Metahumans vs the Undead: A Superhero vs Zombie Anthology

by Eric S. Brown

  “There were—are—still many people out there. I feel so helpless. We should be out there helping them.”

  “I know how you feel, Bob. Really, I do. But we have our orders and that’s that. C’mon, the gunners have the line here under control. I’ll get you a drink inside.”

  Sloan looked at her intently, but said nothing, eventually following her inside the police complex. However, he wasn’t going to leave it there. Not a chance.

  “They’re definitely vultures.” Paul lowered his powerful binoculars and turned to face Leena and Max, the three of them now standing on the expansive front lawn of the house. “Trigonoceps occipitalis to be exact.”

  “The White-headed Vulture?” Max asked with some confusion. “But they’re endemic to Africa, completely unknown outside that continent.”

  “Curiouser than that, they’re at least three times the size of any such vulture I’ve ever seen,” Paul said, looking through his binoculars once again.

  The birds were much more visible since three powerful spotlights, shining up from somewhere in the city, had been trained in their direction. They continued their silent path circling the city. Paul estimated there was at least a dozen in the air, but there could well have been more out of sight as well.

  “We can discount the zoo escapee theory,” he said. “This amount of escaped birds is plainly impossible. And their size is an issue, too. They’re unnatural somehow. Monstrous.”

  “Then you think they could be responsible for the zombies?” Leena said. “Not Orcus?”

  “Yes, I think so, though I don’t see how. Both appearing at the same time, however, is beyond coincidence. We’re dealing with something truly horrendous here, an evil beyond description.”

  After some moments, it was Max who broke the silence. “What now, Chief?”

  “We get dressed and do whatever we can to stop these two new threats. Come. We’ve tarried long enough.” He turned on his heel and marched back toward the house.

  At the front door, as Leena and Max passed him into the house, Paul turned and stared out toward the soaring birds.

  What devilry does Metro face now? he thought. And how do we combat these two deadly enemies?

  No answers were immediately forthcoming, but the time for contemplation was, for the moment, at an end. Now was the time for action, whatever was required.

  One last look to the sky, and he followed the others into the house toward his destiny.

  “Bob, you can’t do this!”

  Sloan completely ignored Perez and continued arming himself from the weapon stores in the police headquarters basement. He already had a powerful shotgun slung over his right shoulder, reams of bullets stuffed in every pocket of his gun vest, and was now reaching for a rifle to complete his ensemble.

  “Harrison will have our heads if he finds out,” she said.

  “You can stay here if you want,” he said, “but I’m not standing by while those monsters slaughter this city’s people while I do nothing to help them.”

  Perez ummed and ahed in her mind. Then, she made the only possible choice. She moved over to the weapons shelves and began arming herself as well. Nothing she would say or do would stop Sloan when he was in this sort of mood, and she wasn’t about to let her partner enter such a dangerous situation on his own.

  “Good to have you with me, Perez,” he said, a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye.

  “Yeah, well,” she said, “I can’t leave you on your own out there. Goodness knows you can’t take care of yourself.”

  She sounded like the man’s wife, she thought. What Jane must go through, being married to a man like him.

  “Hurry it along,” Sloan said. “I don’t want to wait any longer than I have to, if we can at least get some people back here to safety.”

  “I just hope we have enough bullets,” Perez said, somewhat annoyed at being hurried. “We’ve seen what those things are capable of.”

  She was now outfitted in a similar vest, crammed with bullets and brandishing a shotgun of her own. Between the two of them, they could hold back an army . . . for a short time.

  She followed as Sloan marched from the building, down the front steps and out toward the established perimeter. “I’m just glad Harrison isn’t here to see us.”

  “Cheer up,” Sloan said. “We’ll be heroes when we return with survivors.” He winked.

  She arched an eyebrow at that, but said nothing in reply as they passed their armed colleagues and moved, at their protest, out into the empty streets, ready for any threat they might meet.

  Ready to meet their destiny.

  I hope you’re out there, Michael . . . Wraith, Sloan thought, brandishing his weapon. I hope you’re out there.

  5

  “They’re just overhead.” Max pointed skyward as he gunned the classic Daimler through the streets of Metro City.

  “I see them, though they’re not directly overhead,” The Wraith replied. “They’re continuing their circular patrol of part of the city.”

  “And you still think they’re responsible for raising the dead?” Max asked.

  “Until we come across a better explanation, let’s keep that at the forefront of our minds.”

  Zombies of all sizes and shapes and in various states of decay—and condition—shambled through the streets, causing carnage wherever they went. They appeared to have only one purpose: to kill. Wherever possible, The Wraith indicated to Max to take the creatures down with the car. Its newly-installed armor-plating could withstand almost anything thrown at it.

  “They’re everywhere!” Max yelled above the cacophony of screeching tires and bone crunching on metal.

  “All these people,” Leena cried with sympathy.

  “We can’t help them right now,” The Wraith barked. “We must see if we can ascertain the exact point in the city the bids are circling above. Perhaps we’ll find some answers there.”

  “Right,” Max said, and piloted the car around and through the building zombie traffic, while The Wraith and Leena kept watch out the windows.

  “Head for Gladstone,” The Wraith ordered after some minutes. “I’m sure that’s their focal point.”

  “Gladstone?” the burly Irishman said before checking himself. “Rookwood Cemetary, of course!” Max did as he was told and pointed them in the direction of the city suburb.

  As they travelled at speed through the myriad city streets, the story was the same. Zombies everywhere, causing carnage and mayhem at every turn. Again, The Wraith directed Max to take as many out as possible, but time was also of the essence, and they continued thus as quickly as they could.

  Nearing their destination, traffic lightened, but zombies were still marching through the streets as far as the eye could see.

  Several more frantic minutes passed before they finally reached the cemetary. All exited the car immediately, The Wraith peering up into the sky. The eerie sight of several oversized vultures circling above was only overshadowed by the horrific vision that lay before them. Vultures, dozens of them, were visible throughout the graveyard, scratching, pecking and clawing at the ground, unearthing bodies of various size, shape and condition. Hands then arms would appear, often punching through the soil, sometimes dragging themselves up, other times helped up by the massive feathered monsters. It was a truly spine-tingling vision of absolute horror that confronted them, and The Wraith knew his comrades would feel as sickened by it as he was.

  “Goodness,” was all Max could utter. Everyone else remained momentarily speechless.

  “What do we—” Leena started.

  Before she could finish her sentence, a covey of birds looked up in unison, stared directly at them. The Wraith swore an expression of intense anger was writ on the faces of the creatures. Anger and hatred. A sharp chill went up and down his spine.

  “This doesn’t look good,” Max said, trying to steady his nerves.

  One bird, the largest and nearest to them, raised its head, its leathery skin coated thi
ck with offal, and let out a guttural squawk the likes The Wraith had never heard before. Max and Leena, their heads not covered with the protection of The Wraith’s cowl, reached up to shield their ears. The zombies, those just fully unearthed, froze in their tracks. They stood there, facing the three heroes, their lifeless frames absolutely still. A true army of the undead.

  The largest vulture—their leader, The Wraith surmised—released another ear-shattering cry, and the army marched forth, directly for the three.

  “We can’t take them all on,” Max cried.

  “We make a stand here,” The Wraith said firmly. “Stand ready.”

  The others did as they were told and readied themselves for battle.

  The Wraith didn’t wait long, leaping up into the air and letting loose with a barrage of flash pellets. Several of the nearest undead were completely consumed within the fiery bursts of white-hot flame, yet another invention of Max’s.

  Leena and Max, similarly equipped, quickly followed suit, launching as many pellets as they initially could into the approaching zombie masses. They made no sound as they were once again consigned to eternal sleep, The Wraith hoping for all time.

  “There’s too many of them,” Max shouted. “We don’t have enough flash pellets.”

  The Wraith battled on, letting fly with flaming death left and right. Max was right, though, and The Wraith knew it. Then, an idea struck him. “The birds. Go for the birds.”

  He looked down at his hands. There were still a small handful of pellets left, but they were all he had, and he knew he had to make them count. Perhaps by removing the birds from the equation, the zombies would fall. It was a crazy idea, but it was the only one he had right then.

  The largest bird had retreated some way back. Three zombies charged at The Wraith, who took care of them with one spinning scissor kick. Three large vultures remained close, and The Wraith aimed some of his remaining flash pellets at all three of them. In an instant, the birds were engulfed in a fiery inferno. For some seconds, no sight of them was seen, and The Wraith and his team continued their hand-to-hand battle with the zombies, dispatching them with relative ease.

  “Chief!” Max suddenly cried while delivering a powerful right hook to an attacking zombie, sending its jaw flying. “Look!”

  The Dread Avenger whirled . . . and was stunned by what he saw: the three birds he had attacked with pellets still stood there, completely unharmed, their feathers not even singed. They gurgled in apparent belligerence, coming together with the other four remaining birds, which then milled at the rear of the still-advancing zombies.

  “This is not possible,” The Wraith said under his breath. Either these birds are not birds at all or they’ve been enchanted or mutated somehow.

  Regardless, there appeared no way of stopping them. Flash pellets, up until then thought to be able to consume anything, had proven useless.

  There was no more time for further thought, for there were still a handful of zombies advancing upon them. Max and Leena continued their assault with vigor, punching and kicking with everything they had. Thankfully, Max had been wrong. The last of the undead was dispatched with Leena’s last remaining batch of pellets. The three of them stood there, catching their breath, waiting, watching.

  The vultures flapped their wings in defiance. They squawked and gurgled. The largest moved to the fore of its brethren and eyed the three intensely. Then, after some moments of tense silence, the leader raised its hideous head once again, loudly cried out and took to the air, the others following instantly thereafter. The Wraith craned his vision skyward. The birds they had seen in the air were still there, circling ominously, and were now joined by the seven they had just battled with. The newcomers joined the others in their eerie watch over the city.

  “That was intense,” Max said after some minutes. “I’ve never seen anything like that. My flash pellets should have . . . was supposed to . . .” His voice trailed into introspection.

  “Darling,” Leena said, sweat beading her brow, “those things appear unstoppable. What can we do?”

  “They’ve retreated for now, and we’ve stopped the flow of zombies from this location. To ensure the vultures cannot return, I’m going to level this area.”

  The Wraith pulled from his belt all the C4 he had on him and directed Max and Leena to do likewise. They rushed amongst the crumbling and aged headstones, laying their deadly cargo at regular intervals.

  A few minutes later, they congregated at the entryway to the cemetary, their car just behind them.

  “All right,” The Wraith declared, “with this we’ll decimate much of this city’s dead. If there are no bodies left, then the birds will have nothing to re-animate. I’ll contact Harrison. The National Guard need to get here and level whatever’s left.”

  Max and Leena nodded in agreement. The Wraith and his crew took cover behind the armoured protection offered by their Daimler. He reached for his detonator and pressed the small button. Instantly, the cemetary erupted in a cacophony of flame and billowing soil and smoke.

  “Darling, look,” Leena said, breathless after the carnage the C4’d wrought had subsided.

  They all followed the direction of her pointing hand. The vultures in the sky had gone.

  The Wraith looked to Leena, then to Max. Questions flooded his mind. Had they won? Had the monsters in the sky been vanquished? Surely not, for there were many other cemeteries within the city limits. Or had they just retreated to fight another day?

  The Dread Avenger knew that none of them had any of the answers he needed. Taking heart, though, he knew that this battle had been won. And, if there were to be any more, he knew they would be ready . . . and waiting.

  “Come on,” he said to the others. “Let’s head home, re-stock our supplies and help clean up this city’s zombie trash.”

  Black and White

  by

  Keith Gouveia

  If this doesn’t work . . . what a waste, Scott Holman thought as he dumped a bottle of rum at the base of the largest elm tree in Greenwood Cemetary. “I call upon the lord of the dead. Baron Samedi, appear before me.” He aimed the barrel of his gun at the ground and fired.

  The black chicken he had tied to the elm tree squawked and flapped its wings at the sound of the gun. Beside the fowl, Scott had placed a plate with an ear of corn upon it and a bottle of whiskey, an imported bottle of Kola, three cigars beside it.

  “C’mon,” he mumbled as he tapped his foot. Something should have happened. Impatient, Scott looked at his watch. Should have known better than to believe what I read on the Internet. Idiot.

  “Sa ou vlè?” A tall, dark-skinned man dressed in black stepped out of the shadows. He had cotton balls stuffed in his nostrils, his face painted white in the image of a skull, and a top hat adorned his head. The smell of cheap alcohol and tobacco hung on the air around him.

  The man’s sudden appearance unnerved him. Who wore face paint, anyway? Scott looked around, searching for any other surprises while he rubbed the back of his neck nervously with his right hand. Puzzled by the stranger’s foreign words, he asked, “What?”

  The man folded his hands over the top of his cane and slammed its silver tip into the ground. “What do you want?” His voice was cold and thunderous.

  “My girlfriend . . . she was buried here today.”

  “You want me to bring her back for you?”

  “Then you’re him? Um, him him?”

  The man bent over and snatched the bottle of Kola off the ground.

  “That was very hard to come by,” Scott said. “And if you’re not Baron Samedi—”

  The man narrowed his eyes at him. “Did you know the Kola nut is chewed in most West African cultures?” The man plunged a long, sharp fingernail into the cork and pulled it out with ease.

  “Look here—”

  “Silence!”

  The rush of wind exhaled from the stranger was powerful enough to knock him off his feet; Scott fell to his backside, the gun firing an
other round in his clumsiness.

  “The offering must be approved.”

  Scott remained in the sitting position and watched quietly as the man took a swig from the bottle. His cheeks puffed as he swished the bitter nectar. With the nod of his head, the man smiled. “Take me to her gravesite.”

  Scott nodded as he stood, afraid of saying anything else and upsetting the loa any further. He needed this to work, to keep his cool in front of this supernatural being until he had that which he desired. As he walked toward the large, marble grave marker, his thoughts lingered on Julia and that horrific night when she was taken from him, and how he was left feeling utterly powerless.

  They had been at a friend’s house for an engagement party where Sarah Mitchell had decided to pawn off store-bought cookies as homemade. When Scott had asked Sarah if there were peanuts in the cookies she looked at him with a sideways glance, lips pursed and brow furrowed. Julia had slapped him in the arm for being overprotective, but he had failed her. Sarah had failed her, too, by not reading the warning label on the plastic container of chocolate chip cookies.

  He had watched, helplessly, as Julia went into anaphylactic shock just mere minutes after consuming the cookie in one bite. He caught her as her body fell backward and had shouted for someone—anyone—to call 9-1-1. Without proper medical training or suitable drugs, all he could do was hold her trembling hand and stare into her wide, fear-filled eyes. His tears rolled down his cheeks and splashed onto Julia’s face, mixing with her own. He had told her to hold on. To stay with him. That he loved and needed her. That he wanted to ask her to marry him and even showed her the ring he had tucked into his pocket . . . but it wasn’t enough. Love wasn’t enough.

  Stupid little . . . how could she not realize bakeries use the same machines to mix all their flours? She might as well have put a loaded gun to Julia’s head.

  “Ridiculous, isn’t it?” the baron said, snapping Scott back to the moment.

  “What?”