Mountain Dead

by Jason Sizemore

  Penny stared at him, unable to believe what she’d just seen. She caught his eye, but it was like looking into a void; empty. When he took his first tottering step toward the cluster of pigs in the center of the room, Danny lost it.

  "He’s one of them. We have to run. Hurry. Get out." He ran in small circles, screaming and squealing. The wolf snapped at him as he ran past, clicking his teeth together where Danny’s ear had been a moment before.

  Penny grabbed a thick chunk of firewood. It was heavy and reassuring in her hand.

  "Hey, you big, bad wolf, why don’t you try and take a bite out of me." At the sound of her voice, the wolf turned and lunged toward her. She swung the firewood with everything she had. Muscles built from hard work coiled and sprang to life, smashing the wood into the wolf’s face. He staggered back a step from the hit, but kept coming for her, snapping his jaws shut as he tried to take a bite out of her.

  Penny was shocked. That blow should have knocked him out cold, or at least tossed him on his ass. There was no way he should still be on the attack. She swung again, catching the ridge above his eye and smashing it in. Blood dribbled down his face, but it was the silence that unnerved her. He didn’t cry out in pain or growl with anger. He wasn’t even huffing and puffing with exertion. The only sound the wolf made was the scrape of his claws tearing into her hardwood floors as he lunged for her and the clack of his teeth.

  She gripped the firewood with both hands, watching the wolf’s jerky movements, anticipating his next attack. As he lunged forward she swung the wood in a forceful arch, catching him squarely on the nose. His bloodied snout broke inward, a shard of bone lodging in his brain. His body crumpled, ending the assault, but Penny didn’t let up, smashing his head again and again, taking no chance that he’d get up. She didn’t stop until his brain was nothing but pulp. When she finally dropped the heavy piece of wood, her arms and torso covered in gore, she straightened and faced her brothers. Louie stood quietly, his hooved feet inches from the spreading pool of blood. His lips pressed in a firm line, arms hanging at his sides. Danny still ran in panicked circles, knocking into furniture and squealing at the top of his lungs.

  "He’s dead, Danny. You can stop." Penny walked over to the still burning curtains, yanking them into the sink and putting the flame out with water. He was still frantic when she faced the room again. "I said stop!"

  He jerked, but slowed down.

  "They’re out there. Can’t you hear them? They’re out there. We have to get out or they’ll rip us apart."

  Penny could hear them. She’d also seen them when she yanked the curtain down; a horde of undead animals pressing against the sides of her house in a wave.

  "If we go out, we’re goners. We wouldn’t even make it to the edge of the property before they devoured us. No, we need to stay here. Come up with a plan." Her words weren’t reaching Danny. He was so wound up, so panicked that he couldn’t think beyond escape.

  "We have to get out. We have to get out." He bounced around the room, knocking into furniture and his brother and sister. Finally, he bumped into the door and it was like throwing a life jacket to a drowning man. He unlocked and pulled the door open before Penny could reach him, running straight into the mass of undead. His screams jolted Louie out of his shock and he jumped for the door.

  "No." Penny knocked him to the ground, pushing the door shut and slamming the deadbolt just as a bunny, one ear ripped off, mouth smeared with blood, bounded for the opening.

  "Penny, what are you doing? We have to save Danny."

  "We can’t save him. He’s gone." Her words were cold and distant.

  "We have to." Louie started to stand and Penny looked defeated.

  "Please, Louie, listen to me for once in your life." He stopped, looking her in the eye. "We can’t save Danny. He’s dead, but if you stop, if you listen to me, we might be able to come up with a plan to survive."

  "What do you have in mind?"

  Satisfied that he wouldn’t go running to his slaughter, Penny looked out the window across the fields she’d spent the day plowing. A blanket of undead animals covered the turned ground like weeds, and Penny had to fight the urge to run out and pluck them, pulling them from her land and home. That would be a death sentence and she knew it.

  Sighing, she looked around. She and Louie could hunker down, stay in the house. There were shelves of canned goods, and the river fed into the house, giving them plenty of fresh water. No, she couldn’t do that. She was sure the walls would hold, but the idea of being trapped in her own home, surrounded by rotting corpses made her skin crawl. The only other choices were to go up the rock wall and into the mountains or across the river through the valley.

  Louie stood trembling in the center of the room, sweat trickling down his face. Passing him, Penny patted his shoulder. He was counting on her to get him out of this. She’d promised him and she wouldn’t let him down. Looking up, she let her thoughts rush through her. Climbing up the wall would guarantee their survival. There was no way those things could follow them and it was more than fifty feet up, well out of reach of the undead, but hooves weren’t exactly the best for climbing.

  That meant they were swimming across the river.

  Hurrying across the room, Penny peered out the window that looked out over the water. The undead came right up to the edge, but none of them had entered. She wasn’t sure why, but it was as though the river created a natural barrier. Penny prayed that they couldn’t cross it and wouldn’t immediately go diving into the depths as soon as she and Louie starting swimming to safety.

  "We’ve got to make a run for it." Turning, Penny watched as every drop of pink drained from Louie’s face, leaving him a ghastly shade of white.

  "But why? Why not stay here? We’re safe here."

  "We’re prisoners here. I don’t know about you, but the idea of being trapped is not appetizing to me. I’d rather get out on my own terms, rather than wait for them to figure out a way in."

  "Going out there is a death’s sentence. You told me that. Danny proved that."

  "You’re right, running out the front door would be as good as digging our own graves, but we’re not running out the door. Look out here."

  Louie looked doubtful but he finally edged his way across the room and peeked out the window.

  "See, they stop at the edge of the river. From the window, we should be able to jump to the deeper water and swim to the other side."

  "What if they follow us?"

  "I don’t think they can, but we won’t know until we try. And I’m not jumping before I’m prepared."

  For the next half an hour, Penny filled two bags with everything she thought they might need. She didn’t know how long it would take them to reach safety, but knew they couldn’t carry more than a few days’ worth of food. Finally, hefting one of the bags on to her back and handing the other to Louie, she dug through the pile of firewood. She removed a limb that was narrow at one end, forming a natural handle, and thick at the other; a perfect club.

  "Here." She tossed it to Louie, who caught it even though he looked surprised. "What? Did you think I wouldn’t bring along some sort of weapon?" She grabbed the chunk of wood she’d beaten the wolf with. Pieces of bone and teeth were embedded into the grain.

  "Are you ready for this?" Penny’s gaze was steady, staring at her brother, searching for weaknesses, uncertainty. She saw his chest rise as he took a long, calming breath.

  "I don’t know, but I guess I have to be, right?" Louie’s lips pulled up in an awkward smile and Penny sighed with relief, grinning back at him. He’d be alright. She knew he wasn’t a hero, but as long as he was honest with himself, as long as he faced the situation, then he’d be alright.

  "Let’s do this."

  Minutes later, cold water splashed around them, stealing their breath and pulling at the backpacks weighing them down. Kicking furiously, Penny’s head broke the surface and she sucked air deeply, never letting her legs stop as she fought toward the opposite shore. T
he groans of the undead howled around them and she could see terror in Louie’s every movement.

  "Don’t stop. Just keep going."

  There was a splash behind them and then she felts claws grabbing at her ankles. She kicked harder, desperate to be free, but as soon as she’d felt death grabbing her, it was gone, ripped away by the current. Looking back, Penny saw hundreds of undead animals following them into the swift river. Many lost their footing as soon as the water reached their knees, others lunged toward the fleeing pigs, but all of them were washed away by the power of the water. With a whoop of joy, Penny knew that they’d done it.

  As she and Louie climbed up the steep incline of the Cheat River’s far shore, she felt confident. There would always be something biting at their heels, whether it was another big, bad wolf or the undead, but she knew they could handle it. They’d start over. And this time, she’d make sure her brother didn’t live in a house of straw.

  And It’ll Haunt Me (For Long Days to Come)

  K. Allen Wood

  K. Allen Wood’s fiction has appeared in 52 Stitches, Vol. 2; The Zombie Feed, Vol. 1 (Apex Publications); Epitaphs: The Journal of New England Horror Writers; and The Gate 2: 13 Tales of Isolation and Despair. He is also the editor/publisher of Shock Totem, a biannual horror fiction magazine. He lives and plots in Massachusetts. For more info, visit his website at www.kallenwood.com.

  In the small interrogation room of the Huntingdon Police station, Garret Denny sat slumped in a chair, his dark hood bleeding a darker shadow across his face.

  They never look like monsters, thought Detective Jack Olson.

  He let the door close behind him, the latch clicking softly. Jack tensed as Garret raised his head. The first few moments with a suspect were always the hardest, when he felt his most vulnerable. He was, after all, stepping into the unknown.

  "Mr. Denny," Jack said, taking a seat across from the suspect. He set his clipboard and a manila envelope down on the table, a steel prefab bolted securely to the floor. It was dented and scarred with a thousand stories.

  Sound-proofing behind Garret had been torn away in the shape of a crooked smile, beyond which was a row of cinderblock teeth. It was an ironic smile. This was a room of pain, anger, sorrow; no one really smiled in here.

  Garret remained silent, his eyes unfocused, his breathing barely perceptible.

  "Sir, my name is Detective Olson," he said. "You’re welcome to call me Jack, if you want." From his pocket he removed a lighter and a pack of Newports (Garret’s brand of choice) and set them down on the table.

  As expected, Garret sat up straighter, cleared his throat. He pushed back his hood, revealing a festering red gash that split his forehead hairline to brow. He then spoke his first sensible words since he’d been picked up after calling to report he’d murdered his wife: "Mind if I bum one of those smokes?"

  "By all means," Jack said. "Looks like we have something in common." Truth be told, he hadn’t smoked in nearly twenty-five years, and when he had smoked he preferred a cool Winston. Tastes good like a cigarette should.

  Garret snatched up the pack, removed a single cigarette, and placed it shakily between his lips. There was nicotine withdrawal and nicotine anticipation. Garret Denny had both.

  Jack leaned across the table, flicked the lighter, and Garret took a deep pull. He closed his eyes and didn’t exhale for twenty seconds.

  When finally he exhaled, slowly, Jack said, "How are you doing, Mr. Denny?"

  "Thanks," he said. "For the smoke, I mean."

  Deep pull.

  "You’re welcome."

  Slow release.

  "Yes, thank you. I’m fine. As fine as can be expected, I guess. Tired, really." He looked away, taking long drags. With every exhalation, Jack could see his wall slowly coming down, his pale skin flushing with color.

  Detective Olson hated this part of the process, treating suspects—thugs, thieves, rapists, murderers—like friends. It came with the territory, but it never was easy, never made him feel good.

  When Garret finished the cigarette, he dropped the filter into a cheap aluminum ashtray. He’d smoked every bit of tobacco. Jack lit him another.

  "You obviously know why you’re here, Mr. Denny."

  He nodded.

  "Right," Jack said. "So let’s talk about it. Tell me what happened."

  Garret didn’t speak for a long time.

  Jack lit him a third cigarette.

  Just when he began to think he would have to press the man harder, Garret, in barely a whisper, began talking.

  * * *

  "It was Sunday, quiet. I don’t remember the date no more. Been too long, you know. Been too long.

  "The news said it was gonna be sunny, warm, so I planned to go down to Shaker’s Hole, have a few cold ones, catch a couple trout for the skillet. But them clouds rolled in quick, all bruise-colored, not natural, see. That’s when the sky opened up. Spat death, I guess you could say. I thought it was rain…but it was no rain. No, sir."

  A long finger of ash crumbled from the cigarette and hit the table in a tiny puff of gray. Garret absentmindedly wiped it away.

  "Lindsay called it the Apocalypse, the beginnin’ of the end, she said. I scoffed, of course. Silly end-times stuff, you know. I wasn’t raised no religious type, the Rapture and all that crap, but Lindsay believed. Yes, sir, she did. She believed it all—God, Satan, Bigfoot, aliens, that sea monster in Ireland—"

  "Loch Ness," Jack said, "in Scotland."

  "Wherever. Scotland, Ireland, Disneyland." He shrugged. "Ain’t no difference when you’re talkin’ make-believe monsters, right? But she swallowed it all. Ate it right up. Believed all that stuff. She said she was coverin’ all her bases. If there was a Heaven or a promised land, she wasn’t hedgin’ her bets. But that damn rain that wasn’t rain set her on a tizzy. End times, right. She went on and on and on. Drove me crazy, you know.

  "See, the rain didn’t matter at the time. There had to be a meteorical explanation, I said. But she was right. Lindsay was dead on right. Dead on…"

  He paused a moment, cleared his throat. His bottom lip quivered slightly.

  "As the day went on," Garret continued, "the rain—a deluge, really—continued nonstop. The beatin’ on our roof was relentless, you know, and the more it rained, the more I knew Lindsay was onto somethin’ with her crazy talk that didn’t seem so crazy now. Life in Orby had gone astray. I could feel it. I have a shirt I bought on vacation years ago that says AUSTIN IS WEIRD. Now I want one that says ORBISONIA IS WEIRDER."

  He laughed at that, but it was a cold thing, devoid of mirth.

  "But we were oblivious, really. Believin’ in unbelievable things and believin’ unbelievable things are happenin’ right before your eyes is…well, hard to believe, if that’s makes sense to you."

  Garret stubbed out his cigarette and folded his hands on the table in front of him.

  "Lindsay and I went from window to window, just starin’ through the oily liquid—that was the rain, see. Everything was stained by these blackened dollops that fell from the sky. It stuck to everything like molasses.

  The sharp edges of my ‘81 Buick Rustbucket—a silly nickname, of course—was all smoothed over with the dark slick stuff. Tree branches hung heavy, drippin’ with it. Sounds like poetry, right? I’m a big Stephen Crane fan. You know him? Red Badge of Courage is his claim to fame, but he wrote poetry, too. Good stuff. Anyway, sometimes the world needs a little poetry, even in dark times…"

  Silence filled the space between them. Detective Jack Olson, thirty years on the force, fifteen years a detective, the lead on a hundred cases, found himself for the first time ever at a loss for words. He had to hand it to Mr. Denny—he had Jack hooked. Hooked real good.

  Like a well-rehearsed dance routine, Garret shook a smoke from the pack, Jack flicked the lighter, then watched as Garret inhaled.

  "Behind our home, the Blacklog Creek swelled into a river and crept slowly up the hill toward our back deck. I know rivers can’t s
peak, Detective, but this one did, in a way. Maybe not words, but it had a message. Everything did, see. And it wasn’t good news.

  "But we kept watchin’, dumbfounded, almost like we was hypnotized, because with it all came a sorta curious beauty. Like I said, poetry, you know. What else could we do but watch, right? Well, we found out.

  "We remained spellbound, see. Right until the grounds of the old Cromwell Church Cemetery beyond our driveway, across the street, right, began to churn from below. The earth pulsed. Kid you not, sir. Centuries-old headstones toppled like they was plastic Halloween displays. The weeds and grass rolled around like charred bones. And hell, maybe they was."

  Jack sighed, shaking his head. "Mr. Denny," he said, "you’ve spun a helluva good story so far—"

  "With all due respect, Detective Olson, there ain’t nothin’ good about this tale."

  A wave of anger flashed through Jack’s veins, threatening to heat his cool. But he quickly calmed himself. Garret mashed another filter into the ashtray, spilling ash and butts across the table. Something had changed in him. Jack hadn’t noticed at first, but in the telling Garret had grown confident, animated. This was his story—a crazy, messed up lie of a story—and by God he was going to tell it.

  "My apologies," Jack said. "Please continue."

  "The cemetery did happen like that," Garret said. "I know it sounds unbelievable, but that’s what I meant before. It was hard for me to believe and I was seein’ it with my own dang eyes. I’m not blind, sir. And I may not speak like those uppity folks up north, but I’m no dummy neither. It happened. And it went from worse to worser.

  "See—and let me finish here before you cut me off, okay, because it gets completely gonzo-nutso from here on out…

  "The cemetery grounds, there was some kind of upheaval goin’ on underground. Satan come a-knockin’, Hell on Earth, what-have-you, right. It was then, right when the hand—a bony hand—rose up from the ground, that Lindsay’s previous declaration of apocalypse rang true. Yes, sir. Ding-ding ring-a-ling. What crawled out of that muddy mess was not just the bones of a long dead and forgotten soul—as if that woulda been normal, right—but a creature, some vile perversion, coated and drippin’ with the same rank stuff that fell from the sky.