Dying Days Ultimate Box Set 1

by Armand Rosamilia

  “Relax, Lucifer,” Baptiste said, placing his arm around the taller man. “It matters not what brought you to God, that you are a man of faith is without doubt. The means hold importance but it is the outcome which ultimately decides our fates. Come, I have a gift for you.”

  Lucifer followed. It was easy to keep up as the advanced age of the cardinal had him moving at a slow and steady shuffle.

  Baptiste went into his room and then his closet; he came out with a package wrapped in red velvet, held in place with a golden rope. He opened the package and drew the scabbard away from the blade.

  “This is for you,” Baptiste said turning, handing the deadly weapon to his subordinate.

  “A sword, your Eminence?” Lucifer asked unsure of what his response should be. He’d avoided weapons his entire life. His father had a collection of guns worthy of any small militia and Lucifer had decided from an early age whatever his father did he would not. He had not so much as shaken a stick in mock battle.

  “Not just any sword, Lucifer. It is said that the Archangel Michael, himself, wielded this in battle with your namesake.”

  Lucifer’s face reddened. “Your Eminence he is not my name...” He said clearly flustered.

  “You really must learn to control your emotions, Lucifer. I am playing with you merely because I can elicit this reaction from you so easily.”

  Lucifer clamped his lips tight, he had a nasty reply all lined up until he realized he was talking to the man that possessed the ear, as it were, to the man upstairs.

  “Even now, my words have moved you precariously close to what you feel will be an abysmal mistake. Oh, you’re a fun one, Lucifer. But this is no laughing matter,” he said, handing the blade to the other man.

  Lucifer was amazed at how seemingly light the heavy looking weapon felt in his hand. A low electric current seemed to thrum through his hand and up his arm as he held it. He could feel the power of the blade, the ability to deal death with it.

  “What is this I am feeling?” Lucifer asked the Cardinal.

  “Ah, so my vision was true. That’s not always the case. It would have been awkward me asking for that back, no?” he asked.

  Lucifer looked at Baptiste questioningly.

  “Michael himself came to me last week; at least I believe it to have been Michael. It is not for us mere mortals to gaze upon an angel’s countenance. They always show up with this large, brilliant, blazing halo behind them, making the ability to see their faces impossible. A little suspect, if you ask me, like they have something to hide. I have seen God, and Jesus had the grace to walk among us, yet angels remain elusive, makes you wonder who’s really in charge,” he said, once again smiling at Lucifer. “Stop looking at me that way; it’s not blasphemy to wonder,” the Cardinal added.

  “I’ve never seen any of them, your eminence.”

  “Oh, you will now, I would imagine. I’m not sure if I’ve actually given you a gift or a curse. When Michael said I should give this blade to Lucifer, I was unsure of exactly how he thought I would achieve those ends. Then I got scared, thinking he knew something I didn’t. I had a few transgressions in my younger life but nothing I haven’t paid penance for. It was the next day I saw your name on the visiting lists. I’m not the shiniest bead on the rosary but I figured it out quick enough.”

  “What...what am I supposed to do with it?” Lucifer asked.

  “Mete out justice, I would suppose,” the Cardinal told him.

  * * * * *

  Lucifer walked over to the wall and grabbed the sword; the same strange unearthly feeling coursed in his hand, up his arm and then radiated out through the rest of him. He felt both stronger and more afraid as he held it aloft. Stronger because he had a weapon with which to defend himself and more afraid because of what he was going to have to do with the magnificent blade.

  “Do you wish to confess your sins my child?” Lucifer asked through the door. A subtle scraping of fingernails on wood was the only reply. “I will take that as a yes,” Lucifer said softly, as he blew out a big breath. He turned the lock with an audible click; the door pushed open, nearly sending the Monsignor onto his ass. Randy Something-Or-Other stepped across the threshold, his eyes fixated on Lucifer’s. Blood, gore and viscera stained in roped clumps down the front of Randy’s shirt and pants.

  Randy’s outstretched bloody hands grabbed hold of Lucifer’s shoulder and began to pull him closer into his snapping brown-green teeth. Lucifer’s eyes grew wide in fright as he attempted to pull back; the demon before him was stronger than he had any right to be. The stench that issued forth from Randy’s mouth nearly made the Monsignor swoon as he was pulled closer to that death dealing maw. He saw bits of bone and hair swirling around in the back of the monster’s throat as it attempted to swallow the vile concoction.

  “Do you wish to atone for your sins?” Lucifer asked. He waited as patiently as he could for a response, given the circumstances. When one was not forthcoming, he brought the point of the sword up and through the soft part underneath Randy’s chin. The monsignor watched as the blade easily parted the skin of the tongue and broke through and into the upper palate. Randy was still chomping away; Lucifer kept getting staccato nightmarish bursts of the blade in Randy’s mouth as the orifice opened and closed. He pushed up harder and into brain tissue. Randy immediately became rigid, twitched violently and fell over, ripping the blade and a fingernail free from the monsignor.

  He quickly did a small blessing before reaching down to pull the blade free. He felt naked, somehow, without the feel of it in his hand. He looked up in time to see another demon at his doorway. This one had a name, Christopher Dumers, 250 pounds of pure jolliness. The boy had been born with a moderate case of Down’s syndrome. Since the age of 13, he had come into the church to pray; he was now going on 24, if the monsignor’s memory served him right. Mostly he just stared at the votive candles but that was okay as well. At the church social functions, he was always happy and loved to meet and talk with whomever would come his way.

  The Monsignor had often wondered what Christopher prayed about when he came in and had finally, just last month, had an opportune time to ask. Christopher had his hands clasped behind his back and was staring raptly at the burning candles. His body moving slightly from side to side as if in a breeze only he could feel.

  “Hello Christopher, how are you today?” Lucifer had asked.

  “I’m well,” he’d answered, after a pause, as he came back from his trance.

  “Would it be too private, Christopher, if I asked what you prayed for every day that you come here?”

  Christopher paused even longer than when he had originally responded; he turned so he was facing the Monsignor. “I pray that the man screaming for help deep inside of me will finally come out.” And then not another word as he turned back towards the candles as if he’d said nothing at all.

  Lucifer stepped back, now more confused than before he’d asked the question.

  * * * * *

  “It looks like your prayers were answered Christopher,” Lucifer said standing tall. Randy’s gray brain matter slid off the point of the blade as he brought it up. Christopher advanced slowly, his feet barely lifting as he ambled in. Lucifer held the blade horizontally to the floor. Christopher walked into it; the blade parted the fabric of the superman logo adorned shirt and slid into his voluminous stomach. He paid it no heed as he moved still closer. “God help me,” Lucifer admonished as Christopher paid no attention. The sword traveling deeper within, as the point pierced his stomach lining and spleen. It finally came to a rest as it lodged against his spine. Christopher’s hands, reaching desperately for the Monsignor, were held away only by the steel severing his spine.

  Lucifer doubted the mystical qualities of the blade as Christopher continued his onward march, oblivious to the death that was awaiting him. The monsignor heard noise down the hallway; more of the demons spawned from his parishioners were coming.

  “The charity basket is going to be light th
is week,” he said sacrilegiously, a grim grin twisting his mouth. He quickly extracted the blade, wondering if the only way to kill the boy was the same way he had done Randy in. Christopher moved when the opportunity presented itself; the Monsignor was not quick enough to bring the steel up and under. Instead, it caught the side of Christopher, tearing through the soft skin of his neck, arterial spray pumped out from the deep wound, muscles retracted like a broken rubber band, one side curling up to his scalp the other towards his shoulder. Christopher’s head lolled to the side but his initial single-minded pursuit was not diminished.

  Lucifer recovered, stepped back a pace. He pulled the blade back like he would his bat in the summer softball league. He swung for the fences, his arms barely jumping as the steel bit into and through Christopher’s neck bones. The head smacked wetly to the floor, Christopher’s teeth chomped two more times before they finally froze in place.

  “It’s the head. It’s the head,” the monsignor said much too excitedly. “Are they vampires?” he asked, wondering who might give him a response. He knew the tales well enough, but these didn’t seem to fit any of the descriptions that had been ingrained in him. “What then? What is this abomination?”

  His organ player, Kaitlin Meehan, was next. This was the first time he’d really wished he’d taken the other priests advice and started using ‘canned’ music. The woman could be prickly and was most certainly a diva but her fingers were pure magic upon the instrument with which she played. But now those talented digits were curled into claws and the only thing they wanted to play with was his flesh.

  “Oh Kaitlin, I’ve loved you in a way that a man of the cloth is not supposed to. If ever there was woman that made the flesh weak, it’s you. I can’t bear the thought of harming you,” he said as Kaitlin approached.

  At one time, he had wished for and prayed against her ever coming down to his rectory. She stirred something deep and primal within him, something that he hoped would be extinguished by his vestments. If anything, his desire for her had smoldered these many years. This though, this was never how his dreams had gone.

  “Please stop,” he said weakly, as he stepped behind his desk. She walked into the front of it, pushing it back slightly and into his legs. “I would have left the church for you,” he pleaded. “All you had to do was say the word.”

  Kaitlin gurgled in response.

  “Not quite the word I was waiting for,” he told the snarling woman before him. Kaitlin was slowly but surely pushing the heavy desk backwards. Eventually, she would pin Lucifer against the wall. He bent down and reached into his drawer, grabbing a small vial. He opened it and shouted, “Vade exiit daemonium! (be gone demon) Ego te exocise! (I exorcise you).” He tossed the Holy Water onto Kaitlin’s face; he’d been expecting something much more dramatic, like the melting of her face. All he got her was wet. He’d never been involved in an exorcism; he’d just hoped that the words would pull whatever was in possession of her forward so he could cast it out. The desk moved further back.

  Lucifer turned the blade sideways and struck her head hard with the flat of the blade. She recoiled to the left, blood oozed from the split he’d caused. When she righted herself, her eyes blazed with hatred. Red lines stretched out from her iris like worms leaving blood trails. Her reaching arms were inches from the monsignor’s throat.

  Lucifer brought the sword up in a defensive measure; he cut off her thumb and index finger. Blood shot out, splattering his face. He felt the blood wriggle for a moment on his skin before it stilled. He feared, if she was ever freed from whatever contained her, she’d always hate him for her disfigurement. It was the thought of her despising him that spurred him on as he thrust the sword into her chest plate. His arm rocked from the shock of shattering the heavy bone. She snarled and tried to move closer but she was wedged tight.

  Lucifer used all his force to push her back with the blade. She yielded ground, begrudgingly. He came out from behind his desk, trying to extend his Kaitlin wielding arm as far as possible. He grimly thought how this new treat would work at this year’s church function. ‘Parishioner on a stick.’ He kept pushing until she was out of his office. He closed the door as far as the blade would allow, and then he withdrew the sword, slamming the door shut; the popping air sound, as Kaitlin’s body closed around the wound, was nearly deafening.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, as he rested his head against the wood.

  He didn’t know when he’d fallen asleep or for how long he’d been out; all he knew was that he was thirsty beyond words. He turned to look out his window. It was then he noticed a large group of the altered beings heading down the street.

  “Where are they going?” he croaked through his dry and parched throat. He moved quickly to his door, fearful that his forbidden love would still be waiting for him with her cold embrace. He opened the door slowly and stepped back, his sword up and ready to end that which could not be.

  The only things still there were the bodies he’d already slain. He moved cautiously down the hallway and back into the church. Even with an empty stomach, he was compelled to purge the bile that arose as he looked upon those that had been eaten. Strings of the brown fluid hung from his mouth as he moved further down the center aisle. He opened the large double doors, light streamed in, oblivious to the nightmares it now illuminated.

  Lucifer watched as more and more of the things turned down at the end of the street. “South, they’re going south,” he said. “Why?” He had no idea as he gazed upon his sword. The shadowy Baptiste had given him this sword for a purpose even he couldn’t divine. There was a purpose there and he knew it. “A great evil has been unleashed; I will do all in my power to thwart it,” he said as he reluctantly plodded after the mob.

  Dying Days: Angel

  Tim Baker

  Angel Godwin watched her neighbor’s undead body tumble over the rail and fall silently through the air. When it reached the second floor, his head connected with the low wall separating the stairs from the living room. She winced at the crack and watched his brain splatter all over the sculpture of an Irish wolf hound. The body tumbled down the stairs and came to rest on the ground floor. His left leg bent back at the hip so his outer thigh was pressed against his ear.

  “Next time, leave my mail in the box where it belongs,” she yelled down to his corpse, her voice echoing through the house.

  She pushed away from the rail and walked around the mezzanine toward the stairs.

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” she muttered to herself. “No means no, whether you’re alive or…or whatever the fuck they call this…” she waved a hand in the air. “…undead or whatever.”

  Halfway down the stairs to the second floor, she stopped and cocked her head. Was that the sound of movement or was her mind just messing with her? She leaned over the rail and listened.

  No doubt about it…movement from the first floor, the sound of Steve’s body landing at the bottom of the stairs must have attracted some of his undead friends. The shuffling footsteps were coming up the stairs. She gaged the distance between herself and the front door…then compared it to the location of the new guests coming up the stairs.

  If she sprinted for it and didn’t fall down the stairs or trip halfway across the floor, she might be able to make it.

  Rather than waste time thinking, she sprinted for it. She took the rest of the stairs two-at-a-time. When she was at the third step from the bottom, she leapt through the air and landed cleanly. Her mind replayed every horror movie she had ever seen where the girl trips and falls at the most inopportune moment, and she willed herself to stay on her feet.

  The frosted glass of the front door was less than twenty feet away; the zombies from the basement reached the top step and spotted her. She could beat them to the door—but was the deadbolt locked?

  She tried to remember whether she had locked it, but she was struck with a new panic. A shadow moved outside the door. She skidded to a stop and stared through the door.

  Muted figures
shuffled on the porch outside the door. More undead—no question.

  The neighborhood had been overrun hours ago and anybody who was still alive had bugged out when they could.

  If Steve hadn’t trapped her on the third floor, she would have been gone too.

  * * * * *

  Earlier in the day, he had stopped by to return the mail that had been “accidentally” left in his mailbox…an occurrence which seemed to happen all too frequently. After he went through his usual dialogue about how they were both alone and what a great idea it would be for them to get to know each other better, Angel politely told him she wasn’t interested. Usually he took it well, but not this time. This time he seemed almost angry when he asked her who she was saving it for.

  After a brief tirade, he stormed off, slamming the door behind him. She followed him to the door and engaged the dead bolt to prevent him from reentering the house. Before he made it down the front stairs, she heard him screaming—a high-pitched wail that sent a shiver through her entire body.

  Had he fallen down the stairs?

  She peered through the glass and watched as a zombie sank his teeth into Steve’s face. Suddenly, the world was upside-down and some primitive instinct kicked in. She didn’t try to process what she was seeing…instead, she immediately accepted it as the new reality and her mind switched tracks to survival mode in the blink of an eye.

  She scrambled through the house, locking doors and windows. In the garage, she took the Louisville Slugger she had used during her college softball days…silently hoping she still had the stroke that had won her the MVP award of the state championship. She took a practice swing and shrugged. It would be close enough for zombies. Then she ran up the stairs to her bedroom on the third floor.

  She stood in the middle of the bedroom, her mind working at a fever pitch to formulate a plan.