by Brant, Jason
Holding the candle as close to the opening as possible, she tried to see inside. Only a slice of light made it through, shining across the top of a bed.
Using her foot, Karen eased the door open. The line of light expanded, showing the rest of the bed and a battered dresser in the far corner. Her legs stiffened as she tried to step into the room, refusing to go further. Her nerves were shot, and her body was reacting to the stress.
She cursed her weakness. Playing the helpless woman always pissed her off. Lifting the sword in her right hand, she stepped across the threshold.
The room used to belong to another working girl, Charlotte, but no one had seen her in months. One morning everyone woke up and she was gone. She'd packed up all of her things and skipped town sometime during the night. The room had been empty ever since.
Dust covered the dresser and bedding. A dank, moldy smell seemed to permeate everything. Lifting the candle around the room, she inspected all the corners and behind the door.
Then she spotted the footprints on the dusty floor. She'd partially obscured some of them as she searched the room, but could still follow their course. They stopped beside the bed. A path cut through the dust, with one foot appearing to drag slightly with every step.
Click.
Her hand shook so violently that hot wax spilled across her wrist.
"Damn!"
This time she could tell it came from further down the hall. She turned to leave the room before deciding to examine under the bed anyway.
The creak of the floorboards made her jump even though she was the one that made them do so.
"Stop being a coward, Karen," she whispered to herself.
She knelt beside the bed and threw the blankets from the side, cringing at what she might find. Nothing.
Click. Several of them.
Closing the door behind her, Karen crept down the hall to the second room. This was Lauren's.
A couple of months earlier, a client offered to whisk Karen away from Gehenna and take care of her on his ranch. He was a good man with a lot of land and a decent business. It would have been a good life.
As usual, her stubbornness kept her from making a smart decision. She refused because she couldn't bear the thought of relying on a man to take care of her. Everyone in the saloon, shocked by his proposal, admonished her for weeks over the decision.
Now, instead of drinking sweet tea on a beautiful ranch, she was wielding a sword and trying not to piss herself.
The door to Lauren's room stood ajar. Karen caught a whiff of something rancid. The stench smelled like a combination of blood, perfume, and shit.
An explosion rocked the building, vibrating through the floor and into her legs. The shock of it nearly caused her to drop the candle.
"What in God's name was that?"
Something landed on the roof above her with a thud. She instinctively ducked her head, bracing for more. A couple of smaller bangs hit a few seconds later, before the eerie silence returned.
Karen could hear Barbara shrieking downstairs. Regaining what little composure she had left, Karen pushed on. As she approached the doorway, she gagged from the putrid odor. She could see thick blood covering the bed from the hallway. Not wanting to go any further, she looked down the hallway in the direction she'd come from.
"Ellis?" She tried to keep her voice low, not wanting to disturb whatever had caused the bloodshed. He didn't respond. "Damn."
Gathering her remaining courage, Karen stepped into the room. She was squeezing the handle of the sword with such force that her fingers ached.
Advancing to the bed, she could see the unkempt blankets were soaked through. Rivulets of blood ran down the side of the bed, pooling on the floor, and running with the cracks in the boards.
On the far side of the room, barely visible above the bedding, Karen saw a piece of fabric the same color as Lauren's skirt.
Rounding the bed, she gasped at the sight of Lauren's disfigured body. The throat hadn't just been ripped apart; it was gone entirely. Her head didn't appear to be attached by much more than her spinal cord and some skin.
Click. Much closer this time. Inside the room.
Karen spun wildly in the direction of the sound, extinguishing her candle in the process. As the light blinked out, she caught a glimpse of the woman they'd saved in the street, lurching through the door.
Dropping the candle, Karen held the saber with both hands, swinging it back and forth to ward off the monster.
"Ellis!" she screamed, her voice cracking from the force.
Clicking, drawing closer.
"Ellis!"
Closer.
"Get your fat ass in here!"
Her last swing struck meat, the tip of the sword slicing through and exiting the other side. Karen kept swinging.
Click. Right in front of her face.
The sword sunk in, lodged in what Karen assumed was the woman's torso. Hands clawed at her throat as she tried to pull the saber free.
"Karen?" Ellis' voice came from down the hall.
Trying to retreat, Karen stumbled over Lauren's legs and fell onto her body. Her fingers plunged into the depth that had been Lauren's throat, touching a viscous substance. Crying out in revulsion, she withdrew further until her back landed against the wall.
Light flickered from the doorway, dim at first, but rapidly growing brighter.
Click. By her feet.
"Karen? Where are you?"
"In Lauren's room!"
Enough light seeped through to reveal the woman's silhouette. She was almost on top of Karen. Pulling her legs to her chest, she thrust them at the barely visible head.
Her right foot connected with the woman's face, knocking her back.
Ellis appeared in the doorway, the flame of his candle dangerously close to going out. His chest heaved from running through the halls. His eyes nearly bugged from their sockets when he saw the woman attacking Karen.
"How can this be?"
As the candle flame lengthened, Karen saw the source of the clicking. She had seen one of the men tearing away at the woman’s left cheek, revealing her teeth. Without the muffling effect of that skin, her teeth produced a loud click as she hungrily chomped at the air.
"Don't ask questions, help me!"
Ellis crossed the room in two strides, his ample belly jiggling as he went, and swung the sword. The top of her head flew across the room, sliced away by the powerful blow. The crown bounced off the wall above Karen and landed on the floor beside her.
The woman's body fell forward, straddling Lauren's.
"Oh, Lauren," Ellis said, noticing her for the first time.
Karen sat against the wall, shaking uncontrollably. Tears poured down her cheeks, leaving clean streaks on her dirty face.
Ellis stepped across the corpses, set the candle on the bed, and held his free hand out to Karen. "Come on; let's get you out of here. Don't look at them."
Karen tried to speak but couldn't find the words. Hooking her arm around his, she stood on unstable legs, eyes everywhere but her butchered friend.
After moving her away from the mess, Ellis grabbed the candle from the bed and handed it to her.
"I'm sorry it took me so long. Every time I tried to run the candle almost went out."
The shakes hadn't left Karen yet and she was having trouble keeping a grip on the small candle holder.
"Stay right here. Don't run off again." He turned back to the room.
Karen grabbed his arm. "Don't leave me out here!"
"I need to cover Lauren. She deserves better, but that's the best we can do for now."
Karen stood in the hall, watching the shadows waltz over the walls. She felt numb all over.
Ellis emerged from the room a few moments later with both sabers. The realization of what had just happened seemed to be settling in; his face was drained of its rosy color.
"Dave must have been wrong. She couldn't have been dead. He wasn't the smar−" He stopped himself mid-sentence, n
ot wanting to speak ill of the dead.
"She looked deader than a door nail to all of us," Karen said.
"The dead don't rise and walk. It just can't be."
Karen wasn't sure that could be taken off the table at this point. After what she'd seen today, anything seemed possible.
Chapter 12
The spreading fire was working on the building next to the one McCall sat upon. Before long he'd be sitting on the roof of an inferno.
At the pace the blaze was growing, the entire town would be a cinder by tomorrow.
McCall studied the saloon across the street. The front door and windows were boarded up. Someone in there had a head on their shoulders at least. Maybe he could hole up there until sunrise.
The scream gave him pause though. Had the moaners breached the place? A backdoor maybe?
Even if they were inside, what other choice did he have? Every other business and home he could see were infested with mutilated, yet still walking, people. And the building he was on would soon be in flames.
The boarded up saloon gave him a chance. He hoped.
Leaning as far over the side of the roof as possible, McCall looked down the side street that ran the length of the saloon, trying to find a way in that wouldn't get him eaten alive. There were a few windows on the second level, but none on the first.
A ladder stood against the building on the other side of the alley. It looked to be high enough to reach the windows.
Leaning back against the roof, McCall eased down the slope. He moved his feet carefully, trying not to make any sound or disturb the shingles. As he approached the edge, he turned sideways, placing his right foot on the edge of the last shingle.
Peering down the front, he was disheartened to see the roof of the porch was at least ten feet away. And it sat at an angle steeper than the one he was on now. There was no way he could stick the landing, even if he dangled his feet over the edge to lessen the distance.
Deciding to find another way down, he turned away from the edge and started climbing back to the peak. The shingle under his right foot dislodged and flew over the side. Thrown off balance, McCall didn't have time to react before his chest bounced off the roof and he started sliding down.
His free hand frantically searched the roof for any kind of purchase. Not finding one, he flattened his body as much as possible; stretching his four limbs out like a giant X, hoping the friction would stop his descent.
Clearing the edge, his legs dangled in the air, kicking as he tried to clamber back up.
Then he was falling. His feet hit the roof of the porch first, but the angle of it threw him off balance and he fell backward. Pain shot up his back as his tailbone struck the hard wood shingles.
The impact loosened his grip on the shotgun, sending it flying to the street below. McCall's muscles constricted as he tumbled head over feet off the porch.
A moaner shambled in the direction of the fires, oblivious of the man free falling in the air above him. All of McCall's weight landed on the monster, sending them both crashing to the ground.
Mad Dog's head slammed against the hard, cracked earth. Flashes of light swam across his spinning vision as he fought to get his bearings. The man that broke his fall was squirming beneath him, trying to get a mouthful of McCall's leg.
Rolling away with the elegance of a drunk, McCall stopped in a seated position, facing the moaner.
Its vacant eyes bore into his own, surveying its next meal. Slithering forward, it lunged at his foot.
Lifting his leg up, McCall brought his heel down on the back of its head, embedding his boot spur in its skull.
It dropped face first to the ground, its limbs racked with spasms.
Kicking his leg away, he tore the spur loose. A circle of gore flew away as it spun on the back of his boot. McCall stood on wobbly legs, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs.
Several of the closest moaners moved in on him, chomping their teeth in anticipation. Others, further away, hadn't seen or heard him and continued toward the blaze.
The shotgun had landed close to the middle of the street, less than ten feet away. The nearest moaner stepped over it, his nonfunctioning right leg trailing behind, pulling the scattergun along.
Not wanting the racket of a gunshot to attract everything in the town, McCall pulled the tomahawk free of its loop and advanced on the beast. As he drew near it became obvious why its leg wasn't working: most of its thigh had been eaten away.
The man's arms were outstretched, partially protecting his head. Ducking down, McCall swung the axe at the chewed leg, connecting with bone and what was left of the meat.
The tomahawk went all the way through, creating a sickening sound like the snapping of a celery stick, as the leg cut away.
Grabbing the shotgun, McCall hustled across the street without looking back. As he approached the side of the saloon, two more moaners, a man and a woman, noticed him and shifted in his direction.
Dropping his axe back into its cradle, he lifted the shotgun with both hands and brought the butt down in the face of the man without breaking stride. The woman, who didn't have any outward signs of physical damage, fell back, landing on the porch of the saloon.
If it wasn't for her black, soulless eyes and stiff-legged gait, McCall would have thought she was another survivor.
The second person grabbed at him, missing completely, and fell forward into the street.
McCall ran into the alley, brushing past more people. The ladder, sitting against the building on the other side of the street, looked much heavier than it had from the roof.
Grabbing one end of it with his free hand, he realized it wasn't going to be an option. He dropped it back to the ground and continued around the side of the building, looking for another way in.
The rear of the saloon was much darker than the front. Just enough light bounced from the neighboring buildings for him to see. The back door was boarded up in the same manner as the front, and was swarming with moaners anyway. Using the shotgun, he pushed a bulbous fat man away and spotted a stack of firewood on the side of the rear porch.
Five people, each with grievous wounds, stood between the wood pile and McCall. Twenty more bumbled around in the general vicinity. There were too many to use the axe; they would over take him before he could fight his way through.
Marching forward, Mad Dog raised the shotgun to his shoulder and aimed at head height, pointing toward the middle of the crowd.
The deafening blast knocked the three men in the center to the ground, brain matter splattering the wood and porch behind them. The gun's roar echoed throughout the alley, alerting everything west of the Mississippi of his presence.
Stepping through the tangled limbs of the dead, McCall accelerated at the stack, intent on launching from it to the roof of the porch.
Bounding from the lower logs, he pushed off the upmost piece, which stood only five or six feet from the first shingle. The wood shifted under his weight, halting his momentum. His stomach landed flush against the edge, sending stabs of pain through his ribcage.
The shingles on this building were less faded and newer, not giving under his weight. Tossing the shotgun ahead of him, he used both hands to pull his way up. A few more inches and he could swing one of his dangling legs over and roll up.
Beneath him, dozens of moaners gathered around, stumbling around the knocked over logs. One of them had managed to get close enough to grab McCall's leg.
Without a solid handhold, his progress was eroded as he slid back down. He kicked his feet wildly, trying to dislodge his leg from the cannibal's grip. Another couple of inches and his weight would carry him the rest of the way down.
The creature's fingers sliced on his spur but continued to pull. More people gathered around, reaching for McCall's other leg.
Above him, the double barrel shifted, skidding against the shingles. It stopped a few feet away.
Lifting his right hand, McCall hoped it would fall to him, praying it would arrive befo
re he became someone's early breakfast.
His body slid two more inches, balancing precariously on the brink of no return. Looking down, he saw too many rows of chomping teeth to count.
He always assumed he'd be gunned down by a drunk, or shot in the back by the marshals that pursued him. Never had he imagined he'd be eaten to death by the common townsfolk of a shithouse like Gehenna.
Closing his eyes, he waited for the inevitable. As he mentally prepared for the agony that what was about to come, the shotgun bumped against his fingers. His hand shot open as if spring-loaded.
Grabbing the double barrel, he pointed it blindly behind him, aiming in what he hoped was the general direction of the moaner pulling at his leg. The firearm's massive kick sent reverberations up his arm, nearly breaking his grip.
The hands clawing at his leg fell away, giving him precious seconds before a new set could latch on. He tossed the shotgun onto the roof and scampered up, swinging his legs to gain momentum.
Throwing his leg over the side, he rolled onto his back. Short, ragged breaths shook his body as he lay there trying to regain his composure. The shotgun skidded to a stop against his arm.
Getting to his feet, McCall looked over the swarm of moaners below him, arms raised in the air, swaying and stretching like a bizarre prayer. More packed in behind them.
Picking up the shotgun, he broke the action open, pulled the shells from the barrels, and stuffed two more in from one of the ammo belts across his chest. Turning away from the growing horde, he scaled the small roof and peeked in the window.
The darkness was too thick to see much of anything. Using the butt of the gun, he smashed the window, sending glass into the black room.
Ever since he was a boy he'd kept matches in his back pocket, a habit his father had taught him. He pulled one free and struck it against the shingles. The brief flair exposed a horrific bedroom. The sheets strewn across the bed were saturated with blood and chucks of flesh. One of those things had been to work, but didn't appear to be in the room anymore.
Dropping the match, he broke away a couple of jagged pieces of glass with the stock of the shotgun and stepped through. His foot landed on a soft, wet surface which shifted under his weight. Poking the toe of his boot around, he found the hard surface of the floor and entered the bedroom.