The New Dead: A Zombie Anthology

by Christopher Golden

  Like a mummy’s curse, Jeff thought, some things are best left undisturbed.

  But he couldn’t leave now, not once the government was involved.

  He never should have told anyone - not even Biz - what he had found.

  He should have left well enough alone.

  If he hadn’t been so startled and, yes, even scared yesterday, he might have thought it through and kept his goddamned mouth shut.

  But now, no matter what else happened, he and Wes had to bring this guy back to the surface so the state medical examiner could determine what had happened to him.

  With apprehension winding up in his gut like a steel spring, Jeff turned back to the body. Wes approached it as if there was nothing unusual going on, but Jeff stayed back, determined to be cautious.

  The drowned man’s upraised arms swung around to the left side, toward Wes. They moved like dual needles of a compass being drawn to true north. Wes seemed not to notice. He was bending down, unwinding the length of chain from around the corpse’s waist. Silt swirled in thick clouds, mixing with the bubbles coming from his respirator. The heavy chain clinked as the links, long rusted into place, shifted free. Jeff could see that Wes was struggling with it, but he didn’t move to help.

  He couldn’t.

  The beam of his flashlight was trained on the dead man’s face, and he gazed steadily into the drowned man’s eyes.

  They were moving.

  They jerked spastically from side to side, glaring with a cold, glassy stare that suddenly fixed on the back of Wes’s bowed head.

  ‘Look out!’ Jeff yelled, but all that came out was an explosion of bubbles spewing out from around his regulator. As the corpse’s hands reached out and grabbed Wes by the back of the neck, hooked fingers dug like hawk’s talons into Wes’s shoulders. They dimpled the material of the dry suit for a second or two and then ripped into it.

  Wes reacted instantly, but Jeff knew it was already too late. The yellowed fingernails raked across Wes’s back, shredding the dry suit and cutting it into ragged black ribbons. Bright red billows of blood spewed forth, looking like the sudden eruption of a volcano. Wes started thrashing around, flipping over as he tried to fight back. One hand went to the back of his neck, as if checking the damage; the other hand waved in front of his face as he fended off his attacker.

  But Wes couldn’t break free of the dead man’s grasping hands. Yellowed fingernails raked across his face, sweeping away his mask and regulator. A blast of bubbles exploded from Wes’s mouth, and Jeff could faintly hear the terrified screams. With another sweep of the dead man’s hands, Wes’s face was transformed into a tangle of shredded pink meat and exposed bone. Blood oozed from the wounds in thick, spiraling red ribbons that drifted away on the current.

  Finally finding his courage, Jeff propelled himself forward. Making sure to keep a safe distance from the dead man, he grabbed Wes around the waist and yanked him back. The bubbles of escaping air mixed with swirling silt and clouds of blood, making it all but impossible for Jeff to see, but he knew which way was up. Without air, he knew he had to get Wes up to the surface as fast and as safely as he could.

  Otherwise, he would die.

  They would both die.

  Struggling to contain his panic, Jeff clasped Wes to his chest and started swimming. He hardly noticed it when something caught hold of his left leg and held it for just a second or two. When he pulled away, a stinging sensation like a bee sting pinched his left calf muscle, but he ignored it as he swam toward the surface holding Wes.

  It took effort not to surface too fast. There was no sense risking either him or Wes getting the bends. Taking the regulator from his mouth, he forced it into Wes’s mouth, but Wes was either unconscious or already dead. His motionless lips were as pale as snow. They didn’t move. His eyes were glazed over with a dull, milky stare.

  The swim to the surface seemed to last forever, but the water gradually lightened, and before long, shimmering blue sky and a burning dot of sunlight sparkled above. Jeff could see the dark, hulking wedge of the underside of the Coast Guard boat, and he made his way toward it. When his head broke the surface, he let go a roar as he inhaled a lungful of air. It took a near superhuman effort to swim over to the side of the boat and the diving platform. Several crewmen leaned over to help him get Wes onboard.

  ‘What the fuck?’ the captain shouted, as Jeff heaved himself up out of the water and climbed over the gunwales and onto the deck. Several crewmen were already tending to Wes, but Jeff feared the worst.

  ‘You guys run into a shark down there?’ one of the crewmen asked.

  ‘Jesus!’ another crewman said. ‘Looks like someone went at him with a chainsaw.’

  Kneeling down on the deck, Jeff and the men rolled Wes over onto his back. Blood was flowing from the wounds on his neck and face, dripping in large splashes onto the deck.

  The captain went back to the cabin and started the engine and revved it. Within seconds, the cutter was speeding across the water, heading back to harbor. Looking down at Wes’s pale, motionless face, Jeff shivered and shook his head.

  ‘No need to hurry,’ he said to Mark Curtis, who was still kneeling beside Wes’s motionless form. ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘Christ on a crutch,’ Curtis said, lowering his gaze and shaking his head from side to side. Then he turned to Jeff and pointed at Jeff’s left leg.

  Jeff looked and saw, through the gap in his dry suit, the flap of water-puckered skin, already looking an angry red with infection. Blood ran in a thick, single stream down to his ankle and onto the deck.

  ‘Looks like you got cut, too,’ Curtis said, frowning as he looked at Jeff’s wound. ‘What the fuck happened down there?’

  Shock hit Jeff when a cold sting reached deep into him, striking all the way to the bone. Within seconds, the coldness radiated up his leg and into his groin and chest, where it started to squeeze his heart. His hands and feet were already growing numb.

  Jeff stared blankly at the wound, barely aware, as Curtis knelt down beside him and inspected it more closely.

  ‘Jesus,’ Curtis said. ‘I’ll get the medical kit so we can get some antiseptic on that and bandage you up. You don’t want it getting infected.’

  ‘Infected,’ Jeff said, his voice an empty echo.

  ‘That’s a helluva gash you got there. We should get you to the hospital and have someone throw a few stitches into that to close it up.’

  Jeff was shaking his head from side to side as a terrible, sad knowledge filled him.

  ‘It’s already too late,’ he said, as the dull heaviness spread through his body, dulling his mind.

  ‘Huh? What do you mean, “too late”?’ Curtis asked. ‘It ain’t nothing but a scratch.’

  But Jeff lowered his head and stared at the blood running in a ruby-red stream down the slick black surface of his dry suit. Already, it felt like his guts were filled with an iciness that was eating him from the inside out. His vision was getting cloudy, and the buzzing of the boat’s engine was unbearably loud.

  ‘It’s the plague,’ Jeff said in a low, hollow tone. ‘It’s back.’

  As the boat sped back to the dock, he gazed across the expanse of blue water at the approaching town. The glaring white steeple of the Congregational church stood out against the sky. The scene was gorgeous, but an immense sadness filled him. He was tormented by a question: would he be able to do what Old Man Crowther had done?

  Would he have the balls to do what was necessary to protect the town?

  As soon as the boat got back to the dock, he would have to find a cement block and a length of chain and head right back out to sea.

  THE STORM DOOR

  BY TAD WILLIAMS

  Nightingale did not take the first cab he saw when he stepped out into the rainy San Francisco streets. He never did. Some might call it superstition, but in his profession the line between superstitions and rules of survival was rather slender. He stepped back onto the curb to avoid the spray of water as the second
cab pulled up in response to his wave. Paranormal investigators didn’t make enough money to ruin a pair of good shoes for no reason.

  Somebody should have warned me that saving the world from unspeakable horrors is like being a teacher - lots of job satisfaction, but the money’s crap.

  ‘Thirty-three Gilman Street,’ he told the driver, an ex-hippie on the edge of retirement age, with shoulder-length grey hair straggling out from under his Kangol hat and several silver rings on the fingers holding the wheel. ‘It’s off Jones.’

  ‘You got it.’ The driver pulled back into traffic, wipers squeaking as city lights smeared and dribbled across the glass beside Nightingale’s head. ‘Helluva night,’ he said. ‘I know we need the rain and everything, but . . . shit, man.’

  Nathan Nightingale had spent so much of the past week in a small overheated and nearly airless room that he would have happily run through this downpour naked, but he only nodded and said, ‘Yeah. Helluva night.’

  ‘Gonna be a lot more before it’s over, too. That’s what they said. The storm door’s open.’ The driver turned down the music a notch. ‘Kind of a weird expression, huh? Makes it sound like they’re’ - he lifted his fingers in twitching monster-movie talons - ‘coming to get us. Whooo! I mean, it’s just clouds, right? It’s nature.’

  ‘This? Yeah, it’s just nature,’ agreed Nightingale, his thoughts already drawn back to that small room, those clear, calm, terrifying eyes. ‘But sometimes even nature can be unnatural.’

  ‘Huh? Oh, yeah, I guess so. Good one.’ But it was clear by his tone that the driver feared he’d missed the point.

  ‘That’s it - the tall house there.’

  The driver peered out the window. ‘Whoa, that’s a spooky one, man. You sure you gonna be okay? This is kind of a tough neighborhood.’

  ‘I’ll be fine, thanks,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ve been here before; it was kind of my second home.’

  ‘If you say so.’ The driver called just before Nightingale slammed the door, ‘Hey, remember about that storm door. Better get an umbrella!’

  Nightingale raised his hand as the man drove off. An umbrella. He almost smiled, but the wet night was getting to him. If only all problems were that easy to solve.

  As he pressed the button beside the mailbox, lightning blazed overhead, making it seem as though one had caused the other. A moment later the thunder crashed down so near that he did not hear the sound of the door being buzzed open but felt the handle vibrating under his hand.

  The light was out in the first- floor stairwell, and no lights were on at all on the second floor, what Uncle Edward called ‘the showroom’, although no one ever saw it but a few old, trusted collector friends. Enough of the streetlight’s glow leaked in that Nightingale could see the strange silhouettes of some of the old man’s prize possessions - fetish dolls and funerary votives and terra-cotta tomb statuettes, a vast audience of silent, wide-eyed shapes watching Nightingale climb the stairs. It was an excellent collection, but what made it truly astounding were the stories behind the pieces, most of them dark, many of them horrifying. In fact, it had been his godfather’s arcane tales and bizarre trophies that had first lured Nightingale onto his odd career path: at an age when most boys wanted to be football players or firemen, young Nate had decided he wanted to hunt ghosts and fight demons. Later, when others were celebrating their first college beer-busts, Nightingale had already attended strange ceremonies on high English moors and deep in Thai jungles and Louisiana bayous. He had heard languages never shaped for the use of human tongues, had seen men die for no reason and others live when they should have been dead. But through the years, when the unnatural things he saw and felt and learned overwhelmed him, he always came back here for his godfather’s advice and support. This was one of those times. In fact, this was probably the worst time he could remember.

  Strangely, the third floor of the house was dark, too.

  ‘Edward? Uncle Edward? It’s me, Nathan. Are you here?’ Had the old man forgotten he was coming and gone out with his caretaker Jenkins somewhere? God forbid, a medical emergency . . . Nightingale stopped to listen. Was that the quiet murmuring of the old man’s breathing machine?

  Something stirred on the far side of the room, and his hackles rose; his hand strayed to his inside coat pocket. A moment later the desk lamp clicked on, revealing the thin, lined face of his godfather squinting against the sudden light. ‘Oh,’ Edward said, taking a moment to find the air to speak. ‘Guh-goodness! Nate, is that you? I must have dozed off. When did it get so dark?’

  Relieved, Nightingale went to the old man and gave him a quick hug, being careful not to disturb the tracheotomy cannula or the ventilator tubes. As always, Edward Arvedson felt like little more than a suit full of bones, but somehow he had survived in this failing condition for almost a decade. ‘Where’s Jenkins?’ Nightingale asked. ‘It gave me a start when I came up and the whole house was dark.’

  ‘Oh, I had him take the night off, poor fellow. Working himself to death. Pour me a small sherry, will you? - there’s a good man - and sit down and tell me what you’ve learned. There should be a bottle of Manzanilla already open. No, don’t turn all those other lights on. I find I’m very sensitive at the moment. This is enough light for you to find your way to the wet bar, isn’t it?’

  Nightingale smiled. ‘I could find it without any light at all, Uncle Edward.’

  When he’d poured a half glass for the old man and a little for himself as well, Nightingale settled into the chair facing the desk and looked his mentor up and down. ‘How are you feeling?’

  Arvedson waved a dismissive hand. ‘Fine, fine. Never felt better. And now that we’re done with that nonsense, tell me your news, Nate. What happened? I’ve been worrying ever since you told me what you thought was going on.’

  ‘Well, it took me a while to find a volunteer. Mostly because I was trying to avoid publicity, you know, all that “Nightingale, Exorcist to the Stars” nonsense.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have changed your name: it sounds like a Hollywood actor now. Your parents wouldn’t have approved, anyway. What was wrong with Natan Näktergal? It was good enough for your father.’

  He smiled. ‘Too old country, Uncle Edward. Remember, being well- known gets me into a lot of places. It also leads people to misjudge me.’

  Arvedson made a face. He still hadn’t touched his sherry. ‘Fine. I’m also old country, I suppose. I should be grateful you even visit. Tell me what happened.’

  ‘I’m trying to. As I said, it wouldn’t have done to recruit just anyone. Ideally, I needed someone with special training, but who gets trained for something like this? I figured that my best bet was through my Tibetan contacts. Tibetan Buddhists spend years studying the Bardo Thodol, preparing to take the journey of dying, which gave me a much larger group to choose from. I finally settled on a man in Seattle named Geshe, who had pancreatic cancer. He’d refused pain relief, and the doctors felt certain he only had a few days left when I met him, but he was remarkably calm and thoughtful. I told him what I wanted and why, and he said yes.’

  ‘So you had found your . . . what was your word? Your “necronaut”.’

  Nightingale nodded. ‘That’s what I called it before I met Geshe - it sounded better than “mineshaft canary”. After I got to know him it, it seemed a little glib. But he was precisely the sort of person I was looking for - a man trained almost since childhood to die with his eyes and mind open.’

  Lightning flashed and a peal of thunder shivered the windows. In the wake, another wash of rain splattered against the glass. ‘Filthy weather,’ said Arvedson. ‘Do you want another drink before you start? You’ll have to get it yourself, of course, since we don’t have Jenkins.’

  ‘No, I’m fine.’ Nightingale stared at his glass. ‘I’m just thinking.’ Lightning flashed again, and so he waited for the thunder before continuing. ‘You remember how this started, of course. Those earliest reports of spontaneous recovery by dying patients. Well, it d
idn’t seem like anything I needed to pay attention to. But then that one family whose daughter went into sudden remission from leukemia after the last rites had already been said—’

  ‘I remember. Very young, wasn’t she? Nine?’

  ‘Yes, a few weeks before her tenth birthday. But of course what caught my attention was when the parents started claiming it wasn’t their daughter at all, that she’d changed in ways that no illness could explain. But when I got in to see the child, she was asleep, and although she looked surprisingly healthy compared to my general experience with possession cases, I couldn’t get any kind of feeling from her one way or another. When I tried to contact the family a few days later, they’d moved and no one could find them.