CHAPTER 4
Zombies Aren’t Real
Instinct took over. The three of us dropped flat to the gravel driveway as arrows, axes, and garbage cans flew overhead. The caterwaul of the caribou-hide-clad painted people pierced my soul. I’d never been around so many strong spirits before and my mental defences were not established well enough to handle the surge of other alongside the abject fear of having an arrow embedded in my skull.
Jeremy wrapped a protective arm around me, partially shielding one side of my body against his. Through the shrieking in my brain, I could faintly hear him on the radio, calling for help.
“Blessed Redeemer, save us,” David prayed.
I struggled against losing consciousness. I focused on the physical world around me: the howling wind, Jeremy on the radio, the crashing waves against the wharf. I rebuilt my defences, one brick at a time. After this, I’d need a quiet place to meditate to recover from the psychic bombardment. For now, I needed to stay conscious.
In languages I could not understand, Viking men shouted and hurled themselves at the Beothuk-like peoples, but could never catch the fleet-footed Skraelings. They possessed a surefootedness that made them appear to be running a centimetre or so off the ground. Considering they weren’t alive, there was no reason to suppose that they were hitting earth.
I gulped down my fear and managed to look at Jeremy. He pulled his sidearm and took a shooting crouch, though he did not fire.
“Shoot them!” David hissed.
“This isn’t TV. I don’t just shoot people.” Jeremy looked at me, waiting for my answer.
I shrugged. “They aren’t real. It probably won’t do any good.”
David looked as if he’d seen a ghost. Consistent, I suppose, with several dozen ghosts heading our way. Jeremy, at least, hung around me enough to have heard my stories and believe something other in the world existed; he’d even seen some questionable things in his life. David O’Toole, on the other hand, believed anything outside the biblical world was tantamount to devil-worship.
“Who are they?” He asked, his voice trembling.
“Ghosts.” I answered, sucking in a deep breath of the cold, salty air. “Only worse.”
Jeremy stared at me. “Define ‘worse.’ “
A Viking picked up a circular, wooden garbage bin from the end of Manny’s driveway and hurled it at a Beothuk hiding behind a car. The bin missed and, instead, smashed against the car’s windshield, the safety glass pebbling and splintering.
Siren wails pierced the evening air. Porch lights flicked on as people came out of their houses to see what the commotion was about.
I didn’t take my eyes off the skulking Beothuks as they hid in bushes and tree shadows, avoiding the street lights. “Whatever, or whoever, brought them back, didn’t just raise their spirits. They raised their bodies, too. They are flesh and blood.”
“You’re telling me these are zombies?” David snapped. “Zombies are walking down the streets? Zombies?!”
I shook my head and let out an exasperated sigh. “No, no. Zombies aren’t real.”
“I don’t care what they are—we need to do something,” Jeremy said.
Several ideas flooded my brain. The most likely course of action was also my least favourite one. “There’s no way that I can send them back permanently, but I can probably banish them until sunset tomorrow.”
“Banish?” O’Toole screwed up his mouth. “Witchcraft.”
I glared at him. “No, I don’t practice witchcraft. I practice the ancient ways passed down to me by my mother.”
“Devil worshiper,” O’Toole muttered under his breath.
I ignored him. For a person who believed in demon possession, angels of mercy, a guiding Holy Spirit, and a guy who was raised from the dead, he was rather closed-minded. One would think he’d be more open to the entire paranormal.
I closed my eyes and shut out the battle cries, the crashes, the screams. I ignored the heat on my face as a garbage can exploded near us. I reached into earth with my senses. The spirits were too strong for me to banish completely. My power was in sensing the other side, not in managing it. Still, I could pull enough power from the earth to give us twenty-odd hours to discover what was going on. Perhaps with more information, I could send these souls back to their rest.
“Rachel . . .” Jeremy whispered.
“Almost,” I whispered.
A gale struck us, sucking away my breath. I snapped open my eyes and the spirits were gone, though their damage was not. The O’Toole’s garbage smouldered, neighbours stood in the streets: some in their slippers, some with hunting rifles.
I wobbled as I stood. My hands shook against my side, and I struggled to stay upright.
“You okay?” Jeremy asked, reaching out to touch my arm for support, but never quite making contact.
I nodded. “It . . . passes.”
David looked around before looking back at me. “What just happened?”
It was a moment before the shakes subsided enough to allow me to answer. “I’m not sure. All I know is that we have a day to figure out what’s happening or they will be back. And, from the power I felt earlier, I think even more will come.”
“I can’t believe there are demons. Right here, in St. Anthony,” Jeremy said, shaking his head.
I glanced at him and nodded. In the end, it didn’t matter what he called them, as long as he understood enough to help.
“The only person I know who could have brought this evil here is you.”
“David, back off,” Jeremy snapped. “That’s way out of line.”
I lifted my hand and David didn’t snipe back. “He’s right. Not about me, the spirits generally follow me. Someone, though, had to bring them here.” I shifted through my memory of Manny’s basement. A drinking glass with a butter knife in it. Sand on the floor.
“Stupid me. Why didn’t I notice it before?” I said aloud to no one in particular. “I need to have a chat with Manny. I think he knows more than he’s letting on.”
Spirits Rising Page 4
