The Oeuvre

by Greg James

Gross.

  She brought the rifle butt down again, again, and again – punctuating each blow with a sharp breath. The skull of the zombie cracked open. The rifle’s butt splintered. Blood and brains spread across the cottage floor. The zombie stopped moving.

  Vera threw down the rifle and shook her foot loose from the zombie’s corpse. It was caked in foul-smelling crap. Blood from the zombie was running across the floorboards – and dripping through. She could hear the drops striking a surface below.

  There was a crawlspace or something down there.

  The front door crashed and split open; dark, groping hands reached through the mouth they’d made in the heavy wood. A wordless chorus of dry voices greeted her.

  She retrieved the broken rifle and swung it at the floor. The boards trembled and didn’t give. “Come on! Come on! For fuck’s sake!”

  She hammered wood against wood – until there was a crack. As the dead outside methodically pulled apart the front door, she battered away at the floor; slowly shaping a hole into darkness. It was her only chance of escape.

  Vera crawled into the hole she’d made. It was just big enough. Behind her, the front door gave away completely and the dead staggered into the cottage. She felt their footsteps as she dragged herself through the dirt. Up through the floorboards, she caught glimpses of their collapsed faces, worm-eaten flesh, and the moist, glistening leftovers that had once been their eyes. The voices of the zombies echoed in her ears and followed her as she crawled along.

  Sick and exhausted, Vera went on until the ground began to slope downwards. It grew quiet – until she could no longer hear the dead above. Her eyes adjusted to the subterranean gloom. She was in a rough-hewn stone tunnel. The air was damp and ripe. She reached out for the tunnel wall and got to her feet. Following the tunnel along, her fingers found the rusted remains of torch-holders, just like in the dream. She stopped, not wanting to go further.

  But how long did she have until the zombies found the hole she’d made and followed her?

  Vera started along the tunnel.

  Just keep going, Vee. You can get out of this, if you try.

  She could see a dim, flickering light ahead. She headed towards it, and the tunnel opened out into the chamber she remembered. There was the altar cut from the bedrock at its centre. There was something on the altar. It didn’t move or make a sound. She couldn’t make out what it was. The source of the light rested behind the altar. Vera crouched, reached around the back of the altar, and pulled it out. It was a torch; its glass was cracked and its batteries dying, causing the light to flicker. Vera took a few careful steps backwards and turned the beam of light from the torch onto the altar.

  The corpse of an elderly man straddled the altar. He was bound in place, spread-eagled, face-down. She ran the torchlight across his body and saw it had been riven from end to end. There was a deep ragged hole where his anus should’ve been. His buttocks had been shredded down to the bone. The light of the torch gruesomely illuminated the damage something had done to his insides. Skin and flesh were torn away. Gouged bones glinted dully. Lengths of torn innards hung from the many holes made in his body. The channels running along the altar’s surface were clogged with a putrid mess of blood, stale piss and rotting shit.

  Vera cast the torchlight on the hole of his anus and looked closer. There were marks in the flesh and bone that looked like they were made by small teeth and claws.

  The rat in the dream, she thought.

  She turned away from the altar, feeling her stomach heave.

  There was a sound from behind her.

  Vera was not alone.

  She turned and saw the old man from the petrol station; the one who’d sent her down the shortcut in the first place. He was still wearing his overalls but the look in his eyes was crazed, “You are here.”

  “Who’re you and what d’you want?” she asked.

  “I am their herald and they have come. In light of the full moon, the earth shall tremble, graves shall open and the dead shall rise again. For they come among us as harbingers, reborn to suck the blood of the living, and they shall not be put down by mortal man!”

  As he spoke, they shuffled in behind him, reaching for her – the zombie priests from her nightmare.

  “Oh my fucking god, they’re real!”

  Vera looked down at herself and saw that, somehow, her clothes had changed. She was dressed in the shift. The zombies’ hands snatched at her, tearing away the thin muslin. Vera backed away from the approaching dead, arms crossed over her nakedness, desperately looking for a way out. They were going to sacrifice her the same way they’d sacrificed the old man on the altar.

  “Get away from me.” She said, knowing it wouldn’t do any good.

  “Come, child. Give yourself up for the greater good.” said the old man.

  “Not bloody likely,” Vera shouted and pushed one of the priests away. It stumbled and fell backwards into its fellows. She retreated further, putting the altar between herself and the approaching monstrosities.

  Christ, God, whoever’s bloody listening, help me now. Please.

  She felt a breeze on her bare skin. Vera turned and found a narrow crevice, as tall as she was and barely as wide. She sidestepped into the opening as the zombies’ hands closed over the space where she’d been. The crevice was tight and rough against her skin as she moved through it, holding her breath and moving along slowly on tiptoe. What was left of the muslin shift tore away, leaving her completely naked. The angry sound of the old man’s voice followed her, as did the moans and groans of the zombies. They couldn’t reach her in here.

  This is like the dream, she thought, where I – Alice – escaped them through the tunnel dug by Audric. It’s like it’s happening all over again.

  After what felt like forever, the crevice widened out and Vera was able to breathe more freely and walk along without having to balance on her toes. She passed the thick roots of trees and the moss-coated skeletal remains of small animals. The crevice became more like a small cave as it opened out into the woods once more. Vera stepped out into the woods, panting. The sounds of footsteps through the undergrowth reached her ears and she crouched down low, hiding in a nearby cluster of bushes. Human shouts were answered by guttural groans. “Find her! She cannot have gotten far! Bring her to me, my brothers! We must bleed her dry! In the Name of Akarath!”

  They were after her. Naked and barefoot, Vera fled through the woods. A reek had arisen from among the trees and closed in around her; dense, pale, and thick it was. The trees and bushes became dark and uncertain shapes. She glimpsed movement in her periphery; zombies on the hunt. Bracken crackled and undergrowth whispered all around her. They were everywhere. Their moans and cries echoed hideously in the cloud-grey air. Running blind, she stumbled and tripped. Soft, rotten fingers snatched at her flesh. Vera screamed and kicked herself loose. Her scream was answered by further cries from the dead. The sound of shuffling, unsteady feet multiplied and she knew they were converging on her.

  Vera’s heart pounded in time with the rhythm of her feet as she ran on; feeling every prick, graze, and cut made by the wood. As what felt like her last ragged breath escaped from her mouth, Vera saw the trees suddenly fall away. She was running across open ground and there was something up ahead; a large manor house with light shining in its high windows.

  Got to get there. Got to do it. Have to.

  She turned her head and saw a number of swaying figures lurching out of the woods. Each of them had its arms raised, reaching out towards Vera. They were coming for her, and they would never ever stop. Vera ran up the steps to the front door of the manor house and pounded on it with her fists “Help! Help me, please! Let me in! Is somebody home? Please!”

  She heard footsteps inside. The door opened. A slender, elegant old man was standing before her. His lined face deepened with concern, “Oh, my dear. What has happened to you?”

  His eyes looked past her and he must’ve seen what was coming across the open ground. />
  “Come in, come in, quickly.”

  The old man pulled her inside. He closed and locked the door. Then, took off his smoking jacket and put it around Vera’s trembling shoulders. She felt his eyes looking her over and normally she would’ve felt self-conscious but she was too exhausted to care. Vera knotted the cord of the smoking jacket and pulled it tight around her body. It felt good to be clothed again. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever forget tonight – it was like being awake in a nightmare.

  I just hope I live through this.

  The old man led her gently by the hand past an enormous staircase that led to an upper landing. The carpet felt soothing under her feet after running for so long across the rough ground of the woods. She stepped into a sitting room with a fire crackling away in an old-fashioned fireplace. There were shelves stacked with books and glass-fronted cabinets filled with antiques and curios.

  “Sit down, please.”

  She sat down on a leather sofa as he went to a cabinet that was filled with expensive-looking bottles and polished crystal glasses. He poured Vera a drink and passed it to her. She sipped at it, it tasted of bonfires and autumn nights. She felt a little warmth start to spread back through her extremities.

  “That’s a particularly fine brandy. I hope it helps.”

  “I can feel my toes again, just,” she said.

  He poured himself a measure of the brandy and sat down in an armchair by the fire, facing her, “Now, would you like to tell me what happened to you out there?”

  “You’d never believe me.”

  “You think I would disbelieve the evidence of my own eyes? Those were dead men chasing you, were they not?”

  Vera nodded.

  “Well then, I think therefore you should assume that I am a man with an open mind and ready to believe you. Tell me everything.”

  “Before I do that, what’s your name?” she asked.

  “Ronald Caulder. Lord of the manor, you might say.”

  “Shit, really?”

  “Your story, please.”

  Vera told him everything; the old man at the petrol station, the zombie in the rain, the car crash, and then the crazy dreams followed by what she found at the cottage and the sacrificial chamber underneath it. After she had finished her story, he got to his feet, took her glass and charged it with another measure of brandy. He refilled his own glass and sat once again in the armchair by the fire. He looked at Vera and asked her a question, “Have you ever heard of the Cult of Akarath?”

  She shook her head.

  “I thought not. Though it’s no surprise really. Few do in this day and age. Akarath was an ancient pre-Mesopotamian deity and a god of the dead. It is said his followers live for no other reason than to unleash his evil upon the world.”

  “Then what’re they doing around here?” Vera asked, “we’re a bit far from Mesopotamia.”

  “They are here because of me, or to be more precise, because of my family.”

  It was his turn to tell Vera everything.

  “My Great-Uncle was Erasmus Caulder. A much-renowned archaeologist in his day, back when we were ransacking the antiquities of Egypt and her neighbours without a thought or a care. Well, he found something of greater value than anyone could have imagined during one of his last expeditions. He brought it back to England with him, to this house. Do you know what it was that he found?”

  Vera shook her head and swallowed more brandy.

  “It was the Amulet of Akarath. It is said that it can open a portal between this world and the world of the dead. In the wrong hands, it could bring about the end of the world.”

  “By summoning Akarath?” Vera asked.

  He nodded, “You don’t seem to find this so hard to believe?”

  “You think I would disbelieve the evidence of my own eyes?” she said, giving him a half-smile. The brandy was starting to have an effect – relaxing her.

  He returned the smile, “You are a brave young woman. Others would’ve been broken by what you have experienced tonight.”

  “And it’s not over yet, is it?” she asked, slurring slightly.

  “No, I’m afraid it’s not.” He said, putting down his glass.

  Vera noticed that he’d not touched a drop whereas she’d drunk both of the measures that he’d served to her. She tried to stand and found her legs wouldn’t obey. The world was becoming a blur around her. Lord Caulder’s face loomed large in her vision. His smile had become broad and saturnine. “Welcome, my dear, to the end of your life. I am Akarath’s high priest and your blood will bring him into this world to rule over it forevermore.”

  Vera tried to scream but the drugged brandy had left her tongue heavy and her throat constricted. She slumped to the floor and lay there, sprawled out on the carpet. She felt his hands on her body as he dragged her limbs into a spread-eagle position. He began to chant aloud, “O Akarath, we offer you the blood of this maiden in fealty. We give of her life that you might come to us across the far-off borders of space and time.”

  He held aloft a pearl-handled dagger with a polished black blade in one hand and, in the other hand, a crimson gemstone set into an intricate golden lattice. The latter pulsed with an inner light. It made her think of a heartbeat. The more she watched it, the more she felt it. The light of the gemstone was in time with her own heart. It had to be the Amulet of Akarath and, if it was matching her heartbeat, there could only be one place he meant for it to go.

  He’s going to cut out my heart and put that stone inside me!

  This time, she was able to scream.

  Lord Caulder looked down at her with disdain and disgust. He sighed, “Such a disagreeable noise. I should have given you much larger measures of the brandy.”

  He knelt and stabbed Vera through the heart.

  She went quiet.

  Her eyes emptied of life.

  “There,” he said, “that’s better. Now then, where was I?”

  An Upstairs Room

  Rossiter sat alone even though there were other people present.

  He regarded the rather drab surroundings from an uncomfortable seat situated in a pub not so far from King’s Cross station. The darkly-varnished upholstery of the bar was worn and splintered in places. The leather covers of the seats were torn and bulging while the tables and floor had not been washed properly for some time. There was a faint odour of disinfectant in the air underscored by urine – the cleanliness of the facilities no doubt necessitated by patrons’ overuse rather than a considered observance of hygiene by the landlord. It was a depressing place to be now he was in his early forties. He’d loved such establishments as a young man; naïve enough to think being in a rundown pub made him a more credible human being on some obscure level. I am no longer young, he thought, and hope escapes me though I can’t think why. I held onto it as if it were a lover back then.

  There were a few regulars; as scattered around the place as the tables and stools. A tall, young man with a shaven head sat unnaturally hunched over his pint of lager as if he were jealously guarding it from those around him. His face was a mask of frowning flesh and one of his pullover’s frayed sleeves was rolled up to the shoulder and colourfully stitched into place. Mother’s work, it must be, after the man lost an arm somewhere, Rossiter thought, must have been in a war. One of the many that seemed to be going on these days – he lost track easily and, to be honest, didn’t much care.

  At a table across from him, an elderly lady was dressed in a thick wool hat and heavy raincoat even though it was a humid summer evening outside. She’d been nursing a gin and tonic for the entirety of the time Rossiter had been there. From her bag, she was constantly pulling tangled lengths of black and white wool, examining them closely, then returning them to the bag only to pull yet more out again after a few minutes muttering quietly to herself. Sad creatures, Rossiter thought, lonely creatures – and how much longer will it be until I become the same?

  It was as this bleak thought passed through his mind that his companion for th
e evening returned to the table. Her name was Justine; red-haired and drunk. She sat down next to him and leaned forwards. Her warm fingers found their way to his knee and then inched their way steadily up his thigh.

  “Justine, please.” Rossiter said, moving carefully away along the leather seating. She shook her head, not speaking, took his hand in her own and placed it against the warm rise of her breast. “Justine, please, you’re a married woman.” he said, not looking at her.

  She let his hand go and he removed it from where she had placed it. He felt slightly sick and cold inside while she was becoming tearful. Normally, he would try to offer some comfort but she had a husband, a decent man that he liked well enough. Another kind of man might have taken up her offer but Rossiter just wasn’t that kind of man – not through any sense of innate decency, he just wasn’t.

  Her hand was resting lightly on his thigh again and he could feel how soft and inviting it was. Her fingers were moving along his thigh, more slowly this time, and Rossiter found himself watching with fascination for a moment – in the same way he watched wounded animals limp along on nature documentaries before the predator fell upon them and devoured. He reached down and lifted her hand away. There would be no devouring tonight. He met her gaze this time and saw the question there – why not?

  He had a complicated answer that he couldn’t articulate, so “I’m sorry,” was all he could manage.

  Rossiter got to his feet. She swayed where she sat, tipsy, still looking at the vacant space where he had been, not entirely registering he had moved. Her face was soft in the way that tells a man sex is available – and he was walking away from it. How ridiculous.

  Afterwards, he thought events must have unfolded as they did because of how he was feeling; that is, that he took the wrong door to leave the pub because of the emotional scramble inside his head. Instead of finding himself outside in the lukewarm air, Rossiter found himself facing a set of stairs that led to an upstairs room – he could hear the faint sound of music coming from above. He hadn’t been aware that the pub had an upstairs room. Curious, he went up the stairs, hoping that Justine would decide to leave without him actually having to be involved in the affair of her departure. It would be tiresome to deal with so he continued to climb the stairs to whatever awaited him at the top without much trepidation.