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

by Peter Meredith

  The full impact of what was being asked of the admiral struck him so that he went from a great bull of a man to a soft, wavering mushroom. “I-I don’t know if we have anyone like that. This is a military ship. We have honor...and integrity. There are a few cases of insubordination and two or three guys busted for drug use, but no one like what you’re asking for.”

  He turned to the other captains, both of whom shook their heads. Blaine said: “We could maybe try to get a prisoner released from a federal prison. It would take some time...”

  “That’ll take months,” Jack said. “We don’t have months or even days. We have hours, maybe. If Robert decides to make more of them, he may become unstoppable. So, right now I need you to do the unthinkable and give me someone. I don’t know...an orphan, or someone without a wife and kids. The more unloved the easier it will be on everyone.”

  When the admiral hesitated, Cyn said: “Don’t worry, Admiral, I know someone who fits the description and what’s more, he is on this ship.”

  “Who is it?” the admiral asked. He was so undone by the revelation that from three feet away Jack barely heard the man’s words.

  “What we need is a murderer and an orphan, right? Someone without a wife or kids or loved ones...someone despicable, isn’t that what you asked for, Jack?” She was staring right at Jack Dreyden. “He’s closer than you think, Admiral.”

  Jack fit his own description perfectly.

  Chapter 40

  The Atlantic Ocean

  The deep black part of him was furious, ready to kill, only Jack was so hurt by the truth that a wave of depression washed over the anger and he shrugged in defeat; Cyn was right. He was fast becoming a monster. “Even if I was a candidate, who would kill me? Who would offer me up as a sacrifice? Would you do it, Cyn? Would you, Commander Price? Admiral? Who wants to step up and become a murderer?”

  When no one answered, Jack said: “That’s what I thought. Now, if you’re done being nasty, Cyn, we still have an undead army to deal with. I need someone, Admiral, and don’t bother volunteering. The life has to be taken.”

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Commander Price said. He cast a hard look at Pastor John. “Are you going to stop him or will I?”

  “The enemy of my enemy,” Pastor John answered, stiffly. Just as Jack had foreseen they did hem and haw and went back and forth over morality and all that business—he barely listened. They were going to give him a soul to sacrifice.

  “That’s what I wanted to hear,” Jack said, trying to quell the excitement growing in him—he preferred the depression, only the wicked part of him was too strong and awful. He wondered if he was feeling the same sort of excitement that 16th century villagers felt before they filled their baskets for a fun-packed day of picnicking, socializing and witch-burning.

  All he knew was that he felt disgusting, but when it came time to be baptized he backed away. “Don’t bother. I’ll just get dirty again.” Commander Price was only too happy to move on to the next member of the team.

  Jack had asked for a live body to sacrifice and had received one and he’d asked for a team of Navy Seals to protect him and he’d gotten them as well. The platoon members of Seal Team 8 were all tall, hard men who walked into the briefing room like military automatons, ready to carry out any mission without question...supposedly. During their briefing, Jack caught each of the men looking at him out of the corner of their eyes, some with their lips curled in revulsion.

  He didn’t care what they thought of him as long as they did their job. He was sure that they would. They became laser focused as they changed out their preferred weapons for weapons better suited for their mission. Soon they were festooned with grenades and draped in bandoliers of shotgun shells. Their canteens were filled with Holy Water and at their sides each carried a newly sharpened saber.

  The sabers had been ceremonial “weapons,” strictly for parades and full-dress occasions; still they were made of metal and after grinding stones were found, it was discovered that they could hold a very keen edge. Jack’s rapier was cleaned, sharpened and, though he wouldn’t allow himself to be blessed, he was happy to see the silver of his blade glistening with Holy Oil.

  It was two hours from the moment he asked the admiral for a person to sacrifice until the helicopters lifted off. Just before they did, when the Seal team was lined up on the windswept flight deck, newly baptized, their weapons blessed, and looking ready to take on the army of undead single handedly, Jack noticed that there was one slight problem.

  “There’s one too many of you,” he said. “We have two Seahawks and both can only carry eleven people. Do the math. Me, Cyn, Pastor John and our...” He didn’t want to say sacrifice, but there really wasn’t a better word. It was a man, as Jack expected it to be, and he stood against the wall swaying under the influence of an opiate of some sort or another that was being pumped into his system through an IV line. Jack didn’t care what was in him just as long as he wouldn’t struggle when the time came.

  “...And our friend,” Jack went on, gesturing in the direction of the sacrifice without actually looking at him. He hadn’t really looked at the man yet and didn’t plan on it until he absolutely had to. Nor did Jack know anything about him and he didn’t want to know. “There are nineteen of you, do the math.”

  The Seal team, as quiet a group of men as Jack had ever seen, only glanced around at each other and then at Cyn. “I’m not going,” she said. “These men are trained to fight and I’m not. I’d just get in the way.”

  He was strangely hurt that she didn’t want to come, but instead of asking why or trying to understand as he would have only days before, anger swept him. It was petulant, childish and he snapped: “You are coming and that’s final!”

  Cyn was used to getting her own way and she squared her shoulders and marched straight back the way they had come—he caught her at one of the high-stepped doors that led into the bowels of the carrier; he was too rough as he yanked her around and she stared at him with such a cold look that even the hate within him took a step back.

  “I’m not going, Jack! I’ll jump out of that bloody helicopter if you...”

  “I need you,” he said interrupting.

  The three words melted her hard-as-ice look and there were the beginnings of tears in her eyes only she dropped her chin to try to hide them. “I just want there to be another way,” she said. “I want someone else to be the bad guy, not you.” She tried to laugh away her tears as if they weren’t important, as if they didn’t mean anything. She ran a sleeve across her face and said: “Also I can’t help but believe that bringing in more evil into the world will only make things worse. What if you can’t control them?”

  “Then we all die, but that was going to happen anyway.” He was profoundly affected by the tears. They washed away the fires of his anger and turned the pillars of his hate into mud. They made his insides feel loose and his head giddy.

  “Well, that’s good,” she joked and then her smile faltered and her tears sparkled. “How do you need me?”

  He hadn’t yet tried to put it into words, exactly why he needed the slip of a girl. She was his anchor, the one thing that kept the evil from taking over...really, she was the one thing that kept him from allowing the evil to take over. She had been right about him. He had basically been friendless before he met her. He had no family except her and no one to love, but her.

  Without her, he had no reason to fight Robert other than the selfish desire to live and the even greater desire to wield his birthright and to conquer the world, to reshape it the way he felt it should be.

  But he couldn’t say any of this. She was his cousin. They barely knew each other. She was fine and beautiful. She was from the upper crust of British society. He was a dusty bookworm with a ferocious evil side that longed to kill.

  He turned a shade of pink and made stuttering, vowel sounds: “I-I uh, uh, we-we...you-you were uh...”

  The smirk that he loved to see came back and she
said: “It’s ok. I get it, at least I think so. I’ll come with you. We’ll do this together.” There came an awkward moment where they grinned at each other. Jack wanted to take her hand and walk her back to the flight deck, but he feared that he would see judging looks on the part of the men and he feared even more the rage that would come when he did. He knew he was close to the edge of sanity.

  The closer to the edge of hell he got, the closer he came to going stark raving mad. Or closer to becoming like his cousin: coldly insane.

  The Seal’s commanding officer, Lieutenant Jason Neilson, wasn’t happy about losing a trained operator in favor of an untrained girl barely out of her teens. He looked to the admiral for support, but didn’t get it. “Mr. Dreyden is in charge. What he says, goes.”

  “Yes, sir,” Neilson said in a voiced drenched with anger. He turned to Cyn. “Ok, let’s see what we have to work with.” He walked a circle around her. And then took two bandoliers from one of the sailors. “Sorry McCullough, you’re out and she’s in.” He handed the bandoliers to Cyn. “Good luck,” he said, coldly. “You’re going to need it.”

  “Sod off,” she said right back.

  This caused him to laugh. “That’s a little better. Ok, men, let’s mount up!”

  Parked sixty feet down the deck from them were two SH-60s, already whipping their blades in a blur. The team was split into two groups. Jack rode with the sailor he was supposed to kill and nine Seals, including Lieutenant Neilson. Cyn, who had a second, unspoken reason for being with the team, rode with Pastor John.

  It had occurred to Jack that if he was killed, someone would have to finish the job of stopping Robert. Cyn was the only one capable of doing this. Not only was she a linguistics major, specializing in ancient Egyptian, she also knew the first two spells and Pastor John knew the third.

  The thought that someone else could wield the power of the spells made Jack a little edgy. He couldn’t look at her without feeling the yoke on his shoulders lean to the dark side unless he took her in piece by piece: her worried blue eyes, her small, quick hands, her smile.

  He wouldn’t stop staring at her even when the choppers lifted off. He felt as though he could stare at her forever. Her blonde hair and the white oval of her face stood out among the swirls of green camouflage. She was captivating and she was also the only view that didn’t make his stomach haul over like a capsizing ship.

  In the SH-60 was the sacrifice—Jack couldn’t even look in his direction—and the view below was terrifying. From the air it looked as though all of New Jersey was on fire, while New York City, once a glittering beacon of light, was hung in a pall of smoke and ash and within the gloom things moved, roaming and owning the streets.

  “Tell them to slow down,” Jack yelled into one of the crewmen’s ear after they were well over the city. “I’ll let you know when I see a good spot.” The helicopters swept across Queens and crossed over Manhattan. Jack was forced to take in the view, horrible as it was. Bodies were everywhere; most were still, the blood around them dry and dark brown.

  Their first landing point was at the north end of the island, Jack spotted an open field just south of the Harlem River and pointed to it. By happenstance it turned out to be Trinity Cemetery. “The more the merrier,” he said under his breath.

  Because of the trees and buildings, there wasn’t room for both choppers to land simultaneously and so Jack’s went in first. The moment it touched down, the Seal Team was out and moving in a crouch. They made the transition from the helicopter to the firm earth look easy. Jack’s inner ear failed him as he hopped down; the world felt as though it was tipping and before he knew it, he was lurching sideways only to be caught by Lieutenant Neilson.

  Cyn was out of sight while the sacrifice was right there, looking pale and oily. He had the air of a man who liked his girls young; not quite out of the first grade kind of young. Seeing him was all it took for the yoke to fall off into the dark. Jack was suddenly seething. The momentum of the spells so close to being called was too much for him. He tore his eyes away from the sacrifice and saw that he held a short piece of silver in his right hand, which he drove into Neilson’s midsection for no other reason than because the Seal had the audacity to touch Jack’s shirt.

  The knife drove in and struck nothing but air. Neilson sidestepped the knife, easily tripped Jack and then clubbed him on the back of the head. He went limp, unable to stand or make any sense of what was going on around him. There was a great deal of noise and wind that kicked up cyclones of black ash.

  Hands grabbed him and spun him to face the sky and there was Cyn, leaning over him. “You ok, Jack?” Jack gave a weak nod and she said to Neilson: “This is my fault. I should have warned you that he gets a little crazy when he’s doing the spells, they affect him, but he’s actually a good guy.”

  Neilson didn’t look at all as though he believed Jack was a good guy or anything close. “Let’s just do...” One of his men fired his shotgun, the first of many shots. “Let’s do this and go!”

  Jack was hauled to his feet and then pushed to an open spot of concrete in front of a mausoleum; a second later the oily man with the pedophile eyes was rushed in front of him so that they were nose to nose. Neilson thrust the knife into Jack’s hand and then everyone stepped back as if they expected Jack to slit the man’s throat right there.

  That wasn’t how the spell worked. “Lay down,” Jack growled.

  The man was stoned on whatever the military was piping into his system and he said: “I am lying down, man.” He swayed in place, looking placidly at the onrushing creatures. There were dozens and dozens.

  The evil feeling in Jack was back stronger than ever, egged on by the thumping in his head where Neilson had pounded him. Jack yanked the man to the ground and without warning tore open the man’s shirt, sending buttons flying.

  “Hey,” he said, confused. He had a tattoo on his hairless chest that had the word: Mom sitting in a red heart right over where his real heart was. The tattoo, as silly and clichéd as it was caused Jack to hesitate and just then he saw that the man wasn’t much of a man—he was likely just a few weeks over eighteen; he was skinny, afraid, and tripping bad. He was someone to be pitied.

  More gunfire, rapid and fast, woke Jack and killed any feeling but hate within him. In a quick move, Jack sliced the boy’s chest open, cutting an inch deep into the muscle. The boy cried out and tried to sit up.

  Savagely, Jack punched him square in the jaw, knocking him back down.

  “Jack,” Cyn said in a soft voice. “Do what you have to, but no more, please.” He seethed, gripping the knife with a shaking hand, until Cyn held out a fine brush. It was new and unblooded. “Give me the knife, Jack,” she said. Unafraid of him, she stared directly into his eyes until he nodded and switched out the tools of his trade.

  The firing was becoming urgent and he saw that all around them ghouls were charging. They were the dreaded bone monsters woken from their ancient pits in Queens. The sky darkened from their amassed power as though night had come four hours early. The magical fear came with it, setting up a tremor in Jack’s chest.

  He was the only one affected by the fear. The newly blessed soldiers stood their ground and fired at point blank ranges, and Pastor John held out his crucifix and called forth a light that was harsh and unwavering centered upon his outstretched hand.

  “Go on, Jack,” Cyn said, nudging him. He found himself glaring at the light and the priest in unvarnished hate.

  “Right,” he said, remembering himself. He looked down at the blood welling from the wound he had caused. It called to him. It made him hungry. It made him hurt inside with a need that was appallingly evil. Dipping the brush, he began drawing the hieroglyphs; with each symbol, he would whisper the word as well.

  No longer did he need to be urged on. The glyphs almost felt like they were painting themselves and in a minute and a half, he had drawn a single circle of glyphs—this was a variation of “Cyn’s” spell, the first of four. It sat on the
axis of the compass and directed the boundaries within which the dead could be raised.

  That was the easy spell. The next spell, “his” was harder and drank from his soul.

  When it was done, a tone sounded in his mind, like that of psychic bell ringing and it echoed deep and loud, setting off vibrations within him that pulsed and never quite died away. Jack stepped back, eager to get moving to the next, eager to finish the spells, eager for the power. Cyn began to read the glyphs, perhaps just checking his work, but he didn’t need anyone to check. He knew it was right; that sound within him told him so.

  It was the same sound and feeling he’d had when Robert had used the spells, so it was a good guess that Robert was even then sensing the same thing. His cousin probably knew exactly what they were trying to do, which meant they didn’t have time to waste.

  Standing, he pushed Cyn away. “It’s good. I can feel it. And I bet Robert can to.”

  “Which means he’s going to do all he can to stop you,” Cyn said, her eyes shifting around as if she expected flying demons with tremendous batwings and claws like daggers to suddenly appear. “We have to get out of here.” She waved to Neilson and gave him a thumbs up.

  Neilson spoke into a throat mike and a second later one of the helicopters that had been hovering, pitched down and came at them so fast that Jack thought it would crash. At the last second, it flared up and landed as if it was settling down in an open field instead of tree-lined cemetery that was being attacked from every direction.

  The boy with the bleeding cut across his chest and the “Mom” tattoo was still unconscious and so Cyn grabbed one arm and Jack the other. Together they dragged him to the helicopter. He was out cold, dead weight, but Neilson picked him up as if he were stuffed with feathers, and flung him into the copter.