by Rose O'Brien
Jen was barely conscious and dimly aware of the hands gripping her clothes, hooked under her arms and behind her knees. She was being carried, she realized, becoming aware of the jostling movement.
Cracking her eyelids, adrenaline shot through her at the sight of rotting flesh and protruding bones that greeted her and her limbs jerked, her body trying to run even as her mind reeled. Zombies were real.
If she’d known the cast of the Walking Dead was one of the things that might potentially come after her, she would not have signed up for this little trip.
Her brain began observing, recording, cataloging, as it always did. These creatures weren’t behaving like zombies in the movies, she noted. They moved slowly, but they packed a wallop. Anything that could punch through bulletproof glass, even as a group, was not to be messed with.
Jen had hated zombie movies growing up. Her mom had never liked her watching scary or violent movies, anyway, but zombies in particular had terrified her. There was something so sad and desperate about those films, the humans trying to survive against the relentless onslaught of the dead.
And someone always got bit. And their friends or family always had to make the terrible choice to end them before they turned into a zombie. That terrifying and inescapable inevitability of a death that was minutes away had hit her younger self in some soft place.
After the series of events that had torn her life apart and left her completely alone in the world, she took a kind of sick delight in watching every zombie movie she could find on Netflix. She’d felt a kind of kinship with the characters trying to survive in a world gone to hell, everything they’d ever known ripped away, isolated and huddling against the darkness.
These things weren’t trying to bite her like the zombies in the movies. It appeared the group was carrying her to the cemetery. A flicker of panic lit up in her gut at that realization, but she squashed it. Clear heads were needed right now.
So, they weren’t biters. And they weren’t fast 28 Days Later zombies. More like slow, listless Romero zombies.
All the creatures were looking ahead and shuffling in lockstep. An image popped into her head of a line of ants carrying a leaf that she’d seen in some nature documentary.
There was no intelligence in their eyes, no awareness. Heck, some of them didn’t even have eyes. How did that even work?
They were under orders, a part of some hive mind maybe. If these were the worker ants, where was their queen?
Jen had a sneaking suspicion she was about to find out.
A small explosion sounded behind her, in the direction of where she thought the SUV might be, and it sounded like a grenade going off. Theron!
Panic made her limbs twitch again, but the zombies didn’t seem to notice. Worry for him tightened her chest and she was shocked for a moment. Hadn’t she been doing her damndest to get away from him? But that big, stubborn ox might be the only one that could take on this army of the undead. She needed him alive.
Fighting the urge to twist around and look for him, scream for him to help her, she forced her limbs to relax and her eyes to close, appearing as close to unconsciousness as she could.
Her ears straining, all she could hear was the shuffling of feet over dusty ground and the rustling of tattered robes against rotting flesh. No shouts, no grunts, no booms, no sounds of fighting at all.
Jen fought to keep the panic from making her hyperventilate. He couldn’t be dead. Maybe he’d run away. Maybe he was hiding and preparing to ride to her rescue when the moment was right?
Oh, sure, like that ever happens.
More likely, she was on her own. Well, wasn’t that just the god damned story of her life?
Cracking one eyelid for a second, she caught a glimpse of the stone arch over the cemetery entrance. They were inside the necropolis now, moving among the white stone above-ground graves.
After what seemed like a small eternity but was probably only a minute in reality, she heard the grating sound of stone on stone and felt a blast of chillier air that smelled of earth. The sound of bony feet on stone stairs reached her ears.
They were going down.
She let her head loll back on her spine and risked cracking an eyelid again. The entrance to the crypt was distinguishable by the grey light of the outside against the blackness they were descending into. As she watched, a stone door began to slide back into place behind them, replacing the grey with black and emitting that grinding noise again.
The darkness closed in around her and she shut her eyes again because there was suddenly no difference between keeping them open or closed.
With only the sound of the shuffling feet and her own breathing in her ears, her thoughts turned to Theron again.
How would he find her? They’d taken her into some kind of cave under one of the mausoleums. Was he even alive? And if he was, how could he possibly fight all of these things? There had been at least forty of them around the SUV. Theron had powers she didn’t really understand. If he found her, could he just turn all the zombies into the prom scene from Carrie? Jen almost smiled at the thought.
After a time, she became aware of a glow against her eyelids. Cracking one eye, she saw firelight flickering along the walls of what looked like a tunnel. The surface of the walls was white and uneven. Opening her other eyelid a sliver, her stomach gave a sickening roll. The walls were lined with skulls. Human skulls. Hundreds of them. No, thousands.
They were bleached white and stacked row on row up the curving wall, the empty dark sockets staring out at her. Some had lower jaws, some didn’t.
Jen gave up any pretense at being unconscious and opened her eyes fully, pain lancing through her optic nerves as the light began to increase. The zombies were carrying her into a cavern of some sort, the ceiling opening up suddenly, soaring up into the darkness where the light of the torches along the walls couldn’t reach.
The stone walls of the cavern were lined with skulls and long bones, human femurs and tibias, ulnas and humerus bones forming intricate patterns. It would have been beautiful if she didn’t know what it was all made of.
Lifting her head, Jen saw a raised ledge cut out of the stone of the floor. A throne, again made of bones, sat on it. She was beginning to sense a theme.
A voice that sounded vaguely feminine echoed through the chamber. “Release her.”
The bony hands were suddenly gone, and Jen landed hard on the dusty floor, her breath leaving her in a rush. Aside from coughing and trying to regain her breath, Jen stayed down and as still as possible, eyes searching for the source of that voice.
The queen of this little hive had presented herself.
From the darkness behind the bone throne, she emerged. Her skin was as pale as moonlight and glowed in the shadows like a ghostly specter. As she came around the throne and the firelight touched her, it gleamed in flowing ebony hair. Black robes flowed from her milky shoulders, looking like they’d been made from an oil slick. Obsidian horns—or was that a headdress of some kind?—rose from her skull in a U shape that curled out at the ends. That shape called some memory to mind, but Jen’s thoughts were racing, and she couldn’t pin it down.
Raven black wings spilled down the female’s back, and a smile touched inky dark lips. She was a study in contrasts. Black and white, light and darkness. And a knot of terror formed in Jen’s throat at the sight of her.
“At last, the seer,” the woman said lazily, almost bored.
Jen remained silent, not trusting her voice. Something in the vicinity of her diaphragm was trembling and she didn’t want to give away how scared she was right now.
Whatever she was, this being was not human. She was one of the dangerous residents of Theron’s world. Jen had no idea what this creature wanted her for, but it was a good bet she didn’t want to go get mani-pedis together.
The woman’s midnight gaze suddenly lifted in the direction of the tunnel and narrowed. Jen heard more shuffling footsteps and risked a look over her shoulder.
Jen felt her eyes widen
as another group of zombies dragged a half-conscious Theron into the cavern, his combat boots scraping in the dust. His body hung limply as they held him by the arms, but his eyes were half open, his head moving. His left shoulder was at an odd angle, and bright blood had trickled down his face from a cut near his hairline.
Poor guy was looking rough. He wasn’t going to be rescuing anybody.
The corpses released Theron, who landed on his knees before that heavily-muscled torso tipped forward and slumped to the dusty floor. He tried to catch himself on the way down, but his left arm buckled painfully under him, and he moaned loudly, coming to rest on his right side.
Jen eyed the five or so zombies clustered around her and the eight or so surrounding Theron. She had her switch blade in the pocket of her khakis, but considering these things didn’t look like they had vital organs, that might not be of much use. The woman with the wings didn’t look like anything that would be afraid of her knife.
A word danced on the edges of her thoughts and it scared the hell out of Jen. Goddess.
It hit her where she had seen horns like the ones the female sported. They were like the ones in paintings and statues of ancient Egyptian, Babylonian, Sumerian, and Mesopotamian deities she’d seen in museums.
The thing with the wings spoke again, disdain clear in her voice. “The fire weaver is not necessary. Kill it.”
As the zombies moved to obey, a voice screamed, “No!”
A dozen sets of eyes, including Theron’s indigo ones, landed on her. With a start, she realized that had come from her.
The woman smiled, but there was something twisted and alien about the expression that put Jen even further on edge. In the shocked silence, the being moved forward, seeming to glide, her footsteps making no noise.
“I am Ereshkigal, Queen of the Dead. Do you dare to give me orders, human?”
As the woman drew closer, Jen rose to her knees. Preparing for what, she didn’t know. One of the zombies grabbed her braid and yanked her head back on her spine. Jen gritted her teeth, her lips pulling back with a hiss and her eyes glaring at the woman.
“Silence is wise in the presence of a goddess,” she said, bending down and trailing a finger down the side of Jen’s face. “But you will answer me. Are you willing to bargain for the mage’s life?”
Fear squeezed Jen’s lungs and made it hard to breathe. Jen’s gaze shot to where Theron was pushing himself up with his uninjured right arm. His eyes were on her, that dark blue stare pleading with her. He shook his head and mouthed, “No.”
“Depends on what you want,” Jen said.
“You have gall.”
“You’re not the first one to tell me that,” Jen replied. The longer she could keep the woman talking, the longer she and Theron might be able to come up with a plan.
Jen’s eyes roved the walls, the floor, the ceiling, looking for a way out, a weapon, anything they could use to get out of this situation.
The goddess seemed to be considering something.
“Put yourself under my control, under my command, and I will let the mage live.”
The .45s on Theron’s gun belt were gone, probably taken by the zombies or lost in the fight. She had no idea if he could use his powers, especially given his injuries. Then, she remembered that she’d seen him strap a backup .38 into an ankle holster that morning before they’d left Dreamland. Theron might not be as helpless as he looked.
“Not good enough,” Jen told the woman. “He walks out of here unharmed.”
A look of anger twisted Ereshkigal’s face for a split second before her pale features settled into serene stillness once again.
Jen’s mind whirled, turning over scenarios, possibilities, contingencies, searching for any way out of this. It wasn’t looking good.
Then it hit her. Damn it! Why hadn’t she noticed before?
With this many dead and rotting things filling the cavern, crowding around her, touching her, she should be choking on the odors of putrefaction. It should stink to high heaven in here. But the zombies didn’t smell like death. They smelled like clay. The smell reminded her of the pottery class she’d taken in college.
She wasn’t sure how she knew it, but these things were fake. And she was willing to bet her life that this creature in front of her was anything but a goddess of the dead.
Jen brought one foot under her, leaving her down on one knee before the creature.
“Impossible,” the thing claiming to be Ereshkigal said. “The mage is mine.”
“Then no deal, bitch,” Jen said, throwing all of her weight back against the zombie holding her hair. She planted her boot right in the woman’s gut and shoved her backwards, sending her reeling.
As she did so, she shouted to Theron, “The zombies are fake! They don’t stink!”
***
Jen’s voice still ringing in his ears, Theron’s thoughts spun for a second.
She was right. The things surrounding him smelled like fresh clay, not rotting flesh. Something had been niggling at the back of his brain ever since the attack began.
Zombies—the walking dead, the undead, whatever you wanted to call them—were not supposed to be possible. Legends of necromancers who could raise the dead had existed for millennia, but there was no credible evidence to suggest the legends held any truth.
That was, until his sister had faced a horde of revenants just a few weeks ago. The undead result of a human who died during transition to vampire, revenants were supposed to be a legend too.
It seemed Blackwells were running into legendary things left and right.
Theron had been a little too busy trying to survive to wonder why things that were supposed to be a myth were trying to kill him. He’d almost bought the goddess ploy. His experience with goddesses was somewhat limited, but he was pretty sure some of them could raise the dead if they wanted.
But this was no goddess.
Now that he knew what to look for, he could see through the illusion. The zombies were just constructs, animated clay forms wrapped in illusory magick. A few things made sense now. The creatures were strong, but fragile, and they felt no pain. They obeyed commands but appeared to have no thoughts of their own.
That “goddess” was just an elven sorceress with delusions of grandeur. Still a threat, but not invincible.
Theron watched as Jen planted her boot in the woman’s gut and sent her sprawling ass over tea kettle. He wanted to cheer and kiss that stubborn spitfire at the same time.
“Destroy the heads!” he shouted to Jen.
Pushing his pain aside, he pushed to his feet, drawing strength from his internal fire. As he rose, he let the flames loose to leap up his left arm and drew his six-shot .38 from his ankle holster with his right.
He extended his left arm toward the group of zombies that had been guarding him, sending an arching gout of flames across them all. Their tattered, dry robes caught almost instantly.
Reaching forward, he wrapped his big hand around a skull, his palm scraping against the raw bone of the forehead. He concentrated. It took a couple of seconds to heat up the space inside the skull until it exploded outward, popping like an overinflated balloon.
A frustrated screech sounded to his right, and he spared a glance just in time to see the sorceress claw her way to her feet. Her wings had disappeared, the illusion dissolving without the concentration necessary to sustain it.
The horned headdress had been knocked askew, and she was clawing that ebony hair out of her eyes. He leveled the .38 and squeezed off a shot. Theron caught her surprised look as she threw up a shimmering field to catch the bullet before it could reach her.
Damn, it was worth a try. At least she was focused on him and not Jen.
The seer currently had a zombie in a headlock and was stabbing it in the skull with her switchblade. It was starting to crumble as she brought the blade down over and over again, acting more like brittle clay than actual bone. As he watched, the form shattered, disintegrating to dust in her hands as
she released whatever essence had animated the thing.
Jen didn’t see the sorceress rising behind her, a crackling ball of silver energy sparking in her hand. Theron shouted a warning and threw his own fireball. The dark haired elf dodged it, but she lost her concentration momentarily. It was enough.
Pulling the trigger on the .38, he saw her twitch as the bullet caught her in the shoulder. A thunderous expression crossed her face and she advanced toward him, Jen forgotten.
His plan was working.
At least it was until the full weight of eight flaming zombies crashed into his back, bearing him to the dusty floor.
The flames didn’t bother him. He couldn’t be burned, especially by his own fire. But the seeking, skeletal hands clawing at his throat were a big problem.
Through the dogpile, he could see the wounded sorceress coming closer, murder in her eyes. Jen growled in frustration has the zombies began to drag her down, too.
This was it. They were outnumbered, outgunned, and outmaneuvered.
But he was not without an ace in the hole. It was a nuclear option, to be sure, and it would most likely bite him in the ass, but he didn’t have much of a choice.
His fingers landed on the black claw suspended on the leather cord around his neck. He managed to shift his weight enough to snap the cord free. Taking this claw in his fingers, he broke the thing in half and braced himself.
***
Jen screeched as another zombie latched onto her right arm, dragging her closer to the floor. There must be at least five of the things on her. Bony fingers clawed at her hair, arms and torso, raking her skin and drawing blood.
But if she went down, she knew she wasn’t getting back up. She tried to lash out with the switchblade, but there was too much weight on her arm. Her legs began to tremble under the strain.
Suddenly, there was a bright flash of white light, and Jen was momentarily dazzled. Blinking against afterimages dancing across her retinas, she looked up to see a woman standing in the middle of the chaos.
She was at least six feet tall, with dark skin and long black hair that spilled down her back. A black leather catsuit hugged the curving body of a 1940s pinup. Four-inch spike-heeled knee-high boots dug into the dust of the cavern floor.