Meg had just ducked into an alley when, from a distance, she watched Wendy take a header off the car. She’d tried not to laugh, but she’d failed.
The zombies weren’t so smart. They couldn’t climb, and if you got out of their line of sight, they lost track of you pretty quickly. Meg guessed that was what happened when you had goo for a brain.
Her plan had been to head up to Bradford and double back to the Governor. It was risky, but they’d done the beach to death, and she knew there were more places to hide in and duck into up on Bradford.
Just as she’d been about to come out of her hiding place, another huge explosion had ripped through the town, almost throwing her to her knees. It was followed by a rapid burst of more gunfire. Meg could have wept with joy. That had to be the military. They were finally here. Surely she and Lane and Lois and Wendy could hang on for another few minutes until the rescuers got to them?
Meg poked her head out of the alley again. The scent of burning hung heavily in the air. She looked up the street to where the gunfire had come from, but all she could see was smoke and dust.
Then she saw it.
Saw him.
Ivar Sigmarsson.
He emerged from the smoke like some kind of movie monster. Except this wasn’t a movie, and he was horribly, dangerously real. That was why the gunfire stopped, Meg thought. Those soldiers probably hadn’t stood a chance. Meg couldn’t think about how many had been lost to the zombies. Or the fact that they would become new zombies. They increased their numbers every time they bit someone.
How many soldiers had the military sent in? And when they realized those were gone, how many would they send after them?
Their only chance was to take Wendy’s treasure and put it back. Sure, Sigmarsson might be so pissed he had no intention of stopping what he was doing, but they had to try. What else could they do? All it took was one bite. One bite and you turned from yourself into a mindless killing, eating machine.
They could send the whole of the United States military down here, but it wouldn’t make a difference. And when the authorities realized that? When they understood that there was no beating this thing with all their fancy weapons? Well, you didn’t need to be a genius to know they’d probably nuke the place. They’d probably blow it to kingdom come, and any healthy people who were left would be blown to kingdom come with the rest of the zombies.
Meg stepped back into the alley, realizing she’d been out in the open too long. Now what? She was trapped here in this fucking alley. She had to find a way to get back to the Governor. Convince Wendy to give up the treasure. Or take it from her. After what she’d done to Lois—dragging her out of the Pig—she didn’t deserve their consideration.
Meg decided she had no choice but to go back the way she’d come. Hopefully she’d avoid Sigmarsson.
* * *
Lane heard him before she saw him. She was stuffing the last few items into Wendy’s bag. The volume of his screech made her drop the bag and cover her ears.
“Pick it up,” Wendy shouted to be heard above him.
Lane looked up at her—or rather into the barrel of her gun—and had the urge to shove the thing down Wendy’s throat. She probably could if she wanted. But there was the chance Wendy would get off a shot first and kill her dead. Lane weighed it up for a second.
“I wouldn’t. I may not look like it, but I’m an excellent shot. You’ll be dead before you get near me,” Wendy said. “Now hurry, we don’t have much time.”
We’ve run out of time, Lane thought. She looked down the street, and there he was, Ivar Sigmarsson and all his minions, some of them dressed in military uniforms, which was depressing. Clearly the army’s intervention hadn’t worked. He screeched again, and a blue mist began to swirl around him.
Lane guessed he would probably do a victory lap after this. He’d just destroyed soldiers from one of the best militaries in the world, and he was now in sight of the treasure he wanted so badly. There was no way out of this.
Lane sighed. Looked like it was curtains for them. She turned to Lois. “Get under the car if you can, Lois, and stay there.”
Lois, who was standing next to Wendy, shook her head. “I can’t. I’m scared.”
“I know you are. But it’s the only way. Just shuffle under there,” Lane said.
There was a chance Meg was still out there and safe. Even if Sigmarsson took her and Wendy, there was a possibility Meg would find Lois. Not much chance, mind you, but enough to give it a go. If Lane could distract him for a second.
“Give me the bag,” Wendy said.
“I thought you wanted me to pick up the rest of the stuff?”
“No time. Give it to me,” Wendy said and gestured with the gun.
“Fine.” Lane made as if to hand it to her but, instead, swung it back and smashed it into Wendy’s face. Wendy stumbled backwards, the contents went flying again, and Lane tried to grab the gun.
Wendy was stronger than Lane had given her credit for.
“Give me the goddamn gun. You’re going to kill us all,” Wendy shouted.
“We’re already dead, you idiot,” Lane said and punched Wendy in the side of the head.
The gun went off with a deafening crack. Someone screamed.
* * *
Meg looked up at the sound of thumping blades. A helicopter. There wasn’t enough light to see who it belonged to, but she guessed it was military. Could helicopters carry bombs? She didn’t know. But it passed overhead and was gone, so she guessed she didn’t have to worry about being blown to kingdom come just yet.
Meg had made it onto Bradford and figured the next right turn would take her onto the right street for the Governor. She’d been surprised to make it this far without running into any zombies. The thought worried her. Where were they all? She had a horrible feeling she might know.
She was moving slowly, ducking in and out of front yards and behind cars just in case. It was slow progress, but the last thing she wanted was to run right into a zombie. She had Lane’s hammer, but the thought of using it made her feel sick.
Meg was crouched behind a car when she heard the screech. She covered her ears. It was definitely coming from the bottom of the street. And it was probably Sigmarsson. He’d either met up with more soldiers or he’d found Lane and the others. Meg resisted the urge to run towards the sound. That wasn’t going to help the situation.
But when she heard the single gunshot, she forgot about all that and bolted for the Governor. The only thought in her head was Lane and Lois.
* * *
Lane rolled onto her back, trying to shift Wendy off. Wendy was a dead weight on top of her. Lane didn’t know which, if either, of them was shot. It was hard to tell. She tried to look around for Lois but couldn’t see her. Hopefully that meant she was under the car.
Lane heaved and lifted Wendy off her. Wendy groaned. There was no blood, so the shot must have gone wild. She’d been lucky, but so had Wendy.
Lane stumbled to her feet and looked up the street. Ivar Sigmarsson was still there with his horde. He locked eyes with Lane, and Lane shivered. She felt pressure in her brain like he was trying to dig in. She stepped backwards. And tripped.
Sigmarsson let out another almighty shriek. The ground shook beneath Lane, who was now flat on her arse. The horde moved forward as one, like a wave. Lane reached out blindly for something to use against them even though she knew it was pointless. She slid backwards on her bum, pushing with her heels. This was it. Curtains. She wondered where Wendy was but didn’t dare take her eyes off the zombies marching slowly towards her.
Ouch, fuck! Lane shuffled back onto something sharp. She reached beneath her and felt cold hard metal. It wasn’t the gun, thank God, or she might have blown her arse off. It was a knife. The one from Wendy’s treasure.
Lane slid it out from beneath her and held it up. It was glowing. What the fuck? That wasn’t right. Why was it glowing? And why was it so warm to the touch when it had been cold, seconds ago?
Suddenly, the world tilted on its axis and then went black.
* * *
“Arn. Arn, wake up.”
The first thing Lane was aware of was a soft rocking. Like being on a boat. The second thing was that whoever had just spoken to her had done it in a language that wasn’t English, but she understood it anyway.
“I don’t speak your language,” she said. Except she did. She just had. How was that possible?
“Come on, Arn. Stop playing around. Eriksson wants to speak with you. You know he doesn’t like to be kept waiting,” the voice said again, and Lane opened her eyes.
She was on a ship—that much she knew. And then the word knarr came to her, and she knew that was the boat she was on. A cargo ship. She knew there were six men on board beside herself and that they’d damaged the front end of the boat. Lane knew they were less than a day from land. From Provincetown.
“I mean it, Arn. You should come now.”
Lane sat up and rubbed her face with her hands. Her skin was chapped and dry, and she was cold. She looked down at herself and saw she was covered in fur and skins, and what the bloody hell was going on? Not even her hands were her hands. They were large and male and had hair on the knuckles.
“Give me a moment,” she said to the man—Bjorn was his name and she’d been friends with him since they were children. Except that wasn’t right either. And she was speaking this strange language as if she had all her life. And weren’t her thoughts now in this language too?
Lane stood, and where her right hand rested at her side she felt her knife, her langseax. She’d had that since she was a child, given to her by her father, and to him by his father before him.
Lane felt dizzy and like she was in a dream. Maybe she was. Or maybe she was dead. Ivar Sigmarsson had killed her, and she was in some fucked-up afterlife. Except that wasn’t right. She’d picked up the Viking knife, and now she was here. Transported, maybe, to another place, another time?
That sounded completely insane, but then a bunch of zombies rampaging through a seaside town was also insane and that happened too.
Lane stood. “Let’s go.”
She followed Bjorn down the length of the boat, easily managing to stay upright despite the swaying. The boat was beautiful with a huge white sail and fewer oars than she imagined from the pictures she’d seen of Viking boats. It was wider than most Viking boats too and had a large amount of cargo in the middle. Because it was a knarr. A cargo ship for trading. Lane understood this, along with all the knowledge of the body she was now inhabiting. She was sure that if she needed to, she could navigate by the stars and wield the wicked-looking knife at her side with ease.
As she made her way along the boat, she bumped into a man and instinctively pulled back from him. “Sorry,” she mumbled.
“Watch where you’re going,” he replied.
“Sorry,” she repeated.
The man was dressed in the same clothes as her, but they were much better quality. He was rich. Ivar Sigmarsson. Lane was simultaneously afraid of him and repulsed by him. He was cruel and dangerous, and the moment she looked into his eyes, she knew it was him. Ivar Sigmarsson. She’d been right.
Ivar Sigmarsson was Thorvold’s cousin, and the only reason he was on this ship was as a favour. They were going across the Atlantic. All the way to North America—except the word was different in this language, and there wasn’t a United States yet. There wasn’t much of anything, as far as they knew. But they’d been sent off course during a storm, and the stern of the ship was damaged. Thorvold had ordered them to sail more southerly than they would have normally to avoid the storm.
“Arn, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Yes, Sirl.” Lane started to walk away, but he moved into her path.
“Perhaps you could do me a favour,” he said, then carried on speaking as though she’d already agreed. “My cousin wants to dock up ahead instead of continuing on. I know he listens to you. Convince him to do otherwise. I’ll make it worth your while.”
Lane did her best to keep her dislike for the man off her face. “I serve Thorvold Eriksson, and any advice I give him will be in his interests.”
Lane watched as his eyes widened and then narrowed again. They were sly eyes, full of cruelty, and Lane knew she had made an enemy.
“Very well,” was all he said before he turned away, effectively dismissing her.
Lane could see land in the distance. They weren’t far from it, maybe a few short hours.
The man at the end of the ship was a stranger to Lane, and yet somehow he wasn’t. They’d sailed together countless times, and Lane was one of his favourites. He trusted her. She trusted him. Which was strange because they’d never actually met.
“Arn,” he said and grinned at her. “You took your time. Too much to drink last night?”
“You should know—you gave it to me,” she replied, and the words of this strange language rolled off her tongue without engaging her brain at all. It was as if she was a puppet.
“I did, that’s true,” he said. “I want your opinion. This land up ahead. Have you ever docked there before?”
Lane shook her head. “No, it’s further south than I’d normally go, but the storm…”
“Yes, it knocked us off course. I’m trying to decide whether we dock there or take our chances and dock at our usual place.”
Lane thought about it. Except she didn’t really think about it because Lane had no idea. But the person she was right now, the body she was inhabiting, seemed to have a firm opinion. “We dock here. There’s plenty of resources in this land. We can make the repairs and be on our way. Plus, we lost some provisions in the storm. We could go hunting while the men fix the ship.”
Thorvold nodded. “That’s what I think too.”
“So what’s stopping you, then?” Lane asked.
Thorvold nodded to where Sigmarsson sat in the middle of the knarr. “He wants to be on his way. He has furs and jewels and weapons to trade.”
Lane shrugged. “But it’s not his boat, is it?”
Thorvold laughed. “True, but it’s his money that bought the boat. And the supplies on board.”
“And he thinks that gives him authority over you?”
Thorvold’s face changed then, full of thunder. “No one has authority over me. I’m the son of a king. His father may be rich and powerful, but he’s a jarl and nothing more.”
Lane nodded. “And we’re taking a risk by continuing to sail with this damage. He must understand that.”
Thorvold sighed, and the thunder passed out of him as quickly as it came. “He understands nothing of sailing and boats. He only understands money and possessions and power. My father hates him, you know.”
Lane understood this was dangerous territory. It was one thing to take Thorvold’s side out here on the ocean, but Ivar was his family, flesh and blood, and Lane knew getting involved in whatever dispute they had going was dangerous. “Well, he’s staying put when we dock, so at least we won’t have to take him back with us.”
Thorvold nodded. “That’s true. I think he’s bad luck. The quicker he’s off my boat, the better.”
Lane understood that she was dismissed now, so she made her way back down to the bow of the boat. On her way past, Ivar Sigmarsson grabbed her arm. “What did he say? Are we going on?”
Lane pulled her arm free of his grasp. Her arm burned where he’d touched her, which was stupid because that shouldn’t be possible. “No, we’re docking. It’s the right thing to do,” she said.
Sigmarsson nodded, and Lane could see his sly brain working. “Very well. Did you tell him he should do that?”
“He already wanted to, and I agreed it was the best plan. And it is. It’s too dangerous to go on. What’s a few more days to you, anyway?” Lane asked.
She was surprised when he grabbed her by the neck and pushed her against the mast.
“I’ll lose my buyer and more money than you could ever hope to see in your miserable life, you little street rat,” he said. With his face close to hers, Lane could smell his rancid breath. Given all the months spent on this boat, she knew hers wouldn’t exactly be sweet, but there was something about this man that was rotten and fetid, and it was coming out of every pore.
Lane pushed him away from her, and he stumbled backwards before tripping and landing on his arse. Not good. Not good at all. The men around her began to laugh.
Lane stepped forward and offered her hand to help him to his feet. She hadn’t intended to knock him to the floor. She might lose her life for this. A person didn’t push over the nephew of a king.
Sigmarsson pushed her hand away and got quickly to his feet. He was agile. “Get away from me,” he said. “You’ll pay for this, street rat.”
Lane felt fear bubble up inside her. She didn’t want to die. Maybe Thorvold would take pity on her and leave her behind when they docked. That could be her punishment.
“What’s going on here?” Thorvold asked. He must have heard the commotion.
“This insubordinate little shit pushed me down,” Sigmarsson said.
Thorvold looked at her. “Is that true?”
“I pushed him away from me when he grabbed me. But yes, I did push him down,” she said.
“Punish him. Throw him overboard,” Sigmarsson said.
Lane’s stomach dropped. She’d seen it done before, and it wasn’t a nice way to go.
“I think that’s a bit harsh,” Thorvold said. “Sounds like it was an accident. And you grabbed him first.”
“I don’t believe this. I don’t. You’re taking his side, cousin?” Sigmarsson said.
“I’m not taking anyone’s side.”
“He has insulted you and the King by his actions, but you stand there and tell me you won’t punish him. I never knew you were such a weak man,” Sigmarsson said.
“I’m not weak—”
Before Thorvold could finish, Sigmarsson drew his seax and lunged at Lane. She stepped back and turned to the side to dodge him. He meant to kill her—that much was clear.
“Ivar,” Thorvold said.
“If you won’t defend our family’s honour, then I will.” Sigmarsson lunged at her again, and when Lane feinted left, he read it and slashed at her, catching her side and opening a wound that began to gush blood.
Lane hissed at the pain. What should she do now? Fight him and risk killing him? That would certainly mean her death. Thorvold couldn’t allow her to live after that. Or she could keep dodging him, but he was fast and would likely end up killing her.
Sigmarsson came at her again, and she jumped out of the way, narrowly avoiding his blade. A crowd had gathered to watch, and out of the corner of her eye, Lane saw Thorvold had stepped back. Which meant he was not going to interfere.
“I meant you no disrespect,” she said to Sigmarsson.
Sigmarsson slashed at her again and tore a hole in her shirt. “Fight me like a man,” he said. “Stop dodging.”
Lane moved behind the mast. It would be difficult for him to slash at her that way. She had to think of a way to disarm him without hurting him. It was the only way to keep her life.
“I don’t want to fight you, Sirl,” she said and moved to the left when he tried to come around the mast.
“You should have thought about that, shouldn’t you,” he said.
Lane stepped back again, avoiding the ropes curled on the deck. Maybe she could wear him out. Keep him talking and make him see sense.
He stalked her, and she realized she would have no option but to fight him if she wanted to live.
Lane—or Arn?—drew her blade. She tried to reason with him one last time. “Please, Sirl. Let’s not do this. It was an accident.”
“Shut your mouth and fight me. After I kill you, I’ll find your family and kill them too. I’ll make your wife my slave, and I’ll cut your children’s throats in front of her,” Sigmarsson said.
Lane came at him then. Her wife and children hadn’t been threatened—they were Arn’s—but she knew all the same that he wasn’t making an idle threat. Through Arn, Lane knew everything about Sigmarsson that she needed to know. He was rotten to the core. He would do all the things he said he would. And for what? An accident.
Lane thrust the knife forward, and he sidestepped, then parried by lunging at her again. He missed.
They circled each other, each looking for some weakness in the other. Lane knew she was a better fighter, but he was sneaky and quick. She made as if to lunge again, and when he sidestepped left, she went with him. Lane buried the knife in his chest.
Sigmarsson dropped to his knees clutching the knife in his chest. He looked up at her in disbelief. “You stabbed me. I’ll get you for this.” Then he fell forward, flat onto his face, and was still.
When Sigmarsson didn’t move, one of the other men approached him and knelt down. He turned him by his shoulder, and Lane heard the man’s sharp intake of breath.
“Oh, dear. Arn, you killed him.”
Lane felt sick. She couldn’t care less about Sigmarsson, but this surely meant she’d have to die. She’d killed the relative of a king. She’d had no choice but that wouldn’t matter.
“Let me see,” Thorvold said.
He flipped Sigmarsson onto his back with his foot. “You’re right. He’s definitely dead.”
Thorvold bent down and pulled the knife out of his chest. He wiped the blade on Sigmarsson’s shoulder and passed it to Lane. “Here. It’s a good knife. Too good to stay in that idiot. But when we bury him, you must leave it there with him.”
Lane took it, stunned. “But what about—”
“Let’s say no more about it,” Thorvold said. And then, to the other men on the ship, “Did you hear that? We’ll say no more about it.”
The other men nodded and started to wander off back to their chores.
“When we dock, we’ll bury him with all his shit,” Thorvold said. “Don’t want the fucker coming back as a draugr, do we?”
“What do you mean, a draugr?” Lane asked. Through Arn, she already knew most of it, but she wanted it said out loud.
“Come on now, Arn. You know what a draugr is,” Thorvold said. “There’s no one in the world as vicious as Ivar. If anyone’s going to come back from the dead, it’s him. Best to make sure that doesn’t happen. We’ll bury him upside down too, so he can’t find his way back out of the grave.”
“And with all his possessions because he’s greedy enough to come looking for them,” Lane added.
“And the knife that killed him. It’s a shame to lose such a good one, but if he does come back, he won’t want to see that again,” Thorvold said.
“And whoever finds it can use it to kill him again,” Lane said.
“Yes. Are you all right?” Thorvold asked.
“I think so. I think I am now,” she replied.
Thorvold squeezed her shoulders. “There was nothing to be done. These men won’t talk. And I won’t be throwing you overboard or anything silly like that.”
They docked in Provincetown several hours later. Lane helped the other men carry Sigmarsson off the boat. They walked for a long time with his dead weight on their shoulders before Thorvold was satisfied with the burial site.
“We’ll leave him here. It’s far enough inland. Make sure you bury him deep,” Thorvold said.
Lane helped dig the grave. They went down eight feet before Thorvold was happy. They placed him head first with his feet to the sky. Lane shovelled earth over him to cover him completely before they put the treasure box in.
Thorvold had ordered meats and beer and clothing to go in with him. They also put in Sigmarsson’s jewellery—of which he had a lot—and her much loved knife.
“There,” Thorvold said when the grave was completely filled in. “He’ll cause no more trouble. Let’s just hope no one ever digs him up. They’ll be in for a nasty surprise if that bugger ever comes back.”
You have no idea, Lane thought but kept quiet. He would come back, she knew. And he’d wreak havoc. And Wendy would know all about it and not say a word.