Holiday of the Dead

by David Dunwoody; Wayne Simmons; Remy Porter; Thomas Emson; Rod Glenn; Shaun Jeffrey; John Russo; Tony Burgess; A P Fuchs; Bowie V Ibarra

  He found the white gate standing open as he had left it, and pounded down the gravel drive. Ahead of him was the flower-covered cottage, and the light he’d left on in the kitchen was like a beacon to him. But he’d no intention of going in to the cottage. He swerved for his car and grabbed at the door. Locked. He had fetched the Maglite from the car, locked it out of old city-bred habit. He grabbed at his pockets, searching for his keys. All the while he snatched glances back the way he’d come. His movements became more frantic as he saw the first figures shambling through the darkness towards him.

  Josh dropped the torch so that he had both hands to help in the search. Jesus–fucking-Christ, where are they? He couldn’t find his keys.

  Dread struck him.

  When he’d pulled out his cigarettes earlier, when he’d been spooked and required calming, he must have also snagged his keys alongside the packet, and dropped them back there on the road.

  Holy shit!

  He snatched up the torch. Not for its light but that it was a handy weapon and then fled towards the cottage.

  He banged through the door and into a mudroom, then into the kitchen beyond. He looked for a knife, anything. Then his stupidity struck him and he ran back to lock the outer door. Figures swarmed through the small garden outside. Faces peered back at him, eyes like black pinholes amid faces glowing with starvation and need.

  The door would hold them, but not the windows.

  Josh retreated into the kitchen and through that door shut, slamming home the bolts. There were windows in the kitchen, but these were double-glazed and sturdy and would thwart most attempts to get in. No, that wasn’t true. He had to shake his first impression of the walking dead. He’d grown up on schlock horror movies, the more recent video games where zombies were mindless and stupid eating machines. By setting the little girl as a decoy, these things retained some semblance of intelligence and it wouldn’t take them long to find something with which they could smash a way inside. He fled through the kitchen and into the living room. He slammed shut the door and then wrestled a sideboard over to keep the door shut. There was a window at each end of the room – small, original features – and he upturned the settee and jammed it in front of one of them. At the other end of the room was a small study area, and he made use of the desk by upending it and jamming it solidly in the window frame.

  He stood there in the centre of the living room, gaze switching from window to door to opposite window. He could hear them outside; their shrieking calls to feed were growing louder in pitch and frustration. Perspiration pooled out of him. It was nothing to do with the fire still smouldering in the stove, because this was the cold sweat of terror.

  Bump.

  He heard the thud from the stairs.

  Bump … bump … bump … bumpbumpbump.

  Josh exhaled.

  Just the bloody water in the pipes, like the last time.

  Jesus, he thought, and there was me worrying that the fucking cottage was haunted!

  Bump.

  He glanced at the door that led to the stairs.

  Even here in the living room was no safe haven. If they were as intelligent – not to mention as hungry – as he credited them, they’d be in here in no time.

  Upstairs was the best place to be.

  He could stand at the top of the flight of steps. They were narrow between two solid walls, and quite steep. Only one of the damned things could come at him at a time. If he had a more telling weapon than the Maglite he could defend the stair head. Sooner or later the numbers would dwindle and he could make his escape from the cottage, maybe get down into the water of the loch and swim to someplace further along where he could raise help.

  He looked towards the stove and the long metal poker resting on the hearth beneath it. The poker was a foot and a half long, steel, with a spike and prong for raking the embers. He switched the torch to his left hand and grabbed for the poker.

  Bump … bump … bump … bumpbumpbump.

  Fucking pipes!

  He lurched towards the door to the stairs just as the kitchen windows shattered with a deafening bang and clatter.

  They were starving indeed and going straight for the main course.

  A body rebounded off the living room door, moving the sideboard wedged against it a half inch.

  Josh shoved the sideboard back again. Threw a coffee table on top of it, then dragged over the easy chair he’d napped in and jammed that against them both. His barricade wouldn’t stop the undead, but it would slow them while he gained a defensive position.

  He had to drop the torch in order to haul open the door.

  It swung inwards towards him and he had to twist his body to give it clearance.

  He twisted back and took a step up for the first stair.

  ‘Noooooo …’

  The woman was waiting for him. The one he’d seen staring at him from the hotel car park. She’d seen him, targeted him, fucking followed him back here. She had waited for him to leave and sneaked inside while her friends corralled him back here. The bitch had laid her trap.

  Bump … bump … bump … bumpbumpbump.

  Her heels skidded down the stairs, and she came at Josh open mouthed, her teeth glistening in the wan light. Snot was all over her, drool pooling in the corners of her lips, her eyes deep, hollow pits.

  She shrieked.

  Not a call to feed this time but because he’d rammed the sharp end of the poker into her stomach.

  The length of steel held her for only a second. She didn’t fight to get away, only came forward, remorseless, throwing her weight along the metal rod as she grabbed his face in her hands.

  Josh tried to wrench loose, but her grip was rictus-like, fuelled by a strength that had nothing in common with the world he knew or understood. She continued to push along the poker and the tip burst from between her shoulder blades. He let go of the poker, but it didn’t help. Her grip on him was unflinching. He pulled and wrenched but her fingers were digging into the flesh of his face.

  Josh howled in agony.

  Her fingertips were digging directly into his flesh, the nails grating along the bones of his skull. One of her thumbs found the corner of his right eye and began to squirm deep into the socket.

  ‘Nooooooooo!’ he screamed.

  Half-blinded, half-insane with agony, nothing came near the terror that welled up in him as the woman snapped her teeth into his throat. He felt her grind her jaws together, felt the cartilage of his windpipe collapse under the horrific pressure. Then she tore back and blood filled the air between them.

  Finally she loosed her grip and he crumpled down. The weight of his upper body caused his knees to fold, torque sideways and Josh flopped over backwards to lie on his back at the foot of the stairs.

  He moaned, but nothing issued from his ruined throat but bubbling froth.

  Over him the woman stood, munching in satisfaction on the chunk of flesh she had torn out of him.

  Absurd if it wasn’t so real.

  His good eye rolled up, his lids flickering rapidly and Josh saw the living room door forced slowly open. The furniture toppled, crashing down close by his head. He didn’t have the strength or the will to flinch. Figures stumbled into the room, all of them hungry and grinning in anticipation. He hoped they were as hungry as they looked and didn’t leave a morsel behind, because he sure didn’t fancy joining their ranks.

  If this was the Apocalypse then he wanted to go now.

  Or, noo, as it happened.

  Well, Dad, he thought, if there is an afterlife I’m going to see you soon. Hopefully you’ll let me make my peace with you then?

  THE END

  THANKSGIVING FEAST

  By

  A.M. Boyle

  Emil H. Larson eagerly licked his craggy lips and smiled. The hunting knife was a beauty, for sure. Not like the cheap crap they sold at the big chain stores these days. This was a handcrafted gem, and with only a little bit more work, it would surely be up for the task that lay ahead.
He pressed the edge of the blade lightly against the motorized grinding wheel. The sparks danced merrily in the air, like miniature fireworks, and the high-pitched squeal prickled his ears. After a moment or two, Emil withdrew the knife and examined the blade. It glinted in the shallow light of the workshop, showing the grandeur of its former self.

  He’d meticulously removed every spec of dried blood from the ornate wooden handle, paying special attention to the carved initials. EHL II. They were his great grandfather’s initials. Hell, his great grandfather’s initials were just about everywhere in this old homestead; carved into the fireplace mantle, engraved over the door frames, etched into the side post by the slaughter barn, even scratched into the beams in the old attic where he’d found this hidden treasure of a knife just a few days ago. It was as if the founder of this farm had tried to carve himself into the very fabric of the place, permanently marking it as his. And why shouldn’t he? Back in the day, he’d supported his family from the turkeys he’d raised. It had been quite an operation, supplying not only the small town of Shakers Point with their Thanksgiving feast but three other adjacent towns as well. Back then it had been a much bigger business. Maybe that had been the problem; it had been too big.

  The old man had worked himself to death trying to keep up. Rumour was that his great grandfather had lost his mind from being around too many turkeys for too long. He’d tried to attack a customer and had gotten shot by his own rifle. No one in the family ever talked about it, so who knew what the truth really was? Either way, with each new generation of Larsons the operation had gotten smaller, and each successor had lived just a little longer. The business was so small now that Emil could handle the whole operation by himself, which was a good thing, since he had no successors to hand it down to. Hell, he might just have to live forever to keep the old farm going. Otherwise, how would the hundred or so folks who still bought their turkeys from Larson’s Farm ever get their Thanksgiving meals on the table?

  Emil chuckled. He might not live forever, but at seventy five, he still had a lot of life left in him, just like the old hunting knife he held in his hands. He was sure his great grandfather had held this knife and admired it, just the way he was doing, right before the slaughter. Why would someone stash such an heirloom up in the attic, stuffed in an old shoe box, disrespectfully wrapped in a ratty dish towel? He probably wouldn’t have found it if he hadn’t been up there looking for those old photographs for his daughter. He’d promised to mail her some in time for Christmas – something about a scrapbook of some sort. He’d thought it best to get them to her before the holiday rush. Mail to Germany took long enough as it was. The old shoebox had been stashed behind a trunk filled with his dead wife’s clothes, and he was sure it contained the photos his daughter had asked about. But when he’d unwrapped the dish rag bundle, the knife plopped into his lap. There had been a note with it, too, wrinkled and yellowed with time.

  Although he could no more read what it said than read the entire works of William Shakespeare, he’d smoothed it out and had laid it safely under the lamp next to the sofa. His great grandfather, by all accounts, had been a frugal man of word and deed – much like himself – so if he had taken the time to write a note, it had been because he had something to say. Day after tomorrow, he’d ask Sheriff to read it to him. Sheriff was always early to pick up his bird, and he always sat for a short spell to sip on some coffee. But, in the meantime, he’d honour his great grandfather, and hopefully make amends for this disrespectful way the heirloom had been treated, by using it for the slaughter.

  Emil sighed at the thought of the night’s work that lay ahead. Slaughtering one hundred turkeys, then cleaning and dressing them was tiring work. Often he wondered how his father had done twice that many at his age, and his grandfather three times as many before that. ’Course, he’d always been around to help. Well, maybe not always. When he was real young, maybe six or so, the sight of all that blood had turned his stomach, and he’d hide in the root cellar until it was over. His father used to laugh at his reaction and joke that, in the Larson household, the first turkey slaughter was a thing of beauty since it brought the colours of Christmas – the red blood meant green money.

  But as he’d gotten older, he’d begun to appreciate his father’s trade, and had learned how to do it efficiently and economically. Everything was still done the old fashioned way. No fancy equipment or automated nonsense. Shakers Point had remained a small town, and many of the younger residents got their birds from the market, frozen like a brick and as tasteless as one, too. The older folks who knew how much better a fresh turkey tasted trusted him to supply their feast. It was time consuming, but with only a hundred birds for Thanksgiving and about seventy-five for Christmas, it was manageable. Besides, it was more of a hobby than as a means to make a living. At forty bucks a pop, though, it wasn’t too bad.

  Emil gingerly placed the edge of the blade against the spinning wheel one last time. He winced at the shrill wail, then pulled it away and slid the knife back into its leather sheath. Stretching and yawning, he glanced at the clock above the work bench.

  Almost 10:00pm

  Time to get started.

  If he waited too long, he’d run out of steam before the job was done. These birds were heavy buggers – ornery, too – and every year it was getting harder and harder to hoist them into the shackles. Tomorrow was Tuesday and he’d spend most of the day cleaning, dressing, and wrapping the birds for pick-up on Wednesday. Starting at 7:00am on Wednesday, one hundred lucky townsfolk would be coming one by one to pick up the grain fed, all natural star of their Thanksgiving celebration. And the birds had better be clean as a baby’s bottom by then. Heaven forbid there should be any gory reminders that their delicious meal had been alive and kicking only a short time before.

  It would be a long night tonight, and an even longer day tomorrow.

  Emil took his killing jacket from the hook in the workshop and shrugged it on. It carried the pungent odour of dried blood and turkey piss, but it was just too much trouble to get it to the dry cleaners. He didn’t leave the house much anymore, since the arthritis had settled into his hips. Frank down at the Mid Town Market sent his orders once a week, and his prescriptions came by mail. He had the occasional doctor’s appointment, but otherwise, he was pretty much a home-body. Gas cost too much and the old pick-up was on its last legs anyway, so what was the point of going anywhere?

  He took the sheath from the workbench, clipped it onto the belt of jeans, and stepped into the brisk night. Breathing deeply, he filled up on the fresh air he wouldn’t smell again for hours, and admired the view. The farm wasn’t that big, but it always seemed more expansive at night. The hen barn was set off in the back, furthest away from the house. In there, he kept his hens and the toms used for mating. That’s where he raised the poults for next year. His father used to call it the “Happy Barn.” The slaughter barn was closest to the house, but at enough of a distance so that the odour and clamour of the turkeys didn’t drive him too crazy. His great grandfather had built both barns and, aside from a few modifications necessary to keep out predators in search of an easy meal, it was the same as it had been on the day he built it.

  Sturdy and strong, tried and true.

  Proof again that the old fashioned ways of doing things were still the best ways of doing things.

  The light breeze was heavy with the scent of pine needles and the promise of rain—maybe even snow, depending upon how cold it got. It wasn’t that unusual to have snow on Thanksgiving in this part of Pennsylvania. Hell, it wasn’t unusual to have snow on Easter either. The cold made the birds sluggish, so it certainly wasn’t a bad thing, but the dampness made his hips ache, which slowed him down almost as much as it did the birds. This time of night, the turkeys were half asleep anyway, which made the whole process easier as well. Another trick he’d learned from his father. Still, despite the late hour, when he unlatched the door brace, tugged open the heavy barn door, and turned on the overhead light, the
turkeys immediately began their incessant gobbling, as if sensing that there was something different about tonight.

  Over the years, he’d grown accustomed to the racket they made, but as the holidays drew closer, and the flock was more mature, their voices were loud enough to grate the nerves. It was always a relief on Thanksgiving morning, and even more so on Christmas, when raucous gobbling of these birds was silenced.

  “Good evening, you poor bastards.”

  At the sound of his croaky voice, the flock quietened a bit. They knew his voice. He’d raised each and every one of them. They trusted him, as much as a turkey could trust anybody.

  Emil patted the knife at his side. “Tonight’s your night boys. More than half of you are going to that great turkey pen in the sky.”

  A row of twenty leg shackles hung against the side wall over several blood basins. The wall was indelibly stained with dried gore. Four rows of twenty inverted draining cones were lined up alongside the wall, each cone tucked securely, narrow side down, inside the wooden rack that his great grandfather father had built. The rack was on wheels, and resembled an oversized checkerboard, with plastic cones in place of red and black checkers. The cones had been replaced a few times over the years, but the wooden rack was as stable as ever. Good workmanship; another testament to doing things the old fashioned way.

  The toms were bunched together in a large pen opposite the shackles and wooden checkerboard, a bobbling sea of white feathers. Tonight one hundred birds would be slaughtered for Thanksgiving, and the remaining seventy five would stay in the pen until Christmas week. Emil went to the pen and opened the gate, careful to block the exit so that he didn’t waste energy chasing any birds around the barn. The turkeys gobbled louder as they surrounded him, expecting a handout of grain or some other goody. He grabbed the nearest turkey, a nice plump tom that squawked in protest. Emil tucked the bird under his arm, holding the wings tightly. The wing muscles flexed as the bird struggled against his grip, and knew that by the end of the night, his arms would surely be aching. Hopefully, there’d be enough hot water for a nice bath to soothe his sore bones.