They arrived there minutes before the creatures, winded from the run. The sky was definitely lighter by now, a glow on the horizon heralding the appearance of the day. Wulfhere placed his men in formation with care, making sure those lucky enough to have full armor occupied the center of the wall. Shields were readied, blades gripped, and the men brought great lungfuls of air in, getting ready for the battle of their lives.
Their smell preceded the vampires, the carrion smell of things long dead. Then their shadowy forms appeared from out of the twilight, moving toward the entrance the Vikings blocked. Mouths opened in hisses, revealing the sharp fangs, and the creatures moved to push the living from their path.
Strong arms shoved the shields out at the monsters, crashing the hard bosses into the faces of the undead. Swords and axes rose and fell, doing great damage to the upper bodies of the vampires. Still they came on, using their greater than human strength to pound on the wall of shields. The Vikings held their ground, shields linked, the purpose of their unshakable discipline standing them in good stead against the horror they faced.
A creature got a hand on a Viking’s shield, pulling the man and his defense away from the wall, where more of the creatures swarmed over him, tearing him limb from limb. Another man went down, then another, and the shield wall closed in to cover the gaps. Wulfhere was sweating in the cool air, damning the sun for not coming over the horizon more swiftly. Cursing the Gods for the loss of every man he had hoped to get through this night.
Wulfhere felt the battle madness growing in him then, the strength surging through his veins, his mind possessed by a single thought. Kill. Destroy them before he was destroyed. He flung his shield into the face of an attacker, gripping his sword in two hands as he moved out into the pack. He struck right and left, aiming for the legs, chopping through limbs and dropping creatures to the earth. A roar sounded behind him as his outnumbered men came out to join him, to follow him in victory or death. Claws struck his armor, scales were torn loose from his hauberk. A creature careened into his chest and knocked him over. The Viking struggled to his feet, and a vampire pulled back a hand to strike his throat, a blow Wulfhere knew he couldn’t avoid.
Then the creature’s hand burst into flame, while a high pitched scream issued from its mouth. Wulfhere rolled out of its way and to his feet as the creature crashed to the ground, the flames spreading over its body. The Viking looked to the horizon, to be greeted by the huge disk of the sun rising above it, its rays lighting the sky.
He and his men moved back. He was grateful to note that all had survived after they had berserked the vampires. The undead had no such luck, and they writhed and stumbled, greasy smoke rising from their flaming bodies. The Vikings used shields to push those who attempted the cave mouth back into the open. In a few minutes it was over, and the flames had consumed all the monsters.
“Odin was merciful this night,” said Hrut, moving to stand beside his leader. Wulfhere looked at the tired man. Hrut had suffered scratches on his face and arms. His armor had been completely torn off in several places. The soot of smoke covered him. He looked like Wulfhere felt.
“Thor gave us the strength we needed,” he said in agreement. They would live, he thought, to wait and hope to see a sail on the horizon.
That sail came several days later, seen in the distance, with the marking of their King upon it. Raptor, their shipwrecked raider, made a good fire, both to consume the dead who would not rise to repopulate this island with monsters, and to signal the rescuers. The Viking captain knew he could always build another. But he would never again sail to this land of the midnight sun.
14
The Art of Steaming
By Jason Kristopher
“Blast that prig Fontague,” muttered Daniel as he stood
staring at the tunnel grate. The gas streetlamps barely threw
any light his way, the cold London fog shrouding them in mist
and a halo of light. “Blast him and Victoria, all of ‘em. Let
‘em come down here and fix these damnable pipes themselves.
Wouldn’t do for them to get their hands a bit dirty though,
would it?”
He kept muttering as he pulled the grate up, scraping it
across the cobblestones of the street. He gathered up his bag
and lantern and climbed down the ladder into the tunnels. Daniel
hated the steam tunnels. He hated everything about London,
though, so that was hardly a surprise. What he hated most was
the insufferable gentry, and especially Lord Fontague, who had
him down here tonight. Fixing some old pipe or another, when it
would just break again in two or three days.
He lifted the lantern a little higher, trying to see down
the tunnel, but couldn’t make out where the leak was coming
from. There’s nothing for it, Danny boy, he thought. You’re
going to have to go see for yourself.
He shivered, despite the heat, and crept forward along the
cobblestones, trying to whistle but only producing a strange,
diseased sort of warble that he quickly put out of its misery.
Left in the quiet, with only the hissing of the steam and the
drip of the water, he resolved never to come back down here,
Lord Fontague be damned.
Ah, there’s the beastly leak, he thought, spying a steady
stream of water spilling to the ground from a rusted out pipe.
He dropped his bag and pulled out a spanner and clamp, laying
them next to the bag. Finding a convenient hook near another
poorly-maintained pipe, he took advantage of it for the lantern.
The light barely reached the ladder, giving him just enough
light to know his way out was still there. He had just picked up
the spanner to get to work when he heard the noise.
Click, click, click.
He spun around, spanner in hand and ready to be used
against whatever phantoms might be down here, but he saw
nothing. Just as he had convinced himself it was, in fact,
nothing, and merely the vagaries of the steam tunnels, he heard
it again.
Click, click, click.
The steam was loud in his ears, but the blood pumping
through his now-racing heart far exceeded that simple noise. He
felt as though he were in the middle of a race; his vision
narrowed, he smelled more of the awful detritus and noxious
fumes that inhabited these tunnels... he could even hear the
pings and creaks of the tunnel’s metal access grate cooling in
the frigid night air.
Click, click, click.
It was closer now, he was sure. Danny boy, now is not the
time to be a hero.
He spun around, grabbing the clamp and bag, moving fast
back toward the ladder to fresh air and freedom. He could barely
see the ladder; it was then that he realized he’d left the
lantern behind on its hook.
Click, click, click.
He turned around, fearful to his core at what he’d see. At
first, the steam was too great for him to see anything, but then
the clouds of vapor parted slightly, and he saw a shadow cast by
the lantern behind it.
Meaning, of course, that whatever was casting the shadow
was now between him and the lantern.
It was a shadow unlike anything he’d ever seen. The
creature clearly had two arms, two legs, what might’ve been a
head... but the arms were far too long, nearly dragging on the
ground, and the head was misshapen, elongated and
pointed.
Click, click, click.
He saw the long finger of the shadow’s right hand tappin
g
on the stones as it moved forward; tapping as if eager to reach
its destination, impatient to slice and cut. Dropping all
pretense, as well as his bag, Daniel scrambled up the ladder,
reaching the refreshing London air and rolling to one side of
the hole in the street. He quickly shoved and pushed the heavy
metal grate back into place, and it thudded down into position
just in time.
Click, click, click.
This time, the sound was muted, though it had a curious
ringing quality to it, and it took only a moment for Daniel to
realize that it was tapping on the ladder, now, rather than the
stones. He moved back into the light of a streetlamp, carefully
keeping an eye on the grate. When nothing disturbed the grate,
he leaned against the wall behind him, catching his breath.
He felt as though he’d been stuck in those damned tunnels
for hours, only now able to breathe. The cold brick and marble
wall at his back felt solid, real, as though it was the only
real thing left. Taking deep draughts of the cold night air, he
finally gathered his wits and stood, absent-mindedly brushing
non-existent lint and dirt off of his clothes. Glancing around,
he noticed that the street was empty.
Good job there’s no one to see you, Danny boy, he thought.
No one to know how you ran. He shook his head trying to clear
it, and stepped away from the wall, toward the street. Maybe I
can find a copper. There was definitely something down there.
Sure enough, as he moved away from the grate and down the
street toward the High Street intersection, he saw a bobby
twirling his baton as he walked his beat. Even coming my way, he
thought. Fancy that. This’ll be alright, after all.
He flagged down the officer, who eyed Daniel like the loon
he felt he was, staring down the beak of a nose Cyrano de
Bergerac would’ve been proud of. Daniel hesitated for a moment.
He looks familiar, somehow, thought Daniel. I know him from
somewhere, but that’s impossible. I don’t know any bobbies. With
a mental shrug, Daniel let it go. Who knows where I know him
from? I just need him to listen.
“What can I do for you, my son?” asked the officer. He was
clearly curious at Daniel’s mood and hesitation. “What’s all
this, then?”
“It’s... well, there’s something in the steam tunnel, sir.”
Daniel was nervous, trying to figure out how to explain what was
going on without confirming the loony impression.
“Oh?”
“Yes, sir. Something nasty.”
The officer snorted, crossing his arms. “Let me guess, it’s
a big lizard, right? Teeth the size of me arm sort of thing?”
“Actually, no. Two arms, two legs, all the usual bits, but
the arms are too long and the head is the wrong shape and...”
The officer held up a hand, stopping the tide of
information pouring from Daniel. “Having me on, are you, sir?
Monster in the tunnel? How much have you had to drink tonight,
sir?”
“I’m not having you on, officer. I promise what I say is
true; there is something down there, and it is not right!”
“I’ll be the judge of that, my lad. Very well, show me this
tunnel, then.”
Daniel took the bobby over to the tunnel grate, and told
him the story all over again, including how he’d leaned against
the wall after climbing out without a scratch. The officer’s
face was unreadable as he looked at the tunnel grate, and
glanced around.
“This wall over here?” The officer asked, pointing toward
Daniel’s resting place. When Daniel nodded, the officer moved to
the wall, examining it closely while Daniel waited next to him.
Click, click, click. Click, click, click.
Daniel spun around, staring in horror at the tunnel grate
as it began to turn in place, then to rise slowly.
“See, officer? What’d I tell yer? That noise...”
“That noise, sir, you should never have heard.”
With infinite slowness, Daniel turned back to the bobby,
who had stepped back into the shadows of the alley next to the
building. The officer seemed to be... changing, too, his arms
lengthening, the outline of his head becoming more pointed as
the bobby’s helmet fell off.
“You’re... you’re...” Daniel couldn’t speak, just stand
there stunned as the transformation of the officer continued. He
barely heard the scrape of the metal on cobbles as the steam
tunnel grate slid aside, caught as he was trying to see more and
at the same time less of the creature he had thought was a
policeman.
Now I know where I’ve seen him before, thought Daniel. Put
him in a tie and tails, and I’d have picked him out right away.
It’s the butler!
It was only when he finally heard the snuffling behind him,
and felt the long, thin blade of the creature’s finger tapping
on his shoulder that he thought of screaming.
#
The next evening, Lord Fontague sat back from the table in
his well-appointed dining room, tossing his linen napkin
negligently onto his now-empty plate as his manservant took the
finished dish, headed for the kitchen.
“Well done, Nigel,” he said, as he picked up his glass and
drained the last of the delectable Spanish wine. “An excellent
pairing.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“That was a very unusual cut of meat. How did Chef prepare
it?”
Nigel turned back, the light from the large fireplace
sharply outlining his face, including his overly large nose and
long, thin features.
“It was steamed, sir.”
15
The Tragic Tale of Chris and Ernie
By T.W. Brown
Chris took a sip from the paper cup he’d been holding for the past twenty minutes. Blech! Cold. He hated cold coffee. Still, he choked down the rest of it, crumpled the cup, and tossed it on the floor. Not that anyone would notice.
The newsroom was a disaster. There was paper strewn or scattered everywhere. People were darting around while the two men on camera sat across from one another arguing about the probability that all the violence in the streets was due to the dead rising and attacking the living.
Chris glanced at the door. Everywhere he looked, people were arguing like it was the end of the world. He tried to block out the yelling and formulate a plan. He knew that all the arguing being done couldn’t change what he had seen on his way into work at around 3 o’clock this afternoon…
He’d driven past the junior high school four blocks from his house. Because of the declared emergency, Chris expected to see the place empty. And for the most part…it was. But on the blacktop playground where the kids were usually either engrossed in a kickball game or shooting hoops, he’d seen two of them. The rest of his drive into the station, he’d tried to convince himself that one of them hadn’t been missing an arm from the elbow down. And not the neat and clean amputee-look. No, sir. This arm had stuff dripping from it, and a good chunk of what was probably bone jutting out from the ‘meaty’ part. Say what you would…there was something very wrong and bad happening. Sitting in this television studio arguing about it wa
sn’t making anything better.
He took one more look across the chaotic studio and considered if he should tell anyone or invite any of the others to join him. “Nah,” Chris said under his breath.
Once in the parking lot, he looked for his car, a 1967 Rambler Rebel. It wasn’t the flashiest car, but the entire front seat folded down, which was way cool when he took a girl to the drive-in. Hell, it was almost as cool as a van.
A strange sound carried on the cold and cloudy night air. It took him a moment to realize what he was hearing. Gunshots!
Not in any big hurry, Chris wandered over to the edge of the parking garage. He was on the top floor, six-stories above the eerily traffic-free streets of downtown Pittsburgh. His eyes drifted towards the Monongahela and where Interstate 376 ran alongside it. The interstate looked like a parking lot as far as the eyes could see in both directions.
On the streets below, a police car sped around the corner. The driver locked the brakes, and the vehicle turned a slick one-eighty. It stopped, and both doors blew open. He watched as the two cops drew their guns and fired back into the vehicle.
Shadowy forms emerged from every direction, homing in on the officers who were yelling back and forth at each other while reloading, Chris couldn’t make out what they were saying, his eyes were drawn to the dozen or so figures closing in—albeit rather slowly—on the cops. After a moment’s consideration, and deciding those two were so focused on whatever was inside the back of their car that they weren’t paying attention, he decided to yell.
“Hey!” he hollered.
The cops spun and fired his direction! Chris dove to the ground, but he felt a stinging sensation on his cheek where one of the bullets had hit the concrete and sent shards of it up and into his face.
He lay still for a moment, feeling his heart pounding in his chest. Pain started to build, and it took him a moment to realize that he was holding his breath. He gasped and sucked his lungs full of the cool night air while he tried to get his composure. Then…he heard a sound unlike any before in his life.
A scream.
It actually took him some time to realize that he was hearing a human—or humans—screaming. It was coming from down on the streets. The cops!
Chris jumped up and looked. The part of his mind that was still trying not to accept everything that was happening was concerned that maybe the police were hurting even further whomever they’d shot up in the back of the car. What he saw took the last shred of rationality that remained and cast it out.
Fight the MonSter: Find a Cure for MS Page 18