by M. F. Wahl
“You don’t have to do this. I can—”
“No. He’s the only one I had left in the world, the only person that mattered. Go be with your three treasures and leave me. The last thing I can do for my son now is to prepare his body for final rights.”
Julie nods, unable to say anything helpful. Hannah’s grief worn eyes stare back at her.
“I need to be alone with him now,” she says.
The door clicks shut behind Julie. Hannah lifts the railroad spike and hovers the point above her son’s forehead. Her hand quakes, unable to touch the rusty point to Jamal’s ashen skin.
***
Alex doesn’t think he can run much longer. It feels like he’s been running forever, and the twins are still in staunch pursuit. Ahead, a large log lies in his path. He leaps, his drained body making its best effort, but it isn’t good enough. His foot tangles in undergrowth and he sprawls to his hands and knees, his palms scraping rocks. Six feet ahead is a jagged ledge with a steep drop.
The twin with one arm clears the log without effort, landing directly behind Alex. The second creature gets its leg jammed between branches.
The one-armed creature hooks its fingers around Alex’s knapsack and drags him backward. Alex twists, tries to hit the thing with Casey’s bat. Teeth whisper by his ear and he smacks the ghoul’s face away just in time, then swivels out of his knapsack, leaving One-Arm with its cotton and rayon prize.
There’s no other place left to go but back. Alex rolls between the first creature’s legs, bat still in hand and comes face to face with No-Nose, trapped by the log.
He rams the butt of the bat into the thing’s face. Its head snaps back giving Alex the split second he needs to scramble to his feet and leap away, back over the log.
He soars above No-Nose and the creature snags his ankle. Alex crashes to the ground, his teeth rattling in his head. He flips gymnastically around, wrenches his leg away and clambers backward.
One-Arm, no longer suckered by the knapsack, rockets over the other creature and dives for Alex. Alex grunts, slamming both of his feet into the thing’s face. Lips split and teeth cascade from the front of the ghoul’s mouth, the blow sending it flying back into its brother.
Alex races to his feet and sprints away, running blindly. Another steep drop unfolds before him. At the bottom is a rocky streambed, muddied by the rain and as bereft of life as the two corpses hot on his heels.
Alex slides in the gravelly loam beneath his feet, the worn treads of his shoes unable to grip. One-Arm hits with the weight of a freight truck and they slam forward, skidding over rocks and branches, sliding to a stop just before plunging over the side of the drop. Chunks of dirt and rock spray downward, landing twenty feet below.
Alex shoves at the creature on top of him, snorting with the effort, using Casey’s bat to hold it at bay, and is able to swing himself on top of the ghoul. The thing struggles relentlessly, its jaws opening and closing around the ash wood separating it from a late afternoon meal.
The second twin, at last free from the log, tackles. Alex is sandwiched between rotten flesh. The force of the impact is so great it knocks the wind out of him and the ground beneath the three gives way. Casey’s bat flies down the slope, along with One-Arm. The creature spins and bounces, hitting rocks that break bones as it smashes to the bottom.
Alex plummets over the side of the ledge, directly toward One-Arm. He flails, grasping at loose dirt and mud. A rock strikes his ribcage, nearly bruising his lungs and he gasps, involuntarily trying to regain his breath as soil and dust clog his airway. His fingers drag across hard, wet earth unable to find purchase.
As he plunges toward certain death, Alex wraps a hand around a tree root and he grips it with all his strength. His descent abruptly comes to an end, almost tearing his arm from its socket. He dangles from the root halfway down the slope. The thing below frantically tries to climb, its rotten smile welcoming Alex into hell.
Above him, No-Nose, somehow avoiding the fall, hungrily dances back and forth.
Alex pants, his bruised ribs are a nuisance. His feet dangle like tasty meat pies, just out of One-Arm’s reach as he clings to the side trying to regain his breath.
Slowly he pulls himself up the slope, seeking out roots and rocks, dragging himself up hand over hand. The muddy slope is slippery and threatens to throw him into the gullet of the ghoul below.
No-Nose trots back and forth waiting impatiently for its food to crest. The creature almost looks as though it’s smiling with glee—there’s nothing quite like delivery. Alex carefully nears the top, stopping just out of the thing’s reach. He eyes it, clear, alert, and focused. Try a little harder, Alex.
With bleeding fingers gripped firmly around a protruding rock he waves a hand, antagonizing the creature above him. The creature throws itself to the ground, its long, nearly unscathed arms stretch down.
Alex dodges a dirty hand. As No-Nose bellows with displeasure he grabs one of the creature’s wrists and, with a grunt, pulls with all his strength. The monster’s grotesque, twisted face passes a hair’s width from the boy as it spills over the side.
As it thrashes by, the creature snags Alex’s foot. It hangs by one hand, unconcerned with staying its fall, but trying desperately to latch onto its meal. The weight of the creature is that of a full-grown man and it stretches Alex to the point where he feels like he’s ripping in half. The rock he holds on to wobbles in the dirt.
Alex kicks at the creature frantically with his free foot. It claws at him, trying to climb his leg, its teeth close on his shoe, but it gets nothing but a mouthful of worn canvas. The shoe slides away from Alex’s foot and No-Nose tumbles down the slope to join its brother.
Sweating and over-exerted, Alex lugs himself the rest of the way up the embankment. Safe at the top he falls to the dirt, gasping for air, grimacing with each breath, his bruised ribs paining him.
For a few minutes he can’t move. He lies on his back, shielding his eyes from the rays of sunlight that push through the trees. They grow so bright he has to look away. Finally, he peeks his face back over the ledge. Far below, the twins paw at the sides of the creek bed, too stupid to know how to climb. They turn their ugly, gnarled faces toward Alex and groan inhumanly, hungry for his flesh.
Just over the side, Alex notices Casey’s bat caught up in some weeds. He reaches for it. With his fingertips he’s able to grasp the handle and pull the weapon up. Now all he needs is his knapsack.
***
Lot gazes over the sea of people, squashed together like sardines. There are so many that proceedings had to be moved from the meeting room to the hotel’s modest banquet area.
Children lean in on tiptoes for a better look. After her last performance, word traveled on horseback, rumor on wings and almost every single person in the community is here, waiting with baited breath.
Over the past few hours heated debates and arguments swirled. Unanswered questions allowed conjecture and assumption to reign supreme. How can something like this happen here? What kind of monster would hurt a defenseless child? What if it had been my child instead of that boy?
Anger rolls through the crowd like an oily soap bubble, coating everything it touches, ready to burst at any moment. It’s a distraction from the horror of the world beyond their refuge. The horror of loved ones that rise from the grave with empty stomachs and a taste for flesh.
But even in this world people crave justice, especially in this world. They need that clear-cut sense of right and wrong, something to latch onto, something to make them believe they have a chance. The people need this.
Opie extends his hand, stabilizing Lot as she climbs a homemade pulpit. As she looks down on her subjects, it feels like coming home. It’s been years now since she addressed a crowd from a stage, but back then it came so naturally. Lonely, lost people flocked to her guiding hand in droves. The hand that would mold them, that would shape them into the person they thought they should be. This will be no different.
Lot
slowly caresses the crowd with her gaze. A fire is already raging here, and she barely needs to add fuel. In fact, if she were to throw Danny into the crowd at this very moment they would probably tear him limb from limb.
She can see it now, the mass of people closing in on him as he lie helplessly in the middle, their greedy hands outstretched, eager to deliver punishment. Their eyes so clouded with fear and anger and hate that they can see nothing else. Slow and coddled minds would rest easily with the knowledge that they are doing the right thing.
The Mass would kick and grab and pull and bite. They would sink fingers into Danny’s writhing body and pull up huge bleeding, lumpy ribbons of flesh. They would tear at each other’s clothes, drunk on justice, bare skin rubbing on bare skin and The Mass would throb. Bloodlust would take over and Danny would be devoured as she stood on her pulpit, watching, filled with the light of pleasure.
Lot’s thoughts swing back into reality and her flight of fancy falls away, leaving an aching hole in its place. The angry, sweaty face of The Mass is turned up at her and a grumbling chant rides a building wave.
“Slay the brute. Spill his blood. Crush his skull. Do him in. Slay the brute. Spill his blood. Crush his skull. Do him in.”
19
Lot thrusts her powerful voice upon The Mass, her tone faltering beneath impassioned chanting. “Slay the brute. Spill his blood. Crush his skull. Do him in.” But, little by little The Mass submits, allowing Lot’s words to embrace it, and it responds, quivering, awaiting command.
Lot grips the pulpit with her good hand. Her other hand is clenched, hidden in the homemade sling strapped around her shoulders. The muscles where Danny hit her with the bat are swollen and purple, crushed and wailing. Her fist brings tears that shimmer in her eyes and are reflected in kind by the light of many lanterns and candles. Hands emerge from The Mass, they stretch out, fingers gently whisper at the hem of her skirt and she smiles, so giving, so loving.
The hum slowly dies down and the silence left in the room is deafening. Lot wipes her eyes and stares out across the glut of faces.
“I have failed you. I have misused your trust for my own selfish reasons.”
Pockets of noise erupt, but quiet down quickly. She clears her throat. “Stepping up here to admit to you my failings is one of the hardest things I have had to do in my entire life. I covered up, I manipulated, I turned a blind eye. I allowed a disease to grow among us—to masquerade as one of us. Danny—”
The Mass screams. Pure rage shakes the walls, echoing in on itself. Lot raises a hand and it quiets, obeying its master. “My Danny, my little boy, my son. I am guilty of putting my love for him above all else, and now Alex, an innocent, a nine-year-old child, has been murdered by one of the most shameful predators in existence.
“Alex came to us for help, for safety, and instead fell into the clutches of The Beast. We will never know the indignities that poor little Alex suffered at his hands, but we know he did suffer, and he shouldn’t have.”
Whispering filters toward Lot as The Mass croons like a well-tuned violin in her skilled hands.
“It may be Danny who physically committed such hateful acts, but I should be punished alongside him. If I hadn’t been too afraid to acknowledge his true nature, none of this would have come to pass, and so I stand here, ready and willing to receive your judgment and my punishment.”
A legion of eyes grips Lot as she steps down from the pulpit. With head hung low, she presses against The Mass, penetrating it. Hands, faces, bodies reach out to touch her, grasping, embracing, feeling, welcoming her in. She falls to her knees, sacrificing herself to the will of the many.
The Mass envelops Lot. Sporadic chanting dribbles through the air, its sound slowly and powerfully building. Inside, hot breath and bodies drape her in a living robe and she is cocooned in the flesh of her followers. The Mass lifts lovingly to her feet, crushing around her, every touch, every word, a symbol of forgiveness, which strips her of all sin and forges something new.
With a groan of effort the The Mass pushes out The Leader and she humbly takes her given place: the pulpit. She places her hand over her heart as a symbol of servitude, once again able to face her public.
The Mass cheers for its newly resurrected deity. Tears flow and hands pound against each other. A wave of chanting slowly becomes clear as voices synchronize. “Slay The Beast. Spill its blood. Crush its skull. Do it in. Slay The Beast. Spill its blood. Crush its skull. Do it in.”
As the chant thunders under the spackled ceiling, Lot looks down at Opie. He stands just off to the side, a dazed spectator, unsure of what he’s actually witnessing. He catches the flash of a covert smile. As the only one in the room not enchanted by Lot’s spell, and the knowledge of her true power makes him uneasy.
***
The courtyard was once well manicured for the pleasure of high paying guests that frequented the hotel. Now it’s a wild, luscious garden filled with blooming plants and supported by an ingenious irrigation system where nearly ripe tomatoes cling to dark green vines. Thick shadows, accentuated by the moon, are cast across row after row of fresh fruit and vegetables.
The garden is like a slice of Eden. The only outside area that’s safe. The fruits and vegetables that push and struggle on the top floor aren’t nearly as healthy as what grows here. Only a select few have the privilege of eating from this bounty.
All of this is lost on Hannah as she kneels in freshly turned earth. Streaks cut by tears shine through the mud on her face. Her hands and clothing are filthy with dirt. Three inches below the surface Jamal festers in the ground.
Hannah doesn’t know how or why the dead come back from the grave, she only knows everyone eventually does. There’s no telling how long, minutes or days, but she knows she’ll be here when her son comes back to her.
***
Alex slows his pace. It’s dark and the moonlight that filters through only serves to make the shadows swim around him. It was hard enough to navigate by himself during the day, avoiding hungry monstrosities and certain death, but now everything looks the same, and it has for a while.
FIND DANNY.
FIND DANNY.
Where am I?
Alex isn’t sure if he’s going in the right direction anymore. It’s as though the forest has morphed into a maze of smoke and mirrors with the fading sun. Dread slowly begins to circulate through his veins and with each step the awful poison grows stronger. He stops, his breath choked by the slithering of doubt.
Alone.
Alone.
Alone.
Should he stop? Should he turn back? Turn back… to where? Casey is gone. Danny is gone. Everyone is gone. Alex takes an uncertain step forward, the habit of walking driving him. He stops. He starts. His head jerks. Fear eats away at his brain.
He pushes through a wall of brush and stumbles as the forest spits him out into empty space. A long stretch of summer-baked grass, blinding white in the moon’s light, stretches out before him. Dotted across the landscape, dark figures drift aimlessly, their rotten eyes scanning for prey. Far in the distance stands the silhouetted hotel.
***
Candles light the long corridor, the dancing flames piercing Danny’s eyes. His head is pounding. Every noise, every smell, and especially the light, drills a hole straight into his skull. The greasy taste of the rag stuffed into his mouth turns his stomach. The rope tying it in place bites his cheeks and peels the skin from his lips.
Even worse than his head is his side. Under heavy guard Julie patched it up, enough to make sure he didn’t die in that cooler anyway, but she hadn’t spared him any painkillers. Every push and pull on his body sends strikes of agony through his very core, making his legs feel like wet noodles. The herd of stone-faced guards surrounding him prods their inmate forward. He can read it in their faces: it’s time for this monster to face the music.
Odd thoughts swirl through Danny’s pain addled mind. This is all there is, this moment. This is what has always been and what will be f
orever. Lot wins. Danny loses. Lot wins. Danny dies. Lot wins. Mentally he is already lying in a grave and all he can do is watch as he shovels dirt over his own body.
The voice of The Mass grows louder as they approach the hotel’s banquet hall. How many weddings had been held here? How many corporate retreats and snake oil seminars, carefully designed to part the public from their money? The people that stand in there now, had they once attended such events? Do they feel that twinge of familiarity as they stamp their feet and chant?
“Slay The Beast. Spill its blood. Crush its skull. Do it in.”
The thunderous voice of The Mass disgorges itself from the room as Danny’s captors open a door. Booing, hissing and chanting churn the hot air as he’s dragged forward. A tomato launches from The Mass, exploding over Danny’s face, its rotten funk sticking in thick chunks to his skin and hair.
Moon-eyed, Danny stares at the wall of faces that’s distorted in anger and disgust. He recognizes them all as they jeer and chant. Danny’s brain buzzes with fear and death. He can feel it, the yoke he’s worn for so many years is back, and tighter than ever. This is where he has always been, this room, since he can remember. This is his house.
The Leader, standing at her pulpit, makes a grandiose gesture, playing for the amusement of The Mass. She signals for two sets of guards to pull a hastily constructed platform forward. Cheering erupts. The Mass is hungry for entertainment.
Standing in the center of the platform is something that looks like a stunted cross nailed together from splintered planks of wood. Boards jut from the cross’ back forming a stabilizer that allows the device to angle back slightly.
Danny’s death murky eyes turn up toward the platform. The sight of the cross freezes his heart and perfect fear floods his very being as he’s dragged forward. The chant of The Mass grows to an even more fevered pitch.