Voices of the Damned

by Barbie Wilde

  She knew by now that she was tired of her life, disgusted by it, not because of what she did to herself, not because of her secrets and sins, but because she had always been a slave to other people’s demands. She had never been in charge—never allowed to follow her cravings—subject to countless indignities of the spirit. She was soul-sick, but it wasn’t her fault. She needed to get out and Athanasius offered her the way. Not back to the real world of pathetic, ordinary people, which she despised because it reminded her of her parents and all those other contemptible, hypocritical sycophants, but moving into a murky, labyrinthine sanctuary of lust, pleasure, pain, power and blood ruled by the un-divine Order of the Gash.

  * * *

  After several abortive attempts, Sister Veronica finally deciphered Athanasius’s infernal recipe. Of course, the correct procedure was important, but as she delved into the text, Sister Veronica realized that she already possessed the most essential and vital ingredient for success: the overwhelming desire to invoke the Schism that would allow the Cenobites to enter into this realm and show her their marvels.

  She prepared for their entrance with care, finding an abandoned, airless room adjacent to the library where she equipped a makeshift altar with artifacts of torture that she thought would amuse the Cenobites. In the hospital adjacent to the convent, she found a terminally sick child who was too far gone to notice the pint of blood that she furtively collected from him at the fourth hour after midnight. She mixed this with some of her own menstrual blood and poured the mixture into a Chalice that she appropriated from the convent’s chapel. She also added her own scourge and cilice as personal decorations to her altar.

  As Sister Veronica uttered the final cadence of Athanasius’s Latin invocation, she heard the tinkle of chimes, almost too cloying and sweet to her ears, then a mournful bell tolling. The sounds weren’t coming from above, but from somewhere near her, down here in the dark catacombs where not long ago, dead bodies of nuns (and as rumor would have it, their illegitimate murdered offspring) were buried. The lights fluttered in time to the bell and she knew that it wasn’t just an ordinary power fluctuation. Something, someone, was coming. A twinge of regret stabbed her heart, a touch of panic, but she pushed it away with a mental growl. She was sick to death of fear, tired of being ashamed of nothing, weary of being a weakling. She wanted strength and power and sensation for its own sake. She longed to discipline others, to make them feel as she had. She wanted to be destroyed and remade again.

  Another sound entered her mind, the sound of a metronome ticking, ticking, ticking—in time to the quickened beating of her heart. The walls of the room groaned in time to the metronome—they bulged and heaved, and between the cracks of the stones, she saw light—a yellowy, sickly, white light. The walls shuddered and she stumbled back to the doorway, ready to make a hasty retreat if her courage failed her. Finally the walls parted, dust erupted in a brownish, rancid cloud—more light spilled into the room, and voices beautiful, but discordant, warbled in the background, like a movie soundtrack played at the wrong speed.

  A tall, male Cenobite entered, followed by a few others, but she had no interest in them. She gasped, not in horror, but in admiration. The Leader was stunning, a fallen angel, his princely beauty still shining through, even though his face and body were mutilated and twisted by scars, lacerations, pins, wires and nails. His black eyes were liquid with eternal suffering; eyelids stapled permanently open. His long, black, leather apron was soaked with blood and speckled with bits of flesh. His naked arms were laced with multiple cilices and the razor-sharp, inward spikes poked deeply into his flesh. Barbed wire was wrapped around his chest and chains bound his legs. He held a black leather and steel-capped cat-o’-nine-tails in his gloved hand and she knew who it was for: a special gift just for her. Sister Veronica sank down to her knees and opened her arms wide in a pretty, Madonnaesque pose of gratitude. He smiled, showing perfect bloodied teeth, filed into flawless little points.

  A strong, warm wind scented with vanilla billowed up from behind him, knocking Sister Veronica down to the ground. Her robes fluttered up, exposing her secret places and momentarily blinding her. She lifted her arms above her head, and her clothes and veil ripped off and flew off into the darkness, like an enormous, demented crow.

  He stared at Sister Veronica—the naked, surrendered nun—and he was still smiling, almost puzzled by her rapt acceptance. He spoke, his voice echoing in the chamber, “Do you know what you are asking of us? Do you know what will happen to you?”

  Sister Veronica answered, “Yes, with all my heart. Take me. Make me one of you, if you think I’m worthy. I’ll give anything to you. Soul, body, mind, heart. You know they are already yours, if you want them.”

  He laughed, joined by the others hidden back in the darkness. His merriment didn’t frighten Sister Veronica, it just exhilarated her and made her desperate for his embraces. She longed to stand up and go to him, but her limbs refused to move. Sister Veronica felt something tightening at her wrists and ankles, looked and saw silvery, spiked chains pulled tight by unseen hands disappearing into the darkness—stretching her limbs out to their fullest extent, as if she was strapped to an invisible torture rack. The pain of the diamond-sharp spikes digging into her skin was excruciating, but it was nothing compared to the new sensations that were flooding her body. It was as if all her nerve endings were on fire, alert to every mote of dust that landed on her exposed flesh, every grain of dirt being ground into her back and buttocks. She felt like she was being burned at the stake; even breathing hurt—the air stung her lungs. But the pain, instead of being maddening or frightening, just sent her deeper into a bizarre ecstasy. Below her waist, the epithelial fire was flickering up her thighs, then darting inside her—burning her internally with wave after wave of searing, orgasmic thrusts.

  Sister Veronica screamed and writhed, pleasure and pain mixed in an infernal cocktail. It was what she always dreamed of, but more. The male Cenobite laughed again, enjoying her delicious agony, and began working his personal magic with his scourge over her naked breasts and genitals. How was it possible to feel more pain? How was it possible to feel more pleasure?

  In the shadows, the other Cenobites applauded the show. They hadn’t seen anything this entertaining in ages.

  The metal hooks on the leather strips of his scourge dug into Sister Veronica’s skin and gouged out her flesh. She felt that not only her body was being flayed, but her soul. She didn’t care, she desperately wanted release from her old self. She was happy to trade that tired bag of flesh for something else, something beautiful—like HIM. She wanted to be him: intractable, indomitable, powerful, a slave to nothing, but desire. She wanted his nails, pins, wires, fingers and teeth to bite into her, to destroy and then transmute her sad sack of sin into a blood-drenched angel of darkness—the envy of all the other demons. She sent this message to him in her shrieks of horrified delight and gratitude.

  He finally stopped and dropped his drenched whip. He walked over and stood astride her body. The pain hadn’t abated and Sister Veronica still cried out. He sunk down slowly, a knee planted on each side of her chest and took out a thin-bladed surgical scalpel. He leaned over, placed his hand under her chin and gently pushed back her head. Unable to scream, feet pummeling the ground, Sister Veronica made muffled sounds of anguish as he slowly and artistically carved a new orifice for her. He laced thin platinum wires through her cheeks and, using these as an anchor, hooked and pulled the skin away from her gaping wound. When he had finished, he straightened up and lifted his apron to show her another present he had prepared for her.

  The skin fire was nothing. Her bloody wound was nothing. The agonizing whips and chains were nothing. Whatever happened to Sister Veronica next would obliterate her forever, tear her apart and send her whirling down into an abyss of divine degradation, to that special place she had longed to go to for so many years.

  The Cenobite entere
d her, using every orifice, old and new. Sister Veronica’s choking, dreadful moans of passion gurgled from her lips, but the sounds were triumphant, and her frantically thrashing body echoed her exquisite feelings of the ultimate in sensual suffering.

  Her shadowy Cenobite audience applauded yet again. What a girl! The good Sister’s adoration for mutilation, sensation and agony would be legendary, even in Hell.

  * * *

  For many years now, Sister Cilice has been in the service of a Subterranean Power. Hellbound to glory. She has no thoughts, no worries, no guilt, no empathy, no passion, no dreams, nothing to do but to satiate desires that can never really be quenched to the full, but hell, nothing is perfect. She assists her Leader in his work; they are a perfect team. They even finish each other’s threats to those who dare call upon them and take turns flaying those unfortunates who thought they knew what they were doing when they summoned the Order of the Gash. Silence from above no longer greets her words, but screams for mercy from below. They pray to Sister Cilice now. They are her supplicants, not the other way around.

  The mortification of her flesh no longer gives her quite the pleasure it used to, but the delight in the pain of others is truly enriching. She is no longer concerned about the demons in her mind. She is a demon herself now and woe betide the mind that comes across her.

  In a tiny corner of the shriveled, blackened brain that once belonged to someone called Sister Veronica, Sister Cilice hears an echo of one phrase above all others: “Loved be pain. Sanctified be pain. Glorified be pain!”

  They are the only words that can still make her laugh.

  Zulu Zombies

  “From Rorke’s Drift to Milton Keynes ...”

  It started out like any other typical night on the razzle for Trish and Debs, although this time the day and location was Friday evening in Milton Keynes, instead of their traditional Saturday night in Balham. The occasion was a Hen Party for their best mate Sophie and normally they would have stayed in a hotel to sleep off the umpteen Green Apple Martinis they’d consumed, but Trish was meeting her parents for lunch the next day and had to get back to town by the late train to Euston Station at 12:06.

  Unfortunately, at the same time when they were supposed to leave for Milton Keynes Central Station, the DJ put on some of their all-time favorite ’80s tunes, so they were blissfully dancing next to their handbags to Prince’s “When Doves Cry” as their train was pulling out of the station. By the time they arrived on Platform 2, they realized to their horror that the next train wasn’t until 03:40. (A minor miracle in itself, considering how most things normally stop dead at midnight in England.)

  “Fuckfuckshitfuck!” Trish said, as they shivered barelegged on the platform in their tiny black leather mini-skirts, shiny red stilettos and thin, sequined “Good Luck, Soph!” pink T-shirts. They hunkered together on a bench for warmth and waited miserably on the empty platform.

  The drinks soon took effect and in spite of the cold, they fell asleep, only waking when a train was pulling into the station. Bleary-eyed, the two women stumbled towards it, not realizing that Platform 2 serviced both northbound and southbound trains. They were too far gone to notice that they were boarding a northbound train that had left London at 01:34. The train was one of the old-fashioned kind, with doors that had to be opened by human hands, not automatically. After frantically pawing at the handle, they finally managed to fall inside the carriage just as the train started to pull out of the station.

  Trish and Debs threw themselves into their seats, giggling madly, pop-eyed and awake because of the adrenalin and fear of almost missing their train.

  “Where’s the fucking tickets?” Debs slurred and Trish rummaged through her handbag.

  “They’re here somewhere,” Trish said, starting to toss out various rubbishy items like used tissues, tired lipsticks and fuzzy bits of old sweets from the depths of her handbag.

  “Must be the fucking milk train,” said Debs, staring out the window and noting that their progress seemed achingly slow. She turned around and peeked behind her, spotting some movement down the aisle in the next carriage. “Damn, I can see a Ticket Inspector coming! Find them. Now!”

  Trish leaned forward and dumped the entire contents of her handbag on the seat in front of them. Debs laughed hysterically as Trish sorted out her bits and pieces almost robotically. They were both too busy looking for the tickets to notice the Ticket Inspector as he made his way towards them. The lights started to flicker.

  Then Trish heard a thud and looked over at Debs. Debs’s eyes were bulging and her mouth was wide open. Trish laughed at the ludicrous sight and said, “What’s the matter, love. You gonna puke?”

  Her eyes dropped down from Debs’s face and Trish noticed what looked like the tip of a spear emerging out of Debs’s chest. Debs gurgled and spectacularly threw up gouts of blood, then fell forward on the seat in front of them, spraying gore over all of Trish’s stuff.

  Trish was frozen in fear and shock, too terrified to move, expecting the same kind of treatment any minute. She finally turned around slowly and saw ‘it’ for the first time. Her jaw dropped and she helplessly peed her knickers in terror.

  It was indeed the Ticket Inspector, but his uniform was dirty, bloodstained and ripped. His flesh was the color and consistency of gray, dried-up old oatmeal and his eyes were filmed over with some milky white substance. He smiled at Trish and his teeth were stained black with old blood.

  It was that hideous smile that kicked in Trish’s survival instincts and she leapt to her feet and fled down the aisle towards the end of the carriage. She came up against the door to the next one and waggled the doorknob, glancing behind to see the Ticket Inspector making his way inexorably towards her.

  Trish managed to open the door and make her way to the next empty carriage. She looked around, trying to find something to barricade the door with but no luck. She ran down the aisle and got to the end of that carriage. She was about to go through to the next one when she spotted more weird, white-eyed people slowly moving down the aisle towards her.

  Trish was frantic now. She turned around and almost ran straight into the arms of the Ticket Inspector. He grabbed her and dragged her to a seat and threw her down, knocking her head against the metal edge of the top of the seat and stunning her for a moment. Someone grabbed Trish’s wrists from behind and lifted her arms back over her head, as the Ticket Inspector knelt down in front of Trish, almost as if in worship.

  Trish came to as he ripped open her T-shirt with both hands, exposing her breasts. He briefly touched them, then let his hands trace down her body until he got to the hem of her skirt. He pushed the skirt up, ripped off her soaked knickers and forced her legs open. “No, No, No!” she moaned, as he leant forward and thrust his face in between her thighs. She felt his cold tongue inside her and nearly vomited. She struggled against the person who was holding her arms and looked up to see who it was. Recognition made her turn and throw up violently on the seat next to her.

  Debs, still with the spear coming through the front of her chest, was the one holding Trish’s wrists. Her face had turned a pasty shade of gray and her eyes were also covered with the milky white substance. Trish spat out the last of the sick and looked up at her former friend. Debs smiled at her as a long stream of bloody drool streaked down from her mouth and splashed Trish’s forehead.

  Trish began screaming in earnest now, kicking her legs out at the Ticket Inspector. She glanced down the aisle and realized that her situation was hopeless. There was a line of the things now: dead-eyed, oatmeal-faced, blood-stained and dirty—formerly human passengers and staff—standing there patiently, staring at her, waiting to have their turn.

  Trish stopped struggling ... it was more than her mind could cope with. She didn’t want to think in clichés, but maybe this was just some kind of crazy, Apple Martini-induced dream. Maybe she and Debs were still asleep on th
e bench in Milton Keynes.

  Then the line of zombies, because that’s what they were—no denying it now—lifted up their right legs as one and stomped the ground: “whomp!” Then they began to sing in a language that Trish didn’t understand. Again as one, the line bent down to pick up long cowhide shields that must have been hidden on the floor in front of the seats. With eerily perfect choreographed movements that Bruno Tonioli of Strictly Come Dancing fame would have admired, the zombies began to beat their shields rhythmically (“chuka, chuka, chuka!”), at the same time as stomping their feet: “Whomp! Chuka, chuka, chuka! Whomp! Chuka, chuka, chuka! Whomp!”

  Trish felt on the verge of having a heart attack with the fear and insanity of it all. The Ticket Inspector stood up and unzipped his fly and his stiff dead purple penis thrust itself out of his trousers. Debs pulled Trish up by her arms some more, bending her backwards over the top of the seat, so the Ticket Inspector could kneel on it. He lifted Trish up by her thighs and entered her, as the others sang and stomped and rattled their shields in deathly excitement.

  The Ticket Inspector starting pumping and Trish screamed again as he spilled his churning acidic seed inside her, causing her to have one of the most profound and yet horrific orgasms of her life. The shocking ecstatic internal pain caused her mind to spiral into unconsciousness, but not before a bizarre memory popped into her brain: watching the movie Zulu with her dad years ago on a rainy Sunday afternoon. The songs and sounds that the zombies were making echoed those of the Zulus in the film, just before the warriors attacked the 150 British soldiers bravely manning the station at Rorke’s Drift in the British Colony of Natal, South Africa, in 1879. Michael Caine’s face, complete with white colonial pith helmet, floated into view. Just as Trish was blacking out, she heard him say: “it sounds like a train ...”