Supernatural: Night Terror

by John Passarella

  The rest of the zombies shambled around the broken window of the coffee shop, trying to gain entrance. Somebody inside was shoving them back with a coat rack, but there were too many zombies to keep at bay. The soldier bearing the brunt of the coat hooks wrapped his arm around it and staggered sideways, dislodging the pole from the coffee shop patron’s hands.

  The cops and the Winchesters rushed forward. Coming from the side, Sam had the best angle. If the cops fired at the zombies and missed, their rounds could maim or kill somebody inside the coffee shop. Dean’s line of sight was obstructed by Sam, so he stood ready, guarding Sam’s back.

  Gun down at his side, Dean waited as Sam methodically delivered headshots to the soldiers, above the nose if they faced him, at the base of the neck if their backs were turned, behind the eyes if they stood in profile. If they twitched at all after falling to the ground, Cerasi or Wild came forward to deliver a coup de grâce.

  While Dean had Sam’s back, he forgot nobody had his.

  If not for a wet grunt too close to his ear, he might not have reacted in time.

  He whirled around, leaning back to avoid a pale, bloody hand missing half its fingernails. The black-uniformed SS officer had emerged from behind one of the rain-streaked sidewalk signs. The zombie’s mouth was stretched impossibly wide, strands of bloody flesh lodged between chipped teeth, as it leaned forward to take a chunk out of Dean’s neck.

  Before it winked out, the bedside lamp failed to dispel the coalescing oily shadows above Trevor Deetz’s sleeping body. A humanoid shape resolved from the roiling darkness. First the head with glowing red eyes appeared, followed by a torso and arms before the emergence of spindly legs and nascent clawed feet, gripping the headboard.

  Unaware of the intruder in his bedroom, Trevor mumbled in his sleep, his brow damp with perspiration while his clammy left hand rested on the graphic novel he’d been reading before slipping into unconsciousness.

  The dark shape above the bed reached out a shadow arm and placed its unnaturally long fingers on Trevor’s forehead. The face sculpted from the darkness sighed in pleasure as its fingers began to ease downward through the membrane of flesh and the armor of bone.

  Trevor’s mumbling became agitated, the volume of his voice increasing. Beneath his eyelids, his eyes twitched furiously in accelerated REM sleep, while the muscles in his arms and legs shuddered as if experiencing repeated electrical shocks.

  The graphic novel slipped from beneath his hand, exposing a lurid cover. In the foreground, a fleeing woman screamed. Behind her, a zombie in a black Nazi SS uniform with a bloodstained face had torn out the throat of a man in a business suit. The title of the book was splashed across the cover in oozing red letters: Hitler’s Zombie Force.

  Trevor’s left arm rose from the blankets in a quick backhand motion, catching the edge of the graphic novel, which fell to the hardwood floor with a thud. At the sudden impact, Trevor became still. His eyes fluttered open and he stared at the ceiling. Noticing a slice of unusual darkness in his field of vision, he reached up and rubbed his eyes, then wiped away the film of perspiration on his brow.

  While he was distracted, the solid darkness expanded, becoming vaporous, and retracted to the wall above his bed. When Trevor next opened his eyes, everything had returned to normal. Taking a deep breath, he sat up, looked around his room and swept his hands across the blankets, searching.

  His bedside light flickered on, momentarily blinding him. That’s when he remembered. He’d been reading the graphic novel that included the first twelve issues of Hitler’s Zombie Force when he fell asleep. Couldn’t beat zombies for über gore factor. He thought it was awesome. Supposedly they were turning it into a movie, but his mom would never let him see it. She monitored his movie consumption like a hawk, but never looked twice at the stack of comics he brought home from Greg’s Comic Vault each Wednesday.

  Even though his comic books flew under her maternal radar, Trevor wasn’t stupid enough to test her inattention. Anything with a gory cover he kept in his bedroom and read there. The best comics he read at night, right before going to sleep. Never when he should be studying, because she might choose the exact wrong time to check on him.

  For a fleeting moment, he wondered if his mom had come into his room after he nodded off and confiscated the zombie book. That could explain the eerie sensation he’d had when he first woke up—the feeling that he wasn’t alone. He glanced at the door to check that it remained closed.

  Shaking off the sense of being watched, he leaned over the right side of the bed and checked the floor. Nothing. Then he scanned the left side and saw the graphic novel on the ground, exactly where he must have dropped it. Mystery solved. Scooping it up, he stared at the cover for a few moments, deciding if he wanted to continue reading.

  A powerful yawn interrupted his internal debate, so he had his answer. Setting the book down on the bedside table, he reached up and switched off the lamp. But he could hardly wait for tomorrow. The story had been getting good. Really bloody.

  Dean fired a wild shot into the zombie SS officer’s chest in an attempt to gain some separation. If Sam was correct about perception being reality with these manifestations, Dean’s odds of survival were nonexistent if he suffered so much as a single skin-breaking nibble from the undead Nazi storm trooper. Backing up, Dean found himself pushed up against the glass storefront.

  The zombie leaned forward, its ashen face contorted in equal parts rage and hunger, arms outstretched, fingers twitching in anticipation. Pink drool slipped from the side of its mouth.

  Dropping to his knees, Dean raised his automatic in both hands and fired straight up along the line of the zombie’s torso. The round caught it under the chin, piercing the soft palate and the roof of the mouth to burrow into its brain. The Nazi’s head whipped backward, his black peaked cap sailing to the sidewalk. Dean fired a second round for good measure and turned his head aside as the Nazi’s face erupted in a misty pink shower of gore.

  How dumb am I? Dean wondered. Avoid the lethal bite by creating an infectious mist he couldn’t help but inhale. Genius.

  But his concern proved unwarranted. A moment after the second bullet struck home, the SS officer, along with all remnants of his presence, either solid or aerosolized, winked out of existence.

  “They’re gone,” Officer Wild said, marveling. “How the hell do they just disappear?”

  “Same way they appeared,” Sam said.

  “And how’s that?” Cerasi asked.

  “Hell if I know.”

  “But we’re working on it,” Dean added as he climbed to his feet, figuring it was his turn to trot out the company line.

  For the first time, he noticed how all the stores and restaurants along the street displayed large black ribbons, wreaths with black bows, or photos of victims of the garment factory fire. Every time these people went out to shop or eat, they saw reminders of the tragedy. Not for the first time, Dean wondered if there was a connection between the tragic fire and the weird manifestations occurring all over Clayton Falls.

  “Not a single body,” Wild said, scanning the sidewalk, which moments before had zombie corpses piled like cordwood. “Suppose that means less paperwork.”

  With the undead threat gone, people were streaming out of nearby restaurants and stores, looking around in shock and disbelief. More than a few probably decided they had imagined the whole episode. Some probably vowed to give up their drink or controlled substance of choice. The rest, no doubt, just wanted to hop in their cars and rush home.

  As the coffee shop door swung open and several patrons pushed their way out, Dean held out his hands.

  “Wait!” he said. “Stop them.”

  Since he held a handgun in one of his outstretched hands, everyone paused mid-flight.

  “What?” Cerasi asked, confused.

  Sam caught Dean’s eyes and nodded. “He’s right. We need to check them.”

  “For what?” Wild asked.

  “Bites,” Dean said
.

  “You can’t be serious,” Cerasi said. “These people just survived...”

  “What?” Dean said. “You want to say it? Or should I?”

  “Zombies?” Wild said as if speaking the word incurred a hefty fine. “But they’re gone.”

  “Now,” Sam said. “Two minutes ago, they were here.”

  Dean realized the two cops were discounting what they had witnessed, what they had participated in. They had both put down Nazi zombies a few minutes ago and were acting as if none of it mattered because the evidence had vanished.

  “He’s bleeding,” a middle-aged woman said shrilly. “He was fighting them with that hat rack and now he’s bleeding!”

  Everyone in the crowd backed away from the man she indicated.

  Dean glanced down and saw blood dripping from the man’s closed fist.

  “Show us,” Sam said grimly.

  “It’s nothing,” the man said nervously. He had thinning hair, wore a black turtleneck under a brown suit jacket with faded jeans. Looked like a harmless college professor. No matter how innocuous he looked now, if he’d been infected, he was a danger to anyone within biting distance. “I—I cut my hand on the glass.”

  “Then you won’t mind if we take a look.”

  The man hesitated.

  In unison, Dean and Sam raised their handguns. At this range, between the two of them, they were guaranteed of at least one headshot.

  “Wait!” Wild said. “This is crazy.”

  “Crazy night,” Dean said.

  Cerasi raised his hands. “He’s not—he’s not like those other things.”

  “Not yet,” Sam said.

  “You can’t just shoot him!” Wild said.

  “Second he goes zombie-eyed,” Dean said coldly. “Watch me.”

  “Okay. Okay,” the man said. He raised his right arm, showing them his hand, wrapped in a bloodstained white handkerchief. Slowly, he removed the cloth and exposed the wound.

  Dean glanced down at the man’s palm. A nasty cut crossing from the middle of the palm to the skin above the thumb. As the man patted the welling blood, the smooth edges of the wound were apparent.

  Dean lowered his gun. “You should have that looked at.”

  “Thanks,” the man said and rewrapped his hand.

  Everyone in the crowd visibly relaxed.

  “Show of hands,” Sam said.

  One by one, the patrons raised their hands for inspection. Dean made a quick visual check of all exposed skin, including necks, arms and legs, buoyed by the fact that none of the zombies had entered the shop. Only the people who’d stood closest to the windows had been at risk. In the end, they were told to go home, leaving the Winchesters with the two bemused cops.

  “You really thought somebody could have been... infected?” Wild asked.

  “Can’t be too careful,” Dean said.

  “We don’t know what we’re dealing with yet,” Sam added in a more reasonable tone. “We have to view these... attacks as potentially lethal. In any number of ways.”

  “The report we heard placed the zombies on Main Street,” Dean said. “Anybody check there?”

  “We followed them here,” Cerasi said. “The municipal building area is usually quiet this late at night. Though now and then you’ll find mourners leaving flowers, cards, or stuffed animals at the memorial.”

  “Most pedestrian traffic ends up here later in the evening,” Wild said. “Around the restaurants and the shops with late hours.”

  “How can we be sure we got them all?” Cerasi asked.

  “Any others probably disappeared with the main group,” Sam said. “But De—Agent DeYoung and I will drive by before we leave to interview some other witnesses.”

  “Not necessary,” Wild said. “That’s our job. Right, Cerasi?”

  Cerasi nodded.

  Dean exchanged a look with Sam and saw they were in silent agreement. Now that Sam had his soul restored, they were in tune with each other again. Dean no longer had to guess at Sam’s motives and ruthless—bordering on sociopathic—approach to hunting. They would continue to check the site of any manifestation even if the Clayton Falls PD thought they had everything under control.

  With a quick peck on the cheek, Phil Meyerson’s wife had left him sitting in his usual spot at the end of the sofa, under the light from the table lamp as he worked to finish the daily New York Times crossword. The puzzle was his last mental exercise of the day, something he hoped would keep his aging mind healthy. “Use it or lose it,” as he often told his wife. And the last thing he wanted to lose was his mind.

  Tuned to a national all-news channel, the television was muted while he worked on the puzzle. Now and then he would glance up and read the news crawl to make sure he wasn’t missing anything important.

  The later the hour, the more often he checked the television screen. No escaping the fact that he was old and getting older. And as much as he tried to keep his mind nimble, his body failed him more often lately and he succumbed to simple physical fatigue. He would nod off with the crossword halffinished and if he awoke before morning, he’d stubbornly pick up where he left off, plugging away. That pattern had become so familiar, his wife’s calm acceptance of it came as a surprise. Soon he would have to change his habit. Tackle the puzzle earlier in the day. Or give it up altogether.

  Retirement had been difficult for him to accept. In all his years at the CDC, he depended daily on his mental faculties. Puttering around the house and garden seemed like a waste of any talents and skills he had ever possessed. Where were the challenges? Where were the goals?

  He’d thought about teaching at a university, if one would have him. But he hadn’t kept up with the journals and research and the cutting-edge science. His eyes lacked the stamina for all the reading and he seemed to need stronger eyeglass prescriptions every six months. Lines of text would blur and his eyes would tear with the effort.

  Staring at the crossword clues and the tiny boxes for an hour or more started his eyes burning. He rubbed them for the twentieth time, glanced at the news crawl text he’d read six times already, or was it seven. Political posturing, fluctuating stock prices, banking regulations, civil unrest in the Middle East... Everything seemed to merge into a monotonous string of the same old news recycled again. No exotic diseases or viral outbreaks or global influenza pandemics. Nothing to remind him of the past, when he had a purpose...

  He tilted his head back against the sofa cushions and closed his eyes. For a few moments, his burning eyes experienced exquisite relief. The cooling sensation was so welcome, he decided to leave his eyes closed for a few minutes more, then he would continue...

  Darkness descended from the ceiling, creeping along the wall to hover near Meyerson’s head. Where the lamplight fell against the thickening shadows, it was absorbed, unable to penetrate the darkness taking shape. Unable to break apart the arm or long fingers that reached for Phil Meyerson’s forehead.

  Meyerson slept and the darkness began to feed.

  As Dean drove slowly down Main Street, Sam pointed to the lone mourner standing near the curved wall of the garment factory memorial, head bowed.

  “Should we ask if he’s seen any zombies?”

  “If he saw zombies,” Dean said, “he’d be long gone.”

  “Slow down,” Sam said.

  “What is it?” Dean asked, but then noticed it himself.

  The man was trembling, twitching where he stood. Possibly overcome with emotion, remembering a lost loved one. But Dean’s gut told him something else was at work. He eased the Impala to the curb and switched off the engine.

  “Could be he’s infected,” Dean said. “If he is...”

  “Perception is reality,” Sam said, nodding. “Worst case scenario. He’s a goner.”

  “We do this,” Dean said. “Kill a civilian. We’ve turned a corner.”

  “I know,” Sam said grimly and stepped out of the car, gun in hand.

  Soulless Sam wouldn’t have a problem pulling
the trigger. Hell, he’d shoot first and ask questions later, Dean thought. This one might be on Dean. He’d have to be prepared.

  Dean followed Sam, gun drawn, and together they approached the man.

  “FBI,” Dean said. “We’d like a word.”

  “Help me,” the man whispered harshly.

  “Excuse me?” Sam said. “Mister, are you okay?”

  The man turned toward them with pained precision, as if coordinating his muscles for that simple task required extreme effort. His head rose from his chest and he stared at them with bloodshot eyes, which seemed to lack a pupil. Blood trickled from his ears, nose and mouth. An inflamed red rash covered every square inch of his exposed skin, as if all the blood in his body wanted to vacate the premises as soon as possible.

  The Winchesters stopped in their tracks, stared.

  The man raised a hand toward them and his fingers dripped blood.

  In a voice harsh with pain, he gasped, “Help me!”

  When he blinked, tears of blood streamed down his cheeks.

  “Buddy, what happened to you?” Sam asked, keeping his distance.

  “I need help!”

  The man staggered toward them.

  Sam and Dean raised their guns.

  “That’s far enough,” Dean said.

  The man stopped walking toward them, but he continued to twitch.

  “He’s not a zombie, Dean.”

  “Looks like a friggin’ blood grenade.”

  From the opposite direction, a police cruiser approached. The light bar came on, but not the sirens. The cruiser swung across two lanes of traffic and parked on the shoulder on the opposite side of the memorial.

  “It’s Officer Blondie,” Dean said.

  “Wild,” Sam said. As she approached, Sam called. “We meet again!”

  “And you two with your guns on a civilian,” Wild said.

  “Is he?” Dean called. “One of yours?”

  “Of course, he...” She stopped talking as she walked toward the man in a wide arc with her hand on the butt of her holstered sidearm. “Sir? What’s your name?”

  He looked at her and coughed when he tried to speak.