Undead Worlds 2: A Post-Apocalyptic Zombie Anthology

by Authors, Various

  She pulled the iron handle to open the cracked and warped wooden door that would lead them into the city. She and her husband raised their child on the outskirts and this could be their salvation. She cast a quick glance left, the way looking clear. A glimpse to the right, down the hill, and she beheld the city she had called home for nigh thirty years.

  Acharnae burned. Her beloved temple of Demeter was afire, as were a dozen houses and the market. Between the flames shadowy figures leapt on fleeing citizens, bringing them down. She could see the militia, of which her husband was a captain, fighting the things in the streets with sword and spear. The enemy needed no such weapons, but instead brandished tooth and nail.

  “Now, Antrius!”

  Mother and son bolted from their home down the cobbled street toward the city wall. The door to everything they had held dear left open behind them. Not fifty steps from their dwelling, a dark-haired woman stumbled from the foliage on their right. She held her right arm with her left hand and even in the semi-darkness, it was easy to see she was injured.

  The woman noticed mother and son. “Desma?” she asked through obvious pain.

  Desma knew this woman. She had met her when she had fetched a scroll for Desma in the library near the temple of Apollo some twenty years past. They had become fast friends, as had their families.

  “Jacinda?” Desma questioned. “My friend, what has befallen you?”

  “They came in the night. Demons in the form of men. Savage ghosts wearing the flesh of the living!” Jacinda retched, obviously ill. Even through the gloom of the evening, Desma could tell her friend’s color was that of rancid cream.

  Desma pushed Antrius behind her and raised her shield slightly, “Ghosts?”

  “My mother, dead these two days, came to us from her grave under the olive trees.” Jacinda gritted her teeth as she spoke, blood flowed from between her fingers in crimson torrents. Fat drops struck the cobbles beneath her. “My husband heard her in the garden and went to help. She bit into him, scratching and tearing! She devoured him as he screamed!”

  “Devoured him? Gods, what devilry is this?”

  “I do not know! I pushed her away from him and struck her with my shovel, a blow that would have felled a Roman barbarian, but she wouldn’t stop and came at me. She bit me here before I was able to flee into the house and bolt the door.”

  Jacinda showed her friend her arm. A large chunk of the forearm was missing, the wound horrible. She crushed her eyelids together in agony.

  “I ran from the house, but before I left, I saw my husband was screeching and pounding on the rear door aside my mother. It was not him, Desma, it was something else.”

  “What else?”

  “A demon had taken him,” Jacinda cried, fear and confusion briefly replacing the rictus of agony on her face.

  “Fly with us to the wall, Jacinda. We will seek shelter with the guard or flee the city.”

  The three of them made for the city gates. Desma knew that even with the attacks happening inside the walls, the guard would never leave the gates. She tugged at Antrius, her son was small, but too large to carry should she need to use her shield.

  They were within sight of the gate torches when Jacinda dropped to one knee, her hand palm down on the ground. She didn’t glance up when she said in a choked voice, “Leave me, Desma, I am spent.”

  Antrius knelt beside her. He reached under her arm and tried to stand and carry the heavier woman, but he lacked the strength. He struggled until his mother knelt and did the same with Jacinda’s left arm. Even through her bloody tunic, Desma could feel a fever raged. Her friend’s skin gave off heat like a furnace. They were able to get the woman on unsteady feet and they moved forward. The pride Desma held for her caring son was interrupted by a figure who burst from the cypress bushes to their left. The figure, a woman by her dress, stood partially hunched over and heaving, staring in the direction of the city. Antrius let loose with a quick gasp and the stranger whipped her head around to glare at the trio of Archarnians. The woman raised her face to the heavens and shrieked, long and loud. The sound sent tendrils of terror down Desma’s spine. It was a screech no mortal could make.

  The thing righted its gaze and Desma could see sadness in its face. For an instant she thought everything would be fine, then the thing’s lips curled into a snarl as sadness transformed to rage. The woman-thing sprinted toward the small group and Desma was forced to let go of Jacinda. She brought her shield to bear just as the creature reached her, the impact sending them both sprawling. Astride her, the thing scratched and snapped at the shield between them, trying to pull it away to rend the flesh behind it. Desma began to scream as she realized the teeth and claws would reach her in moments.

  Salvation came in the form of Antrius’ short sword. He thrust the blade into the side of the creature, who paused for the briefest of moments to glare at the boy. The stab should have felled anyone, but this thing only showed more rage. Antrius yanked the weapon from the attacker, raising it high as the thing leapt at him. Desma felt the creature’s weight shift and reached for the thing’s ankle to slow it, but she was woefully short.

  Antrius yelled as he brought the dripping blade downward upon the thing’s crown with both hands. He had trained with his father in the sword, remembering a killing blow when he saw one, and this was no exception. The blade cleaved the woman’s head in two, the evil in it released in death. The thing fell to the cobbles, lifeless.

  “Mother,” the boy shouted, a smile on his face, “did you see? I killed it with my sword!”

  Desma stood coming to her son. The shield was heavy, and her arm sore from the thing that had been atop her. “I saw, my son. You saved us. Your father’s heart will swell when he hears of this, as does mine.” She hugged him, holding him close, her love resolute.

  A growling hiss came from behind them. They both spun to see their wounded friend hunched over and shaking.

  “Jacinda?”

  Jacinda jerked her head up and stared at them. Desma lost her water as she looked into the eyes of the thing before her. There was nothing left of Jacinda in the obsidian orbs that stared back. Gone was her family friend of twenty years. Gone were mercy and compassion. These emotions had been replaced with a black malice and incomprehensible hunger.

  The thing that had been Jacinda shrieked and scrabbled toward them on all fours. There would be no time to get the shield in place and Desma lived a lifetime in the next few moments. She felt something fly past her right ear, her auburn hair moving slightly with the wind of the object’s passing. A shaft protruded from Jacinda’s left eye and she tumbled to the ground. Three men approached, two holding spears and one with a bow. Instinctively, Desma attempted to push her son behind her, but the boy stood firm, sword clasped in both hands.

  The torch in the fist of one of the spear holders illuminated the men enough that Antrius yelled, “Father!” and rushed to the bowman. The man knelt to accept the boy’s small frame in a fatherly embrace.

  “Antrius. You are well?”

  “Yes father. I slew a demon!” The boy turned and pointed at the thing on the ground.

  “The blood of Ares must flow through your veins, my son!”

  Desma rushed to her husband and embraced her family. She let loose a sigh of relief, “Pelias. I feared you had fallen.”

  “Many have,” he stated simply. “You have your father’s shield.” He nodded in approval, “You’ll need it.”

  One of the spearmen, Abantes, pointed down the street toward the market square, “Pelias!”

  Everyone peered through the darkness. The flames in the city proper exposed a mob of slavering things dashing up the cobbled road.

  Pelias scooped up his son and the five of them sprinted to the gates. A mere hundred yards and the things chasing them had more than halved the gap. Upon reaching the gate, the two spearmen took up defensive positions on either side of the inner eastern tower door. Pelias rushed through the door with his son, his wife immediately
behind.

  “Come!” he bellowed to his spearmen. Both made it inside and they were able to slam the heavy oaken door and shoot the three bolts home before the vanguard of the horde hit it. The things stretched torn and bloody limbs through the barred viewport in the gate, reaching with broken fingers toward the flesh they hungered for.

  The tower was made to repel invaders, constructed of massive granite blocks mortared together. Both towers had stood for three hundred years. Pelias added two stout oaken bars to the braces on the back of the door for extra protection. The other spearman, Theras, lit two more torches with his torch and passed one to Pelias and the other to Abantes.

  “The tower is secure,” Theras stammered. “They cannot get in.”

  “Nor we out.” Pelias stared at the things reaching for them not a yard from where they stood. He recognized the butcher’s son, a good young man who now wanted nothing more than to rend and tear. “Let us move to the top of the tower to better see the city and our fate.”

  Dawn peeked over the eastern horizon, the white stone catching and reflecting the rays. Sunlight showed a group of five perched atop the eastern tower gate of Archarnae. They stared down at thousands of the people of their city. The citizens stared back, reaching and clawing at the walls of the tower. Inhuman shrieks made Antrius cover his ears. The square below seethed with writhing bodies, all seeking the flesh of the living.

  Pelias regarded the things. All sported horrible wounds, some were missing limbs. One such creature dragged itself down the street toward them. It had no bottom half and entrails dragged behind it painting a crimson swath in the dust.

  “They are all dead,” the soldier lamented.

  “This cannot be…” Desma breathed, “they are dead but alive…”

  Pelias reached out to his son, Antrius moving to his father. He pulled the boy into a kneel, indicating Desma should follow. “We must pray. We must ask the gods what we have done to bring their wrath upon us, but more, we must know why we were spared and what we must do.”

  They clasped their hands together and bowed their heads as one. The spearmen lay their weapons on the stone and knelt as well.

  Olympus.

  The throne was cold today. Cold and hard. Some days he didn’t feel it, but today… today screamed of violence and deceit. Lightning coursed across his fingers as he heard his sister call him.

  “Zeus! Zeus, have you not seen?”

  Demeter burst into the council room. Spying her brother on his throne she rushed over and knelt before him.

  “Rise, sister. “What ails you?”

  “My city,” she cried. “My greatest temple! Gone!”

  “Gone? Gone how?”

  “Come, brother. Away to the Pool!” She reached her hand to him, a small breach of etiquette which he always overlooked. Zeus loved his siblings. Most of them. He took her hand and she pulled him to the Gazing Pool.

  They stared at a great marble basin, five yards across at least. The water within began to ripple slightly, then a picture of a burning city took the place of the shimmer.

  Zeus shook his head, “Fools. We swaddle them in our love and they squander it with battles and blood. Have you spoken with Ares? This looks to be his doing.”

  “No, brother, look again!” The picture changed, and Zeus watched a nightmare unfold. Thousands of drooling citizens prowled the city in the morning light. The men and women were bloody and filthy, many sporting wounds that no living mortal could endure. Zeus watched as a man made a run from a doorway. The things spotted him and gave chase, bringing him down in moments. They tore into him with tooth and claw, ripping his entrails from his still screaming body and biting his flesh over and over. The scene was done in just a few seconds, and the things stood, dripping. The Lord of the Sky gaped when the man who had just been killed stood and joined the very group who had just murdered him. They sprinted down the street, shrieking. The man had been dead for certain and then had risen. This infuriated Zeus as only the gods should possess immortality.

  Zeus pointed in fury, “What is this?” Before Demeter could answer, Zeus bellowed. The sound shook the very foundations of Olympus itself, the Pantheon being called to the council chamber.

  The Twelve sat in their chairs, all having seen the horrors the Pool had to show. Seven others stood behind the council, awaiting what was to happen.

  “Tell me,” Zeus demanded. “Tell me which of you is responsible for this treachery.” He stared intently at each of the eleven gods seated around the table. None had spoken, and this further incensed him. Thunder boomed and lightning crackled as he brought his fist down on the thick, white marble. The table split in two and several of the gods knew fear.

  “Tell me!” Zeus bellowed again.

  A helmeted god balanced his spear against the broken stone and put his hands on the table, cords rippling. He attempted to becalm his enraged leader. “Set your mind at ease, father. None here would dare destroy your precious mortals without your permission.” The God of War gave a half-smile, “Can you not think of who might have constructed a living death for mankind? What an insult this must be.”

  Ares’ passive aggressive attempt at tranquility worked, but his suggestion as to the cause of this betrayal fueled Zeus’ considerable rage.

  “HADES! TO ME!”

  Ares smiled when Hades failed to show. “Looks like he might be busy, father.”

  Acharnae

  “I am frightened, father”

  Pelias nodded in agreement, “As am I, Antrius. Only a fool would have no fear when looking upon this horde.” The soldier bent a knee to speak to his son directly, “It is how we handle ourselves when fear takes hold that dictates our fate.”

  One of the spearmen picked up a heavy rock usually spent on attackers outside the gates and threw it down on the beasts below. The stone struck one of the things in the shoulder, crushing bones and drawing blood. The creature howled and screamed, but not in pain. It was hunger these things felt.

  The defenders had tried oil as well, heated by a sconce beneath the cauldron. The boiling liquid poured down on the former Acharnians, but they paid no heed as flesh melted away. Pelias fired a flaming arrow into their midst, setting the oil ablaze. Dozens of the things collapsed after being roasted by the fire, but for every one that dropped three took its place. They burned as well until the flames burnt out.

  The horde was thick. Two hundred deep on this side of the wall at least, but very few on the other side. Pelias considered this as he glanced at his son. An eight-year old would not be able to make the eight-mile run to the sea. Pelias doubted he could finish the run himself with the dead on his heels.

  He was watching the center of the mob when he noticed a golden gleam. The gleam intensified until it exploded into a light too bright to look upon. A thunderous explosion rent the air sending dead Acharnians flying out from the epicenter. In the now clear center of the square, stooped upon broken stone, knelt a figure in gilded armor with a golden Spartan helmet. One fist upon the ground, a golden spear gripped in the other. The massive weapon reached eight yards at least. The helm’s red plume shifted as the figure turned its gaze toward the dead knocked down by his arrival. He stood, his height topping four yards.

  “Fear me mortals,” the figure roared. “Ares is come!”

  The fallen dead also stood. They echoed the godly roar with malicious shrieks, sprinting toward the towering figure. Muscles rippling, the God of War swung the spear in a wide arc, slicing through the vanguard of the deep ranks of dead. Again, bodies flew, this time sundered. Ares thrust and spun, using his spear to keep his assailants at bay. They fell like wheat before the sickle, but they were too many and felt no fear. The ones split asunder crawled beneath their brothers, intent on the flesh in front of them. They didn’t differentiate between gods and men.

  An eagle alighted on a rampart near Pelias and his family. The majestic bird watched the battle unfold below, glancing once at the humans in the tower before focusing on the fight for some mi
nutes. When Antrius looked for the eagle again, it was gone.

  Ares thrust his spear behind him and drew a gleaming sword. He brought the spear back over his head, struggling figures impaled upon it, and smashed it into the surging tide of death. Two dozen dead were pulped and the swing of his sword split a dozen more. He strode forward, his gilded sandal lashing out to crush four of the dead Acharnians who had gotten close.

  The humans atop the tower, rapt with the destruction the god dealt, failed to notice several of the things closing in on Ares’ blind spot. Save one. “Ares, behind you!” screamed a terrified Antrius through cupped hands.

  Ares swung his spear to the rear as he swung his sword to the front. He spun in a circle, once, twice, then a third time, slicing through the dead that encroached upon him. The move slowed the front ranks considerably, but only the foes who lost their heads ceased to attack. He suddenly felt one such undestroyed on his back, scrabbling for purchase, but just as suddenly it fell away, an arrow in its skull. The son of Zeus noticed several more of the monsters down, their skulls also pierced by feathered shafts. A quick glance to the towers showed a bowman raining darts down with godly accuracy.

  Ares took quick stock of his situation. He had never beheld opponents such as these. No matter how much effort he expended on their destruction, he lost ground. As the things closed, something unfamiliar crept into Ares’ very soul: fear.

  “Oh shit…” he said as the things leapt the final yards toward him.

  Olympus