by Alan Spencer
The veins under her arms grouped together. They writhed and breathed and lived separate from her. These things festered within her, but they lay dormant for the moment.
She asked Richard. “H-how long has it been?”
He was removed from his deep thoughts. “It’s been two hours. They haven’t busted through the hatch. They have no idea we’re here.”
“For how long…?”
“Yeah, for how long?” He smiled. “We’re going to survive this together.”
She said with disdain, “So we’re going to fight them?”
“That was the plan, if we can pull it off.”
Without any indication of it happening, their view went vertical. The end posts of the dock exploded, the columns crashing into the water. Claws and battering fists reached for them, the things shooting up from the water for the kill.
“Hold on!”
Faces peeked from the surface, wolfish snouts gushing mucous and spit. Zombies clasped onto floating rafters and reached out to them with bony fingers. Vampires scaled closer to them, their eyes buzzing with energy and bloodlust. But before anything could harm them, the dock completely capsized, dumping them into the water. Richard was lost in the rush of activity, and she spun backward in a forced flip and landed headfirst in the frothy blue waters. The salt water stung her eyes and the nasty taste burned her mouth, each compelling her to thrash back to the surface, though her body felt lead-heavy. Trying to reach the top, her arms and legs were clasped to pull her back down under. Many were zombies, their faces sloughing off in the busy waters. She couldn’t fight back. Her air was growing thin.
She was four sidestrokes from reaching air. She could see the light flicker on the surface, urging her on. Precious air she required. She shouted, spitting bubbles and froth and not getting any breaths. The zombies were peeling out her stitches with their teeth. Above her, wolves were seconds from pulling her down even deeper. Down deep for good. Vampires flanked east and west of her, their eyes glowing neon green and red as if paving the way for the others to locate her.
This is how I’m going to die.
Her vision blurred, the lack of oxygen limiting her impulses. She stopped batting her arms, so weak feeling.
A water-muffled shriek resounded feet from her. “Reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaagh!”
The projections shot out at the wolf, bringing it down into the water with her. They dug so deep into the wolf's body, turning it inside out. The beast was instantly dead. Next, the projections latched onto the incoming vampires’ necks and heaved them upward. The coils released the vampires, the whiplash effect snapping their necks. She could hear the break of spine and the scrape of vertebra against vertebra. In a whirlwind of action, the snakes wrapped around a collection of zombies’ necks and tore through them in one finalizing jerk. She opened her eyes to catch sight of a dozen rotting heads floating past her body to the top.
Richard grabbed hold of her and lifted her topside. She reached the surface, sucking in air. Her body reawoke, recharged by the gulps of air. The surface was covered in wave after wave of bodies swimming to reach them. Jeers, screams, barks, howls, cries of joy, threats and guttural belches dominated the air. Claps of bodies pounding water were deafening and rising. Hundreds surrounded them.
“We,” Richard gasped between breaths of air, “we have to keep fighting. They’ll devour us otherwise.”
They finally swam onto a muddy bank. Staying there for a moment, Addey studied him. He was stronger. Thicker. Blood flowed in abundance in his system. She could almost hear it, a subtle rush of fluids. His eyes were bloodshot, slowly turning red without the iris or the pupil.
“Can you move on your own?”
She struggled to her feet, and standing up shortly afterward, she answered his question. “Yes. Yes, I can.”
She was frightened at how much blood gushed from her legs from the broken stitching. It painted the rocks, painted everything she came in contact with. Richard eyed her body with savage intent. He was craving blood, and so was she. That’s why she was grateful when the first vampire shot out of the water after them. Midair, four projections exploded from her ribs and punctured the vampire in the chest, throat, heart and neck. He was sucked halfway of fluids, then desiccated and dry before he crashed onto the rocks.
“That’s it, Addey. Fight them!”
They raced to a level playing field. The courtyard was mixed with strewn monsters and humans alike, turned inside out, picked clean of worth, shot through and turned to pulp and mush. Addey made it a point to stomp on a wolf’s severed head, jelly and gore squishing out of every orifice. Her body was thick with coursing blood, her own and the vampire’s. She was becoming something other than herself. Creature. Abomination. Powerhouse.
The fleet was charging up the hill, hundreds wide, perhaps a thousand total. They raged closer, dangerously close, when Richard’s body shot out twenty projections, each wriggling and pulsing with muscles, the ends circular maws of gnashing, wild teeth. They crawled beneath her skin, shifting muscle and rooted to the bone. She could feel them at work.
Without her willing it, a projection exploded out from both her shoulders. Another set launched out of her wrists. Her femoral artery and jugular vein opened up to unleash another two. Four pairs crawled out from her lungs. Two out her back. She was a cannibalistic medusa monster.
Extending out ten feet, the living coils gouged out eyes, slit throats, rendered limbs from bodies. They were especially inclined to tear heads off. Forty had gone down, and not one monster had touched them. Richard’s form was buried under fleshy snakes writhing and attacking from all corners of his body. She couldn’t see him anymore. Now she couldn’t even see herself. Blood and severed limbs and breaking bones and cut-short screams became her world. The monsters kept coming in greater numbers. There was more blood coming, more sustenance to reap. Blood fattened her limbs, as did the muscles that circulated and fueled her creatures.
She caught Richard flanked from the back, six werewolves pounding him to the ground. The projections shot out to their hunched and hairy backs, but not before the wolves tore four of the creatures from his body, the snakes thrown across the courtyard, spewing gallons of blood and issuing a rasp-shriek of defeat: shaaaaa-reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeh!
He was wounded and tackled by dozens of mixed monsters, overwhelmed. She couldn’t do anything to help him, her body controlled by the creatures. Addey watched in mortal terror as Richard’s limbs were crudely removed from him until he was just a head and a torso.
“RICHARD!”
Her shouts did no good.
The man was dead.
She was surrounded.
But then the groups relented. Stepping back from her for an unknown reason, they departed to the edge of the ocean. Manning their boats, they filled up their vessels and took sail.
It wasn’t long before she felt the urge to leave with them. The human inside the monster wanted to keep fighting, but the lust for blood seized hold of her wits. The moment Richard was murdered, it seemed easier to let go of everything.
The monsters knew she was finally one of them, as did she.
Joining the throng, she boarded one of the ships. The scent of human beings drifted ever so faintly in the air. They used their insatiable lust for meat and blood as a compass and steered in the direction of the United States.
Epilogue
Ben Thompson glanced at his wristwatch. Eight o’clock in the morning. He was late for work, but certain circumstances hampered his routine. It was difficult owning a bar and bistro in the Wall Street area of Manhattan with such inconveniences happening on a regular basis. A boss couldn’t fire an employee for being late anymore, and an employee couldn’t always show up on time.
He offered the Brooklyn cabbie a twenty spot. “Hey, could you take me to The Home Stretch Pub any faster? I understand traffic’s a bitch, but…”
The cabbie steered the vehicle into the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel. The morning sun vanished and the artificial
strips of lighting took over for the sun. The oversize digital sign suspended up high read, Caution Two, ETA Five Minutes.
“Shit, shit, shit!” Ben pounded the seat. “I had a new manager interview at eight sharp, and now this comes up.”
Colby Denning, the cabbie, sympathized. “People stiff me when I take them to their destination late. I waste so much gas idling that I hemorrhage money. Hell, I’ve had a few close calls on the job. I lost a passenger during a Caution Three. A pack of wolves tore an old lady to pieces and dragged her into the sewers. They ripped her right out of the window like it was nothing. Kids across the street were playing hopscotch when it happened, and they were drenched in that woman’s blood. Disgusting. I didn’t get paid, and it wasn’t the first time that’s happened to me. I should start asking for down payments, you know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. We’ve gotta pay a ten percent protection tax to stay safe,” Ben huffed, “and we don’t stay safe. The government plays it off as our civic duty to actively fight the monster threat.”
“It’s bullshit,” Colby agreed. “I read in Time magazine that the government had a dozen islands housing these fucking abominations. They spent billions feeding them, kidnapping people to run the places, and stealing corpses from morgues and cemeteries and blood and tissue banks to keep ’em satisfied. Russia had three of the complexes. Mongolia had one. Peru had one. Alaska had four. Turkey built one a few years before their big escape. And Antarctica had two, if I’m remembering correctly.”
“It’s amazing,” Ben said, chiming in on the talk of government conspiracies. “Even Africa and all those third world countries have to deal with the bastards. Not only that, the government pigs stiff us with new gun-carrying laws. We’re required to carry guns now! There’s a goddamn curfew at sundown. Then you’ve got the monster sympathizers—”
“Goddamn hippies!”
“Goddamn ingrates,” Ben seconded. “When they have blood on their hands, then they can scrawl fancy phrases with markers on poster boards and then protest. Until then, they should shut the fuck up.”
Traffic slowed. It was bumper to bumper for easily half a mile. “Well, we’re stopped.”
The next overhead sign changed: Caution Two, ETA Three Minutes.
“Three minutes, buddy,” Colby announced. “I suggest you follow me. Let’s watch each other’s backs.”
Ben dug into his suit jacket for a .45 magnum. He didn’t leave home without it. Colby eyed the weapon and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, you’ll need more than that. This is Caution Two; not as bad as a Caution Three, though. That’s when you see everything—flying zombies to eight-armed vampires to three-headed werewolves. Their screech can deafen you. One time, the hairy bastards screamed, and my friend’s eardrums popped. It was like squashed tomatoes were spit out his ears, man.”
The cabbie stepped out of the car, motioning for Ben to follow him. “Now let’s move. I’m not dying today.”
Ben followed the man to his trunk. Everybody else parked was doing the same, many carrying twelve-gauge shotguns, semiautomatic rifles, full-out M-16s, Uzis, and AK-47s. The strange scene of commuters, businessmen and teenagers alike aiming weapons ahead of them in the tunnel didn’t help that sinking feeling in Ben’s stomach.
“You look pale,” Colby said. “This will make you feel better.”
Colby popped open the trunk. Ben gasped, taken aback by the armaments. Three sawed-off double-barrel shotguns and three Uzis. “Impressed?”
“Uh, yeah.” Ben laughed. “I think you’re my permanent cabbie from now on.”
The firing line tensed. Everybody kept their eyes and muzzles trained ahead of them. Shrieks and dog calls, howls and shrills, then vampires cackling and laughing and shouting out their hunger for blood repeated. It was level two, Ben realized, because there were no zombies in this attack. He would’ve smelled them by now.
Caution Two, ETA Thirty Seconds.
Colby handed him an Uzi. “If you get nervous, just remember one thing.”
Ben attempted a calming breath. “Yeah, and what’s that?”
“You can never go wrong by shooting them in the head.”
About the Author
Alan Spencer spends an inordinate amount of time watching horror movies, writing film reviews for Cinesploitation, and creating new ways to kill people on the page. Protect All Monsters is his fourth novel published with Samhain Publishing. He's released other novels, including The Three Days, Washing Machine Holocaust, and Death Depot. The author loves e-mails, so please show some love at [email protected], or visit his blog at horroralan.blogspot.com.
Look for these titles by Alan Spencer
Now Available:
B-Movie Reels
B-Movie Attack
Psycho Therapy
Off of the screen and out for blood!
B-Movie Reels
© 2012 Alan Spencer
Andy Ryerson, a film school graduate, has been hired to write commentary on two dozen cheap, b-horror movies. It seems harmless enough, and he might even enjoy it. But the people in the town around him won’t enjoy it at all when one by one, the films he watches come to life. Andy chose the wrong projector to screen his movies. This one is out for blood. While Andy grumbles about low budgets and poor production values, a hungry butcher, a plague of rotting zombies, demonic vampires, a mallet-toting killer, flesh-eating locusts, and many other terrors descend on the unsuspecting innocent. By the time he realizes what he’s done, the town is teeming with evil, and it’s up to Andy and the few survivors left to stop the celluloid horror he’s unleashed.
Enjoy the following excerpt for B-Movie Reels:
“Ladies and gentlemen, I am Gideon, your guide to grand illusion! Tonight, you will be shocked and awed. I won’t patronize you with gags from kid’s books. This is a real stage. What you see is what it is. No tricks of light, no aversion tactics, I won’t pull rabbits out of hats, juggle fire, tear newspapers and reconstruct them, and I won’t saw anyone in half because that’s been done to death. But we do have a showgirl!”
Matthew Bard, a security guard at “The Comedy Tavern,” watched the show on amateur talent night with limited enthusiasm, as did the audience. He recognized Bunny Anderson on stage; she was the blonde adorned in a purple sequined outfit that revealed her long silky legs. She smiled and waved to the crowd of regulars, pretending to live up to a higher standard of showmanship. Gideon paid her thirty dollars to take the night off of her barmaid gig to be his helper. “Stand up there and look good,” he’d overheard Gideon instruct Bunny at rehearsal. “When I call the audience up to the stage, usher them right to where I point. Easiest thirty bucks you’ll ever earn, darling.”
Gideon was dressed the part. The magician wore a loose purple silk shirt and black leather pants. A ridiculous Abraham Lincoln top hat rested on his head. His cheeks were poked with acne scars, and around the eyes, dark saucers lent the performer a strung out sheen. The gray hair on his chin was shaved into an upside down triangle. The overall attempt was ill-realized but good enough for amateur night.
Playing up the crowd, Gideon waved his nine-inch wand, gesturing as he spoke, “This is real magic, ladies and gentlemen. I am an oracle.” He cupped his ear, acting like he hadn’t heard his own question. “What is an oracle, you might be asking? It’s what the Romans called those who could speak to the gods. But I am not an alchemist; I cannot cure diseases and save lives. I use the gods to entertain and delight. I have access between the living and dead worlds, you see, ladies and gentlemen. They’ve taught me magic beyond any illusionist’s ability. I am a medium between the spirits and living world.” Extending his arms as if to give the crowd a hug, he announced with startling vigor, “I am Gideon.”
“So do something, Gideon!”
“Yeah, it’s been five minutes—what the hell?”
"This is a magic show, right?"
Matthew smiled at the ribbing; the man was being heckled before he’d even started.
> “I see you’re ready to be amazed!” He shuffled to the left side of Bunny and then pointed his finger in the direction of the crowd. “I’m going to call out twenty people from the audience to sit in these chairs behind me. Any brave volunteers?”
Matthew watched the chairs, curious as to their function. He’d helped place them hours ago for ten bucks. He recalled the cool touch of Gideon’s handshake through his silk gloves—like a piano man’s—and the soft treble in his voice, the purr of a male lion. “Ten bucks says you can help me set up my stage. What do you say, my good man?”
Gideon selected twenty volunteers from the audience, and Bunny escorted them to their places. It was three minutes later the audience participants were seated and ready for the trick to unfold.
The performer dragged two metal poles on stage, one from which a purple curtain was unrolled, and he clipped that curtain to the other pole by two hooks. He reappeared behind the veil, the audience members hidden by a layer of fabric. “I will make these twenty people disappear. They are not paid or have ever seen me before. We are all strangers under this roof. I will invite you to walk on stage and double-check my claims.” Hamming up his act, he boasted the promise, “I, Gideon, will make them vanish and then reappear!”
The crowd’s interest heated up. They begged to be entertained. Hands clapped, while those at the bar walked in closer for a better view. There were about one-hundred and thirty people in “The Comedy Tavern,” including the ones on stage, each with faces ready to be dazzled.
“I will count to three, and with the wave of my wand, I will make them vanish.”
The club’s floors shook with the stomping of feet. Whistles pierced the air. Drinks were refilled and cigarettes lit. Gideon absorbed the skeptical comments before continuing the show.
“I’d like to see the asshole pull it off.”
“This bar’s too small for disappearing acts.”