Best New Zombie Tales Trilogy (Volume 1, 2 & 3)

by James Roy Daley

  The man didn’t say any more, and he offered no resistance when Robbins took him by the arm, cuffed him, and started to lead him away. “We’ll take him back to the station,” he said to Beth, “but I’ve no idea what will happen after that.”

  Beth leaned over the balcony and looked down at the fall. She shut her eyes when she thought what that man had just been through. Then she followed Robbins and Matthew back down the stairs again. By the time they reached the street an ambulance had arrived, and the police. Robbins pushed his prisoner’s head down as he deposited him in the back of a squad car. The residents of the flats, all used to minding their own business, came out through their doors to look when they heard the sirens. The owner of the car was screaming about insurance and asking who was to blame. (Ironically, in his heyday Douglas Knowles would have been able to point her in the right direction.)

  More white and orange vehicles were arriving now and Robbins knew that this could go on well into the early hours of the morning. Statements would need to be taken, the body disentangled and taken away.

  Beth joined him again. “What about Matthew? What about who, what he is?”

  “Tomorrow,” the DCI said softly, chewing on an antacid tablet. “We’ll talk about all that tomorrow.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  He’d sat with Irene Daley that night until she’d finally dropped to sleep.

  They’d prayed and read from the Bible together, but Father Lilley was extremely concerned about her. It wasn’t so much the stress of the last few days, although it was clear that had taken its toll. She was a shadow of herself, having barely eaten in all that time. But no, it was more the way her mind was working now. She was having dangerous thoughts about the person who had shown up at her doorstep and couldn’t possibly be Matthew.

  “But father, what if––”

  “Irene, he is not your son. He can’t be. You said yourself.”

  “And the grave?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know, I can’t explain it. But I do know that Matthew is with Our Savior right now, not walking this earth.”

  He firmly believed it. That thing might look and sound like Matthew, but it certainly wasn’t the boy he confirmed, the man he’d listened to as he confessed. The man he’d put in the ground while his family stood around the graveside: a grave now thoughtlessly desecrated because of the creature pretending to be him. The more Lilley himself pondered on it, the more convinced he became that this person––if indeed he was a person at all––was here for the most wicked of purposes.

  Already it was infecting Irene Daley’s mind, and was in the process of convincing others that it was Matthew. He looked to the good book––as always––for help and guidance, references to the Devil, how he might send his minions back to wreak havoc.

  ‘And as ye have heard that the antichrist shall come, even now are there many antichrists’ John 2:18.

  Had Matthew’s body been invaded by a demon or ungodly spirit? Lilley hadn’t ever performed an exorcism and wasn’t about to start now.

  As he sat downstairs in Irene’s house, the dawn about to break on this another day, he looked at the photograph of mother and son together. Lilley wondered how his own father, the staunch Catholic who had instilled in him all that was right and good, might have dealt with such a challenge of faith. He thought he could almost hear the man’s voice telling him what to do then. Lilley nodded. It was time for him to become a soldier of God himself, to become the Lord’s right hand.

  He had to stop this evil from spreading. And there was only one way he could think of to do it.

  ~

  The phone in Robbins’ office hadn’t stopped ringing all morning, and by midday he had his orders. The case was being taken out of his hands and the man they were holding with relation to the death of one Douglas Knowles was to be transferred to a secure facility for questioning. The further tests Beth had wanted to perform would also be handled by ‘more experienced’ government doctors, Robbins was told. Arrangements would also be made at some point to move Knowles’ body from the local hospital.

  “See,” he told her when he finally emerged. “Just as I thought.”

  “They can’t do that. What’s going to happen to him?”

  He looked her in the eye and said seriously, “I don’t know, but you can’t charge a dead man with murder, Beth.”

  Wilson, now back at work but refusing to go anywhere near the cells, drew their attention to the television in the corner. Several officers were gathered around it, listening to the report. Becky recognized a pixilated picture of Matthew from the hospital, the newscaster telling the world about the miracle recovery of motorcyclist Phil Barnes. There was also some confusion as to who exactly the man in the photo was, although the likeness to a ‘hit and run’ accident victim from seven years ago was definitely uncanny.

  “It’ll only be a matter of time before they link it with the exhumation and what happened last night,” Robbins said.

  By two o’clock that afternoon the police station was besieged with reporters and TV crews, and the internet was awash with rumors about Matthew.

  Becky observed the crowds gathering outside. “It’s going to be hard for anyone to keep all this quiet now.”

  An unmarked van arrived for their guest at four. Robbins was to give it an escort of squad cars until it reached the motorway, then the whole thing would be out of their hands. When Robbins and Beth went down to the cells, where he was under constant surveillance by three police officers, the man was still not speaking. He hadn’t said a thing since the balcony.

  “Time to go,” Robbins told him.

  As Valentine and WPC Adams led the man out of the cell, he paused when he caught Beth’s eye. “Don’t worry, you’ll see her again,” he told her.

  Robbins watched him go. “What did he say? See who?”

  Beth fought back a tear. “Doesn’t matter.”

  They walked with him to the back door of the station, opening it up to see the van there in the car park, waiting. But even before they’d reached the second step at the entranceway a deluge of people started piling in behind the van. Someone had tipped them off and the news people weren’t about to miss the biggest scoop of the year, if not the decade.

  They all took notice of him now: the dead man. The people there saw him walking. Soon the whole world would see it too.

  Robbins barked at the uniforms on either side of him, telling them to get more men out for crowd control. The plainclothes officers driving the van backed up when they saw what was rapidly turning into a mob. There was total and utter confusion. Cameras flashed, Dictaphones were pushed through.

  And there, at the back, Robbins saw her––short dark hair, craning her neck along with the other people to see who had gathered here today: Caroline Hills. He turned to see that the man they had in cuffs had noticed her, too. A look passed between Caroline and the person who so resembled the husband she had lost, and Robbins almost felt sorry for him. But then the DCI was being jostled to one side and more policemen were emerging from the station to deal with the numbers.

  “Can we just ask––”

  “Where are you taking––”

  “What connection he has to––”

  “What you found at Westmoor Cemetery––”

  The gaggle of voices was terrific, so much so that they wove themselves into one loud hum.

  Then it happened.

  Beth spotted it first and grabbed Robbins’ shoulder. There, in the crowd, was a hand clutching a gun. It was an old-fashioned type of pistol, nothing that might be used on the streets today––more like a relic from a museum. Robbins doubted whether it would even fire.

  But it did. Three loud bangs.

  He saw the man in cuffs go down, two bullets hitting him hard. Then Robbins felt a pain in his own arm, as he dove across to try and shield Beth. If there was confusion before, then there was mass panic now that the shots had rung out. Robbins tried to shout out to his men: apprehend the s
hooter; secure the area. But the plainclothes officers from the van had already pulled their own guns, which caused even more hysteria.

  Robbins clutched at his arm and his hand came away red. Then Beth was there, examining the wound.

  She told him to keep the hand on it and apply pressure. “You silly sod,” Beth whispered, and kissed his forehead, before checking on the other injured party. She scrambled along the floor to where he’d fell.

  But when she got there she found nothing. No body, no Matthew.

  Nothing except a patch of blood where he’d lay, spreading out like wings on the concrete floor.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The next few days were just as confused as that afternoon.

  For a while the news had concentrated fully on what had happened: about Matthew, about who he might be, about where he might have gone after the assassination attempt, about his revenge on the man who had ‘killed’ him. It was discussed on every message board and talk show, theologians offered their opinions and scientists expounded on what Beth had already suggested. But there was no proof, no concrete evidence of anything. So rationality soon began to reign. If nothing else it was a diversion, a curiosity along the lines of raining fish and the Yeti. Certainly nowhere near as exciting as reading about which politician was having an affair or which celebrity had suddenly been diagnosed with bulimia.

  Then, just as Croft had predicted, the world began to change.

  The first thing that happened was that Phil Barnes, the motorcyclist Matthew had apparently brought back from the brink of death, got up from his hospital bed and went for a walk himself. The nurses thought he was going to the toilet, a good sign that he was recovering even more. But he wasn’t. Phil was going down into the morgue.

  He walked past the attendant in charge, who was listening to Nessun Dorma on his ipod at the time, as if he hadn’t even seen him. The man asked him exactly what he thought he was doing and Phil simply replied:

  “They’re asleep, that’s all. Just asleep.”

  Then he pulled open the freezer drawers and woke them up, one by one: men, women and children. In no time at all, the morgue was filled with reanimated corpses and the attendant had collapsed on the floor in a dead faint. He was used to cadavers making noises––groaning and farting as he moved them––but not used to them climbing out of their drawers. The last person to be woken was in quite a bad condition. His limbs were broken and he was still scarred, bruised and cut from the fall.

  However, when he looked down on himself, Douglas Knowles found that he was entirely healed, that his body was as good as… no, better than new. Life surged through him, the blood pumping in his veins full of vitality. The last thing he could remember was being on that balcony. When the man he’d killed refused to put him out of his own misery, he’d suddenly been overcome with a sense that there was no point in going on. And he owed the person standing there some kind of justice. That was when he decided to throw himself off.

  He smiled. It was a miracle.

  “Come on,” said Phil, showing the others a way out of their resting place, up into the light.

  In his hospital bed, recovering from being shot and being treated for the ‘full house’ of ulcers they’d now found in his gut, DCI Robbins saw the strange procession go past. And saw Knowles tagging on at the end. But he put it down the strong medication he was on, just as he had the return visit from Croft.

  “I can’t stand these places,” he’d told him, eating Robbins’ grapes, “they remind me of the time I had my heart attack.”

  He’d mention it to Beth the next time he saw her.

  But Beth would have other things on her mind entirely by then.

  ~

  That night, Dr. Beth Preston was down in the lab––going through blood samples she’d squirreled away while she was still able to––when she was interrupted in her work by a child calling out her name.

  She rose from the microscope slowly, then nearly lost her balance, clutching onto the desk for support and knocking over the vials.

  “Hiya Bethany,” said the little girl in front of her. She was the only one who’d ever called her by her full name.

  “S-Sarah?” She shook her head, not trusting the evidence of her own eyes. “Sarah, is it really you?”

  The girl with long golden locks ran over and hugged her. “Course it is, silly. Who else?”

  Beth’s hand wavered, then it found the child’s back and she hugged her tight. The girl felt as real as anyone she’d ever met, as solid as… well, as solid as Matthew had been. Tears were tracking down the doctor’s cheeks, and she could taste saltwater on her lips.

  “It’s… it’s so good to see you,” Beth told her.

  “It’s good to see you, too. I was getting bored of waiting.”

  In spite of herself, Beth laughed. She held Sarah by the shoulders and bent down. “I don’t understand any of this.”

  “You’re not meant to,” Sarah said. “Not yet. But you will.” She took Beth’s hand and began to tug it.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Beth hung back. “Hold on, Sarah. I have to say something.”

  Sarah looked puzzled. “Can’t it wait?”

  “No,” said Beth, shaking her head. “Not really.”

  Sarah looked up and nodded.

  “I’m sorry,” said the doctor.

  “What for?”

  “You know, for what happened.”

  The penny dropped and Sarah suddenly grinned. “Oh that. It’s okay, it wasn’t your fault.”

  “But if I’d picked it up earlier then maybe––”

  “It was meant to happen, Bethany,” Sarah told her. “There was no way you could have known about the clot.” She tittered. “Sounds like cream, doesn’t it?” When Becky didn’t join in, Sarah said, “Could’ve happened anytime.”

  “But I’m a doctor, I should’ve seen the signs––”

  Sarah put a finger to her lips. “It made you a better one. Think about all the good you’ve done. Now,” she said seriously, “we’ve really got to go, there are things to do.”

  It was Beth’s turn to be puzzled. “What things?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “Wait.” Beth pulled her back again. “I need to tell you one last thing.”

  Sarah sighed. “Kay.”

  “I love you.”

  Sarah beamed. “I love you too, sis. Now let’s go.” She pulled on Beth’s hand and led her out of the lab.

  ~

  These weren’t the only occurrences.

  All around the country, all over the globe, people were seeing the dead. Not ghosts, but living, breathing human beings––of a kind. Mrs. Shaw, the school helper, woke up from yet another troubled sleep only to see the figure of young Oliver at the foot of her bed, burn marks from the rope still around his neck. Terrified, and thinking she’d brought the images from her nightmare into the real world, she tried to wake her husband. But he just kept on snoring beside her.

  Oliver held out his hand for her to take it, and she felt compelled to do so…

  Across town Thomas Valentine was shocked to see that his best friend from college, Martin Raines, who had drowned during the Tsunami disaster in Sri Lanka, was playing computer games on the X-Box in his living room. Meanwhile WPC Trisha Adams’ discovered that her Granddad, who’d passed away from a stroke when she was only a little girl, had come to visit offering her a bag of those sticky toffees he always used to bring.

  And as PC Frank Wilson was sitting down to eat breakfast, he found that his Uncle Ted and Auntie Rita, the couple who had taken him in as a child and brought him up as their own, were suddenly in the room with him. Ted was making himself a cup of coffee and Auntie Rita was asking him if there was any toast left. He was scared and happy at the same time, but he wasn’t really surprised. After all, the dead man in the cell had told him he would see them again soon.

  ~

  In the cold, damp cellar he waite
d.

  It wasn’t comfortable: he was hungry and he couldn’t feel his hands now, but he had to wait it out. What he’d done had been right, of that he had no doubt. But the authorities wouldn’t see it that way. They’d probably been to search for him already, though he doubted whether they’d find this hiding place––used to protect the faithful during the blitz when the bombing had been fierce. Why, they’d even held services down here.

  Smiling, he patted the instrument he’d used to rid the earth of that monstrous creation. His father’s trusty old service revolver, given to his mother after the great man’s death. It had been used back then in the name of good, fighting the forces of evil, and he’d put it to use in much the same way.

  Father Lilley struck a match and lit the altar candle he’d brought down with him. He wished to consult the good book once again. But in the half-light he saw something stirring there. A shadow at the back of the cellar.

  “Who’s there?” he asked, snatching up the revolver.

  The shadow drifted closer and, in spite of himself, Lilley let off another bullet.

  “Put that thing down, right now,” said the voice, stern but with genuine feeling. “Put it down before you hurt anyone else.”

  Lilley recognized the voice, but it couldn’t be who he thought it was. “Father?”