Topher Nightshade vs. The Camp of The Undead Apocalypse

by Drew Hayes

  With the gashes on her side bound (a process her ribs had bitched about every step of the way), Velt began going through Adrienne’s pockets. She found a few crystal pendants, some “sage dust” as Adrienne had called it, her wallet, a half-full fifth of vodka, a lighter, and a near-empty pack of generic brand cigarettes. A bit more digging through a side pocket turned up what Velt had been hoping to find: a small satchel with various plastic baggies inside. She opened every one of them that held a white powder, tasting through two artificial sweeteners and one bag of real sugar before finally finding what she needed. Velt took a swig of the vodka to help with the pain, then stuffed all of it into her own pants and began heading for the door, taking a mental inventory as she went.

  Crystals, dust, smokes, spices, white powder, barely-bandaged wounds, a worthless left arm, and an, as-of-yet, undetermined number of cracked ribs. Meanwhile, Douchebag the Asshole Wraith had probably fully recovered from her assault and was gearing up for round two. Whichever way Velt turned the situation around in her head, the conclusion was always the same: she was fucked. If there was one thing that summarized Velt, though, one core aspect of her personality that was as unwavering as the sunrise, it was this: If she was going to get killed, she was goddamned certainly going to go out swinging.

  Chapter 6

  Wraiths didn’t have senses in the same way as humans. No spirit did. They had sight, which was actually better without the common weaknesses of physical eyes, and they also had excellent hearing. Touch was limited, though it grew stronger as the spirit’s power strengthened. Smell was a rare gift among the departed, and taste was something different entirely. Only the purest or wickedest souls could still taste, and in neither case did that stimulation come from traditional food. For all their loss, they did gain the ability to sense others of their kind. It was a talent that made beasts like this one all the more dangerous.

  The wraith had seen the gaping hole in the wooden floor and surmised the woman had gone into the basement. It had expected to see her corpse over the lip of the chasm, but instead, it found the copper-haired woman bustling about. She had stolen the wraith’s prey; there was no sense of any energy still lingering in the older one’s corpse. It burned with anger at this slight; though rage was a constant for it anyway. It also tingled with anticipation. This one was strong, far stronger than any of the other souls it had feasted on. This one would be delicious.

  It retreated from the hole and waited. The woman had a strange skill, and her blood had been the first dose of pain the wraith had experienced in centuries. It hadn’t endured this long by being stupid. It would wait until she was back in its halls, where it could fight with the advantage.

  She emerged from the basement sometime later, her eyes flickering about with caution. The door let out into a large room, and she avoided the walls. That was fine. There were many narrow halls she would have to cross before she reached the exit. The wraith moved ahead, crouching in a room that shared a wall with the path she would have to take. This was the perfect spot for an ambush. It was at a tight turn in the hall and had rooms on all sides. The wraith could pin her down, striking and moving back to cover before she could use her blood trick again. This was perfect. The wraith waited, listening for her footsteps.

  Several disappointing minutes later, it peeked a shadowy head out from its hiding place and looked down the hall. No sign of the girl. That could only mean she hadn’t left the room; this path and the basement were the only ways out. Perhaps her terror had overwhelmed her, rendering her unable to move. That would be disappointing. The wraith found souls had more flavor when they died with hope. It flowed back to the room, at first taking the space to be empty. Then it noticed the flutter of purple fabric peeking out from the other side of a rotting wardrobe. The medium was trying to steal its tactic, lying in wait for an ambush. If the wraith could have laughed, it would have, though the sound would have left all who heard it with fits of terror for the remainder of their days. Stupid girl forgot that waiting with her back to a wall only made sense against corporeal foes.

  The wraith worked its way through the walls, eventually positioning itself directly behind where the girl would be standing. Its claws lengthened, their dark forms as sharp as a lover’s rejection. It would take her in one go this time. Their dance had been entertaining, but now, it was time to feast. The wraith surged forward, slicing with its claws as it passed through the wall . . . and found itself tangled in a sprawl of thick, purple fabric.

  “Downside to not being alive when there was television is that the oldest tricks in the book are still new to you,” Velt quipped, jumping on top of the struggling figure and trying to keep it ensnared. Hanging her coat on a broken corner of the wardrobe had been easy; hiding herself under a nearby desk had been much more difficult. The spirit writhed beneath her, giving Velt a distinctly unsettling feeling already that was only growing worse as the blood on her coat worked its way across the wraith’s body.

  “I’ll cut you slowly for this!” The sound was somewhat different when it was in pain, more like a whispered howl.

  “Only if we both end up in Hell.” Velt reached into her pocket and pulled out the vodka. It had turned milky from the white powder dissolved in it. She hurriedly twisted off the cap and dumped it as quickly as she could on to her jacket. The blood would lose its charge soon, and when it did, the wraith would be able to pass through the fabric like any other physical matter. It didn’t take long to halfway empty the container, but she still received three more deep cuts in that short span. The wraith’s inky form was beginning to leak through its edges; it was now or never time. Velt wrapped her broken left arm—still numbly clutching the half-full vodka bottle—around the monster, pulled out the lighter with her right hand, flicked it on, and pressed it to the damp fabric.

  There was a reason the gods doled out such a harsh punishment to Prometheus for bringing fire to man. It was not just that he’d moved them beyond their intended capabilities; it was that he’d given them a weapon more powerful than they were ever meant to handle. Fire was not just a means to cook food and find one’s way after the sun sets. Fire was heat, and warmth, and life. Fire beat back the darkness. Nearly every monster in every culture has a weakness to flames, and that was not a coincidence. Fire was real, for every person, animal, and thing in between.

  Even for spirits.

  The wraith roared as it was suddenly engulfed in an inferno; the jacket became a fireball as soon as Velt had kissed the small flame to its fabric. This was no accident or cheaply-made material. The white powder had been non-dairy creamer, which had caused an explosive ignition while the vodka kept the fire going with a slow burn once it was lit. Velt dropped off in a rolling motion, both because she wanted a speedy dismount and because she knew there was a good chance she was on fire as well. Rising back to her feet, she turned to face her flailing adversary. It was in hellish pain, no question about that, but it was still worming its way free from the coat. Velt found that unacceptable.

  She squirted the rest of the mixture on the wraith itself. The liquid passed harmlessly through at first; however, about midway through the wraith’s form, the heat caused it to combust, creating a fire inside its shadow body. The roar of pain it released caused the house’s already-weakened structure to shudder and Velt to clutch her ears in agony. It would be weeks before her hearing would fully recover, and she was strangely okay with that.

  The wraith finally bucked from her coat, now more cinders than jacket; it did little good, however, since the wraith was now on fire as well. The remnants of jacket still had enough oomph to light the floor on fire as they crashed down, the dry wood catching as if it had been waiting all its life for such a moment.

  Velt’s fist caught the wraith in its hooded head, sending it tumbling through the air. She smiled despite the slight burning sensation on her knuckles. It was noticeably lighter; the fire had stolen a tremendous amount of the wraith’s power. She rushed over and landed two more rapid blows, each c
ausing a dark cloud of energy to dissipate from the shadowy figure. She briefly entertained the idea of holding on and punching it; however, the odds of burning her hand clean off were far too high. A kick followed up her punches instead, its trajectory purposely aiming her opponent to crash in to a piece of the wall that was now burning with gusto. Another horrid wail sent dust swirling from overhead, and for the first time since the basement, Velt paused to consider her situation.

  The house was definitely on fire now; the jacket’s floor-flames had engulfed two walls that she could see. Add in the home’s initial structural instability and it became clear that this abode was living on very borrowed time. Taking one last look at the shrieking shadow trying to claw its way out of the flames, Velt turned and dashed down the hallway. The boards still creaked below her feet, but now, she didn’t have the option of exercising her careful step strategy. Smoke was already filling the halls. It seemed the fire had spread more than she realized during her scuffle. Good. Velt had promised Adrienne no one else would get trapped here. Of course, that didn’t mean she was obligated to go down with the house. She ran faster, her breathing growing shallow as smoke began to fill her lungs.

  After ample cursing of the M.C.-Escher-loving asshole who built this place, she at last found her way to the foyer. The door was there, barely visible through the acrid smoke, but there all the same. She was five steps from it when something grabbed her ankle and sent her tumbling to the floor. Fortunately, this part was not over the basement, so the shattering boards only gave her a multitude of splinters. Unfortunately, the thing that had pulled her down was the wraith, or what was left of it.

  Gone was the billowing cloak of shadow, the formless figure who had stalked her. What remained looked like a charred skeleton, the fire having wicked it down to its literal bare bones. The phalanges encircling her ankle were still strong enough to hold her, though, and as the black skull stared at her with unadulterated hatred, she understood that it had abandoned all exit strategies. It was a being of anger and malice. It would destroy itself merely to ensure she burned to death as well.

  “Why won’t you die?”

  “Family tradition,” Velt spat, her fist cracking against its head with all the strength she could manage. Adrenaline compensated for lack of oxygen, and the wraith was thrown a few feet back, its grip broken. The shadow skeleton recovered quickly, skittering back toward her like a spider made of bone. It took long enough for her to pull free one of her bandages, though. As the wraith drew near, she acted first, pouncing forward and grabbing its wrists. Earlier, the wraith could have easily chunked her off, but now, her corporeal advantage had returned. She pulled its arms behind its back and twisted the cloth around them twice. Jerking down, she brought its wrists low, snatching its ankles and binding them with the cloth one by one. Her chest wounds had been soaking this cloth in blood for the better part of twenty minutes, so there was no risk of the magic running out before the fire did.

  Velt left the wraith on the floor. It wouldn’t be able to phase away with something physical binding it. She staggered to the door, more groping her way than seeing it. Grasping at the knob, she twisted it vainly as the door refused to move. Velt smacked at the deadbolts, her vision now entirely gone in a mixture of burning tears and smoke. Behind her, she heard a hissing chuckle and realized the monster was trying to laugh at her. She pawed at the door furiously, turning the locks again and again to find the right combination. Her head was swimming, her ribs ached, and all she wanted to do was lie down for just a few minutes. Her last effort failed as she pushed against the door futilely. It was still locked, and she was out of energy to keep trying. She propped herself against the wooden barrier and closed her eyes. Dimly, she thought she heard a faint clicking sound.

  The door came open and nearly fell off the hinges in the process. Velt stumbled out into the cool nighttime air, made it exactly six steps onto the damp grass, and collapsed.

  Chapter 7

  The funeral was held several days later. It was far from extravagant; mediums were hardly flush with cash unless they were charlatans, and the woman these people came to mourn had been dedicated to her craft. Granted, she was a bit difficult to be around at times, but she held the respect of her peers for her tireless dedication to aiding the wandering dead. Many people showed up, more than even she would have expected: people she had helped over the years, people who she would have thought had forgotten her. She would have been wrong. She’d left a lasting impact on the world, leaving it a better place than it would have been without her.

  Velt was there too, so bandaged she felt like she was doing an awkward impersonation of a mummy, but there. She paid her respects to Adrienne’s grieving children, and then kept her distance. This was the celebration of a life that had passed on. There was no need to get into the nitty-gritty of just how that passing had occurred. Occasionally, she would catch Shel or Carol casting uncertain glances at her. They’d arrived sometime after her escape, discovering her unconscious form in front of what had become a full-on inferno. There’d been almost nothing left to save by the time the firefighters got there. The firefighters had brought EMTs with them, who had hooked Velt up to an oxygen machine and told her she was lucky to be alive. Velt disagreed; she wasn’t one to attribute a person’s actions to random chance. Someone had pulled the door open. Someone had saved her. Which meant someone had known she was there in the first place.

  The cemetery where Adrienne—or at least a coffin stuffed with some of her belongings—was interred was a very nice one. None of the mediums noticed an excessive amount of spirits, which was a good sign. It meant peaceful people with full lives had been set down here. Velt was glad—even knowing her friend’s spirit was gone and the body had been charred to ash—the graveyard was where her family would come to pay their respects and visit. That made it important.

  She hung back as the coffin was being lowered into the ground. There was nothing to be said, and her presence only made some of the people uncomfortable. The story she’d spun about getting a distress call from her friend only to find her stuck in a house had kept Velt from jail; though, it didn’t absolve her from the suspicions of their community. It seemed referrals were going to be a slim business in the time to come. Personally, she was just thankful to be alive and unincinerated.

  “All clear,” Dylan reported, floating over from a nearby mausoleum. Since her close call, he’d barely let her go out alone. He kept saying that in her weakened condition, she was easy prey for a malevolent spirit, even though she’d rightly pointed out that as long as she kept her head down, no ghast could know what she was. Dylan had calmly listened to her arguments and then followed her anyway. It was annoying a lot of the time, but today, she was thankful for it. The wraith had left her on edge; coming to a place with lots of spirits was a scary prospect. Having backup helped her nerves stay in check.

  “Good. We can head back now.”

  “Don’t you want to stay for the prayer?”

  “I’ll pass. Adrienne was a good person. If there is something nice for people who deserve it, then that’s where she’s going. Nothing we say or chant down here will make a difference.”

  “Cynical as always.”

  “I stick with what works.”

  The cab ride home was a silent affair; Velt couldn’t hold a conversation with Dylan without the driver thinking she was a nutter butter. Sometimes, she kept a Bluetooth headset for when she wanted to talk with spirits in public and not get the crazy stares; but today, it rested, forgotten, on her mantle. A handful of cash to the driver, a quick ascent up some narrow stairs, and Velt was home. Thankfully, the building was warm; the day’s chill had seeped into her bones. She wore a threadbare windbreaker to cut the cold, but it didn’t have the same stopping power as the dear purple jacket she already missed.

  “Stop!” Dylan yelled as they reached her door, throwing up his hands and breaking Velt from her internal reverie. “Someone has been inside here.”

  Velt froz
e. She nodded to Dylan, who stepped through the door to scout. Her keys danced through her hands as she pretended to search for the right one. Her face wore a puzzled expression, masking the quickening terror rippling through her mind. What if the wraith had survived? What if it found her? What if it was devouring Dylan right now? That last one gave her nervous system a kick as she decided she’d waited long enough and advanced on the door. Before she had a chance to stick her key in the lock, it clicked open from the other side and Dylan pulled the door open.

  “All clear?” Velt asked.

  “No danger that I could find, but . . . I think you need to come see this for yourself.”

  They walked through her hall, stopping only to close and lock the door, then down past the kitchen and into the bedroom. For a moment, she was uncertain what Dylan was talking about, and then her brain registered what her eyes were already saying was wrong. When she’d left, her twin-sized bed had been bare, but for the tangled sheets and one over-fluffed pillow. Now, something was spread out on top of it, something that couldn’t possibly be there.

  Laid out as neatly as if it had been brought by a laundry service was Velt’s purple coat. She picked it up carefully, half-expecting it to explode at the slightest touch. This was her jacket, all right. Same scent, same soy sauce stain on the sleeve, same shitty repair patch where the shoulder had been torn.

  “There’s no spirit energy that I can sense,” Dylan supplied helpfully.

  Velt nodded without really listening. There was a yellow piece of paper tucked into the right breast pocket. She pulled it out carefully and unfolded it. On it were two words, written in immaculate, cursive calligraphy, and nothing more.