The Edge of Hell: Gods of the Undead A Post-Apocalyptic Epic

by Peter Meredith

  Before he had a chance to spit it out, Hor attacked again, this time swinging his right hand at Jack’s eyes, looking to tear them out.

  Again, Jack reacted with trained muscles moving faster than simple pure instinct could have driven them, and again, he caught Hor at the wrist with his sword, sending that hand flying as well.

  This, in no way damped Hor’s desire to kill. He swung the stumps of his arms as though they were clubs. Jack retreated, keeping his feet, one in front of the other as he shuffled backwards, always managing to keep his weight centered so that he could move quickly in any direction. Hor was evil, and powerful; however his attacks were simple and easily countered.

  An ulna whickered past his ear, a dust-dry radius cracked in half. Bones flew all over the apartment as he hacked left and right with his blade. When the arms were in pieces on the floor, he switched to the offense. His first attack laid open Hor’s throat, the blade hacking through the remains of tendon and muscle. His second attack slashed through the vertebrae and Hor’s skull bounced off the desk and clunked onto the floor where it landed with a hollow sound.

  Hor stood there, headless, waving the ragged end of a single humerus around until Jack slammed Hor in the chest with his foot. It collapsed onto the desk and finally ceased moving.

  Disgusted, Jack stepped back, aware for the first time that his face was twisted into a grimace, which took an act of will to unknot. He also noted that his right hand stung where the flesh met the metal of his saber’s handle. Without taking his eyes off the creature, he quickly pried his hand away from the pommel and wiped it on his jeans. It only helped a little.

  “Now, what the hell am I going to do?” Jack asked. His mind was coming back to “normal” and that meant he had to take into account the legal situation he found himself in. Imbued with some sort of evil or not, this was Hor; technically, he was stolen property and technically that meant Jack was in “possession” of said property.

  He was sure that was a crime, just as he was sure that no one would believe that he had been attacked. “There’s also destruction of property as well. I’m sure Richards will throw that in the mix as…”

  Movement to his right caught his eye. It was the ulna that had flown by his head earlier. As though pulled along by a magnetic force, it slid right across the hardwood floors and, while he watched in disbelief, it jumped up to reattach itself to Hor’s humerus. A second later there was more scraping as the other bones began to slide back.

  A hand passed right in front of him. Jack stomped on it thinking to “kill” it, but the hand grabbed his boot with amazing strength. “Oh!” he cried, hopping around on one foot. He considered stabbing the hand, however it was in an odd position and so he raised his leg up and then crashed his foot down on the floor, sending carpel bones and phalanges dancing on the floor like dice.

  They immediately began to slide back toward Hor.

  “Oh…jeeze,” Jack whispered, feeling suddenly weak again. The smell was back and so was the unnatural fear, and so was Hor, fully formed except for its hand. It lifted its right arm and once again bones started flying. They settled in place and were quickly held there by the remains of its flesh which acted as connective tissue, holding each bone where it belonged.

  Before it could rebuild itself completely, Jack ran. It wasn’t just the fear emanating from the creature, which was consuming his mind once again, it was also cowardice. There was no use pretending otherwise. Fear had its icy grip around his heart and was squeezing hard enough for his chest to throb. He had fought his best, but now there was no getting around the evidence in front of him: this was magic. He couldn’t fight against magic. No one could.

  He ran and the grimace was back, cork-screwing his face, twisting his laugh lines into terror-lines. Were there such a thing as terror lines? He had no idea, but he wouldn’t discount the idea. Terror had him in such a grip that he was just about mindless. He was down the hall and his finger had jabbed the down button for the elevator a dozen times before he came to his senses, or what passed for senses in his panic-gripped mind.

  What if the other mummy was in the elevator when the doors opened? The thought stopped his finger a quarter of an inch away from the glow of the button. The glow meant that the elevator had already been summoned. He could hear it coming. Mechanical, but also supernatural, to a mind under the grips of the fear exerted by Hor.

  “Summoned,” he breathed. The word was entirely magic. Robert had summoned Hor and the other mummy back from the dead…and he had set them on him. Robert had sent them to kill him. That was magic. Why had he ever questioned the concept?

  Again, he fled.

  He ran from an empty elevator, sprinting for the staircase and was three flights down before he stumbled, his feet going out in front of him quicker than he could work them. There was pain, in his back and his wrists as he fell. It wasn’t bad enough to incapacitate him, but it was enough for him to grab his left arm as he heard a stairwell door open above him.

  It was Hor, fully formed and ready to battle again.

  Chapter 5

  Manhattan, New York

  Jack could hear the clack-scrape of Hor’s bones on the stairs; it almost stopped his heart. And worse, the evil smell was back, roiling downwards, and with it came the magical mind-sapping fear. It came flowing like a fog seeking the low points in the earth to settle in.

  “But I killed you,” Jack said in a strangled voice. He tried to struggle to his feet but couldn’t. He was too afraid to move, too afraid to make any noise, whatsoever. He wanted only to sit there, in a ball and hope that the creature wouldn’t get him.

  As he sat there with the bones clacking on the stairs, the whining, sniveling thought wouldn’t leave him: But, I killed you! It was a childish thought. Childish, but also factual. Slowly, the fact burned through the unnatural haze of fear that was on him and he was able to remember that he had indeed fought Hor and he had defeated him. It had been only a minute before and yet it seemed like it had been hours since that had happened or perhaps never, as if he had dreamed all of it.

  “I know I killed him,” Jack said, trying to remember the courage he had felt. He couldn’t. Something horrible was happening to his mind. He couldn’t think through the grip of fear. He could barely remember how he had made it into the stairwell or what he’d been doing ten minutes before. All he really knew was the fear and the idea that he had to get away. And yet the fear was so great he couldn’t move. He could hear Hor coming for him but he was paralyzed in fright.

  He made to clutch himself and that was when the saber scraped against the concrete stairwell making a scritching sound. It was too loud!

  Throwing the sword away struck him as a good idea; Hor hated the sword. Somehow, Jack knew that as a fact. It banged inside his head. Throw it away! Throw it away! And he wanted to, only that would make too much noise and he would be heard. There were two forces at work inside of him and both were foreign. Both competed against each other: Don’t move a muscle vs. Throw away the sword.

  He couldn’t do both at once and, oddly enough the two demands partially canceled themselves out, leaving enough room in his mind for an original Jack Dreyden idea: Run away! This is way beyond you.

  Jack had been running before—in a pure panic. Now, he ran with more of a purpose. He was still deathly afraid and the act of fleeing only added to the fear. They went hand in hand; one causing the other to ramp up until he was again racing out of control down the stairs with his heart in his throat.

  But at least he was moving again and before he knew it he was outside and the cold had him. It felt like an icy wind slapped him across the face. It wasn’t invigorating. The cold was similar to the running; it fed the fear. It settled into his bones and muscles. Jack found himself shaking like a little kid pulled from an iced-over pond.

  They are coming.

  He could feel them both. Two creatures summoned from beyond the grave. Hor was coming down the stairs and the other one, the Priest of Thorthirdes wa
s on the other side of the building. He had been waiting out front, hiding in dark shadows of its own making. Jack could feel the Priest’s unnatural presence. It was around the building for now, but it was coming, moving to get him.

  That was a horrifying thought, but not a panic-inducing one. The magical grip on his mind was fading with every passing second. They were too far away and there was too much metal and concrete between Jack and his pursuers. He could feel them trying to control him, but it was like a weak radio signal: full of static, cutting in and out, the message garbled.

  Jack knew he had to put as much distance as possible between him and the two creatures and so he ran to the street and stuck out a hand, hoping to hail a taxi. Only it was midnight and not just any midnight…this was midnight on Christmas. The streets were deserted.

  Again he ran, sword in hand toward a subway station down the block. Halfway there, he faltered in mid-stride because they were around the building and coming for him, and he knew in his heart that they would never tire, they would never stumble or slow. They would run him down if it took three days or three years.

  With his fear once again beginning to ramp up, Jack made it to the station and flew down the stairs and, for the first time in his life, he jumped the turnstile. If there had been a police officer down in the subway, that would’ve been just fine with him. They had guns and authority, two things that Jack desperately needed just then.

  There were no cops, but there was a train just unloading its passengers. Three of them: a middle-aged couple who were bundled so tight in winter coats and scarves that only their eyes were visible, and a young man with a sleepy look and the smell of weed hanging around him.

  “Don’t go up there!” Jack cried, trying to pull the three back into the train. They shied away from him and he didn’t blame them. He had mad eyes and he was carrying a sword. In New York it was generally a good idea never to talk to a man with a sword.

  The doors closed, leaving him alone in the car. “They should be fine,” he said, hope in his voice. He had no factual evidence to back the statement up; however, he felt that it was true. The mummies had been after him, alone. He was their target. Any other death would be incidental.

  That was logic.

  “Logic,” he said, as if the idea was a relic from the past. Suddenly, he remembered that it had been logic that he had used to overcome his initial fear when he had first encountered Hor. He needed more logic and sound reasoning...and he needed to know where the hell he was going.

  A glance at the map showed him that he was once again on the R, heading uptown. He didn’t know anyone uptown, then again, he didn’t know anyone in the village, either, not during Christmas break. Jack had all of six friends who were actually closer to acquaintances, and they had all fled to warmer climates until the new semester started. This left him in some very sorry straights. He had not only left his coat, wallet and his keys back at his apartment, but also the scabbard for his sword.

  “I must look insane,” he said, glancing down at his saber.

  Looking insane was a bad thing, but not the worst thing. He was penniless in a city that scoffed at those without money, and he was friendless in a city that ground the lonely under its heel.

  He had no idea what to do. One option was to ride the subway all night. With his sword, he’d likely be taken for a madman, which had one benefit: “At least I’ll get my own car.” Right up until the cops came and hauled him in that is. Now that he was no longer being chased, the police were the last people he needed to see.

  For the tenth time that day, he whispered: “Merry Christmas to me,” and yes, he was feeling sorry for himself. Attacked by a monster, arrested by the police, no friends, no real home, no family… “No family?” That wasn’t entirely true. With a sudden eagerness, he jumped up to study the map of New York’s subway system.

  It would take a transfer in which he could run into a cop, but there was a train that ran just two blocks shy of the Waldorf Astoria where his cousin Rebecca Childs and her daughter Cyn were staying. “They’re family, they have to take me in,” he said as he stared into a window and caught his reflection. “Oh, boy.”

  The glass displayed a disheveled, crazy-man with a sword. He patted his hair down and tucked in his shirt, but he kept hold of his sword. There was no way he was going to part with it.

  Holding the sword pressed against his body to keep it hidden, Jack made his transfer, rode the next train a few miles and was soon back out in the night and the cold. Regardless of the frigid temperatures, he paused at the top of the stairs leading out of the subway and not only stared all around him, he also tried to feel all around him. He knew now the ugly evil that emanated from Hor and the Priest of Thorthirdes and he knew the smell and the fear.

  He felt nothing except the cold and smelled nothing but that peculiar New York City odor; the mixture of old trash, dirty bums, pretzel carts and alley walls stained with urine. For the first time since coming to the city, Jack was almost glad for the smell.

  “Speaking of smells,” he said and then gave himself a sniff. He seemed to smell normal, but his sword, on the other hand, stank of Hor and the blade was blackened and ugly. Jack jogged to the side of 3rd Avenue where there was a drift of grey snow. He kicked away the sooty top layer and found dazzling white beneath. After cleaning the blade with the fresh snow, his hands were purple with the cold and his nipples were stabbing almost through the thin, khaki shirt he was wearing.

  Jack ran to the Waldorf with only the wind chasing him. As he came up on the building, the doorman looked as though he was on the verge of locking the door on him; he had seen the sword.

  “I-I w-was mugged,” Jack told him, his teeth chattering. “They t-took my wallet and c-coat, but I was able t-to grab my f-fencing sword and r-run.” He made sure to hold the sword by the lower part of the blade near the hilt so not to appear as threatening.

  “You want me to call the cops?” the doorman asked, leaning away from Jack, still wary of the sword, regardless of how it was held—this was New York after all.

  “N-No thank you. I need to talk to one of your g-guests. Her name is Cindy Childs. Y-You c-can hold onto my sword if it makes you feel better.” Jack held it out and once the doorman took it, he was allowed into the hotel though he was eyed suspiciously by both the doorman and the lone front desk clerk who stood behind a sixty-foot long marble counter.

  The clerk went through his guest list and his strained, somewhat polite smile became even more strained and less polite as he said: “We have a Cynthia Childs.”

  “She goes by Cyn...we’re not that closely related.”

  The smile had soured into a look of professional unpleasantness. “I’m sure,” he said, with a glance over at the doorman, who held the saber as if he was holding a rabid muskrat. Cyn was thankfully still awake and eagerly invited Jack up to her room.

  The clerk accompanied Jack up; however, because of the hotel’s weapon’s policy, his sword had to be ‘checked’ as though it were baggage. “Just a precaution,” the clerk remarked. Jack said he understood, but felt absolutely naked without it.

  Although Cyn’s room was on the thirty-eighth floor in the very posh: Waldorf Towers, the ride up was so quick that Jack hadn’t thought of a thing to say to her. “Merry Christmas,” was all he could come up with when she opened the door. It was an uncomfortable moment.

  Jack stood in a hunch, holding himself, hoping that his shivering wasn’t obvious. Cyn, who wore faded jeans and a tee-shirt, stared at Jack, clearly noting that his outfit did not make sense, not for the time of night and not the season. “Jack, hi. Are you staying in the hotel?” Cyn asked in her lilting English accent.

  A shake of his head was all Jack could answer before the clerk spoke: “No, he is not a guest, Ms. Childs, which is why we were a little anxious about letting him come up unescorted. The sword he was carrying didn’t help, either.”

  Cyn actually stepped back. “A sword? Is it for an exhibit?”

  “No, n
ot exactly,” Jack said, and then changed his answer. “Not at all, actually. It’s my fencing saber. I was at practice earlier and on the way home I was mugged. They took everything. My wallet, keys, even my coat.”

  “But left your saber?” Cyn asked. Jack’s head wobbled in a manner that could have been a yes, no, or maybe. Her blue eyes narrowed at the lack of answer and Jack expected her to turn him away, but she did not. She opened the door wider, inviting him in. “I understand,” she said and then thanked the clerk before shutting the door in his face.

  The room, or rather the suite, was fabulous. Posh did not cover it. Everything was scandalously expensive and plush and gilt with gold trimmings. Apart from the foyer there was a sitting room with antique chairs and a French styles chaise, a wet bar, and a TV the size of Jack’s front door. Jack went straight for the bar.

  “I’ll pay you back,” he said, unscrewing a tiny bottle of Belvedere vodka with shaking hands and drinking right from the lip.

  “Those muggers must have been in the Christmas spirit to leave you a sword,” Cyn remarked. Jack nearly choked on the vodka and used his spluttering as an excuse not to answer. “And they must have been crazy going after a swordsman of your size. You could have cut them to ribbons.” More coughing was all Jack had as a retort. “And what sort gym offers fencing classes at midnight on Christmas night?”

  Instead of answering, Jack finished off the vodka and dug through the bar for an adequate chaser.

  “Ok, maybe I wasn’t at class tonight,” he admitted. “But the clerk and the door-guy were being far too nosy.”

  Cyn was like a dog with a bone. “Oh, I doubt they were. They probably weren’t being nosy enough. Who walks around New York in ten-degree weather, in nothing but a short-sleeved shirt and carrying only a sword, and offering nothing but the most obvious lies as an excuse?”