His body is keeping the other two from really reaching me with a dog-pile effect. My arms begin to shake with the strain of supporting their weight. As his wet saliva begins to flow around the flashlight, dripping onto my face, only one escape comes to mind. I finally realize that the only weapon I have available to me, is me.
I pull down against the flashlight, extending his jaw wider, and take a deep breath. Blocking all thoughts of doubt from my mind, I force my forehead into his upper face with repeated blows. His nose breaks, coating me with his blood and spraying it along the cement floor of the crypt’s porch. It runs down my face in paste like gore, sticking to me before sliding down my neck. It is warm and slippery, slithering along my flesh and I fight against my stomach’s rebellion.
So unprepared for a return attack, and the damage it does, my assault stuns him. His eyes blink rapidly in confusion and his body goes stiff with his thoughts. I was hoping for this moment. With his fingers now untangled from my shirt, I can twist, throwing the dog-pile of death off me. They land in an ungraceful heap with their stunned comrade pinning them and I run. Their howls of anger follow me into the darkness, giving speed to my legs, because I know they will be right behind me. You can’t hide from death, but you can run.
I am spitting out black clumps of blood and thicker things that trail from my forehead into my mouth. My head aches from colliding with the bones of his face. The cold night steals the air from my lungs in a reverse style of CPR. I can feel my sides cramping like blades stabbing into my chest. The over exertion of my body causes me to be clumsy and I fall to the ground with a crawl. I can hear them behind me and I take cover under the shadows of the folded wings of an angel.
Haloed by the many sparkling stars in the night’s sky, her blank stone eyes stare down at me with sadness. Her hands seem to reach for me with long graceful fingers, offering help that I know she can’t provide. Her faded white gown flows around her legs with many folds, frozen in a false wind. She has mourned for whoever is buried here for years. Now, as she stares at me with white, wide eyes, she mourns for me.
The pause of the brittle sound effects from the many fallen leaves tells me the monsters’ steps have slowed as they seek me. I can picture their eyes searching the shadows for me as my scent mingles with the blood from the broken nose, giving them hints of my location. My shirt is starting to stick to my stomach and I know that it will not be just his blood that will tell them where I am.
Scuffed leather loafers step beside me. They are inches from my legs as he tries to find what his nose is telling him is near. Any air that I have recovered escapes with panic, pulling short gasps from my lungs. He will turn soon and find me here, hunched like a small child afraid of what hides in the night. There is no more running. The moon slips behind grey clouds with its cowardice and the angel closes her eyes with the resulting shadows.
My eyes are so glued to the loafers beside me that I never hear the monster sneaking up behind me. A firm hand snatches me by my ponytail and drags me with brutal speed backwards across the grave plot. The female pulls me directly under her face, peering down at me, turning from side to side as if trying to choose the first spot of my flesh to attack. Her long red hair, styled in the same fashion as mine, coils around her neck like a serpent. Her eyes are a muted green with the artificial life that now stares at me. Her face is pale with blue-black veins streaking across it with a demonic beauty. Her mouth that is slowly stretching wide with her planned attack is as black as rot with a smell that matches it.
She is pinning me with my hair and shoulders, learning from my attack on her “friend”.
She is enjoying watching my face fill with my fears and pets my hair with a bloated finger, further unsettling me. With my eyes unable to move from hers, my hands search blindly in desperation for something to use against her.
My frantic fingertips brush against something cold and solid. It touches them with a silent, voluntary offering of itself. I stretch, extending my fingers to a point that is almost painful, latching onto the object. Swinging with a wide arc, I strike the monster across the side of her face with a heavy glass vase left by past mourners. The dried flowers sail as she tilts sideways, her head swaying with the blow. She loses some of her strength, dazed by the attack, allowing me to sit up. I do not wait for her to collect herself, but swing the vase repeatedly into her face and listen to them both crack with each connection.
Her face becomes a slow ruin with her bones breaking and the pale flesh lacerating. Those black-blue veins seep dark blood that splashes with a fine mist over my face and hands, making the glass slippery. I secure the vase, grasping it around the indented neck where a yellowing white ribbon is tied, and bring it down one final time. The resonating crack of bones leaves her still and the final crack of the glass leaves the vase shattered in my hands. Both lay before me broken, covered in blood and catching the light of the stars in the crimson glow.
I want to relax, my body begs for it with the way fear can steal so much from a person. Still clasped in my hand is a large piece of the neck of the glass vase with only the blood soaked white ribbon keeping the razor edges of the glass from slicing me. My fingers are locked around it, refusing to release the weapon of my salvation like a memento of a well-won battle. When I see the loafers standing beside me again, I am grateful for the small shard.
His palm wraps around the top of my head, pulling it to the right, exposing the long line of my neck. My spine aches under his strength and it feels as if my muscles will tear from being forced to such a degree of an angle. With one hand, he has immobilized me, unable to stand up or move forward with the weight of his strength and the angle of my torture.
Sobs escape from my throat with the pain he is causing me. Pain so extreme that I can’t think to fight back. The pain causes a haze of flashing agony along my spine that rips into my head, removing any thoughts of fighting. I am ready to cave under the pain, to give myself over to death if it would stop. I would be free from it all. Just as I make my peace with what is about to happen, one word refills my soul with fire.
“Mom!” Genny’s scream startles us both. I can feel his attention pull from me and my attention pulls forward. His mind will begin to attempt to understand the new information, holding me captive here until he puts together the new pieces of the puzzle.
Genny has bought me time, confusing the monster that holds me with her presence, and I don’t plan to waste it. My neck is forced to such an angle that his wrist is exposed with his firm grasp on my head. I close my eyes and offer a prayer to the silent angel that has kept watch over this spot for years. Please Lord, don’t let my daughter see me die today.
The glass bites into my hand with my slicing of his wrist. I can feel it slide across his tendons like the plucking of the strings of a harp. Instantly, thick, clumped liquid rains over my shoulder, soaking my shirt and neck with his sour smelling blood. The strength of his hand is gone with the damage I have caused to his wrist. It frees me from my pain, allowing my mind to focus once again. The glass is three layers thick now with blood and the ribbon can no longer provide me protection from the razor-like edge. The pain from my palm is laced with fire as the glass shreds my hand as it shredded his wrist, but it is the best weapon I have.
This sharp, fragile blade has to find its mark to save us. It has to kill him or he will keep coming for us. There is only one spot on their body that seems to result in their deaths; the head. I guess at the height of the male monster and stand, pivoting upwards in a spiral, aiming the glass shard at his temple. The glass slides through his temple like it’s made of cardboard while taking its vengeance on my palm. He stumbles, falling to his side, but his eyes still watch me. The shard is not long, or strong, enough to reach the needed goal. It has only slowed him and already he is trying to come for me again.
The world escapes me. The blackness of night shrinks down to the dull, almost gray eyes staring at me. Genny’s screams a
re even slowed. Her syllables seem exaggerated as she pleads with me to run. I can’t run. Death will always find you when you run.
With a resolve I would never have guessed I possessed, I stomp against the spot nestling the shard. My tennis shoe drives it further into his skull with each forceful act. All of my fear is gone now. Anger replaces it and I use it to give me strength.
I am angry over being attacked. I am angry over how we must live now. I am angry that every day and night we fear these monsters finding us and what it could mean for us. Hot tears clear their way through the drying blood that cakes my face. My legs are being splashed with blood that is thicker than the many layers of my rage. Only when I have caused enough damage that the fragments of bone and gore rob me of the sight of his eyes do I stop. I am weak and exhausted, but mostly I’m still just angry.
Chapter 4
The once faded white and serene angel now wears a gown of darker markings. The dark crimson spots are starting to drip down, casting her in a new role. This angel of mourning now walks as an angel of death with the blood and thicker clumps clinging to her hem and feet. A fine mist of red has flowed into the inscription at her feet, highlighting the once hidden words.
Stand not before me and weep. Let not your wails of mourning fill the air around me. For of this life’s suffering I am free. Soon all will join me and we will rejoice in our victory.
The blood gathers, hovering in the artistic loops of the words before dripping out in small rivers, staining the base. I can’t help but to think with envy to myself of how lucky those are that were able to escape before it began.
“I thought I told you to stay inside?” These were not the first words she sought to hear from me and her mood proves that.
“I couldn’t just sit in there when I heard you screaming. Sorry.” Tears of anger over my attitude and her released fears begin to streak her face.
I don’t remember screaming when they first attacked me. Her trembling body shaking with her emotions proves that I must have.
I whisper to her with my eyes trying to fight against the many shadows. “We have to get back. There should be one more somewhere.”
“I took care of him.” At first, her whispered words do not make sense. She can’t possibly mean that she was face-to-face with one of these things. She can’t be telling me that she was in danger while I sought to keep her safe. She can’t mean that while I was ready to die, she was fighting to survive. Not my precious child.
“He was stunned and stumbling around. He never noticed me. I’ve seen you take them out before….” Her words trail off, losing their security against my blank glare. My eyes wide and still like that of the angel stare at her, fighting against my feelings.
“How?” We ask so many questions that we don’t really want to know the answers to in life.
“He was still back along the crypts where some of the markers are just wooden crosses. I used one.” She shrugs as if killing these monsters is just another Monday chore to do before homework.
Giggles bubble forth as I picture my Genny standing behind the male monster with a wooden cross raised high like an over-played vampire hunter in a novel. I didn’t mean to mock her bravery or the very real risk she took. Sometimes stress has its own agenda.
Using the only monster hunter I have knowledge of that compares to whatever these things are that hunt us, I ask her, “You staked a zombie?”
“Not exactly.” She says, her anger melting to her own giggles with stress relief.
“Buffy has nothing on you, kiddo.” I tease her, bringing up her once favorite T.V. show.
“Dunno. I could totally go for an Angel about now.” Her smile is enough to make me cringe with the knowledge of her thoughts and I am happy to change the topic.
“Don’t get too excited. They are over rated.” I leave her confused by my words as I glance up to the one standing over me still. “Let’s go check on Ginjer. Figure out what started all of this.”
I walk towards her, holding out one arm in a customary style of embrace. It is her turn to cringe now and she takes a step backwards to avoid the half hug.
“I would totally hug you, but you are gross.”
I look down at myself, having forgotten for a moment the war scene that I wear. My tennis shoes are caked and streaked with an almost clay-like thickness. My jeans are dotted and splashed with dark crimson spots. My shirt is beyond redemption with the many layers and shades of red in an almost tie-dyed swirl of death. It is stained from their blood but also my own that pulls the cotton material to my stomach. My palm reminds me of the past struggle with the pain that now reawakens. It too is covered in layers of blood and staring at my hands covered in such a degree is shocking.
There is never this much detail to deaths in movies. Everything dies quickly. The blood only pools in small, clean circles. There is nothing clean or quick about killing. Blood has no obedience to perfect outlines. It will fill any crevice until it runs too thin or it is blocked from its path. Hearts fight against death with every beat they can manage. They refuse to stop until they are forced to let go of the desire to live.
“Think she will make me remove my shoes before I enter?” I smile thinking of the woman’s distress over the tracks I am sure to make on her perfect floor.
Genny smiles at me with her thoughts of Ginjer’s reaction to my appearance. “I think she will make you strip before you enter.”
“Well, perhaps I will just give her a big ol’ hug with how happy I am she is not hurt.” My dare brings real laughter from my daughter. It’s a sound that I still cherish, maybe even more now than I did before. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”
Our trip back to our “home” is nowhere near as eventful as my trip away. Without the sound of the dog barking, the night is still and silent again. The crackling of our feet treading along the worn pathway across a carpet of leaves gives the only hint to any occupancy. With the danger gone now, the insects of the night slowly begin to sing again.
We come across the last of the monsters, crumpled with a wooden cross pointing skyward from his skull. We don’t comment over it or give it much attention. We simply side-step his body blocking our path with mutual understanding that words are not needed.
“You want his jacket?” I smile at her, trying to break the mood.
“You’re so twisted.” She frowns at me but I can see her gears turning, debating it.
Watching her weigh the pros and cons of stripping a body that she just had to kill brings a reoccurring thought to my mind. This is not how a sixteen-year-old should be living.
Ginjer’s “home” is silent, and after so much noise filling it only moments ago, it adds to my apprehension of what may have happened to her. I would never risk my life by leaving it in her hands, but she is not one normally to hide, either. No, she is much more rehearsed at the “damsel in distress” calling on every avenue of assistance she may need without a moments thought to anyone else’s feelings. For her to be hiding now, and not waiting for us with disbelief over how long it took us to save her, does not hold well. I hope it is just an excuse for one of her famous “no one appreciates me” fits and not something more serious. Bruised egos I am well trained to heal; bloody, life threatening wounds, not so much.
“Ginjer,” I call out as quietly as one can and still hope to penetrate the stone walls of the crypts. The cemetery may look empty, but I have come not to trust how things appear. My neighbor had looked harmless too, until he begun eating his wife. “Ginjer, it’s Beth. They are all gone. We are coming in.”
I keep my sentences short and soothing in case she is hiding. Mostly because I can’t remember if I set the safety on the pistol she has hidden and nothing really says “thank you” like a near miss with your own loaned gun. The only answer I hear returned is a low growl from behind the door. Good to know Mintzy is still alive. I guess.
Slowly I pull
open the stone door of her ancient crypt. The flames from the many lit candles cause shadows to dance along the walls. They leap and shrink with the breeze from our entrance and the circulation of the air when I close the door. The room is heavy from the different perfumed waxes burning around me and I feel as if I have stepped into a bad vampire movie with so many glowing candelabras. I almost expect one of the coffins to open and a male with a terribly over done widow’s peak to sit up, reaching for me with long, pale, boney fingers.
“Ginjer?” My voice echoes in the room, caged by the walls around me. Genny is walking slowly behind me, her nerves fraying with the woman’s silence. Only Mintzy’s low growl is giving us a hint as to where they may be.
Mintzy is growling from the furthest corner of the crypt. It is closed off in darker shadows with most of the burning candles situated towards the entrance. Ginjer, similar to ourselves, has situated her “room” hidden behind a wall of coffins. The floor is marred with the marks of their movement, giving testimony to the strength one can posses when your safety is the motivation. I pass an alcove once meant to hold urns with its many stone shelves that have been transformed into a closet. Folded piles of pastels are nestled neatly into each pocket of space. The lower area holds shoes of various styles and for a moment, I am almost ashamed of my own “home”.
“Is it really you?” A fragmented whisper escapes from the darkness ahead of me.
“Who else would it be?” My relief upon hearing her voice is quickly fading. Perhaps I am just jealous of her shoes.
“It’s us, Mrs. Ginjer,” Genny coaxes from behind me. “You can come out now.”
“You both could be one of those things!” Sensing its master’s distress, Mintzy’s growl deepens.
“From what I remember, they aren’t very chatty.” I say and Genny places her hand on my arm with my frustrations mounting. Genny has the patience of a saint, but for myself I really just want to wash and go back to my not snuggly comforter, not thick mattress and not fluffy pillow that I left to save this woman.
The Risen: Remnants Page 3
