Chương 23: Chapter 22 - The Lord of Grim

We gathered in the kitchen once we could all—you know— walk again. The kitchen had whiskey and no dead bodies. Details like that were becoming important. Conrad noted that there had been a lot fewer zombies than last time. Igor added, in a dismal drawl, that their extra strength and speed had made up for it. Iset asked me and Conrad about the new nests since we'd been outside when the zombies had started popping out of the ground like the world's ugliest spring flowers.

Conrad told her that the nests he'd seen had been arranged in a ring, like the first set, only closer to the mansion, and I told her about how close the constricting line of blue magic had been to the nest.

"I think the magic circle raised them as it passed by," I said. Iset's head turned slightly so that she'd have a large piece of nothing to stare off into. Conrad, Mrs. Park, and Igor sipped their whiskeys. Kappa was sitting in my lap. I squeezed him, and he didn't try to squirm away.

"I think you're right, Emerra," Iset said at last, "and if the spell is as old as I think it is, that would explain a few things." She tried to describe some complex magic theory to us, but Mrs. Park and I wrangled her down to a more basic explanation. Spells, unlike alchemical devices, lost power over time, and how that loss of power manifested changed based on how the spell was defined.

"This spell must be simple," Iset explained, "or it wouldn't have lasted so long. If it's a basic trigger spell, then it couldn't compromise on the effect, so the only thing it could compromise on was the vigor of execution." Mrs. Park took a stab at interpretation: "You think instead of getting weaker, the spell's gotten slower?"

"I'll have to check the math—there's a lot that doesn't add up—but when it was originally constructed, I think the constricting circle would've closed in on the mansion in under a minute, raising all the zombies at once." We all took a mental blow from that statement. Conrad tossed back the last of his whiskey while Mrs. Park closed her eyes. Igor grunted. I scowled at the top of the kitchen island, and Kappa scowled to fit in.

I said, "If they'd all been raised at once—""It would have been a massacre," Conrad finished.

"But, surely, you and Igor…" Mrs. Park's voice trailed off when she saw Conrad shaking his head.

"Pathetic," Igor intoned. My cheeks went red. I wasn't sure what he was talking about, but based on how he'd looked down his nose at us before rendering judgment, I had a feeling we were about to be insulted.

"What?" I said.

"I was referring to you lot." He motioned to me, Conrad, and Mrs. Park.

"You go practice being grim for another hundred years, then come talk to me."

"Why would we do that, Ingvar?" Mrs. Park said. (I was now ninety-percent sure she called him that, on purpose, to annoy him.)"Because optimists have no imagination," Igor said.

"All they see are Skittles and rainbows. Every last one of you has failed to appreciate the real significance of Iset's comment."

"What would that be?" Conrad asked.

"There's probably more of them." Our eyes flew to Iset. Her voice was quiet: "Considering the magic circle's distance from the mansion, there would be room for several more rings of zombie nests."

"Oh dear god," Mrs. Park mumbled. She buried her face in her hands. Igor, Emperor of Pessimism and Lord of Grim, was not surprised to learn that Conrad couldn't smell the nests before they were activated.

"If they'd been that easy to find, we would've found them years ago, and then we wouldn't be in this mess."

"Ah- ha!" I said, feeling pleased that I could show Igor up when it came to at least this point of cynicism.

"We would be in this mess—we'd just be in this mess without zombies." Igor gazed at me, but he didn't look affronted. If anything, he looked a little proud.

"I could prod around the grounds with a pole," Conrad said, "but we'd have to dig up every rock we found to make sure it wasn't a cover stone." We all frowned. There were a lot of rocks around the Noctis mansion. Digging a hole usually required a pick-ax and pulley system.

"We'll save that as a last resort," Iset said.

"I think our time would be better spent preparing the house in case there's another assault. I'd like to avoid going through something like that again." All of us, including Kappa, nodded with whole-hearted agreement. We divvied up the jobs. Conrad would get the water we'd left outside, then help Igor haul out the bodies. When they were done with that, they'd start boarding up the windows and all but one door on the ground floor of the mansion.

If there was any material left over, Iset asked them to work on the windows of the second floor as well.

"Why the second floor?" Mrs. Park asked.

"The ones trying to climb the wall didn't get far." Lord of Grim said, "What if the next batch is stronger?" I was assigned to wipe up the worst of the mess. Detail cleaning could wait, but we didn't want people slipping in all the… yuk. I wasn't happy with the job, but it was either me or Mrs. Park. I knew how much Mrs. Park had done in the fight, and I knew how hard it had been on her; I was thrilled that I could spare her from having to deal with more gore. Iset asked Mrs.

Park to check Darius's room for other guns that might be useful against zombies, then help her with research. I had a sneaky suspicion that Iset had asked for Mrs. Park's help more for Mrs. Park's sake than her own. The library didn't have any dead bodies either. I think Mrs. Park suspected it as well. She was a feisty old woman who didn't like people to make a fuss over her.

"It makes me feel old," she'd told me once. I watched Mrs. Park's lips tighten and her brows pull down, but as she lowered her head, her eyes fell on her hands. After two glasses of whiskey, they were still trembling. She agreed to help Iset. Kappa could do whatever Kappa wanted because that's what he would've done anyway. And what Kappa wanted to do was follow me around, prancing through all the muck, spreading it around, sniff some zombie corpses, then hiss at them.

Conrad hefted the corpse off his shoulder and onto the pile with the rest. He tossed the two loose zombie arms he'd been carrying on top of that. One dropped off and rolled to his feet. He stared at it.

"Conrad," Igor said, jolting the wolfman from his thoughts, "do dead bodies bother you?" Conrad turned toward him.

"At this point, the only dead bodies that bother me are the ones that are still fighting."

"Come over here." The two of them were out in the yard behind the house. The second pile of bodies had been built up next to the first one, and the smell had become that much stronger. Conrad wanted to bury them all, but there were too many competing priorities. Food. Water. Safety. The most immediate needs of survival had to come first. Igor was at the far edge of the new pile. He'd offered to dispatch or dismember the parts of the zombies that were still moving. Conrad had brought out the liveliest ones first.

No doubt their pieces had already been scattered. Igor was as good with an ax as he was with his cleaver. This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. When Conrad reached Igor, he found the chef squatting over a headless corpse. Since it had died quickly to the shotgun, most of it was intact. Igor pointed to a network of nearly invisible lines that ran over most of the body.

There were more of them around the major joints, and at least one running down the length of each of the large muscles.

"What do you make of that?" Igor asked. Conrad moved closer.

"Those look like scars." Igor grunted as if he'd had confirmation of the bad news he'd been expecting. Conrad's eyes rose to the pile of corpses. Similar scars criss-crossed every limb.

"Is that possible?"

"Not in the way you're thinking," Igor grumbled. He lifted the zombie's limp arm and moved it forward and back while watching the elbow joint flex.

"Zombie bodies don't heal. These must have been sealed by magic. Do you remember what Emerra said about them looking fake?"

"What did she say?"

"That's right. You weren't there. When she came in, she warned me that they were faster and bigger." Igor let the arm drop.

"She also said they looked fake."

"What does that mean?" Igor turned his head to look up at Conrad with the eye closest to the wolfman.

"I think they aren't what she would think of as human anymore. They've been augmented." Igor stood up and walked a few paces away. He picked up a towel and wiped some of the blood off his hands. He frowned when the driest specks only smeared.

"A spell here, an enchantment there," Igor drawled.

"Some manage to manipulate the physical tissue." He motioned to the body on the ground without bothering to look at it.

"That's what I think we have here." He added in a mutter that anyone but Conrad would have missed, "It worries me." Conrad let his eyes rest on the corpse. Igor's last line echoed in his head.

"Should I bring it inside?" he asked.

"Don't bother." Igor threw the towel to the ground.

"Iset would want to see it."

"And what would it teach her that we don't already know?" Igor walked back toward the pile.

"A magician made them, and he made them stronger."

"She might learn something from the magic."

"Unlikely. And to learn it, she'd have to bring in Emerra." Igor stopped and looked in Conrad's eyes.

"The girl who's currently mopping up the blood." Conrad frowned and looked away. Igor went on, "You and I need to know about this, and if, as Iset hoped, we ever want to avoid going through something like that again, we'll need to do things differently."

"Differently how?" Conrad asked. Igor was facing the pile again, but his right eye shifted to regard the wolfman.

"It'll be a lot of work. For both of us." For a moment, there was silence.

"You don't plan on running this idea by Iset, do you?" Conrad said.

"I wasn't planning on telling anyone but you. The beauty of the idea is that it shouldn't involve anyone else—from beginning to end." Conrad crossed his arms.

"I'm listening." Around seven that night, tired and frazzled, I hauled Kappa into the kitchen to wash off his hands and feet in yet another vain attempt to keep him from leaving bloody prints all over the mansion. No amount of pleading or explanation could convince him that water was hard to come by. That thought didn't fit anywhere in his adorable, water-logged brain. This time, Igor was there, puttering around the candle-lit kitchen while grumbling to himself.

"Are you guys done boarding everything up?" I asked.

"Conrad took over," Igor said.

"Someone had to work on dinner." I dragged Kappa over to the washing sink. We had two different sinks in the kitchen, but we were only allowed to wash our hands in one of them. Most of the time, I had to refrain from rolling my eyes at this excess of hygiene, but my current task had instilled a deeply rooted respect for the practice. Exactly zero-percent of the population wants their food anywhere near zombie muck. Kappa rawred at me for daring to put a stop to his macabre finger painting. Again.

"Thank you, Igor," I said. My voice was strained because I was exhausted and Kappa was no featherweight. The overwhelming sincerity caused the words to come out husky.

"Dinner sounds fantastic."

"You don't even know what dinner is," Igor said.

"It doesn't matter. It could be bologna sandwiches. I'd be thrilled." He let out a loud huh.

"You have the palate of a sick farm goat." I grinned as I removed the lid from the jug of water.

"Then I'm a spoiled farm goat." I splashed some water over Kappa's hands and feet. He didn't mind that part, but when he saw me reaching for the soap, he started struggling.

"Kappa," Igor said, "hold still." Kappa stopped. I silently marveled at the chef's power. Even when Kappa was in a good mood, he only listened to me like that one time out of ten, and never when soap was involved. I finished washing his hands and feet, splashed some more water to rinse them off, wiped them dry with one of the ratty old towels Igor had hoarded, and threw it in the growing pile of towels-I'd-probably-have-to-burn. I moved Kappa over to one of the stools at the kitchen island.

He sat on his haunches with his webbed hands between his legs, his eyes fixed on Igor, and his little butt wiggling with repressed excitement. If he'd had a tail, it would've been wagging. I smiled as I crossed over to wipe out the sink. I didn't know what would happen if I let zombie blood sit on old porcelain, and I didn't want to find out.

"I think Kappa loves you," I observed. Igor glanced over his shoulder at the bog-monster. Kappa gazed up at him with adoring black eyes.

"I feed him." Igor turned back to his work.

"That's all."

"You say that as if it's not the most important thing in the world," I said. Igor went over to the fridge. He grabbed a container of Kappa's food and some vegetables, then quickly closed the door. As he walked back to the other side of the island, he said, "You two have a lot in common. Your affections go for the price of a sandwich." I laughed. When I finished wiping out the sink, I threw that towel over with the others, then went to sit on the stool beside Kappa so we could fangirl over Igor together.

"What can I say?" I said.

"You make good sandwiches. And it's hard to tell the difference between long-term gratitude and adoration." I tapped a finger on my lips and gazed at the corner of the room. It was starting to get dark outside, and the boards across the windows made it darker.

"Now that I think about it, is there a difference?" I waited for Igor's retort, but there wasn't one. When I looked at him, he was watching me with the smaller of his two eyes. It rolled down to read the thermometer he was using to check the temperature of Kappa's food. The power had been out for so long that the fridge was only pretending to keep the food cold.

Most of the perishables had already been consigned to the garbage heap, but the uncut fruits and vegetables were holding out, and freezing Kappa's food containers seemed to have saved them. For now. When the food passed the test, Igor minced up half a carrot and a stick of celery, added it to the food, and pushed the plate over to Kappa. Kappa chirped and laid into it like a savage.

"I'm glad this afternoon hasn't ruined his appetite," I said.

"You thought it would?" Igor asked.

"I thought he'd be traumatized. He was terrified during the first attack, and he's been refusing to go outside ever since." When I heard myself, I realized that sounded wrong. Had Kappa been terrified? Scared—yes. You'd have to be really strong or really stupid to not feel scared when an army of zombies is coming at you. But Kappa had checked all the windows on the second floor by himself when Iset asked him to, and he'd eagerly taken his place beside me to guard Mrs. Park and Iset.

On the other hand, he still refused to go outside without Conrad. Maybe he's like Mrs. Park—able to act in the moment, then fall apart afterward. I glanced at Kappa. He was halfway done with his dinner and didn't seem to be teetering on the edge of a meltdown. Attacking the zombies' legs must have boosted his confidence. He wasn't trembling anymore. But when had it stopped?

"He'll manage," Igor said. He turned and started working on dinner for the rest of us. It involved canned goods and one small backpacking stove. The fact Igor could still turn out a decent meal with nothing but that small stove was a testament to his skill. As he worked, he said in that drawling grumble of his, "People are tougher than you know." I tried to sound appalled, but it probably came out more like I was teasing him—which, to be fair, I was.

"Igor, whatever happened to my Emperor of Pessimism?"

"By that I suppose you mean me?"

"Your Majesty!" I put my arm across my chest and bowed my head.

"I'm pessimistic—not stupid. I can see the sense in front of my eyes. People are tough. That's not a good thing. That just is. We survive, and we find out how tough we are when we have to live through the worst of it. The happiest people are the ones who never learn how tough they can be." I watched him work in silence. Vague thoughts clouded up my head, and a tentative curiosity, that felt almost like wonder, swallowed me whole.

"Igor," I said, "do you ever despair?" His larger eye glanced up at me.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, do you ever—I don't know—give up? But it hurts more. Do you ever feel crushed and want to stop?" Igor scoffed.

"I'm too pessimistic for that."

"You're—um, what?"

"I'm too pessimistic for that nonsense." My clunky mind tried to shape itself around that thought and failed.

"How does that work?"

"I've seen people despair," Igor said.

"That's what happens when you lose hope. That's the darkness you get when you lose the light you've been clinging to. I never bother with hope, so I never have to worry about losing it."

"But how do you keep going?" When he shrugged, the hump on his right shoulder shifted.

"I just keep going in the dark."

"But that's so…" His larger eye rose to look at my face.

"So what?"

"Sad," I muttered.

"Is it?" He looked back down.

"I've survived, Emerra Cole. And I never said I couldn't be happy. Hope and happiness aren't the same thing."

"But hope is what keeps you going—""No, I keep me going. If other people use hope to inspire them, and that's what works, I'll wish them luck. But I've seen despair and disappointment. I'd rather do it my way. I don't mind the dark."

"So this situation that we're in—""We survive it or we don't." He turned to grab the can opener.

"And I'll keep fighting until we don't, because I'd rather live than die. I like being alive. In the meantime, there are meals to cook and a house to clean." Cans opened. The beans went in the pot. The spices came out. Every movement was paced and deliberate. No matter the situation, no matter what he had to work with, Igor always cooked at the same measured speed. He never hurried, and he never stopped. I could see it—that weird strength of his soul. It was grim, but it worked.

While others fell away, too defeated to continue, he could make it through anything. Igor was a strange hero, but that's what he was to me. I admired him. I wanted to be like him: able to keep going no matter what—not because I was holding onto some desperate dream, but because I'd rather be alive than dead. Hope was nice. I liked hope. But when push came to shove, I wanted to know I could fall back on resolve.

"What makes you happy, Igor?" I asked. This time both his eyes flew up to look at me and my stupid, playful grin. He grunted and looked down again.

"I enjoy cooking," he said. My grin widened.

"I can't tell you how glad I am to hear that." Kappa sat back and belched.