The Sword of Saint Michael Page 2

  Now for the birds. She concentrated on the call of one noisy bird nearby and read its mind. It was worried. The winter was here though its young remained in the nest. She assured it that it was still summer.

  Jocelyn looped back to the cabin. She must have traveled only a mile, but in snowshoes it was as tiring as four. Upon her arrival, she dislodged clumps of snow off her shoes and walked over to a mirror. Her cheeks were pink because of the cold air, but otherwise she was the same, plain self she always knew—and was beginning to love.

  She scrutinized her jet black hair, straight with bangs. She used to fantasize about dyeing it blonde, but she never had the courage. Now that she had some of that courage, an effect from her training, she found she liked her natural hair color. Her face wasn’t ideally pretty, with slightly puffy cheeks and chin, but she liked to think her old boyfriends judged otherwise. She always liked her nose, small but sharp. A taller-than-average woman, she loomed large in the mirror, and a month of vigorous exercise did not erase the slight bulge of her belly. She loved the skunk tattoos on her upper arms—her left arm, the natural black skunk with the white stripe in the middle; her right arm, a white skunk with a black stripe.

  She didn’t look intimidating, even after all of her sword-fighting, martial arts, and shamanic training. She thought by now she should look formidable.

  Shedding her jacket and sweatshirt, she stripped down to a t-shirt. She continued to wear her wet jeans—eighty degrees inside had warmed her core, and now she wanted to remain cool. A boxed board game lay on the only table in the small cabin. It was for one to five players. She opened the box and set up the board, tokens, dice, and cards. The goal was to escape the haunted house before going insane.

  Insanity reminded her it was time to take her pills.

  She had just enough, plus one extra dose, to complete her vigil.

  Saint Michael towered over Jocelyn in her Inner Temple, wearing a robe in the most vibrant shade of red she’d ever seen, the trim dark green. His sword sank right into the stone floor, the hilt hovering in front of his neck, seven feet tall.

  She kneeled, looking up at his face. Even though she stood at 5’ 8”, the same height as her physical self, she could make herself as big as him, but she thought it inappropriate. Plus, she liked him larger than her; it gave her the proper sense of humility.

  He chose to look the same age as her with a well-cropped black beard disappearing into the hood of the robe.

  He jerked the sword out of the floor, lifted it up high, then brought it down gently, the flat of the sword tapping and resting on her head. “I initiate thee as a shaman and a warrior.” His voice wasn’t loud or overpowering, but nonetheless he boomed, igniting the surrounding air with magical energy. When he spoke, Jocelyn felt every molecule of her body vibrate at a distinct frequency.

  In the first two years of training, she had learned to wield a sword as a warrior, while these past two years, she had learned the ways of the shaman.

  “Rise, my child.” Saint Michael pulled the sword away, and she stood up straight. He gave a gentle smile. “At ease, child, this is not the military.”

  She forced herself to relax.

  “Go forth into the world and do me proud.” He kissed her on each cheek. He stood back upright but kept his eyes on hers. “Use your warrior and shaman skills well . . .”

  His face darkened. She saw hatred, anger, and fear. He thrust his sword into the stone, lifted his hands and declared in a loud voice, “Because you will need them!” He clapped. It was sudden. It was loud. And she involuntarily opened her eyes, gasped, and found herself in the cabin.

  It was cold and dark. The fire in the wood stove had gone out.

  Chapter Two

  Day Zero

  Alexander considered jumping off the chairlift in mid-course, but it was a good forty feet down onto the path of grass between the trees. The pace of the lift was excruciating. It would take several minutes to get to the lower terminal. That gave him plenty of time to think—and panic. He did not know what these creatures were, although the fact that they ate human brain matter and apparently came back to life forced him to tentatively call them “zombies.”

  He tapped the emergency button on his smart watch. How was he going to explain this? No one would believe him if he said they were zombies.

  “Hello, this is 911, what is the emergency?”

  “I’m at the Beaver Park Ski Resort,” Alexander began, out of breath with heart racing. He hoped the dispatcher could understand him. “A lot of people are physically attacking others. I think it’s a terrorist attack.”

  “Sir, what do you mean by physically?”

  “Hand-to-hand, with no weapons.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “I’m on a ski lift going down the mountain.”

  “So where was the attack?”

  “Ummm.” Alexander had to think. “At the cafe on the top of the mountain.”

  “Can you see the end of the ski lift? Is anyone attacking there?”

  He couldn’t make out any details at the end yet, but he knew they were there, so he fibbed. “Yes, there are.”

  “Okay. Don’t panic. I suggest you run and shelter once you reach the end. Please stay on the line—”

  “Fuck that, lady!” Alexander hung up.

  Alexander hit the speed-dial button to call his wife, Teri. After a few rings, he heard her recorded voice say, “Teri Williams,” followed by a woman’s voice saying, “is not available. After the tone, you may leave a message.”

  At the tone, he said:

  “Honey, it’s Alexander.” His heart pounded, and he shook from adrenaline, but he tried to remain calm. “I . . . uh . . . I think there’s a terrorist attack going on here in Beaver Park.” He couldn’t tell her it was zombies, could he? She was liable to think he was pranking her. “A mob of people are attacking, and I’m on a ski lift, and they’re at the bottom, and, fuck, I’m scared, and I need you to understand that I love you, that I’ve loved you since we first met, and that I’ll always love you. Because . . .” He stopped because he realized he was sobbing, and he needed to get this last bit out. “. . . because I’m not sure if I’ll make it out alive. Tell Cody and Amber that I love them, too, that I’ll always be in their hearts long after I’m gone.” He paused, weeping again. “I will hang up now and try you again hoping I’ll get you live. Please get back to me when you get this. Goodbye, Teri. I love you so much.” With that, he hung up. He tried several more times, but she didn’t pick up each time.

  And then a sense of horror crept in—what if this thing was happening in areas other than here? What if it was happening to his family as well? Not likely, but still . . .

  He was about to try his parents when the platform came into view. His worst fears were confirmed—each of the five zombies attended to separate victims nearby. People were running away, but many people milled about, knowing something bad was going on but not understanding what, and when they saw people running away in one direction, many started to follow. Most seemed to be running into the ski rental area to Alexander’s left.

  Alexander had other plans. Once he was only ten feet above ground, he pushed up the crossbar and dropped onto the field below. He tumbled and felt a sharp pain in his left wrist, wasting precious seconds while he grimaced and recovered enough to get moving. He ran to the right up the road that led to the back entrance of the hotel, grateful his eyeglasses were intact, though his smart watch glass was cracked, and the display didn’t work.

  Day Two

  Jocelyn awakened the next morning mildly refreshed, despite her inability to get the fire in the wood stove going again. Her lighter gun had stopped working, her two spares were duds, and she’d run out of kindling. But enough heat had remained in the cabin so that inside her sleeping bag she was not too cold, despite the temperature reading of twenty-seven degrees. She hoped today the storm would pass, and the air would warm up.

  She meditated but was distressed to find that n
one of her spirit guides, including Saint Michael, would appear when she asked to see them. Not even Skunk. That had never happened to her.

  She had a bad feeling about all this. First, the spirits of the Earth garden, and now her spirit guides had vanished.

  After emerging from her meditation, she felt her heart racing, and she had trouble breathing.

  She was having a panic attack.

  Fortunately, she recognized the signs. Many people with panic attacks wound up in the emergency room, confident they were dying. Instead, she took a drug that would erase her anxiety and stop the attack.

  Although her training allowed her to remain calm in most situations, part of that training was reliance on her spirit guides, like Skunk and Saint Michael. It seemed contradictory, but they were her anchor to reality.

  Once she lay on the bed and settled down, she glanced at the nightstand. The Saint Michael candle continued to burn. He wants me to know he’s here, despite not being here.

  She recalled the timing of the “radio silence” from her guides—the next meditation after initiation. The “radio silence” could be part of the training, but she knew, deep down, that something had gone terribly wrong. Skunk’s ominous “all too soon” statement, and Saint Michael’s statement that she would need her new skills reinforced that notion.

  Despite her consternation, she had to remain in the cabin until the entire month had passed, initiation notwithstanding. Leaving prematurely would undo everything, and she’d have to do the vigil all over again.

  Finally, the time came, and she fixated on the seconds-hand of her watch, counting down the seconds in anticipation as 1:06 p.m. approached. Within an hour or two, George would plow her car out, and she could leave this place behind her. She waited an hour in case of a miscalculation. She put on her snowshoes and stepped outside. It was still cold with a light snowfall. Several inches of snow blanketed her car and the driveway. George hadn’t come to plow yet.

  A half-mile walk through a plateau of pine trees brought her in view of the canyon. As she viewed the sweeping snow-covered valley from above an outcropping, she admired the dusting of snow on the cliff faces. She looked specifically at George’s property and spotted his river, feeding into the deep blue lake at the far end. The road along the lake and George’s driveway had vanished under the snow. Someone should have plowed them by now, shouldn’t they? Jocelyn struggled to understand why the plows were so late. What was everybody busy doing?

  Here she was, stranded in the Colorado Mountains. Her vigil complete, all she wanted was to get the hell out of there and go home. But she couldn’t drive through this mess. Getting stuck in the snow with her car would be a huge mistake.

  Well, maybe it would warm up and all melt by tomorrow. But by then she would run out of meds.

  One step at a time. Don’t panic. You’ve been trained to handle crises.

  She walked over to the outhouse and relieved herself, and while she did that, she thought more about the lack of plowing. The amount of snow was probably unexpected, so the plows were too busy, and this road was a lower priority. And George wouldn’t bother plowing his own property before someone plowed the road. Right?

  Don’t panic. George will explain it all to her.

  Jocelyn snowshoed down the trail that led to George’s house, hoping for a reassuring answer. She carried her backpack full of survival gear, including a multi-tool. Why she carried the sword in its scabbard she wasn’t quite sure, though probably because it made her feel more comfortable given the state of things.

  Day Zero

  Jize Chen smiled, taking in the scenery of the Colorado Mountains while his son-in-law drove the Ford Explorer rental. Jize hated driving. It was 2025, and the industry of fully self-driving cars had collapsed. Sure, there were some great features in these cars – right now, his son-in-law was monitoring traffic rather than driving – but still, there were the lawsuits. And then the investment bubble burst. Tech companies abandoned it like the plague. Car manufacturers kept the effort going but only through incremental improvements.

  He thought about how this area would look tomorrow in the late summer snowfall—the first of the season—but the sun was warm today. He wished his outdoor concert (he was to perform a Chopin piano concerto), sold out as usual, could have been scheduled for today. The forecast for Denver was rain tomorrow.

  He liked Beaver Park—a typical ski town, very progressive. Even in conservative Utah, the liberal ski areas had voted overwhelmingly for the new female Democratic President, formerly a Senator from New York.

  Presidents always seemed to either come from New York or wind up there. Jize didn’t much care for his old stomping grounds. But he didn’t blame New York’s residents. Aging cities looked ugly. Plus, everyone had to fit on that tiny island. No, Denver was more to his taste.

  Although born in a rural province in China, he was raised in Manhattan. Maybe due to his native roots, he appreciated both the urban and rural lifestyle. And the Colorado Mountain ski towns were the best of both worlds—rural and cosmopolitan.

  He recalled his performance for President Nixon at age 12. Although sorely disappointed when he learned that his president was indeed “a crook,” that was nothing compared to the last eight maddening years of that blowhard. Now it was great to have a woman in charge. Her opponents called her a socialist . . . and they were right.

  This was how Jize thought it should be.

  Affordable medical care for everyone. He loved that an earlier President had gotten us closer to that, but that effort was not as ambitious as that of the new Madame President. It didn’t have to be the best of care. People like Jize, who had made a fortune for himself, deserved to get whatever he could pay for. At least she preserved that part of the system.

  And that was how it should be.

  Despite his misgivings about New York—he still remembered how he cried at age ten when his family moved to Manhattan, a move aimed at launching his nascent career—he owned an empty penthouse there. When his wife died of a stroke almost four years ago, the high-end Manhattan real estate market had already collapsed, and now he held out for a rebound. With the new President, there just might be one.

  A lone tear trickled down his cheek at the mere memory of his wife. Her death sudden, it had affected him deeply.

  He looked at his grandson in the back seat who bore some of her facial features.

  “Is something wrong, grandpa?”

  “No, everything is just fine,” Jize answered.

  He turned back and looked around at the beauty of Beaver Park. While he still grieved, he saw a bright future for the world.

  It would take a disaster of epic proportions to screw things up.

  Day Two

  As Jocelyn approached George’s house, she noticed his car wasn’t there, though his truck with the plow was. So that was why he hadn’t plowed—the storm had stranded him elsewhere.

  Well, at least she could hang out here until the snow melted. She reminded herself of her one dose of medication left. She was angry at herself for not bringing more to spare on the vigil, but she only got the prescriptions for one month at a time. Then again, she could have chosen three months’ worth. Dammit.

  There was nothing to do now but wait for the snow to melt or the plows to arrive.

  Don’t panic. Remember your training. One of the two is bound to happen shortly. Maybe the TV will have an explanation for why the plow hasn’t come yet. Perhaps the storm isn’t as bad here as in the valleys.

  She knocked on his front door repeatedly before taking out her keys and attempting to unlock it. It turned out it was already unlocked. She had forgotten George usually kept it unlocked during the day. She opened it a little and called out his name several times, and with no reply, she entered the ranch-style house.

  Assaulted by a sickly smell that reminded her both of sulphur and rotting meat, only much stronger, she rapidly covered her nose with her jacket as she retched.

  She looked around. No o
ne was in the living room or kitchen. She unfastened her snowshoes and walked down the hallway toward his bedroom—the door was open—and saw the source of the putrid stench. On his bed, George lay on his back atop disorderly strewn covers. Pustules oozed all over his exposed skin, with dried blood matting down his hair, surrounding his mouth, and dripping down to his chest. She suppressed a heave and checked him for a pulse, careful not to touch any sores.

  Nothing.

  His chest didn’t move—he appeared not to breathe at all. She placed her hand above his mouth, but felt no air coming out.

  Once sure he was deceased, she no longer held down her vomit and ran to the bathroom. As she leaned over the toilet, spitting out bile, even her training didn’t prevent tears from streaming down her cheeks. Everything had gone to shit, George was dead, and why the hell can’t she just get out of here? She brushed her face and reflected on the sores and realized he must have been deceased for only a couple hours. Now guilt set in as she cursed herself for not getting there sooner, her vigil be damned. It seemed less important by the minute.

  And then, from the hall, she heard fast, heavy footsteps.

  She turned around. George was rushing through the doorway.

  Day Zero

  Alexander ran for his life, darting around crowds of people and yelling things like, “Everybody run,” and “They’re attacking,” and “Follow me.” No one heeded him. Instead, he caught glimpses of bewilderment and fear directed toward him.

  He reached the lodge and climbed up the stairs, past the check-in counter, past the concierge, and to the left, down a long hallway with elbow turns and out the side entrance where he had parked his car. He spotted it—a blue, late-model Toyota Camry, with California license plates. Hot and sweaty, he took off his tweed jacket. He looked at it for a moment and became very annoyed at how dirty it was. Shrugging, he tossed it onto the passenger seat as he sat in the Camry’s driver’s seat, then grabbed the seatbelt and was about to fasten it when he thought better. Law enforcement officials sometimes don’t use seatbelts so they can get out quickly in the event of an emergency. He wanted that same advantage.