We only used it to preserve meat from what wild game we could hunt in the forest, or catch from nearby lakes and streams.

 

We spent the rest of the morning cleaning the guns we brought with us on our patrol, and then set to cleaning the blades. My small sword is easy to maintain, as it doesn’t have any edges that require sharpening. All I have to do is wipe smears of brain matter off the last seven or eight inches of the blade, and run a steel file over the tip to keep it nice and pointy. Gabe’s Falcata takes a little more work, due to the blade’s design. I had the sword custom made for him as a birthday present three years ago, a year and a half before the end of civilization.

 

A few months before his birthday that year, I had driven up to Morganton from Charlotte to give Gabriel a hand clearing some brush from a piece of his land. The part of his property that we worked on had once been a cornfield, but over forty years had passed since the last time anyone had planted anything on it. Tall grass, shrubs, and small trees now covered it. Gabe asked if I could help him clear away the bushes and trees so that he could come through with a rotary cutter and get the grass down to a manageable level.

 

I brought along a military issue machete my father had given me when I was a boy, and a short axe to cut down the more sturdy growth. Gabe came to his front door carrying only a kukri machete. At first, I thought that the oddly shaped blade would be too short to do any good on the thick shrubbery, but after seeing it in action I was surprised at the amount of cutting force it could generate. I joked to Gabe that his machete looked like what would happen if a battle-axe and a broadsword had a kid.

 

Gabe held up the blade and said, “You know, this thing is just a baby compared to what the Spanish used to make. They had a sword with a design a lot like this one called a Falcata. I wish I could get my hands on a good replica. I’ve wanted one of those things since I learned about them in...” he paused for a moment. The smile faded from his face before he continued, “Anyway, it’d be nice to have one.”

 

That was all I needed to hear. I placed a call to a guy I know who works at Legion Forge. Legion was a small company that specialized in making functional custom replicas of historical weapons. They had done a lot of work for me, and I’d sent a good bit of business their way from other collectors. Before the undead took over the world, I was an avid sword collector.

 

I researched the sword’s original design on the Internet, and sent a rough blueprint to the guys at the forge, giving them broad latitude to exercise their artistic talents. The sword smith cut the weapon from 5160 high carbon spring steel, and heat tempered the blade to strengthen it. The horse head shaped pommel and cross guard were made of ornately carved bronze, and the handle was fashioned from leather and wire wrapped sharkskin over sandalwood grips.

 

I drove up to Gabe’s place on his birthday with a bottle of Maker’s Mark and the gift-wrapped sword under one arm. Gabe heard my truck coming up the drive and came out onto the porch.

 

“Happy birthday motherfucker!” I shouted as I got out of my truck. Gabe stopped and blinked a couple of times.

 

“Shit, it is my birthday, isn’t it?”  He said. “I literally turned thirty five before I knew it.”

 

“Let’s get drunk and cut some shit up.” I said, shoving the box into his hands as I went in the front door of the cabin.  Gabe followed me in and set the box down on the table. I poured a couple of fingers of whiskey into two glasses and set one down on the table beside Gabe, smiling in anticipation.

 

“Go on dude, open it.” I said.

 

Gabe peeled the wrapping paper off the package and opened it. He didn’t say anything for a moment, he just sat in his chair staring into the box. After a minute or two, he took the sword from the box and drew it from its sheath. The steel of the blade was mirror polished and reflected the light from the lamp beside the table. The sickle shaped spine of the sword was a centimeter thick, and the blade was hollow ground to a razor keen edge. The last fourteen inches of the blade flared into a wide bolo before narrowing down into a sharp point.

 

“Where the hell did you get this thing?” He asked.

 

“I had it made by the guys at Legion Forge.