The Bestiarum Vocabulum (TRES LIBRORUM PROHIBITUM)

by Dean M. Drinkel

“Not until Twelfth Night.” Ellis’s visitor cracked a wide, unholy smile. “A fire to celebrate the end of Yule, and the only way to banish the Jólasveinar.” He leant over the microphone. “Too late, Arnarsson! My brothers’ bodies are burned, and their spirits are with me!

  The horror and despair on the monitor screen was unlike anything Ellis had seen before. It was the look of a man who has been told the end of the world is here.

  Ellis backed away slowly. The P226 was in his hand, a round chambered. He brought the sidearm up to bear on the doctor. “He’s not in your book, is he?”

  The pulsing in Arnarsson’s back was constant. It appeared as natural to him as breathing, as the blood that pumped through his veins, as the heart that beat in his chest.

  The hump was one with him, yet had a life of its own.

  Arnarsson stood slowly. His arms extended, palms held aloft. The arc lights flickered again, and the heating vents stuttered. The generators stuttered, gave a last, heaving sigh, and then died with the light. The despairing face on the monitor disappeared.

  Ellis fired three times into the doctor. Muzzle flashes turned the underground room into a stroboscopic nightmare, a cavern of hell where the rock walls took the faces of monsters from Arnarsson’s book, and turned ancient, malice-filled eyes of purest cobalt upon him. The barking of the automatic pistol made his ears ring, but he kept firing, relishing the twisting, jerking silhouette of the Icelander as each round struck home.

  Each useless. Ellis felt the coldness that emanated from Arnarsson, a thick tendril of arctic air, darker than night itself as the last of the Jólasveinar made itself known.

  The air stank of cordite and ancient stone. Cobalt eyes opened again, and blazed in the subterranean dark. This time, they were joined by another pair, from the table.

  The eyes of Meat-Hook were the same piercing, electric blue of Arnarsson’s. Pinprick pupils of blackness shifted, took in the last invader of Dimmuborgir and hissed in welcome. Ellis cried out and stepped backwards, feeling the loose slab underfoot shift. The SIG-Sauer fell from his hand, clattered on the floor. His vision spun, and more cobalt eyes opened in the lava tubes and rock outcroppings to watch his fall.

  Light flared as his skull cracked on the edge of the mortuary table. Fresh light, white stars that danced like candle flames in a gust of wind. The faces of the Jólasveinar vanished momentarily, replaced by the anguished face of Major Penner, gazing down at him with sympathy and urgency.

  Candle…

  He had a weapon he could use after all. He ignored the pain in his back and elbows and unzipped his breast pocket. The bubble-wrapped cylinder of wax felt comforting. Righteous.

  He now knew what he was guarding, why Penner refused to request evacuation. It never was in the base of Dimmuborgir.

  It was with us all along.

  He fumbled for the lighter in his other pocket. The Zippo flared, but the darkness did not retreat. In the brief moment of igniting the ancient wick, a true vision of the infernal underworld presented itself to him.

  Meat-Hook grinned down at him. The butcher’s hook gleamed an impossible silver, the pits of rust now bright, running rivulets of fresh blood. Behind it, serpents of blackness that defied the light tailed into the lifeless body of a squat, pulsating, sack-like creature.

  Snakes, worms that clung to the rocks of the chamber and imparted dark life to the creatures within.

  All of which froze when the candle flared into light-giving life. Now the cobalt eyes of the Jólasveinar turned hungrily to the tiny beacon in the dazed corporal’s hand.

  Kjötkrókur hissed as the flame ceased flickering, grew and expanded into a flaming torch of pure, brilliant white light. Then the puppet master urged Meat-Hook forward on its tentacle, made it raise its butcher’s weapon.

  Ellis sat cross-legged on the trembling ground, impervious to the clouds of dust that marked the shifting of the tectonic plate far below the Icelandic underworld. He closed his eyes, felt the final explosions rocking Reykjavik far to the southeast with each chunk torn from his body, but his hands would not relinquish the candle.

  The last light-bearer remained seating, waiting for a dawn that would never come, while the remains of humanity tore themselves to pieces on the last night of the Season of Light and Peace.

  ***

  The candle flares briefly as she opens the door to the landing. She turns back, watches his serious face crease into a frown, then a small gasp escapes his lips.

  She nods in approval. He dreams not of the Jólasveinar, but the genesis of the candle. It is his birthright, and though it terrifies him he will soon understand its magic; its promise of salvation, and the dark forces that hunger to extinguish it.

  She closes the door slowly, gently, and leaves him to his nightmares of faceless darkness. The candle guards his sleep, and will still be burning when he wakes.

  In the draft from the closed door, the flame flickers. Despite its everlasting fuel of human tallow, the light struggles to remain alive on this, the darkest of all nights.

  And Michael wakes from a nightmare of his grandfather burning to death, his fat running into a bubbling cauldron, poured into an ancient candle mould.

  The final product of Sergeant Jasper Arnarsson’s sacrifice.

  Its flame burns brightly, as though aware of the scrutiny. Greeting him.

  He licks nervous fingers and pinches the wick. It burns, and the smell of melting fat is joined by the aroma of crisped skin, but he feels relief. He will sleep better now.

  The darkness welcomes him.

  Z Is For Zulu Zombies

  Barbie Wilde

  It started out like any other typical night on the razzle for Trish and Debs, although this time the day and location was Friday evening in Milton Keynes, instead of their traditional Saturday night in Balham. The occasion was a Hen Party for their best mate Sophie and normally they would have stayed in a hotel to sleep off the umpteen Green Apple Martinis they’d consumed, but Trish was meeting her parents for lunch the next day and had to get back to town by the late train to Euston Station at 12:06.

  Unfortunately, at the same time when they were supposed to leave for Milton Keynes Central Station, the DJ put on some of their all time favorite 80s tunes, so they were blissfully dancing next to their handbags to Prince’s When Doves Cry as their train was pulling out of the station. By the time they arrived on Platform 2, they realized to their horror that the next train wasn’t until 03:40. (A minor miracle in itself, considering how most things normally stop dead at midnight in England.)

  “Fuckfuckshitfuck!” Trish said, as they shivered bare-legged on the platform in their tiny black leather mini-skirts, shiny red stilettos and thin, sequined “Good Luck, Soph!” pink T-shirts. They hunkered together on a bench for warmth and waited miserably on the empty platform.

  The drinks soon took effect and in spite of the cold, they both fell asleep, only waking when a train was pulling into the station. Bleary-eyed, the two women stumbled towards it, not realizing that Platform 2 serviced both northbound and southbound trains. And they both were too far gone to notice that they were boarding a northbound train that had left London at 01:34. The train was one of the old-fashioned kind, with doors that had to be opened by human hands, not automatically. After frantically pawing at the handle, they finally managed to fall inside the carriage just as the train started to pull out of the station.

  Trish and Debs threw themselves into their seats, giggling madly, pop-eyed and awake because of the adrenalin and fear of almost missing their train.

  “Where’s the fucking tickets?” Debs slurred and Trish rummaged through her handbag.

  “They’re here somewhere,” Trish said, starting to toss out various rubbishy items like used tissues, tired lipsticks and fuzzy bits of old sweets from the depths of her handbag.

  “Must be the fucking milk train,” said Debs, staring out the window and noting that their progress seemed achingly slow. She turned around and peeked behind her, spotting some move
ment down the aisle in the next carriage. “Damn, I can see a Ticket Inspector coming! Find them now!”

  Trish leaned forward and dumped the entire contents of her handbag on the seat in front of them. Debs laughed hysterically as Trish sorted out her bits and pieces almost robotically. They were both too busy looking for the tickets to notice the Ticket Inspector as he made his way towards them. The lights started to flicker.

  Then Trish heard a mysterious thud and looked over at Debs. Debs’ eyes were bulging and her mouth was wide open. Trish laughed at the ludicrous sight and said, “What’s the matter, love. You gonna puke?”

  Her eyes dropped down from Deb’s face and Trish noticed what looked like the tip of a spear emerging out of Deb’s chest. Debs gurgled and spectacularly threw up a gout of blood, then fell forward on the seat in front of them, spraying blood over all of Trish’s stuff.

  Trish was frozen in fear and shock, too terrified to move, expecting the same kind of treatment any minute. She finally turned around slowly and saw ‘it’ for the first time. Her jaw dropped and she helplessly peed her knickers in terror.

  It was indeed the Ticket Inspector, but his uniform was dirty, bloodstained and ripped. His flesh was the colour and consistency of gray, dried-up old oatmeal and his eyes were filmed over with some milky white substance. He smiled at Trish and his teeth were stained black with old blood.

  It was that hideous smile that kicked in Trish’s survival instincts and she leapt to her feet and fled down the aisle towards the end of the carriage. She came up against the door to the next one and waggled the door knob, glancing behind to see the Ticket Inspector making his way inexorably towards her.

  Trish managed to open the door and make her way to the next empty carriage. She looked around, trying to find something to barricade the door with but no luck. She ran down the aisle and got to the end of that carriage. She was about to go through to the next one when she spotted more weird, white-eyed people slowly moving down the aisle towards her.

  Trish was frantic now. She turned around and almost ran straight into the arms of the Ticket Inspector. He grabbed her and dragged her to a seat and threw her down, knocking her head against the metal edge of the top of the seat and stunning her for a moment. Someone grabbed Trish’s wrists from behind and lifted her arms back over her head, as the Ticket Inspector knelt down in front of Trish, almost as if in worship.

  Trish came to as he ripped open her T-shirt with both hands, exposing her breasts. He briefly touched them, then let his hands trace down her body until he got to the hem of her skirt. He pushed the skirt up, ripped off her soaked knickers and forced her legs open. “No, No, No!” she moaned, as he leant forward and thrust his face in between her thighs. She felt his cold tongue inside her and nearly vomited. She struggled against the person who was holding her arms and looked up to see who it was. Recognition made her turn and threw up violently on seat next to her.

  Debs, still with the spear coming through the front of her chest, was the one holding Trish’s wrists. Her face had turned a pasty shade of gray and her eyes were also covered with the milky white substance. Trish spat out the last of the sick and looked up at her former friend. Debs smiled at her as a long stream of bloody drool streaked down from her mouth and splashed Trish’s forehead.

  Trish began screaming in earnest now, kicking her legs out at the Ticket Inspector. She glanced down the aisle and realized that her situation was hopeless. There was a line of the things now: dead-eyed, oatmeal-faced, blood-stained and dirty – formerly human passengers and staff -- standing there patiently, staring at her, waiting to have their turn.

  Trish stopped struggling…it was more than her mind could cope with. She didn’t want to think in clichés, but maybe this was just some kind of crazy, Apple Martini-induced dream. Maybe she and Debs were still asleep on the bench in Milton Keynes.

  Then the line of Zombies, because that’s what they were – no denying it now – lifted up their right legs as one and stomped the ground: ‘whomp!’ Then they began to sing in a language that Trish didn’t understand. Again as one, the line bent down to pick up long cowhide shields that must have been hidden on the floor in front of the seats. With eerily perfect choreographed movements that Bruno Tonioli of Strictly Come Dancing fame would have admired, the Zombies began to beat their shields rhythmically (‘chuka, chuka, chuka!’), at the same time as stomping their feet: ‘Whomp! Chuka, chuka, chuka! Whomp! Chuka, Chuka, Chuka! Whomp!’

  Trish felt on the verge of having a heart attack with the fear and insanity of it all. The Ticket Inspector stood up and unzipped his fly and his stiff dead purple penis thrust itself out of his trousers. Debs pulled Trish up by her arms some more, bending her backwards over the top of the seat, so the Ticket Inspector could kneel on it. He lifted Trish up by her thighs and entered her, as the others sang and stomped and rattled their shields in deathly excitement.

  The Ticket Inspector starting pumping and Trish screamed again as he spilled his churning acidic seed inside her, causing her to have one of the most profound and yet horrific orgasms of her life. The shocking ecstatic internal pain caused her mind to spiral into unconsciousness, but not before a bizarre memory popped into her brain: watching the movie Zulu with her Dad years ago on a rainy Sunday afternoon. The songs and sounds that the Zombies were making echoed those of the Zulus in the film, just before the warriors attacked the 150 British soldiers bravely manning the station at Rorke’s Drift in 1879. Michael Caine’s face, complete with white colonial pith helmet, floated into view. Just as Trish was blacking out, she heard him say: “it sounds like a train…”

  ***

  48 hours before the events on the "Zombie Train"

  John Jones wasn’t looking forward to moving. He was used to the local haunts and pubs that he frequented around his charming flat near Euston Station, but he just couldn’t sustain living in London any longer. He felt bad, as the flat had been in the family for nearly a hundred and thirty years, but what could he do? He’d lost his advertising job, the recession was hitting hard and the divorce had pretty much eaten up his savings.

  Although he didn’t have a buyer yet, the best way for John to make the time pass was to sort through his possessions. The great cull had already happened after the divorce of course, but there was still tons of his family stuff that he could get rid of. Hey, maybe some of it was worth something. Interesting artefacts were put in a box for a trip to Sotheby’s or Christies for evaluation. After all, his family had a pretty impressive background – there were boxes full of medals for heroism - although the gene for military service had petered out long before it got to him.

  Going through yet another mildew-ridden box one day, he came across the crudely made and mysterious ‘spirit bottle’ of Jones family legend. He remembered when he was a kid gazing at up it on the mantelpiece when his Grandfather occupied the flat, before the old boy died, and his mom and dad moved in.

  It was really more of a stone jug with a sealed metal plug in the top than a bottle. When he was tall enough, he often sneaked into the living room and gingerly handled the bottle, shaking it to hear a strange hollow rattling sound from within and trying to pry open the plug. Once, his Grandfather caught him and John could barely comprehend the rage on the old man’s face as he grabbed the bottle and put it on top of a bookcase, out of the curious child’s reach.

  “Never, never, never touch the spirit bottle!” Grandfather shouted. “Never open it! It is forbidden, understand? All it contains is pure unadulterated evil!”

  The little boy ran out of the room, determined to never speak to the crazy old bastard again. Years later, after Grandfather’s death, John tried to get the story of the spirit bottle out of his father (what kind of spirits had it contained: whiskey, gin or vodka?), but his Dad just shrugged, saying it was an old wives’ tale, not giving out any details.

  So there it was…in his hands again finally after all these years. It certainly looked venerable enough – sepia-coloured, greasy and covere
d in strange blotches. John dug through the box, hoping to find something that might explain the provenance of the spirit bottle. Two boxes later, he came across an old letter dated 1880, which caused him a frisson of joy (more money from a possible auction perhaps?). Then he started to read the letter and had to pause at one section, because the contents seemed utterly preposterous.

  It was common knowledge in the family that one of their ancestors, Robert Jones, had bravely acquitted himself beyond the call of duty at the battle of Rorke’s Drift in 1879, actions of which were popularized in the film Zulu. However, there had been rumours over the years that Robert’s subsequent life had not been so exemplary. It was almost as if there was a black cloud hanging over him since the battle. Robert settled down in South Africa and married, but his wife died in child birth a year later and he soon became a bankrupt, losing his farm in the bargain. It was almost as if he was cursed in some way.

  The letter, from Robert to a friend called Charles Wainwright in London, was still in its envelope, stamped but never posted. In it, Robert told Charles that he had discovered the reason for his run of bad luck and how he had managed to solve the problem. Robert visited a Sangoma, a local female witch doctor, who after a ‘casting the bones’ ceremony, informed him that the Zombie spirits of the hundreds of Zulu warriors he and his comrades had killed during the battle had attached themselves to him and were causing him all his sorrows.

  To John’s bewilderment, he read that Robert put himself completely in the hands of the beautiful Sangoma. He endured the cleansing ritual, which included drinking caustic emetics, eating herbal potions and even sacrificing a goat and drinking its blood to satisfy the angry spirits. However, nothing worked, so the Sangoma bravely put herself through a grueling purification ritual, managing to conjure up the Zulu Zombie spirits and then imprisoning them in the stone bottle for all time. She told Robert that he must never open or try to destroy the spirit bottle, because the Zombies would issue forth, possess living humans and cause the most horrific mayhem.