“Will you save my mother?” the boy asked cautiously.
“Of course!” I habitually lied. “Let Max wear the ghoul down a bit.”
The zombie-dog excitedly attacked the ghoul.
“Max?” the boy repeated doubtfully. “Actually, its name is Archie.”
“I hate to tell you, kid, but your Archie has died. It’s Max now. And if anyone notices Max, the ‘cleaners’ will kill me.”
“Why?” he did not understand.
“Why did they let all these people die?” I asked reasonably. “Because they are not capable of controlling the supernatural creatures! They can decimate them one way or another, but to control—no chance.”
“What about you?”
Should I tell him that I was doing this for the first time in my life?
“Sure, I can. I am the most powerful necromancer in Ingernika! Secret knowledge is transferred in our family from father to son for a thousand years. Naturally, we use it solely to protect people from the supernatural.”
I thought for a while. It was vital to take Max away from that place: the zombie-dog served as proof of my crime; no one should see it. Also, I needed to convince the boy to keep silence.
“Listen, let’s make a deal. Give Max to me! I’m going to take good care of the dog. It has a real talent for hunting ghouls; it would be shameful to bury Max in the ground!”
The boy hesitated.
“In order to ‘live’, it must be constantly fed with dark magic, and you are short of it in this place. Without a necromantic ritual it would stay ‘alive’ only until the next full moon.”
The position of the celestial bodies had no significance whatsoever, but the phrase sounded meaningful.
“Okay,” the kid decided, “I’ll tell Max to go with you.”
“Thanks, man! You’ll see, your dog will become a hero.”
That was dependent on the condition that we stay alive until the dawn. Meanwhile, the prospects of that were dim.
The zombies fought at the far end of the barnyard in the dilapidated stables. The dog successfully limited the mobility of the ghoul, and that gave me some room for maneuver. I had one more bucket of spirit and the flare pistol that was buried somewhere in the weeds. I waited until the ghoul turned its back to the tree and smiled at the boy: “Well, I am going! Wish me luck.”
Now the flare-gun was within my reach, but the bullets got lost somewhere; just one remained that I managed to drive into the trunk. The bucket leaked, a little more than half left inside. I hoped that would be enough. Having approached the fighting zombies, I managed to pour the spirit over the ghoul. The monster attacked me, but the dog hung on it as a wriggling and snarling anchor. I retreated to the tree and ordered: “Max, to me!” and fired a flare point-blank at the ghoul.
It burned to death, but not instantaneously. For a couple more minutes the zombie was running after me in the yard in the agony of death. When it was all over, I gratefully patted the dog’s ears.
“Good for you, doggie! We made it.”
“Do not come down!” I told the boy. “I need to check if there are some other zombies here. Until I get back, do not dare go down to the ground.”
The boy nodded. It is in silly fairy tales that people do everything the wrong way round, but in reality, when they find themselves face-to-face with death, they become placid and obedient.
We reconnoitered together, the beast and the dark mage. The zombie-dog trotted briskly ahead, carefully sniffing. I was sure that it would notice a ghoul before me. The truck had already burned down, twilight passed into the night, but it was quiet and calm—the kind of silence that suggested the danger had passed. I made a torch out of the materials at hand because I had no idea where to look for the lamp. The owners were quite wealthy; they even had their own electric generator (fueled by oil, not by alcohol). It wasn’t running—they forgot or hadn’t wanted to turn it on. I checked the contacts and pushed the switch—it worked. The yard became lit with light bulbs, but the house was dark. It was not a good sign.
I told the dog: “Bring me my gripsack!” and cautiously came closer to the house to peer through the windows. I found the cane under my feet—I had almost forgotten about it.
A minute later I heard panting—the zombie-dog brought me my bag. I began to like the beast.
“Hide!” I ordered. “People should not see you. Meet me at the motorcycle.”
It disappeared into the darkness.
First, I lit a candle, but it attracted no zombies; only the dog rustled and breathed noisily in the bushes. Then I walked around the house calling: “Is anybody alive?”
About fifteen minutes later a pale spot flashed in the second floor’s window.
“Who’s there?” a voice shuddered.
“Have you called a dark mage?”
“Beware of the zombies!”
“They are in the past. Do you remember how many of them were there?”
A movement in the window, and another voice answered me.
“Twelve men had gone into the forest. Then I saw seven zombies come back, but we were able to decimate one or two of them.”
“How many were the old ones?”
“Three.”
“Then the worst that is left is a couple of zombies straight from the tin, lurking in the corners. We can look for them in the morning. Is there light in the house?”
“Have you indeed killed three ghouls?”
Judging by his knowledge of terminology, it was one of the “cleaners”. The ghul relates to the ghoul as a lap-dog to a wolfhound. The ghuls that are many years old are called ghouls; years of being undead give them strength. I restrained myself from displaying a contemptuous smirk; the “cleaner” would not see it anyway.
“Yes! And without much effort. Plus one of the young zombies in the truck. But I had a problem with reagents—I did not expect to meet an army of zombies. Who was the idiot that raised them?”
He stayed silent in response; the “cleaner” did not want to acknowledge his folly but could not refute my words.
“Okay, never mind. Stay where you are now. I’ll take the boy to the nearest farm and come back in the morning. We will talk about my fee.”
“Is Mihas alive?” it was a troubled woman’s voice.
“Yes. Are you his mother?”
“Mihas! I must see him!”
I heard a noise that sounded like strife. Oh-ho… I’d better run from here and let them sow their wild oats by the morning.
“In short, we’ll take the road to the east.”
“Mihas!”
I had to take the kid to the house and let her cry it out. The boy was surprisingly quiet and very seriously tried to persuade his mother to wait until the morning. When we left, she was still sobbing.
“Is she from the white?” I asked, turning my motorcycle around.
“No. My grandfather is a white.”
“I see. A family trait!”
“What is the family trait?” the boy felt hurt.
“Weak nerves.”
Receiving my command, the motorcycle’s magic breathed fire into the cylinders and spun the shaft; the engine roared, and a dazzling cone from the headlight punctured the darkness.
“Hold on tight!” I ordered pulling the strings of the coat, and we moved east, followed by the quick shadow of the zombie-dog.