by Weston Ochse
But Metzger's smile vanished as his head suddenly jerked back and crashed against the engine. The engine quit but the boat continued on an intersect course for the trailer. Metzger tried to pull himself up, but his head was jerked back again. A zombie hand dragged across Metzger's forehead, carving deep bloody grooves. The fingers dug into the top of Metzger's scalp, the arm muscles tensed, and the zombie pulled itself out of the water. Even from twenty feet away, Natasha could see the unholy yellow of the monster's eyes as it sunk its teeth into Metzger's face over and over. The one-time soldier, crack addict, possible boyfriend and savior of them all punched at the creature to no avail. He cursed the monster as it chewed. He kicked, he punched, he even shoved two fingers into the creature's left eye. Yellow ichor exploded onto him, but the zombie didn't even slow down. As if sensing the inevitable, Metzger shouted one last curse to the universe - "motherfuckingcocksucker!" - pushed with his feet and sent them both over the side, where they disappeared beneath the water.
The empty boat struck the trailer hard, knocking everyone off balance. Auntie Lin toppled into the boat, but Natasha and Derrick fell into the water. They immediately began to kick and scream. Natasha felt hands beneath the water scrabble at her ankles and kicked as hard as she could.
"Kick, Derrick - kick and they won't get you!"
The pistol was doing her absolutely no good so she tucked it away. Suddenly she saw Auntie Lin above the gunwale, holding out an oar. Natasha latched onto it and let herself be pulled towards the boat, all the while kicking as furiously as she could, her feet striking something each time she lashed out, fingers brushing against her ankles like taloned-seaweed. When she was close enough, Natasha hauled herself out of the water.
She ran to the other side of the boat. Auntie Lin had Derrick by the wrists. She pulled as hard as she could, but could not bring the boy from the water. Natasha joined in, but Derrick wouldn't budge.
Then she realized that he wasn't kicking.
He screamed and his body began to shake. "They're eating me! They're eating me!"
Auntie Lin looked once at Natasha, then dove into the water.
Natasha grabbed for the old woman's ankles, barely managing to grab one as Auntie Lin plunged into the depths. Her weight almost jerked Natasha overboard, but she wouldn't let go. She was up to her shoulder in the water, her hand and arm firmly gripping Auntie Lin.
With her other hand, she helped Derrick aboard. He seemed so weak. She roared as she heaved, and he fell into the boat and rolled over. His lower legs were a mess of blood and bite marks, and huge chunks had been torn away. Blood began to fill the bottom of the boat. He moaned for a moment, then his eyes all but rolled up into his head.
Natasha began to pull Auntie Lin, but like Derrick, she wasn't moving. If the zombies had her it was face first. The old Chinese woman began to quiver and shake, and the water began to churn, like a feeding frenzy of piranhas were consuming Auntie Lin. Natasha could barely hang on; her whole body shook as she struggled to maintain her grip on her old nanny. The dun-grey surface of the water suddenly turned crimson as it bubbled and roiled.
Natasha heaved backwards with all that was left in her. She managed to get her own shoulder and arm out of the water. She used her other hand to grip the wrist that held Auntie Lin's ankle, and used her feet to support her and help lever the old woman out.
The water suddenly calmed, and Natasha fell back, her hand still gripping a leg... all that was left of Auntie Lin. Natasha leaned over the gunwale and hurled the limb from her hand. It hit a gory slick, leaving a ripple.
She emptied her stomach, spraying the water with vomit and gripping the gunwale with both hands to keep from falling in. She got to her knees shakily, drool lacing from the corners of her mouth, tears welling from her eyes until they ran dry, until she was empty.
She snapped out of it when knocking began on the bottom of the boat. Natasha lurched to the rear seat, sat down hard and tugged on the starter cord several times before it finally caught. When it did, she turned the handle on the rudder to full and the boat roared away as she turned it out to sea. She glanced at Derrick to make sure was still breathing and not a zombie, before giving one last, hopeless look at Bombay Beach.
She'd bandaged Derrick's arm as best she could by the time the boat hit the beach on the far shore from Bombay Beach. The paltry supplies in the boat's first aid kit weren't adequate enough for the job. After all, there was no tincture for zombieness. It was only a matter of time.
They climbed out of the boat and began walking towards the highway, visible just beyond the dunes. A blonde woman walking a pair of Great Danes passed them, heading for the water.
"Welcome to Desert Shores," she said with a smile. Then, seeing the state they were in, "Are you kids all right?"
Natasha and Derrick ignored her.
"You need to get that kid to a hospital," she called after them.
Natasha thought about yelling back that there was nothing a hospital could do, but she was so soul-tired that she didn't want to waste a breath. They found a picnic table and sat down. She looked despairingly at her brother and held his hand in hers.
"I'm scared, sis."
"Me too."
"I can feel it inside me. I'm so hungry. I'm so angry." He squeezed her hand. "Promise me that you won't let me bite you."
She shook her head as tears poured down her cheeks.
"Promise me, please." His voice began to change. "You have to shoot me."
She watched as his whole body stilled. He inhaled once, then exhaled, then didn't breathe for a while. She couldn't help herself. She got up and backed away, putting the table between her and her brother, who sat with his eyes closed on the picnic table bench.
Then she heard the sound of a helicopter, coming in low over the water from the direction of Bombay Beach. It was white with no markings. It could have been anyone, but Natasha knew what it was, or at least who it was.
Just then Derrick hissed.
Natasha jumped as she watched her brother come back to life, his eyes glowing yellow, his skin turning green. He glared at her.
She backed away, aware that Metzger's pistol was still in the small of her back. She could grab it and protect herself if she had to. She kept backing away, her eyes never leaving her brother. He of the comic books, and he of the video games, he'd always been so easy to make laugh. He'd been a good kid and a better brother. He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve to be a zombie. The words Old Yeller whispered through her mind and she knew what she had to do.
She glanced at the helicopter. It was getting closer.
But then the image of her brother, shouting Booya when he'd figured out the crib filled her vision and she knew that she'd never be able to pull the trigger.
She kept backing away, and found herself on top of a sand dune a hundred feet away.
Derrick raged at the picnic table, howling at the sun, his eyes glowing, his fists clenched, his back arched like an animal.
The helicopter swooped in and landed in a clear space adjacent to the picnic table. The doors slid open. Two soldiers leaped out and took up positions. They each fell to one knee and sighted down their rifles towards the zombie.
Derrick saw them and roared. He took a step towards them.
Natasha found herself hoping that the soldiers would kill him, save him from his horrible existence.
Then she heard dogs barking in the distance. One raced towards her--it was one of the woman's Great Danes, and she was running close behind, waving for Natasha to stop the dog before it got away. The dog ran to her and she snatched a hold of its collar.
Beachcombers from down the shore noticed the helicopter and started towards it. This was no Bombay Beach. People here paid attention. She spied a dune buggy in the distance racing towards the scene. Another couple were getting out of their car and heading her way.
Then three more people stepped down from the aircraft. Two soldiers held a net between them. An officer directed the other two to app
roach the zombie.
Natasha watched in dread fascination as the net was thrown over her brother, rolled on the ground, and wrapped up. The soldiers picked up either end and bundled him into the helicopter.
The man in charge gave Natasha a cold appraising glare, turned to see the crowd that was beginning to gather - she noticed that although his name tag had been removed, the words "U.S. Air Force" were stitched above his right pocket - then he turned on his heel and entered the helicopter. The two soldiers with rifles filed in next. When the aircraft took off, instead of returning to Bombay Beach, it headed north.
She made the highway and stood along the edge beside a salt-encrusted mileage marker, thumbs out in the universal sign of need. As she waited, Natasha wiped the sweat from her face with the back of her hand. She tasted salt and angrily spat it out.
A truck roared past, bathing her in hot air and swirls of biting sand. She watched it disappear in the distance, too tired to move, too tired to do anything but stand there. Eventually another truck headed toward her, this one slowing until it stopped a couple dozen yards off. When she stumbled up, the driver opened the door and studied her.
He was a bear of a man with tattoos covering both arms, a head of wild grey hair, and a mountain-man beard. Finally, he asked, "Where you headed?"
"Where are you going?" Natasha countered.
"Phoenix, then up to Denver."
"Are there any Air Force bases in those places?"
The driver looked at her a moment, trying to fathom the reason for the question. He finally nodded his head. "I think so. Phoenix has one for sure."
Natasha had no plan. She had nothing. Right now she just needed a ride, and maybe some peace and quiet.
"Listen, if you want the ride, then get in. I got time to make."
Natasha climbed into the cab and belted herself into the seat.
He put the truck in gear and they were soon rumbling north towards Interstate 10 and beyond.
Natasha stared out the window at the hot, arid desert as it sped past--the yellow brown earth, the green cacti, the scrubby bushes, the rock-strewn sand. Beneath the superheated sun, nothing seemed able to live out there. Not a single living thing could be seen moving on the horizon. But that didn't mean what she was looking for wasn't out there.
Weston Ochse is the Bram Stoker award-winning author of various short stories and novels, including the critically acclaimed Scarecrow Gods.
He is much in demand as a speaker at genre conventions and has been chosen as a guest of honour on numerous occasions. As well as writing many novels, Weston has written for comic books, professional writing guides, magazines and anthologies.
Weston lives in Southern Arizona with his wife, the author Yvonne Navarro, and their menagerie of animals.
www.abaddonbooks.com
www.abaddonbooks.blogspot.com
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Now read the first chapter from another
exciting Tomes of The Dead novel...
ISBN: 978-1-906735-14-2
£6.99/$7.99
Katja
The rising of the dead was the best luck I'd had in years. A godsend, even. I was lucky to survive, of course; my owners showed exactly how they valued me when they left me locked in a Cheetham Hill brothel to drown. I was lucky they kept me upstairs; I heard the women on the ground floor. I heard them die. Heard their screams of panic, heard them choked off as they drowned.
At least, at the time I thought they had drowned. Hours later, clinging to a rooftop, holding a gun with one bullet left in it and trying to decide which of us to use it on, I wasn't so sure.
My name is Katja Wencewska. Although my family is Polish, I grew up in Romania. It's a long story, none of it relevant to this. I will tell you what is relevant.
I am twenty-seven years old. My father was a military officer. Special forces. A good, brave man, always very calm. Tall, as well. A tree of a man. An oak. My mother, in contrast, was like a tiny bird ñ very bright, excitable. I loved them both dearly. I was their only child. They were proud of me; in school I won prizes in Literature, the Arts and Gymnastics. I have two degrees.
None of that helped when they died. A stupid man, driving drunk, late one night. Their car went off the road, into a ravine. My father died instantly; my mother took several hours. The idiot responsible was cut out of the wreckage with barely a scratch. I wanted to kill him, and could have. Papa had often shown me how. He knew the world is full of predators, and taught me to protect myself against them.
I was studying for a PhD at the time, but of course that had to be abandoned. Bills had to be paid, but there was no work to be found. Then I heard of a job in England. For a fee, strings would be pulled, things arranged. A teaching job.
I spoke good English. I thought I would work hard, make money. Eventually I planned to come home - when things were better there, when I had money saved.
I thought I was so clever. I was well-educated and, I thought, streetwise. I could kill with a blow after all, if I was forced to. But the thought never crossed my mind. I had heard of people trafficking of course, but you never think it will be you. Predators would be so easily dealt with if they came to us as predators.
I was a fool.
You can guess the rest. My passport was taken. There was no teaching job. I was to service men for money. When I refused, I was beaten and raped. Worse than rape. Other things were done to me. I will not talk about those things: they are not relevant, you have no need to know. After this I felt defiled and wretched. I did not refuse again. It was made clear to me ñ to us all ñ that if we were too much trouble we would be killed. We were expendable; easily disposed of, easily replaced.
I was kept at a brothel in London at first. After six months they moved me to another, in Manchester. I spent the next eight months there. Being able to kill with a blow means little when there are always more of them, when the doors are always locked, the windows always barred, when you have nowhere to go.
I think that is all I need to say about myself.
I was woken that morning by screams and blaring horns.
I got to the window and squinted through the bars. On Cheetham Hill Road, people were leaping onto the roadway to avoid something pouring over the pavement. At first I thought it was water ñ dark, filthy water ñ but when I pushed the net curtains aside I could see it flowed uphill. And over the screams and traffic noise, even the horns, I heard it squealing.
I realised they were swarming rats.
It was raining heavily; water gushed down the pavements and the road into the gutters. There'd been a lot of that lately.
There were rats on the road too ñ all on one side, the lane for city bound traffic, which was deserted. The road out of Manchester, on the other hand, was jammed solid. I could see the people in the cars ñ wild, terrified faces, fright and fury mixed, fists pounding windows, dashboards, steering wheels, making their horns blare and blare and blare.
The rain intensified until the road blurred. I stepped back from the window, let the curtains fall back into place. My stomach felt hollow and tight.
We had a television there, but I hadn't seen the news in months. We weren't allowed, and besides, we only wanted to watch things that would take our minds off our lives. I had no idea what had, or was, happening, only that something was very wrong.
Soon, I heard banging on the brothel's front door. I looked outside. It was Ilir, our owner. One of his sons came out of the door; he'd been left in charge. Ilir's black BMW was in the traffic jam, doors open. Ilir dragged his son to it. They slammed the doors; Ilir pounded the horn, but the traffic didn't budge. After a minute, they pulled into the deserted city bound lane. Other cars started following their example, and for a short time the traffic moved forward, but then locked up again. So many people, all trying to leave. Some of the other girls had started screaming, pounding on the doors. They'd abandoned us. They hadn't even turned us loose, just left us here.
People were running
along the pavement, clutching their belongings, their children. Their eyes were wild.
An hour or so after Ilir and his son left, the answers started coming. Below Cheetham Hill are the Irwell and the Irk, two of the three rivers that run through Manchester. None are very deep; all have high banks. But water was washing up the street. Lapping up in slow, relentless waves.
Even then, I didn't really get it. It only really sank in when people started abandoning their cars.
It happened very quickly after that. Water washed round the wheels of the cars and rose higher. It lapped round their skirts. It poured over the pavements. Across the street, water flooded under the front door of the kebab house and across the floor. People were wading the torrents, then began climbing on top of the cars.
For a few minutes, I just watched. None of it felt real. It was like watching some bizarre art-house film. But nothing had felt real in that place for a long time. You couldn't let it, if you wanted to stay sane.
The water now started pouring over the crest of Cheetham Hill, and the rising waters now became a surge. A middle-aged Asian man fell over and was swept along, screaming for help. His arms flailed, and a toupee slipped off his head. I heard myself giggle; it was a jagged, ugly sound. I clapped a hand over my mouth. He went under and didn't come up.
Then I heard the girls downstairs begin screaming in earnest, and I realised the waters were entering the brothel.
We were all locked in our rooms overnight. Each one had an en-suite sink and toilet ñ for convenience, not comfort. The windows were all barred, so there was no escape. Even if the waters didn't flood the upper floors, I could still look forward to starvation.
My father had shown me how to pick a lock. I could've escaped my room easily enough on several occasions. The difficult part had always been what I would do then. There were two front doors, inner and outer, the inner triple-locked. And even if I'd got clear of that, where would I go with no papers, no passport, no way of getting a legitimate job?
