sidekick dies, the headlines ran. He wondered if there would be any headlines to commemorate his own death, or whether there would only be a brief obituary buried next to an advertisement for weight loss pills.
The zombies leaped down, covering him.
The front door opened and he fell inside. The Grimm Brothers came along for the ride, falling atop him as he slid onto wall-to-wall carpeting. A shot sounded, as loud and as sharp as a firecracker exploding by his eardrum, and one of the Brothers’ heads disintegrated into fragments. A moment later, a second shot cleared the remaining zombie of anything he might have on his conscience.
Wiping the wet debris off his face, Missouri heard the front door slam and lock. When his vision cleared, he saw Kory reaching down for him, a hand extended to help him off the floor. In his other hand, Kory held his father’s hunting rifle.
Missouri didn’t take the kid’s hand. Pointing at his side, he said, “It’s no good. Broke some ribs, maybe a vertebra or three.”
“My mom’s car’s in the garage. We can get out of here,” Kory said.
Where before he’d seen a terrified boy, the face that stared down at him now belonged to a brave young man.
“I can’t drive,” he told him.
“No need, I can,” the boy said. “Y’know, video games.”
Missouri smiled. “You go. I’ll just slow you down.”
A window broke somewhere in the house. The dead were getting inside. There wasn’t much time. The expression on Kory’s face told him he knew the odds of them both escaping were long, but that he was resolved to stay the course. “You came for me. I realized just now, looking out the window at you on the street, what being a hero is all about. It’s not about superpowers, not about what you can do that others can’t—It’s about being willing to do it.”
They stared at each other in silence. More windows broke. The moaning grew louder as the dead invaded the house from all angles.
“I won’t leave you.”
“You can’t save me,” the Fantom said.
“Yeah?” Kory raised the rifle. Guns. All of the new heroes used them. “Try me.”
Undead Love
by
Joe Martino
Before I tell you this story, I have to tell you the first thing I noticed was the smell.
It is a hot and sticky night in New York City. I can feel the heat and humidity permeating the city even with my powers. The east coast of the United States has been gripped in a heat wave for over two weeks and there is no end in sight. In the past fourteen days we have had temperatures over a hundred degrees for twelve of them. It is Hell on Earth and this doesn’t help the smell. Even if there were still weathermen on the television, I doubt anyone would be happy with them right now. But let me tell you, people have a lot more to worry about right now than knowing the weather. Now, keep in mind, I’ve been around death a lot. I have been a cop for over ten years and three of them have been as a homicide detective. When Maldestrak attacked, I laid in the rubble of Las Vegas with thousands of dead and mutilated people around me. Months before that, I watched my wife die because of my ambition. This is different. I mean, the smell of death is there. But it is a foul, rank smell. It is like the smell that you get when you burn leather. Add to that the smell of death. Yeah, take that smell, and wrap it in the full bag that you use to pick up your dog’s leavings, and you will be close.
My name is Tom Wyatt.
I am the super “hero” known as Shadowflame.
Some time has passed since I was granted abilities that set me apart from other men. The sacred flame of shadow, the holy men called it “Isht,” that now resides within me has granted me super powers. I am invulnerable to most attacks, I can fly, fire force bolts from my hands, and I have limited telekinetic ability. It seems the Wyatt family line was destined to inherit this honor from a pair of holy men that are from the long-dead planet Zakraan. Their planet was destroyed by the despot and third holy man, Maldestrak who, after destroying his own homeworld, had been cutting a swath through the universe in a beeline for Earth. Long story short, he came, I beat him, we lost the city of Las Vegas in the process. Still, as you can tell by us having this chat, the earth was saved. But now I am asking myself if it was worth all the effort and pain that it took to defeat Maldestrak and save the earth from what would have been an enslaved existence.
Let me see if I can explain this as simple as possible. The dead have come back to life. This is no “B” movie or someone’s idea of a sick joke. No one is putting on Facebook that Grandma is back and Christmas has never been better. Three weeks or so ago, fresh and newly-dead people started twitching. Doctors had no idea what was happening, but none of the people who had recently passed away were devoid of movement. It was as if somehow they were connected to a low electrical charge. As time progressed, things got even more bizarre. The twitching turned into convulsing and then into real movement. The dead were rising and they seemed to only have one pronounced desire—to devour the living. You would think with the amount of zombie movies that have been produced in the last fifty years that people would have thought to burn the newly dead, but our curiosity seems to have gotten the best of us. We were unprepared for how fast they went from twitching to full blown aggressive movement. A few days later, the dead were actually rising from their graves and dragging themselves through the streets and alleyways. It was no longer a select few of freshly-dead corpses that were being reanimated; it was all dead people who were able to claw, dig or break out of wherever they were interred.
Flash forward a bit and here I am. I’ve been wading through these undead masses for what seems like days. We still have no idea how this happened or what needs to be done to stop it, but the situation only seems to be getting worse. Every time I think I have it under control, another pack seems to pop up. They are slow, and easy to handle considering my abilities. But even I can get tired sometimes, even if it is only an emotional exhaustion. Of all the things that seem to bother me about these creatures, the thing that really gets me is their eyes. I can’t get over how they look past you even when they are looking at you. And did I mention the smell?
Another legion of these putrid masses is coming toward me. As they come closer I fire an energy blast through the middle of the crowd. You would think that this would have made a dent but, no. The hole I created gets closed up as if I am trying to hold off a tidal wave. They come in, wave after wave. There is no end to them. I fire another blast with the same result. I have to rethink my strategy. The one thing that they do react to is my flame. Whether it is the heat or the sacred pure source of its power doesn’t matter to me. It works and I use it to funnel them into an abandoned navy yard. There are so many of them so I don’t try and get them all in there at once. I work toward getting the bulk of them in, and I can pick off the one-offs and stragglers once I am done. They are slow and cumbersome and easy targets, but when they are all together like this they are impossible to stop. It takes over an hour, but I get them into the shipyard and drop a building behind them so they can’t get away.
As much as I don’t want to do it, I leave them for a much-needed break and fly up to the roof of a nearby building. I need to get away from them for a moment. I sit and watch in utter shock and amazement at the tenacity of these creatures. They are determined, focused and amazingly powerful in a group. They have the ability to work together in a way that they never would have if they were still alive. Their combined strength is enough to nudge the building I dropped behind them. A building! I can’t help but think that if it wasn’t for the aliens that gave me this power, I’d be wandering around down there as well. I would also be just one more of the faceless masses. I mean, I was going to kill myself. I did kill myself. I pulled the trigger that was pressed against my temple. If Granolynd and Treetanne didn’t transport me to their ship that was orbiting the earth at that moment, I’d be dead and the earth would have never had me as a champion. But then again, at this point Maldestrak would be the r
uler of Earth. A small part of me wonders if this would have happened if he was able to take over the planet.
I am convinced that somehow one of my sworn enemies has something to do with this. Don Tony Baltinetti has been meddling in things that he shouldn’t be in his obsession to kill me ever since I kicked the crap out of his bully nephew Tommy. Sorcery, genetic manipulation, clones. Any one of these things could have contributed to this insane zombie apocalypse. I also wouldn’t put it past Doctor Anarchy to somehow be involved. He can control many functions in the human brain. Who can say if he can or can’t control the dead? He was able to make me believe for a moment that Janice was still alive, and that we were still living happily as if nothing had happened. Of course, that was just to satisfy his sadistic nature and torture me before he attempted to kill me. I will get to the bottom of this if I can find the time. I am too busy trying to save the living and breathing people that still exist in the city. I was able to help the National Guard and fly a number of families and other people to a safe area outside the city. The government seems to be as clueless as anyone as to why this is happening. The military have cordoned off a few towns in New Jersey and Connecticut, and so far they have been able to keep the dead out. But who knows how long they will be able to keep them safe. Life as we once knew it is surely gone.
Before they have the opportunity to escape my makeshift prison, I go down to incinerate them all. I know that they are dead, and my force bolts don’t hurt them as it strips what semblance of life remains. But they are people. They are kids, fathers, wives, grandmothers—in other words, they are us. People who have been stripped of life, hope, love, joy, rent, cable bills and most of all, choice. I’ve disintegrated all makes and models tonight, and they just keep coming. Even as their dead eyes and clawing hands try to kill me and rip my uniform off, I remember what they once were. I barely feel them through my suit. But, I know they are there, and I have to deal with them.
After the Navy Yard, I clear off another block in Manhattan and then I see it. I see her. Of all the things I haven’t thought of in the endless hours, days and weeks that I have been trudging through this hell, it is her. My wife Janice died a little over a year ago. But, here she is walking, as if nothing even happened. Well, that isn’t exactly true. She is dead; she is a walking, creaking, oozing corpse. I blast through the few dead that surround her and fly to her side. I look into her lifeless eyes with hope when I know that there isn’t any. She starts to move toward me.
Lifeless.
Moaning.
Creaking.
Dead.
As she approaches, a strange compulsion—for some odd reason I begin to talk to her.
“Janice,” I say, “it is me, Tom.”
Nothing but a guttural groan.
As she comes even closer, I push the button on the side of my facemask that opens it. I try to show her my face in the useless hope that she will somehow recognize me. I look at her once beautiful visage and all I can see is the gray, flaking, oozing skin and blue lips. But, I still see Janice. I still see my wife. My beautiful, beautiful wife whom I shared my life with. I try again to speak to her. Deep down and again, I know it is hopeless.
“Baby, please show me that you are in there.”
I start to cry.
I am really close to her now. She raises herself closer to my face and I can’t help but to gag a little as I smell that awful smell, but I don’t move and I don’t push her back. I let her come. I welcome it. I speak soft words to her. Her eyes are hollowed out, oozing and empty.
“I love you. I miss you”
She gives me nothing in return but the same guttural groans and that smell. She grabs my neck and I lean in. She bites my face and I let her. Her rotted teeth break off as if she was biting into concrete.
I cry some more.
“I know that you are no longer there, no longer alive, baby. I’ve wished, prayed, for this day. For the time when you could be returned to me. But, not like this. Not like this.”
I pull her close. I kiss her ever so gently on the forehead as she scratches and claws at me, her tongue hanging from where her jaw and teeth had just shattered on my face. I whisper things that only she and I would know about. Her gray skin and rancid smell are starting to become welcome to me. But, I know that this isn’t right. It isn’t her. Not really.
I pull her even closer to me. Not remembering my strength, I break her spine. A strange oozing slime not unlike a green and pus-ridden custard splashes on the ground at our feet. She is so brittle. The crazy thing is she doesn’t even feel it. She continues to rake and pull at me as if some base instinct is at work in what is left of her mind. She wants to kill me, she wants to devour my flesh. I know that she is dead. We are practically dancing in the ooze that was once in her bloated carcass. With another kiss on her forehead and a farewell, I let the sacred black flame that powers me envelop us in its midnight embrace. I look into her dead eyes once more as she disintegrates in my arms, the ashes floating into the hot, dark sky.
I’ve never loved anyone like I loved Janice. She was my rock and I took her for granted. It crushes me to watch her die for a second time.
I die a little myself, once again, for a second time . . .
Fable the Immortal
by
Rhiannon Paille
I waited, listening to the silence, the beat of the drum of my heart ringing in my ears. I wrung my hands out along my sides and tilted my neck back and forth, working out imaginary kinks. My entire body was the pinnacle of perfection, from my thirty-two-inch hips to my twenty-inch waist and my plastic chest. Aches and pains had melted away centuries ago with the faint trickle of water that slipped down my throat. I no longer felt much of anything, nothing except the excruciating pain in my traitorous heart.
I took in a deep breath and blew it out. Opaque shapes hung in the pale light. There were slits at the top of my lead container. The slits were so miniscule I couldn’t fit my fingers through them even if I melted into water and slid up the walls. The slits led to a narrow tube that filtered in light from the surface. I turned my hands over and back again, over and over, contemplating the scars from wounds that never hurt to begin with. I had seen my own blood smeared over top of my skin like it was a personalized blanket. Endorsed by Fable.
This was the waiting room. I was used to standing here in my nine-inch combat boots and tight leather pants. I had a black and red corset on; it pushed my plastic chest so sky high it was almost tumbling out of the top. I squared my shoulders as the footsteps began methodically marching down the hallway. My orange-red hair was a mess of knots and curls that trickled toward my lower back, my face still covered in prepubescent freckles that hadn’t faded in centuries.
Nothing about me ever faded.
I was everlasting.
I was never-ending.
I was immortal.
The creaks and groans began to sound as the gears shifted and the ten-foot-thick lead door slid out of the way. A flash of blue hit my shoulder care of the stun gun Hattie Alexander was holding. I let the electricity run through my body and instinctively dropped on one knee in a crouch. Jonathan Cray came around me from behind with the thickest adamantium chains I had ever seen. Jonathan made quick work of the bolts and forced me to stand. I felt his labored breathing on the back of my neck and for a brief second I thought about a backwards headbutt, but didn’t do anything out of the ordinary.
Hattie smiled at me, her stun gun still pointed in my face. She was a pretty woman, in her late forties now and showing the signs of laugh lines around her eyes and mouth. She had that blood-red, auburn wavy hair thing going for her, and was wearing the standard issue one-piece. She dressed up the black jumper with a butterfly-designed belt that only made her mid-section look fatter than it was. I always said, “Don’t flaunt it if you don’t got it,” but maybe they stopped airing those commercials.
“Ready for your big performance, Fable?” Hattie asked, her high-pitched voice practically sawing my
brain in half.
I kept my black eyes cold on hers and nodded. Jonathan nudged me forward, and that was when I realized he had already hooked up my feet. Same unbreakable material, nothing but the best for Fable Ketterling.
Jonathan had grown since I last saw him. He was taller and his fair hair was creating stubble on his firm jaw line. I was a five-foot nothing and he was a six-foot something. My head barely reached his chest, and behind his uniform I heard the thump thump thump of his heart. Underneath that death trap of a fashion statement he had golden-brown skin from the heat of the deadly sun, and scorch marks burned into the edges of his fingers. I tried not to blush when his right hand covered my pale spaghetti arm to guide me.
We walked down the long, dimly-lit tunnel in silence, the chains rattling with every step I took. I was numb to the process, numb to the cool air filtering through the underground manicured caverns. People in Temperance didn’t let anything grow or form by accident. The things they did were deliberate. They had to be, after all that had happened and the consequences that followed.
They turned the corner, the same corner I had turned thirteen hundred and thirteen times since I had been born. If we were still counting using the old calendars, it would be 3333AD and I would be thirteen hundred and twenty-eight years old.
I was the only one counting my age anymore.
I didn’t look a day over fifteen.
They ushered me down another hallway which went from the clay structures to the embroidered Turkish rugs that lavishly stretched across the mahogany-plated hallways. There were all sorts of gold-framed mirrors and glass lights lining the walls. They were pretty with their rose-colored light bulbs and intricate artwork. I admired the brass they were made from, and tried not to think about bucking against Jonathan and knocking them off the walls, causing the pretty carpet to catch fire.
We reached the double doors at the end of the hall after what seemed like hours of trekking up a gradual incline. The room I was ushered into was oval, and stretched out like an accordion. Hattie’s footsteps clicked along the white linoleum tile as she crossed the room, fluttering like a bird and screaming at the actual teenage girls that were perched on a white settee in the center of the room. They scurried behind a screen as I was led over to one of the four marble pillars, the chains fitting around it to secure me in place. Jonathan stepped away and I watched the muscles in his back contract underneath the one-piece. He wasn’t going to stay for the girl time.
Metahumans vs the Undead: A Superhero vs Zombie Anthology Page 8
