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

by Peter Meredith

  A part of him, perhaps the wrong part didn’t know if he wanted to apologize. Yes, he was hurting inside and wanted to run away from the body of Connor Randall as fast as he could, but all the same, he wasn’t exactly sorry. What he had done, had to be done. What was there to apologize about?

  “Maybe later,” he said, causing Cyn and Pastor John to share a look. “I mean it, I guess. I do feel bad, but we all agreed beforehand that there really wasn’t any other way, so it seems pretty hypocritical to get all teary eyed now.”

  “You’re a pretty cold sod, Jack,” Cyn said, shaking her head. “You have to stop doing these spells, they’re changing you.”

  They were indeed. Twelve hours before he was blubbering over the body of a strange old coot he had never met before and was probably better off dead. Now, he had raised a ghoul and when he had ordered it to be gone, it left—even without the spell of command.

  “Probably,” he said, with a shiver, only it wasn’t cold he was feeling. It was the heat of hatred starting to tip the yoke in the wrong direction. “Not yet,” he whispered and didn’t know why. Nor did he know why he knelt down next to Connor and touched the man’s face. It was cold, miserably cold. It sent a shock of grief through him that immersed the hate and he was able to mutter: “Sorry,” so that no one heard.

  Chapter 37

  The Atlantic Ocean

  Captain Corley, A.K.A. Pastor John, proposed that they find the nearest intact military unit and explain the situation on the ground as best as they could. Cyn not only seconded the idea, she acted as though her vote was the only one that counted.

  “Then that’s what we’ll jolly well do. There you go, Jack. Look lively. Get your gun and that sword of yours and let’s be off.” She didn’t wait for him. With the shotgun hoisted on one shoulder and her blonde hair blowing in the breeze, she headed straight away for the boat, fully confident in her decision, likely because it didn’t involve anymore murders and because it foisted their responsibility onto an authority figure: the US Military.

  Jack dragged his feet. Going to the military was almost certainly a waste of time. Up until the day before, the US military had been the greatest power on earth, capable of laying waste to the planet if it so choose. Now, it wasn’t even a close second. Despite all the fire power they possessed, they could not kill the ghouls or the demons.

  He was afraid that going to them would lead to a confrontation with Robert, who they could easily kill, and yet no one knew what sort of mayhem his death would cause. At least Robert had a plan of sorts that had to involve keeping a significant level of the population alive and functioning in a form of pseudo-civilization.

  Releasing the demons would undoubtedly lead to mass chaos and perhaps the eradication of humanity.

  Unfortunately, the only way to stop Robert was through magic. Magic had started all of this and only magic could truly end it—but what sort of magic that entailed or how many murders he would have to commit, Jack didn’t know.

  There was no use suggesting this to Cyn or Pastor John; both had leapt on the idea of foisting their problems onto the military, and had fast-marched away from the corpse of Connor Randall and were at the boat in under a minute.

  The chaplain had managed to get into the unruly thing without a problem; however, Cyn acted like she was a cat about to be dropped into a full bathtub, and had to be lowered down by Jack. She was soft and warm, and for that moment, he felt like a normal person. He wanted...no, he needed to crush her to him; he needed to feel something besides the craving for darkness that was eating him up.

  “Don’t let me fall!” Cyn hissed, gripping Jack around the shoulders as she reached out with a dainty foot for the prow of the boat. She was feather-light and Jack held her tight and only reluctantly let go once Pastor John had a grip of the stiff tactical gear she wore.

  When she was safely in, Jack eased into the boat and then came the ungainly dance as the three of them tried to change their positions without capsizing the boat or falling in to join the endless parade of corpses.

  Eventually they found their proper seats: Cyn in back working the outboard, while Jack and Pastor John sat in the front so they could push the bodies out of their way.

  “What sort of power do you think the Pope has?” Jack asked the pastor after they had cleared the canal and were in the river of the dead and heading south, passing between Manhattan and Brooklyn.

  “None at all,” he answered and then pointed at the sky. “Any and all power is derived from the Lord.”

  Despite that the answer wasn’t much of an answer at all and grated on Jack’s nerves to no end, he had followed the pastor’s finger and was still looking up when the sky rumbled and a train of planes could be seen rushing their way. They were monsters, the dragons of their age. They were B52s and B1s whose bellies opened wide to rain destruction. Each of the hundreds of planes held upwards of seventy-thousand pounds of explosives. In minutes all of New Jersey was covered in a cloud that stretched for miles from north to south.

  Cyn stared into the west, long after Jack had to turn away. He faced the sun and let it warm his face. It was a pretty morning, cool and sharp, the sky a fine blue and the puffy clouds hanging over the ocean looked as though they had been painted on simply for his enjoyment. He did his best to focus on the clouds and not the death behind them—there had certainly been people still alive in New Jersey, hiding in cellars or holed up in banks.

  In his mind, he saw the military was simply finishing what the ghouls had started, or rather, what Robert had started, with Jack’s help. But he did not blame them; it would have been the height of hypocrisy to blame them for sacrificing the few in order to try to save the many.

  The planes never stopped coming and the helicopters continually buzzed.

  It was an hour long slog before the crossed beneath the Verrazano Narrows Bridge and the waters opened up. They were able to pick up speed and soon they were in the Atlantic with a fine spray in their faces. Cyn aimed the boat at the horizon where dark smudges were the only visible signs that the navy was still in position.

  As they got closer, the ships loomed huge, monuments of steel and strength. There were dozens of ships and all were just about as useless in the face of the undead horde as the Air Force, and Jack had zero faith in them.

  Jack tugged on the pastor’s green shirt. “Ok, what sort of God-given power do you think the Pope has?” He wanted to be reassured on at least one front. The ships were making him nervous, especially one of the smaller ones that was kicking up a white wake as it sped right for them. By its size Jack guessed that it was some form of a destroyer.

  “I wish I knew,” the pastor said. “For my entire life I saw the Pope as simply the Bishop of Rome, the head of the Catholic church. A holy man for sure, but not one with powers greater than any other priest, unless you count his infallibility, which is unlikely to be able to help us against the demons.”

  “Maybe he has some supernatural powers that we don’t know about,” Jack said.

  It felt like wishful thinking and Pastor John didn’t reassure him with his terse answer. “Like, I said, I don’t know.” He then he turned to Cyn. “Cut the engine, and don’t touch any weapons. We don’t want to get shot out of hand.” The destroyer had turned sideways on to them and was much bigger close up. It loomed like a grey wall and part way up was a sailor manning a 25MM chaingun. It was pointed right at them. Pastor John lifted his hands over his head.

  Before Jack could get his hands in the air, a metallic voice boomed: “Turn around and head back to shore. We are not taking on refugees. I repeat: turn around.”

  The pastor stood up in the rickety aluminum boat, pointed to his uniform, and yelled: “I’m not a refugee. I’m Captain Corley, Army National Guard.”

  There was a long pause and then the metallic voice returned: “This is Commander Cyrus Taylor of the USS Orion. You are ordered to return to your unit with all possible speed.”

  “I can’t,” Pastor John, yelled back. “
My unit was destroyed. Now please let us board, we have valuable information. We know how all of this started.” This pronouncement was followed by an even longer pause and John added: “I’m a military chaplain. What I know has to go up the chain of command as fast as possible.”

  The reply was a curt: “Proceed aft. Leave all of your weapons in the boat.”

  “Aft is the back of the ship,” Pastor John said to Cyn, pointing.

  “Is that right?” she asked, sarcastically, giving Jack a wink. “Is that where they put it?” The pastor was too preoccupied to answer. Jack thought it strange that while Cyn looked relieved at being allowed to board, the pastor was suddenly grim and seemed to be under a great deal of stress.

  A webbing of rope was slung down from the back of the swaying destroyer. Jack boosted Cyn up toward it and only when she was halfway up did he notice that she had disobeyed orders and had the shotgun slung across her back. He went next and he too brought a weapon: his rapier.

  Only Pastor John went up weaponless; he had his crucifix stuck in his belt and that was it. Though he was last to man the rope and he was fifteen years older than Jack, the captain climbed so quickly that he was on deck first. He snapped to attention, saluted first the flag at the back of the destroyer and then Commander Taylor, who was a stern-faced officer with flinty eyes that were the exact match in color as the ocean that the destroyer was rolling on.

  “Permission to come aboard, sir?” Pastor John asked.

  The commander dropped his salute, replying: “Granted.” Taylor seemed to enjoy his long pauses and they suffered through another one as he gazed at the three of them. Finally he turned to another officer who stood just behind him: “Get us back on station while I figure out what this is about.”

  The other officer left and then Taylor beckoned them to follow. Quietly he led them through a ship that was so tight that there were times that even Cyn had to plant her back against a bulkhead to let a scurrying sailor move by. Everything was steel and hard and dreary; once below decks there wasn’t an ounce of natural light and a heavy feeling of oppression descended on Jack as though his yoke was weighted down with the mass of the ship as well as his pain and guilt.

  Behind them walked two sailors, each armed with pistols, and when they finally came to Taylor’s office, Cyn and Jack were disarmed by the men and then all three were frisked before they were allowed to enter. When they did, Pastor John stood at attention in front of the commander’s desk, and again Taylor appraised them; he looked like a poker player about to call a bluff. “Start talking,” he said simply.

  Although the order was directed at the pastor, Corley glanced to Jack to begin, but Jack found himself tongue tied—telling the story would involve admitting to acts that were so appalling that he didn’t know if he could bring himself to say them out loud.

  When he hesitated, Cyn took over, telling the story from beginning to end. As she spoke, the commander’s eyes narrowed until they were slits. In response to what she thought was skepticism, Cyn’s voice grew sharp: “If you don’t believe me, I have proof.” As evidence she showed the commander the pictures on her phone of the first two sacrificed men, and then she had Jack’s rapier brought from the hall.

  When Taylor touched the darkened blade, his eyes shot open. “What the hell?” he growled, pulling his hand back. He was no coward and a second later he forced himself to handle and inspect the blade more thoroughly.

  “It’s what happens when you cut one of them,” Jack said, not looking past the blade and into the commander’s eyes. There was a sense of ugly judgment emanating from the man that Jack certainly deserved, but didn’t care for. “They spread their filth through contact.”

  “Well,” Taylor said, finally placing the rapier on his desk. He glanced once at his hands and then wiped them on his khaki pants. He didn’t say anything more for at least a minute and when he spoke, he didn’t speak to any of them. He picked up a phone, hit a button and said: “I’m going to need a ride over to the flag ship and get someone on the line over there, I need to speak to Admiral Owens ASAP. Tell them it’s a priority.”

  Cyn gave him a look of mild surprise. “So you believe us? I have to say I’m a little shocked.”

  Taylor grunted: “You haven’t seen my briefings. The footage of what’s going on is sick and it jibes with what you told me. Really that damned sword is enough to merit a meeting with the admiral, and he’ll want to hear all of this. I don’t know what he’ll do about it, but he’ll want to hear it.”

  Things moved with military precision and speed; in eight minutes the four of them were boarding a helicopter. As soon as they were buckled in, the beastly craft shot straight up into the sky, sending Jack’s stomach into his throat. Cyn’s hand found his and he gave her a smile, not knowing if he was comforting her or if it was the other way around. Either way, he was glad for the touch; it calmed his nerves.

  He wasn’t afraid of any admiral, not after the crazy crap he’d lived through over the last few days. What made his stomach go wonky was the idea that they would have to tell their story yet again and that they would be judged yet again and who knew how many people would be in attendance this time? A dozen? Two dozen? And how many of them would say: You did what you had to do or We should be hanging a medal on your neck for going above and beyond.

  Jack guessed the number would be zero.

  Instead, they would look at him out of the corner of their eyes with disgust, but that was only if he was lucky. If he wasn’t, they would sneer openly in contempt and talk about murder charges and prison sentences.

  The idea grated on him and fed the anger and the hate that had been with him since Loret gave up the third spell—and the yoke started swinging over—Jack was suddenly very aware of the proximity of the rapier, that elegant killing machine.

  “It’ll be ok,” Cyn said, and then glanced down at their locked hands. He had been gripping her hand far harder than he had meant to.

  “I’m sure you’re right.” He didn’t believe it.

  They buzzed across open ocean, never climbing more than a hundred yards off the white caps. Then before them was the most massive vessel Jack had ever seen. The carrier was a monster, a marvel of man’s ingenuity, capable of destroying a city, of ruining a country, of changing the course of history.

  Jack found himself sneering at it.

  The yoke upon him was hard over to the wrong side. Within him was a power beyond even the carrier. “Hey!” Cyn yelled over the roar of the helicopter’s engine. “Relax. You’re breaking my hand.”

  She gave him a grin, but there was worry in it. He liked it, but not in a perverse way. No one had worried for him for years…no one had even cared about him for years. The closest he had to anyone considering his well-being was the finance lady back at NYU; she was very quick to call if he was late with one of his checks.

  Cyn pulled her hand away, shook it, and then grabbed his again. He didn’t think she would and that little thing, her taking his hand, had the heavy yoke swinging back and finally he felt a warmth that he’d been longing for. It lasted right up until he saw Commander Taylor looking at their hand holding with a touch of contempt. They had told him that they were cousins; they hadn’t told him that they were very distant third cousins.

  The look made Jack’s teeth snap together and the yoke swung once more heavily back into a bad place. He was very much aware of it now, that terrible hateful feeling and he was able to keep from crushing Cyn’s hand but he wasn’t able to stop the hate from hanging like a cloud over his mind. He was still dwelling on that hard feeling when they landed on the carrier and before he knew it, they were being rushed off the chopper, yanked along by sailors in bulbous helmets.

  They crossed a flight deck that radiated so much heat that the air shimmered and then they were down in another maze of steel corridors. Stairs led up then down and up again. Jack was quickly lost which didn’t help his mood and he wanted to just stop and cry: Do you know who I am?

  When he heard
the voice—his own voice in his mind, he laughed aloud. It was preposterous. He was no one at all. He was less than worthless. The yoke was spinning now.

  Jack went into the meeting with a bizarre feeling completely taking over his mind. He was drunk with power and at the same time as humble as an ant.

  They left the cramped maze where everything was strictly utilitarian and entered a suite that was uber manly in its theme: dark mahogany walls, leather reclining chairs and matching couch, a wet bar with a bottle of thirty-year old scotch sitting out. They sat there in silence, just the four of them, until a lieutenant opened the door and called the room to attention.

  Admiral Owens, a buffalo of a man with a ruddy face and iron-grey hair, swept in, followed by six captains, none of whom were introduced and all of whom seemed far more senior to Captain Corley, leading Jack to guess that a captain in the army wasn’t equal to a captain in the navy.

  Next to Jack, both Captain Corley and Commander Taylor stood ramrod straight and snapped up stiff salutes. They extended military pleasantries with the admiral and then came a long moment—military officers seemed to enjoy long moments, it appeared to Jack—and then the admiral said: “Well, let’s hear what you have to say.”

  Jack kept his eyes down as Cyn again told their story. She didn’t sugar coat a sentence of it. Jack came across as a monster looking to cut or kill people without a qualm as long as he could get their blood or steal their life. Of course, she mentioned the extenuating circumstance, the river filled with corpses, the road paved with the dead, the knowledge that this was just the beginning, but all Jack felt was shame and guilt...and anger.

  Always anger.

  He stewed in it until he couldn’t follow the conversation that began around him once Cyn’s story was done. Questions were asked, perhaps of Jack, he didn’t know. He kept his eyes down and his mind closed.