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

by Peter Meredith

  “I didn’t know either. It was just a guess after all.” Jack rubbed his stomach where she had socked him. “That was some punch. I don’t mean to be sexist but you hit as hard as some guys do.”

  She grinned at the compliment. Jack grinned back and then turned to Richards, fully expecting to be razzed about having the wind knocked out of him by a girl; however Richards looked as though someone much bigger than Cyn had knocked the wind out of him.

  The grey tint that Jack had noticed earlier had progressed and there was a slick of sweat across his forehead that had nothing to do with holding back the door. He looked sick.

  “What’s wrong?” Jack asked.

  The detective shook his head. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m good. Ms. Childs, get the light out of my face and...and...” He broke off, grimacing, and clutching his left arm.

  “No, something is wrong,” Jack insisted. He figured that Richards had been scratched at some point and had been poisoned by the hell-fever as he thought it.

  What he wasn’t expecting was: “It’s my-my heart,” Richards gasped, “I think. It feels like a h-heart a-attack.”

  Jack sat him down, and then turned to the priest. “Do something.”

  The priest blinked like an owl. “Do what? I’m not a doctor.”

  “Maybe it’s not a real heart attack,” Cyn suggested. “Maybe it’s more of their magic or maybe all these crazy feelings triggered it. Either way, you fixed me and Jack. I say you try the same spell.”

  “It’s not a spell, young lady,” Father Paul snipped. “Last Rites are a set of sacraments; they’re a gift from God. That being said, they are appropriate in this situation since they’re used to prepare a dying person's soul for death, by providing absolution for sins through penance, sacramental grace and prayers for the relief of suffering through anointing, and, in the extreme, the final administration of the Eucharist, known as ‘Viaticum’, which means ‘provision for the journey’ in Latin.”

  Cyn raised an eyebrow at being called “young lady,” but she bit back an obvious snarky retort and only said: “Ok, well don’t let us stop you.”

  Father Paul broke out his oil, the purple stole he’d worn earlier and a small silver box which held the Eucharist. He had his bible marked with specific passages and, after flicking to one, he started right in. Once more, Cyn kept the light from her phone on the text while Jack went back to holding the crucifix out to whatever creature came into the crypt.

  The priest’s words were spoken in such a quick mumble that Jack thought he was speaking Latin. He anointed Richard with the oil, spun through a long prayer and then heard Richards’ confession.

  Both Jack and Cyn turned away during the confession and pretended not to hear the somewhat banal details of the police officer’s sins. Then he received his first communion and it was basically over...and it was clear that the sacrament hadn’t helped, at least not physically. Although his pain hadn’t receded and he was still grey and his eyes were glazed over, Richards at least seemed more relaxed, as though the rites had helped him to come to grips with the fact that his heart was dying.

  “Thanks, Father,” he said. “My chest still hurts, but I feel better, sorta on the inside, you know?” Father Paul said he understood completely and Cyn lied within inches of the priest by telling Richards that he looked “ten times better.”

  All Jack could do was smile. He didn’t want to bring down the mood by mentioning just how disappointed he was that the priest’s power wasn’t greater. Father Paul had been able to cure the poison that had been killing Jack, and he had been able to drive away the magical darkness that Hor had created and he had some strength against the fear exuded by the undead, but he had inexplicably failed in other ways such as Richards’ healing.

  Fixing a run of the mill bum ticker should have been a kindergarten level miracle compared to battling the undead. It didn’t make sense especially since there was definitely a power within the priest.

  Or perhaps the power was within his faith. Jack didn’t know; the only thing he really knew was that he now had more questions than answers. It was true, he was no longer strictly an atheist, but after Father Paul’s pathetic attempt at healing, Jack’s agnosticism had increased. As far as his understanding went, God was an all-powerful force for good—so why couldn’t the priest wield that power? And why wasn’t God sending angels down to wipe the undead army off the face of the earth? Or why didn’t he just come himself?

  Cyn was also deep in thought and the interior of the crypt was dead quiet. The same could not be said outside the granite walls of the mausoleum.

  The chaos and the mayhem continued and in fact had grown, considerably, but it was a moment before any of them realized that in the last few minutes the screams and the gunshots and the sirens were all much further away. There were also a lot fewer of the undead creatures coming into the crypt.

  Jack could feel that there were maybe twenty or thirty of the creatures outside, lurking, while the great majority of them, a massive army of hundreds of thousands fanned out killing indiscriminately.

  Cyn caught Jack’s eye and her little smirk that he found so intriguing was miles away. She could feel the beasts, too. “I wish I understood any of this,” she said, almost echoing his own thoughts. “What I really want is to just know the rules involved. These ones with the sodding red eyes? What’s that about? And why is Hor the strongest? And how on earth do these scribbles make any difference?”

  “I wish I knew...hold on, one of the strong ones is coming,” Jack said.

  Its presence in Jack’s mind was like a shadow that loomed larger and larger. Its presence in his eyes was laughable. The spirit creature had a well of power that was deep and primal and yet it had chosen the body of a tiny child.

  The corpse was as sad as it was sickening. It had been a girl and couldn’t have been more than three years old when she died. She still wore the remains of a lace and silken gown. It was in remarkably good condition as was the flesh covering her bones. The skin was tight as a drum across her angular little face, but it wasn’t rent or worm-riddled and instead of deep sockets that sunk down into her skull, she had large brown coins where her eyes had been. They wouldn’t fall no matter how she turned her head.

  Jack couldn’t get over the coins and Father Paul couldn’t get over the palpable aura of evil surrounding the thing and Richards began to sweat in fat beads and the grey look had now progressed to his lips.

  The quiet in the crypt grew as the little monster came to test the power of the glyphs. It strolled around them, not once as most of them did, but twice and as it did it grinned and though it still had skin, it didn’t have a tongue or any flesh on the inside of its mouth and the smell, the natural smell coming up out of its throat was ghastly.

  It was one of the worst and longest moments of the night, but then Cyn ended it, sighing as only a very put out pretty woman could and stating baldly: “I have to pee.”

  This statement deflated the tension in the crypt like the air being let out of a balloon and soon Jack was crying with laughter and Richards was waving a weak hand and saying: “Stop. I can’t take it.”

  “Well, I’m not joking. I have to go the loo something fierce. It’s been how long since the hospital? Too bloody long I say. And you, little demon girl, get on with you. I hear your mum calling.”

  They were all quite amazed when it left. Their laughter turned to intermittent chuckles that gradually died away. Long minutes turned into a long hour. Richards and Father Paul fell into an uneasy sleep. They were all exhausted, only there was very little room in the circle for four people. Richards had his legs drawn in and leaned against Farther Paul like soldiers in a wet fox hole.

  Jack and Cyn stood on either side of the two and whispered their conversation. “I going to make a break for the car,” Jack said. “Richards needs a real doctor. I don’t think he’s going to last long like this.”

  “And where do you think you’re going to find this doctor? Do you hear what’s h
appening out there? Robert has set them loose on the city, which makes no sense to me. What does he gain by destroying New York City?”

  “I wish I knew,” Jack answered. “But he’s not just destroying the city, he destroying the world. Those monsters can’t die. You saw them.”

  She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. “Do you want my coat?” She shook her head, however the shivering hadn’t stopped and so he pulled it off and draped it over her shoulders. She looked a mess. The light, stylish jacket and the silk shirt that had once been white was ripped and stained with blood, both hers and his. She had blood in her hair and under her nails, it looked like dirt.

  And yet she was still beautiful and captivating and determined.

  “Robert is not destroying the world,” she insisted. “He’s destroying this version of it. When we were growing up, he was always going on about the greatness of the old British Empire and he would tell anyone who’d listen that we were royals who had been screwed out of our titles. If I had to guess, I think Robert’s endgame is to set himself up as king of the world.”

  “A world inhabited by the undead?” Jack asked, and then quickly answered his own question. “No. He can control them and, it’s safe to say that since he brought them into this world, he can send them back.”

  Cyn tapped her chin, thinking. “You don’t know that for certain. He might have control of them, yes, but those monsters are going to fight being sent back, especially the ones with the red eyes. The other ones I think are twisted souls, but the red-eyed ones are demons. I’m sure of it.”

  Jack shook his head at the word “demon.” Everything about the situation was crazy but the idea of actual demons running around in little girl corpses was too much to try to wrap his head around. “I guess that whatever Robert is going to do depends on what spells he has access to. Have you ever seen any other writing that looks like that?”

  He pointed at the floor; she shook her head. “No, never.”

  “Me, neither, although it is safe to say that Robert has and his father, too. They have to have at least one more spell. Hey, you know what we should do? We should go after Robert’s father. At the very least we could hold him hostage and maybe he has the third spell on him.”

  Cyn’s eyes narrowed. “And what would you do with it? Use it?” When he didn’t answer, she glared. “I can’t believe you would even think about using one of these spells. They’re the blackest of magic. You have to steal blood just to use the simplest protection spell and the others...you know that you might have to kill in order to use them.”

  “Yes, and right now thousands of people are dying even as we speak and by the time the sun comes up that number will be a hundred thousand or a million. So, yes, I’m willing to sacrifice one person to save a million.”

  Father Paul suddenly spoke, causing Jack to jump, not only out of his skin but out of the circle, as well. Quickly, he jumped back in as the priest said: “Put your faith in the Lord. Has he not shown you miracle after miracle tonight? They should have been all the signs you need to know that the only way to fight such monstrous evil is through the power of the Lord’s love.”

  “That would be a lot more impressive of a statement if Detective Richards wasn’t sitting there, dying. I’m sorry, but when it comes to God I don’t know what to believe.”

  The priest did not bat an eye. “What drives out the dark of night? More darkness? No, only the light of heaven drives away the dark.”

  That was a fine platitude, but so far the light had only managed a few minor victories, and it was still as dark as hell out, but Jack figured that right then wasn’t the time for this argument. “I don’t know why this is even being discussed. I never said I would use the spells; I said it was an option, only. The first thing we need to do is get out of here. I’m going to make a run for the car. Father, are you with me?”

  “Me? I’m not much of a runner; in fact it has been since before the seminary that I ran anywhere. I’m afraid I’ll slow you down.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Cyn said. “What do you Americans say? I’ll ride shotguns?”

  Jack didn’t like the idea of dragging her back out into danger, but what he liked less was going out there alone. It wasn’t just that he was afraid of being ripped apart by the creatures; what scared him more was the idea of dying alone. He was afraid that his soul would be stolen easier if he was alone. It was an odd thought, but one that had him nodding to Cyn, against his better judgment.

  Chapter 20

  Calvary Cemetery Queens, New York

  Jack loaded up his pockets with the last of Richards’ shotgun shells. He also went to get the keys to the Ford and only when he held them up to show Cyn did he say: “You ready?”

  “Into the breach,” she answered, determined. She then gave him the little curious smile which, as it always did, made him wonder what she meant by it.

  And then with a deep breath, they stepped across the threshold of the ring of glyphs. Jack expected the creatures outside the mausoleum to immediately charge right in, but they hadn’t moved.

  He could feel them: two on either side of the door and another fifteen or sixteen ranged in a circle around the building, holding them in place. They had been set as guards by Robert; there was no other explanation as to why they weren’t out pillaging and feasting like the others. So the question was: if Jack and Cyn could get past them, would they follow the pair or would they stay and guard the building?

  He didn’t know which he hoped for.

  Cyn knew the score when it came to where the beasts were as well. Without hesitation, she ran out into the night, looking neither left or right. Jack should have been ready; he should have been right on her tail, but he was a second behind and nearly had his face shredded open by a sudden slashing hand as he ran after her.

  He couldn’t look back. The creatures were charging from every angle. Cyn ran right at one: a stick man made of bones and little else; it swam in the black rags of a suit made for someone who had died in the prime of life.

  She blasted it into splinters with one pull of the trigger of her shotgun, while Jack took care of another, this one with the remains of what might have been a burlap sack tied over its head. Jack didn’t want to know what was under the sack—he envisioned a mass of worms or snakes instead of a head. He aimed his shotgun at the thing’s chest and had the pleasure of seeing it blast back, its feet flying up.

  His pleasure evaporated quickly when a muddy shoe with a foot still within it, hit him on the shoulder and left a splotch of something black and stinking. “Oh jeeze,” he groaned and gave his shoulder a twitch to dislodge some of the scum, but it wasn’t going anywhere.

  And then they were beyond the creatures and running up the gentle hills of the cemetery, doing their best not to fall into the many, many open graves that littered the landscape. There seemed to be more overturned dirt than there was grass. It was enough to shake them to their cores and they both ran with their heads going back and forth, marveling in fear.

  Behind them came all twenty of the creatures that had been set to guard the mausoleum. Some were faster than others but none were as fast as either Jack or Cyn, but where they lacked in speed, they more than made up for in dogged determination. They didn’t have muscles that tired or lungs that burned.

  They came on relentlessly without wavering.

  The same could not be said of Jack and Cyn. They topped a rise and saw Queens before them…and stopped as their eyes traveled up and down the skyline. At least a dozen buildings were on fire, burning like torches, lighting up the night. All around the cemetery were fire trucks and ambulances and police cruisers with their strobes splashing the night in blue and red.

  Even from a distance, they could see that there wasn’t a single fire hose being sprayed on any of the fires and there wasn’t anyone directing traffic and there weren’t men or women pushing gurneys back and forth or administering oxygen or hooking up IVs.

  There wasn’t a single authority figure
in sight.

  There were only people running for their lives and people being eaten and people fighting in vain with sticks or knives or baseball bats.

  And there were swarms of undead everywhere. They would be knocked down by bat or bullet and seconds later they would get right back up and charge again.

  The screams drifted through the night, far away but heartbreakingly urgent nonetheless. Cyn had been reloading her gun as she watched, but the second she was done, she elbowed Jack. “Let’s go.”

  “Yeah,” Jack answered and then loped off down the slope. Behind them the undead had nearly caught up and in front there were more. Most of these were little more than parts of people—corpses that had disintegrated over the years until there was so little left of them that they could only drag themselves along with a single arm or they rolled, limbless.

  Others were far more intact; however, they were slow coming to the surface, having only just clawed their way out of stout coffins or bashed down iron reinforced doors.

  These ones were much quicker and both Jack and Cyn had to waste two rounds a piece clearing a lane to run through.

  And then they were at the Ford and Jack was relieved to see that it was still intact. He’d been afraid that they would run all that way only to find that the car had been demolished or otherwise rendered useless.

  With gangs of dead charging from every direction, Jack jumped in the driver’s seat and gunned the engine. Cyn was in a moment later, her bosom heaving and her shotgun pointed straight into his gut.

  “Do you mind?” he asked, gently pushing the gun to the side.

  She gave him a sharp look, clearly unaccustomed to anyone finding fault in her. “Are you going to drive or what?”

  “Just a second,” he said, waiting for the first monster to put its bony claws on the Ford’s hood. Only then did he stomp the gas. There was a long screeeech as the creature left gouges in the paint and then Jack was tearing across the cemetery, leaving lines in the dirt. It was rough going until he made it back to the winding path and then he left the undead behind.