Best New Zombie Tales, Vol. 3

by Anthology

  Razor crawls toward the syringe, oblivious to everything but the hypnotic lure of the needle. A needle that serenades him with promises of escape, of attaining the state of sweet nothingness he so covets. As his fingers pluck the syringe from its solemn resting place in the middle of the room, his wrist is roughly accosted by one of the dead. Illusory TV screens melt into pools of stark reality. A gasp squeaks from his larynx, a gasp of shock and futility. Worse than the cold, bony grip on his wrist, though, is the revelation within the syringe: it was empty. The promises it tendered, all counterfeit.

  So why was it still singing?

  Razor breaks free from the skeletal grip, breaking a couple of bony fingers in the process, scampering rat-like to his corner. But it is too late. His scent is the only enticement they need as they crawl and stumble toward him. Intoxicated: caught in the forever feeding frenzy.

  He jabs the needle into his arm. Something sharp to set him free––that is all he ever wanted anyway––but nothing. Again he jabs, repeatedly puncturing himself, ripping many holes like tiny, lipless mouths, lipless and laughing (HAHAha)… They all laugh (HAHA), drowning out the spiking pain. (Drowning…) Blood trickles like crimson streamers, decorating his arm with the appropriate attire indicative of the sullen celebration. Disillusionment blossoms on his face; a serrated slash devoid of verbal release blooms from his mouth. He continues to assail his arm with the needle; many more tiny, lipless (mocking) mouths join in the chorus of laughter (HAHAhaHA-HAHAhaha) that fills his head. The dead paws him, and swiftly indulge. Razor is impervious to everything but the morbid quest at hand, desperately jamming the needle with vicious intensity into his now mutilated arm, knowing full well that death is near––its imminence assails his nostrils, dulls his brain, his motivation quickly disintegrates into listless, automated repetition––and not wanting to face it. Not realizing that in death he will finally be set free.

  (HAHAhahaHAHAHAha…)

  ~

  “…as another day comes to a close, my friends, another day like all the rest, accumulating as scratch marks on the wall. I can only hope your day was as uneventful as mine. A tepid plea, I know, my friends. After all, misery loves company, but suffering is integrated into our very souls, woven into the very fabric of each of our lives. A neck within a noose––waiting…”

  Memory Bones

  MICHAEL STONE

  The sickly butcher’s shop smell got stronger as he ascended the stairs. The carpet stuck to his feet.

  “It be the bedroom on the left, Doctor.”

  Messinger turned to acknowledge the speaker but he had already ducked from view. He muttered his thanks and continued up the stairs, his Gladstone bag bumping against his leg. A dust-dimmed window let in just enough light for him to make out two doors, one on each side of the tiny landing. He pushed open the door to the left.

  The room stank of open wounds and wet bandages. Wrinkling his nose, Messinger peered myopically into the darkness, trying to discern edges and corners in the flat grayness.

  “You must be the doctor.”

  Messinger faced the voice and a bed coalesced in the gloom. “Ahh. Mr. Lode, I presume.” The attempt at humor didn’t bring any response. He asked politely if he could draw back the curtains. “I need to see you if I’m to examine you.”

  “Aye.” The speaker sounded hoarse. “If you must. It’s just that my eyes are very sensitive at present.”

  “I shall take a look at them in a moment, Mr. Lode.” He parted the heavy drapes to let in a chink of light.

  “That’s enough! No more than that.”

  There was just enough sunlight for Messinger to see a man propped by pillows, his body hidden by a high-collared, ankle-length nightshirt. The doctor smiled wanly. The nightshirt looked to be the source of the bad smell that pervaded the room. The patient’s age was difficult to determine––his hair was as thin and colorless as melting snow, but his long face was unlined, the skin around his jaw smooth and tight. Lode’s pupils were pinpricks in pools of baby blue.

  Messinger sidled to the bed and eased himself down, placing his Gladstone bag between his feet where it clanked on a bedpan. It was then he noticed the scratches in the wall behind the bed: reminiscent of a prison cell, hundreds of short vertical strokes with a diagonal slash denoting groups of five covered an area of wall larger than the bed’s headboard.

  “So what seems to be the problem, Mr. Lode?”

  “It’s not me you’ve come to see, Doctor.”

  “Oh! I do apologize. I was told the patient was in this room. By your brother, would it be?”

  Lode nodded. “Aye, he weren’t having you on.” Lode reached out and gripped Messinger’s wrist. “You’ve taken over old Dr. Dimmock’s practice, yes?”

  Messinger nodded.

  “Did he mention me?”

  “No, but I didn’t actually have the pleasure of meeting Dr. Dimmock. I was appointed by a selection committee after he retired.”

  “Pity. He was a good man, Dimmock. Open-minded. Are you a broad-minded sort of lad?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose I am.” Messinger tried to smile.

  “Good, because I want you to listen to me. Right?”

  Messinger nodded, although he felt things were far from right: Lode’s grip was surprisingly strong.

  The grip lessened and Lode settled back on the pillow, his blue eyes never leaving Messinger’s. “How old do you think I am, lad? You won’t find the answer in your notes so don’t bother looking.”

  Messinger straightened up. “And why won’t I find any mention of it in my notes?”

  “Because your predecessor made up a name and date of birth for me, that’s why. Like I said, he was a good doctor; I’m hoping you’ll be the same. Now answer the question: how old do you think I am?”

  Messinger considered arguing that Dimmock wouldn’t have falsified Lode’s details because of the minefield of National Insurance, NHS records, vaccination programs and the like, but decided to humor the man. Maybe that was what Dimmock had done; humored him. It was a fact that consultations went smoother once one had gained the patient’s confidence.

  Messinger’s eyes were becoming adjusted to the dim and dusty light now, giving him a better opportunity to observe the patient’s features: the unlined face and clear blue eyes that contrasted sharply with the thin hair and liver-spotted hands. “If I had to guess at your age, I’d venture that you’re somewhere in your early fifties, perhaps.”

  Lode laughed. “Way off, lad, way off. Actually, I’m 149!” He laughed again, throwing his head back. Messinger noticed that his teeth were unusually small, very white and even. Lode’s laughter snapped off suddenly as he looked squarely at the doctor. “You think I’m mad?”

  Messinger gave a non-committal smile. “That’s not within my remit,” he said smoothly. “However, I’m a busy man with a lot of patients to see this morning, so can we stop playing around?”

  “You ought to show some respect for your elders!” barked Lode.

  The bed squeaked as Messinger pushed himself to his feet. He heard a corresponding creak on the landing.

  Lode shouted. “It’s all right, Eustace; the young man is not going anywhere!”

  Messinger heard footsteps retreating down the stairs. Disquieted, he sat down.

  “I am one 149 years old. When I was born, Victoria was on the throne and Britain was at war with Russia. Just accept that. I could verify it by telling you loads of historical details but you would dismiss them as mere fancies learned from books. My bones are as full of memories as yours are of marrow jelly, lad.

  “When I was in my mid-forties––I forget exactly how old I was––something strange happened. I fell under a carriage. It ran straight over my arm here,” Lode indicated a point below his left elbow, “severing it completely. I picked it up and ran home to my wife. Screamed my bloody head off, I did!” Lode chuckled at something he’d said before fixing Messinger with a searching stare. He shook his head. “Regular little doubting
Thomas, aren’t we, lad?” He rolled the left sleeve of his nightshirt up to reveal a thick, ropey scar that circumscribed his forearm.

  Messinger peered closer. “There’s no way they could have stitched your arm back on in the 1890s,” he said. “They didn’t have the know-how.”

  “Nobody stitched it on. It grew back!”

  “Of course,” Messinger sighed. “Silly me. It grew back.”

  “Don’t get sarcastic, lad, I’m warning you.”

  “And what became of the arm? Did that grow into a pet?”

  “I buried it in the compost heap.”

  “Pity, you could have hand-reared it.”

  Lode’s lips tightened.

  Messinger sighed. “You were saying, Mr. Lode.”

  By way of answer, Lode leaned forward and raised the hem of his nightshirt to reveal his knees.

  Messinger recoiled. “Jesus Harry… who did that?”

  “Eustace.”

  “The bastard must have used a lump hammer!”

  “A sledgehammer, actually. Every other Thursday. He seems to think I might run away.” Lode sucked on his teeth. “There are times when he might have been right.”

  Messinger jumped to his feet, unclipping a cell phone from his belt. He saw again the scratches on the wall behind the bed, and again he thought of a prisoner counting the interminable days of incarceration. The fives were arranged in columns of ten, and there were fourteen completed columns… making over 700. But 700 what? Days, weeks? Surely not months?

  “If that’s what I think it is, put it away, lad.”

  Messinger put the phone to his ear.

  “If you don’t put it away, I shall call in Eustace.” Lode let the threat hang in the air.

  Messinger shot a nervous glance at the door as a floorboard creaked, and felt the fight in him drain away. “Ah, sorry. Wrong number. Yeah, my mistake. Bye.” He broke the connection.

  “Now come and sit down.” Lode patted the side of the bed. “Come on, lad.”

  He sat down. “But why—-” he began.

  Lode held up a hand. “All in good time, lad.”

  “But this is crazy.”

  Lode’s face softened. “Aye, lad, I know I’m asking a lot of you.” He looked at the doctor from under lowered eyelids and chuckled. “The best is yet to come.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “I’ll ignore that. Anyway, Bessie and me, we kept the arm incident a secret. I lay low, hardly venturing out while the arm and hand were growing back. We nearly starved to death, with me not being able to go to work. Times were different then. That’s when we started the vegetable garden, all the way back then.”

  Lode’s eyes clouded over. “Bess died in 1919 of ‘flu. Bloody terrible, that was. You young ‘uns don’t know you’re born, I swear. We weren’t any more able to cope with grief then as you are now, you know? Just because folks lost babies to disease and brothers and husbands to war, it don’t mean we became immune. I was one of twelve children. Only eight of us reached adulthood. My mother used to keep daisies in four little jam jars. ‘One for each of my little mites in Heaven,’ she used to say.

  “But when Bessie died, I don’t know, I just couldn’t cope with it. I was an old man, what did I have to live for? In the end, I went down to the Cotton End Bridge.” Lode indicated behind him with a thumb. Messinger realized the man was referring to a bridge over a railway line that had served the local collieries. The track was long gone. He hadn’t even known before now that it had a name.

  “And?”

  “I threw myself under a goods train. When I came to, I couldn’t see. I was blind.” He looked at Messinger, obviously checking that he was paying attention. “I staggered for a short distance and then gave up and lay down where I was. I could tell by my sense of touch that I was among those tall weeds, the ones with the pink flowers.”

  “Rosebay willow herbs,” supplied Messinger automatically.

  “Right. And I could also tell by touch that my head was missing.”

  Messinger blinked, then slumped and covered his eyes. “Jesus Christ! You had me sucked into your crazy little world then. For a moment, I actually believed.”

  “And so you should,” said Lode. “It’s all true.”

  Messinger shook his head. “Oh no. You’re not catching me out again. I’m off.” He started to rise.

  Lode grabbed his wrist.

  “You’re leaving without examining your patient? What sort of doctor are you, eh?”

  “A sane one,” he retorted.

  “You think I’m insane? I’ve been crippled and bedridden since 1952; what d’yer expect? My only contact with the outside world is through Eustace.” Lode’s eyes flicked meaningfully at the bedroom door. He sat back, breathing heavily. “Please, lad. Stay a little longer.”

  Messinger sagged. He hated himself for it, but he wanted to hear the end of the story. He knew that all he had to do was peel back that high collar and examine Lode’s neck, but he wouldn’t––it would be an admission of gullibility. And on a deeper, more primitive level, he couldn’t. “Okay, but it’s against my better judgment.”

  “Good boy.” Lode patted the side of the bed again.

  Messinger sat down obediently.

  “My head grew back,” Lode continued, “just as my arm had. I had no idea how long I lay there among them pink weed things.”

  “Rosebay willow herbs.”

  Lode took the correction graciously. “I recovered enough to find my way here and recuperated over a period of several months.”

  “Forgetting for the moment the sheer implausibility of you surviving decapitation and any subsequent regeneration,” Messinger allowed himself a smile, “if what you are saying is true, you wouldn’t have any memories. You had grown a completely new brain from scratch. You would, mentally, have been like a newborn. Your story has a plot hole I could drive a bus through.”

  “We pondered long and hard on that one, me and Dr. Dimmock. He suggested that as cerebral fluid surrounds the spinal cord, it could act as a repository of memories.” Lode shrugged and spread his gnarled hands as if he really didn’t care. “Anyway, while my body was growing a new head, my old head had been busy growing a new body. Eustace turned up. Eustace, like all my brothers, is me. A clone. It was Eustace that started to call me Mr. Lode. It’s a joke, you see––I was Eustace Orr but now he is and I’m the lode. He keeps me crippled and when he wants another brother-—”

  “He removes your head and grows another. Brilliant! Can I go now please?”

  “You are being very rude, Dr. Messinger.”

  “Frankly Mr. Lode, Orr, whoever you are, I think I’m entitled to be rude after all the crap I’ve had to take from you.” Messinger grabbed his bag and stood. “I shall be sending for an ambulance as soon as I have left here, thereby discharging my obligations to you.”

  Lode raised a shoulder and let it fall, a one-shouldered shrug that said it was Messinger’s loss if he left now. “Before you go, take a look out of that window, lad. Tell me what you see.”

  “What’s out there, the tooth fairy?”

  “Just look, will you?”

  Messinger rested his hands on the windowsill and gazed out, blinking at the change of light. “There are a few old guys at the bottom of the garden. Weeding by the looks of it.”

  “They’ll be tending the vegetables. We grow our own as much as we can. Look closer at them. Notice anything unusual?”

  Messinger narrowed his eyes. He turned back to the man in the bed. He did a double take out of the window and then back at Lode.

  Lode’s smile was that of the cat that has found the cream. He indicated the scratches on the wall. “I have spawned 738 of us so far, with another on the way. And some of them have become lodes too, I daresay.”

  Messinger licked his lips with a dry tongue. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why would you want to create so many clones of yourself?” Messinger thought about what he had just said, and
added: “That’s assuming your story had a single grain of truth in it, which it doesn’t, of course.”

  Lode laughed that bitter short laugh of his. “Haven’t you ever dreamed of a world without divides? A world where everyone agreed with one another? One religion, one government, one mind; everyone living in harmony? Eustace has watched the world go to hell in a handcart, watched history repeat its mistakes––correction, he’s watched people repeat their mistakes. He’s taking steps to put things right.”

  Messinger rubbed his eyes. “My predecessor must have been a gullible old fool if he went along with this lunacy. I’m leaving now, and when I get back to my surgery I shall remove the names Lode and Eustace Orr from my panel. As from this moment, you are no longer my patient.”

  “I’ve told you, it’s not me you’ve come to see.”

  Messinger made a show of scanning the room. “So where’s my patient?”

  Lode motioned with his chin at a deep chest of drawers. “Top drawer,” he said. “He’s a slow developer, this one. We’re a bit worried about him.”