Apex Science Fiction and Horror Digest #12

by Apex Authors

  "If it is my time to die, you get to watch. Your father would say it is a grand joke of fate, eh?"

  Javan tilted his head to one side. “My father would never give in to fate."

  Rogan nodded, thinking on old Thyssen and their adventures as revolutionaries. His smile was faint. Old ghosts danced in the flickering firelight. The night of a thousand knives. The whore with three breasts and the secret she'd told in the dark.

  "True. You are young. You have space in your gut for fighting fate. My belly has wrestled that demon-whore for eons. She is a tireless bitch and I grow weary of her."

  "I am not ready to die."

  "No man ever is,” Rogan replied. “Yes, you can cheat death, but you can never be ready for it. When death comes, it comes. All that you can do is to meet it."

  The fire crackled again. A second later; a twig snapped in response. Both men were instantly on their feet. Rogan tensed, alert and ready for whatever new danger lay in store.

  Javan pointed to the bushes, suddenly alive with creeping shadows.

  "Uncle—look!"

  The shadows detached themselves from the bushes and a group of humans stepped forward, just outside the circle of light. They were slender, clad in tan loincloths and deerskin cloaks. The strangers carried wooden staffs with tied stone spearheads, and several sported bows of a style that neither Rogan nor Javan had ever seen before. The flames flickered off their dense, ruddy complexions and red-tinged skin. Their obsidian hair shone in the moonlight as if their flat manes were slick and wet.

  "Javan,” Rogan ordered, “your bow."

  But the weapon was already in the boy's hands.

  Silently, the group stepped into the dying firelight. A few of the natives bore odd deformities: elongated heads, misshapen ears, one limb longer than another, even bizarre double noses. None made a move to attack. They seemed docile and curious. None of them spoke.

  Another figure emerged, dressed in the skins of a gray wolf, the snout and muzzle still intact over his wrinkled forehead. The wolf-man's eyes glistened in the darkness, and Rogan surmised that his difference in dress made him a leader of some sort.

  The odd individual held out his arms, showing the two strangers what he held: the gray, ropy intestines of the dead bear. Flies buzzed around them.

  Javan's nose wrinkled. Slowly, he raised his bow, counting their numbers and wondering about the strength and reach of their spears.

  Rogan drew his broadsword, gripping the handle so tightly that his sunburned knuckles turned white.

  "Javan?"

  "Yes, sire?"

  "Speak to me again of fate, when we are done here."

  * * * *

  The moon rose higher, bathing them in its cold light. Another log popped on the fire, sending more embers spiraling into the air. Nobody moved. Somewhere in the darkness, a whippoorwill cried out.

  "When I was a child,” Javan whispered. “my nursemaid told me that when one heard the song of a whippoorwill, it meant that someone was about to die."

  Rogan wondered if his words rang in the youth's head...

  When death comes, it comes. All that you can do is to meet it.

  As the wolf-headed leader stepped closer, Rogan saw Javan shiver.

  The leader held forth his grisly offering but remained still, even when the cloud of flies moved from the intestines to his wolf's head crown. He seemed to be awaiting a response from Rogan and Javan. When it became clear that none was forthcoming, he finally spoke, chattering to his companions.

  Rogan frowned. “What in the name of Wodan is he saying?"

  Javan, a master interpreter of most known languages because of his studies in Albion's famed university, concentrated on the speech patterns.

  "They do not appear angry, but I cannot pick it up, sire. It is a strange tongue. Give me time."

  "We do not have time. I think they deceive us. The wolf-headed fellow holds the guts of the bear the way a midwife holds a new babe. I probably killed his accursed god."

  "I don't think so. Look at his body language, the way he holds himself. He is not angry with us. Indeed, he seems to be trying to communicate."

  "My eyes and my wits are not dull, Javan. Of course he's trying to communicate. The question is; what do they want? Be they friend or foe?"

  Cautiously, Javan motioned to the leader. “By his vestments, headdress, and voice inflection, I'd say he is their leader or priest."

  The old man babbled emphatically, as if he'd understood the youth. Javan tried other dialects. After a few moments, he grew excited.

  "It is amazing, Rogan. I believe they speak a bastardized form of the language of those in northern Hyrkania. It is almost like a lost dialect I read of in class used only in Anthelia! I know it only because my teachers made such jest of the lingo."

  Rogan remained silent but vigilant as Javan struggled to talk to the natives in this tongue. The red-skinned men seemed to understand him, at least partially. Several smiled, revealing jagged teeth. Then one of them laughed. Javan grinned as well.

  "Do you understand them, boy?"

  "I do, sire."

  "Good. Now they can tell us for certain if we killed their god."

  Javan shook his head. “No, I was correct. The man wearing the wolf's head is their priest or wizard. He calls himself a—shaman."

  "Wizard. Shaman. It makes no difference.” Rogan's blue eyes appraised the leader. “A female dog is still a bitch, different breed or no."

  "The bear isn't his god, and he respects us for besting it."

  "What else did he say?"

  "That when one of their tribe has reached your age, they are usually content to sit beside the fire all day. He wonders if that is your normal position."

  Rogan's blue eyes flared, never showing amusement. “Why does he hold the animal's entrails in his hands?"

  After some discourse, Javan replied, “To honor us."

  Rogan eyed the group. “What do they want? To share in the kill?"

  Again, Javan translated, “He says that this beach is cursed."

  "Bah! He is a huckster. How is it cursed?"

  Javan put both of his hands on his temples as he listened to the shaman talk.

  "He claims the shoreline is the domain of one of the Thirteen—a deity who can reanimate the dead."

  Rogan's fingers played across the hilt of his broadsword. He studied the freakish appearance of a few of the red-skinned men. Now that they were illuminated fully by both the fire and moonlight, he could make out even more. Some had two noses or three eyes. Others were covered in boils or oozing sores. Many were completely hairless. One of them possessed a left eye that looked like a figure eight as it split into two orbs. And still another seemed to possess genitalia of extraordinary length and girth, if the bulge in his loincloth were any indication. Rogan had known concubines that would consider that last one a blessing rather than a curse.

  Somewhere in the distance, a twig snapped. Again, the forest seemed to be alive, watching him, yet he could not see a thing.

  "The Thirteen,” Javan continued, “are not angel or demon, god or devil. Those who come from elsewhere."

  "I know who the Thirteen are,” Rogan snapped, “and I do not fear them enough to memorize their names and sigils and houses. What is our wolf-headed host's name?"

  "This is Akibeel, sire."

  Rogan shrugged and thrust out his hand. The shaman let the dripping intestines slip from his fingers and clasped it. The old man's slick, gnarled hands were warm and strong.

  Javan said, “He invites us to return to his village, rather than staying here on this cursed beach. He offers us food and drink and song. And soft beds."

  "And women?” Rogan arched an eyebrow. “Perhaps the ones I smell in the woods?"

  Javan translated for the shaman. Akibeel's smile faded, and confusion clouded his face.

  Rogan laughed. “I can smell the musk of a woman a mile off. Especially one in heat. Give me the wind and a stiff will, and they are mine. A woman has
never been able to hide from me, so why hide some in the forest?"

  Akibeel understood Rogan's inference, if not his words. He muttered beneath his breath.

  "The women in the forest,” Javan explained, “were standing by in case we attacked these men."

  "Bring out these women,” Rogan said. “I would see them. Let them come forth and drink."

  The moon vanished behind dark clouds, and the campfire seemed to dim as if swallowed by the darkness. Akibeel cried out in panic. He thrust a bony finger toward the distant mountain range.

  Rogan yanked his sword from its sheath. “What now, damn it?"

  Javan said, “He fears that it is too late and wishes to flee."

  The tribe quickly dispersed, fleeing toward the safety of the forest.

  Rogan scowled. “Why do they run away?"

  "They fear the beach—the curse."

  "I fear nothing."

  As if he'd understood the warrior king, Akibeel raised one trembling, gnarled finger and pointed at the ocean. Rogan and Javan turned, staring at the surf as something dark emerged from the water. Akibeel whispered.

  Rogan frowned. “What did he say?"

  Javan gulped. “Be wary of the dead."

  The clouds parted, and the moonlight revealed a line of corpses rising up from the waves. Saltwater dripped from their bloated flesh as they padded onto the sand. One of them still wore a necklace of tiger's teeth, the chain embedded in its swollen flesh. Another clutched a curved blade in its leathery fingers, yet the top of its head was a gaping hole. Seaweed filled the space where its brain should have been. The creatures shambled toward them.

  Rogan recognized them immediately, despite their putrescence. These were the bodies of the pirates they'd slain, animated now and seeking revenge, even beyond death.

  "Zombies,” Rogan muttered. “Undead corsairs, no less. Wodan's sack, I hate zombies."

  One's bloated stomach was horribly swollen as if it were pregnant. Another was missing a leg below the knee. It hopped on one foot, collapsing every few yards. All of the corpses were in bad shape. Shark-frayed ribbons of flesh hung from their frames. Broken bones poked through their mottled, parchment-thin skin, and shredded lips pulled back against shattered teeth. Their stench was horrific.

  With a cry, a seagull darted down out of the night sky and pecked at one of the creature's ears. The zombie reached up, grasped the bird in its fist, and squeezed. Then it flung the lifeless gull to the sand and continued approaching.

  A sixth corpse clambered across the beach. It was missing much of its skin, exposing muscles and veins. A sea-worm tunneled through its neck, and another burrowed through its shoulder. One of the creature's eyes was missing, and a small hermit crab scuttled in the empty cavity. Seawater ran from the ghoul's gaping mouth. One of its arms was also gone. The hand on the other arm clutched a curved sword. The creature raised the weapon and pointed it at Rogan in recognition.

  Sighing, Rogan rotated his head, listening to his joints pop. “Is there no end to this madness? I have killed them once. Must I kill them a second time?"

  Without waiting for a reply, he charged forward to meet his opponents, counting seven of the creatures on the beach, plus seven more heaving themselves from the water. He exploded into their midst, broadsword whistling, cleaving rancid flesh, slicing through decaying muscle and tissue.

  One of the zombies parried his follow-up attack, and their swords clanged together. Rogan turned his head away, gagging at the stench. Blocking the curved blade's descent, he grasped the undead warrior's arm and tried to pull the creature forward into the point of his broadsword. Instead, the creature's skin slipped off, revealing bone. The corpse smiled. Its face had been half-eaten by the fish, and the fleshless cheek swarmed with larvae. A seashell jutted from the raw wound where its nose had been.

  "Wodan take you, dead man!"

  Rogan leaped into the air and lashed out with his leg, kicking the zombie in the head. His boot sank into the soft flesh. He laughed as bits of brain matter and skull fragments splattered onto the wet sand. His landing was graceful, but not nearly as nimble as it would have been ten years before. His agility, like the hair in his salt and pepper mane, lessened with the passing of each winter. Rogan spun on his heels, wheeling to face his next shuffling opponent.

  Before he could renew his attack, several arrows sprouted from the chests and throats of the living dead. The shafts were not of the type Javan had been using. Rogan ducked, warned by some primal, battle-honed instinct, as more missiles flew from the forest. The arrows found homes in the monsters, but had no effect.

  Several women stepped out of the shadowed woods and silently reloaded their bows. Each sported flowing, shiny black hair.

  "I grow weary of this,” Rogan muttered, ducking the clumsy swing of a zombie. “Tonight, I merely wished to sit, drink, and eat, and warm my bones beside the fire—and perhaps explore between the legs of one of these red-skinned women. Now I slay those already dead."

  The dead man's reply was a gurgled moan.

  "To Hell with you all,” Rogan roared and hacked the legs out from under it. “How many times must I kill your lot before you stay dead?"

  The pathetic creatures were not much of a fighting force. Still, they swarmed him with their numbers. More poured from the sea. The female archers fell back, lest their hail of arrows strike Rogan. Pulling his sword, Javan sprang forth.

  Rogan sliced another zombie in two at the belly. Undaunted, the corpse's lower half walked on. Its upper portion flopped into the water, and then pulled itself back across the sand. Rogan's sword fell once, twice, severing the arms. Then he cut the disembodied walking legs in half, dividing the hips. Something grasped his boot. He glanced down, shuddering in revulsion as the decaying hands trailed across his feet, dragging the severed arms behind them.

  Javan brought down another slow-moving corpse. A severed hand crawled up his back like a spider, teetered on his shoulder and then clutched at his throat. Shuddering, he yanked the thing off and flung it into the ocean.

  "Uncle,” he shouted, “this is madness! There is no way to kill them. Each limb we hack off becomes yet another opponent."

  "Tell that shaman that this is his kind of fight, not ours."

  Javan confessed, “I can't."

  "What do you mean you can't? Do as I say, boy."

  "Akibeel isn't responding. He sits cross legged at the fire, ignoring my pleas. That is why I joined the battle late."

  "What? He picks a poor time to rest!"

  "I think he's in some sort of trance, sire."

  Rogan spat onto the sand. “I hate wizards almost as much as I hate zombies."

  The dead pirates encircled the two exhausted men. Javan and Rogan stood back-to-back, swords held ready. The zombies moved closer. Javan winced at the smell. Rogan blinked sweat from his eyes. The corpses raised their weapons.

  "WODANNNNNN!” Rogan roared, preparing himself for the onslaught.

  Then, as abruptly as they'd emerged, the undead fell limp and tottered into the surf.

  Rogan prodded one of the corpses with his sword, but it did not move.

  "This time, let us hope they stay dead."

  "Indeed, sire."

  The bodies began washing back out to sea with the next crashing wave.

  Akibeel rose, opening his eyes and shouting into the heavens.

  Rogan scowled. “What is he jabbering about now?"

  Javan relayed, “Akibeel says that he placed himself in a spell and entreated his gods for a blessing. The blessing came."

  "Well, Wodan bless my ass. Perhaps this wizard can be of use after all. Tell him we will accept his offer of food and shelter and will return to his village."

  Javan and Rogan let their new companions gather up the weapons, pieces of armor, and other useful items scavenged from the bireme since they could not carry the load themselves. The shaman summoned two-wheel wagons pulled by other tribesmen.

  "First they call forth women warriors,” Rogan s
aid. “Now wagons. What else do they have hidden in yonder woods? Catapults? Perhaps a hundred fine horses?"

  "Akibeel says that is all, sire."

  Javan and the women warriors followed the old shaman into the forest. Rogan looked back to the waves, caught his breath, and studied their twice-killed foes. He felt things he had not experienced in many years.

  Youth.

  And fear.

  Just a twinge, but there all the same.

  Javan stopped at the tree line and looked back at his brooding uncle.

  "Sire? We must be off. Is everything all right?"

  Rogan frowned and looked to the sky. “Just thinking."

  "Of what, Uncle?"

  "That I envy you, lad. And that perhaps I was wrong before. Perhaps I have cheated death after all."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  The Heavy

  By Cherie Priest

  * * * *

  Cherie Priest is the author of four novels: Four and Twenty Blackbirds, Wings to the Kingdom, Not Flesh nor Feathers, and Dreadful Skin. She lives in Seattle, Washington, with her husband, a fat black cat, and a small orange fish named Howard. She keeps an online presence at www.cheriepriest.com.

  * * * *

  Everyone already thinks I'm a goddamned hippie,” Mark bitched. He gulped another swig from his Heineken and knocked his knuckles against the bar.

  Josh threw back the last drops at the bottom of his glass, shrugged and signaled the bartender that yes, please, he'd like another double-dose of Jack. “If you didn't want any help, you should've shot it yourself."

  "I did shoot it myself,” he insisted. “And where's your friend? He's late."

  Josh glanced at the ancient, nicotine-stained clock that hung crookedly above the roadhouse door. “He's got another five minutes."

  "This is stupid,” Mark said for the twentieth time. “It's going to turn out the thing that got those goats was just a big damn dog. And my wife's going to kill me."

  "What for? You're not paying him anything."

  "You said he doesn't charge up front?"

  "He don't charge at all. He just fixes things."

  "Why?” Mark asked.

  Josh cupped his hand around his freshly refilled drink. “Because sometimes, things need fixing. And that's what he does. The Heavy fixes things."