Resurrection:Zombie Epic

by Tim Curran

  “Chrissy? Is that you? Reach out and take my hand…I’ll see that he makes it quick, then we can be together. Death won’t last. He’ll call you up just like he called us up…”

  Chrissy’s breath was coming very fast now and she could do nothing to muffle its sound. He was hearing it and knowing she was near. This was it. This was really it.

  Alona sensed the endgame coming, but she wasn’t about to be scared into doing something foolish. At least, not yet. She slid her hand off Chrissy’s arm with nary a sound and picked up a shard of glass from the floor. Counting under her breath, she flung it across the room where it landed near the windows. The dead things began to congregate in that direction, outstretched hands searching the air, fingers wiggling, voices whispering excitedly.

  The blonde-haired one had not moved.

  He chuckled low in his throat and something like an engorged black beetle crawled out of his mouth. “Neat trick, lady, neat trick. But you’re not fooling me.”

  He turned in their direction, looking just above their heads, his hands coming up to seek them out. He moved his head from side to side as if he were trying to form a mental picture of where they were. He turned it this way, then that. Held it there. And they were able to see what they hadn’t been able to before: the other side of his head. It was a great gaping cavity filled with buzzing life. But not flies. These were gray, oily beetles, segmented and winged, looking much like cockroaches. There were dozens and dozens of them in that cavity, crawling about, infesting, brooding over a mass of squirming larva that must have been their young.

  One of them flew out.

  And then another and another.

  They landed on the wall above Alona and Chrissy’s heads, started to crawl down towards them.

  Another buzzed in Alona’s face.

  One of them hovered in front of Chrissy’s eyes, then landed on her mouth, trying to force its way between her lips.

  That was it.

  Chrissy slapped it away and the game was up.

  “Here,” said the blonde-haired one. “Right here.”

  The others were coming now, rushing forward with seeking hands. The blonde-haired one reached out for Chrissy and Alona as they stood up. Alona stepped out to meet him with the crowbar.

  “Since you know where we are, dipshit,” she said. “Let me introduce myself.”

  As he came forward, she swung the crowbar with everything she had, which was considerable. The bar hit him right between the eyes…or where they would have been…and split his face right down to his jaw with a pulpy cracking. He howled and backed away and Alona hit him two more times, collapsing his skull and letting forth a swarm of those roaches that sought her out, buzzing and nipping, getting in her hair and seeking her eyes. She swung the crowbar again and it struck the boy’s arm and snapped it off beneath the elbow. He hit the floor, his face a discharge of black gummy blood, and his arm hit the wall, dropping to the floor and squirming with life.

  Chrissy swatted roaches away from her.

  But it was too late for Alona. The others had charged in and buried her in their bodies.

  “Run!” she said. “For the love of God, Chrissy! Run!”

  Chrissy did as they began to pull her apart and open her up, bathing in her blood. She made it to the door and bolted right out into the hallway, just running with no set destination.

  Behind her, she heard Alona give out one last reedy scream.

  33

  Hot Tamale was alone.

  She did not know where Herb was or any of the others. And right then, she would have been glad to see even Tommy Kastle and his big goddamned mouth. Because she was in a real fix now. During the attack, after Herb had been separated from her, she’d run blindly, trying to escape and had ended up here, down in the cellar. She’d found a room. A small room that seemed defensible...and then the floor had given out, plunging her into the blackness below.

  She had lost her shotgun.

  Had nothing but some roadflares now in their waterproof containers.

  She was in the cellar, she supposed, the water right up to her waist. The room was long and narrow and the only door she’d found was wedged tight, swollen in its frame, no doubt. So she waited there in the flooded darkness with a flare in her hands, the sputtering flame throwing jumping, greasy shadows in every direction.

  Yes, just her.

  And the beetles.

  She could feel them in the water. Nipping, scratching, cold and oily. They were whipping through the air like flying gravel, seeking soft flesh and warm blood to torment. They got into her hair and worried at her throat. Only the flare drove them off.

  The beetles made another run at her, buzzing and whirring. She ducked her head under, kept only the flare above the water.

  She surfaced then, drenched and shivering and filthy with mud. The storm of beetles was gone. She pulled a few stragglers off her arm, searching frantically around for shelter, for an oasis, but there was none to be had. She had to get out of here. Somewhere out of the reach of the water and the beetles.

  Something bumped into her and she screamed.

  The drifting corpse of child.

  It was dead, thankfully. She shoved it away and splashed in the other direction, not liking the idea of it being near her.

  She waited then, peeling beetles off herself like ticks. They were not so offensive or aggressive when they were not swarming. It was something. She kept wondering what would happen when she used her last flare up.

  Don’t think about it.

  Steeling herself, she moved further into the room. More corpses. Just floating and lifeless, but offensive all the same. That’s what this room was, a river of floating debris and beetle-covered corpses now.

  She felt something brush by her in the water, something undulating and smooth. She let out a cry, stumbled to the side, thinking there was a big snake in the water. And although Hot Tamale was not afraid of many things, snakes were one of them. She caught a glimpse of something that roiled the surface, something squirming and whipping. It rose up, dusky and shiny and serpentine, like the tentacle of some abyssal squid, then simply slipped back into the drink.

  Hot Tamale could feel her heart in her throat, thudding like a tom tom.

  Noise.

  She whirled around, looking and searching and wishing to God she still had her shotgun. There was a rippling not fifteen feet behind her. The flickering yellow light from the flare reflected off the surface of the water which was black as gushing oil. The rippling became a whirlpool that grew and grew and then more of those snake-like tentacles rose up, whipping and slinking in a pulsing, busy net. They broke the surface like swamp roots. And then, from the center of that twisting helix, the form of a man rose up and up and up. He was dark and slimy like he’d been rubbed down with fat, his face utterly gray just as his eyes were utterly yellow.

  Hot Tamale screamed, diving and fighting away. She found herself beneath the hole that she’d fallen through. There was no way she could get back up there. Just no way. She looked around frantically. She could hear water running, see it flowing down the walls like a waterfall. Everything as ebon and still and lifeless as some waterlogged tomb.

  Jesus, what was that, what sort of thing was that?

  Think, she told herself, just think now. No time for anything else.

  She moved through the darkness slowly, carefully like some miner in a flooded cavern. It was so dark she couldn’t see her own hands, let alone anything else. Bobbing things, biting things, refuse and just about anything that wouldn’t sink. She located the wall, planned on following it back to the door. She had to get it to open, she just had to. She guided herself forward, things crawling across her fingers, water dripping from above and running down her face like sweat.

  The doorway.

  There it was.

  It had to give, it just had to.

  Something brushed her leg and she screamed again, falling into the water, the flare going out. She came up, pulling another
one from her vest and lighting it by twisting the cap.

  There. Light.

  She moved forward with a half-swimming, half-falling sort of motion, the splashing water echoing like she was trapped in the bowels of a well. She found the wall again, sweaty flagstone, brushed against crates and barrels and shovels hanging from hooks. She kept going and going, moving in circles, but afraid to stand still.

  Her throat felt tight and scratchy and she began to sweat. It almost seemed that the darkness was pushing in closer around her and she told herself it was the stirrings of claustrophobia and nothing more—

  Then light.

  It exploded in the depths of the cellar and Hot Tamale had to put a hand up over her eyes it was so bright. But then she could see that she was at the far wall, nowhere near the doorway. The light was coming from a gas lantern hanging on a peg near where she’d fallen through. It flickered with a jumping amber light.

  But somebody had lit it, somebody had…

  She didn’t see anyone, though. Just that filthy water sliding around her like those tar pits that drowned animals and a few ripples. Ripples that were building, surging, rolling into swells and tides and breakers. Before her, a man rose up out of the murk and she screamed because she knew it was the one that was part squid and part man and altogether something inhuman.

  He stood there, that dark man, dressed in something like tanned, oily hides, dark as snakeskin, that seemed to quiver and convulse like they were connected to some arcane musculature. He wore a shroud beneath. His eyes were yellow coins, his face gray and seamed and skullish. The skin was beaded and shiny like a lizard pelt.

  “Who…who the hell are you?” she managed. “What do you want?”

  The dark man just stood there, the water around him busy and rippling and roiling. All those tentacles were working and bunching. He glided forward as if something below was towing him and Hot Tamale let out a cry, trying to dash away, but something tripped her up and when she fought out of the water she was less than two feet from him, those eyes burning into her head like embers as something coiled around her legs like heavy cables. The dark man towered over her, staring and staring until her bladder let go with a hot rush and her teeth chattered and something in her belly went loose like an uncoiled spring.

  She dropped the flare.

  The dark man’s face was covered in beetles as were his hands, they came out of his leathers and nostrils and mouth and then fell away one by one and there was a sudden spray of grume and mucus and vile blood and that face split asunder. In fact, it opened like a flower unfurling its petals so that the buds and blossoms could be marveled over. Hot Tamale saw something like a profusion of tendrils nested together and then they, too, stretched and writhed and opened and there were tentacles…three tentacles, smooth and scummed with jelly and just a bright, vibrant red like fresh spilled blood.

  Hot Tamale began to understand then.

  This was the Devil. This was Satan. This was what had taken command of the legions of the dead.

  “The Devil,” she said, shivering and mad at the sight of him.

  She began to recite the Lord’s Prayer, but the dark man just laughed.

  “No, not the Devil,” he said. “My name…say it.”

  “I…I don’t…”

  “Say it.”

  She told herself she did not know his name, but she did. Just like she understood that what he was, what lived in his flesh was not the memory of a man, but something else.

  “Say it,” the dark man demanded.

  Hot Tamale gasped, images and ideas and arcane philosophies raging through her brain in hot bolts as her willpower and individuality went to a white, bubbling sauce.

  “You…you are Weerden,” she said almost mechanically. “You are Alardus Weerden and you died in 1627.”

  “Yes, until my grave was desecrated.”

  One of those bloated ruby-red tentacles had her around the throat now and another kissed her eyes shut and the third forced itself down her throat, expanding like the stinging tendril of a jellyfish until she gagged and asphyxiated and went still, sliding limp and dead into the black waters.

  The lantern on the peg went out with a hiss.

  34

  Something was going on.

  Chrissy heard the sound of gunfire and voices and smelled fire. Flashes of light and booming sounds. A stench of death and burning flesh wafted up the stairs. It had been getting dark, but now there was light coming up from below.

  She raced over to the stairs and almost made it made it.

  Except that Grimshanks came drifting up the stairs to meet her, grinning with those gnarled yellow teeth that pushed past his blubbery lips. His face was white and oily, set with a multitude of tiny scars where he had knitted himself back together again. His eyes were huge, bulging from those black harlequin diamonds that contained them. They were glistening pale eggs set with a tracery of purple veins, eggs that were pulsing and ready to hatch. His orange-and-yellow checked suit was filthy with dried blood and black goo and streaks of grime, bits of things that might have been tissue. The bells twinkled on his cap and tiny red beetles swarmed out of his mouth and skittered over his bloated face.

  He held his white puffy hands out to her. “Chrissy-pissy pudding pie! Where do you think you’re going? That’s not for you down there…not for you.”

  Chrissy wanted to run, but the strength just bled from her. There was nothing left to run with or fight with. There was only a bitter acceptance of what the clown would do which would be horrible to the extreme. He stared at her with those awful veined, slimy eyes. Tiny pustules were set in them and they began to break open one by one, running with a foul-smelling pus. Yes, he looked at her and in her and she saw graveyards in her mind, gallows…the places Grimshanks knew and knew very well. More, she saw little boys screaming. Little boys chained to cobwebbed basement walls and hanging by hooks, cut and slit and worked by knives. Hanging from ropes and being shoveled into shallow graves.

  Yes, those eyes had her and they would not let her go.

  They were the eyes of wolves that waited for little girls in dark forests, hungry and malevolent and ruthlessly vulpine. The eyes of wolves that devoured grandmothers and waited in their beds with slavering jaws and perverse dark minds. The eyes of slimy, deranged little men that seduced little boys into fields and lonely thickets with the promise of sweets. And mostly, they were the eyes of something born in the depths of hell. The eyes of a dead and obscene thing that had been born in the drainage and corpse-slime of the grave.

  Chrissy opened her mouth to protest, but nothing came out.

  Grimshanks jetted forward with a blast of fetid, hot wind. He hit her and knocked her onto her back and then he fell on her, his jaws opening wider and wider until they were wide enough, it seemed, to swallow the world. They closed over her throat gently but firmly. Not with enough strength to even break the skin. He picked her up like a wolf picks up a pup and drifted off, bringing her into another dark room and dropping her on the floor.

  “Chrissy-pissy, alone at last and with no interruptions,” he said and his breath in her face smelled like tombs.

  Stretched out beneath him, her mind swam in and out of focus. She felt those bloated hands running up and down her, walking over her like spiders, pausing to squeeze her breasts and poke at her belly, stroke down between her legs. Several candles set in holders atop a table suddenly lit up, filling the room with a guttering yellow-orange glare. And this is what the clown wanted, not some fumbling violation in the dark, but an illuminated and precise defilement that she would have to look upon as her mind went to a soup of ruin.

  He opened her shirt with his fingers and the feel of his flesh against hers is what jerked her fully awake. It was like cold, wet meat, a slime of jelly coming from his fingertips. His face was right above her own, huge and bulbous and grotesque like some fleshy Halloween pumpkin. Up close, she could see not just the pink threading of scars in that porous white flesh, but the numerous tiny ho
les made by parasites and worms. His entire face, up close like that, was covered in fine, minute webbing of silk like caterpillars or spiders had spun a fine cocoon over it. Things squirmed and wriggled just under the flesh. His tongue came out and it was black and horribly swollen, too fat, it seemed, for his mouth. Her drew it along her neck and its touch burned like lye.

  She screamed.

  Screamed with everything she had and all that did was made him grin. Make vile secretions run from his face and red beetles run out of his nostrils. Yes, and it made his cock thicken and lengthen under his suit, pressing against her belly.

  “You will beg for death, you sweet little cunt,” Grimshanks whispered in her contorted face. “You will beg for old Grimshanks to slit your throat! But he won’t! Not until he’s done! Not until you’ve tasted his seed and felt him pushing inside your hot sweetness and filling your ass, splitting it wide and bloody! You will scream and scream, Chrissy-pissy, just as I screamed when the clowns took me in that cold, dripping cellar! You’ll know what I knew! You’ll know every awful, breathless minute of it! And how you’ll cry for your mommy and daddy, but they can’t help you! They’ll never hear you! Because your mine, every luscious inch of you is mine to toy with and soil and torment! Mine, mine, mine!”

  She felt those hands on her, felt his cock against her, the stink and gelid feel of him, the absolute depravity and degeneration of his worm-holed mind, that seething pit of child bones and smoldering innocence where the boogeyman lived and where little boys and girls died a foul, perverted death.

  Her shirt open, her breasts laid bare, Grimshanks planted a line of stinging kisses from her sternum to her belly. Each one was a separate agony. And she could just image what it would feel like to have that engorged and rancid penis inside her, how it would burn and tear.