White Wasteland Jeff Kirkham (book series for 12 year olds TXT) 📖

A man towered over him—tall and mounted on a huge, black horse. He wore leather armor and carried a long sword, sheathed on his belt. His leather chest piece displayed a standing lion, claws brought to bear.

The stallion had a curious white blotch looping around the nostrils and zigzagging across the his jaw. The big, black beast of a horse stared into Jeff’s eyes and snorted, as if to say, he might suffice. Steam poured off the horse and mist curled out of his nostrils

The norseman wore no helmet; his black hair was tied behind his head in a long top-knot. His manner and bearing marked him as a jarl—Viking nobility.

“This is your legacy.” The man held out his hand, beholding the battlefield. “A man must deal death during his life—that is true. But is life war? Why fight, except to live?”

Jeff said nothing. He peered over his shield and sorted through combat options. He would cripple the magnificent horse first—before the jarl could draw his sword.

“Life is a battle, but is it all a battle?” the stranger continued. His gesture took in the hundreds of dead men sprawled on the ground around them.

“I don’t know,” Jeff answered, stalling, still struggling for breath. The norseman hadn’t touched his sheathed sword. Jeff relaxed a little. “Maybe war is our lot… until Valhalla.”

As he said it, Jeff knew he was being obtuse. Until Valhalla, had been what he and his brothers-in-arms would say when they lost one of their own. Until Valhalla meant that death was just part of their life. It was a placeholder, a shared token among warriors.

The jarl laughed. “Valhalla? And then what? Waking every morning to do battle, dying every day anew? When do we hold our sons and pleasure our wives? When comes peace?”

In the man’s formidable presence, Jeff struggled for words. His mind and tongue— already tangled with the exertion of battle—failed him. The sheer aura of the man caused his thoughts to thin like haze, coalescing into little clouds but never thickening into words.

“Perhaps you’d consider fighting for me?” the stranger asked, lifting an eyebrow.

Jeff braced his shield. “I fight for my brothers. I’m done fighting for men on horses.”

Spellbound or not, he knew the answer to this question. After his last deployment—after that last kid he’d ventilated, he wasn’t for hire in any man’s army. Not with three sons at home.

“Well, that’s good,” the stranger laughed. “Because I’m the brother of your brothers…” The battlefield scene lurched with a sickening drop. Jeff fought to keep his feet. The norseman laughed harder. Jeff’s feet slipped on the blood-wet grass and he slipped sideways, stumbled to keep his shield between he and the norseman, then finally fell.

“Jeff. Wake up.” His eyes cracked and a vicious spirit reached through his nose, grabbed hold of his brain and twisted it like a wet rag.

“I’m up. I’m up…” Jeff shot upright and clawed at his nose.

Alena James, the head nurse of the Homestead knelt beside Jeff waving smelling salts in his face. Another wave of chemical hell hammered him into full consciousness.

“Get that fucking thing out of my face.” Jeff shoved her arm away, crawling backward to escape the vapor. “I’m up! I’m up.” Jeff remembered where he was.

Alena cracked a smile. “I guess you bit off more than you could chew. If I had my druthers, you’d be strapped to a hospital bed in the infirmary. You’re not fit to be on your feet, much less fighting like a caveman.”

“Did we win?” Jeff asked, already knowing the answer. “Are Tara and the boys okay?” Jeff scrambled unsteadily to his feet and made as if to head back toward the big house.

Alena grabbed his arm. “Sit down before you fall down.” Alena pulled him over to the stone steps leading up the great lawn. “I just saw your family. They’re fine. Stay put for a damn minute and let me check you out.”

“No. Go help people who are hurt. I’m not hurt.” Jeff tried to get up again. His joints screamed. Dried blood covered his hands and probably his face. He felt like he’d just run a marathon and then played defensive tackle in a losing football game.

“Just wait!” Alena rebuked him. “We’ve already cleared the field of our wounded. You can sit for ten seconds while I check you out. You must’ve passed out or taken a blow to the head.”

“I passed out. I’m fine.”

“Let me do my job, caveman.”

“How many died?” Jeff figured the head nurse would know better than anyone.

“We’re still canvassing the forest. Maybe two hundred dead.”

“Two hundred?” Jeff tried to get back on his feet again. The number made no sense. That would be nearly the entire contingent of the Homestead.

“Two hundred total. Of the Homesteaders, it looks like we lost fifteen and a couple are in surgery now. Look—they need me in the infirmary, so will you please just let me make sure you’re fit to walk so I can get on with my job?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Jeff sat back down and thought about next steps. The barricade guards needed to haul ass back to the outer perimeter barricades so there wouldn’t be a second flood of zombies.

“This is Homestead Actual. All QRFs, report.” Jeff spoke into the radio clipped to his chest rig. Alena glared at him for interrupting her examination.

“QRF One, full force. Inside Homestead.”

“QRF Two, down three. Inside Homestead.”

“QRF Three, down one. Inside Homestead.”

“QRF Four, full force. Inside Homestead.”

The Quick Reaction Forces were only down four and some of those were probably wounds, not fatalities.

“This is Homestead Actual. QRF One: reinforce Upper Barricade until further orders. QRF Two: reinforce Lower Barricade until further. QRF Three: reinforce Barricade Three. QRF Four, oversee mop up inside Homestead. Actual out.”

Jeff needed to find out how hundreds of zombies had penetrated their perimeter without any advance warning. He’d seen them coming from the Upper Barricade, but he hadn’t heard the belt-fed open up to