The Dead

by Gatward, David

  5 Slick Slime

  Hell … It was the only word that described it.

  Lazarus stared at the thick blackness on the other side of the rip now hanging in midair in the corner of the room, fear like electricity burning through him. The rip looked like a hole in a curtain and its tattered edges flapped as though catching a faint breeze.

  On the other side of the tear, a scene of such impossible violence nearly knocked Lazarus to the floor.

  He could see … people. The Dead. Hundreds of them. They all had two arms, two legs, a head; but it was almost as if they were made of something not entirely solid. Their skin seemed to ripple, and it glistened, reminding Lazarus of fish he’d seen down the market. At points, they looked almost out of focus, like a picture on TV that wasn’t quite tuned in right, fuzzy round the edges. But it was their eyes that really rattled his brain; they were a blinding white and shone with a torch-like intensity.

  If these are the Dead, thought Lazarus, backing away from the rip, then what the hell are those things tearing them apart?

  The creatures looked like something that lived in the sea, octopuses or squid with too many limbs, but they were at least the size of a small car. Their oily, wart-covered, mottled black skin shimmered in the firelight. And they had so many more tentacles, each one dripping in slime and split with thorn-like hooks. They were spinning and turning in and out of impossible knots, an ever-tumbling roll upon roll, slipping in and out of each other. And they were shredding the Dead, pulling them apart with a terrible and unstoppable frenzy. Each flick or twist of a tentacle sounded like a garden hose snaking on the ground when no one’s holding it, and as the Dead screamed, the things just kept on twisting and turning like knots of syrup-thick night.

  Lazarus had a very bad feeling. Those things looked like they could, at any moment, just topple through the rip and then that would be his life over in a second. He quickly slipped over to the fireplace and grabbed the poker. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing, and the heavy, blackened metal felt like some protection in his hand. His timing couldn’t have been better. One of the tentacled things splashed into the room like a vast, silvery eel, flopped and thrashed about on the lounge floor like a dying fish, then headed straight for Red.

  Red stood his ground like he was waiting for the thing to take him. Lazarus wanted to run but he just couldn’t move; the fear had him and wouldn’t let go.

  He turned to Red, pointed through the rip. ‘Are they …?’

  ‘Yes, Lazarus,’ Red replied, and Lazarus saw just how grim his face had become. ‘They are the Dead.’

  The tentacled creature stopped in front of Red and sank to the ground, shivering.

  ‘Then what the hell is that?’ Lazarus shouted, pointing with the poker at the creature that was now reaching for Red with one of its tentacles. He glanced back at the rip. ‘And just what’s happening on the other side of that?’

  Red reached out to the creature with his left hand. It was almost fully healed now, and looked only like a normal arm that had been put through a window, rather than one that had been peeled. The creature shivered as Red touched it.

  ‘These, Lazarus,’ said Red, ‘are the creatures of oblivion. My pets, if you will. I am the guardian of all the realms of the Dead, and they?’ Red grinned. ‘They are my hounds!’

  ‘Hounds?’ said Lazarus. He knew what a dog looked like and it certainly wasn’t like that.

  Red nodded. ‘I’m not supposed to be here, Lazarus. It was a tremendous risk for me to come through, but I had to see the Keeper, to at least get a message to him!’

  ‘My pretties guarded the way for me,’ said Red. ‘None of the Dead could have passed them. Though as you can see, it doesn’t stop them trying.’

  Lazarus didn’t know whether to scream or cry or yell. The rational side of his brain was fighting against the obvious in front of him.

  Fallen angels don’t exist! Hell doesn’t exist! Those creatures, the Dead – none of this is real! It can’t be! It just can’t be!

  Then something else fell through the rip and the rational side of his brain gave up completely.

  Oh God no …

  There were three of them, three of the Dead. They were on the floor for a moment, a jumble of limbs, but then they were on their feet and Lazarus gasped.

  The first was an old man, his back bent and his hair reduced to nothing more than a few grey clumps. The second was a woman, slim, but with a neck stretched and twisted, her head lolling to one side. And the third looked only a few years older than Lazarus and was dressed in motorbike leathers. They looked like they were covered in a slick slime. Lazarus knew they were after him, saw the hunger in their eyes.

  The Dead glanced at Red, the creature at his feet, but swung straight back to Lazarus. He was all they were really interested in and when they grinned at him, their teeth were like shards of obsidian.

  Lazarus stumbled backwards and raised the poker, whatever little use it would do him. The Dead, however, just stood there, staring, their bodies swaying a little, like they were trying to stop themselves collapsing on the floor, their piercing white eyes burning into him with what Lazarus could only describe as lust.

  He looked at Red, looked back at the Dead. ‘Don’t touch me!’ he screamed, jabbing the poker into the air. ‘Don’t you dare touch me!’

  Lazarus knew he was about to be torn apart, ripped to pieces. He just knew it.

  ‘Are you afraid, Lazarus?’

  Lazarus turned to find Red staring at him, his face – now as much fresh skin as bloody wound – calm.

  Lazarus said nothing, couldn’t find his voice. Yes he was scared, but that word just didn’t do justice to how he was feeling. Red was terrifying, the creature with him awful, but these things, the Dead… The way they looked at Lazarus made him feel like his soul was being burned. And what terrified him the most was that they were so recognizable. They looked human, or almost. Seeing Red and that thing with all the tentacles, he almost expected to be scared. But to see something so recognizably normal, and yet so unrecognizably horrifying, was beyond anything Lazarus could explain.

  Lazarus wanted to run and run and run, yet he had a sense that, if he did, the Dead would follow and they would hunt him down and they would find him. And what they would do to him when they found him, he dared not think. But he had a fair idea.

  Red jarred his thoughts. ‘These are the Dead, Lazarus. Souls trapped by their wrongs, their lusts. Addicts.’

  Lazarus remembered something from Sunday school about a place between Heaven and Hell. It was apparently where souls were made ready for Heaven. But these things staring at him now… they didn’t exactly look like Heaven was their final destination.

  ‘You mean like purgatory?’ he asked, impressed he could remember the correct name for it.

  Red shook his head. ‘The Dead aren’t interested in redemption, Lazarus.’

  Lazarus looked back at what Red had drawn on the mirror. ‘So what about Hell?’

  At this, Red’s broken face shuddered. ‘In Hell, Lazarus, even the Dead are afraid.’

  The Dead moved forward a little, advancing together. They didn’t stumble like the dead of Hollywood horror, thought Lazarus. These apparitions walked with purpose. And that purpose was him.

  ‘Do you now understand why I had to come?’ asked Red. ‘Why I need you to tell your father all you have seen, all I have told you?’

  ‘If you’re asking if I’m scared, the answer’s yes!’ yelled Lazarus. ‘I’ll tell my dad everything, I promise!’

  The Dead moved again, their faces yanked into horrible grins, their tongues black and dripping with grey spit. Lazarus felt like the main course in a restaurant he’d seen on TV where the diners got to choose what fish they wanted from a tank bubbling away against a wall.

  Then they lunged at him.

  Lazarus sprang backwards, sure as anything he was about to be pulled apart. Instead, he landed on the floor and saw the creature that had been with Red s
lip across the room and wrap itself round the Dead.

  Screams and howls filled the air as they were pulled limb from limb and tossed back through the rip. Some bits didn’t quite make it and thumped against the lounge walls with the sound of jelly. Some landed in the fire to spit and burn, filling the room with the sweet smell of barbecued pork. Lazarus felt fluids splashing over him, warm against his skin. But even more disturbing was the sound Red was making. It was a hollow laugh and it bounced around the room, refusing to quieten.

  He’s enjoying this, Lazarus realized.

  Red’s voice echoed in the room. ‘You cannot kill that which is already dead, Lazarus,’ he said, as what was left of the Dead stilled on the floor. ‘Death is nothing more than a change of scenery.’

  ‘But what you just did,’ said Lazarus. ‘You ripped them apart!’

  ‘And in time,’ said Red, ‘they will again find the strength to create a form to occupy. It takes them centuries, but that doesn’t stop them trying. Where they exist, in a sunless and eternal place, time is irrelevant.’

  Lazarus pushed himself to his feet, felt for the door handle, pulled it hard, but it wouldn’t budge. He tried again; nothing. He thought about what Red had said as he gave it another yank. It sounded like Red was telling him that no matter what anyone did, The Dead would always return. Then how could you ever stop them?

  ‘But why do they bother?’ he asked. ‘What’s in it for them?’

  The look Red let slip across his face made Lazarus stumble backwards against the wall.

  ‘You are,’ he said through a chilling smile. ‘The Dead envy the living. It consumes them. They will do anything to take what you have, for even the briefest of moments, to experience life again.’

  Lazarus saw Red stretch his left arm out to point at the door, then open his hand. The living room door flew open and Lazarus felt himself ripped out of the room. He landed hard on the tiles of the hallway floor, cracking his head, his right shoulder, his breath slamming from him.

  Red’s voice tore through the house like a tornado. ‘Remember!’ he called, staring at Lazarus through the open door. ‘Tell your father! The Dead are coming!’

  Then the living room door banged shut so hard that cracks snaked instantly across the wall, and plaster fell to the floor.

  Screams and crashes and howls tore the air. The living room door was shaking, like it was on the verge of splintering into wooden shards. The sound clawed at Lazarus, piercing his skin like fish hooks, forcing him to crawl away from it across the floor, his hands over his ears, his eyes shut, his forehead scraping along the tiles, desperate for the sound to end.

  Then silence, the sound sucked away to nothing in an instant. And once again, like he was on an airplane plunging through an air pocket, Lazarus felt his ears pop, his head spin, and his stomach churn.

  6 Horrific Nightmare

  Lazarus woke up yelling one word over and over again.

  ‘DAD! DAD! DAD!’

  When he stopped, the only sound was that of his heart banging hard against his ribs. It was the kind of heartbeat he only ever achieved running from trouble. And he’d done that a lot. But he’d run from nothing like the images now piling into his mind from the night before.

  Lazarus closed his eyes, let his head fall forward, rubbed his forehead. What the hell had happened last night? What kind of nightmare was that? He felt utterly, completely exhausted. And he was covered in sweat; he could feel the heat rising from his skin, the sheets on his bed sticking to him. Sitting up in bed, his whole body ached, but deep breaths calmed him down. Images from the nightmare flickered in his mind, like a badly recorded movie he wasn’t supposed to watch.

  Lazarus remembered being in the kitchen, chatting to Craig, having a snack. But when on earth had he come to bed? His mind was blank except for flashbacks to the impossible, horrific nightmare, which ended with him being thrown out of the living room and landing on the floor.

  The sound of a car driving past, some birds chattering about the night they’d had, calmed Lazarus even more; everything was normal here. No odd smell. No rips between worlds. No insane visions of nightmares come to life. No hint of the Dead or creatures of oblivion or Red asking after his dad.

  Dad …

  Lazarus shook his head, sucked in cool air and realized it was morning. Whatever he’d dreamt last night, his best guess was that it was simply brought about by too much caffeine, grilled cheese and sketchy horror movies: enough to give anyone vivid nightmares. He wondered what Craig would have to say about it. He’d probably take notes and turn it into a story.

  Bright sun streamed through his window, across his desk and on to the floor, forming a puddle of warm light. Lazarus reached out to his desk for his phone to call Craig. It wasn’t there.

  He scratched his head, yawned, and sat up, swinging his feet out of bed and on to the floor. They splashed in the warm sunlight pouring through his window. He looked over to his desk. His alarm clock read 07:30.

  Over at the speaker unit for his MP3, Lazarus found himself remembering the nightmares he used to have as a young boy. He couldn’t remember any images, not any more, but the feelings they pulled from him he could still recall: a sense that all hope was gone and that he was utterly alone, darkness everywhere… Dad had always told him it was because of the crash, nothing more, that they’d go away in time. And they had.

  The memory sent a shiver through his body. Goosebumps pimpled his skin. Rubbing his eyes, Lazarus reached over to the speaker unit, turned it up and pressed ‘Play’. Music stung the morning as he headed to the bathroom. The crazy dreams or whatever they were had made him feel groggy and he knew a sure-fire way to sort that out was a damned good shower and some suitably zingy shower gel.

  Guitars and drums rammed through the air. At the bathroom sink Lazarus splashed cold water on to his face and looked at his reflection. OK, so he’d looked better. But then again, he’d looked a whole lot worse.

  Lazarus reached out to get the shower started, then looked back at the open bathroom door as a thought struck him. It was a small thing, but Lazarus needed to know where his phone was. He always put it on his desk before going to sleep. It was a little ritual. And in the dream, hadn’t he dropped it in the living room? So where was it now?

  Lazarus walked out of the bathroom and down the stairs. He told himself he was just going to make sure he hadn’t lost his phone and that it was exactly where he thought it was. He certainly wasn’t heading down to the living room to see if it was still in one piece. That would be nuts.

  The morning light basted the house with an almost olive gold from the window over the stairs. There wasn’t a smell to make him upchuck. And everything was quiet but for the ticking of clocks, which echoed hypnotically in the air.

  Craig is going to love this, thought Lazarus, as the ground-floor hallway drew close. It was the kind of stuff he absolutely lived for: weird dreams, ghosts and ghouls.

  Something caused Lazarus to stop a couple of steps from the bottom of the stairs. A change in sound. What was it? The clocks. Something was different. Then he realized – one of them had stopped. That was something his dad never allowed to happen. The clocks only ever stopped if he was cleaning them, making sure they were fine. And he always checked to make sure they were fully wound before he went away. He must’ve forgotten one. Now that was a first.

  Lazarus stepped on to the cold tiles in the hallway and turned to the lounge door with a yawn. It was only when the door was fully open, when he spotted his phone on the rug, that he saw the bookcase, or what was left of it.

  It was in pieces across the floor.

  A flashback of Red’s wing slamming through it burst like a firework inside his head. He turned and saw a scorched line through brickwork on the other side of the room where Red’s other wing had raked across it. Bloody footprints were on the carpet. On the rocking chair by the fire a thick red stain dripped from the seat, down the legs and on to the floor. The fire was still smoldering, a faint grey wisp sl
ipping silently up the chimney.

  Like watching a movie on fast-forward, the reality of the nightmare crashed through Lazarus’s mind. He remembered every last bit of it and had to brace himself against an armchair to stop himself stumbling forward.

  At last, the images stopped. Lazarus breathed, gulped air fast.

  But it couldn’t have been real, he thought. It was impossible and wrong and…

  …and then, as he turned to leave the room, he saw the mirror above the fire. Two bloody circles stared back at him, exactly how he remembered Red drawing them, only hours before, when he’d been telling him to contact his father.

  The metallic smell of the blood hit the back of Lazarus’s throat. He gagged, doubled over, grabbed the armchair again to stop himself collapsing, and threw up. Panting, hair stuck to his sweaty forehead, he leant on his arms. He hadn’t made it up. He hadn’t dreamt it.

  It was all for real.

  Lazarus slowly straightened up, waited for his head to stop swimming, then picked up his phone. He flicked through the menu and found some messages. He couldn’t be bothered to check them; they were all from one number, Craig. But he had to phone someone else, someone he never phoned. Ever.

  Dad…

  Lazarus tapped speed dial.

  Waited.

  But all he got was his father’s voicemail.

  He tried again. Only this time he heard something elsewhere in the house – another phone was ringing.

  Lazarus dashed out of the lounge and into the hall, shutting his own phone on the way. The sound of the other phone died.

  For a few seconds, Lazarus stood in the hallway, listening for anything, trying to work out where the sound of the phone had come from. He hadn’t liked the way the ringing had vanished as soon as he’d hung up himself.

  Lazarus raised his own phone again and punched in his dad’s number.

  He heard the other phone buzz back in answer. Keeping his own phone open, Lazarus followed the sound and found himself at the door of his dad’s study. He went to knock, simply out of habit, then twisted the handle and pushed the door open. The ringing grew louder. Lazarus walked to his dad’s desk. He pulled the center drawer open. And there, vibrating and ringing inside, was his father’s phone.