Buy Zombie is Proud To Present The Swords of the Dead
We are happy to share with you today the first 3 chapters of an upcoming novel that is also being made into a motion picture. We hope you enjoy!
Swords of the Dead
By: Danek S. Kaus
Adapted from his screenplay that will soon be a movie
Chapter 1
Sheriff Tom Knowles was flirting on the phone as he cruised the quiet streets of Brooktown.
Forty-two but in great shape, Knowles still enjoyed the company of his wife. He was eager to end his nightly patrol as he drove past the closed stores. He chatted on his cell phone, hardly paying attention to his driving.
“I’ll be done in about an hour,” he said. His hand cradled the phone to his ear. “Yeah?” He liked what he heard.
“Oh yeah? Maybe I can wrap up early. No, wear the red one.” He laughed with anticipation. “Yeah, that’s the one.”
An indistinct figure appeared in front of the car. Knowles slammed on the brakes, but the patrol car hit whoever it was with a sickening, muffled thud of metal meeting flesh and bone. Whoever it was disappeared under the front of his cruiser.
“Oh, my god!” he heard himself yell.
“Call you back,” he said. “No, nothing,” he said into the phone, but certain he had just killed or maimed someone. He switched off the cell, threw it on the passenger seat, and pushed the button to turn on the pulsating blue and red lights atop the official cruiser. Knowles grabbed his flashlight and jerked open the door. His eyes caught the image of the sheriff’s badge painted on the door with the slogan: To Serve and Protect. The irony struck him for a brief moment before he ran to the front of the car. Nothing there. Fearing that whoever he hit was trapped underneath, he went to his knees and looked under the chassis. Still nothing.
It was all too fast but he was sure he had hit a pedestrian. Then he saw someone standing behind the car. The red and blue lights illuminating a dark figure in—a hooded robe? Some nut job wandering the street? How could he be standing behind the car?
The years he spent as a beat cop before becoming sheriff kicked in. Procedure replaced shock and confusion. He aimed his flashlight at the dark figure.
“You okay, buddy?” he asked.
Still silent, the figure approached him. Knowles shined his light into the cowl of the hood. What he saw terrified him.
He yanked the .40 caliber semi-automatic Glock from it’s holster. “Stop right there!” he managed. The figure closed the distance. Knowles shot. The figure seemed jolted by the impact, but continued toward him. He fired two more times. Still coming. He emptied the clip as fast as he could. His ears rang from the noise. The figure seemed to look down, examine itself for a moment, then it lunged at him, knocking him to the ground as the flashlight fell from his hand.
The thing bit into the muscle that ran from his shoulder to the neck. Knowles screamed in pain. He screamed louder when it ripped out a mouth-sized chunk of skin and muscle. It sounded like breaking a cabbage in half. He continued shrieking more and more as teeth tore out still another chunk of bleeding flesh. Blood splashed his face, pumping out in dark red gushers as if it were from an insane coffee maker.
The pain was all-consuming, wracking his body, he screamed again but no sound escaped his throat.
Knowles’ fallen flashlight shined on his red-washed face, contorted in torment and terror. The blue and red lights continued flashing, punching small cheerful arcs of light into the darkness.
Serving and Protecting.
Chapter 2
Over a hundred men and women stood on the warehouse floor, cheering, booing, making bets with each other as they formed a ring around about a dozen shirtless men who were punching and kicking each other in a free-for-all.
Mike Striker, lean and muscular, about 30, kicked a shaved-headed man facing him in the side of the knee with his shin. The heavier man yelped in pain, stopped his attack. Striker punched him three times in the face, backing his opponent up. Striker drove a left hook into the side of the man’s temple and he crashed to the concrete floor. Blood silhouetted his head.
Other men continued the fight, punching and kicking in a variety of styles that ranged from Kung Fu to Kenpo to just plain street brawling. Mike looked for another opponent and saw Fred Fennel, gangly and inept, standing in what he must have thought was a martial arts pose.
What kind? Striker couldn’t tell. Perturbed Penguin? Confused Kitten?
“Get out of here!” Mike shouted above the din. All around, men battled and bled.
Fred squeaked in defiance. “I got the right to be here!”
“Don’t make me hurt you,” Mike said. Someone backed into Striker. Mike turned to see a tall white man with a back full of oriental tats. Mike popped him in the back of the neck with the base of his hand. The tattoos decorated the floor. Mike turned his attention back to the twenty-something Fennel.
“Don’t make me hurt you,” Mike repeated.
Fred held his ground, afraid, yet determined.
Mike sighed. He jabbed Fred on his receding chin. It was a quick, short strike, meant for surprise, rather than power. It was more than enough. Fred’s knees wobbled and he fell. Striker broke his fall and dragged him to the edge of the circle. He noticed a sexy woman dressed in a business jacket with a short, short skirt in the first ring of spectators. An expensive hair style framed her beautiful face.
She looked out of place in the working class dump, but those legs and that blouse-less bulging upper jacket would buy her entrance to any place she wanted to be. As he was about to return to the main vortex of the brawl, she waved at him.
“Can I talk with you a moment?” she said.
He was tempted but this was business.
“I’m a little busy n …” the refrigerator that slammed into the back of his head sent him flying into the woman’s arms, knocking her down. He lay on top of her for a mutually embarrassed moment, then stood and helped her to her feet.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She did a quick self-examination, pushed down her skirt.
“I think so,” she said.
Mike was relieved. He didn’t want to hurt a woman, especially this woman, who he had, well, been almost intimate with.
In the back of his brain, something CHIMED. Huh? Love at first sight? No, it was the dinging of a bell.
“I have to go,” he told her.
He strode back to the center of the ring. The only man left standing was the smirking Jupiter, about half a head taller than Mike, and forty pounds heavier.
“How’d you like that high kick?” Jupiter said.
Striker heard the judge’s voice off to the side.
“We have a winner–Jupiter!”
Jupiter raised his hands in triumph. Some in the crowd cheered. Others booed. Money changed hands.
“Fight’s not over,” Mike yelled to the judge, a heavy-set man well past the half-way mark in life.
“You know the rules, Striker,” the judge said. “Anyone who steps out of the ring is disqualified.”
“Told you I’d beat you some day,” Jupiter boasted to Mike.
“Yeah, but you had to have a girl help you,” Mike said. “Why don’t we finish this, just you and I?”
“Love to,” Jupiter said. “But I have to go claim my prize money.” The sweating hulk of a man strutted toward the judge’s table. A couple of what looked like biker chicks trailed Jupiter in his wake. Mike guessed they were suddenly in love. At least until Jupiter’s prize money ran out. That should have been his money. He returned his attention to the mystery woman. The very expensive mystery woman. He glared. She flinched and mouthed I’m sorry.
Mike stormed to the edge of the now dwindling circle of spectators, grabbed his tee shirt from the floor and pushed his way toward the exit. He heard the woman’s voice close behind.
“Wait!”
He didn’t.
As he pressed on, the woman somehow managed to step into his path. Mike stopped, seething.
“I really am sorry,” she said.
He was no mood to be convivial, no matter how angelic the face and how desirable the body.
“I’ll make it up to you,” she said.
He looked her up and down.
“You’re hot, but not five-thousand dollars worth.”
He could see a brief flash of confusion, followed by anger. Mike pondered: Was she insulted because he called her a whore? Or because he called her a cheap whore?
Whatever it was, she let it go. She opened a rather large Gucci purse that was filled with money. It beckoned. He stared at the cash then remembered where they were. He quickly closed the purse.
“Are you crazy?” Mike said. “Don’t flash that kind of money in a place like this. Let’s go outside.” He took her by the elbow and ushered her toward the door.
Chapter 3
Dozens of people, mostly men, were milling around the entrance to the warehouse. The chatter was coarse, fueled by alcohol and nicotine. The sun had gone down a couple hours before but the heat was still radiating off the pavement. Mike and the woman stepped outside. Several of the men gawked at her, lusting. He pulled on his tee shirt. Mike noticed her watch his muscles ripple with the movement, then she spoke up.
“My name is Eva Stratford,” she said. “I want to hire you.”
Mike didn’t want the hustlers and degenerate gamblers nearby to hear talk about money. He put an index finger to his mouth, pointed to the end of the block. Eva understood and walked along beside him, the clacking of her high heels on the sidewalk becoming more evident the farther they got from the noisy warehouse turned illegal fight arena.
When they were out of earshot, strolling along a darker section of the industrial park, Mike finally spoke, the image of the money still fresh in his mind.
“So, why do you want to hire someone like me?”
Eva hesitated, as though trying to construct her argument.
“The town I live in has been invaded by some kind of martial arts experts.”
“So, get the sheriff.”
“I can’t,” Eva said. She hesitated again. “They ate him.”
Mike wasn’t sure he had heard her correctly. He stopped. Eva stopped.
“What do you mean ate him?” Mike said.
“They ate him,” she said. “You know, knife and fork, a little ketchup. Ate him.”
“Oh, come on,” Mike responded, not believing her. She had to be pulling his leg. He studied her face, waiting for a punch line that didn’t come.
Finally, he said “You’re serious.” She nodded.
“They ate him,” Mike said, still trying to process what she told him. “All of him?”
“We found a finger inside his pants,” Eva said. “It had his wedding ring on.”
Mike was able to suppress a laugh but couldn’t help commenting on the absurdity.
“I guess they must have used a really tiny coffin for just a finger,” he said.
“A dog ran off with it,” Eva said. This time Mike burst out laughing. Eva colored, embarrassed, but then she too chortled, succumbing to the contagion of laughter. After a few moments, she was finally able to control herself. She turned serous again. Mike was close enough to smell her perfume. Jasmine? The faint fragrance was tantalizing, made more arousing, as it mixed with her skin and perspiration. He wished his shirt was back off. He imaged slowly undoing each button of her business jacket.
“I really do need your help,” she said.
“I don’t fight dogs.”
“Will you be serious? Please?”
Mike saw the desperation in her eyes. He wished he hadn’t been so insensitive.
“Go on,” he said, matching her tone.
“The sheriff was the first victim. Since then, several more people have been eaten or partially eaten. People are terrified.”
“How do you know that martial artists are doing it?”
“I saw a couple of them through a window. Other people did too.”
Mike resumed strolling, thinking. Eva tagged along.
“There’s one more thing,” she said. “I think they’re dead.” Mike halted. They were standing near some trash cans at the opening of a dark alley.
“Who?”
“Them. The Ninjas,” Eva said.
Now he was pissed.
“You almost had me there,” he said. It was all some stupid joke.
I’m a doctor,” Eva said. “I know death when I see it.”
“And I know bullshit when I hear it. There’s no dead Ninjas or any other martial artists roaming the earth eating people.”
Two blue, glowing circles pounced at him. As Mike’s eyes adjusted, he saw a hooded figure slashing at him with two large, serrated knives. Instinctually, Mike pushed Eva behind him, ducked under a sweeping blade and grabbed a trash can lid. He held it up like a shield as the man in the robe slashed and stabbed, the blades clanging and screeching as they punched and scratched across the metal lid. The guy was fast! The ferocity of the attack kept forcing Mike backwards. Without turning his attention away from the attacker, Mike yelled to Eva.
“Get out of here!”
Mike kept backing up. This was no good. Without a weapon to defend himself, eventually there could be only one outcome. It was just a matter of time. These were not conscious thoughts but a sense of knowing welling up. Survival demanded he go on the offense. But how?
Without consciously deciding to do so, Mike ran at his attacker, pushing him with the trash can lid. The blades pounded on the tortured metal. Mike spun around behind the man, jabbed his foot into the back of his knee and pushed. The man dropped to one knee, slashed backward at Mike. Striker twisted the arm palm up and grabbed the knife. Mike slashed the now exposed forearm, cutting a deep gash. He was surprised that no blood gushed out. No time to think about that. The attacker leapt up and spun around, facing Mike.
At least he had a blade now, and a shield. He stabbed at the man, who deftly avoided him, despite what should have been a crippling take down. The attacker’s blade clanged several times on the lid. Mike drove his blade in low. He jammed it deep into the gut. The man let out an unholy shriek as Mike drove the blade across the belly area. But the attacker did not go down. Mike yanked back the knife, shocked to see the small amount of ambient light reflect a clean blade. Had he missed the belly? Been only slashing heavy fabric?
The adrenaline that had him operating on automatic in the ring was waning. A hint of fear wormed its way into his conscious mind. He had to finish this guy now. Mike began slashing, driving forward with his shield. The cowl of the robe fell back, revealing a rotting face. Mike was sickened by the site of it. And the smell. Rotting flesh. And those blue, glowing eyes.
His blade found the neck, ripped a deep groove across it. The man stumbled backward, screamed again. It was a ghastly, unworldly sound. Still no blood.
Not knowing what else to do, Mike drove the knife into the chest. Once, twice, again. The man, or creature, howled. It was ear piercing. Then it fell. Mike stood over the body. Breathing hard. He heard the clack of shoes behind him. He spun around, knife at the ready. Eva.
He lowered his guard. She looked him over.
“No cuts,” she said, clinically.
“Do bruises count?”
Eva stepped toward the body. She pointed to the rotting face.
“Now do you believe me?”
“I don’t know what I believe,” Mike said, trying to catch his breath. “Let’s say that what you told me is true. What’s that thing doing here?” Whatever it was, it was gruesome looking. And a little scary.
“It must have followed me, hid in the back of my SUV,” she said
“Why?”
She shook her head. Mike didn’t believe Eva, but doubted he would get the truth from her.
“Will you take the job?”
“Do I get paid for this one?”
“You really are mercenary,” she said. She opened her purse. “How much?”
“Five thousand dollars,” Mike said. “That’s the going rate for killing–whatever that is.” Mike held out his hand as she counted the money.
“Now will you take the job?”
“How many are there?”
“Three or four,” Eva said. Mike knew she was lying.
“How many?”
“Maybe ten.” Too many. One was too many.
“It would take a team,” Mike said. “I don’t have a team. Good luck.” He headed back toward the warehouse. Eva called after him.
“I didn’t think you would be afraid.”
Mike stopped, turned to face her.
“Lady, I’m always afraid when a beautiful woman gives me money.”
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