrior should’ve been easy for Zac’s team of six.
He should’ve known there’d be a catch.
Fletcher tripped but recovered. Zac couldn’t hear anything over his own rough breathing. But they weren’t alone on this barren island, in this forgotten part of the ocean. Those undead things followed. Not at a shamble, and not a run, just a real leisurely pace like it didn’t matter.
That was worse.
Like the undead knew there was no escape.
The undead wouldn’t reach them, there was a RHIB waiting offshore, all they needed to do was send up the flare when they reached the beach. Hell, he’d swim the two klicks, twenty kilos of golden relics and all if he had to. Zac reckoned he could just about run on water with the amount of adrenaline pumping through his body.
Don’t look. Don’t look.
He had to look.
Moonlight gleamed off ancient armour and weapons as the dead marched toward him and Fletcher. No one had said the dead Viking would rise to defend his grave, or that he’d have buddies.
The grass gave way to coarse sand or fine pebbles, depending on your definition. He pulled the flare gun out of his vest and fired. The light arced up, bright and yellow like a sun. Three hours to dawn…the sun wouldn’t be in time to save them.
But the boat might.
He watched as the flare fell toward the dark sea. Fletcher dropped to his belly, getting ready to shoot. Like it mattered. Zac closed his eyes and drew a breath, then another. A few seconds of peace wouldn’t make a difference. He opened his eyes and pulled his M16 free.
It was a pretty night to die. Almost a full moon and the stars were clear with no city lights to spoil them. It was a pity about the bitter wind that streaked across the island continuously.
He’d been in worse places with the threat of death too close. But all the enemies he’d faced previously had been alive. They’d been human. Those blue skinned things…they might have been human once….
He turned to watch the enemy cross the field in that nice easy pace like they had all the time in the world. Maybe they did. Maybe the boat wasn’t coming. He couldn’t hear the hopeful throb of the engine, only the gentle crash of the waves on the shore. They had to assume they were on their own.
“Plan?” Fletcher glanced at him.
“Can’t walk without knees.” Even as Zac said it, he knew they’d keep coming, crawling if they had to.
It had taken a grenade to stop one of them. And Zac thought the only reason that had worked was because the undead had been in too many pieces to keep going. Zac regretted packing light so he could load up on treasure. The biggest threat on this job was supposed to be other treasure hunters and possibly a random Scandinavian Navy patrol. The drone he’d sent into the barrow had shown the tomb to be empty and free of traps.
But the moment they’d started picking up items and bagging them…
The dead didn’t make a sound when they woke. There’d been no groaning and begging for brains, just the slick scrape of metal. Two of his team had been dead before the rest of them had realized they were under attack.
Now he knew why no one patrolled the area and what had happened to the other treasure hunters. They’d been literally ripped apart.
“Yeah.” Fletcher sounded as convinced as he was. They were fucked. “We could toss the treasure at them, maybe that will make them go away.”
“And when the boat shows up, they’ll see our empty hands and leave.” The man who’d paid for their services wouldn’t accept failure—the job had come through mutual connections and had the usual conditions. Nothing had appeared wrong until the boat had dropped them on the island and then taken off instead of waiting. “And if we’re rescued, no one will be bailing us out.” The man who’d hired them would never admit to the theft of artefacts. The money they’d been paid would be untraceable. Putting out a hail for help and being arrested seemed like a good option.
The five zombies marched over the grass as though they were out for a picnic. Three had swords and were similarly dressed. The other two seemed to have more modern clothing. Zac swore one of them was wearing World War Two flying gear, but that couldn’t be right.
“I’m going heads, starting from the left.” Maybe if the zombies had no head, they’d die. It worked in movies. With limited ammunition, every shot had to count.
Fletcher fired twice in quick bursts of three. The bullets hissed through the grass like they’d make a difference.
Zac sighted the flyboy and pulled the trigger. The dark reddish-blue corpse stumbled then regained composure to keep walking, no faster, no slower, but with a hole in his head that let the starlight shine through. “Fletch?”
“That’s a no for the knees.”
Fifty meters and closing. Bullets were useless. He tossed his rifle on the ground. If the zombies were close enough that he had to use it as a club he was dead. He had one grenade left. He’d brought them to destroy the barrow as ordered. An interesting request, but who was he to question the man with the money? He knew why now. He shouldn’t have waited, but he hadn’t wanted to
