The man was missing an ear and most of a cheek and one eye was hanging by the optic nerve out of a gaping maw that used to be the socket. It has to be said that this was not exactly what Han had been expecting. The man’s clothes were ripped and caked in blood and his face had the waxy pallor of a dead man (yes, he’d seen plenty of those in his time to know). So, it was doubly surprising when the creature decided to lunge at him with cold outstretched hands, one of which was gripping a dog lead.
“Wo-ah!” Han uttered, stepping back quickly and drawing the knife from behind his back. “Still not found your dog, I see. Mate, I was going to kill you for – let’s say shits and giggles – but it looks like someone beat me to it.”
The creature emitted a low moan that had a lonely desperation to it. It advanced on him in a slow shambling way.
Han stepped back to keep the distance between them. “Beat me to it?” he repeated. “Who do I think I am? Simon Pegg?”
It kept coming, a viscose slime drooling out of the corner of its gaping mouth.
“This is a joke, right? I know it’s not Halloween, but, I don’t know, is there some kind of Seahouses tradition of dressing up like the undead on bank holidays? If there is, you should be aiming it at the Goths – they love that sort of thing.” Shaking his head, he added, “You’re rambling when you should be rambling the hell out of here.”
He had backed up nearly to the entrance back into the caravan site.
“Okay, I’m going to erm … kill you … I hope.” With that, Han slashed at the creature’s throat. The jugular opened up like a whore’s legs, but only a small amount of congealed blood oozed out of the opening. It kept coming.
“Okay, I guess I was kind of expecting that. We’ve all seen the movies.” As an afterthought, he said, “Christ, at least you’re the Romero kind and not the 28 Days Later sort.”
He hacked at the outstretched hands and saw several severed fingers plop onto the gravel. It still kept coming.
“Oh, fuck this.” Han leapt at it and drove the knife deep into the gaping eye socket. After twisting it several times, it stopped thrashing and fell to the ground … dead … again.
Breathing hard, Han stood over the corpse, unaware that the knife was dripping gore onto his boots. After a moment, he nodded and said, “Okay … okay, I erm … I can see where this is going. I think I’ve stumbled on to the wrong film set here. This isn’t my usual role. What happened to a sensible crime thriller?” He was rambling again, but to be fair, he felt that he was handling things rather well so far.
Somewhere behind him in the caravan site he heard a crash, followed by a scream.
Cara. “Shit!” As he turned to run into the site, a hand grasped his throat and a woman fell into him, sending him staggering into the hedgerow. Icy fingers sunk into the flesh of his neck and a stinking dead mouth descended, as if preparing to kiss him.
Shoving her back, he said, “Not in this life, pet. It’ll put me right in the doghouse with Cara.”
She came at him again, snarling and scratching. Han grabbed her by the bedraggled hair and proceeded to saw her head clean from its neck. It didn’t take too much effort – Han kept a very sharp blade.
The body stopped moving, but the head had other ideas. Its mouth continued to snap at him and the eyes rolled feverishly. “Head’s up, bitch,” he said and kicked it into the hedge.
He was off and running into the caravan site. Two people – living ones – sprinted past him. Behind, there were half a dozen creatures lumbering towards them.
Han shouted after them, “Guys, you’re only tiring yourselves out! Take your time! That’s the kind of rookie error they make in the films!” Shaking his head, he headed at a more sustainable pace towards their van.
He past close to one creature and punched it across the jaw, sending it reeling. He could see their van up ahead with a creature clawing at the door. He hadn’t locked it. Bugger!
The door opened and the creature stumbled inside. Han finally broke into a sprint. He reached the door in time to see the creature disappearing into the bedroom.
“Cara!” Han yelled as he rushed inside. “Wake up! Wake the fuck up!”
The creature fell onto the bed and clawed at Cara’s sleeping form. The weight of the creature on the bed was finally stirring her.
“Cara!” Han grabbed its muddied shoe and dragged it away from Cara’s face as its jaws snapped shut an inch from her tender cheek. It struggled in his grasp, catching her hair in an extended hand and tearing a handful out as Han wrenched it backwards.
Cara cried out and finally woke up. “For fuck’s sake! What the fuck are you doing?”
Gasping with exertion, Han managed, “Cara, get the fuck up!”
Cara’s eyes adjusted to the scene. She screamed, but then police training immediately kicked in (it might not have so quickly if she’d fully realised what it was that was attacking her). She untangled its hand from her hair and swiftly twisted it and snapped the wrist. She jumped free, crashing into the fitted wardrobe then fumbled around in the dark for clothes. “What the hell’s going on?”
Han pulled the creature off the bed and stamped on its head repeatedly until it caved in.
Cara stopped with one arm inside a blouse. “No! What the fuck did you just do? You fucking killed him!” Tears streamed down her horrified face.
Han glanced up. “Darling, you’re not grasping the situation. You’ve just been rudely awoken, so I can’t say I blame you. That thing was already dead.”
Cara yanked the blouse on and pulled on a pair of jeans, shouting, “What the fuck are you talking about? I know you’re the fucking film freak and all, but that shit is sick!”
“I haven’t got time to argue with you! We’re leaving right now.”
“We can’t leave the scene of a crime! Are you insane? I’ve got to report this!”
“Okay, the easiest way we can do this is to show you. Put your fucking shoes on first though.”
Han led Cara out onto the caravan’s decking as she fumbled for her mobile phone.
One of the nearby vans was in flames. A people carrier sped past with two creatures hanging on to the rear bumper. Several creatures were shambling around and, further down towards the site office, several more were huddled over a shrieking form. They were biting and tearing at the poor woman’s flesh. The air was suddenly filled with screams and the crackling and popping of the burning caravan.
Cara let the phone fall limply to her side.
“Can I assume you’re up to speed on current events?” Han asked, eying several creatures that were now heading their way.
“I …”
“I’ll take that as a yes. Okay, shall we make a move, hon? Time to check out.”
They piled into the Jeep as more creatures gravitated towards them from all directions. As Han sat in the driver seat, he grabbed the steering wheel then said, “Bugger.”
“What now?” Cara snapped.
“I left the keys in the caravan.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Cara yelled, hysteria stretching her vocal cords to breaking point.
Han smiled. “Of course. What do you take me for?”
Cara glared at him and managed a weak groan.
Han fired up the engine (it started immediately – we’re trying to avoid clichés here!). Another mistake people make in these situations is to screech away at top speed, careening into things and inevitably crashing like the stupid cannon fodder they are. Han wasn’t stupid. He pulled off the grass carefully, three-pointed and drove at a gentle pace back towards the main gates.
“Move it, for fuck’s sake!” Cara screamed, finally back in the game.
“Have you seen any horror films at all?” Han asked, incredulous.
She opened her mouth to speak, but shut it again. A creature thumped into the side of the Jeep, causing her to shrink away.
Han slowly picked his way through the creatures and around the dismembered woman in the middle of the road and then out ont
o the main street.
Seahouses was aflame and in utter disarray. Living and … not quite so living fought and ran in all directions.
Han turned left and headed away from the town, speeding up a little once on the B1340 coastal route.
Cara was mute, staring ahead.
After a time, Han finally said, “I think we’ll try Bamburgh next time, eh?”
THE END
Special bonus story by the legendary co-writer of Night of the Living Dead.
THE WALK-IN
By
John Russo
Reverend John Sutherland was inordinately annoyed by the shrill of the tea kettle. Not that it blew his concentration. He had been unable to concentrate even before it went off. It wouldn’t have helped if he had closed his study door; in fact, it would’ve been worse. He didn’t trust his wife, and always had to keep an ear cocked for what she might be up to.
He was fifty years old, greying and balding, and Barbara was only thirty-five. She looked about five years younger than her calendar age. Just as beautiful as when he married her, eleven years ago. But inside she was somebody different. He had no real proof of this. But nevertheless he knew. If God would have let him have a peek inside his wife’s mind, he would have been afraid to look. At times he felt guilty about feeling this way. But he could not make the fear, the dread, the nasty, resentful thoughts, go away.
He didn’t look up when she came into his study. He pretended to be absorbed in the writing of his Sunday sermon, even though he had barely managed to squeak out a couple of unimpressive paragraphs. He had already decided to dig out one of his old sermons instead. But he still had the bible and other treatises open on his desk, to make Barbara think he was hard at work, so she’d stay away.
Instead, she had made tea.
She seemed to know he was trying to deceive her.
Agonizing over this, John Sutherland did not turn to face his wife when she set down the tray, her body shielding it from his view anyway, as she surreptitiously dropped two capsules into his cup. His was the one with the ceramic bas relief of Jesus, complete with golden halo. Hers was the one with the bas relief of Mary Magdalene.
“How’s the sermon going?” she asked politely.
“Just about finished,” he said, pulling his notebook on top of the measly two paragraphs, and getting up to kiss her. A polite, sexless kiss, as polite and as sexless as her inquiry.
They both sat down, he at his desk, she in the big leather chair often used by parishioners who came to him with their sins, their guilt, their interminable problems.
The Episcopalian priest and his wife sipped their tea in a long, edgy silence.
Finally Barbara said, “I want desperately to be normal … to be the ‘me’ that you remember, John. I don’t think that seeing a psychiatrist is doing me any good.”
“But, darling …” Reverend Sutherland began.
Barbara interrupted him urgently. “I feel as if there’s a war going on, in my mind or in my soul. And I’m losing. Barbara Sutherland is slowly fading to nothingness. I’m desperate, don’t you see? And I’ve read about someone who may be able to genuinely help me.”
“Who?” the reverend asked, trying to sound patient, trying to hide his doubts.
The doubts only increased as he listened to his wife telling him about a man named Dr. Steven Monroe, a so-called ‘parapsychologist’, who claimed to specialize in the study of ‘supernormal occurrences’.
Aghast, Reverend Sutherland couldn’t help scoffing. “You mean ESP, clairvoyance, stuff like that?”
“Yes!” Barbara blurted. “And reincarnation. And … and … possession.”
John stood up slowly, came to his wife, and placed a tender hand on her shoulder. “Barbara … darling … please believe me; what’s wrong with you has a perfectly rational explanation. You spent three years in a coma. The fact that you finally recovered physically can almost be called a miracle. But, an experience like that had to have a terrible mental and emotional after-effect. You’ve got to fight hard to overcome the trauma … and then you’ll be yourself again, or nearly so. But, to some extent you’ll always be a changed person. You’ve got to understand that, darling, and we’ve both got to learn to live with it.”
Pushing his hand away, Barbara argued vehemently. “Dr. Monroe says that many people who survive near-death experiences are completely changed afterwards. He believes that the human body can be taken over by an invading spirit, or aura, when its defences have been sufficiently weakened. What if something like that happened to me, John? What if I’m not … not going insane? What if conventional psychiatry can’t really help me?”
“How do you know so much about Dr. Monroe’s opinions?” the reverend challenged.
“I’ve been reading his book on supernatural phenomena.”
“He’s warping your mind, what’s …”
“What’s left of it?” she snapped angrily.
“I didn’t say that.”
“But it’s what you were going to say, isn’t it?”
He took a deep breath, and forced his voice to be calm and reasonable. “People like this so-called ‘Doctor’ Monroe are charlatans. They prey on ignorance, on superstition. All my life I’ve fought them and their ilk, and I’m not about to start condoning their shady practices.”
“Even if it means losing me?” she said, nearly in tears. “Even if it means losing me … to Maria Rocail?”
He took his wife into his arms, cradling her head against his chest. With stern reassurance, he told her, “Maria Rocail is dead. There’s no such thing as witchcraft. The only power she can have over you is the power you give your own memories of her wickedness.”
“Think about it, John,” Barbara said sadly. “Think very deeply about whether or not you truly want to lose me.”
She pulled herself away from him, and disconsolately left the study.
In a little while, because of the capsules in the tea, Reverend Sutherland fell asleep over his treatises and his inept scribblings.
Barbara stole back into the study. She put the Bible into a drawer. Then she removed a crucifix from its hook and rehung it upside down. Mumbling a Satanic prayer, she stared down at her drugged husband, who looked almost as if he were dead.
Several weeks and quite a few capsules later, Reverend Sutherland yielded to a growing impulse to pay Dr. Monroe a visit. As he drove downtown and parked in a cavernous parking garage, he couldn’t quite believe that he was going against his own adamant principles in this way. But more and more, lately, an almost heretical rationale had begun to implant itself in his brain. He told himself he was desperate, willing to try anything that might offer hope, no matter how outwardly preposterous it may seem.
Maybe, if his wife wanted to believe in this particular charlatan, the belief would turn out to be more beneficial than reality. Sometimes it didn’t matter where you got the inspiration to make changes in your life. If believing in the ‘luck’ of a rabbit’s foot gave you hope and courage to go through hard times or attempt the seemingly impossible, could the misplaced belief be entirely bad?
With these kinds of confused thoughts churning in his head, making him question his worthiness as a man of God, he pushed the buzzer of Dr. Monroe’s brownstone. The man himself came to the door, and ushered Reverend Sutherland into his Victorian-style office. There wasn’t a secretary or receptionist in sight, and no desk or cubical that might have accommodated one. Dr. Monroe was quite handsome, with blonde hair and beard, wearing an impeccably tailored pinstripe suit and vest. He looked to be about thirty.
Reverend Sutherland accepted a cup of tea, sipped it, and was overcome with an uncontrollable urge to tell everything about himself and his desperate situation. He revealed that his wife, Barbara, had recently awakened from a coma caused by a terrible automobile accident. She was unconscious, on a life support system for three years. Then, she suddenly awakened, with perfectly restored physical and mental vitality. It was if Reverend Sutherland’s prayer
s had been miraculously answered.
“Except something was wrong,” Dr. Monroe prompted.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Because you’re here, talking to me. And because these things aren’t unknown in the field of parapsychology. Tell me more. I think I can help you.”
His words tinged with hope, the reverend recounted how joyful he had felt, taking his wife back home to his church and rectory. For a while, things had gone well, and they had both repeatedly thanked God for the miracle He had wrought. But then came the shock of discovering that all was not well, after all, for Barbara began exhibiting symptoms of a split personality.
Most of the time, during the daylight hours, she seemed totally normal, like her old self – kind, affectionate, staid and moral. But during the night, her ‘other personality’ would take over. She imagined herself to be Maria Rocail – the wife of a self-styled ‘witch’ named Simon Rocail. The Rocails were notorious for their anti-Christian beliefs and practices. They led a coven of strange, perverted people who performed the Black Mass, indulging in pagan orgies, and tried to work evil spells upon their enemies. They still were worshipped, even idolised, by their followers, even after they both died. Simon and Maria committed suicide three years ago, when they were about to be arrested for causing the death of a small child in one of their occult ceremonies.
Reverend Sutherland had been a bold, outspoken adversary of the Rocails. He had preached against them and their ‘phony’ worshipping of Satan. He had called their ‘witchcraft’ nothing but a blasphemous superstition. And he was instrumental in leading the police to uncover their ritual murder.
When Simon and Maria Rocail poisoned themselves at the foot of their Satanic alter, they left a scroll, signed in blood, which promised that they would come back as reincarnated beings to take revenge on their ‘Christian Persecutors’, especially Reverend John Sutherland. The reverend had scoffed at this threat, and had asked God to forgive him for being secretly glad that the Rocails were dead. He did not believe in their pathetic spells and curses or witchcraft. He was convinced that the Inquisition was a blight upon the Church, a horrible dogmatic mistake that sent thousands of innocents to agonizing torture and flaming death at the stake.
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