“What are you doing?” Seth fired a bullet at Joseph, but missed.
What am I doing? Goosebumps ran up and down his arms as the zombies began to realize he was there. What am I doing? He had run out bullets, so he turned his pockets inside out for the bagged powers inside. Rapture, Grave Dust, Ensnare … Rapture. There wasn’t much left of the black, purple-flecked component, but it was more than enough to get the job done.
“Seth, do you still have Damnation?” The two powders needed to be segregated for obvious reasons; neither man had any interest in having the end of the world start in the crotch of their pants.
Seth nodded as he held out the little bag of death.
The floor vibrated and shook as the zombies limped toward Herbert. He had five seconds at most before hundreds of teeth were picking clean his bones.
“Shoot it!” He pretended to throw the bag into the air.
“What about the kid? I only have one bullet.”
Joseph looked at Seth and swallowed the meat in his mouth. He started to stand as though to run.
Herbert shrugged, fell back against the front door, and flung the bag of Rapture into the air. It soared above the zombies, and when it hit its peak, Seth fired. The bullet ripped through the bag, showering the creatures in the thick, abyssal dust. The zombies, seemingly mesmerized, looked up and reached out, as though they were children caught in winter’s first snow.
“Get out!” Seth pulled back the hand that held Damnation. “I’ll meet you out back!”
Herbert turned to leave, but before he could, Seth shouted and crashed into the floor. Through the rungs in the bannister, Herbert saw Seth, Maribel atop him, with Joseph crawling over to join in the fun.
Several hands reached out and pulled Herbert into the sour mass of flesh. Fingers dug at his skin, pinched it as though it were putty. He kicked and slashed the creatures, severing hands, slitting throats. Those he injured fell, but only out of habit. Crooked mouths with flicking tongues closed on his side, his shoulder. He shook and flailed; stabbed their heads, gouged their eyes. Corpses collapsed upon him and died one last time; using them as a shield, he crawled across the sticky floor toward the front desk.
“Are you still … get the hell off—”
Herbert looked up and saw Seth’s bloodied hand hanging over the edge of the second floor. He stood up; shedding the leaking body sprawled across him. He leapt for the front desk; a hand caught his ankle and pulled him back down. His chin cracked against the hardwood floor. With one hateful kick, he smashed the zombie’s face in and then hurried to his feet.
“Hold on! I’m coming!”
Herbert stepped onto the front desk and followed it around to the huge bookcase behind it. As the mass of undead converged on him, he jumped onto the bookcase and scrambled up it. The case swayed and its shelves buckled, but he kept climbing up, until he was at the top, on the top.
Without thinking, because he had no time to, Herbert jumped. Again, time stopped, and as he thrashed through the air, he saw the seemingly endless citizens of Marrow below, wallowing in their own mire of filth, waiting for him to fall.
Time resumed, and the edge of the second floor was coming up on him. He threw his hands out, caught the bannister and a bit of the carpet beyond.
“Seth, just hold on!”
His legs dangled over the crowd of flesh beggars as he fought for purchase with bloody hands. Slowly, he pulled himself up and over the bannister and then, wasting no time, ran for his friend.
Seth was still screaming, which was a good sign. But the fact Maribel was digging at his stomach like a dog was not. Herbert bolted across the second floor, grabbed the girl by her greasy hair, and slammed her face into the wall.
Joseph growled and scurried over Seth. He caught Herbert’s legs and, with more strength than should has been possible, knocked him over. He punched him in the face, in the throat; Herbert coughed and wheezed. God damn son of a bitch, he thought as he braced his arm against the child’s chest, forcing him back. Joseph kicked between his legs, grinding his toes into Herbert’s testicles.
“Get the fuck off!” Herbert knocked the boy back and then cupped himself as pain struck like lightning throughout his body.
Seth caught Joseph as he lunged again for Herbert. Maribel staggered over to save her brother, but her eyes had rolled back into their sockets, and she couldn’t see where she was going.
“Where is it?” Herbert called in between pathetic moans. “Where’s the dust?”
“On me,” Seth said as Joseph wiggled to be free of Seth’s hold. “Grab Maribel and …”
Joseph tipped his head back and made a choking noise. The front of his shirt started to move, become bunched up as though something were behind it. Seth wrinkled his nose as he smelled something foul, like the boy had vacated his bowels.
“I think they’re dying, Herbert,” Seth said, furrowing his brow as Joseph shook in his hands. “Grab Maribel and we’ll—”
Joseph had one final spasm and then the buttons blew off his shirt as two heads tore through his stomach. Skeletal arms with feet for hands dropped out of the gaping hole and hung there limply. The two heads, rubbery and fused, had teeth all the way up their ears, and on their head sat a crown of fingernails and bone fragments.
“Now, Herbert!” Seth said, lifting the boy and his conjoined brothers and throwing him over the bannister. Joseph, still choking, crashed into the clamoring crowd below, the force of the collision ejecting his sibling from his chest.
Herbert hobbled to his feet and, with little effort, scooped up the blinded Maribel. No more. This is over. And yet as he brought her to the bannister, he noticed the lightness of her body, the softness of her skin. He saw the way her eyebrows arched, as though she were in pain or afraid. Maribel was monster, but she hadn’t allowed herself to become this way. The fact that she had been created for this purpose gave to her a kind of pathetic purity that weakened Herbert’s resolve. No, he couldn’t let her live—she was too dangerous, too infectious—but perhaps if the situation had been different, if Seth hadn’t been there ….
Herbert held Maribel over the edge of the second floor and then released her. Wasting no time, Seth opened the pouch of Damnation Dust and tossed it into the air. End over end, it went, and with every grain of the powder that fell, a small, green fire started where it landed. The hellish flames spread rapidly amongst the Rapture-coated dead. When the pouch hit the ground, it exploded into a pillar of flames that shot upward through the center of the horde, to the ceiling itself.
“Do you think some of the kids were still in there? In the bodies?” Herbert searched the smoke for signs of Joseph and Maribel; he wanted to be sure they would die.
“Their souls?” Shadows swept across Seth’s face from the tornado of fire spinning through the inn. “No, I don’t think so. I hope not.” He sighed and took his friend’s hand. “We’re done here, Herbert. Let’s go.”
Joy
From the Void, the world looked dark, but the green fires in Marrow left enough light to see what had been done. Joy wasn’t delusional enough to think she’d been right, but that didn’t stop her from wanting to hurt those who had brought to ruin to her own.
Her sister sat beside her on the rocky precipice. “Is that all of them?” she asked.
Joy shook her head and said, “Caleb and Christina are still out there. I can feel them, for now. I’m not sure how much longer they’ll make it. At least those men don’t know about them.”
“I heard his name—Herbert, that’s what Seth called him.” Her sister put her arm around Joy’s shoulder and brought her close. “I have an idea. Who do you want to destroy the most?”
“Herbert,” Joy said immediately. “There’s something about him.”
“So we’ll start with Seth. It will take time. Can you be patient?”
Joy turned, felt her sister’s white hair with her fingertips. “Time is nothing to us. If I must wait until he draws his last breaths, I will. And in those moments,
I will make him feel more pain than the whole of the universe has combined.”
“No, no,” her sister said, kissing Joy’s forehead. “Pain is my namesake, my job. Keep making us families. One day, you’ll get it right, and we won’t need this place anymore.”
Joy smiled and bit her lip. “I was a good wife, wasn’t I?”
Her sister nodded. “You were, truly.”
“I just wanted the best for my children. I wanted them to be happy. I wanted them to grow up and love and have children of their own.” Joy shook her head and said, “Is that too much to ask?”
Her sister shushed her. “Hush, now, there’s still hope in Caleb and Christina. They’re beautiful children. When they’re done, the world will be so much better because of them.”
“You think so?”
“Oh yes. They will bring such joy to the world. After all, they have all your best qualities.”
Scott Hale
Scott Hale was bound to love Horror. His aunt made sure of that. After kindergarten, she used to put on "Night of the Living Dead" to help him nap. Like all kids raised on blood and guts, he grew up to be a well-adjusted, productive member of society. And while he still loves "Night of the Living Dead," his favorite zombie movies nowadays would have to be George A. Romero's "Dawn of the Dead" and "Return of the Living Dead."
Scott Hale is the author of the fantasy/horror series "The Bones of the Earth." He has also written several short stories that will be compiled later this year into the horror anthology, "Black Occult Macabre."
www.scotthalebooks.com
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7440406.Scott_Hale
http://www.amazon.com/Scott-Hale/e/B00ERXPWFE/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1453953108&sr=8-1
A Warriors challenge
By Giles Batchelor
She stood, staring out of the gate, her light brown hair whipping around her face. She looked at the road beyond. Its surface was cracked and worn, the edges crumbling away, grass and wild flowers growing up in the cracks and pot holes.
The last time she saw this road was so long ago, but she could still remember the shiny black tarmac underfoot and the crisp, white lines as they had walked into the sanctuary. Behind her the great iron gates stood open once more. The Sally port hadn’t been there when she arrived though. There was a wire mesh fence heading away from the compound walls to her left and right. As she turned her head to each side, the high walls stretched as far as she could see. Bare earth could be seen in front of them; devoid of life for ten yards from the walls allowing clear sight from the guard towers, their peaked roofs breaking the line of the wall at regular intervals. In front of her there was a second gate, about 30 yards ahead. This formed the far end of their chain-link Sally port, a space enclosed with the see through fencing on 3 sides with the wall and gate behind her. It was covered on top. Its original purpose was to allow cleansing of the vehicles when they arrived back from supply runs and foraging missions.
It has been a long time since a truck or car drove into the port though. Their supplies of fuel had dwindled to almost nothing. All they had left were full tanks for five 18 wheelers, each of the trailers packed with emergency supplies, weapons and seats for 30 people. Each month on the first day of the new moon a raffle was held; all the residents of the gated city drew tokens from a big barrel, and those lucky enough to draw a token with a golden symbol were guaranteed a place on one of the trucks if the decision to bug out was made. Bea had never had a golden token; in the 5 years she had been old enough to draw one. Each month she went and took her turn and each month it was the same, a dirty white token – plain and unadorned. It was time to draw again tonight, not that she expected a different result than before.
Her attention returned to the chain-link walls of the Sally port, made from panels about six feet across and 8 feet high secured to large round vertical poles. If the walls were two panels high it would be 16 feet up to the roof. She was analysing the compound it created with an uneven, cracked floor, and just an empty open space.
“Have you looked enough?” said a voice from behind. Bea turned toward the speaker; Matt was about 35, his short hair dark was becoming peppered with grey.
“I guess so,” she replied.
“Well you know the rules, now you have to think about it for a day. If you still want to go ahead, get a message to me in the morning, and be back here at noon tomorrow,” Matt said gruffly.
“Yep, I know how it is Matt,” Bea looked deep into his eyes, trying to convey her reasons. She knew he was disappointed in her choices.
“Don’t do it Bobby,” he looked at her sadly, “You’ve been here so long. I carried you through these gates the day we arrived; you’re family to me.”
“I can’t help it Matt. I need to do this,” she smiled, “And don’t call me Bobby anymore, that’s a kids name. Call me Bea, everyone else does.” She walked off back towards the girl’s dorm block, her hand instinctively going towards her pocket and the note that she always carried.
Matt watched her walk away, thinking about the 10 years since the chatty little girl – both upset about the loss of her family, but also awed by the new surroundings – had been brought into the Albany compound by Sergeant Maria Rodriguez back from one of their first missions into the city after the fall of humanity.
****
Bea sat on the edge of her bunk, her heart heavy and her head racing through the possibilities. She unfolded and re-folded the note, not needing to read it as she had the contents memorized. She has faithfully copied it out many times over the years since she learned to write. It wasn’t a long note – the original is written on a scrap of waitresses pad – but to her it was everything; the last words her father wrote, her only connection to a long gone past, the only information she had about her mother and brother, her hope that there was something else out there for her.
She had handed the original to Maria on a day she should barely remember, but could never forget – the day she had become an orphan. At the urging of her father she had run to the woman in camouflage trousers with the note gripped tightly in her little hand. The woman had scooped her up and held her close, preventing her from looking back at her dad. She never saw what happened to him, but his screams still occasionally haunted her dreams. Maria had held her tight through the tears, and she had eventually stopped sobbing long enough to remember the piece of paper scrunched up in her hand. Maria had taken the note, read it through and put it into a pocket on her blouse. Bea had stayed with the small squad for the next few days, mostly being carried by one member of the team or another, sometimes walking along, and Maria’s hand tight in her tiny grasp.
It was many months later that Maria had handed the note back to Bea. It was folded and crumpled but still readable. Maria had read it aloud, and Bea, still only five had cried. Maria had promised that when Bea was older she would help her discover where her mum and brother were.
The memories of her father, mother, brother, un-kept promises – Maria, brought tears to Bea’s eyes. The loss of her replacement mum and best friend was still fresh and painful even though nearly 6 months had passed since that fateful day. It hadn’t been the same living in the enclave since; Bea had been forced to move from the home she shared with Maria into the girls’ dorm. Suddenly having to share her personal space with twelve other teenage girls had been more than a little problematic.
She folded the note again, and slipped it into her pocket, ‘What to do?’ she thought to herself. It was really risky, but it could be her only way to get free from people like Cadance – who had been making her life a living hell for pretty much the whole time she had been in the dorm. It had started almost straight away when she moved in. Bea didn’t know what she had done to bring their ire the first time; she knew why they had continued though.
“Leave me alone,” Bea had shouted at the girls who were pointing and calling her names.
“Why should we, you’re nothing special now that you don’t have a pet soldier,” one gi
rl replied.
“What, I never had a pet soldier?” Bea retorted.
“Yeah right,” Cadance replied, “Super Maria, keeping you safe and getting you special privileges.”
“I never got special privileges,” Bea was confused.
“Oh really, how many other girls did you see on the shooting ranges? How many did you see out on foraging missions?” Cadance continued angrily “When did you have to go to lessons with that pervert Martin?”
“What? I thought everyone did shooting lessons, and helped with the foraging.”
“No just you! Miss prissy little spoiled bitch! You with your super soldier Maria,” real venom entered Cadance’s tone, “And now she’s not here to help, not here to defend you,” Cadance’s right hand punctuated the sentence with an open handed slap across Bea’s face. The other girls cheered, and boosted by their support Cadance slapped out again. Although her head was spinning, Bea remembered the training she had received, and dodged back. Missing the slap, she brought her hand up to catch the flailing appendage. Then utilizing Cadance’s momentum, pulled the arm round, and twisted it hard up her back. Cadance was now off balance, and unable to free herself. It was from there it turned to shit. The other girls decided to join in to support their bully friend. In the end Bea had walked away with a black eye and some bruised ribs. She had given two black eyes, one broken nose, a possibly fractured rib and enough bruises for all eight girls involved to be moving gingerly for a week. After that it had never been physical again, but the girls contrived hundreds of ways to make her life hell.
Bea didn’t know what to do, or who she could turn to for advice, and going to Matt about the girl’s behaviour would probably get it solved, but she would be admitting defeat. Bea folded her note once more, placed it into her pocket and headed out into the camp, still undecided about what to do.
All Things Zombie: Chronology of the Apocalypse Page 36
