3 Supernatural Thrillers

by Jason Brant

  "Dave must have been wrong. She couldn't have been dead. He wasn't the smar−" He stopped himself mid-sentence, not wanting to speak ill of the dead.

  "She looked deader than a door nail to all of us," Karen said.

  "The dead don't rise and walk. It just can't be."

  Karen wasn't sure that could be taken off the table at this point. After what she'd seen today, anything seemed possible.

  Chapter 12

  The spreading fire was working on the building next to the one McCall sat upon. Before long he'd be sitting on the roof of an inferno.

  At the pace the blaze was growing, the entire town would be a cinder by tomorrow.

  McCall studied the saloon across the street. The front door and windows were boarded up. Someone in there had a head on their shoulders at least. Maybe he could hole up there until sunrise.

  The scream gave him pause though. Had the moaners breached the place? A backdoor maybe?

  Even if they were inside, what other choice did he have? Every other business and home he could see were infested with mutilated, yet still walking, people. And the building he was on would soon be in flames.

  The boarded up saloon gave him a chance. He hoped.

  Leaning as far over the side of the roof as possible, McCall looked down the side street that ran the length of the saloon, trying to find a way in that wouldn't get him eaten alive. There were a few windows on the second level, but none on the first.

  A ladder stood against the building on the other side of the alley. It looked to be high enough to reach the windows.

  Leaning back against the roof, McCall eased down the slope. He moved his feet carefully, trying not to make any sound or disturb the shingles. As he approached the edge, he turned sideways, placing his right foot on the edge of the last shingle.

  Peering down the front, he was disheartened to see the roof of the porch was at least ten feet away. And it sat at an angle steeper than the one he was on now. There was no way he could stick the landing, even if he dangled his feet over the edge to lessen the distance.

  Deciding to find another way down, he turned away from the edge and started climbing back to the peak. The shingle under his right foot dislodged and flew over the side. Thrown off balance, McCall didn't have time to react before his chest bounced off the roof and he started sliding down.

  His free hand frantically searched the roof for any kind of purchase. Not finding one, he flattened his body as much as possible; stretching his four limbs out like a giant X, hoping the friction would stop his descent.

  Clearing the edge, his legs dangled in the air, kicking as he tried to clamber back up.

  Then he was falling. His feet hit the roof of the porch first, but the angle of it threw him off balance and he fell backward. Pain shot up his back as his tailbone struck the hard wood shingles.

  The impact loosened his grip on the shotgun, sending it flying to the street below. McCall's muscles constricted as he tumbled head over feet off the porch.

  A moaner shambled in the direction of the fires, oblivious of the man free falling in the air above him. All of McCall's weight landed on the monster, sending them both crashing to the ground.

  Mad Dog's head slammed against the hard, cracked earth. Flashes of light swam across his spinning vision as he fought to get his bearings. The man that broke his fall was squirming beneath him, trying to get a mouthful of McCall's leg.

  Rolling away with the elegance of a drunk, McCall stopped in a seated position, facing the moaner.

  Its vacant eyes bore into his own, surveying its next meal. Slithering forward, it lunged at his foot.

  Lifting his leg up, McCall brought his heel down on the back of its head, embedding his boot spur in its skull.

  It dropped face first to the ground, its limbs racked with spasms.

  Kicking his leg away, he tore the spur loose. A circle of gore flew away as it spun on the back of his boot. McCall stood on wobbly legs, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs.

  Several of the closest moaners moved in on him, chomping their teeth in anticipation. Others, further away, hadn't seen or heard him and continued toward the blaze.

  The shotgun had landed close to the middle of the street, less than ten feet away. The nearest moaner stepped over it, his nonfunctioning right leg trailing behind, pulling the scattergun along.

  Not wanting the racket of a gunshot to attract everything in the town, McCall pulled the tomahawk free of its loop and advanced on the beast. As he drew near it became obvious why its leg wasn't working: most of its thigh had been eaten away.

  The man's arms were outstretched, partially protecting his head. Ducking down, McCall swung the axe at the chewed leg, connecting with bone and what was left of the meat.

  The tomahawk went all the way through, creating a sickening sound like the snapping of a celery stick, as the leg cut away.

  Grabbing the shotgun, McCall hustled across the street without looking back. As he approached the side of the saloon, two more moaners, a man and a woman, noticed him and shifted in his direction.

  Dropping his axe back into its cradle, he lifted the shotgun with both hands and brought the butt down in the face of the man without breaking stride. The woman, who didn't have any outward signs of physical damage, fell back, landing on the porch of the saloon.

  If it wasn't for her black, soulless eyes and stiff-legged gait, McCall would have thought she was another survivor.

  The second person grabbed at him, missing completely, and fell forward into the street.

  McCall ran into the alley, brushing past more people. The ladder, sitting against the building on the other side of the street, looked much heavier than it had from the roof.

  Grabbing one end of it with his free hand, he realized it wasn't going to be an option. He dropped it back to the ground and continued around the side of the building, looking for another way in.

  The rear of the saloon was much darker than the front. Just enough light bounced from the neighboring buildings for him to see. The back door was boarded up in the same manner as the front, and was swarming with moaners anyway. Using the shotgun, he pushed a bulbous fat man away and spotted a stack of firewood on the side of the rear porch.

  Five people, each with grievous wounds, stood between the wood pile and McCall. Twenty more bumbled around in the general vicinity. There were too many to use the axe; they would over take him before he could fight his way through.

  Marching forward, Mad Dog raised the shotgun to his shoulder and aimed at head height, pointing toward the middle of the crowd.

  The deafening blast knocked the three men in the center to the ground, brain matter splattering the wood and porch behind them. The gun's roar echoed throughout the alley, alerting everything west of the Mississippi of his presence.

  Stepping through the tangled limbs of the dead, McCall accelerated at the stack, intent on launching from it to the roof of the porch.

  Bounding from the lower logs, he pushed off the upmost piece, which stood only five or six feet from the first shingle. The wood shifted under his weight, halting his momentum. His stomach landed flush against the edge, sending stabs of pain through his ribcage.

  The shingles on this building were less faded and newer, not giving under his weight. Tossing the shotgun ahead of him, he used both hands to pull his way up. A few more inches and he could swing one of his dangling legs over and roll up.

  Beneath him, dozens of moaners gathered around, stumbling around the knocked over logs. One of them had managed to get close enough to grab McCall's leg.

  Without a solid handhold, his progress was eroded as he slid back down. He kicked his feet wildly, trying to dislodge his leg from the cannibal's grip. Another couple of inches and his weight would carry him the rest of the way down.

  The creature's fingers sliced on his spur but continued to pull. More people gathered around, reaching for McCall's other leg.

  Above him, the double barrel shifted, skidding against the shingles.
It stopped a few feet away.

  Lifting his right hand, McCall hoped it would fall to him, praying it would arrive before he became someone's early breakfast.

  His body slid two more inches, balancing precariously on the brink of no return. Looking down, he saw too many rows of chomping teeth to count.

  He always assumed he'd be gunned down by a drunk, or shot in the back by the marshals that pursued him. Never had he imagined he'd be eaten to death by the common townsfolk of a shithouse like Gehenna.

  Closing his eyes, he waited for the inevitable. As he mentally prepared for the agony that what was about to come, the shotgun bumped against his fingers. His hand shot open as if spring-loaded.

  Grabbing the double barrel, he pointed it blindly behind him, aiming in what he hoped was the general direction of the moaner pulling at his leg. The firearm's massive kick sent reverberations up his arm, nearly breaking his grip.

  The hands clawing at his leg fell away, giving him precious seconds before a new set could latch on. He tossed the shotgun onto the roof and scampered up, swinging his legs to gain momentum.

  Throwing his leg over the side, he rolled onto his back. Short, ragged breaths shook his body as he lay there trying to regain his composure. The shotgun skidded to a stop against his arm.

  Getting to his feet, McCall looked over the swarm of moaners below him, arms raised in the air, swaying and stretching like a bizarre prayer. More packed in behind them.

  Picking up the shotgun, he broke the action open, pulled the shells from the barrels, and stuffed two more in from one of the ammo belts across his chest. Turning away from the growing horde, he scaled the small roof and peeked in the window.

  The darkness was too thick to see much of anything. Using the butt of the gun, he smashed the window, sending glass into the black room.

  Ever since he was a boy he'd kept matches in his back pocket, a habit his father had taught him. He pulled one free and struck it against the shingles. The brief flair exposed a horrific bedroom. The sheets strewn across the bed were saturated with blood and chucks of flesh. One of those things had been to work, but didn't appear to be in the room anymore.

  Dropping the match, he broke away a couple of jagged pieces of glass with the stock of the shotgun and stepped through. His foot landed on a soft, wet surface which shifted under his weight. Poking the toe of his boot around, he found the hard surface of the floor and entered the bedroom.

  Striking another match, he looked at his feet and saw the body of a woman. Or at least what used to pass for one. Entire sections of her face were missing and the top of her head had been cut off.

  McCall spotted her scalp against the wall to his right. A bloody sheet was discarded by the open door. The match singed his fingers, causing him to drop it to the floor with an obscenity. Striking another, he proceeded across the room and into the hallway.

  Chapter 13

  "What the hell was that explosion?" Ellis asked, taking another shot of whiskey.

  Karen had put down a few herself, trying to rid herself of the shakes.

  Anthony stood on a chair by one of the windows, looking over the table nailed to it. His back was hunched over, his deep lacerations visible through his shredded shirt.

  "That was the jailhouse. It's just... gone. Hell, the whole street is burning like kindling," he said.

  "What do you mean it's gone?" Karen asked.

  "I mean it's gone. Nothing there but a crater full of burning wood. Guess the sheriff and deputy didn't make it." He coughed a few times, wincing at the pain in his back. "My store is starting to go up now too."

  Ellis walked to the door and peered over the barricade. "The entire street is lit up like it's noon out there." He gasped as he looked from right to left. "We ain't gettin' out of here," he whispered.

  "Now what?" Karen was unsure if she could handle any more bad news. She'd already lost most of her friends.

  "The entire town is out there."

  "Are they... like them?" she asked.

  "Yeah. Like them. All of them." He turned back to Karen. "How many people live in Gehenna?"

  "Over two thousand."

  "That makes it official then. We're fucked."

  "We're reaping what we've sown!" Randy sat in a chair behind Anthony, drinking himself stupid from a bottle of Ellis' rotgut. "The whoredom and sins of this town have brought the Lord's wrath upon us."

  Karen rolled her eyes, wishing she could break that bottle over his head. She believed in God, like everyone else, but didn't see Him as the vindictive son of a bitch that Randy thought He was.

  "Don't roll your eyes at me, wench! Your disregard of God's will has wrought this Hell."

  Ellis lifted a hand to quiet the doctor to no avail.

  "You shall not silence me! God warned us, in Leviticus 26:28, and we didn't listen. 'Then I will walk contrary unto you also in fury; and I, even I, will chastise you seven times for your sins. And ye shall eat the flesh of your sons, and the flesh of your daughters shall ye eat. And I will destroy your high places, and cut down your images, and cast your carcasses upon the carcasses of your idols, and my soul shall abhor you. And I will make your cities waste, and bring your sanctuaries unto desolation, and I will not smell the savor of your sweet odors.'"

  The room grew silent as everyone contemplated the implications of the passage. Anthony and Ellis stared at him with astonishment. Even Barbara had stopped sobbing and looked up from the corner.

  John was a major concern for Karen. He hadn't said a word since they came downstairs. He merely sat beside Randy, soaking in everything he said.

  "The Bible says that?" Anthony asked.

  Karen didn't like the direction this was taking. They had more important things to consider than Bible scripture.

  When she was a child, her father always told her that God would protect His faithful and punish the wicked. She'd believed it whole heartedly until the day that he didn't come back from a visit to town.

  A bandit had shot him dead while he stood in line at the bank. He'd taken the bullet in the back, never even having a chance to surrender himself.

  Her faith in the protection and punishment of God disappeared and never came back. Since that day, she'd sworn to live her life in the manner she saw fit. She and God would even up when they met one day.

  "Oh yes. This has all been foretold, and now it's coming to pass."

  Not wanting to get involved in a religious debate, Karen walked across the room and sat beside Barbara.

  "Barb," Karen started, swallowing the lump forming in her throat. "Lauren's dead."

  Barbara's face scrunched inward as she began to bawl again, cradling her head in her arms. "What happened?" she asked between sobs.

  "The woman from the street," Karen said, glancing at Doc Randy, "was infected by whatever this is, and... got her."

  Randy stopped his sermon in midsentence and cocked his head at Karen. "The woman that was eaten in the street? You said she was dead."

  "We thought she was, but apparently not."

  Randy turned his eyes to Ellis. "Was she alive or not?"

  Ellis looked back and forth from Karen to Randy, struggling with what he should say.

  "She was dead," he said, his shoulders slumping.

  Randy jumped from his seat, knocking the chair over. "The dead are rising! Zechariah 14:12! 'And this shall be the plague wherewith the Lord will smite all the people that have fought against Jerusalem. Their flesh shall consume away while they stand upon their feet, and their eyes shall consume away in their holes, and their tongue shall consume away in their mouth. And it shall come to pass in that day, that a great tumult from the Lord shall be among them; and they shall lay hold everyone on the hand of his neighbor, and his hand shall rise up against the hand of his neighbor.'"

  Barbara was visibly shaken by this. Karen had to admit that she was spooked by the similarities between the scripture and the situation outside.

  "It's a coincidence. It has to be," Karen said, not believ
ing the words coming out of her mouth.

  "It's the end days. Prepare your souls," Randy said.

  Ellis gave Karen a pleading look. He wanted her to provide an explanation that she didn't have.

  "If the dead are rising by the power of God, why is that we can kill them?" she asked.

  The blast of a gun on the other side of the wall startled everyone, interrupting Randy before he could retort.

  Anthony hobbled over, wincing with each step, and stood by Ellis.

  "Was that a gun?"

  "Sounded like a shotgun. Sheriff Stanley must be alive! No one else has any guns," Ellis said. "Maybe he blew up the jailhouse on purpose, trying to kill some of those things."

  Then Rob sat up. The stained white sheet that Ellis' laid on him remained, covering his head and body. Large red spots seeped through from the pool of blood around his body.

  A groan escaped from beneath the shrine, sending a chill down Karen's back.

  The sheet pulled free as he stood, revealing the thinned, jaundice skin. John stood up, his back sliding against the wall, where he watched with wide-eyed madness.

  "Rob? You're alive!" he said.

  Karen's suspicions were confirmed: he'd lost his mind. No sane person would think something that looks like that could be a member of the living.

  Ellis didn't hesitate. In three large steps he stood in front of the reanimated brother, intent on skewering him with the sword.

  "No!"

  John charged forward, tackling Ellis from behind and sending the saber sliding across the floor.

  Karen cursed herself for leaving her sword on the bar. Though it was only twenty feet away, it might as well have been on the other side of town.

  John and Ellis tussled on the floor, throwing punches and kicks like wild men.

  "You already killed my pa! I ain't letting you kill my brother too!"

  "He's already dead! You saw it with your own eyes," Ellis said between labored breaths.

  They rolled into the bottom step of the stairs leading to the second floor, still throwing blows at one another.