All Hell (6 page)

I place two rounds in its distorted face.
Bone fragments shatter but it still rises. I step around it and place two more where its brain should be. The skull gives. A splash of gray matter oozes out. But still, it comes. This is the third time I’ve encountered zombies. The first was with gypsies in Bulgaria, the second on the coasts of Norway. Both times was nasty business, but this is the first time a head shot didn’t do the trick.

I look at Sidekick. There are three rising behind him and he couldn’t care less. He waits until they’re fully out of the ground before he acts. He’s in an upright offensive stance, coiled with the grace of a true warrior. He steps on a long branch, flips it up, and catches it in his front paw. Then, with lightning reflexes, he spins and jams it through the middle one’s neck. Its head flops to the side but it steps towards him anyway. Sidekick dodges a slow, lame swipe and, ironically enough, sidekicks one into the next, toppling all three of them.

“Which way?” he says, practically ordering me to stay on the trail. I tilt my head in the right direction. But before we go, Sidekick withdraws the branch from the zombie’s neck then stabs another one of them through the eye with it. He chuckles as he sees that doesn’t even halt its movements. The friggin’ things just won’t die. Worse, more start rising out of the ground. “Let’s go,” Sidekick says to me, as if none of this bothers him.

I ain’t about to argue. I back step away from a zombie’s lumbering swipe and shoot it in the knee. It falls, though now it’s crawling towards me. “These undead creeps are nothing if not persistent,” I say, moving forward. I double the pace of my tracking, putting some distance between us, thankful that the zombies are
as slow as snails in a snowstorm. A peek back shows at least a dozen following us.

The ground’s getting softer. I spot a series of wolf tracks easy to follow. They lead even deeper into the yard.
I’m running full speed. Sidekick’s trotting, yet still way ahead of me making me wish I had him on a leash. At least we’re putting some distance between us and the undead. I notice the tracks we’re following are now headed in both directions, so I know we’re close. Then the trail stops dead at one particular grave. There’s a hole dug, at least six feet deep. The dirt pile looks fresh. I look at the tombstone and it’s surprisingly smooth, like it’s brand new. Then I read what’s inscribed on it and all my instincts tell me I’m fucked.

R.I.P. Frank Jones is written in all capital letters.
Old Man Jones
. Underneath 1932-2014. In between… Hellraiser.

My mind scrambles to put the jigsaw
puzzle together. Most of it immediately clicks, including the fact that Jones wasn’t the decent man I thought he was, but I still can’t place a few pieces. I’ll have to figure those out later. I quickly scout for an exit but zombies are rising around the perimeter faster than weeds in my Aunt Bessie’s garden. I turn. Sidekick can’t stop laughing. And who could blame ‘em. This whole adventure has been one big joke and I’m the punch line. But I’ll be damned if I’m dying alone. I fire a shot almost point blank into Sidekick’s chest. Unfortunately, it’s not silver. He shrugs it off like Superman, smacks the gun from my hand, grabs hold of my hair, and lifts me off the ground like I was a toy. My feet dangle which, as a little person, really pisses me off.

“Why now?” I ask. “Why not kill me at the stable, or back at your den? Why not let little rabbit Fufu take a bite out of me?”

He tilts his head toward the ground and I notice it, an arc of charcoal colored ash. My eyes follow it and I see it surrounds me in a circle with about a twenty yard diameter. Ten yards behind that the zombie hoards stop, forming an inhuman wall. I study the circle and see interlacing lines of ash that form a pentagram, all very skillfully blended in with the dirt and shadow. I’ve already figured out it’s Massan, ash of the dead. I’m familiar with the pentagram too. It supposedly represents the five wounds of Christ, the five points of the human body, or the five elements; earth, fire, water, air, and spirit. However, this one’s inverted, meaning it represents black magic and evil… the dark side of eternity and infinity. Simply put, I’m trapped within a circle of Hell.

Sidekick
lays out the plan just to show me how stupid I am. “Because in order for the spell to work, the blood sacrifice must enter the circle of their own free will.”

And there was one of the missing pieces. For whatever reason, Old Man Jones was the original willing sacrifice. Who knows what he was promised or what would make him do it, but demons had a way of being persuasive.

Sidekick continued. “I never liked you, Silas. But I never figured you were this much of an imbecile. Hell Pack isn’t six rebel wolves. Our entire clan is Hell Pack.” He pauses for a second, letting the horrifying implications of that sink into my brain. The treaty was never real. It just kept us away from them until they were ready to strike.

Sideki
ck lifts me higher, adding humiliation to my pain to afford me a better view. “Welcome to the Gate, Silas Hill. Thanks for being the key.” His claws lash out, slashing me across the chest. My blood splatters on the tombstone and dribbles on the ground. A gust of wind rises out of nowhere, kicking up the Massan around the perimeter.

“You really pulled out all the stops for me?” I say. I spit right in his eye.

He wipes it then I scream as he claws my leg, feeding more of my blood to the ritual. The wind whips up another notch, scattering dirt and debris everywhere. Sidekick momentarily shields his eyes and I try using the opportunity to get free. I struggle like a swamp rat as the ground starts rumbling beneath our feet. He stumbles, which gives me a moment to grab a dagger from my belt. I’d love to stick it in his throat, but I can’t reach and it wouldn’t have any more effect than the bullet. No silver, no harm. So I reach up and slice the knife through my hair, cutting myself loose. I drop and roll, the ground cracking beneath us. A patch of dirt disappears into the earth as if taken by the suction of a powerful unseen vacuum. A cloud of charcoal smoke puffs back in return. The smell of brimstone and sulfur overtake the smell of the dead. I see the SD9 I dropped then watch it disappear as a second whoosh sucks it into the earth.

“Nowhere to go, Silas. If I don’t get to pick your bones clean, the Devil will,” says Sidekick, as he steps back to safety.

The Devil.
That’s too fucked up to even think about. I’m hoping he’s full of shit, but somehow I don’t think he is. The wind around us starts whipping faster, making it hard to breathe, and all the while, Sidekick’s laughing it up like he won the lottery. Fissures form directly along the lines of ash and more dirt crumbles inward. I scramble to my feet and race out of the circle as far away from Sidekick as I can. I try brushing the ash as I cross over the mystic lines, hoping against hope that somehow it disrupts the spell.

It doesn’t. The ground within grows hotter as a full sinkhole forms, ripped inward into a fiery black vortex… a perfectly circular chasm, a
direct tunnel to death. I’m ready to bolt for the hills, but the zombies block my way, four or five thick in every direction. I’m trapped between a dead human outer wall and the doorway to Hell, stuck in the middle ring with an alpha werewolf who will never let me leave here alive.

The sinkhole breathes fire, like the top of a volcano. Sidekick is looking down from the edge, his arms wide, trying to catch a glimpse of what’s to come. I slowly back away so I’m equidistant between the pit and the unmoving zombies. There’s nothing I can do but watch, a ringside seat to the beginning of the end of the world.

Chapter 12

A horrifying sound, louder than the scream of a banshee emanates from the pit, alerting the world that the Devil’s on his way and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop it. It overpowers the moans of the zombies around me. I start to mutter a curse under my breath when I realize there isn’t one strong enough to describe just how fucked up this is. Then I hear another sound… the roar of motorcycle engines coming from the distance, growing louder, getting closer.

A moment later
, it’s pure chaos. To my left, a row of zombies get knocked over like bowling pins as a riderless motorcycle slides across the dirt, plowing through them. Four of the zombies go flying into the fiery pit. The Harley follows, its wheels spinning like buzz saws. It cuts another zombie in half before it too catapults into the pit. A burst of flames shoots up from the abyss as if someone poured too much gasoline on a barbecue.

It’s a wakeup call, like a starter’s pistol that begins a race. What was potential energy a moment ago is now in motion. The zombies are no longer a wall but an advancing army attacking from every direction. The
ratatatat
of machine gunfire echoes everywhere. I see the walking dead splatter, colorful crap flying everywhere and suddenly I’m in the middle of a Quentin Tarantino movie. But I don’t have time for popcorn. A zombie cluster is coming my way.

I pivot away from a clumsy lunge, my knife already moving in a sweeping motion. The blade goes right through its eye, but the damned thing doesn’t stop. Its teeth snap at my han
d, its arms reach up to grab mine. I pull my hand back, avoiding it, but it costs me the knife. Once again, I was stupid. I’m acting on zombie killing instinct, one, which in this case, doesn’t seem to apply. I have to stop going for the head. It doesn’t stop them. I need to limit their mobility.

It lunges at me again
. I sidestep, coil my right leg then drive my boot into its kneecap, hearing the satisfying snap. It buckles unable to complete its next lunge. But five more are right behind it. I go for my axe, but two jump me simultaneously, driving me back before I get a firm grip. Saliva drools from their mouths. I roll back, grabbing whatever I can of their tattered cloth. Then, using their own momentum against them, I plant my legs into their stomachs and monkey flip them into the pit. I quickly roll to the side as another attempts to dive on top of me. I avoid it but crash into three more that moved in from my left. Their hands grab me. Mine finally find my axe. I chop off an arm. On the way back, my axe imbeds into one of their kidneys. I don’t have time to get it back. Teeth are coming for me. I thrust my palm into the jaw of one bending down to bite me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see another diving at my legs. I pull my right leg into me then thrust it out, my boot caving in the side of its rotted, dried up face.

It was a good shot
, but I’m completely overwhelmed. More of them pile forward, forcing me down by their sheer weight. My hands and feet start moving with lightning like quickness that only pure panic can provide. I catch one in the jaw with my knee. One comes for my neck. I push my thumb through its eye socket, lifting its head enough so I can crush its windpipe with an elbow strike. Three quick jabs momentarily push back three more of them. I kick another in its shoulder. Each move buying me another split second of life. One miss, one bit of let up, and it’s all over. I figure that’ll happen in less than five seconds.

I hear a boom and I’m sprayed with body parts. The nearest zombie collapses on me like a wet sack. I push it forward as a second boom sends one of the zombies holding me down into the pit. The pressure on me subsides and I actually think it’s possible now that I could fight my way to my feet.

“Stay down,” a strong voice yells out. I listen. Then the
rattatat
of a machine gun goes nuts. Zombies are jerking around me under the onslaught of unrelenting lead. It showers red and gray all over me and I’m not wearing a raincoat. Fragments of bone sting my skin. Something soft and wet hits my mouth. I roll over, so more zombie parts don’t hit me in the face.

Finally, it stops. I push what’s left of the zombie meat off of me, get to my feet, and wipe a sleeve across my face. Father Miguel’s towering above me, white priest collar around his neck, ammunition strapped ac
ross his chest. Smoke drifts from the barrel of his machine gun. He looks like Clint Eastwood auditioning for an Exorcist movie. He drops a heavy green sack at my side. It opens and three semi-automatics spill out. I can tell by the way they hit the ground they’re all fully loaded.

“Pick one, son. Heck, pick ‘em all.” He twirls, rapidly turning his machine gun, putting more of the zombie fucks down. Everyone he hits with a burst to the chest drops like a stone. “Aim for their hearts,” he says. “These aren’t ordinary zombies. They’re demon made. Taking out their h
earts is the only way to stop them.”

More zombies are pushing towards us now like
an unruly crowd at Walmart on Black Friday. I pick up one of the guns and run out the magazine before they get the chance to force us backward into the pit. I discharge it and bend down to grab the next one when I catch a flash of black fur moving sideways through the crowd.
Sidekick.
By the time I clutch the weapon in my hand and get my head back up to get a good look where he is, he’s gone. I frantically scan the crowd but I’m forced to engage anything coming at me so I can’t complete a thorough search. By the time I see him again, it’s too late.

He’s on Miguel in the space between heartbeats, driving him into the ground. Sidekick’s in half human, half wolf form. His fingers are spread wide, his shimmering claws ready to slash Miguel wide open. Miguel’s weapon gets lost, dropping out of reach and into the pit. I raise mine, but Sidekick sees me and reacts faster than I can get a shot off. He lunges and some part of him that’s hard and furry catches the side of my head. I go down. My vision’s blurred but I hear and feel Sidekick kick my gun away.