My heart was beginning to thump in my chest, and images of that weekend in Scotland came flooding back. It couldn’t be true, could it? He was giving me the manuscript of Henri de Mascaal?
My hands shook as my fingers tore at the accompanying parcel. I tried not to rush, not to tear wildly at the brown paper. As soon as I saw the bubble wrap inside I ripped the outer envelope off, then took a deep breath and carefully opened the wrap. Despite my excitement I deliberately refrained from opening the grey plastic document holder.
Instead, I prepared as I would for any other rare artifact. Gloves, prepared covering sheets, the self-sealing container, small brush….
Taking the document out brought back all the memories, and something of the experience I had felt when I first read it. Images swept through my mind... and in my dreams, too. I see her walking towards me, alive yet not alive…and yet I feel her presence so close…I have prepared her resting place, a grave beneath the hanging branches of the copse…
I read on to the end and breathed a silent prayer of gratitude to the man who had laid his charm at the site of his own suicide. Even though I no longer believed in the power of that wish I made—time had proved to me that it was more than just luck that had given me my wish for fabulous wealth—I felt it appropriate I should acknowledge him in some way.
It was then I noticed one further sheet of manuscript laid ready for me under a small sheet of paper holding some words in Marcos’ own handwriting:
Anthony, this last page may have been missing. I enclose it now to complete the words of Henri de Mascaal. Think of me in your time to come. Marco.
In your time to come. Strange phrase to use. I re-read the last paragraph of the previous page and began reading the new page:
The ground wherein my daughter now does lie I have graced with a charm: let each man who stands there have but one wish, and that wish be granted whether it be for good or evil yet
Yes, I knew this, but as I read on, my blood ran cold and a chill sweat covered me.
The ground wherein my daughter now does lie I have graced with a charm: let each man who stands there have but one wish, and that wish be granted whether it be for good or evil yet let each man know that his wish bears a price that must be paid.
So it was that the price paid for my wish for my daughter’s life beyond death was my own eternal, enduring grief, so let it be with this. Let he who would make a wish know that there be no redemption save that another take their place. Now let he who would make a wish do so with wisdom; let the fool wish with ignorance, for the price of any wish is the immortality of his God-given soul.
Immortality!
A feeling of sheer terror overtook me then, but I could not really understand why. It was as if my unconscious mind had grasped the full horror of Henri de Mascaal’s words, but my conscious mind could only grasp at fragments of the truth. And then, as if with a jigsaw, the pieces began to come together.
Immortality had its price. This was Henri de Mascaal’s immortality; a life lived forever with only the undead as companions. My heart raced, and a violent urge to vomit overtook me so that I turned quickly sideways and spewed violently across the carpet. I could hear myself moaning, long and pitifully, as if it was coming from someone else, someone far away. For a long moment I thought I was near nervous collapse as the edges of my vision darkened, my arms and legs tingled, and I tried in vain to focus hard on the words before me.
And then I heard them.
Distant at first, an unnoticed noise from far away. Hardly audible, a noise something like distant traffic, but growing louder, becoming slowly more distinct. I had been kneeling on the floor, rocking to-and-fro, but now my moaning stopped as I strained to listen. I realised with a shock that hit me as hard as any kick in the stomach that the sounds did not come from outside. Though they were most definitely outside the apartment, and I could hear them approaching, the sounds were inside my head. Closer and closer they came. I heard them all, scrabbling at the door of my apartment, scrabbling at the splintering wood, standing behind me, so frightening, so horrible, so…so damned.
And as the words took shape within my head I began to scream in absolute fear.
“You are one of us now, we have come for you, immortal.”
* * *
And in a chair in the Library of Malhomme House, Henri de Mascaal whispered softly, “No redemption save that another take their place.”
Then he closed his eyes for the last time and offered a silent prayer of thanks to God.
Everything I Know About Zombies I learned from
Star Trek
By Sam Christopher
Anyway, I guess I think so much about Star Trek now because, in Star Trek, everything’s cool, everything always works out for our heroes; they’re always smart enough and wise enough and strong enough to make things right by the end of the show or book or whatever. It’s not like real life. Not that what I got now is anything like livin’. “L-I-V-I-N—livin’!” the man said. Wonder what ol’ Matthew’s doin’ now, anyway. “That’s what I like about them high school girls…”
Oh, yeah, my life story. As seen through the eyes of Star Trek. Actually, that’s probably a dumb way to say it. Point is, I was watching Trek right at the end. Right up to the moment the EBS took out the station. It would be so cool if the last thing I ever heard on Trek was Dr. McCoy sayin’, “He’s dead, Jim.”
Used to have a friend…guy I met a while after all this started. Name was Rick. Hell of a nice guy; was missin’ a hand. He had a wife and, I think, a kid…used ta travel with a big group from what he said. Always had a…haunted look whenever he talked about any of ‘em.
Anyway, back to Rick. He had kinda sandy blonde hair. Ever’thing else is like every adult male nowadays—hair matted, beard, scruffy-lookin’. Right hand was gone, but that was an old injury by the time I knew ‘im. Funny guy. We used to joke about Trek all the time. Rick was a little older’n me, said he’d watched Trek since the first reruns in the seventies. Said he loved to catch it sometimes after getting’ home from work. He was a cop before. Good shot. Tough sum’bitch, too.
Ruthless when he had ta be.
Well, Rick shows up and Hammerhead never even tried any o’ that shit with him. Rick was thin, slight, but there was somethin’ about him, somethin’ in his eyes—kinda reminded me o’ Clint Eastwood in all those movies; could tell by lookin’ at ‘im ya didn’t wanna fuck with ‘im.
At first, Rick never said anything about Hammerhead bein’ a dick, but then we got ta be kinda friends. So there came a point where Hammerhead was givin’ me some shit about somethin’ and Rick told ‘im he was sick o’ hearin’ his mouth. Coulda heard a pin drop in camp. Like I said, not ever’body jumped when Hammerhead yelled, but nobody’d ever called him out either. Ol’ Hammerhead grinned after a minute, an’ said, “Oooooohhhh, looks like ol’ Tyr’s layin’ claim. Wassamatter, Tyr, don’t like me orderin’ around your sweetheart?” Now, Tyr was the Norse god who lost his hand to the Fenris Wolf. Don’t know how Hammerhead knew that, didn’t think he could read.
Rick just shook his head. “Think what you like, but shut the fuck up. You ain’t givin’ orders here. Just ‘cause you’re big don’t make you boss.”
I think, about here, even Hammerhead knew it was over. Rick had this stare, like I said. Scary, like Josie Wales sizin’ somebody up. Or like, like Rambo—yeah, that’s it. He had that, that thousand mile stare—like John J. Rambo. Man, that was a pretty good set o’ flicks, too. And they help out here, don’t they? If they don’t get you killed. Tough like Rambo is cool, blowin’ shit up and makin’ lots o’ noise like Rambo can get ya ate.
Anyway, Hammerhead was glancin’ around and nobody was backin’ him up. I thought I saw fear in his eyes, but wasn’t sure. He puffed up and said, “Guess you think you’re boss then?” And I swear I could hear it in his voice: it was over.
Rick shook his head, eyes never wavering. “Never said I wanted to be.”
Hammerhead went wild. He roared and charged Rick. Rick sidestepped and—I swear I never saw him pull it out—gutted Hammerhead as the big man went by. Rick just stuck the knife into his gut and held onto it, letting Hammerhead’s own momentum drag the blade through his stomach. Not the grossest thing I’ve ever seen—a disemboweling is rather tame now, isn’t it?—but definitely an attention getter. Then Rick finished the task by driving his knife, a big hunting job like Rambo’s, into Hammerhead’s skull. He pulled out the knife and wiped the blade on the dead man’s pants, sheathed it, then walked back to his place and sat down.
He picked up his plate and started to eat. Slowly. Deliberately. He watched everyone as he ate. Nobody moved. Later, when we were foraging together, Rick told me he was gonna have ta leave. Said he’d “used up the place” and needed ta be gone. When I told him I wanted to go with him, he got this strange look on his face. He said I should stay with the group, that they’d protect me. Said he couldn’t protect anyone—which I almost laughed at considerin’ what he’d done for me. But he had that haunted look I told you about before. Next mornin’ he was gone.
Left me a note, though.
The group varied after that. We gained and lost people. Lost ‘em…usually when foraging…never know where The Predator is, or when they’ll show. Or how many of ‘em you’ll find gnawin’ on your best friend when you finally catch up.
Now, and here’s the point to this whole thing. I know, I know, you’re wondering what the hell any of this nonsense has to do with Star Trek. Hold on.
See, I came here ‘cause I was done. Just sick of all of it. Tired of watchin’ good friends die…or disappear. Tired of strugglin’ to survive. Always runnin’, always hungry. Never know when your next step will be your last. Never know what’s around that next corner, what’s gonna jump out atcha from the dark. Kinda wears ya down after awhile. Know what I mean?
But, see, that’s always been true, hasn’t it? And if Star Trek—and B5, too—teaches us anything, it’s that there’s hope for the future. That, no matter how dark things look right now, we should do everything we can to hang on, ‘cause something wonderful is coming and it’s up to us to make that happen. I know it sounds dumb, especially here and now. We’re not likely to be buildin’ any starships or space stations any time soon. Even so, just lookin’ through these DVDs—thinkin’ back to what we had, and what these stories told us…
Well, anyone who listens to this, just know that Kenneth White was here, and left feelin’ a lot better about himself, and about life in general. I can’t guarantee I’ll still be alive by the time anyone hears this—if anyone hears this—but I can guarantee I’ll fight to the end. Because that’s all life is: a fight to the end. Good luck to you, and maybe we’ll meet up sometime and talk Trek.
Once Bitten, Twice Shy
By Dillon Cox
Prologue
Terror and havoc swept through the nation after the outbreak. Few survived the disgusting disease that tainted every landmass on Earth. The disease started out with the best intentions: the military wanting to research chemicals and conducting experiments to help the human race. But, one—yes, just one—went totally wrong, bringing Armageddon to the world. The scientists attempted to create a mutagen to reverse the decomposition of food, but in every lab, there is always one bad apple. Scientists searched for a cure, but one, just one, crossed the line and tested the mutagens on animals to reverse the age process. Instead of stopping aging, something worse…much worse…occurred.
The animals’ age process didn’t stop at all, it was sped up. They deteriorated within a matter of minutes; still alive but not able to think, react, or live properly. With hunger kicking in, the animals turned to cannibalism and fed on the uninfected. Soon, it was mass chaos, and the feral animals got loose, infecting and feeding on other animals, until the disease reached humans.
Yes, this is another “zombie” story, but not just any zombie story, this one is quite different.
Chapter 1
Tears filled her eyes as Lori drove away from her family’s home in New York. She couldn’t do this, she thought. But, she had to. She had
to press on. There was no going back now, nothing left for her. She stopped at the supermarket, attempting to clear her head and retrieve supplies. Men and women ran from the supermarket screaming after hearing the breaking news of the outbreak. No one had time to prepare, and what was released by the news was useless; lately it had been G rated, according to Lori’s father anyway. He kept saying something abnormal had been going on, Lori wished he was here to see he was right; it had been two days since her parents were bitten and Lori was forced to desert them.
Lori entered the abandoned supermarket. She visited the suitcase section, clothes section, and food section, before ending her shopping spree. Exiting with her bounty, she paused when two more women ran by covered in blood. Carefully, she put the suitcases and provisions into the bed of the truck she stole, put the clothes on the back seat, and jumped into the driver’s seat. She took a deep breath to ease her silent sobs, heaving her chest before finally starting the truck. She turned on a main road, evading cars left in the middle of the street; some had knocked over fire hydrants, others ran into buildings or other cars. What a waste, she thought; not six months ago she would’ve given anything for a car—now, she’d give anything to see someone who isn’t running, screaming…or worse, trying to eat her.
Lori slowly turned onto a street less cluttered with cars. She slammed on the brakes when her best friend, Sara, threw herself against the window of the truck door. Lori felt relieved, but only for a moment. Sara was covered in blood, pounding and screaming for Lori to let her in, but Lori knew better. Sara had been bitten; blood dripped in syrupy drops from her neck and arms. She would turn into one of them: the Infected. Tears formed in Lori’s eyes and started to roll down her face as she attempted to say good-bye to her best friend. Only this time it was her last good-bye; no longer could she gossip about school or boys, no longer could she invite her to the movies or over for the weekend, no longer could she hide her secrets within her best friend. These were her final words and the last time she would ever see Sara’s brown eyes, or her silky brown hair, or even the lime-green ribbon that she wore in her hair everyday regardless of the outfit.
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