Congregations of the Dead

by Moore, James A. ; Rutledge, Charles R. ;

  The nun looked at him. He knew only that she wore a nun’s habit, he couldn’t have said what she looked like beyond that. The woman was tallish, she had to be to reach down and lift him so easily. Her mouth was open and the teeth were set wide apart and ready to bite down.

  He kicked her in the face with all of his strength and felt the impact run from the heel of his foot all the way to his knee. She didn’t even blink. Her chin did not move an inch. But after he was done her mouth stretched into something like a smile as she pulled him closer.

  Get the fuck offa me! Get the fuck offa me! Get the fuck offa me! Oh, how he wanted to scream, but there was nothing. Not a sound came out of him. Not that it mattered, plenty of other people around him were screaming, dying. There wasn’t much he could do about that. He couldn’t even save himself.

  He kicked again but the nun slapped his foot aside without any real effort and he felt his entire leg go numb from the impact. He tried looking away for a moment, seeking any sort of possible weapon. Instead he saw the hole in the ground where Tammy’s dead, partially caved in face stared up at him from a rent in her casket. The blind girl was scrabbling from the grave, screaming and spitting and bleeding unpleasant colors from her eye sockets. He couldn’t unsee her no matter how hard he tried.

  Carl tried to claw at the dead nun’s eyes but she caught his hand and squeezed and he howled in pain.

  And then something hit the nun hard enough to stagger her. She let out a hissing noise and dropped him as she turned to face whatever had hit her.

  For one second he saw a pale man in a dark suit. And then the nun was grabbing the man and lifting him easily from the ground. The man looked deeply shocked. His light blue eyes were wide, the scars on the side of his face were stretched along his open mouth.

  The nun’s fingers hooked into his jacket and she lunged at his face.

  And both of them disappeared. They were there and then they were gone and there was a strange blurring of the air where they had been.

  Carl fell on his face in wet grass and mud and then scrambled as hard and fast as he ever had as the little, dead, blind bitch popped out of the grave. She was still weeping things he didn’t want to consider from her ruined eyes. Oh yes, this was just getting better and better! He felt laughter screaming in the back of his mind and shook it away. The dead girl turned toward him, alerted, perhaps, by the sound of him scuttling away, and she reached again. He got out of the way.

  Another one was coming for him. This one was another of the teenagers, fourteen tops, probably younger, and determined to bite his face off. He hit the thing in the face with his elbow and then backed away. This one at least had the decency to notice it had been hit. Of course it was just pissed off, but hey, every little bit helps. That hysteria was trying to get a grip again and he backed away as the boy came for him, swinging and snarling. Just as it grabbed him, just as the impossibly strong fingers were grabbing his arm – he could feel the fingernails starting to cut his skin – he was grabbed from behind. Carl had exactly long enough to think he was about to get stuck in a tug of war, as the rope, before he felt the world twist away.

  Had he ever felt the sensation before? Once. A powerful sense of nausea slammed through his body and Carl felt the damp vanish, the heat vanish, the light disappear for one instant before he was back in the cemetery in a different spot.

  The disorientation was complete and Carl fell to his knees and vomited. There was no control of the action. No chance to resist the overwhelming change of pressure around him or the feeling that he was suffering from the worst case of bed-spins ever known to man.

  He slumped, coughing, weak-kneed.

  The voice was not at all familiar to him. He could only tell it was feminine. “Really, Josias? Him?”

  The response was masculine, a deep bass drum of a voice. “I’m sorry. I thought you wanted all of them.”

  “Whatever. We’re done. Let’s get out of here.”

  “What about the rest of them?”

  “See the one with the sword? He has this. We’re leaving.”

  Carl finally found the strength to open his eyes, but there was nothing to see, merely a few other people who looked exactly as sick as he felt.

  And halfway across the cemetery, farther than he could have walked or run, there were vampires. And people screaming and dying.

  * * *

  The vampire in the trench coat stared at Decamp for several seconds. He said, “You’re not like the others here. You know what I am.”

  Oh he knew all right. An old vampire. Decades at least. Not like the berserk things wreaking havoc in the churchyard. A so-called master vampire. This one could do things the others would need years to learn. Decamp shifted his stance slightly.

  The vampire wouldn’t be at full strength in the daylight, but the cloud cover would help him.

  When the attack came it was so fast Decamp barely saw it in time. The vampire seemed to close the distance without actually moving. Not quite as fast as Isaiah Blackbourne had been, but wickedly, impossibly fast. The vampire had fought men armed with swords before and it was trying to eliminate any advantage Decamp had by getting inside the reach of the blade.

  But Decamp, too, had been here before and he reversed his grip on the hilt so that the blade was angled downward in his fist like an outsized butcher knife. With the back of the blade almost against his forearm Decamp brought the sword in front of him at throat level. The vampire leaped backwards at the last second, but his head dangled by the merest thread of muscle and sinew. Still, he could heal if he had the time.

  Decamp didn’t give him the time. He lunged forward with the blade still reversed and whipped the edge of the sword across what was left of the vampire’s neck. The head fell, and Decamp moved on.

  The encounter with the old vampire had taken only seconds but in that time one of the other vampires had reached Griffin and Charon. Decamp vaulted an old iron railing, trying to reach the pair before the vampire could kill either of them. A half second later the vampire in question burst into flame and went screaming to his knees. The heat of the fire was great enough to ignore the falling rain. Decamp smiled a grim smile. Charon had learned her lessons well.

  Griffin, always the opportunist, ran up and kicked the kneeling vampire, causing the blazing creature to roll backwards into one of his brethren. The second vampire caught fire and began backpedaling, slapping at the flames that swept up his pants legs. Decamp cut the second vampire’s head from his shoulders as he passed it. There was still one more vampire coming his way. The angle was wrong for a cut, so Decamp sprang forward in a classic fencer’s lunge and drove the point of his blade into the vampire’s heart. The thing fell back, falling apart as it went.

  Charon looked up as Decamp put the third vampire down. She said, “Carter! Thank God.”

  “Still too many of these things for me to fight one on one,” Decamp said. “I’m going to have to improvise. Griffin I’m going to need you to cover me.” He spun the sword and tossed it hilt-first to Griffin. “Stab them through the heart or go for the head. Either will work.”

  Griffin said, “I ran a shovel handle all the way through one and it didn’t faze him.”

  “Wood doesn’t work. Now keep them off of me.”

  Wood doesn’t work. Kind of learned that the hard way. What the hell was Decamp going to do now? As Griffin watched, the man sat down in the mud cross-legged and closed his eyes. Was he going to think the vampires away?

  Griffin’s attention was pulled away from Decamp as an enormous black woman came lurching his way. Ropey threads of bloody drool trailed from her distended jaw. Griffin didn’t wait for her to close the distance, but instead went to meet her, driving the blade in a glittering arc toward her neck. Griffin had forgotten how amazing Decamp’s sword was. It cut through bone and sinew as easily as it cut through undead flesh.

  For a moment
Griffin stood without any attackers. In various parts of the churchyard vampires were still attacking mourners. Griffin’s mouth was a tight line. The poor bastards were on their own. No way he could get to them all and he had to watch Decamp’s back, hoping the man could actually do something.

  He glanced over his shoulder at Decamp. He was talking in a low voice, repeating something over and over. Charon stood just behind him one hand on his shoulder. Rain washed over the both of them. Griffin heard footfalls splashing through the wet grass and turned. Two more vampires heading his way. Griffin bent his knees, preparing to lunge at whichever one came closest first. Best not to let them get him between them.

  Without warning both vampires stopped in their tracks. Then they began to shake, as if suffering some form of seizure. As Griffin watched both of them pitched forward into the mud, to lie there jerking and writhing.

  Decamp got to his feet. “I’ll take the sword now, Griffin. I won’t ask you to do this. Go and see to the living.”

  Griffin did a slow turn. All of the vampires were down and twitching and shaking like the first two. Wait. Not all of them. Three figures stood near the main gate, glaring Griffin’s way. Their eyes seemed to burn red like coals in a fire. As one all three turned and started toward the gate. Griffin looked around for Decamp. He was walking slowly from one undead creature to the next, running his sword through the heart of each as he reached them. Griffin noted that he stabbed each human corpse he found as well. Of course. Decamp didn’t want the recently dead to become what had killed them. When Griffin looked back the three figures had vanished.

  Carl. Griffin began walking around the churchyard, calling his friend’s name.

  “Over here,” he heard Carl’s voice from near the gates. How the hell had he gotten all the way over there? He had been standing near the coffin when the attack had come. Griffin looked back to where he had left Charon, but she was busy comforting a small girl who had escaped the carnage. Griffin could see a few other survivors, but all were too shocked to even look his way as he passed.

  He found Carl sitting on the ground with his back against a stone bench. “You okay, Carl?”

  “Do I look okay?”

  “You look like shit.”

  “That’s how I feel. What happened? One minute those things were ripping people apart and then they just stopped.”

  Griffin shook his head. “Decamp showed up. He did something.”

  “I wish to hell he’d done it sooner.”

  “I don’t think he could. He needed someone to help him.” Griffin put out his hand. Carl took it and Griffin pulled the man to his feet. He didn’t look any too steady but he stayed upright.

  “Jesus, Griffin. Those were the same people we saw in Cotton’s church. Some of them anyway.”

  “I agree. Somehow we didn’t kill all of them.”

  “How? We burned the fucking church down with them all inside.”

  “They must have had some way out.”

  Carl looked past Griffin’s shoulder. He said, “Tammy’s coffin. It broke open in the fight. I’ve got to—”

  “You’ve got to stay the hell away from it. You don’t need to see that, man. You don’t. The funeral home people will take care of it. You’ve got living people to see to. You’re the goddamn Sheriff.”

  Carl looked at Griffin for a long moment. “Yeah,” he said. “I am. Thanks, Wade.”

  “Griffin,” Carter Decamp said. “I’ve finished. What’s left of the vampires will soon be washed away by the rain and none of the newly dead will turn.”

  Carl said, “Appreciate all you did, Decamp. All of us would be dead if you hadn’t shown up when you did.”

  Decamp said, “I wasn’t here, Sheriff Price. I’ve no place in whatever story you concoct.”

  “Of course,” Carl said. “I’ll keep your name out of it.”

  Decamp said, “This is far from over. There were several master vampires among the throng. They seemed to be leading the attack. My holding spell was too low level to bother them. But we’ll see them again. I don’t know what you men did, but you have roused some serious enemies.”

  “It’s a long story,” Griffin said.

  “I’ll want to hear every word of it. You two and Charon should come to my house tonight.”

  “Not me,” said Carl. “I won’t be going anywhere but back to the station. I’m in for a long night and I’ve got to come up with some way to explain all this.”

  Decamp said, “I wouldn’t even try, Sheriff. Just tell the rest of the authorities that you were as surprised as anyone when a band of lunatics descended on the funeral.”

  Carl shrugged. “I might try that. Now I have to serve and protect. Wade, you let me know what comes of your talk with Decamp here.”

  Griffin slapped Carl on the shoulder and said, “Count on it.” He turned back toward Decamp to tell him that he and Charon would swing by Decamp’s house in Marietta later.

  But Decamp was gone.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The rain fell in sheets, and the dead looked upon the ruins of their world and knew sorrow.

  The church was gone. Burned into nothing but ash.

  The deacons had returned with none of their flock left to them. Not all of the deacons. Sister Hope had vanished, dragged away by what the others claimed was a scar-faced albino. Torn from the world and taken so far away that he could not sense her. He had sensed her no matter where in the world she had been and that was an unsettling thing.

  The Reverend Lazarus Cotton looked upon the remains of his church and sneered. His eyebrows were knitted with concentration.

  The Lord expected mercy. Jesus preached mercy. But there were exceptions. Jesus had taken offense on an occasion or two, oh, yes He had. Say Amen.

  Cotton looked at the wasted land and felt his hands clench.

  There were things that could be done. He knew that. He had been patient. He had been as kind as he could while carefully reaching out to the innocent and offering his blessings to the righteous.

  But even Jesus had limits and it was just possible that Lazarus Cotton had reached the end of his own long fuse.

  The Beggar had taught him things, many of which he did not choose to share casually with his followers. Some were too powerful, too easily abused. The faithful were good people, pure and innocent, and that was important. They needed their innocence. They needed to be protected from the temptations that would make their lives too easy, or offer them the chance to grow prideful.

  Miracles needed to be offered sparingly, lest they lose their impact.

  Lazarus Cotton looked out into the darkness. Many of his congregation looked back to him with expectant faces.

  He had learned from past mistakes, hadn’t he? Say Amen. Some had passed from the world, taken to the Lord by the flames of evil men. Others had died mere moments earlier, led by his Deacons in an effort to find and destroy the blasphemers. Others had survived, had endured, though more than one suffered burns that were slow to heal. Slower than they should have been? He was not sure, but he did not like to see the faithful suffering. No. The soil. The soil was corrupted, tainted by the flames of the unfaithful. Fire did not cleanse; it destroyed. “We shall overcome this.” His voice was deep and calm, despite the expression on his face. “This too shall pass, my children. We are the chosen of the Lord, and the Lord shall not forsake us.”

  He looked at the faithful and they in turn looked to him, their eyes expectant. They had their faith to sustain them.

  “Say Hallelujah!”

  “Hallelujah!” They responded; their voices carried through the sounds of rain and the growls of thunder. The sky flared white above them and another roar of God’s fury pealed across the heavens.

  “Say Amen!”

  “Amen,” they thundered.

  “The Lord has seen us through the fires of Perdition
, my children! He is with us!” To make his point he moved ten paces to his left and drove his fist into a pine tree that had been scorched by the fires, blackened but not burned. The tree shattered under the force of the blow and the sound of the wood breaking was a satisfying thing to his ears. “We are strong, my children! We are righteous! We shall endure and we shall prevail! Say Amen!”

  “Amen! Hallelujah!” Their voices carried, surely as strong and beautiful as the voices of angels.

  “The wicked have tried to destroy us, but we will prevail. We will survive and we shall cast them down! We shall smite them with the strength God has given us! We shall fear no evil! We shall overcome!”

  They smiled, his children, his beloved followers. They were mighty indeed, and blessed in the eyes of the Lord.

  And Lazarus Cotton smiled as well.

  For he knew a secret, one that would prove fatal to the faithless.

  It was a time of great strife. It was the time for miracles.

  And Lazarus Cotton would perform the miracles needed to save the blessed from the wicked, in the name of the Lord.

  Say Amen!

  Say Hallelujah!

  Far above him the sky flashed nearly as bright as the noonday sun and a moment later thunder crashed through the heavens and echoed down toward Wellman and the rest of Brennert County.

  Indeed, it was a time for miracles.

  * * *

  Epic clusterfuck did not begin to cover the situation. The Chief of police for Wellman was dead. The Sheriff of Brennert County was at the scene of his demise. There were several bodies, all of them wounded to one extent or another. All of them. Most had a puncture mark through the heart that the coroner was going to see, going to evaluate, and going to make good and goddamned well sure that everyone knew about.

  And behind him, where he could not see it, the people from the funeral home were pulling Tammy’s remains from her ruptured coffin and putting her in another casket.