The Cold Beneath

by Tonia Brown

  “You could have saved us,” I said. “You knew what would happen to us. You knew, and you let it happen anyway.”

  “Philip,” she gasped. “Please don’t do this. We need to work together.”

  As she spoke, a trickle of bright red dribbled from under her hand, tracing its way down her chin and pooling on the floor. I must have broken her nose when I hit her. Part of me rejoiced in her pain, while part of me winced inwardly. How shameful to take glory in beating a woman! But while she cowered under me, bleeding from my strike, I was reminded of her treachery by the rise of muffled groans around us. The revenants were frantic, whipped to frenzy by the scent of blood in the air. Their growls and howls filled me with a terrible idea. A final solution not only to the problem of this traitor to all humanity, but a blessed release for my own suffering.

  I stumbled across the room to the surgical tray. There, I snatched up a scalpel, then whipped about in place, brandishing it at the woman with a snarl upon my lips.

  “Philip!” Geraldine cried. “What are you doing?”

  I must admit, my first instinct upon seeing the razor-sharp blade was to turn it upon myself. My plan was simple. I would cut my own throat, allow my life to flow freely over her cringing form in great crimson sprays. Then with my dying breath, I would pray there was enough of the compound in my brain to warrant a return. I am ashamed to say that a terrible thought lurked in my dark heart at that moment. It was my greatest desire that if I did walk again I would remain cognizant enough to enjoy my revenant revenge upon her.

  Yet I failed to make that final cut. As I leaned upon the tray, scalpel in shaking hand poised at my very throat, all my courage fled my being. Even faced with such treachery and doomed to this nightmare of an existence, I couldn’t turn the blade upon myself. I was, and still am at heart, a coward. I couldn’t take my own life.

  But I knew who could take it for me.

  “Philip,” Geraldine said, very calmly, trying her best to placate me in my sudden madness. “Just put down the blade. I need you right now.”

  “You need me?” I asked as I lowered the scalpel to my side. “Now? But my love, I thought you’d needed me all along.”

  She rose to her knees with a smile, thinking she had won me over. “Of course. Of course I needed you all along. Now give me the scalpel.”

  Geraldine leaned forward, at which I stepped back. She scooted to me, and I stepped back again. We danced like that for a moment, she crawling forward on her knees and I treading backward in wobbly steps until I rested against the cot of thing-that-used-to-be-Albert. I glanced back at it for a brief second, struck by the fact that it—as well as all of the beasts—had fallen silent since I took the blade in hand. It was as if they knew the path to which I had resigned myself. It was if they wanted it as much as I did. Perhaps more.

  “Come now, hand it to me,” she said. Geraldine lost the smile to another grim frown, her voice growing impatient, as if she were talking to a child. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

  A moment of clarity washed over me as I formulated what I thought would be my last act upon Earth. “No. For once I do, Geraldine. I really do know exactly what I’m doing.”

  I turned then, and with a few swift motions cut the bindings that held the creature in place. The rope about the revenant proved little resistance for such a sharp blade. The beast was free in a heartbeat, liberated and ready to feed upon the heat of the living.

  “For God’s sake, Philip!” Geraldine shouted as she cowered again. “What have you done?”

  I knew what I had done. I had damned us both, but no more than she had cursed us already. The thing on the cot looked up to me with Albert’s eyes, and I saw in them such empty hunger. A bottomless void that could never be sated, could never be filled. I also glimpsed understanding of what had transpired; the comprehension that it was no longer caged. In that moment, that very second that the beast realized it had gained its liberty, I drew my last breath and waited for it to rise and take me. I waited for it to leap from the cot and release me from this lunacy. To my surprise, it snatched the gag from its mouth, pushed past me as it rolled off the cot and hastened across the floor.

  It ignored me in favor of making a meal of Geraldine!

  “Give me your heat, woman!” the thing cried.

  Her screams reached me before I could turn about, and I knew without looking what was happening. The creation had returned to the creator, to consume with a fury that which had brought upon him the curse of life. Or, in this case, un-life. Albert was tearing her apart behind me, enacting a punishment that even I in my righteous anger couldn’t bring myself to commit. But still, wasn’t it by my hand that she died? Wasn’t it by my judgment that she screamed blue murder, begging even a once forsaken God for his mercy as her monster tore the last cry from her supple throat?

  Was I any better than she?

  I lingered for a moment, my back to the terrible violence behind me, pondering the vengeance I had wrought. I unleashed her executioner, and as they tussled behind me, I was moved to finish the job. From cot to cot I slipped, cutting each beast free, and growing strangely stronger all the while. I do not know if it was the satisfaction of knowing she was facing judgment at the very hands of those she had damned, or if it was just the adrenaline that accompanies one during such terrible deeds. Either way, by the time I had cut the last creature free and it leapt past me to join in the feast, I found my strength had returned full force.

  I stared down at the scalpel, wondering if the time for me to end my suffering had finally arrived. Still, I couldn’t bring the blade to my own throat. Try as I might, I couldn’t turn it against me, even though it was the single thing I desired most now that Geraldine had faced her fate. As I stared at the blade, contemplating the idea of destiny to the sounds of a woman being torn to shreds behind me, I was overcome by a strange awareness. It dawned upon me that all of my brushes with death had been brief, minimal, really, when compared with the rest of the crew. Something higher had stayed my hand before and was doing so now. I had been spared time and time again for a reason.

  I knew then what I must do.

  Dropping the blade to the cot, I staggered to the door. Without a glance at the sure carnage behind me, I slipped through the exit and closed the door as quietly as I could manage. Down the hall I stumbled, to the kitchen, where I stopped and filled a large cook pot with a few provisions—canned goods, flasks of water and the likes. Nourishment to keep me alive long enough to complete my divinely inspired task. With the barest of supplies at hand, as well as all of the remaining vials of that dreadful compound, I returned to the hallway, noting that the screaming had stopped. Geraldine was dead.

  In the vacuum of her silence, another screaming rose to meet my ears. As I hobbled back to my room, I realized the voices producing the shrieks were coming from below me. I decided, without double checking, that Geraldine hadn’t dispatched those three men entirely. She must have killed them, then dragged their remains to the brig or cargo bay, and locked them away for future study. How she managed all of this on her own, I couldn’t imagine. The idea of it left me shuddering in disgust.

  The pot of goods was heavy but manageable. I clutched it to me as I hurried to my room, slipping inside and closing the door behind me. There I dropped my supplies on the bed, then pushed the cot against the door, along with the desk, barricading the only entrance to the room. As well as the only exit.

  I trapped myself inside my room not to wait for rescue, but to record this very tale. You see, as I stood there, basking in the glory of Geraldine’s final moments, I realized that I had been spared with purpose. God Himself saved my life, but not so that I could continue to live. No. I have done and seen too much to remain upon this Earth any longer than I must.

  He spared me so that I might warn you, dear reader.

  He saved me so that I could set this tale to print. He let me live just long enough to record this account, write these very words and warn the world of Geral
dine and her wickedness. The compound is destroyed, I saw to that, but the components still exist in the world. Somewhere, someday, a clever unwitting soul will stumble upon the same mistake that she made.

  God forgive you if it should be you.

  I know that Geraldine was not alone in her pursuit of forbidden knowledge. All across the world, mankind consistently seeks ways to cheat death. We search for the Holy Grail of immortality more than we seek salvation for our damned souls. Please, I warn you, give up this dreadful task and let nature take its course. Take this dissertation to heart and beware! Take heed of my tale of woe. Death is, and should be, final. No one should witness the terrors I have known. To see a flicker of unholy life in a corpse’s eyes? To hear it speak when you know there is no breath? To feel the dead clawing at your skin, seeking your heat, craving your very life? It is a horrendous thing, to be certain, and one I hope never happens to another living soul upon this Earth again.

  After I set up my fortress, I set upon my task. I have been writing now for three days straight, unsure of the time of day or even the day of the week. I sleep little, eat even less, and all the while I grow colder and colder. The boilers ceased functioning within a few hours into my account, taking with them the heat and light. I have written most of this by lamplight as well as under the weight of many clothes and blankets. I pray that Geraldine’s compound has worked its way from my veins, but there may still be a chance of my return upon death. To be sure that this doesn’t happen, I will sacrifice myself to those things at my door after I finish my work here. Once again, I hope they consume me whole, leaving nothing to return.

  I am sure you wonder why I have not dispatched those few revenants left. Surely I could have found another weapon, could have finished the job set forth by that iniquitous woman, once again sparing my own life in the process. I have not, for two reasons. First I choose to leave proof of my account. I might be delirious; I might be fevered, hungry and weak. But I am not so far gone as to assume that whoever reads these passages will take them at face value.

  I do not expect to be believed!

  I know the depths of madness to which my story sinks. I also know that in order to find this journal, you must have first found the revenants. You have already seen their grotesque nature, have already discovered their tenacity and seeming immortality. If you took them down without event, then bravo! But if you have lost comrades along the way, then I am very sorry. I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me for leaving those creatures behind. I had to, you see, for there is a second reason I didn’t finish it. The only real reason I didn’t find a weapon and end all of this is so very simple.

  I am, and always have been, an unabashed coward.

  Our Father who art in Heaven, please forgive this coward and his final act.

  ~ Philip Corinthian Syntax, on or about the middle of May, 1880

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  Closing

  This last testament of Philip Syntax was discovered amongst the remains of several frozen male corpses. The remaining bodies of the crew were found scattered about the ship. All of the recovered corpses were frozen, and all suffered from injuries ranging from deep lacerations to eviscerations to gunshot wounds. Several corpses were ‘torn to pieces,’ just as the narration suggests. It is interesting to note that despite the insistence that a woman accompanied the crew, a female corpse was never recovered.

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  About the Author and Artist

  Tonia Brown is a great lover of weird fiction, coffee, and Victorian dead things. She has cranked out several novels, including Lucky Stiff: Memoirs of an Undead Lover and Badass Zombie Road Trip. Her work appears in a variety of anthologies and periodicals. When not writing, she fights crime with her husband of many years under the code names “Doctor Weird” and his sidekick “Butternut.”

  You can find more about Tonia or read more of her sordid scrawling by visiting:

  http://www.thebackseatwriter.com

  http://www.facebook.com/backseatwriter

  http://steampunktrain.blogspot.com

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  Philip R Rogers, pusher of pixels, lives in the frightening wilds of western North Carolina. His wife, Janet, constantly inspires and encourages him. They share their home with a passel of cats and one skeleton affectionately referred to as “Mr. Bones.”

  To contact him or to see more of his work go to:

  http://artbyphilip.com/

  Other Works by Author Tonia Brown:

  Badass Zombie Road Trip

  Jonah has seven days to find his best friend’s soul after losing it to Satan, or risk losing his own. Before it's all said and done, he drags a zombie across the country, picks up a hitchhiking stripper who has an agenda of her own, and is pursued for a crime he didn’t commit, all while dealing with the occasional visit from The Prince of Lies himself.

  2,000 miles. Seven days. Two souls. One zombie. And Satan.

  It's going to be a hell of a trip.

  Lucky Stiff: Memoirs of an Undead Lover

  Meet Peter Lyles, a young man unremarkable in life but unforgettable in un-death. After he accidentally overdoses while on spring break, Peter's friends do him the dubious favor of bringing him back to life. Or rather, they turn him into a zombie with the help of a little old fashioned Voodoo. Peter's journey through the unlife takes him from the homebrewed sex magic of a mysterious swamp-dwelling Madam, to bouncing from bedroom to bedroom all across the globe, and finally leaving him with a career as the hottest gigolo not alive. All the while, he must deny his hunger for human flesh while sating his passion for, well, human flesh. At turns humorous, at times touching, but always sexy, sexy, sexy.

  "Lucky Stiff" will leave you wanting more Peter. He's just that good.

  Railroad!

  Railroad is a weird western steampunk story of gadgetry, gunplay and grit!

  Join us as we follow the strange stand-alone train known as the Sleipnir; eight cars of free traveling steam powered might. Able to lay her own tracks, as well as pick them up again, the train is a marvelous feat of engineering, and as an unbound entity she can travel anywhere her master desires. The only trouble is the trouble she attracts.

  Enter Rodger Dodger, dead-eye marksman and all around vexed soul. At the request of a restless spirit, Dodger takes on the work of security for the train, straps on the biggest guns this side of the Mississippi and soon finds his life will never be the same again. (Which is just fine with him because he didn't like the one he had anyways.)

  On a train that can go anywhere, anything is bound to happen!

  Skin Trade

  The Great Undead Uprising of 1870 devastated the western frontier and destroyed the Indian Nations. Though the Army was able to contain the menace before it could devour the entire country, the United States lost claim to her western territories as the survivors fled to the relative safety of the east coast.

  Samantha Martin is among the rare folks traveling west, seeking asylum within the infected territories. Running from a past that threatens to consume her, the young Sam dons the mantle of a male and hides in an all boys’ workhouse that borders these Badlands. From there she is thrust into the service of the skin trade; the terrible deed of trapping and skinning zombies for profit. The work is grueling and perilous, but along the way she finds out what it takes to be a man, why she misses being a woman, but most of all she learns what it means to be human.

  Can Sam keep her masquerade up long enough to flee the Badlands, or will the outlaws that rule the western frontier find out she’s female before she can escape?

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