pull it free of its restraint. He raised it high in the air, but the giant’s free hand shot to his wrist. His assailant squeezed, and Callum dropped his tomahawk as he felt his wrist break. The man then slammed Callum’s useless hand against the gate. It hit the wood so hard that it smashed through the timber and into the pen. Instantly, he felt teeth biting into the leather of his gloved hand. He knew he only had a few seconds before the teeth found his flesh, and then the Lingering would enter his blood.
The man grinned and tightened his grip on Callum’s throat. “Seems our friends in there have a taste for ya,” he growled as he drew his face closer to Callum’s. “Once they’ve had your hand, I might just throw you over to ‘em.”
With the oxygen to his brain cut off, Callum could feel himself beginning to pass out. He needed to act, and fast. Callum’s remaining free hand worked its way down the man’s body until it landed on the handle of a knife. The thug could feel what Callum was doing, but with both his hands full, he could do nothing to stop him. As Callum pulled the knife, the teeth of a Lingerer penetrated the leather of his glove, and he felt his flesh begin to tear as the ghoul bit down harder. He only had one option left open to him.
The giant man’s eyes went wide as Callum brought the large knife up in a high, fast-moving arc. The man followed the blade with his eyes as Callum raised it, then slammed it down on his intended target. The man released his grip on Callum, and stumbled back. The look of shock and disbelief on his face was unmistakable.
Callum dropped to the dirt, coughing and cradling his damaged wrist. Blood spurted from the grizzled stump, but Callum worked against the pain of severing his own hand. It had been his only option. He had to cut off his hand before the disease could reach his blood stream; otherwise he would be cursed to become one of the undead. Callum looked up at the monster of a man before him, and focused on what had to be done. The man, in turn, stared at Callum’s handless, blood soaked wrist with a combination of disbelief and shock.
Callum did not wait; instead, he leaped to his feet and attacked. It took him less than a second to dispatch his attacker by using the man’s own knife. As the giant hit the dirt, Callum turned and dashed to his tomahawk, which lay on the ground a few feet away. He holstered it, and then turned his gaze to a fire near one of the tents. A pot hung in its flames and a thick column of steam rose from the pot.
He could hear the camp beginning to stir. Voices were starting to emanate from every direction, and he realized he only had a matter of seconds before his escape would become impossible. But first, he needed to stem his bleeding, so he gritted his teeth and ran for the pot.
Callum took several deep breaths, and pressed his mutilated wrist against the pot’s piping hot metal. His head swam with pain, and once again unconsciousness threatened to take him. However, he knew he could not relent, so he swallowed back a scream and pressed his stump harder against the pot. The smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils and the stench instantly revived him.
“Over there!” a voice shouted to his right.
Callum looked in the direction of the shouts, and saw two men running in his direction. His good hand went to his six-shooter, but before he could draw it, the gate to the pen holding the Lingerers finally gave way. The undead erupted from the gate like a torrent of rotting flesh. They instantly saw the two men running toward Callum, and made a beeline straight for them. In a heartbeat, the men’s shouts turned to screams. More men began to appear, but the Lingerers made short work of them all. Callum removed his wrist from the pot, and then vomited into the flames at what he saw.
The wound looked like a badly burned piece of steak, but at least the cauterization of his flesh had stopped the bleeding. The flap on the front
The man grinned and tightened his grip on Callum’s throat. “Seems our friends in there have a taste for ya,” he growled as he drew his face closer to Callum’s. “Once they’ve had your hand, I might just throw you over to ‘em.”
With the oxygen to his brain cut off, Callum could feel himself beginning to pass out. He needed to act, and fast. Callum’s remaining free hand worked its way down the man’s body until it landed on the handle of a knife. The thug could feel what Callum was doing, but with both his hands full, he could do nothing to stop him. As Callum pulled the knife, the teeth of a Lingerer penetrated the leather of his glove, and he felt his flesh begin to tear as the ghoul bit down harder. He only had one option left open to him.
The giant man’s eyes went wide as Callum brought the large knife up in a high, fast-moving arc. The man followed the blade with his eyes as Callum raised it, then slammed it down on his intended target. The man released his grip on Callum, and stumbled back. The look of shock and disbelief on his face was unmistakable.
Callum dropped to the dirt, coughing and cradling his damaged wrist. Blood spurted from the grizzled stump, but Callum worked against the pain of severing his own hand. It had been his only option. He had to cut off his hand before the disease could reach his blood stream; otherwise he would be cursed to become one of the undead. Callum looked up at the monster of a man before him, and focused on what had to be done. The man, in turn, stared at Callum’s handless, blood soaked wrist with a combination of disbelief and shock.
Callum did not wait; instead, he leaped to his feet and attacked. It took him less than a second to dispatch his attacker by using the man’s own knife. As the giant hit the dirt, Callum turned and dashed to his tomahawk, which lay on the ground a few feet away. He holstered it, and then turned his gaze to a fire near one of the tents. A pot hung in its flames and a thick column of steam rose from the pot.
He could hear the camp beginning to stir. Voices were starting to emanate from every direction, and he realized he only had a matter of seconds before his escape would become impossible. But first, he needed to stem his bleeding, so he gritted his teeth and ran for the pot.
Callum took several deep breaths, and pressed his mutilated wrist against the pot’s piping hot metal. His head swam with pain, and once again unconsciousness threatened to take him. However, he knew he could not relent, so he swallowed back a scream and pressed his stump harder against the pot. The smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils and the stench instantly revived him.
“Over there!” a voice shouted to his right.
Callum looked in the direction of the shouts, and saw two men running in his direction. His good hand went to his six-shooter, but before he could draw it, the gate to the pen holding the Lingerers finally gave way. The undead erupted from the gate like a torrent of rotting flesh. They instantly saw the two men running toward Callum, and made a beeline straight for them. In a heartbeat, the men’s shouts turned to screams. More men began to appear, but the Lingerers made short work of them all. Callum removed his wrist from the pot, and then vomited into the flames at what he saw.
The wound looked like a badly burned piece of steak, but at least the cauterization of his flesh had stopped the bleeding. The flap on the front
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