Ash Williams's Arc

Chapter 3 of 5

Ash needed supplies if he was going to survive long enough to find the book again. The toolshed would work as a base, but consecrated fire and forged iron required materials he didn't have. He left the cabin clearing and headed back through the forest toward the main road. Three miles of hiking brought him to a gas station with a faded sign and cracked concrete. Inside, the shelves were half-stocked with road trip essentials. He grabbed lighter fluid, matches, salt, and a road atlas. The clerk barely looked up when Ash paid cash. Back outside, he studied the atlas in the truck bed of someone's parked Ford. Towns dotted the area around the forest—small places with churches, hardware stores, junkyards. Places where he could find what the journal described. Iron had to be forged in a specific pattern. Fire needed blessing by someone who knew the words. It would take time, moving between these locations, gathering pieces. But the fishhook would guide him when the book surfaced again. Movement caught his eye across the road. A group stumbled from the tree line—five, maybe six figures. Their clothes hung in strips. Skin had gone gray and black in patches. One had its jaw hanging sideways. Another dragged a leg that bent the wrong way. Deadites. The book must be close again, calling them up like always. Ash dropped the atlas and pulled the shotgun from his pack. They saw him and started moving faster, making sounds that weren't human anymore. He fired twice. The first one's chest exploded but it kept coming. The second shot took its head clean off and it finally dropped. The others were crossing the road now. Ash pumped the shotgun and fired again. Another deadite fell. Three left. He backed toward his truck while reloading. This was the pattern now—kill them, find the materials, track the book. The horde would keep coming until he destroyed the Necronomicon for good. The last deadite went down with its skull missing. Ash stood there breathing hard, shotgun still raised. Shell casings littered the pavement around his boots. Black blood pooled where the bodies had dropped. The gas station clerk appeared in the doorway, took one look, and disappeared back inside. Ash ejected the spent shells and reloaded. Six deadites down meant the book was active somewhere nearby—probably within ten miles based on what he'd seen at the cabin. He picked up the atlas and circled three towns closest to this location. A church for the blessing. A junkyard for scrap iron. A hardware store for the forge tools. The fishhook pull would lead him to the Necronomicon eventually, but first he needed to be ready to destroy it. He tucked the atlas into his pack and started walking. The clerk could call the cops or pretend he saw nothing—didn't matter either way. By the time anyone showed up, Ash would be miles down the road hunting for what he needed to end this.