Holiday of the Dead

by David Dunwoody

  Whose idea it had been originally was moot, time effacing that particular detail. They all played a part. It just sort of, happened.

  Warren bolted from his chair, towering from the head of the table. “Absolutely none. And here lies fitting punishment. All I had to do was steal the right compounds. Once the initial tests proved conclusive I simply smuggled Uncle Gerald’s body from cold storage, not that any of you would ever notice its absence. Unlike all of you I still put in a day’s work instead of frittering away my time and money. At our departed uncle’s company, no less. It was easy.”

  Warren motioned to the struggling form strapped in the chair to his right. “And there he is. The bastard himself. Not quite alive, but no longer our victim.”

  Warren lifted a small remote control detonator he had kept hidden beneath his napkin and pressed a button. There was a brief flash from the back of the chair and the smell of cordite fused the air.

  “Life returns to dead tissue at a cellular level, with some interesting side-effects,” Warren said and settled back into his chair.

  “Good thing it’s Thanksgiving. Plenty of food to go around.”

  Uncle Gerald’s bonds loosened and fell away. The shrivelled Thing was free, the knot keeping the straps in place having burned through by the controlled explosion. In a moment the freed corpse jerked to its feet and lurched forward.

  At the other end of the table four co-conspirators jostled each other to be the furthest from the advancing revenant. The shouting drew Uncle Gerald toward them. Only Cynthia remained in her seat; a flood of tears raining from her eyes, the deluge staining the tablecloth with mascara and sorrow.

  Warren tried not to watch. He’d seen enough during his initial testing.

  The rats were the worst, far too dreadful to be used as a punishment even for this lot. The dead hobo hadn’t been as voracious as those beasts. Yet every result was the same. They felt no pain. Age of a corpse was irrelevant unless decomposition had destroyed motor function entirely. Uncle Gerald was relatively limber once defrosted.

  Warren reached for a clean plate and began to pile on strips of succulent turkey breast and heaps of creamy mashed sweet potatoes.

  As he spooned peas onto his plate he heard the high-pitched, unmanly yelping of Jerry as the others shoved him to the forefront. Uncle Gerald lay cold, clammy hands around the living sacrifice’s throat, pulling. A second later choked screams took on a new level of anguish as a rancid maw latched onto Jerry’s cheek and rotten teeth sawed through soft pink flesh. Uncle Gerald’s head reared, rent flesh glistening redly as it was chewed with emotionless contentment. The scent of fresh blood mingled with the air.

  “Oh my god!”

  Harry started pounding on the door again, Paul knocking Ophelia aside and joining his brother in trying to break down the portal. Warren took a sip of water and considered the gravy; sure they would fail to break through the sheet of steel embedded between planks of wood. He had planned well.

  Ophelia was on her knees blubbering and crying as she regained her senses from Paul’s bludgeoning. Only she was close enough to hear the sounds of chewing meat ushering from the spectacle of her dead uncle mauling her living husband. No matter how cold Ophelia had been throughout her life, the grisly scene was enough to break her façade. Her throat tore as she screamed in terror. Jerry’s cries subsided to a gurgling hiss as fleshy morsels were gouged from his gut.

  “None of us are leaving here,” Warren said. He stuffed a piece of turkey in his mouth. It was tasteless, like masticating paper.

  Jerry’s death-rattle went unheard beneath the din.

  Carnage was mounting.

  Uncle Gerald rose up from the cooling body and lurched towards Ophelia. This was another phenomena Warren had observed during his testing – the reanimated lost interest in feeding once life had faded from a meal. New, fresh meat would be sought. Warren’s youngest sister constituted the nearest living flesh.

  Ophelia tried to crawl away, but Uncle Gerald’s fumbling hands found her ankle and began to tug. Lacquered nails left furrows in the carpet as Ophelia desperately tried to hold on. Her once immaculate make-up was smeared and runny. Bubbles of snot burst in her nostrils as she was yanked back into the cold clutches of Uncle Gerald. Her silken blouse offered no protection from unfeeling fingers and teeth.

  Warren glanced at his watch and began counting along with the ticks of the second hand. Right on cue, one minute later, Jerry’s ravaged corpse rose up with vacant eyes and slack jaw. The holes in his torso were leaking red messes. One eyeball drooped out of its socket, held on by a glistening pink thread. Crimson ooze dripped from Jerry’s lips. A quivering, low moan followed the bloody flood.

  Warren nodded to himself and continued his flavourless repast. He ignored Ophelia’s pleas and the futile pounding of his brothers, spooning more sweet-potatoes onto his empty plate. Flesh ripped and tore. Anguish and terror filled the room. Warren himself was ravenous.

  When was the last time he ate? Days? Too bad everything tasted like ashes in his mouth.

  Even as Uncle Gerald and Jerry bore down on Harry and Paul, Ophelia was rising from the dead and joining ranks. Warren decided to look up and watched his younger sister reach out for their brothers – entrails swinging freely from her once toned abs like a blood-slick pendulum – as they fought against Gerald and Jerry. The carpet soaked up rubies of life.

  Warren dipped a dinner roll into the gravy boat. He brought the dripping bread to his mouth and sampled it. Still tasteless.

  The outcome of the life and death struggle was never in doubt for Warren. Uncle Gerald and his newfound allies were as inexorable as the tides. They would not tire, they would not flag or yield to thoughts of mercy. Harry, Paul, and Cynthia had nowhere to run.

  Drawn out moans joined the cries of fright at the other side of the room. A glass shattered.

  Warren spotted the cranberry sauce and wondered if that would prove to titillate. Only one way to find out, he mused. He reached. And the last chance, he added a bit later.

  Even with the Damoclesian blade about to befall, it wasn’t a depressing thought, more freeing than anything. He scooped a thick spoonful and transferred it to his plate.

  At the other end of the table Warren noticed Cynthia’s head lying at a weird angle against the back of her chair, a dearth of foam gushing from her gaping mouth and rolling down the front of her chiffon dress. An open bottle of pills lay next to her half-eaten dinner. Warren never would have thought Cynthia capable of resorting to suicide, but he supposed, had the roles been reversed, he might have done more than consider the option himself. Either way the guilty were punished. Perhaps her humanitarian works did allow for mitigation of her suffering. It was now out of Warren’s hands.

  Harry’s and Paul’s cries transmuted from frightened horror to torturous howls. The struggle was nearly over. The doom of the Valinsons’ had come.

  Warren used his fork to skewer the quivering red gelatine and bring it to his mouth. The tart substance burst to life on his tongue. At last, something with some flavour. Delicious!

  He closed his eyes and savoured the texture and the taste. Somewhere in the background Harry and Paul were gutted and gnawed. The walls dripped gore. A Thanksgiving charnel house was born.

  Warren scooped up another lump of cranberry sauce and sat back, eyes closed and serene. He plopped the spoonful into his mouth and held it on the tongue, savouring. Waiting.

  Guilt was dissipated. Blown away on an autumnal night’s breeze like the leaves from a tree.

  THE END

  DIG

  By

  Lee Kelly

  “Are we there yet?”

  Steven knew fine well that they weren’t. They’d only been in the car for twenty minutes and he knew that it was at least another hour before his parents would be arguing about who forgot to pack the deckchairs.

  His dad didn’t answer, so Steven decided to ask again.

  Through a gap in the headrest Steven could see his
dad’s neck turn the fiery red of repressed rage. “No. I’ll tell you when we’re there,” he muttered through clenched teeth. Steven giggled at his father’s reaction and plucked his ‘Combat Dan’ action figure from the open rucksack at his feet.

  “No. I’ll tell you when we’re there,” the toy echoed in Steven’s best Dad voice. Combat Dan was bouncing along the back of his mum’s seat, parroting the phrase over and over. “No. I’ll tell you when we’re there. No. I’ll tell you when we’re there. No. I’ll …”

  Steven’s mum reached around and snatched the toy from his grasp, throwing it onto the dashboard. “For Christ’s sake, Steven! Give it a rest!” she barked

  He watched his mum in the rear-view mirror, her eyes narrowed as though daring him to say something else. He knew better than to argue back when she had that expression on her face so he hunched down in his seat, drew the hood of his jumper up over his head and sulked in silence.

  The peace in the car was suddenly shattered by a string of expletives aimed at the vehicle in front as it slowed to a halt yet again. Dad gripped the steering wheel tightly as though choking the life out of the driver of the Volvo. “If we’d have set off when I wanted to we’d have avoided all of this traffic.”

  “I thought this would end up being my fault,” sniped Mum.

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “You know fine well what I mean. You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

  “Well it wasn’t me fannying around in the bathroom, was it?” Dad’s voice was rising in volume, even managing to drown out the honking horns of the grid-locked traffic.

  “For fu …” Steven’s mum caught herself in time, glancing at her son in the rear-view mirror. She lowered her voice to a quiet hiss. “Ten minutes makes no fucking difference, John. Stop being a dickhead and let’s try and enjoy ourselves for once, shall we?”

  The bickering continued, but Steven didn’t hear a word. He was far too busy daydreaming about pirates, ice-cream and burying Dad alive.

  There were no pirates, the solitary seafront café was closed for refurbishment and Steven had been threatened with a good hiding if he kept on getting sand on his dad’s trousers. Things were not as much fun as he had imagined.

  The beach was deserted; in no part due to the icy winds and black skies. The family were wrapped up tightly, and Steven’s mum had even huddled up beneath a tartan rug that they kept in the boot of the car. No-one was speaking after the deckchair argument and out of bloody-minded stubbornness neither adult would break the silence and suggest that they head home.

  Mum projected an aura of fury from beneath her tartan hummock, slurping angrily at her lukewarm thermos coffee whilst reading her latest Mills & Boon bodice ripper. Dad flicked through a gardening magazine, turning each page as though it caused a personal affront.

  Steven was largely oblivious to the mood, so intent was he on The Project. With Combat Dan supervising, he had decided that he was going to see how far down he could dig before the tide came in. He had high hopes for reaching Australia, or at the very least finding some lugworms that he could use as bait in a seagull trap. He’d only been working for thirty minutes and already the red plastic of his spade vanished completely into the hole with each scoop. The dribbly yellow dry sand had long-since been replaced with the wet, brown stuff that was much heavier for him to lift but did make a wonderful sloppy sound.

  Action Dan lay on his stomach, peering at Steven through the gun slit of a bunker made of sand and seashells Steven too was lying on his stomach, affording him an extra inch or two of reach when digging. He was struggling to reach the bottom of his hole and the difficulty was beginning to chip away at his enthusiasm for the task. He was close to giving up and going to chase some gulls when the spade hit something hard. Surprised, he slapped the flat head of the spade into the hole and was rewarded with a solid thump, not the harsh crack of rock against plastic. Perhaps it was buried treasure? Buried pirate treasure!? Steven gave a high-pitched squeal of excitement, that roused a “Ssssssh” from both his mother and father in unison.

  With great care, like he had seen in films, he let the corner of the spade rest against the edge of the object and began to slowly follow the outline to determine its size. It was big; and ovoid. Steven knew that treasure chests were boxes, not egg-shaped, so what could it be? He scraped the flat edge of the spade over the top of the object, dragging the sand away to reveal a lump the colour of spoiled milk. Several long, straggly hairs were plastered wetly against its surface.

  Steven was non-plussed. No matter how he tilted his head, or from which side of the hole he looked in from, it was still just a hairy lump that reminded him a little of his granddad’s head when the wind worried at his combed-over hair. He needed to know whether it was worth digging out or if he should go and eat his packet of Wotsits. He puzzled over his options for several moments before taking action. He hit the lump. Hard, with the edge of the spade. There was a percussive thump, heavy and wet. A split opened slowly in the object releasing a cloud of foul air and a viscous red substance that began to slowly ooze from the tear, blackening as it trickled down into the sand.

  The lump moved. Only slightly, but with enough force to create cracks in the wet sand around it. Steven scuffled back from the hole in surprise and hid his face behind Action Dan’s bunker. Several tense seconds passed before he felt brave enough to venture back, even then moving only in a slow shuffle and with his neck craned high so that he could peer into the hole from a safe distance. Nothing had changed. The lump was still, the cracks were no wider and the red sludge still stained the sand black. Steven picked up Action Dan in one hand, clutching him close to his chest for comfort. The other hand reached out beside him and closed around the red plastic handle of his spade. He advanced.

  Steven’s face contorted in pain. Sweat beaded his brow and tiny veins stood proud at his temples. Wiry little arms shook uncontrollably as though in spasm. The pile of sand on his spade was far too large for him to comfortably lift, but he was eager to continue unearthing his discovery.

  Steven paused to wipe his forehead, leaving behind dirty streaks of sand where it clung to the sweaty skin. Eyes closed, he let the chilly, rain-specked breeze soothe his reddened face. It was a rare moment of tranquillity for a six year old, and one that was interrupted by an incessant clacking. Opening his eyes with the weariness of an old man, Steven looked down in the hole. Yet again the nameless head was gnashing its jaws, trying desperately to bite into haft of the spade.

  “No!” Steven admonished the head with a slap from the flat of his spade against its forehead. As he pulled the blade away a long, translucent strip of flesh was torn free, dangling momentarily from the red plastic before dropping down into the water-logged sand. A thin, watery liquid dribbled from the wound and trickled down over a lidless eye, staining the dead, clouded orb pink.

  “You know you’re not meant to do that. Stop being naughty!” The head tilted upwards, gazing silently towards Steven. The mouth opened and closed several times as though the creature were trying to speak but the only sound that passed its lipless mouth was a watery gurgle.

  Satisfied that the creature would behave for at least a little while, Steven recommenced the excavation.

  “Dad, do you want to come and see what I’ve dug?”

  “Yes, yes, that’s lovely. Why don’t you show your mum?” Dad hadn’t even bothered to look up from his book. The gusting coastal wind had long since claimed his magazine and he had resorted to one of Mum’s romance novels out of boredom.

  Steven looked over to his mum, cocooned beneath the rug and snoring soundly. He didn’t bother to wake her and walked back over to the hole alone. By now the whole of the creature’s head had been uncovered, along with its shoulders and the top of its chest. Everything else was still trapped beneath the crushing weight of the sand. Steven wondered how long it would take for him to fully uncover the thing.

  He got back to work

  With tireless effort Ste
ven had been able to dig away enough sand for the creature to free an arm. Scraps of clothing hung to a skeletal limb that shed folds of water-pruned skin with each movement. Steven had thought it looked rather sad waving around in the air with nothing to do, so the thing now held Action Dan in its putrescent grip and was dashing the toy’s head repeatedly against the wall of its prison.

  The head of the spade sliced sibilantly into the sand again and again. The sound was given the rhythmic counterpoint of Action Dan’s head slapping against the higher, drying sand. Steven was having fun and it seemed that the creature was too.

  Steven looked over to his parents, wondering if they’d like to join in with the fun. Mum was still fast asleep and Dad was engrossed in the tawdry paperback whilst eating a packet of Wotsits. Steven’s packet of Wotsits! He slammed the spade down petulantly and opened his mouth to shout out in protest, but the creature beat him to the punch. A loud, ululating cry filled the air, sending the seagulls into a frenzy and causing Steven to jump in fright.

  “Steven! I won’t tell you again! Play quietly!” snapped Dad without as much as a glance up from the book, even the animalistic nature of the howl failing to rouse his attention.

  Steven looked back into the hole and was shocked to see the creature’s second arm was now free but that the hand was missing all four fingers. A bloody ichor seeped from the stumps, coating rotted flesh and tattered clothing. The fingers themselves were trapped beneath the edge of the spade where they continued to twitch of their own accord.

  The howl ceased and was replaced by a low, mournful moan that made Steven’s skin crawl. The creature scrabbled ineffectually for its missing fingers with a hand bereft of digits. With its remaining hand it began to claw ineffectually at the sand; fingernails cracked then peeled noisily away from the fingers, its hand tearing into a red ruin as it fought to gain purchase and drag itself free.