Текст книги "Best new zombie tales, vol. 3"

Автор книги: James Daley

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They all took notice of him now: the dead man. The people there saw him walking. Soon the whole world would see it too.

Robbins barked at the uniforms on either side of him, telling them to get more men out for crowd control. The plainclothes officers driving the van backed up when they saw what was rapidly turning into a mob. There was total and utter confusion. Cameras flashed, Dictaphones were pushed through.

And there, at the back, Robbins saw her–short dark hair, craning her neck along with the other people to see who had gathered here today: Caroline Hills. He turned to see that the man they had in cuffs had noticed her, too. A look passed between Caroline and the person who so resembled the husband she had lost, and Robbins almost felt sorry for him. But then the DCI was being jostled to one side and more policemen were emerging from the station to deal with the numbers.

"Can we just ask–"

"Where are you taking–"

"What connection he has to–"

"What you found at Westmoor Cemetery–"

The gaggle of voices was terrific, so much so that they wove themselves into one loud hum.

Then it happened.

Beth spotted it first and grabbed Robbins' shoulder. There, in the crowd, was a hand clutching a gun. It was an old-fashioned type of pistol, nothing that might be used on the streets today–more like a relic from a museum. Robbins doubted whether it would even fire.

But it did. Three loud bangs.

He saw the man in cuffs go down, two bullets hitting him hard. Then Robbins felt a pain in his own arm, as he dove across to try and shield Beth. If there was confusion before, then there was mass panic now that the shots had rung out. Robbins tried to shout out to his men: apprehend the shooter; secure the area. But the plainclothes officers from the van had already pulled their own guns, which caused even more hysteria.

Robbins clutched at his arm and his hand came away red. Then Beth was there, examining the wound.

She told him to keep the hand on it and apply pressure. "You silly sod," Beth whispered, and kissed his forehead, before checking on the other injured party. She scrambled along the floor to where he'd fell.

But when she got there she found nothing. No body, no Matthew.

Nothing except a patch of blood where he'd lay, spreading out like wings on the concrete floor.

Chapter Sixteen

The next few days were just as confused as that afternoon.

For a while the news had concentrated fully on what had happened: about Matthew, about who he might be, about where he might have gone after the assassination attempt, about his revenge on the man who had 'killed' him. It was discussed on every message board and talk show, theologians offered their opinions and scientists expounded on what Beth had already suggested. But there was no proof, no concrete evidence of anything. So rationality soon began to reign. If nothing else it was a diversion, a curiosity along the lines of raining fish and the Yeti. Certainly nowhere near as exciting as reading about which politician was having an affair or which celebrity had suddenly been diagnosed with bulimia.

Then, just as Croft had predicted, the world began to change.

The first thing that happened was that Phil Barnes, the motorcyclist Matthew had apparently brought back from the brink of death, got up from his hospital bed and went for a walk himself. The nurses thought he was going to the toilet, a good sign that he was recovering even more. But he wasn't. Phil was going down into the morgue.

He walked past the attendant in charge, who was listening to Nessun Dormaon his ipod at the time, as if he hadn't even seen him. The man asked him exactly what he thought he was doing and Phil simply replied:

"They're asleep, that's all. Just asleep."

Then he pulled open the freezer drawers and woke them up, one by one: men, women and children. In no time at all, the morgue was filled with reanimated corpses and the attendant had collapsed on the floor in a dead faint. He was used to cadavers making noises–groaning and farting as he moved them–but not used to them climbing out of their drawers. The last person to be woken was in quite a bad condition. His limbs were broken and he was still scarred, bruised and cut from the fall.

However, when he looked down on himself, Douglas Knowles found that he was entirely healed, that his body was as good as... no, betterthan new. Life surged through him, the blood pumping in his veins full of vitality. The last thing he could remember was being on that balcony. When the man he'd killed refused to put him out of his own misery, he'd suddenly been overcome with a sense that there was no point in going on. And he owed the person standing there some kind of justice. That was when he decided to throw himself off.

He smiled. It was a miracle.

"Come on," said Phil, showing the others a way out of their resting place, up into the light.

In his hospital bed, recovering from being shot and being treated for the 'full house' of ulcers they'd now found in his gut, DCI Robbins saw the strange procession go past. And saw Knowles tagging on at the end. But he put it down the strong medication he was on, just as he had the return visit from Croft.

"I can't stand these places," he'd told him, eating Robbins' grapes, "they remind me of the time I had my heart attack."

He'd mention it to Beth the next time he saw her.

But Beth would have other things on her mind entirely by then.

~

That night, Dr. Beth Preston was down in the lab–going through blood samples she'd squirreled away while she was still able to–when she was interrupted in her work by a child calling out her name.

She rose from the microscope slowly, then nearly lost her balance, clutching onto the desk for support and knocking over the vials.

"Hiya Bethany," said the little girl in front of her. She was the only one who'd ever called her by her full name.

"S-Sarah?" She shook her head, not trusting the evidence of her own eyes. "Sarah, is it really you?"

The girl with long golden locks ran over and hugged her. "Course it is, silly. Who else?"

Beth's hand wavered, then it found the child's back and she hugged her tight. The girl felt as real as anyone she'd ever met, as solid as... well, as solid as Matthew had been. Tears were tracking down the doctor's cheeks, and she could taste saltwater on her lips.

"It's... it's so good to see you," Beth told her.

"It's good to see you, too. I was getting bored of waiting."

In spite of herself, Beth laughed. She held Sarah by the shoulders and bent down. "I don't understand any of this."

"You're not meant to," Sarah said. "Not yet. But you will." She took Beth's hand and began to tug it.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see."

Beth hung back. "Hold on, Sarah. I have to say something."

Sarah looked puzzled. "Can't it wait?"

"No," said Beth, shaking her head. "Not really."

Sarah looked up and nodded.

"I'm sorry," said the doctor.

"What for?"

"You know, for what happened."

The penny dropped and Sarah suddenly grinned. "Oh that. It's okay, it wasn't your fault."

"But if I'd picked it up earlier then maybe–"

"It was meantto happen, Bethany," Sarah told her. "There was no way you could have known about the clot." She tittered. "Sounds like cream, doesn't it?" When Becky didn't join in, Sarah said, "Could've happened anytime."

"But I'm a doctor, I should've seen the signs–"

Sarah put a finger to her lips. "It made you a better one. Think about all the good you've done. Now," she said seriously, "we've really got to go, there are things to do."

It was Beth's turn to be puzzled. "What things?"

"You'll see."

"Wait." Beth pulled her back again. "I need to tell you one last thing."

Sarah sighed. "Kay."

"I love you."

Sarah beamed. "I love you too, sis. Now let's go." She pulled on Beth's hand and led her out of the lab.

~

These weren't the only occurrences.

All around the country, all over the globe, people were seeing the dead. Not ghosts, but living, breathing human beings–of a kind. Mrs. Shaw, the school helper, woke up from yet another troubled sleep only to see the figure of young Oliver at the foot of her bed, burn marks from the rope still around his neck. Terrified, and thinking she'd brought the images from her nightmare into the real world, she tried to wake her husband. But he just kept on snoring beside her.

Oliver held out his hand for her to take it, and she felt compelled to do so...

Across town Thomas Valentine was shocked to see that his best friend from college, Martin Raines, who had drowned during the Tsunami disaster in Sri Lanka, was playing computer games on the X-Box in his living room. Meanwhile WPC Trisha Adams' discovered that her Granddad, who'd passed away from a stroke when she was only a little girl, had come to visit offering her a bag of those sticky toffees he always used to bring.

And as PC Frank Wilson was sitting down to eat breakfast, he found that his Uncle Ted and Auntie Rita, the couple who had taken him in as a child and brought him up as their own, were suddenly in the room with him. Ted was making himself a cup of coffee and Auntie Rita was asking him if there was any toast left. He was scared and happy at the same time, but he wasn't really surprised. After all, the dead man in the cell had told him he would see them again soon.

~

In the cold, damp cellar he waited.

It wasn't comfortable: he was hungry and he couldn't feel his hands now, but he had to wait it out. What he'd done had been right, of that he had no doubt. But the authorities wouldn't see it that way. They'd probably been to search for him already, though he doubted whether they'd find this hiding place–used to protect the faithful during the blitz when the bombing had been fierce. Why, they'd even held services down here.

Smiling, he patted the instrument he'd used to rid the earth of that monstrous creation. His father's trusty old service revolver, given to his mother after the great man's death. It had been used back then in the name of good, fighting the forces of evil, and he'd put it to use in much the same way.

Father Lilley struck a match and lit the altar candle he'd brought down with him. He wished to consult the good book once again. But in the half-light he saw something stirring there. A shadow at the back of the cellar.

"Who's there?" he asked, snatching up the revolver.

The shadow drifted closer and, in spite of himself, Lilley let off another bullet.

"Put that thing down, right now," said the voice, stern but with genuine feeling. "Put it down before you hurt anyone else."

Lilley recognized the voice, but it couldn't be who he thought it was. "Father?"

The Captain, still in uniform, walked over towards him shaking his head. "Gerald, what did you think you were doing?"

"This isn't real," gibbered Lilley. "It's a trick, the Devil's work."

"He has been at work, yes, but not here. Not today. It was not me who told you to shoot that man." His father, the moustache he sported twitching, reached forward and took the gun from him.

"Our father who art in Heaven–" began Lilley.

"Not anymore," said his own father, seriously.

"Begone demon. I smite thee from the Earth!"

The army man picked up the bible and leafed through it. "You're so fond of quoting these passages, Gerald. Here's one for you: 'And I saw the dead, small and great, stand before God; and the books were opened: and another book was opened, which is the book of life, and the dead were judged out of those things which were written in the books, according to their works. And the sea gave up the dead which were in it, and death and hell delivered up the dead which were in them: and they were judged, every man according to his works.'"

Lilley's face froze. "The Book of Revelation."

His father nodded. "The immortal body is real, Gerald. And yet that same body can pass through an object, or pick up the object." He looked down at his old gun. "They also have none of the defects they had in life."

Lilley was shaking. His father grabbed him by the hand and started to drag him up the stairs to the hidden door beneath the altar itself. "No!" screamed Lilley. "It can't be."

The soldier dragged Lilley out into the church and forced him to look through the window. There, in the graveyard, were the dead. Each one standing next to the grave they had risen from, the soil on top untouched (in fact the only hole there was at Matthew Daley's plot). Their clothes ranged from the quite recent, to centuries old. All were looking at him, all were pointing.

"Now do you understand, Gerald? Around the world, those who have died in conflicts like mine–those who are stilldying–they are coming back, too."

Lilley grabbed the gun off his father and placed it against his head. Before the Captain could do anything, the trigger had been pulled and the last bullet punched a hole in Lilley's skull. To the priest's own amazement, though, he didn't fall down. He dropped the weapon and touched the wound in the side of his head, looking at the disgusting mess on his fingers.

His father went to the font and dipped a cup into the water, bowing his head at the stained glass image of Christ above him. The he returned to his son and washed away the blood on his scalp. The hole was gone.

"'And immediately there fell from his eyes as it had been scales: and he received sight forthwith, and arose, and was baptized.' That's Acts Nine, Eighteen, Gerald," said the man.

Lilley started to cry. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know."

The Captain held him for a moment, then pulled away. "It's time to go, boy."

He placed a hand on his son's back and led him out of the church. Lilley turned and looked up at his much younger father. "Will I be spared for my foolish actions?" he asked.

The Captain didn't reply. He just carried on walking, the dead from the graveyard following them both on their way up the road.

Epilogue

Irene Daley woke from the deepest sleep she'd had in years. She could remember the priest being here, them praying and discussing Matthew. And then she must have fallen asleep, except she had the vaguest recollection of trying to wake up and not being able to. She looked at the clock by the side of her; it was just gone nine. But the date must have been wrong on it, because according to that she'd been in bed the past few days.

There was a knocking at the door downstairs. It was probably Father Lilley back again to tell her what was happening. She got up, feeling none of the usual aches and pains that came with age. No cracks of the knees, no arthritis, which was always wicked first thing in the morning. In fact she felt better than she ever had in her life.

Pulling on her dressing gown she went downstairs. There was a shadow waiting there and she hesitated, flashing back to that morning almost a week ago. But something told her not to be afraid this time, something told her to open the door.

So she did.

And it was like a replay of before: There was the man who'd looked so much like Matthew, who she now knew wasMatthew, only he'd been changed, just like she herself had been changed. And it was time to go somewhere, she knew that as well, although she had no idea how.

"Hello Mum," said Matthew.

Instead of passing out this time, instead of being afraid, lashing out, she put her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. "Welcome home, son," she whispered, her eyes watering. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."

"It's okay," he assured her. "None of that matters now anyway."

"We have to go, don't we?"

He nodded. "I was allowed to come and get you. But yes, they're waiting."

"Right," she said. Irene shut the door behind them and was about to lock up when she realised how daft that would be. She took her son's arm and he walked her down the path. Birds were flying overhead–huge birds, almost humanlike–and it was a beautiful day. The flowers were blooming on her front lawn. He opened the freshly painted gate and the new hinges didn't make a sound.

The streets beyond were full of people. Some she recognized from round and about, like the pot-bellied man from across the road, others she'd never seen before. Relatives: long lost sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, grandfathers, grandmothers, and back further still. It would be the same the world over; she knew that as well.

"Will he be there, too? Arnold?" she asked Matthew as they went through the gate.

"Dad?" he said. "Of course. He's waiting for us."

Irene smiled at that and patted her son's hand. "You're a good boy."

They joined the throng, fitting into place alongside them. The living, the dead–all were here. All were heading off over the horizon. As finally, it had come: a time to be judged rather than to judge.

The day that lasted a thousand years had finally begun.

' Marvel not at this: for the hour is coming, in the which all that are in the graves shall hear his voice, and shall come forth; they that have done good, unto the resurrection of life; and they that have done evil, unto the resurrection of damnation.'

(John 5:28-29)

Of Cabbages and Kings

NATE SOUTHARD

Holly stumbled down the winding country road, her feet sore and her legs tired. She tried to remember how long she'd been walking, but she couldn't. It felt as though she'd been shuffling along forever. Her eyes drooped closed, and she forced them open again.

Jesus, she wanted to sleep.

But she knew that was a bad idea. She hadn't seen any dead since she'd escaped the bus, but that didn't mean anything. They were quick, and if one caught her off guard, she wouldn't stand a chance.

Just like those poor bastards in the bus.

Twenty-two souls, all that was left of Millwood. They'd barely made it five miles before the dead had swarmed them. She could still hear their shrieks of terror, smell the rot-reek of the dead as they surged over the moving bus or crunched beneath its wheels. She felt the twist of her stomach as the vehicle lurched, spun, and finally rolled, sending the people inside this way and that.

And then the dead had come through the windows.

And Holly had run.

It was luck, dumb fucking luck. The wreck had knocked her off her feet, and she'd rolled down the aisle until she rested against the emergency exit. An instant after the bus had finally stopped her wits had returned in full, and she'd thrown the exit open, setting off the bus's alarm. The sound had confused the dead for the briefest of moments, and in that time she'd leapt from the bus and bolted to the edge of the forest.

She'd been too scared to drag anyone else along with her.

Even now, more than a day later, or maybe it was closer to two, she felt a great weight of shame on her shoulders. There had been children on the bus, and elderly. They had been her responsibility because the escape plan had been hers.

Well, hadn't she escaped?

She almost cracked a weak smile at the thought, but another crushing wave of guilt fell on her and she felt a fresh round of tears well up in her eyes. She blinked and they spilled down her cheeks, cutting furrows in the grime that had built up there. She wanted to squeeze her eyes shut until the tears stopped, but every time she tried she heard the screams emanating from the bus, the cries to God and others, pleas for help or mercy that had gone unanswered as the dead tore everyone inside to pieces. She remembered how she had felt so powerless and scared standing just beyond the edge of the forest, knowing a braver person would try to help, would think of a way. She had only stood there, however, afraid to move and make any sound that might give her hiding spot away. She had watched for more than an hour, terrified and sickened, as the dead ate the people she cared about, not stopping until they had finished every last morsel. And then they had charged back up the road toward Millwood, no doubt hoping to find others who might not have made it out.

Holly turned to look behind her. In the distance, filtering the morning sunlight, rose a column of black smoke. She assumed it was from Millwood, but she couldn't tell with any certainty. She wasn't very good with direction or distance, never had been. Even now, she could only guess that she was somewhere between Versailles and Madison. She had probably walked more than twenty miles in the last day, but she couldn't be sure. She wasn't even positive she was heading toward Madison. She had to stay away from the main roads and towns. That's where the dead gathered. Then again, the bus had been on a country road yesterday and it had still been attacked. Maybe the dead had been on their way to Millwood, coming from Milan or Dillsboro, and had just lucked into a meal.

She growled to herself, trying to push the thought out of her brain. She didn't want to think about the bus anymore, about the wreck or the screams or the dead surging through the windows and doors or how she could only–

STOP IT!

Shrieking with rage, she fell to her knees and pounded both fists into the gravel. She hissed as the rocks bit into the flesh of her hands. She punished the ground again, crying out, and felt the warmth of her own blood as it trickled down her wrists. She cursed herself. The dead could smell blood, or at least she was pretty sure they could. She'd have to move faster now. If any were in the area they'd have no trouble locating her.

She pushed herself to her feet and continued along the gravel road. Her hair fell in her eyes and she brushed it back with her fingertips. It was getting long again. She'd kept it so short over the last twenty months, ever since Blake had failed to return from Rundberg and she'd decided to take a more active roll in Millwood's welfare. The shorter hair had helped keep the others off balance, see her as something other than John Manton's daughter, who used to work the counter at the Dairy Barn. The short hair had helped them see her as a leader, somebody to listen to. She had kept it short right up until things started to get bad, until the pressure began to weigh on her as she had to think first of the town's defense and then of escape. Now it was long enough to cling to her face and chin. Had it been months? Had it really been so long?

She wondered if it was really June. Had her people paid close attention to the days? The weather had been rainy recently, and that made her think she was in the ballpark, that she was deep in the middle of June, but she could only guess at the actual date. Eighteenth? Nineteenth? She didn't know.

She pushed herself to her feet and began to walk again.

A breeze fluttered down the road, cooling her dirt-smeared and sweat-soaked skin. She began to breathe deep, a reflex, but caught herself. She didn't like to breathe too deeply anymore, not since the dead had returned. Now, the air always carried a stench along with it, a smell like roadkill or a pig farm, just underneath the natural scents of the world. Holly could only imagine what the larger cities might smell like. She'd met a few people who'd made it out of Cincinnati, and they'd said the odor of rot had been unbearable, even in those early days.

She looked to the sun as it rose to her left, determining which direction was east. She figured she was east of Highway 421. Soon, she could turn right and head into the forest. If she was correct, and that was a big if, she would reach 421 where it ran alongside the Jefferson Proving Ground. The military base, a former testing area for bombs and other weapons, would be fortified. It had been their original destination when they'd made their escape from Millwood. The proving ground was huge, surrounded on all sides with a razor wire-topped fence and armed to the teeth. If any place had withstood the rise of the dead, it was Jefferson. And even if it had fallen, maybe she could find a weapon, something she could defend herself with until she found a more permanent shelter.

Or maybe she'd just lower her arms and walk into the dead, give herself up and end the whole stupid thing.

Maybe that would be better.

Holly wiped the blood from her hands onto her jeans, and listened to the shuffle and crunch of her boots over the gravel. The rhythm, slow and rumbling, did little to comfort her, but it took her mind off of other things. She listened to her own footsteps so closely, so intently, that she didn't hear the piano until the trees fell away to her right and she saw the church.

The structure was old, but then again, most of the buildings in this part of the state were. The white paint of its clapboard sides had faded to a dull gray, the wood beneath was peeking through in more than one place. Its shingles still held on, but there was a sense of desperation to their grip, as if the next puff of breeze might strip the entire roof bare.

A single sign, built of sturdy wood, stood by the roadside. Holly could still make out the words Fellowship Baptist Church, but they had been painted over with a single coat of white. On top of this, the words–

NEW WORLD MINISTRY

–had been written in uneven letters with blue spray-paint. Holly came to a halt, considering the words for a moment, and an uneasy fluttering passed through her belly. She couldn't quite understand it, but something about the words frightened her the slightest bit.

"How ya doin'?"

She jumped at the masculine voice, her breath catching in her chest and her hands drawing up defensively. She hadn't heard human speech in well over twenty-four hours, so the words, despite their friendly tone, startled her. Her eyes darted to the church, standing alone in the middle of the field with only an empty blacktop lot to keep it company. An upright piano sat on a small porch that surrounded the church's main entrance. A man in a white dress shirt and a green ball-cap sat behind the keys, banging out hymns. He looked back at her as he played, and Holly could only assume this was the man who had greeted her.

As if to answer her suspicions, the man called out, "You okay?"

Holly nodded. It never occurred to her that the man might not be able to make out her weak movements.

"You gonna stand there all day?" the man asked. "Once that sun gets all the way up, it's gonna get pretty hot. Muggy, too. The rain we been getting lately's wreaking havoc on the weather, but I guess I don't need to tell you that. Come on over and rest your bones a second!"

Holly smiled at the invitation. She could use a rest, no doubt about that. Her legs and feet practically begged for one. A sudden wave of exhaustion, more powerful than she was prepared for, rolled over her, and she knew she needed to sit down for a while.

She let out a long sigh and left the road, shuffling across the grass toward the old, gray structure. The man continued his recital, the hymns taking on a more regal, buoyant quality, and Holly almost smiled as she realized he was giving her some marching music, announcing her arrival. Her trek across the field seemed to take forever, the grass cushioning her stride but slowing her pace. She glanced at the church and wondered if it was really getting closer, almost afraid to believe so until she finally placed her hand on the banister that ran alongside the four steps that led up to the porch and entrance.

"Good morning!" the man behind the piano called. His voice seemed to bounce alongside the chords he played.

"Hi," Holly managed. Her voice seemed little more than a croak compared to the piano player's.

"Come to rest your weary bones? Come to make peace with the Lord in these times of never-ending trouble? You have come to the right place, my friend. You have come to the right place."

He changed chords and began to sing, his voice deep and resonating.

" Then sings my soul, my Savior, God, to thee. How great thou art. How great thou art!"

Holly eyed the man as he rocked back on the piano bench, his fingers shuddering over the keys and his eyes drawing closed even as his jaw dropped open to deliver his voice. His face was rugged but handsome, the skin tanned and rough, his jaw freshly shaven. His dress shirt shined in the early morning light, the cleanest thing she'd seen in well over a year. His hat displayed the John Deer logo with pride, though it was a bit more weathered than the shirt. A pair of light blue corduroys and some old loafers completed the outfit, conveying an image of trustworthiness despite its simple origins.

He hunched over the keys again, making the chords shiver, and Holly lowered her face into her hands, thankful for the opportunity to rest.

" Oh Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder..."

Though she could probably do without the singing. She wasn't so sure she believed in God anymore, not after what he had let happen to the world. Still, she couldn't deny that some people, in times of crisis, felt better with a little religion in their lives. If it helped them, where was the harm? Why should she give a damn?

Besides, the guy at the piano had a pretty good voice. He was no Elvis, but he wasn't half-bad.

She looked up at him, but he was bent low over the keys, his eyes squeezed shut and his face drawn in a long expression of emotion–something between joy and sorrow–as he sang. She decided to let him finish. There were worse ways to spend the time.

The man's voice rolled through the hymn, swelling with each chorus and falling to a reverent hush with each verse. He finished with a prolonged note, his vibrato perfect, and the piano fell still, ringing out one final note before leaving the church and the clearing in silence.

Holly opened her eyes at the sudden absence of sound, realizing for the first time just how loud the man and his song had been. Wasn't he afraid of the dead hearing him? That kind of racket could probably draw the walkers from more than a mile in any direction.

Maybe the dead had left the area, decided to head toward someplace more urban.

Or maybe this asshole didn't have a single goddamn lick of sense.

The man spun around on his bench, swinging his legs behind him. He stuck out his hand, his lips spreading into a wide, jubilant smile.

"Hi there! Name's Toby. Brother Toby, I guess. It's a great pleasure to see somebody come along this Sunday."