The Rotting Souls Series (Book 5): Charon's Vengeance

by Ray, Timothy A.

  The stench escaping the buttoned-up cabin was unmistakable; it smelled like death.

  When he had his stomach under control, he pushed the door the rest of the way and took a few steps back, giving it a chance to air out. That smell was too rank to be livable around. Either they were all dead or they’d left a body behind when they ran out of there. Still, would they have locked the door if they were on the run? If a zombie could open a door he’d be able to work a lock as well.

  Reaching up to the holster, he took the grip in hand and pulled it free, suddenly glad that he had stopped to pick up ammo on the way home.

  Was this the smart play? Would it be better to just lock the door and walk away? Why push his luck? Looking to the right, he saw his cabin twenty yards away and knew that there was no way he could do that. If there were dead inside he needed to deal with it before they got out and came after the nearest food source; his family.

  He heard the pounding of feet and he jerked his head around just in time to see Randy slam into the open door, his eyes searching, his jaw open in rage, the blood drained from his dark skin like he’d gone through the same surgery Michael Jackson did before the Bad album released. His brown button down was covered in blood, a large flap of skin hanging down his right cheek exposing the skull underneath. His fingers were just as grotesque, they looked like they had been clawing at something, digging down to the bone. And now they were reaching out for him as the legs pistoned forward and the dead man dove straight at him.

  Even though he’d been expecting it, he still couldn’t react fast enough, his hands coming up to hold the man back, Randy’s jaw struggling to get at him, his teeth clamping just inches from his nose. The bannister holding them up cracked; he saw what would happen next in his mind and he cringed as it came to pass. The old wood broke, the weight of the two men pushing it past its limits as they fell backwards off the porch. The gun left his grip, flying off into the air as he struck ground, a rock burying itself into the small of his back. He yelped in pain, the adrenaline rushing through him as he frantically tried to keep the dead man from tearing him to pieces. Randy had him by about fifty pounds and the substantial weight was making it harder and harder to keep the man from tearing into his face with his teeth. Hands began tearing at his sides, digging into his shoulders, and he screamed in pain as the cloth began to give way to the bony claws.

  After all that he’d gone through, the crap he’d done to get here, was it going to end shortly after his arrival at the hands of his undead neighbor?

  No! Rage filled him, gave him the fuel to resist the reaper’s call, if only for a few seconds. His biceps were starting to shake and the undead man attacking him would not tire, would only persist past normal human endurance; it was a race that he would lose in the end if something didn’t shift in his favor quickly.

  He’d come over to make sure there wasn’t a problem, for the safety of his family, but in the end, it might be him that put their lives in jeopardy.

  Crack.

  The weight that had been pushing down on him suddenly shifted to the side and he used all his strength to push the undead body as far as he could. Randy fell on the ground at his side, a shadowy figure blocking the light as Carrie stepped over him and brought the frying pan down again, this time caving in the man’s face, the jaw trying to clamp on the pan and teeth breaking as she pulled it free and brought it down again.

  “Still—think—it was a good idea—to go check on them—without me?” With every pause she brought the pan down, the metal starting to bend as the dead man’s skull turned to pulp.

  Out of breath himself, he pushed himself up onto his elbows, his heart hammering into his chest, and looked up at her with shock. “Really? Is that what you want to discuss right now? Okay! You were right, you are always right!”

  As he said it, he rolled over and got a knee under him, then got to his feet, his eyes scanning for the gun he’d lost on the way down. It was just under the porch, half buried in the brush, and he reached down and retrieved it, then held it tightly as he turned back to his wife.

  She was standing over Randy’s corpse, the frying pan bloodied and lying useless on the ground, the handle having broken off from the fury of her strikes. She was panting, sweaty, and was sporting a look of disbelief, like she couldn’t believe what she’d just done.

  “I heard you scream,” she managed between pants.

  He holstered his gun, walked forward and took her into his arms. She was in shock and the instant it hit her what she had done, she would break. She was a strong woman, but she’d never harmed anyone in her life, and it sucked that it had to be her to do it. If he had kept his weapon up, if he had discharged it the second Randy hit the door—but then, what if Randy had been alive when he took the shot? All it took was a second of hesitation and you were dead. He’d been lucky once again, but how long would it last? He felt that his luck had to be running out; he needed to be more careful.

  “I’m going to go check on his wife and kids. Maybe they were barricaded in their rooms? His hands are bloodied, like he’s been trying to claw through something. I can’t leave without checking. Do you want to stay here, wait for me to come back?” he asked, pulling her away and looking at her tear-filled face.

  She shook her head, “I’m not letting you go in there alone.”

  “Well, you bashed the shit out of your only weapon. I can wait if you want to go get another,” he smirked, trying to make light of the situation, trying not to look at the flies already landing on the dead man’s face at his feet.

  “No way. The second I leave, you’ll go in without me. You’ll see it as protecting me from danger, but that’s what you did before and look at what almost happened. I can’t lose you, you stubborn asshole!” she snapped, slapping him in the chest.

  Now that things were calming down, his body was staring to ache from the fall off the porch, and the strike against his chest left him more winded than it should’ve. “Fuck that hurt.”

  “Oh shut up, you big baby. Let’s go clear the house. If there is another on the loose in there, you’d think they’d have followed Randy out. If the kitchen is clear, I’ll find a weapon there to use. Wendy had that nice carving set she used on the duck that year. You remember, the one you wouldn’t get me?” she teased, stepping away from the corpse and keeping herself faced away from it.

  “And what good would it do you back in Mesa?”

  “Oh, I would have brought it with. That shit was nice,” she snarked, taking the first step and looking back at him. “Coming?”

  “Yes Dear.”

  Chapter 15

  I

  Despite her taking the lead up the stairs, she smartly waited for him to pass her at the doorway, his gun in hand. “No matter what, you stay behind me,” he whispered, noticing that the air within the cabin did indeed smell better, but was still rank nonetheless.

  “That’s gross,” Carrie muttered, moving her foot to the side after realizing she’d just stepped in vomit, her elbow over her nose as if it could block the rank air around them.

  “Bashing a guy’s skull so hard it turns to Jello is okay, but a little vomit on the shoe? No way!” he mocked, rolling his eyes as he stepped inside. “I’m going to clear the visible area first, then we can move onto the bedrooms. I need you to be my extra eyes but try to stay quiet. Tap my shoulder if you see anything.”

  She nodded, laying a hand on his left shoulder as he moved into the living room, his weapon sweeping along with his eyesight, trying to spy anything out of place. The couch was covered in blood and tissue, flies fighting for every inch of space, the stench nearly enough to make him vomit again. The glass coffee table had been shattered, the frame broken and spread about the room haphazardly. One of the legs had blood around it’s splintered end; it had been used as a weapon, then had been discarded. Glass crackled lightly under his feet as he moved to the right, the dining table askew, the chairs tossed around as if someone had thrown a tantrum and used the chairs as ammunit
ion.

  He pushed one aside with his leg, allowing a clear path to the kitchen, and glanced back to make sure his wife was okay. She nodded, eyes meeting his and then moving off towards the silent hallway to their left. Turning back around, he did his best to step carefully as he moved into the Peterson’s kitchen, glass crunching beneath his work boots. A first aid kit was on the ground in front of the sink, the cabinet doors ajar, the white box’s lid open with wrappers for bandages scattered nearby. Someone had been attacked and lived long enough to try and bandage themselves up.

  If they had survived, why hadn’t they come to Carrie for help?

  The block that held the kitchen knives was lying on its side, two blades missing. He hadn’t seen either yet, that was a good sign. Nothing else looked amiss in the kitchen, but it was empty, so he carefully turned and put his shoulder against the dividing wall, taking a long moment to glance down the hallway.

  “I hate to do it, but we’re going to need light. I can’t see shit in here and the sun must have gone down,” he whispered as quietly as he could.

  She nodded, then moved off to turn on the dining room light. “I’ll get the living room light as we go. But I would leave the hallway light off just in case.”

  It was what he was planning to do anyways, so he just smiled and lowered the gun, giving his shoulders a second to rest. The muscles were beginning to feel bunched up back there, he was not used to holding a weapon, much less for extended periods of time.

  The fall hadn’t help either. This lower back was on fire from where the rock had jabbed him, he needed a bloody pain killer.

  He took a few steps back into the living room, his knee banging into the leg of one of the fallen chairs, and he hissed as the pain shot up his thigh. “Damn it!” he croaked, doing his best not to cry out.

  Carrie bent down and slid the chair behind them, giving him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Sorry, should have warned you.”

  “It’s not on you.” Tentatively taking another step forward, he came around the fireplace, then looked down at the poker stand. “Take one of those pokers, just don’t hit me with it.”

  “Of course not,” she sneered, hand reaching for the copper handled rod. “I would never do it—accidentally.”

  He laughed at the old joke, their few attempts at bdsm so laughable they’d never been able to quit joshing each other over it. “If you’re nice, I might let you spank me later. Just not with that thing.”

  “Oh, I’m the one that needs to be nice?” she teased.

  It was odd, their ability to flirt after killing their undead neighbor, but it just came so naturally they were unable to help it. If it kept them distracted from what they were about, so be it.

  Sweat was staring to run down his sides, it was hot in here; the air had been turned off. It was cool outside, but with the doors and windows being shut and the decomposition of bodies, it felt humid, like they were moving through a sauna. He was going to have to take a shower after this, and even then, he might still stink to high heaven.

  There were four doors down there, three bedrooms and a bathroom. He was going to have to check each one, though he’d probably start with whichever one had the most damage to it; there was more chance that there was a survivor in there.

  The first two doors were clear, but the one at the rear left looked mangled, as if hands had been digging at hard soil instead of wood. There was a fingernail embedded in the cracked wood and he nearly lost his lunch again.

  That’s disgusting.

  The most disturbing thing about the Fly hadn’t been what Goldblum had turned into, but when he stood in front of the mirror and began peeling his fingernails off. Damned scene gave him nightmares.

  “Wendy? Are you in there? Jake? Melanie? Rose?” he called, aware that his back was protected and that if the zombies could have figured out how to open doors, they’d have done it already when he banged his knee in the living room.

  Not to mention the ruckus outside.

  Despite his calls, it remained silent; that was not a good sign.

  The door knob looked to be broken, how the hell was he going to get in? “Hello? Is anyone in there? It’s safe to come out if there is. We can’t open the door from this side.” He turned and looked at his wife. “I’m probably going to have to break that door down. It looks like it’s on it’s last legs anyways. There used to be an old metal ladder around back, you want to grab it and see if you can get a look inside that bedroom window, see if it’s worth the hassle or if I’m just inviting more trouble?”

  She gave him a look like he was just saying that to get rid of her and he shook his head. “Seriously, I don’t want to go through the trouble if there’s just another zombie on the other side of that door. Can you go look—please?”

  The truth was, he was trying to get rid of her, but he wasn’t about to admit that.

  With a huff, she turned and walked back down the hallway, her hand gripping the poker tight. If he wasn’t careful, she would use it on him, and not in a nice way.

  Once she was out of sight, he backed up and turned the knob on the door on the left; it was unlocked. The bedroom had a bunk bed, a dresser with a television on top of it, and an X-Box next to a bunch of video games. The TV was showing static, like it was tuned into an off channel, the X-Box power light slowly blinking white, as if in the process of shutting off.

  There was a pool of dried blood on the lower bunk, about where the chest of one of the children would lay, and he felt sorrow in his heart as he knew for sure that one of the kids hadn’t survived. The top bunk’s blankets were askew, pulled at, and the pillow on the floor suggested that someone had pulled it down while trying to climb up.

  He closed the door behind him as he moved to the bathroom door, the room empty, nothing but a towel pooled up in front of the tub to show anyone had used it recently.

  That left the master bedroom left to be checked. He opened the door slowly and looked around, careful to make as little noise as possible. The covers on the king bed had been thrown back, as if Randy and Wendy had been woken in the night and had jumped out of bed and had never come back to it. There were two suitcases in the corner, several boxes full of personal items, and a couple of candles that had melted down on the bedside table. They’d had a little romance before bed; he prayed it went well. Was probably the last happy moment they would ever have.

  There had been no sign of bodies in any of the three rooms, and while they could be out back or in the woods, he had a sick feeling that they were actually within the locked room; his despair increasing.

  Carrie had reentered the cabin and was glaring at him as he closed the door. “Told you, you just wanted to get rid of me, so you could check those rooms alone. I’m here to help you, you don’t have to do this by yourself and you don’t need to protect me. If we are going to survive what’s going on out here, we can’t do it by running off on our own, we need to do it together.”

  “If you have seen what I have seen, done what I’ve done to get here, then you wouldn’t be so quick to say that,” he protested, a hand up in defense. “It doesn’t matter, they’re empty. Did you get a look inside?”

  She looked like she wanted to continue arguing, but instead pursed her lips. “Yeah, Wendy looks to be dead. She’s lying with her back against the door, a knife protruding from her right eye socket. The youngest, Rose, is lying cradled against her, I can’t tell if she’s alive or dead, but I do know you’re going to need help if you plan on getting that door open.”

  “What about the left side of the room, did you see anything over there?” he asked, knowing that Rose was more than likely gone like her mother. Whether she loved her mother or not, laying next to a decomposing corpse would prove to be a little too much after a while; she would have moved away and gone to the other side of the room.

  “Nothing over there but a dresser and TV. I think it’s Jake’s room,” she told him. Jake was the oldest boy and probably the only one with the upper arm strength to get t
hat knife through his mother’s skull. He had lived that long at least. “His window looked fine, but the girls’ window? It looks like someone used a screwdriver on the catch, forced it open. I don’t think what happened here was an accident or a stray zombie. Someone did this to them.”

  He froze.

  “The kids. We left them alone in the other house. Go check on them,” he whispered urgently.

  This time she didn’t argue, she pivoted and ran, the poker damaging the wall with every swing of her arm.

  He had to get into this room fast so that he could be sure if the children were dead or not, then get back to his own place. If someone had done this, for whatever fucked up reason, then they were going to have to be extra cautious; pray that it wasn’t already too late.

  He lowered his gun and fired two shots into the place the door knob used to be, then gave it a good strike with his left shoulder. He felt it budge, but the dead weight on the other side pushed back against him. He gave it all the strength he had, feeling his back twinge, but not caring as he slowly forced it open inch by inch. “Jake? Melanie? Rose, are you there?”

  A small hand grasped the edge of the door, then blue eyes and a swollen face peered up at him. “Kyle? Mommy got hurt. Daddy went crazy.”

  “Melanie!” he exclaimed in relief, shoving the door the rest of the way and giving the little girl a chance to run through and hug his legs. “It’s okay, I’ve got you,” he comforted, running his hand over her back while trying to shift them back into the room. Carrie had said she’d seen Rose laying there, he needed to check to make sure she wasn’t just sleeping.

  “Is Jake in here with you?”