by Greg James
Vera swayed from wall to stairs for support. She pulled herself along with the help of the bannister and groped with her toes to find the first step. Her ascent was a slow and broken thing. Each step ended with having to stop, take a breath, and grit her teeth. At the top of the stairs, she found two doors facing her. One was open. The other was locked with a key. Vera pushed the first door open; half-walked, half-fell across the threshold and fumbled for the light switch.
The light came on – it was the bathroom. Vera couldn’t stop herself from smiling as she staggered over to the sink and opened the mirrored cabinet above it. There were the usual bottles, jars and half-used tubes of ointment inside. She took down a bottle of rubbing alcohol, unscrewed the cap and lowered her head over the sink. With her fingers, she felt for the wound and, when she found it, she carefully picked away at the scab. Blood and pus ran out. She used the liquid from the bottle to wash it away and clean the wound. It stung like shit but it had to be done. Afterwards, she closed the cabinet and looked at herself in its stain-speckled mirror. Her dark hair was hanging in wet tangles. Hazel eyes stared back at her, underscored by grey shadows. Her lips were colourless and tight with pain.
“Not looking your best, are you, eh, Vee?”
Vera ran some cold water from the tap and splashed it on her face.
What was that?
A sound. Something had fallen.
There it was again – coming from the next room.
Vera went to the bathroom doorway, reached over and tried the handle of the next door. The door jerked and pulled away. The handle ground violently against its mounting. A lonesome moan came from the other side. She ran down the stairs before looking back. The door continued to tremble in its frame but didn’t open. Whatever was in there couldn’t get out – for now.
Vera sat down by the front door. Her eyes wandered and she saw a shape on a table. It was what she should’ve looked for earlier; a telephone. The old kind with a cradle for the handset and a finger wheel for dialling.
She dialled 999. The chimes as she turned the finger wheel seemed to echo in the cottage.
A voice came on the line.
“Hello?”
She could hear a light whisper; a rustling like old leaves.
“Hello? Can you hear me? It’s a very bad line.”
She could make out words being spoken but not what they were.
“Are you there? My name’s Vera. I was in an accident. I need an ambulance and police. I’ve been attacked.”
The voice was dry as earth and no longer whispering. It said, “… they are awake …”
Vera dropped the ‘phone and left it hanging. She watched it sway back and forth, twisting on the end of its black cord as the voice spoke again.
“… they are awake … they are awake … and they are going to eat you …”
Upstairs, the rattling of the locked door began again.
Outside, she heard the sound of footsteps, saw a shadow at the window, and others emerging beside it. The light of the moon was soon obscured.
The hoarse cries of the living dead could be heard from all around.
Vera went through the ground floor of the cottage looking for a weapon. There was nothing in the kitchen except for old knives and forks; all blunt. In the living room, there was a rifle mounted over the fireplace. She took it down from its mounting. It wasn’t loaded but better than nothing. The stock had a decent heft to it, at least.
The windows of the cottage were rattling violently in their frames as the dead outside battered at them. From somewhere, she heard wood splinter and tear. The locked door upstairs crashed open. Uneven footsteps stumbled down the stairs, soon reaching the ground.
This zombie had been an elderly woman at some point but now it was withered skeleton dressed in loose puckered skin and a nightdress. Its eyes were pockets of ooze and its jaw worked fitfully as ragged breaths escaped from its lungs. It swayed from side to side, seeming to get its bearings. Its roaming eyes fastened on Vera as it lunged forwards – arms thrown out, fingers hooked into claws. Vera yelled and swung at the dead woman with the rifle. It struck aside the outthrust arms with a dry, satisfying crack. The zombie stumbled on its feet, righted itself and attacked again.
“Fuck off, you dead cunt,” Vera swore.
She held the rifle up, grasping it with both hands to ward off her attacker. The dead woman’s fingers scrabbled at the wood, grasped the weapon and tried to pull it away from Vera.
“I said, fuck off.”
She kicked the zombie. She caught it in the chest and felt something give. There was a wet sound of old flesh tearing and the zombie lost its footing. Holding onto the rifle’s stock, the zombie dragged her down with it. Vera gasped as the fall drove the wind from her – and jerked her head up as the zombie’s mouldering teeth snapped close to her face. She twisted away as it thrashed about on its back. Its pus-clogged eyes followed her, and its gaping mouth let out a groan. The zombie dropped the rifle and tried to rise again.
Vera kicked it down. It tried to grab her legs. She dodged away and picked up the rifle. Turning around, she took a deep breath, raised the rifle and drove its butt into the zombie’s face. Hard wood rang against bone. She stumbled and put one of her feet down into something soft – the hole she’d made in the zombie’s stomach. Worms, maggots, and soft mould squelched and moved wetly between her toes. The rank stench of offal and shit stung her nostrils.
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 dy
ing, 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 th
ought 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.”
