by Thom Erb
“Uh, the, um—”
“Spit it out now!” the High Priest’s ice-blue gaze bore into Haydn’s very soul.
“The Mortem Eques you have requested are outside in the courtyard, awaiting your orders, m’lord.” Hayden sank deep into a bow, avoiding his lord’s steely glare.
“Very well, I shall meet them shortly. Do you have the cells ready for the bastards of Light?” The large man paused, turning his head to look at Hayden; revealing a large Roman Cross standing beyond him. Upon it was a writhing female, a nun, once a resident of the church. She was alive, for at least another few anguish-filled moments. She had layers of her skin, muscle, and fat removed. Her white ribs glistened in the light of the braziers, but her moans of agony couldn’t be heard. A magic spell kept her silent, only adding to the torture and brutality of the High Priest's sacrifice to his Master. He smiled and stood up swiftly.
“They will be complete within the day, M’lord.” Hayden answered. Gustav savored in the fear in his subordinate’s fragile voice.
“Good.” Gustav turned his attention back to the pleading nun. “That is all.”
“Is there anything else you may nee—”
“I said, that is all,” he snapped.
Hayden stepped out of the dark room and peered through the slit in the door. His master disrobed and stood naked before the semiconscious nun. He then unsheathed a long, curved dagger, and in one fell-swoop, slit the young girl’s throat. Blood flowed forth, covering his master in the life fluid. No scream came, just a low rumble of laughter and words of offering to the Master of the dead.
In the courtyard stood twelve figures, all dressed in black combat fatigues. Their heads were covered with hoods and two black ornate swords lay crisscrossed on their backs. Other various weapons hung in webbed harnesses about their lithe frames. No one spoke. No sounds were uttered as their master entered the rain-filled courtyard. Dead flowers filled the once beautiful Catholic castle. This holy place was cleared of all physical and spiritual clutter. The bodies of the dead monks now mingled with the army of undead wandering listlessly in the deep valley below.
Gustav Moltke stepped forward and reviewed his undead troops. Each one stood silent and still. Their eyes glowed with red light as they stared at their master.
“Listen to me, servants of the Lord of Death. Your faithful service I do call upon once again. Our Master’s time is coming, and you all must see to it that nothing impedes his revenge. It is written in the sacred text that only a human child, the Child of Light, to be exact, can stop the Lord Orcus’s grand plan. You all must not let that happen. You will leave here and find this blasphemous creature and bring it to me...unharmed.” He flicked his cloak behind him as he turned, not looking back.
“Oh, but please feel free to slaughter any other living thing that gets in your way.” The High Priest finished with a smile and he left the drenched courtyard.
The largest of the six stepped out in front of the group. He nodded at them and chanted. They joined him in unison and they made a matching gesture with their hands. One massive flash of light filled the stone courtyard, and then the black Knights were gone.
42.
Walkin' the Dog
Arcadia Falls Elementary School
Parking lot
Arcadia Falls, New York.
Warren carried the stranger, who called himself Elton, out through the foyer of the school and into the crowded parking lot and came to stand behind Dex.
“Holy Moses,” Dex said, looking at the dozens of undead citizens of Arcadia Falls that littered the lot. None of them moved. The fine, swirling white mist engulfed them. Only the pale glow of their eyes permeated the thin veil.
“That strange fog is out here, too. What gives?” Warren said, hefting the small man over his shoulder with an ease that surprised him.
“Weird shit, dude,” Arnie said, having caught up with them.
“Man, there isn't anything normal about any of this crud,” Dex said and looked at Warren, holding onto the stranger.
“How the hell can we believe anything this guy says? I mean he was spouting some crazy shit,” Dex said.
Warren turned to Dex. “Man, I know we don't know this dude from Adam, but we can figure it all out somewhere that isn't here.”
Dex nodded, lowered his head and said, “Yeah, you’re right. Let's get the hell out of here. The Blitz is over here.” Dex pointed to a dark alcove where the car sat under a black car cover, barely visible even after Dex made him aware of its presence.
The heavy rain whipped through the c-shaped lot, and lighting illuminated the grotesque scene that Warren only saw in a Romero movie.
They cautiously stepped out into the school’s rain swept parking lot that was filled with the frozen undead citizens of Arcadia Falls. Intermingled with the static corpses was a half a dozen, half eaten, wailing, group of DeRueter’s men. Many cried for help while others had already begun to change. They were twitching and some of their eyes began to glow red.
Warren tried to ignore the nightmare before them and carried Elton to his dad's truck, and opening the passenger door. He set the man inside on the seat, noting the stranger felt like a feather. He took off the man's heavy satchels and placed them under his frizzy head. “It's the best I can do, Gandalf,” Warren said, and then looked over at the shadow-filled corner of the school where Dex unlocked the doors to his `69 Camaro. Arnie scrambled to the passenger side
“The Blitz, huh?” Warren asked, almost afraid to speak to Dex. He hoped to grab onto any form of normalcy. His shaking hands came up empty. The dead still stood in their unmoving stasis, but Warren knew they were taking too long to get out.
“Yeah, how the hell else did you expect us to get away from those things?” Dex admitted. “This town doesn’t have a damn bus, ya know!” Dex said, helping Arnie into the passenger seat.
Warren didn't know what to say. What could he say? He heard the question come of his mouth, but wasn't fully aware. “Where to?”
“Find some food, I guess. The only place I can think of is the Wegman's in Penfield.” Dex ran around to the driver's side, opened the door, and gave Warren a quick look. “What you think?” Wegman's was the local supermarket chain and always had a huge supply of foodstuffs. The only problem was that Penfield was a suburb of the nearest city, Rochester. He knew cities meant more people, more undead. Warren watched his best friend talking with Arnie, and he felt heavy. Not his normal fat-kid, heavy, a deeper emotion that had nothing to do with physical weight. Making decisions was never his strongest attribute, and given the hell that he'd been through, the next step seemed like the best one.
Warren opened the driver's side door of the truck. “Sounds good to me. I could use a damn soda, that's for sure”.
“Or a beer,” Arnie shouted through the open window of The Blitz. Warren laughed. The Camaro roar to life and, for just a split, fleeting second, good memories flashed, and then a loud bark broke through the cold air, making Warren jump. Maico came running full tilt from inside the school.
“Maico?” Warren fell to his knees. He'd forgotten all about his old, trusted four-legged friend. An ocean of guilt washed over him as the burly lab lunged at him, his girth knocking Warren sprawling backward onto the rain soaked blacktop. If dogs could speak, Warren was certain the pooch was calling him dumb ass in at least seven different languages.
“Oh, man. I'm so, so, sorry, buddy. I—” Warren's apologizes were lost in a flurry of tongue lashes and sloppy, wet nose-admonishments. Maico's tail wagged and swirled more furiously than the storm around them. They wrestled until Maico was bored and jumped down off his thoroughly soaked master.
“Thanks, pal,” said Warren, climbing to his feet.
Dex drove around next to the truck and his thin, stoic face broke into a hesitant smile.
“Damn, he's still kicking?” Dex asked.
“Hell, yes. This little bastard will outlive all of us.” Warren ruffled Maico's fur, and Maico barked in agreement.
Th
ey all laughed.
All humor was lost when the white mist drifted away, and the dead began to move. Their moans filled the parking lot.
“Shit!” Warren and Dex said.
“Follow me.” Dex trounced down on the gas pedal, and the large Kelly 50” tires spun, creating their own white smoke. The tires took hold, and the Camaro sped off toward the sharp turn that led out onto Main Street.
Warren helped Maico into the truck, then got inside. The engine was already running, so he dropped the transmission into drive, punched the gas and followed Dex.
The freshly undeads’ red eyes slowly turned and watched them leave.
Warren's spine shuddered with a shock-wave of chills as he witnessed the crowd of undead watch them leave in his rearview mirror.
* * *
Elton could no longer fight off the suffocating weight of exhaustion, both physical and magical. He’d kept the beast of burden at bay the best he could and now he needed to rest. But, the Keeper would sleep easier knowing he’d placed the Coin of Displacement safely inside Warren’s jacket pocket. The ancient artifact would keep the Child of Light undetectable for at least twenty-four hours. With that secure thought, the clawing darkness pulled Elton down.
43.
And It Stoned Me
The WSMF Radio Studio-
Rochester, New York.
“Well, it's about 8:30 on the schnozzola, and you're listening to Capt. Al's Drop Zone, here on Ninety-Five, point Five. WSMF. Hell, I don’t even know why I’m still shilling for the Man. Is anybody even out there?
Capt. Al took a sip of cold coffee and took in a long breath and spoke again. “I hope y'all are keeping' safe out there, brothers and sisters. I don't even know if anybody's even listening to my old tuchus. But hey, I'm stuck here so I might as well keep on rapping' at ya.” Capt. Al shifted in his wheelchair. It was decorated with P.O.W. and “You won’t be forgotten” and American flag stickers. His blue jean clad legs rested on the well-worn foot boards covered in red shag carpeting. The middle-aged Vietnam vet's faded green BDU shirt fit a little snug, but it still displayed the blue and red double AA insignia of the 82nd Airborne proudly on his shoulder. His face was carved like a road map displaying a good life, well lived, mixed with Hell on Earth. The man's gentle brown eyes belied his harsh features, however. They revealed his soft and caring nature. Although the war had left him unfeeling from the waist down, his heart was as big as any Huey helicopter he rode on, and his love of life and music couldn’t be squelched. Not even by the walking dead. He knew the city of Rochester like the back of his hand, and he was fully aware the majority of its population now wandered the streets searching for flesh.
His heart broke at the very thought, but he would suck it up and drive on, regardless of the odds. The D.I.’s at Dix drilled that into his thick head. You never give up, you never surrender. The credo never left him, no matter how far he got from the Jersey base.
The small studio was lit by a multitude of different color candles, and incense filled the air. He pushed the microphone forward and let out a sigh of exhaustion. Capt. Al had been on the air since the crap hit the fan. He adjusted his red bandanna. A long brown ponytail hung down his back, tied with several rubber bands. After scratching his graying beard, he set about rolling a joint. His last joint.
“Ah, man, looks like the good times are comin' to an end for this sorry ass trooper.” He moaned and emptied the last of his herbal medicine onto the control desk. He tucked the joint into his awaiting lips. A second later, a small red cherry adorned the end of his last escape from this hell. He inhaled deeply, let out a smile, and watched the soft white tendrils float into the air and mix with the incense smoke.
“If ya wanna give me a call if the lines are still up, the magic number here at WSMF is 716- 667- 2000. I’m here. It looks like I ain’t goin’ nowhere. So, give me a ring, would ya?” He turned the volume up on the control board and sat back as the soothing sound of an acoustic guitar and lilting vocals of Van Morrison filled the room.
The opening guitar riff of Van Morrison’s, “And it stoned me...” filtered through the studio and aided Capt. Al imagine a better time, a far better place.
Capt. Al, or Alvin Weizmann as his parents so cruelly named him, sang along with Van Morrison as he took another toke. He had seen a lot in his life. Three tours in Vietnam where his last jump was into a hot LZ. One V.C. bullet severed his spine, sentencing him to a life in the chair. He had watched the assassinations of a president and his brother. He witnessed one of the greatest leaders of the civil rights movement gunned down. He spent his fair share of time in the Bad-Trip Tee-pee at Woodstock. But this apocalypse drained him of all the hippie mojo he had left.
The final notes of the Irish troubadour’s song played out, and Al released his captive vapors, then pulled the boom microphone close to his lips. “Hey, all my family out there.” A spasm of coughing hit him, and he took a second to regain himself. “Ah, it’s alright, bros and sisters. I hope you dug that groovy Van the Man tune coming out to ya.” His smile faded as he realized there may not be anyone on the other end of the radio waves, and the thought kicked him in the gut. But he knew he had no choice but to continue on.
“Who knows what the Big Man upstairs has planned, kids. All I know is that I'll keep playing tunes and keep ya company until the Army comes riding in to save the day or the gas in the generators run dry or those dumb-asses in Washington decide to turn our country into one big mushroom cloud. But, nah, have no worries, brothers and sisters. Capt. Al is on your six. Rest easy m—” The rest was a rambling cough-filled rasp.
The opening refrain of the Allman Brother's “Blue Sky” filled the wispy smoke engulfed studio.
“As I said earlier, my sweet family, the word has come to me from a fellow grunt, Corporal Benny Moreno over at the Armory on Main Street. Said it's all clear of dead motherhuckers and full of supplies. So, that means get your raggedy-muffin tuchus down there.” He finished when another harsh cough hit him. He took a puff from his magic spliff and held onto the nectar-like vapor as long as his thirty-five year tired lungs could manage. Then his smile came back. He turned his chair toward the large wall of records, took a deep breath, rubbed his hairy chin, and grabbed the next musical selection.
44.
Woke Up With Wood
Arcadia Falls Elementary School-
Arcadia Falls, New York.
Absolute darkness erupted into a raging cold fire. Barry Lee's body quickly turned to a spreading wildfire that engulfed his entire body.
Barry jolted upright, and he felt as though he were dreaming and then harshly thrust into a bright room. All sense of understanding was a jumbled mess of memories and voices.
He tried to take a breath but discovered it was an unnecessary action. Chuckling at that, Barry stood on steady legs. A chill, yet burning energy flowed through him, and the memory of the promissory note conversation back in the art room all rushed back to him in a defining moment of clarity.
“Now, ain't this some shit, right here?” Barry laughed. It echoed off the cold walls, and he waved his thin arms to bring back the sound. If there was one thing on this shit-hole of a globe Bartholomew P. Lee loved, was a whole lot of himself. He soulfully embraced the grisly scene before him.
Several bodies lay at his feet. Two of them were DeRueters. You didn't grow up in Arcadia Falls or Wayne County without knowing about that family. Barry spat a bloody wad onto both of their chests and cackled when he set eyes on the tough kid, Frank.
“Well, fucking well. How you feelin', Stevie-boy? Eccchhh, that don't look too good, kid. You might want to have someone have a look at that. It might be infected.” Barry snatched up the dead kid by the hair and sat down on his lap.
“What's that?” He held his ear to the dead teen's mouth. “Oh...oh...I can't quite hear ya, Oh...sorry don't feed the bulldog, son.” Barry laughed and began to stand when a loud voice shook the hallway.
“Servant of the Dark One.”
Barry looked around the hallway for the source of the voice.
Nothing.
“Down here, flesh-dog.” The voice came again.
Barry turned to the source and jumped back as the gouged-out eyes of Frank lit up with a bright red glow that pulsed like a heartbeat.
“Uh, I'm here.” Barry leaned in.
“There is no time, servant of Orcus. You have sworn the blood oath, and now you must lead the army of Orcus to find the Children of Light. Gather your strength for you must leave now.” Frank’s undead slack mouth spoke, causing Barry to giggle.
“Oh, I've not forgotten. I just thought it was a bunch of hocus-pocus bullshit. But hell, if it's the real deal, I'm all in. My motherfucking pleasure.” Barry stood, and stomped his booted heel into Frank's forehead, reducing it to a gory mush of blood, flesh, and brain matter.
Barry staggered out into the beating rain and walked among the rows of waiting undead and laughed.
“Come on, bitches, follow me.” He held his bare arms out wide. “Time to make this world fucking burn.” He turned and walked toward Main Street.
The moaning undead followed their new messiah as he headed toward Rochester.
45.
Radio, Radio
Main and Buffalo Streets,
Arcadia Falls, New York.
The wipers barely kept the torrential rain off the windshield, and Warren had to squint to see the red taillights of Dex's Camaro in front of him. The lone stoplight in the small town swung with the force of the lake winds. Warren lost himself in the rhythmic motion for a second. Maico lay on his thigh, and the stranger leaned against the window, his low snoring fogging up the glass.
The truck's speakers crackled to life and a familiar raspy voice broke through the static. Capt. Al seemed like a lighthouse beacon leading them to safe harbor.
Warren reached over and turned up the volume on the radio.
Elton, the stranger, sat up, rubbing his eyes, and felt around his jacket for something.