The house was nicely furnished and well maintained for a post-apocalyptic structure. He moved as inconspicuously as a shadow into the living room.
What shocked him the most about this home was the monolithic Christmas tree in the corner of the room. The decorations hung loosely on its fake limbs and were intertwined with tinsel.
The Scavenger laughed boisterously. “You’ve got to be kiddin’ me.”
He noticed that there wasn’t an angel placed on top of the tree.
“Stupid bastards couldn’t even get an angel.”
He pondered the thought of setting the tree ablaze once he got what he needed. A moment later, he found himself staring at the picture frames on the walls. Not realizing how attractive Veronica was until he saw a picture of her next to a man that he assumed was her late husband. Thinking about Veronica’s buxom figure left a grin on his face, but departed with the thought considering that the woman was armed and dangerous. He chastised his own cowardice and defiled the picture by spitting on the man’s face.
He descended the stairwell into the basements and found a large stockade of canned food and bottled water. The incandescent bulbs that hung aloft projected dark silhouettes in the basement. The ashen walls of the cinder brick interior showcased the room’s subterranean atmosphere.
Tepid liquid dribbled down his filthy chin as he poured water onto his face from one of the bottles. He splashed a bit on his face to wash away some of the dirt that seemed ingrained to his skin. He nonchalantly tossed the bottle aside and continued his excursion. What he was looking for was another firearm. What he found was a few boxes of 9mm rounds and .357 bullets, but he couldn’t find the pistols that parented these lead children. He thought that if he were able to find a firearm of any sort, then maybe he could overtake Veronica, but he wouldn’t dare without any firepower. Women were a lot more dangerous than men during the end of the world. The causation for this theory was that women feared both the undead and the violent sexual advances from men who hadn’t seen a woman in months. He had watched plenty of men shot down before they could even say ‘hi’ to women like Veronica.
He didn’t spend too much time looking over some of the other tools within the basement. While climbing the staircase; he noted the various picture frames containing a large man. The late husband was bald with a thick beard that hedged along the jawline, and tapered at the chin. Broad shoulders and a stalwart countenance completed the man’s menacing appearance.
The Scavenger scoffed. “Don’t worry buddy, I’ll make sure I treat your woman real nice…maybe put that daughter of yours on a leash and leave her outside. Never liked kids anyways.”
He stood on the landing at the top of the stairs where a hallway broke his routes to either the left or right. To the right he saw a door, with a sign nailed to the wood reading ‘Charlie’. The sound of barking arrested his attention towards his left. A confused expression crossed his face once he saw that this door had a sign that also read ‘Charlie’.
He whistled sympathetically for the canine’s pathetic whining. “C’mon Charlie, want to go play catch?”
He propped open the door and the hinges squealed from rust. He looked into the room and saw the canine. He recognized that the dog must have been a mix between a Rottweiler and a German Shepherd. The hair on the dog’s back stuck up and it bared its sharp incisors. It snarled fiercely and viscous lines of spittle dripped from its fangs.
“Whoa. Calm down there, Charlie” The man cooed, trying to quiet down the caged animal.
He took a few tentative steps back and looked for anything of value. As he backed up, he noticed something odd about the sign nailed to the door. The sign was larger than he had originally thought, with half of the sign covered under a dense blanket of dust. He wiped away the dust with the palm of his hand, which revealed the rest of the stenciling.
The sign read “Charlie’s food”.
Before he could piece everything together, he was heaved off his feet from something crashing into him. He landed onto the wooden floor with an audible thud and the wind was ripped from his lungs. He leaned up and locked his eyes upon the undead behemoth standing in the doorway.
The zombie’s necrotic flesh was a grey hue, similar to concrete. Rotten fissures were dotted across the undead menace’s burley frame. An oppressive whiff of carrion stained the air, as thick as a brume. The familiar goatee was coated in a crimson wash from dried, encrusted blood. A field of pitch white bone was revealed under the flaps of splayed scalp. Its cavernous mouth showed a plethora of jagged, ivory-white teeth that gnashed at the empty air.
While the Scavenger was on the ground he couldn’t help but notice how clean this zombie appeared. Most zombies had either maggots or flies in the orifices, but this undead specimen was well maintained. This anomaly was backed up by the zombie’s clean teeth.
The creature descended upon the Scavenger while emitting a hoarse, baneful groan. He kicked the zombie in the face and it stumbled back. The man scuttled backwards along the floor, trying to put some distance between him and the soulless beast. His back hit an obstruction and he propped himself against it, responsively feeling the obstruction behind him with his hand. His fingers poked through the bars of the animal cage. He heard a deep throated growl and felt the sharp fangs of the Rottweiler crushing his fingers. The bones snapped and he shrieked with a deep anguish that would wake the dead. Blood spired from his fingertips and the bones shattered under the sheer intensity of the bite.
Before he could react, he felt the jagged teeth of the zombie sink into the tender flesh of his neck. The zombie jerked his head and chewed on a mouthful of meat and tendons. Blood shot out of his throat like a geyser and besmirched the clothes on both of them. His squeals were denounced to gurgled mutterings as blood seeped from his lips
* * *
Veronica and Angel arrived home to a pulpy mess of blood and gore in ‘Charlie’s food’ room. Veronica looked at her late husband gnaw into the flank of the poor hapless victim. Her pity evolved to hatred once she figured that the man was a Scavenger and she grimaced, slightly appeased.
Angel turned away with tears in her eyes. Veronica comforted her daughter and hushed her to a light whimper.
Angel sobbed lightly “Is daddy hungry again?”
Veronica replied, “Yes sweetie, he’s just getting a little hungry. Why don’t you go downstairs and wrap your gift, I’m going to clean Charlie.”
Veronica understood that the psychological implications of what she was doing with her late husband could affect Angel. But Veronica was a single mother and she needed to give her only child the world before the world would be taken away from her. It took a while to accustom one’s self with the idea of keeping a zombie within the household, but it was like having a really dumb dog. Every week she would harness and bind Charlie’s limbs against his bed and she would clean away the rotten flesh from his body. Usually by splashing a diluted bleach compound onto the flesh, this prevented the zombie from completely rotting away in front of its own daughter. She also sound proofed the interior of the house so that the zombie’s moan wouldn’t attract more to their home. She knew eventually she should have to find a way to cut Charlie’s vocal chords, but she feared accidentally severing his spinal cord, which would leave him inert.
She wept every night over the undead husband that occupied the room upstairs. She tried to sound proof to the point where she wouldn’t be able to hear him shuffling along the floorboards, but no matter how long she tried to repress the sounds, they would always pervade her dreams. Every time she heard the uncoordinated shambling of her beloved, she would swear to herself that she would kill anybody who tried to even lay a finger on her daughter. Her husband got into a fight with a Scavenger when he went out looking for Christmas gifts. The Scavenger wounded him and left the undead to feed on him. When Veronica arrived at the scene, a zombie had just bitten her husband and she neutralized it. She brought him back home, and he changed into one of them.
* * *
On Christmas morning, Veronica entered the living room with a cup of hot chocolate in each hand. The hot steam sifted up from the mouths of the cups like wraiths. She felt the blissful reminiscence that accompanied every Christmas morning. Her daughter was nearly bouncing with anticipation. Veronica smirked as her daughter’s smile was just like her father’s.
“So, should we get started?” Veronica’s jubilance was as genuine as her love for her daughter.
“Yeah!” Angel bellowed as she hopped over to the tree.
The tree’s lights alternated between a green and red display. Veronica made sure to put up the thick black curtains over each of the windows so that the lights didn’t act as a beacon for the undead that lurked outside.
Angel brought two gifts to the couch and handed one to Veronica. They both unwrapped their gifts with joy, reliving this tiny shred of normalcy. Angel opened up a box and she reached inside, feeling a plush material. She snatched up the teddy bear and hesitated, looking dumbfounded.
Her mother grinned. “It’s okay sweetie. I washed and deloused it. It’s fine to play with. There aren’t any bugs on it like all the others outside”
Angel crushed the teddy bear within a warm embrace, which revived the cordiality with Veronica’s heart. She pressed her cheek against the side of the teddy bears head and showcased an innocent smile.
“Open your gift Mommy.”
“Yes sweetie. But it’s hard because you put so much tape on it,” she chuckled.
Angel giggled. “I’m not good at wrapping present. Open, open, open!”
Veronica obliged and tore open the gift wrapping. She fumbled until she pulled up a picture frame. Within the frame she saw a picture of her and Charlie. He had his strong arm wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her close to him for the picture. It was apparent that the both of them were very young in the photo. She remembered it was taken when they had been dating for 3 months.
A rogue tear fell from Veronica’s face. “Where did you find this?”
“I found it in the basement under an old box of food. I put a pretty frame around it too. Do you like it mommy?”
“I absolutely love it sweetie,” She wrapped her daughter in a tight hug.
The tranquility was disturbed by a lonesome moan from within the room. They broke from the exchange and each glanced over to the other side of the room. Charlie was chained to the wall with a dog collar constricting his jowls. His waist was also harnessed to the wall 6 inches above the floor. This was intended to keep Charlie sitting down against the wall. He reached out and grasped the air, releasing a hoarse groan.
“Give Daddy his gift Mommy.”
Veronica smiled and went over to the closet. She brought out a severed arm with a blue ribbon tied on the fingers. She cauterized the wound so that it wouldn’t bleed too much in the closet. Charlie reached out, trying to clutch the severed arm that Veronica held. She waved the limb in front of him, taunting his insatiable hunger. He moaned and she tossed him the limb. The ghoul was content as he chewed on the meaty arm.
Angel voiced with pleasure. “Daddy likes his present mommy”
“He certainly does.”
Veronica grimaced sinisterly as she set her eyes upon the tree.
“Daddy’s gift is beautiful isn’t it?” Angel said as she looked at the tree as well.
Veronica just nodded approvingly. A red skull was impaled atop the tree. The apex of the tree poked through the bottom of the shelled out skull and held it firmly in place. The skin was completely flayed from the skull and everything inside had been gutted out. Silver tinsel dangled out the jaw, adding to the tree’s festive decorum. The skull had been tinted a scarlet hue from the Scavenger’s blood, which complimented one of the two traditional colors of Christmas. Tendrils of Christmas lights snaked in and out the orbits of each socket. The alternate flashing of red and green momentarily brightened the dark chasm of the skull’s interior. The jaw was locked open as if it were screaming into eternity; a muted cry that would echo through the heavens, only to be heard by a dead god.
Story Art Cover
By Jess Smart Smiley
www.Jess-Smiley.com
Dedication
To Mom, Dad and Emily - for always encouraging me to never stop chasing my dreams. (and nightmares)
To Jeff - for your constant love and support - without you this story wouldn't exist.
To Val - for your never-ending inspiration and friendship.
Author Bio
Nathan Correll resides in Charleston, South Carolina. He is a graduate of Southern Illinois University - Carbondale with a major in Television Production and a minor in Creative Writing. This is his first publication. As a longtime horror enthusiast he enjoys writing both fiction and poetry and is currently working on his first full-length novel. Nathan enjoys hearing from people who enjoy his stories. Feel free to reach him at [email protected].
Dinner at Eight, Dead by Dawn
By Nathan Correll
The old record player was a console unit complete with two front doors and speakers attached to both sides. The turntable clicked, the arm lifted, glided over the spinning vinyl and the needle scratched to life the voice of Bing Crosby singing “White Christmas”. Alistair stood at the arched window looking down on the front lawn. His robe hung open showing his middle-aged body, once hard but now soft and growing softer every day. He rubbed his hand across his chest and looked down at the inked skull that was scarred over his heart. Its eyes and mouth stitched shut; red drops of blood dripped from its hungry mouth.
Outside the moon was a ball in the sky making the trees look like skeletal hands reaching towards the sky. The wind blew through them and they cracked like brittle bone in the cold empty night. In the distance was the glow of approaching headlights. His guests would be here soon. He smiled. Behind him, in the flickering candlelight, the four poster bed stirred. He turned away from the window and watched Samara rise from the bed like a ghost. She reached out to him with her long slender arms, skin like milk, and he went to her.
“The tide of darkness is high my love.” She moved her hand across his face and brought her lips to his, darting her tongue into his mouth.
“Our guests are arriving.”
He caressed the side of her face. Her eyes were half dollars of black with only a speck of white. “Is everything ready?” She ran her hands up and down his back and then wrapped them tightly at his waist.
“Everything is as you asked.” His lips curled slowly revealing a sinister grin. She kissed him again. The sound of approaching cars was closer now. “Once this is done it cannot be undone.”
“I know.” She pulled away from him and made her way to an old oak chest. Carved into the sides of the box were hundreds of different hieroglyphs. Moons were carved into the four corners of the lid. Along the unhinged side were hundreds of faces screaming in agony, eyes empty, mouths open; hungry. She lifted the lid and the room grew cold. Behind her, Alistair was slipping into his evening clothes. She reached into the chest and pulled out a black satin pull-string bag. She closed the lid and emptied the contents on top of it.
Samara looked at the tools before her. There were two golden bracelets, coiled serpents, one with ruby eyes; the other with black onyx. She put the bracelets on and picked up the up a double-edged dagger. The handle was made of ancient bone. Carved in the center were more hieroglyphs. There was a book bound in human skin, stitched together in jagged patches like some botched field surgery. The words were inked in human blood. As she ran her finger across the page her skin crawled. “And they shall walk.” She whispered and kissed the knife.
“How long will this take?” Alastair was looking at the window. A car was coming up the driveway; its lights casting long wicked shadows as it moved.
“Not too long. Let the guests have a drink and get comfortable.” She smiled at him and the dagger caught a glimmer of moonlight, lighting up her eyes.
“I paid a lot of money to find that book.” His eyes n
ever left hers. “It had better work.”
“It will.” Her eyes called to him. “Trust me.” She was beautiful in this dark hour. The bracelets glowed against her ebony skin; a mere detail in what he was sure was a masterpiece. He kissed her deeply and tasted the sweetness of her death. “I need something from you.” There was a hunger in her eyes.
“Of course.” He unbuttoned his shirt and with one clean swatch she sliced him with the dagger. The skull on his chest opened and crimson flowed from the wound.
“Ahhh.” She kissed his chest and sucked the redness into her mouth. As she pulled him close she could feel his excitement. When her mouth was full she spit onto the book. In the room something stirred, there was a low moan, a hiss, and then the coldness was almost unbearable. Alistair looked down at his bloody-faced lover. “Merry Christmas, Samara. May it be our last.” She looked at him and smiled.
* * *
The moonlight made the Spanish moss look like claws on the branches of the Live Oaks as the car sped along the winding road through the darkened countryside.
“I still can’t believe I let you talk me into this.” He smiled at Craig from the corner of his mouth.
“Talk you into what, Darrin?” He teased. “I went with you to visit your mom in rehab for Thanksgiving.”
“The food was good wasn’t it?” They both laughed. “It’s just that you’ve never really talked about your uncle before and then suddenly you get an invitation to his Christmas Eve party. So what can I expect?”
Craig looked down at the invitation. He hadn’t seen his uncle since his mother’s funeral over ten years ago. Alistair had always been the black sheep of the Covington family, a feeling Craig could identify with since the beginning of his youth. His mother had called Alistair eccentric but would always defend him to her brothers and sister Ellen. “My family is Southern Proper.” He did his best Scarlett O’Hara drawl and rolled his eyes.
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