Old World (The Green and Pleasant Land) Read Online Free Page A

endanger his son like this?
    “Circle around, hit them from behind, don't put yourself in the middle” I shout to Mac as we rush towards the scene of unfolding violence. The seconds are whizzing by with unseemly haste. I am saddened to see that we will not be in time to fully save the old man's life, one of the cadavers has already reached him and has sunk its teeth into the flesh of the old timers calf. There is a weak scream in response, judging from the condition of the victim the bite will only serve to hasten the inevitable conclusion, but perhaps we can buy him a few more breaths.
    Mrs Robinson had an old hatchet for chopping wood which judging from the rust on it when I found had not been used for many years. But after some vigorous cleaning and my developing skill with a whetstone it was now a razor sharp implement of cadaver destruction. In my left hand it complimented the old faithful machete in my right very nicely indeed. The dance began.
    It was cooler here in the shade of the trees which covered the foothills around Windermere, though I think the goosebumps are very little to do with the temperature. The first cadaver I took was busy chewing on pieces of the old man's leg to notice me, not that it would have defended itself if it had, they were empty of any intellect that might pertain to a desire for self preservation.
    The hatchet took off half of its head, my exultation was brief for I was now surrounded by a sea of growls and outstretched arms. In such a remote area it was odd to see this many cadavers gathered together in the wild. Some had thick grey fingers and short stubby nails, others had long sharp nails which had once held pretty pictures and an array of garish colours.
    I slashed here and there like a madman, they painted me with blood so dark that it was more black then red. They lost hands and arms but they still shuffled in. I would equate fighting cadavers to what it must be like to fight a maddened dog which has moved beyond the ability to feel pain. Attacks to the knees, the groin, the chest, these are largely ineffective, a heart that does not beat will not burst with enthusiasm for causing death in its host.
    Taking the head, destroying the brain is the only way to ensure victory. But in these circumstances, with eleven of the things crowded around me, I take what I can get. Severed fingers can no longer claw at me, the kneecaps shorn off by the sweeping arcs of my machete cause their owners to at least fall to the floor where they are forced to crawl towards their prey.
    Despite my furious slashing I can still feel my will being undone. I trip over the old man who I've almost forgotten about behind me. The shadows of the cadavers loom over me, mixing in the shade of the trees which loom over us all, looking down from their lofty boughs in revulsion at the bloody mortal madness that has become this world.
    Then he is there, my son. Mac favours hammers. He has two, salvaged from Mrs Robinsons old tool box, the tools had once belonged to her husband Reg, who had used them to tend to the home of his lady wife, and more often than not fix damage to his model boats which he sailed on the lake in his retirement. They passed from him to her and now they had passed to my son who used them for a very different but still entirely worthwhile purpose.
    We were not warriors before, but have become so through necessity, I have seen him practising this deadly dance in the garden, now implemented with devastating effect. For a few moments I lay in awe at my boys martial prowess. Cadaver heads explode like melons, steel claws crush long dead skulls, pulling them apart as if they were eggshells. But he is in amongst them and is in need of my help. I surge to my feet with blades in hand, together we paint the woodland red, gore and grey matter splatter across the trunks of trees who have never seen such vile slaughter in all their long years of looking down upon the savagery of nature.
    It is over quick