A quick note before the story starts, this story won 1st place last year in FenCon's short story contest.

     Jarvis Bauern walked the dirt rut from his small barn to his house, where he glimpsed his young daughter running in with a handful of flowers. His mind, though, was on the dark sky overhead, wondering if the storm clouds still gathered. If the rain would hold back one more day, he’d have the plowing done on time. If this year’s harvest was good, and he and his neighbor pooled their money, then they could buy a work ox in Talhof, the village to the west. He’d be able to plow twice as much land, hire a hand, and invest in some cows.

     The small farmhouse, built by his great-grandfather, had a low doorway. People were shorter back in those days, but it never bothered Jarvis. The frame rose high enough to let him pass without hitting his head. Banging the door closed behind him, he turned toward his family. His wife, Anna, knelt in front of their son, her plain blue skirt and white apron puffing out around her feet like flower petals. The boy with dark brown hair and dusky eyes, so much like his father, sat on a footstool near the kitchen fireplace. Little Mina, on her knees in her everyday brown dress, held her brother’s hand and stared at the bloody tear in his trousers. Anna looked up, ran her hand along a red curl at her neck, and gave Jarvis a reassuring smile. She continued crushing the stems of the flowering plants Mina brought from the garden, and pressed them into the bloody gash on their son’s leg.

     “It’s not deep,” Anna remarked. “The yarrow will stop the bleeding. Mina, fetch me some healing powder.” The little girl sprang up to obey.

     Jarvis raised his eyebrows.

     “I know it’s expensive, but I won’t use much.” His wife took the pouch from Mina when she returned and sprinkled a pinch on the laceration.

     “Why didn’t you send Mina to get me?” Jarvis knelt to examine the wound. Blood dripped onto the linen rags on the dirt floor. The cut looked clean. It’d heal up fine enough, but slow things down come seeding time. He frowned. “What happened?”

     “I missed the wood.” Alaric looked pale, but steady. 

     “Was it from the darkness, or wool gathering?”

     “A little of both, I reckon.” The boy stared at the floor. No tears fell, but his red eyes betrayed earlier sobs.

     He put his fist under the boy’s chin and lifted his head. Looking into Alaric’s eyes, he said, “Don’t wait so late to finish your chores, boy. Chopping wood seems simple, but any tool like an axe can hurt you. Do you know how you’ve put us out now?” Jarvis relented as he looked into his son’s anxious eyes. He dropped his hand and leaned back on his heels. “You should be well enough by harvest time, I suppose.”

     “I’ll be ready by then, and I can still do my chores. Don’t worry Papa!” Alaric’s eyes brightened. Jarvis knew the pain of potentially hurting his family, being a burden with his injury, hurt a great deal more than the throbbing sting in his leg. It was their life; the farm was everything. 

     Anna gave Jarvis’ arm a grateful squeeze before wrapping up the leg. He’d killed two birds with one stone, so to speak. His son would work double hard to keep up his chores, and his wife was pleased he’d dealt with the incident calmly. She hated his shouting and the children’s wailing. 

     Jarvis sat at the small round table when something crashed through the front door, sending splinters of wood flying. The dirty intruder staggered, like a drunk, but that wasn’t quite right. Jarvis rushed the tattered man. As he pushed against the filthy trespasser, the stink almost dropped him to his knees, gagging. Anna screamed behind him. He pushed the man out the door. Another disheveled man swung a muddy axe through the window. Anna grabbed the cast iron skillet from the wall where it hung and bashed the arm into the window frame. The axe dropped with a thud. 

     More stumbling men crowded at the door, strange implements raised in their hands. Another figure stepped into the broken doorframe, a woman. She swung a chunk of rock at his face. Jarvis fell backwards onto the floor. Blood spewed from his broken nose as pain exploded across his face. Others shuffled in, swinging at his family. He felt hands around his ankle, pulling him back, out of the door. While winding through the gang of intruders’ legs, Jarvis clawed at the ground, but couldn’t stop. He kicked the one dragging him in the knees. The man fell with the blow. Jarvis scooted forward, and slammed his heavy work boots into the man’s face. A chill of shock and fear raced down Jarvis’ spine. The man didn’t try to cover his torn face. He was trying to rise, flailing like a carouser! 

     “You aren’t real,” Jarvis mumbled. “You can’t be human.” He stood over the clumsy thing, grabbed the head on both sides, and twisted hard. A splintering snap of breaking bone, and the reeking man stopped his struggles. Jarvis looked up and saw the axe wielding man highlighted in the doorway. 

     More came from the barn, some shuffling like the attackers, but another set of footsteps indicated the stride of a normal person. Jarvis tasted fear in his dry throat. He ran to the rear of the house, away from the crowd, and peered into the window. A man repeatedly stabbed Mina’s chest. She crumpled onto the floor beside her dead mother and brother. In the sudden silence, Jarvis discerned that she’d been screaming. As he gasped, he realized he’d been holding his breath. Blood clung to his nose. His fingers turned white as they gripped the window frame in shock.

     The man with the normal stride walked into the wreck of the house. He had to duck to keep from hitting his head on the doorframe. The others stood back. A wave of smell hit Jarvis full in the face. He leaned down and vomited in the weeds. That smell, like rotting flesh. His head reeled with understanding of what the creatures were: zombies. Jarvis looked into the house as his heart felt like it was caught in a vise. He’d heard the legends, but never believed he’d face the vile monsters in his lifetime.

     The living man, the necromancer, wore a long black robe cinched with a red braided belt. His light brown hair tangled on his forehead in the breeze. He ran his hand through it, pushing it back, as he glanced around the room. He chanted an arcane string of words over the bodies of Jarvis’ family, and one by one, they rose to stand before him, bloody and motionless, as expressionless as muddy water. 

     What is worse than death? Jarvis knew. He started for the barn, where the tools were kept. He’d end this, one way or another; he’d free his beloved family from this evil, this vexation.

     Without light, he tripped over something in the dark barn. He cursed under his breath, then rose, hands out before him, blindly searching for the tool crate. Too late, he noticed the approaching light. Jarvis’ troubled thoughts and frantic searching shattered in the rocking pain on the back of his head. His vision doubled and blackened as he fell.

     In the darkness, a dream bloomed. He was a boy being beaten with a strap from his Pa. He’d thrown pebbles at his older sister, causing her to trip and fall, breaking all of the eggs from the chicken coop. His mother had cooked them, dirt and all, but he’d refused the punishment and wouldn’t eat them. Days went by until his father returned from the market in Talhof. After beating Jarvis, he sat him down for a lecture.

     “Son, it’s time you learned about the family sword. Your Great Grand Daddy had it, your Gramps, me, and now you. It’s a double-edged sword, see. Only not a real sword. It’s here.” Pa pointed to his head. “One edge is stubbornness, and that side’s liable to cut you good. The other edge is determination. It’ll get you through just about anything. Good or bad, it’s when you pull the sword that makes the difference. There’s always a price when you hang on ‘til you get your way.

     “You’ve pulled out the sword, I reckon, stubborn edge up. The price is, your Ma left me to deal with it, and now you’ll bring in the eggs ‘til winter.”

     “But that’s girls work,” young Jarvis protested. He stared into the weeds, not daring to let his father see the anger raging in his eyes. 

     “Always a price.”

     The dream ended. Jarvis didn’t remember standing. His family stood quietly, bloody and disheveled, in the barn. They’re dead. He longed to rush over and hold them as tears and grief poured down his face, but he couldn’t move. Terror flapped its wings about his head as panic clawed at his heart. Jarvis stood dead on his feet. He screamed, but his mouth didn’t open, and no sound passed his lips.

Continued in part 2

References: Human, Zombie