Through The Valley by Yates, B.D. (feel good books .txt) 📕

Wiped the fucking smile off your face didn't I, bitch?

The fat Link no longer had a lower jaw; Emmit had sent it spiraling through the air like a miniature missile. Its tongue dangled from the gaping maw like a necktie, black and coated with an oily film. Its squinted eyes told him he had not, in fact, taken its senseless smile. Emmit roared like a lion and brought the club around for another swing. The impact nearly decapitated it this time, the mop of hair whipping to the side as its head leaped from its shoulders and snagged on a single strip of skin, dropping and springing back up like a bungee jumper. It took several more steps before finally collapsing, the dangling head thudding off of its ample chest and landing neatly in the crook of its arm.

How am I doing this? I'm not violent, I'm not a violent man—

But he was. He didn't even get a good look at the next Link he dispatched. All he knew was that another one of the shambling corpses was closing in behind him, and he let gravity do the work for him, swinging the club with one arm in a wide arc. It slammed into the creature's rib cage and crushed its way in, smashing a foot or so deep into its abdomen. The corpse folded neatly sideways, shutting like a book, and toppled over. It was still whispering as more encroaching Links began to trample it.

Outnumbered no chance we can't kill them all too many too many TOO MANY—

Poke, as detestable as he was, was an absolute surgeon with his spear. His tattooed head was cocked to one side, aiming down the shaft as if it had a rifle sight. In lightning quick moves, he would thrust it forward, piercing the monsters just under their foreheads, straight through the bridges of their noses. He had a neat pile of bodies building around him like sandbags, and he was adding to it all the time. You could almost be jealous of his skill if it weren’t such a bloody one.

Muddy was not faring so well. He only had one arm to work with, and Emmit could tell by the slump of his shoulders and his gasping breaths that he was growing weary. His spear thrusts were sloppy and missing their mark, cleaving off ears and cheeks but never landing a killing blow. Tears glistened on his reddened cheeks.

"Get out of here!" Emmit cried at him, using his club to push a Link back into the wall of bodies and arms behind him. "Muddy, get out!"

Muddy was hysterical. He wasn't even thrusting the spear now; he was swinging it, knocking it against the Links' heads in sharp but ineffective whacks that did nothing to stop them. The circle around him was shrinking.

"Muddy!"

The shaft of the spear connected with a solid skull, splintered, wrapped around it— and the spearhead went airborne, sailing through the softly falling snow with all the bad tidings of a hand grenade. It landed in the snow, leaving a bloody crater behind.

Muddy's screams were high and shrill, the sound of an animal being eaten alive. They went on and on, as if he didn't need to breathe.

  Emmit couldn't count how many Links had him. It seemed like Muddy was budding new arms that immediately clasped and grabbed at him, hooking into his clothes and snatching at what little hair he had left. A pallid corpse hand was latched onto his neck, wrenching his head back at an awkward angle that strained the bones to the breaking point. The black poison was spreading like spilled ink across his skin, tendrils of it branching up his cheeks and sprouting tentacles around his ears.  Another hand slapped onto his naked forehead, jerking his head, playing tug of war. His face took on the look of burnt paper as he screamed ceaselessly, struggling and kicking against the heaping bodies that were overwhelming him. The sound of it broke Emmit's heart. Their voices, accusing Muddy of being an arsonist, a firebug, a murderer, a sinner, overlapped into an overwhelming hiss like loud static.

  "Poke, they got Muddy!" Emmit shrieked in a panicked, cracking voice. He hoisted the club and charged toward the mass of bodies, ignoring the fact that his own death circle of Links was forming.

  Poke put down two more Links, adding their slack bodies to his pile, then whirled around and sprinted toward Muddy, his spear arm cocked back and ready.  His jaw was clenched tight, and he didn't blink, not once, even as he slammed the shuffling dead out of his way with lunges and shoulder charges.

  He'll save him, he's going to help me save him, he's an asshole but—

  Poke stopped long enough to aim down the shaft of his spear, lifted it high above his head— and drove it directly into Muddy's thrashing thigh, neatly cleaving through the layers of clothing that were meant to protect it. An explosive gout of bright, fresh blood erupted from the wound as the femoral artery severed, painting the trampled snow underfoot with abstract Rorschach designs and long, sweeping fan shapes. Unbearably, Muddy's screams intensified.  They seemed to cancel out all other noise, filling Emmit with such a colorful palette of emotions that his ability to process thoughts short circuited. He froze, his mouth agape. He couldn't believe what he had just seen.

  "There ain't no saving his ass!" Poke shrieked, already running away with his spear tucked under his arm like a tail between his legs. "They're focused on him; we can get away!"

  As he blurred past, he seized Emmit by the collar and dragged him away too, nearly pulling him off his feet. His shoes squelched in the slush as he pinwheeled his arms, fighting for traction. Finally, his feet took hold, and he was pumping his arms in unison with