Altar
When the first tree had snapped, Riggs had known what was coming. Not the exact shape or the nature of it, but he got the idea. Something big and hungry; one more monster in a world full of them. He’d tried to ignore it, to pretend it was happening somewhere else, but the sheer noise of it all made that difficult. He’d never heard anything roar like that.
He wished he was anywhere else. That he’d never come here. They’d had a saying in Atlantic City: never volunteer for anything. Riggs had made that his mantra, and only broken it once in the months he’d huddled in the basement of a pawn shop with five other survivors. But breaking it had led him out of the basement, out of Atlantic City – he’d hoped it would lead him somewhere safe. As if that was a thing anymore. He couldn’t even remember what safety felt like.
Come to that, he couldn’t even remember his own first name. He could barely remember the last week. His mind went in and out, retreating into itself for its own good. It had been that way since the beginning of the apocalypse. He focused on the now, and not the past or the future. It was how he’d survived in the hell of Atlantic City.
He wished he could retreat into his mind now, and not be here. The roar came again and he clenched his fists against his ears. It was worse than the gospel music echoing down from the roof of the house. It was an ugly sound, reminiscent of every zombie moan and guttural grunt, but somehow worse. Whatever was out there, it sounded hungry.
He wanted his smoke bombs, a gun – even a sharp stick would do. They’d taken his coat and his hat, but left him his mask. They were polite, for a bunch of hillbillies. “Must be that southern hospitality I’ve heard about, ha-ha-ha,” he muttered, sounding out each “ha”. He could see Ptolemy and the others in the other cages. He wondered where they’d taken Ramirez. He recalled them taking her out of the cage but not much else. Coop was missing as well.
Another roar came from out in the swamp somewhere. It was getting closer, whatever it was. He reached for his cowboy boot and felt around for the gap between the leather and the lining. He’d learned that it was always good to have a little extra something on hand, just in case you ever wound up in a situation like this. He found the flat handle of the shiv, but didn’t retrieve it from its hiding place. Not yet.
He had to be smart. What good was a knife while he was still in a cage? He looked around again. “Should never have left Atlantic City,” he mumbled. At least there he’d only had to worry about zombies. He’d known it was too good to be true.
Even before the end of the world, he’d never trusted a sure thing. Nothing was safe, nothing was certain. There was trouble everywhere, in every atom of dust. People had started getting sick before the first zombie had shown up. Or so he’d heard; he’d never seen it himself. Just secondhand stories shared by other survivors. But it was enough to get him to start wearing a mask, just in case.
The gospel music got louder and their captors were starting to sing. Even the kids. That was the worst bit, though he couldn’t quite articulate why. It was just… they had kids. The cage shuddered and started to move along its rope pulley. He looked toward the walkway and saw the big man who’d been waiting on them at the docks the night before. He was hauling Riggs’ cage in, and Riggs felt a sinking sensation as he realized why. He knew what they intended for him, even though he didn’t know the particulars. He’d seen this movie before and read the books.
“Oh, shit,” he muttered, as the cage clanked and juddered toward its destination. “Shit, shit, shit. No, no, no.”
The cage thumped against the walkway and the big man opened it up. “Get up,” he rumbled. “We ain’t got much time before he gets here.”
“No!” Riggs pressed himself back against the bars, determined not to go. The big man growled low in his throat and reached in, grabbing Riggs’ leg and hauling him out – or trying to. Riggs had hold of the bars. The contest that followed wasn’t dignified in the least. Just a tug of war. Finally, the big man stooped and stepped into the cage. He slugged Riggs a few times, real quick and hard enough to rattle his teeth. The next thing he knew he was being dragged across the wooden walkway by one leg.
Riggs clawed at the boards. He heard laughter from the house and risked a hand to give them the finger. It cost him, as the big man turned and bounced his head off the boards. Then he was up and over the other man’s shoulder.
As he bounced along, he saw Ramirez standing with an old lady in a wheelchair. The old lady was holding her at gunpoint, and she didn’t look happy. “Give them what they want,” Riggs called out. “I don’t want to die!”
Ramirez called out something, but he didn’t hear it because whatever was out there decided to roar again. Maybe it was getting impatient. He started squirming, trying to break loose. Trying to reach his boot. If he could get his knife – what then? Maybe get away. Maybe find help. Someone had to be out there, right?
The roar again. Loud like thunder. Almost overpowering. Whatever it was, it was big; definitely not the sort of thing he wanted to meet face to face. He paused. The singing had changed to something else… chanting? “Are they chanting?” he demanded, momentarily forgetting himself.
“Yes,” the big man sighed. He didn’t sound best pleased.
“Why are they chanting?”
The big man didn’t answer. Instead, he carried Riggs up onto the concrete bulwark that separated the property from the swamp. Two other members of the family were there waiting. Both men, lean and narrow with feral faces and filthy clothes. As Riggs’ captor approached, they dragged a flat ‘X’ of plywood upright. It was a crude thing, clearly homemade. Its base slotted into a pair of steel plates embedded in the concrete, allowing it to stand upright without support.
Riggs started to struggle even more. “No, no, no, I’ve seen this movie!”
The big man dropped him onto the concrete. Stunned, Riggs managed to palm his blade. Before he could do much else, the other two hauled him to his feet and slammed him back against the X without a word. The big man waited, his hand on his pistol and his eyes on the swamp. The trees were shaking and the disturbed waters slapped against the concrete. “Hurry it up,” he grunted. “We don’t want to be out here when he arrives.”
“When who arrives?” Riggs asked, as they stretched his arms, binding his wrists to the top of the X with rope. “What is that thing?”
The big man looked at him. “King Crunch.”
Riggs almost laughed. “Sounds like a cereal mascot from back when you could get cereal.” He looked down as they tied his legs to the lower struts of the X. “You don’t have to do this,” he pleaded. “I’ll do whatever you want, just don’t leave me out here…” Begging and pleading had never hurt his pride. You couldn’t have pride dealing with the dead. They didn’t care how you felt. But sometimes it gave you an edge against the living.
But they ignored him, finished up and hurried toward safety. Only the big man stayed behind, and then only long enough to lean toward Riggs and murmur, “That knife in your hand? I’d use it on yourself, if you can.” Then he was gone, and Riggs was left alone to face whatever was coming.
The world shuddered as it drew closer. Birds screamed in the distance, and alligators bellowed. Riggs adjusted his grip on his knife and awkwardly began to saw at his bonds. Thankfully, the blade was sharp and the ropes were old and fraying. He had one hand free a moment later and started to work on the other.
Just as he freed that hand, something massive exploded out of the tree line, rising from the water like a mountain surfacing from the ocean. Up – and up – and up. Then its shadow fell across the bulwark, swallowing Riggs up.
Riggs stared at the abomination – there was no other word for it – in horror. He’d seen big zombies before. Whatever it was that made the dead rise, it also changed some of them. Twisted them into horrible parodies of the human form. It did the same to animals on occasion, but never like this. Never to such a size.
The snapping turtle was roughly the size of a bus, and awful in its immensity. Barnacle-like growths sprouted from its tree trunk limbs and its shell was like armor plating, covered in moss and stunted trees. Its head reminded him of a bulldozer, with a cruel beak that looked as if it could rip through a battleship hull, and two ugly, pallid eyes that glistened with a foul seepage.
It lumbered toward the bulwark on two pylon-like legs, long forelimbs swatting aside any trees still in its path. He’d never seen a turtle walk on two legs outside of a cartoon, and something about the way it moved was even more unnerving than its size. Its limbs were out of proportion, more like those of a bear or an alligator than a normal turtle.
Riggs bent double, sawing at the bindings on his legs, his heart hammering painfully in his chest. The turtle raised its beak, as if to sniff the air. Could it not see him? He bit back a laugh, afraid that if he started, he’d never stop. One leg was free. One left. He began to pray under his breath, naming all the gods he could think of, starting with Jesus and working his way to Odin. He’d never been religious, but now seemed like a good time.
The turtle made a deep, guttural sound and scraped the top of the bulwark with one forepaw. The smell of it rolled over him like a wave; it stank of stagnant water and sour earth, of dead places and deader people. As he watched in horrified fascination, a patch of rough skin on its neck puckered and popped, releasing a splatter of noxious ichor. The last of the rope binding his foot parted and he half-toppled onto the concrete. He cried out inadvertently as he caught himself on his knees and palms, and the turtle’s massive head snapped toward him. Its beak caught the X and splintered it.
Riggs scrambled to his feet, no direction in mind, just knowing he had to get away. His panting was loud in his ears, too loud. The turtle groaned in frustration and followed the sound of his feet on the concrete. It might be blind, but it could damn sure hear him. His knife wasn’t going to be any good against such a monster. He had to get away. Had to.
He felt the heat of its breath wash over his back, but didn’t turn around. He just kept going – straight for the edge. Not into the zombie pit, but into the swamp. Maybe he could get away, find help… find something. He tensed at the edge, then leapt.
For a moment, Riggs thought he’d made it. Then he was caught, smashed from the air by the blow of a massive claw. He flew back, struck the bulwark, and tumbled into the water at the base. It would have been funny if it hadn’t been him.
The world went topsy-turvy, and was edged in red as he surfaced, spluttering, trying to breathe and failing. His mask was askew, and he could taste blood in the swamp water. He’d lost his knife in the fall, but he didn’t waste time looking for it. He tried to rise but nothing was working and everything hurt. All he could do was flop and flail. He didn’t want to drown here. Didn’t want to die.
A shadow fell over him.
Riggs didn’t want to look up, but at the last minute he gave in to the urge. He saw the thing’s beak spread out and something wriggling within – its tongue, only it wasn’t a tongue but a… a person. At least, that was how it looked to him. Like someone reaching out to embrace him. To hold him close and tell him everything was going to be fine.
But it wasn’t fine.
Not at all.