Best New Zombie Tales, Vol. 3

by Anthology

  ~

  “Wake up, Sister Holly. Time to rise and shine!”

  Something wet and cool splashed against her face, and Holly sputtered. She tried to blink the liquid––she hoped it was only water––from her eyes. She tried to wipe her face off, but her arms wouldn’t budge. An instant later, she awoke enough to feel the ropes cutting into her wrists.

  Toby had tricked her. She’d let down her guard for a single moment and the bastard had gotten the drop on her. Now she was trapped in an isolated church in a world where nobody would hear her scream for help.

  Helluva a mind you got there, Holly. You’re a step ahead of everybody, a real thinker.

  She let the thought die and concentrated on her current problem. She was tied to a chair, and Toby stood over her. He grinned down at her, his face smug and frightening at the same time. A gleam that could only be considered malevolent blazed in his eyes.

  She couldn’t see much of the church. It was too dark, and Toby stood too close. She guessed she was at the front, near the altar, or whatever you called it. She could catch a glimpse of sunlight filtering through the stained glass windows, bursting through in solid rays where the glass was broken. That clinging aroma of death and rot filled the room, and she could make out the rattling of chains somewhere beneath the ringing in her ears.

  She glared up at Toby, wishing she could burn him with her hate.

  “What the fuck is this, you piece of shit?”

  “This?” he asked, spreading his arms wide and looking around. “This is my church.” He pointed toward the door.

  “Back there is the steeple.”

  He crouched in front of her, his face filling her vision.

  “I brought you inside…”

  He whirled away.

  “…so you could see all the people!”

  Molly screamed.

  The pews were full of the dead, their rotting bodies writhing and shaking. There were men and women, adults and children. They wore clothes of every type: suits and sundresses and t-shirts and shorts. Some had been dead longer than others––their flesh hung from bones in dried strands and clumps––while others were fresh, their skin moist while it decayed.

  A leather collar wrapped around the neck of each, a chain securing them to the pew. Their arms had been removed, the stumps raw and black and running. They hissed through their teeth, snapped their jaws, straining against their binds. The pews were heavy, though, made of sturdy wood, and they never even budged as the dead fought their trappings.

  Holly stared in wonder, her mouth open and her voice dying to a rasp. The dead leaned toward her, their remaining teeth clacking uselessly as they ached for a meal. Holly shook her head violently, then looked to Toby with frantic eyes.

  She could see now how insane he was. It was so obvious.

  He patted her head.

  “Okay. Maybe I wanted to freak you out a little.”

  She looked back out at the living corpses that filled the pews. There were at least two-dozen, maybe three. How long had they been here? How long had Toby been keeping them, and why?

  As if in answer, Toby slipped an arm around her shoulders.

  “I know. It’s hard to understand. I get that; believe me. I wasn’t lying to you before, Sister Holly. I did live in Friendship. Lived there my whole life, as a matter of fact. Hell, I was there, sitting in my living room, when the first reports came over the tube.

  “Like just about everybody, I guess, I watched the first week or so on television, wondering what to make of the whole thing. I mean, c’mon! Dead people were returning to life, eating the living people, and turning them into walking dead folk. That’s not something you see everyday!

  “So, I sat there, and I watched, and I searched my mind for an answer. There had to be one out there, some way to make sense of all of it. I just had to sit and ruminate on it long enough. Sooner or later, it was going to dawn on me.

  “And it did.”

  Holly watched him, holding her breath.

  He leaned in close and whispered to her. “Angels.”

  He took a step toward the first row of pews, swinging a single arm wide.

  “Angels, Sister Holly! What else is going to make the dead rise from the grave? What else could possibly stop death in its very tracks and transform it into life? The angels have come down from heaven and taken root in the only form available to them, that of the dead and rotting.

  “I realized they’re trying to tell us something, Sister Holly, something important. All we have to do as a species is prove ourselves worthy of God’s love. Once we’ve done that, the angels will deliver their message, and a new era of peace will greet the Earth!”

  Holly let his words settle for a minute, then she replied, her eyes never leaving Toby’s. “You’re fucking crazy.”

  His fist struck hard and fast, jolting her head back like a speedbag. She let out a single groan and tried to shake the cobwebs loose.

  “You think I’m crazy? Who the fuck are you, Sister? Miserable little shit, got her whole town massacred and ran away from it! You aren’t holy, bitch; you’re a Goddamned heathen! You just want to feed off the Earth, suck it dry! I want to learn, Sister Holly! I want God to bestow his blessings onto me so that I can heal this sick world!”

  “By killing these people? You killed them, didn’t you?”

  He shook his head. “I did no such thing. I made vessels ready for the coming angels, and if I take good enough care of them––if I can prove myself worthy and ready––they’ll deliver God’s lesson.”

  “Take care of them? Is that what lobbing their fucking arms off is for?”

  He frowned. “I’m not a fucking retard.

  “Truth of the matter is, The Lord works in mysterious ways. These angels, they’re one of those ways.” He walked down the center aisle, and the dead on either side snapped at him, their chains keeping them at bay.

  He patted one on the shoulder, snatching his hand away when the zombie tried to bite him. “See? They kill us, but they want to save us. It’s all very Old Testament; I don’t expect you to understand.”

  “So what do you expect me to do, Toby? You going to kill me, make me another member of your little flock?”

  A hurt expression flashed across his face. He placed a hand to his heart, leaning back. “What? Why, no, Sister Holly! I have enough angels. Now, I just need to take care of them, bestow blessing unto them until they feel the desire to bestow their blessing unto me.”

  A chill raced down Holly’s spine. She closed her eyes for a moment, opened them. She had an idea what was coming next.

  When Toby drew the knife out of his waistband, she realized she was right.

  He approached her slowly, letting her get a good look at the blade. When he drew close enough, her grabbed a fistful of her hair.

  “It appears it’s communion day!”

  The knife sawed through her hair, yanking the roots from her scalp. She screamed, then bit down and rode out the pain.

  The pressure suddenly eased, and Toby stepped away with a handful of her hair, the hair that she hadn’t even realized had been growing so long.

  He stepped toward a zombie seated directly across from her in the first pew. It wore a filth-smeared suit that might have once been a lighter shade of blue.

  “This used to be the preacher here,” Toby said. “I believe he told me his name was Michael, but I can’t be too sure. It was a pretty long time ago.”

  He pulled a few strands of hair from the fistful he carried with him, dangled them over the dead man’s head. The former preacher leaned back, his jaw opening and closing, black tongue flopping out like a dying fish.

  “That’s right, Padre. Little appetizer for ya.” Toby lowered the hair into the corpse’s mouth, and the preacher sucked it in like pasta, chewed it for a long moment.

  Holly had to turn away when the creature swallowed.

  She heard a crescendo of groans, heard Toby cheer the dead on as he fed them morsels of her hair. S
he tried to think. There had to be a way out of this, someway to break free. She pulled against her binds, but they held fast. The son of a bitch had tied her to a chair. She was his to play with until he felt differently.

  She guessed that would be a long time coming.

  She tried again, leaning forward as far as she could, opening her eyes to watch her captor as he fed his congregation. She eyed him so carefully that she almost didn’t notice the chair’s rear leg’s lift from the ground.

  Her eyes widened. She could move! She watched Toby, making sure he wasn’t watching, and she checked her balance. She leaned forward, curling in half until the chair lifted completely off of the ground. She lowered it to the floor again, but continued to struggle. She had an idea, but she knew she would only have one chance, and that depended on catching the lunatic off guard.

  She glanced at the dead folk in the pew in front of her, watching as the former preacher and three others chewed on her hair, an expression like ecstasy filling their faces. They looked so anxious, so hungry. She knew the next thing Toby carved off of her wouldn’t be hair, and she also knew she couldn’t let that happen.

  He’d have to kill her first.

  “All gone!” he said, his voice almost child-like.

  You can do this, Holly, she told herself. You ran a town for almost a year. You can handle one religious psychopath.

  “What happens now?” she asked, putting an extra hint of terror in her voice.

  He smiled. “Oh, I think you know, Sister Holly.” He pointed the knife at her, twisting it in the air as he stepped closer. “I think you have a really good idea what I’m gonna do next.”

  He stepped past the first pew, stood directly in front of her.

  “Do you have a good idea?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I’ve got a fuckin’ great one.”

  She screamed at the top of her lungs as she surged forward, lifting the chair behind her. She slammed her shoulder into Toby’s gut, and she almost smiled when she felt him double over, the air whooshing from his lungs. She kept pushing, pumping her legs across the carpet, until she hit something solid.

  Toby flew off of her, landing on the preacher and the rest. He tried to scramble away, but it was too late. Their teeth had already clamped down on him. The dead holy man had him by the throat, and with a great wrenching movement, ripped the flesh and tendons and veins away, spraying the area with blood.

  Toby’s scream died before it could even get started.

  Holly staggered backward, then leapt into the air, leaning back. She landed with her full weight, and the chair cracked and splintered around her. She kept her eyes on Toby, watching the light drain from his eyes, as she struggled to her feet and managed to wrench her hands free of the rope coiled around her wrists.

  “Is that the message you wanted?” she asked, but the only reply was the sound of teeth chewing meat.

  Slowly, Holly walked down the center aisle, ignoring the dead as they leaned out, trying desperately to reach her with their jaws. She didn’t bother to stop and look for water. She would find a creek in the forest. Instead, she stepped across the church’s deserted lot and onto the country road beyond. She would walk until she found Route 62, and from there she’d make her way to the proving ground.

  Maybe there she would find something worth believing in.

  Those Below

  JEREMY C. SHIPP

  Say you’re lost in the hustle-bustle of the local farmer’s market in search of some shiny bibelot for your girlfriend, and you find your mother mouth-to-mouth with a man who isn’t your father. In fact, he’s nothing like your father. He’s skinny and shaggy and short. You tell yourself that if he at least looked like your father, you could stomach the scene. Deep down you know that’s not true.

  And maybe that’s not how it happens. Maybe you track her down. Maybe you climb the fruitless mulberry in front of their house and that’s how you cut your leg. Maybe you bought yourself some night-vision goggles off of e-bay. Maybe you’re watching and waiting, and when you finally do see them together, in their bedroom, naked, you drop a bomb of vomit onto an unsuspecting yard gnome below.

  You think, “Get your fucking hands off my mother.”

  But she’s not your mother, is she? She used to be. Before she moved in here. Before she changed her name. Before the funeral. Say this was your mother, and this is your life. You’d be here too, like me. You’d hear about Porter from a friend of a friend, and you’d show up at his doorstep with a hundred bucks and a wrenching knot in your gut.

  Porter opens the door. “Yeah?”

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

  “You’re Hadley?” he says.

  “Yeah.”

  “Alright. Come in.

  I follow him inside. My mind spins, but I still notice that his home is a shitty place. Every step and my feet crunch down on trash and squish on soggy carpet. Lines of duct tape patch a few holes in the wall, but most are left gaping. I stop breathing through my nose before I have time to identity the sour stench assaulting the air.

  He takes me to an empty room. At this point, the walls are more hole than wall. Under more relaxed circumstances I would crack up over such irony as the tarp on the floor, but I’m more in the mood for weeping.

  “You brought the money?” he says.

  I nod and hand him the bill.

  He gives it back. “Not until after.”

  “Oh.”

  He takes another look at the money. “That’s a hundred dollar bill, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t think I’ve seen one before. In person, I mean.”

  “Oh.” I stuff the thing in my pocket, almost violently.

  “Should I get undressed?” he says, and starts for his belt.

  “I’m not here for… that.”

  “I know, man.” He grins. “Just some people like me naked when they’re doing it. I don’t mind either way.”

  I consider this. “Keep your clothes.” Part of me, though, wants to give the other answer. The thought makes me shudder.

  “Whatever floats your boat.” He kneels. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  I take a step forward, and then pause. “Is this going to hurt you?”

  “Fuck, man, what do you care?”

  “I care.”

  “You say that now. Let’s see if you ask me again in five minutes.”

  “Maybe I’m not your normal clientele.”

  He sighs. “No, we don’t feel much pain, so clear your fucking conscience.”

  “Are you just telling me that or do you mean it?”

  He runs his hand down his face. “Look, man. You can either do this or go home. But no one ever goes home, so just face the fucking music and get on with it.”

  So I do. I start off by slapping him hard across the face, and go from there. Five minutes later, I’m not asking, “Is this hurting you?”

  Five minutes later, I’m straddling his chest, smashing his mangled face in with my bloody fists, over and over and over. He’s shouting, “Stop it!” and I’m loving every second of it.

  Hafwen’s nickname is Zippy. She likes to skip and sing about the dishes as she’s washing them, and write poetry with waterproof paper in the rain. She’ll call me up just to tell me that she’s discovered the name for those imprints left in the skin when you press it against a textured surface too long. A frittle.

  So when I see her sitting cross-legged on my bed, motionless, not frowning, but not smiling, I know something’s wrong.

  I sit beside her and kiss her. “What’s up, Haf?”

  She doesn’t look at me. “I have to tell you something.”

  My insides erupt. I’m afraid.

  I’m afraid her feelings for me were just a frittle in her heart and now she wants to end what we have before I even have the chance to tell her I love her.

  “Tell me,” I say. I try to sound brave, but I fail.

  “My mom,” she says. “She’s a Remade-American.”
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  “Oh,” I say. “I didn’t know Cambree wasn’t your real mom.”

  “No, Hadley. Cambree is my real mom. She’s a Remade-American.”

  “Oh god… I’m so sorry. When did this happen? I saw her last week.”

  “No, Hadley. She was a Remade since before she married my dad.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m a Remade, Hadley.”

  “But…” I can’t think of anything else to say except, “You don’t look like one of them.”

  “One of them?”

  “I’m sorry. I…”

  She looks at me now. “I should’ve told you before we started going out, but… I liked you so much. I wanted you to get to know me first before you… you know… decided.”

  “Oh.”

  “I told myself that I wasn’t lying to you, because I never said that I was alive, but keeping this from you was deceitful and I’m sorry. I understand if you’re angry at me. I’m angry at me too.”

  “I’m not angry,” I say, and that’s true. I’d have to be feeling anything to feel angry.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good sign or a bad one,” she says.

  “Me neither.”