by Mark Cassell
“Wait.” Isidore released the back-arrow key and leaned into the chair. “Watch this.”
CAM 5 continued its forward motion.
“How long ago was this?” Victor said behind me.
“About half an hour.” Isidore swivelled in the chair.
“Where is this?”
Katrina stayed in the corridor. “The Operating Room.”
“Nice,” I said.
“It’s not what you think. We don’t operate on our subjects.”
“Just tell us how to get there.” Victor’s head rested against the doorframe. The screens bleached his face into a cold mask.
“Wait,” Isidore said again. “There’s more.”
“How did she get there in the first place?” Victor asked.
“She walked through from the corridor.”
“No Georgie? Her guide dog.”
Isidore shook her head.
“There are only cameras in the main oper—the main rooms,” Katrina said.
We watched for a few seconds longer, and the unmistakable frame of Goodwin entered the room. As always, an eddy of smoke surrounded his head.
In short, what followed was confusing. Their hug looked awkward, and Polly wasn’t having any of it. As they parted, she stepped back and bumped into a gurney. Her lips were a rapid movement. Both gesticulated.
“Are they arguing?” I asked.
From the corner of my eye, Victor nodded. “So it seems.”
After a last outburst from each of them, Goodwin walked away. Giving her a final verbal blast and a dismissive hand gesture, he stomped from the room into the corridor. He yanked the door behind him, but it bounced in its frame and remained ajar.
Alone again, Polly’s lips moved, and then the lights blinked out. No one had touched a switch. The vertical strip of light from the doorway did little to illuminate the room. A white flash leaked across the screen as the transition from normal light to infrared flared and settled into a grey fuzziness. Polly’s eyes pierced the gloom like LEDs. She couldn’t know the lights were out.
Now in two types of darkness, she stayed where she was, leaning against the gurney.
And then it got weird.
At first it was as if water leaked into the room. A shimmering grey coated the floor near her feet, spreading like an overflowing bathtub. Only this had a kind of accuracy, a determination. Several more ‘puddles’ collected beneath the apparatus and the machines. They advanced. It reminded me of the shadows at the farmhouse.
Shadows, heading towards Polly. They flowed and thickened, and linked with one another, darkened. They no longer resembled water.
White light burst into the room, and as the glare shrank—cancelling the infrared—a distorted silhouette of a man entered through a swinging door. The outline sharpened as he walked over the writhing shadows.
Stanley.
With bulging forearms, showing little effort, he carried Georgie. The dog’s tail wagged. By now the shadows had stopped approaching, having surrounded Polly. She remained against the gurney. Stanley spoke and he placed Georgie at her feet. She fussed over the dog and the room became a fraction lighter as the shadows retreated to a corner, beneath the machines. Some slithered higher and clung to the walls. Occasionally the mass would throb, its surface rippling.
The pair hugged and began speaking—civilised compared to the exchange with Goodwin only moments before.
“What’s with these two?” I said.
“She doesn’t realise the Shadow Fabric is there,” Victor whispered.
“Surely she’d feel it.” I remembered the sickness I felt in its presence.
“It’s possible to shield it when required. Only when in the right hands.”
“Or wrong hands.”
“Quite.”
Katrina started to say something and Victor shushed her. Onscreen, the pair’s exchange continued for a few moments longer, and then Georgie led Polly to the door. She left Stanley behind. He sat on the gurney, and there he stayed, swinging his legs.
It wasn’t long until the Fabric closed in again, blocking the corridor light.
Again, the infrared kicked in. Nothing glowed. No lights remained. Where Polly’s eyes had contained a strange glow, Stanley’s did not. No lights in Stanley’s eyes. His were impenetrable holes in an expressionless face.
“Those eyes…” I said.
Victor inhaled sharply.
A spiral of shadow dragged a kicking Goodwin into the room. His body seemed to ooze from the dark mass of the Fabric. Words froze on my lips. What was this?
Behind Goodwin’s struggling form, Stanley swung his legs. It appeared as though Goodwin had been gagged, yet I knew it wasn’t by a typical piece of cloth or fabric. It was a piece of Shadow Fabric. It writhed over his lower face like a highwayman’s mask in the wind. The terror in the man’s eyes was enough to make my stomach lurch. The darkness fell from his mouth and he grimaced and spat.
The shadows erupted in a mass of tentacles. They lunged for him.
Before he managed to protect his head, an arm of shadow smashed into his face. His neck snapped back. Blood sprayed from his mouth and his face twisted in agony. He dropped, covering his head, and tucked his legs in. This did little for protection, and soon his arms slapped at the limbs of shadow. His feet kicked at them.
The Fabric ravaged and beat him, played with him like an unloved doll, all the while Stanley’s legs thrust forward and back. His eyes revealed only darkness. When it was over, with Goodwin’s chest heaving and his nostrils flaring, the Shadow Fabric released his body. He curled up, still alive. Barely.
Stanley slid from the mattress and walked to Goodwin. He kicked him. Once, twice. Behind them, the Shadow Fabric erupted. Tentacles thrashed. The gurney shot backward and crashed against a wall.
His face creasing into a smirk, Stanley stepped away from Goodwin.
I felt sick.
The Shadow Fabric billowed like a tsunami, enveloping Stanley. And he vanished—first he was there, then he wasn’t. The darkness receded as the Fabric slipped into a far corner, retreating from Goodwin. It, too, disappeared.
I squinted at the screen. Goodwin looked dead, though I swore he still breathed. I hoped.
“Oh my God.” Katrina’s hand muffled her words.
“Unconscious,” Victor said.
“Stanley is a necromeleon?” I glared at Victor.
His eyebrows came together. “If that is the case, then Stanley is dead.”
I thought of the corpse back at the house.
“The body at his place isn’t his,” he said, as if reading my mind. “A necromeleon is the reanimated dead, possessed by the Fabric.”
“A different type of necromeleon?”
“What in God’s name are you talking about?” Katrina pushed herself into the room and faced Victor. She pointed at the screen. “And what was that?”
He ignored her.
Isidore reset the monitors and stood up. “Goodwin is still in there.”
“Katrina,” I said, “take us to your Operating Room.”
She began to protest and Victor barged past her into the corridor. Isidore and I followed, leaving the woman stunned.
“I need to get my handbag.” Katrina headed to the morgue.
Standing in the corridor, the three of us no doubt replayed it all in our heads. My jaw ached, and reluctantly, I relaxed. Then I saw the door. An ordinary door, just like the rest of them; scuffed wood and a tarnished brass handle. No panel to peer through, either. Just another closed door and it had got to the point where I did not want to discover any more secrets. Yet, there was something about this door. What lay beyond it? I had an overwhelming urge to open it.
So I did.
The light from the corridor flooded the room and I stumbled back. I stepped on Isidore’s foot and she yelped. Victor said something, but I didn’t hear him. Kind of like déjà vu slapping me about the head, my senses whirled and my jaw dropped. My throat dry, my hands curled into fists. E
ars burning, my blood steaming through every vein.
Rows of metal boxes, floor to ceiling, packed the room—exactly like the ones I’d seen as Victor unwrapped The Book of Leaves at Lucas’s shop. That was before the Fabric came and ripped the man apart. These boxes had been revealed to me back then.
And they were here. Here was the room.
Light reflected from the boxes and shelves, shining before me in a teasing glory. Here I am, each of those tiny reflections said.
I took another step back, Victor and Isidore grabbing me. My legs buckled, nausea swallowed me. Crumpled, on my knees, my hands flat in front of me, I wanted to spew.
“Leo?” Isidore’s voice sounded so far away.
Tears blurred my vision. I strained my neck to watch Victor run into the morgue. Twisting slightly, I collapsed onto my side. From there, I had a view of half the room, which was enough. Did the gurneys move? That can’t be right, I tried to say. It wasn’t the gurneys moving, it was the black sheets that covered the corpses.
Something twitched beneath each of them.
One of the sheets slipped from a corpse, a grey hand flexed and clutched at the air.
Katrina’s scream pierced my already jammed senses.
CHAPTER 30
Necromeleons. The reanimated dead.
Wisps of shadow coiled around the gurneys. At first, a faint slithering greyness—insubstantial almost. From my viewpoint, crouched on the ground, I saw more than Victor could as he charged into the room. He shouted at Katrina. She continued to scream even as he grabbed her. He seemed unaware of the shadows at his feet, glancing at the corpses as they stuttered awake.
Like my legs, my tongue refused commands as I tried to warn him of the shadows crawling across the tiles. Tried to warn them both, and couldn’t. I wanted to get to my feet and run to him. Even my arms tingled with a peculiar numbness. With my head flushed with nausea and a weakness in my limbs, I grunted. My vision churned.
Isidore remained with me as Katrina and Victor gaped at the waking corpses. They took deliberate steps backwards, heading towards us. I don’t think Isidore saw the shadows—I’m sure she would’ve warned Victor.
“That’s impossible.” Isidore’s body tensed, her breath cold on my neck.
Katrina’s hands turned into rigid claws. The first corpse to have awakened, sat upright. Victor curled a gloved hand around Katrina’s arm. They were too close to that corpse, and I was unable to warn them. So far, it was the only one to have removed its cover. The only one to have sat up.
Isidore tugged at me, groaning as she struggled to get me on my feet. She said “Impossible” a few more times. My legs still didn’t respond, neither my arms. I rocked back and forth, desperate to move, to get up, help Victor. My scream roared in my head, failing to reach my throat. Why couldn’t I move? This was pathetic.
There must have been a dozen corpses there. Another couple had now risen. The sheets slid off, falling to a heap in a crinkled mess. Their blackness disguised the swelling shadows that converged like a lynch mob around the gurney wheels. The necromeleons’ white flesh shone in contrast to the poor light. Darkness filled their eyes.
Frustration roared through my head again. Isidore managed to drag me sideways, while my brain’s commands failed to reach my sleeping limbs. Even my arms didn’t play the game.
Victor’s voice bounced off the walls as he shouted, “Come on!” He yanked Katrina’s arm and she staggered back.
The nearest corpse reached out and swiped at the air.
With the Witchblade raised, Victor continued to pull her.
Most of the corpses were on their feet now. A few pushed themselves up and tiptoed as if testing the solidity of the floor. Some were naked. Others wore gowns. One even wore jeans, and on the belt buckle it said Proud to be your Bud. I didn’t think they served Budweiser in prison, and I knew they’d not allow belts for risk of suicide attempts. Regardless of my lightning thoughts as to where this guy came from, he was dead. A necromeleon. All of them.
They advanced on stiff legs.
“Get…” Isidore yelled in my ear, tugging beneath my armpits. “Up!”
The dead walked, and I couldn’t. I was dead weight in her arms and I helplessly watched Victor and Katrina continue their retreat as the dead advanced like playground bullies. Mouths drooped, eyes full of death and darkness and determination. With arms ending in white claws, their pace quickened.
Like a sudden slam of thunder, a thump echoed through the room. It came from one of the compartments. Then another. And another. Bang, slam, thump, from the inside of those small chambers. The doors shook. The light reflecting off the steel warped beneath each impact. Slam. More and more beating, echoing, drumming as more corpses came alive.
Isidore proved her strength as she lifted me off my arse. Only for a second, as my legs folded. Their life remained far away. My jaw ached, my heart was ready to explode.
And still the advancing necromeleons gained distance. Although Victor and Katrina hurried, neither wanted to turn their back on them.
“Leo!” Isidore’s scream pierced my skull. She yanked hard, growling, and managed to drag me further into the corridor. My arms still didn’t work properly. I felt pathetic.
Some of the compartment doors buckled, shaking from the impacts. Each handle heaved beneath the rapid kicks from the corpse inside. Many feet stomped an irregular rhythm, now a frantic soundtrack to an unbelievable scene.
I winced at a snap-crash as a handle broke. It flew across the room and smashed into a monitor. Sparks and glass erupted. The steel door of the compartment bounced once and creaked to a stop, revealing the kicking feet of the occupant. Another door burst open…and another. More compartments gaped wide, pieces of metal flying and doors swinging. In seconds the tables shot out on steel runners, the corpses jerking upright. One table gave way and the corpse fell to its knees, while the others gained footing on unstable legs.
Dizziness stabbed my head from all corners. Isidore pulled at me.
“Leo, move!”
If I didn’t already feel nausea drowning me, I’d have been sick anyway. I knew I was disabled without knowing why, and my fear boiled, but it was the sound of the advancing dead which got to me.
Now the drumming had stopped and the corpses were free. My ears roared as God knew what emotion steamed through my head—whether amazement at seeing the dead walk, anger at being unable to walk myself, or fear of what was happening. The necromeleons lumbered towards us, open mouths uttering not a word—not even a moan. I heard nothing apart from the shuffle of bare feet.
Isidore released me, finally giving up the effort to yank me to my feet. A gunshot shattered the silence. My right ear rang. Isidore’s targeted corpse jerked, a bloodless hole in its chest oozing clear fluid and darkness. A tendril of shadow licked from the wound.
Still the thing advanced.
I couldn’t decide what was worse, seeing death or watching it walk.
The gun cracked another couple of times, and still they came.
With a bell tolling in my head, my legs tingled. Regaining some kind of life, it was as if those gunshots had reminded them to get moving.
“Move, Leo,” Isidore said. “Move. Now!”
With both palms flat to the floor, I shoved myself upright. The coldness of the tiles leaked through my gloves. My feet were still numb, if at least a little responsive.
Isidore stood aside.
A necromeleon—it was Bud—sprang forward, evidently one of the more energetic ones. He clutched at Katrina’s scrambling limbs and clamped an ankle. She sprawled and slipped sideways. Her head smashed into a gurney’s frame and sent it wheeling away. Her scream sounded far off, strangely muted by my temporary deafness.
Victor lost his grip of her and staggered into a crouch. As he reached for her with one hand, with the other, he swung the Witchblade.
That knife really was powerful.
An arc of flame cut the air diagonally, creating a barrier between them and th
e advancing necromeleons. As one, they halted, the darkness in their eyes bulging from hollow sockets. The streamers of fire held for a few seconds, then burnt out as Victor went to Katrina’s aid.
Too late.
Bud had his mouth at her throat in a mess of red spurts and flapping flesh.
Everything was happening too fast, and I was too slow. Katrina stopped screaming.
“Shit!” Isidore’s voice echoed.
Victor, his suit saturated with Katrina’s blood, continued with backward strides as sparks flared around him. I caught the faint whiff of ozone—almost cleansing.
I punched my legs, desperate to encourage more life to return. My breathing burned as if I’d been running, and I should’ve been doing precisely that.
Isidore’s gun roared several more times, and still the necromeleon ravaged the poor woman. With eyes wide and blank, Katrina’s head wobbled from side to side; Bud’s face buried into her. Back straight, hands flat on the floor with fingers splayed, the dead man looked to be doing press-ups.
“Bastard!” My voice had returned. My senses, too, were back as finally I regained control of those important limbs.
Isidore slammed another magazine into her gun and fired again.
“Victor!” I screamed, my throat dry. “Come on!”
He stood erect, pale faced and swiping the Witchblade left and right. More flames cut the air. His suit glistened with his yoga instructor’s blood.
Katrina’s body twitched, and it had nothing to do with the Budweiser-swigging necromeleon vampire at her throat—it had everything to do with the shadows looping into the ragged mess above her collarbone. Her arms straightened and her fingers hooked as the shadows claimed her. Both legs kicked and a knee jerked between Bud’s legs. He didn’t flinch. Bullets didn’t deter his friends, so a knee to the nuts certainly wouldn’t.
Victor gave the Witchblade another series of jabs and more fire burned around him. The smell of ozone drifted on the air. Flames sputtered and flared, giving clearance for his retreat.
