Lazarus Island

by Lee Moan

  “But I can bring him back.”

  “And you could die in the process!”

  “Mum, I’m already dead.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Aren’t I?”

  Her mother started crying again, huge tears falling from her eyes. “I don’t know, baby, but right now you’re alive and I can’t bear to lose you again. Please, I’m begging you, don’t do it.”

  Becky started crying now. “But I have to. I can save him. I can save Daddy.”

  “Becky, no!”

  But Becky couldn’t hear her mummy anymore. She leaned over, closed her eyes for a moment and made a silent prayer.

  “Wake up, Daddy,” she whispered, and placed her hand on his chest.

  The ball of electricity flared brightly, accompanied by a sharp crackling sound. Sam’s body convulsed violently for several seconds, his hands drawing into balled fists. His back arched, his chin pushing towards the sky.

  Then he began to scream.

  84

  Sam sat upright, the veins in his neck standing out as he screamed into the night sky. Then, when the scream died, he rolled over onto all fours and coughed up a mouthful of water, then another, and another.

  “Sam!”

  A woman’s voice, calling his name.

  He looked round and found his wife looking down at him.

  “Rachel?” he said.

  “Oh, God, Sam!”

  He opened his arms and she fell into his embrace, crying uncontrollably, great tearing sobs that drifted into periods of empty silence as she struggled for breath. Sam held her, tighter and tighter, the sensation of water soaking into his clothes so life-affirming, so vibrant. He cried too. They collapsed back onto the sand and time didn’t matter. Sam could have stayed in that embrace for eternity.

  Finally, he said: “I don’t understand. How did you get free?”

  They looked at each other, Sam searching the deep wells of her eyes, eyes he knew so well.

  “Becky,” she said, wonder and amusement on her pale features.

  He opened his mouth to repeat their daughter’s name in the form of a question, but he saw in her face that this was no mere fantasy, no delusion.

  Becky.

  Becky saved her, helped her get free. She had done what he could not.

  Oh God, he thought, little Becky swimming down to save her mother. It was insane, but it also made perfect sense.

  Then, he saw Rachel’s expression become grave.

  “Rachel?”

  She turned and looked over to her right, and Sam followed her gaze to the tiny figure lying there on the sand. Her small, pale body lay on its side, facing them, eyes closed as if she was just sleeping.

  “Becky?”

  He crawled over to her and put his hand on the side of her face. So cold.

  “Becky?” he whispered.

  She didn’t move.

  “What happened, Rachel?” he said.

  “She . . . she brought you back, Sam. She saved me and then she brought you back.”

  “What? How?”

  “The spark. She used her spark to save you.”

  Sam fell back in the sand. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “No! No! No!”

  “Sam, I tried to stop her.”

  Sam doubled over. He felt nauseous, dizzy, and the cold heat of despair rushed into his heart.

  “I tried,” Rachel sobbed, hugging herself. “But she wouldn’t listen. She wouldn’t listen.”

  Sam looked up at the sky, tears welling in his eyes as the grief threatened to overwhelm him. Above his head, lightning flashed behind a bank of dark clouds. Thunder rumbled.

  In an instant, Sam’s sorrow turned to anger.

  He stood up, walked a few paces on shaking legs, searching the brooding sky.

  He recalled McNamara’s story, the Viking warlord brought back to life for one night to right a wrong, to finish what he started, to complete the plan the gods had made for him.

  In those few moments, his mind rushed through this night of insanity and mayhem, death and revenge, trying to find some meaning in it. If there was any kind of intelligent force behind this strange resurrection night, then it had achieved something in bringing back Ben Garrett. The people on the Island Council had committed an act equal to, if not worse, than the crimes Garrett himself had been found guilty of. They had acted as summary executioners, and in their act of botched justice they had taken the life of his daughter, an innocent victim—a child as innocent as Garrett’s victims. Garrett, for right or wrong, had brought a different kind of retribution to the island.

  But Becky? Why had she been brought back? To allow him this chance to make his peace with her? This chance to say goodbye? To beg her forgiveness? Or was it to save his relationship with Rachel? No, he told himself. Surely not. But maybe it wasn’t as mad as it sounded. Rachel should have died tonight. Sam had run out of air trying to free her from the wreckage. But Becky . . . Becky had been able to swim down there unencumbered by the constraints of lung capacity. From what he understood she did not breathe. Couldn’t breathe. Didn’t need to breathe. She had time that he did not.

  “Why?” he said, addressing the sky. “Tell me how this is fair. Tell me so I can understand!”

  As if in answer, thunder rumbled far above. Rachel stood up slowly, watching the skies.

  “I thought this all happened for a reason, that you were righting a wrong. At least I thought that’s what was happening. Am I right?”

  A few moments of silence followed, and then a brief crackle of lightning lit up the clouds.

  Sam felt a rush of adrenalin. Something was answering. There was some greater power at work here. He climbed up a small sand bank, his eyes searching the clouds.

  “The men on the council shouldn’t have killed Garrett—anyone can see that was wrong, wrong to exact your own justice—so you brought Garrett back for revenge. Right? Becky, my little girl . . .” He turned and looked at Rachel. She had both hands pressed to her lips, her glistening eyes fixed on him. He had never seen such love in her eyes. He looked skyward again. “Our little girl shouldn’t have died, either. But children do. Children die all the time, sometimes for no reason at all. But Becky, you brought her back for a reason. You must have! If you brought a murdering rapist like Garrett back for a reason you must have brought our girl back for a reason, too!”

  Sam waited for a response. The silence stretched out. Then a cough of thunder from behind him, out over the sea. Rachel gasped.

  Sam continued, a fire growing in his gut. “If the reason you brought her back tonight was to save us, to save me and Rachel, to bring us back together, then . . .” He looked at his wife again for a lingering moment. “Then there’s no point,” he said. “If this whole night was about redressing balance, then I want you to take me. Do you hear that? Take me! I’m thankful, so thankful, that our little girl saved Rachel. But I can’t accept my daughter giving her life for mine.”

  Rachel bowed her head and sobbed.

  Sam faced the clouds. “I want you to take me!” he roared. “BRING HER BACK AND TAKE ME!”

  He watched the skies closely, from the east horizon to the west. For a long time, there was nothing.

  Then . . . thunder and lightning exploded together, filling the sky above the cloudbank. The sky lit up like a firework display. The noise was deafening and both Sam and Rachel covered their ears. Rachel ran over to him, blinking rapidly against the blinding flashes of light.

  Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the storm ceased. Rachel and Sam let their hands drop, and slowly, their fingers intertwined as they continued to look above.

  A single fork of lightning, a brilliant blue, reached down out of the clouds and touched the earth some way up the beach. Sam and Rachel watched as the lightning bolt began to travel across the sand, feeling its way like the fingers of some elemental god. It passed Sam and Rachel and moved towards their daughter’s lifeless body. The lightning hovered at her feet for a moment, hissing and popping and covering her little form
in a heavenly glow. Then it began to move over her, rising from her feet to her legs and finally to her chest. There the brightness reached its zenith, so bright Sam and Rachel had to look away.

  A moment later, the lightning vanished.

  Sam looked back at his daughter’s body, then at Rachel. They were still holding hands. Now Rachel added her other hand to the embrace. They watched each other for a long moment. Sam expected something to happen, that the powers above would do exactly as he had asked and take his life in exchange.

  But nothing happened.

  They both breathed again, sharing a wistful smile.

  Hand in hand, they walked towards Becky’s tiny figure and knelt down beside her.

  “Becky?” Rachel said.

  Her skin was still deathly pale, her lips grey. She showed no vital signs.

  Sam leaned over, and watched the side of her face. Then he put his ear over her mouth. Not even a hint of breath.

  “Becky, sweetheart?” he said. “It’s Daddy.”

  He took her hand and squeezed it.

  “Becky, Mummy and Daddy are here,” Sam said. “Wake up now.”

  Sam looked up. Above them the storm had ceased. The brooding sky had cleared. Stars twinkled in the black velvet night.

  “Sam?” Rachel said.

  He continued to stare at the stars.

  Rachel touched his shoulder. “Sam, look.”

  Slowly, not daring to believe, he looked down at his beautiful daughter.

  She opened her eyes.

  85

  On Rook Hill, a sigh of wind drifted between the bruin stones.

  It was over.

  Almost.

  86

  Ashworth found the edge of the jetty in the darkness and pulled himself up. His body was exhausted, and it took a long time to finally find safety. But he was alive. Still alive!

  He lay on the boards of the jetty, gasping for breath, savouring the sensation of heavy rain hitting his face and neck. After a time, he sat up and stared at the stormy water. His house, the Ashworth mansion, was in ruins. The waves were choked with the detritus of his family home, but in a strange way he didn't care. Perhaps that was the price he had to pay . . .

  “Ashworth.”

  A cold hand clutched at his heart. That voice. That terrible voice.

  Slowly, reluctantly, he looked round.

  Standing on the jetty several feet away was the ragged figure of Ben Garrett. He held the axe loosely in his hands. The big man looked even more exhausted than himself. He didn't think the monster had much life left in him, if you could even call it life. A single spark of blue lightning skittered from his left hand, up his body to his neck, before discharging in the air above him

  “Get up,” Garrett said.

  Ashworth shook his head, raised his hand in a pleading gesture. “Please, don't.”

  Garrett hefted the axe and took two faltering steps forward.

  “Get up!”

  Confused, fearful, Ashworth did as he was told, climbing to his feet and facing Garrett.

  “What – what is it you want from me? You want to kill me, is that it? Have your revenge? What good will that do, Garrett? I have a child. I’m a father. Are you really that bent on revenge that you’d kill me just to satisfy your need?”

  Garrett said nothing. He stared at him for a long, long time, and Ashworth sensed some battle raging within him.

  He stretched out his arm to Ashworth, the arm holding the axe. “Take it,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Take it,” Garrett said. “Take it now before I bury it in your fucking head.”

  Ashworth reached out and took the proffered axe.

  Then Garrett dropped to his knees, the boards of the jetty creaking under his weight.

  “Do it,” Garrett said. “Do it now before I do it to you.”

  Ashworth gripped the axe handle tightly, confused and terrified by this unexpected turn of events.

  He tried to visualise himself burying the axe in the big man’s chest, his neck, his head – but the idea of it made him feel physically sick.

  “I – I can’t.”

  Garrett roared at him. “DO IT NOW OR I WILL KILL YOU AND YOUR WIFE AND YOUR DAUGHTER!”

  Ashworth stumbled back a step, tears stinging his eyes.

  “Do you understand?” Garrett said in a calmer voice. “You have to do this. Because I won’t stop. Do you hear me? I won’t stop until you’re all dead.”

  Ashworth closed his eyes and with a wavering yell he swung the axe. He felt the strike as the axe head buried itself in Garrett’s neck.

  Ashworth opened his eyes, dreading what he would see. Garrett’s head was partially severed. Ashworth saw veins and muscle and cartilage in the yawning wound, but no blood. Thank God there was no blood. A small mercy.

  Still conscious, Garret’s eyes rolled towards him. “Again,” he said in a breathless whisper.

  Ashworth pulled the axe free and swung again, not quite as blindly as before, striking near enough the same point. With a cry of anger and disgust and horror, Ashworth struck Garrett again and again.

  After the sixth blow, Garrett toppled sideways towards the edge of the jetty. The waves lapped and sucked beneath him like a hungry beast. His arm gave way beneath him and he fell forward, dropping into the churning foam.

  Ashworth stared at the water, at the place where Garrett had fallen in, and felt an overwhelming sense of self-loathing. He dropped the axe, and fell to his knees and began to sob. He raised his face to the sky and let out a cry to the heavens, words he could barely comprehend himself, words which came from the very core of his being.

  Something about forgiveness.

  Author's Note

  The very first novel I ever wrote, at the tender age of thirteen, was a delightful tale entitled Carrion, a super-charged horror story about recently deceased loved ones coming back from the dead. Written free-hand in a series of exercise books, the novel was an absolute joy to write but being a first novel it was doomed to remain hidden away from human eyes (probably a good thing, too!) Flash-forward twenty years and I found myself rewriting the story as Lazarus Island. I often refer to Lazarus Island as the novel that simply wouldn’t die. I wrote the first draft back in 2003 and then abandoned it because I didn’t like the ending, which was very different from the one you have just read. But every now and then I’d get it back out of the drawer and give it a good going over, often to no avail. But I always believed in the story and I loved the mythology of the island. The entire project simply refused to lie down. And I’m glad it didn’t. Lazarus Island is all about things which refuse to die, things like love and dreams. The history of this project stretches right back to my youth when I dreamed of being a writer. This book means a lot to me. I hope you like it.

  I’d like to thank Faye Lawlor for her time and effort in giving the story a second set of eyes and also Nick Ambrose at everythingindie.com.

  About the Author

  Lee Moan grew up in the English seaside town of Torquay, birthplace of the 'Queen of Crime', Agatha Christie. He now lives in the neighbouring town of Paignton. His stories have been published in numerous print and online magazines including Hub, Dark Recesses Press, Murky Depths, Jupiter SF, Twisted Tongue, and a forthcoming story in Realms of Fantasy. In 2009, Wolfsinger Press published his first book, 'The Hotel Galileo', the first volume in an alternate-history mystery series. In 2005, he was a finalist in the first Aeon Award with his story 'Juju', which appears in his collection, The Midnight Men and Other Stories. More recently, he reached the finals in L Ron Hubbard's Writers of the Future Contest. He recently graduated with a degree in Literature from the Open University. Visit the Steam-powered Typewriter Blog at: http://leemoan.blogspot.com/.

  Also Available

  Forever

  Symbiosis

  The Midnight Men and Other Stories

  The Barclay Heath Mysteries

  The Hotel Galileo

  The Vanished Race

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sp; Now read on for an exclusive preview of Lee Moan's forthcoming novel

  The Door in the Sky

  The hansom cab arrived at the Deptford wharf just before eight o’clock under a dismal olive and silver sky. The horses’ hooves clattered noisily on the waterfront cobbles, startling a flock of gulls which had settled on the bell post. With a brisk tug on the reins the driver brought the geldings to a halt.

  “Here you are, Inspector,” he said.

  Darknoll opened the cab door and climbed down onto the creaking boards of the jetty. Despite his heavy overcoat the cold quickly penetrated his bones. A fine spray from the water fell on his skin with a tenderness he found unsettling. At the far end of the pier a group of dark figures moved about in a shifting screen of grey mist.

  “Murder, is it, sir?” the driver asked. “Nasty one, I’ll wager, judging by all them bobbies.”

  Darknoll looked up at him.

  “Thank you, driver,” he said, with heavy emphasis on the last word.

  The young man wilted under Darknoll’s gaze and shook the reins, leading the cab away without another word. Darknoll watched the hansom vanish into the swirling fog;

  in no time at all, the sound of hooves had faded to an echo.

  A pale face emerged from the mist. It was Sergeant Lampshire. His deputy had sent the cab to collect him at his home, dragging him away from a hearty meal and the promise of a pleasant evening by the hearth with Louise.

  “Evening, Inspector. Apologies for sending a taxi to collect you. All the police carriages are out on duty this evening. It’s an eventful night I’m afraid to say.”

  “No matter,” Darknoll said. “I only hope this is worth my while.”

  Lampshire did not answer immediately, pulling up the collars of his overcoat and peering into the wall of mist. Something about the younger man’s hesitancy alerted Darknoll to an unspoken fear which had reared up the moment the cab driver rapped on his door.