Best New Zombie Tales Trilogy (57 page)

He stopped, turning to the grisly figure that was now almost onto all fours, ready to advance on him again. It was her face––the face he’d seen in his dreams for over a 1500 miles of ocean. His hand rose, reaching out to her, and he took a faltering step forward. There was no recognition in the dead eyes that now moved toward him, dragged greedily across the ground by bony talons, only half-covered with skin.

“Jeanne…” he whispered. The horde behind him was forgotten. He took another step forward, holding open his arms, eyes dull. “Jeanne.”

Then Bubba was there. Billy was too slow to stop him, could only watch in horrified fascination as the huge animal launched itself at the husk of his wife––the remains of the woman he loved. Massive jaws opened and crunched shut like a bear trap, ripping the throat straight out. The dog’s momentum carried it over the top of the still crawling form, and his powerful back jaws ripped backward and down, separating the head from the half-severed neck. With a last shiver of pseudo-life, the thing––for that was what was left, a
thing
––stopped.

Bubba had turned, snarling at the street, and barking back over his shoulder at Billy, jaws dripping gore and tiny slivers of flesh. For a moment, Billy was horrified––unable to react. Then he shook his head, returning to reality as quickly as his fogged brain would allow. The Jeep was only a few feet away, and he leaped for it, Bubba at his heels, and slid behind the wheel. Bubba nearly ripped a hole in his leg jumping in over him to the passenger side seat. The engine started first try––more luck?––and they swung in a quick arc, ripping grass from the yard and narrowly missing the tree that grew near the street.

The approaching creatures caromed off the sides of the vehicle, ripping at the windows, grabbing the door handles and dragging along behind, piling onto the hood until Billy was afraid the Jeep would be buried in a heap of dead flesh. His eyes were blurred, half from sweat, and half from the tears that were only now beginning to come. Bubba was faceup against the glass on his side, booming his displeasure at the leering, mindless faces that pressed against it from the outside. Then they were through. Clear road.

Ahead, others were appearing, moving slowly and purposefully into the street, but the mob was left behind, and Billy managed, somehow, to wind his way around the others, knocking as many as he could sprawling and spewing an endless string of curses at the passing streets. Bubba had quieted somewhat, his tongue lolling to the side as he watched his master drive. It was getting dark, and the base was the only place he could think of to go.

* * *

He’d stopped by the air tower in the hopes of finding the one living person he’d seen since the helo left them behind, but there was no sign of Ice, or of his marines. He hoped they’d escaped to somewhere. Somehow, he knew, that if anyone could make it, Ice would be the one. Waves slapped lightly at the sides of the small boat he’d taken, rocking them slowly as they moved out toward the mouth of the harbor. Toward the ship. He didn’t know what they were going to say about Bubba, but he didn’t really give a fuck, either. Things were different now, and he doubted if the orders of the officers and chiefs would amount to much once his story was told. It didn’t matter, anyway. What could they do?

The ocean beckoned, clean and pure. Nightmares breathed at his back. There was nothing to hold him, this time. The sea called, and for what it was worth, he would answer. Ahead, the ship loomed, a huge, shadowy form on the nearly calm water. It had never looked so good. Turning the throttle to full, he roared into the night. Behind him, the darkness thickened and closed like the final pages of a bad book.

He was going home.

The Third Option

DEREK GUNN

“I fucking hate dead people.” Deputy William Boyle whined as he reached for his hat.

Outside
the wind howled and threw sand against the windows of the small jail, the sound crackling like bacon sizzling on a pan. “I mean why can’t we just put them back in the ground where they belong?”

Sheriff Amos Carter waited impatiently for his deputy and tried to ignore the pounding in his head. Boyle was a good man but inexperienced. He also asked way too many questions but he had just become a father yesterday and they had celebrated far too much the previous night. He decided he would allow him a little leeway, but only as much as his throbbing head would tolerate, and his limit was fast approaching.

“Now, Will,” Carter sighed, “you know as well as I do that the Governor has ordered that these dead folk be left alone until they can decide whether they have a legal right to walk around.”

“And what if they decide that they don’t?” Boyle pressed him.

“Then,” Carter sighed and slapped his thigh impatiently, “you can put them back in the ground. Now hurry up. We have to let him know about our town rules before he goes and breaks any of ’em.”

“I’m coming,” he pouted, “but I still can’t figure out what the good Lord was thinking ’bout when he sent ’em back to clutter up the place.”

“It had nothing to do with the Lord’s work as you well know,” Carter pushed the younger man out the door where his startled cry was ripped from his mouth by the wind.

The day was young yet and the sun was still climbing in the sky. Sand swirled chaotically around the two men and forced them to pull their bandanas up over their noses and mouths. Carter cursed as his eyes were assaulted by the sand and he hunched up further as the wind snapped at him. It was June. Normally the sun would already be hot enough to fry an egg but the sand was so thick after a dry month, that the wind had whipped it up easily and it was blocking most of the heat. He squinted upwards but could only see a vague outline of the sun through the storm, and the weak glow cast the town in an eerie diffused light.

The two men hurried over towards the saloon and Carter was thankful that the storm cut off any further questions that Boyle might have had. The whole subject of the dead walking around was confusing enough to him without having to come up with answers for an over-eager deputy as well.

Of course it would be easier to just kill them all, but one of the buggers had petitioned the Governor that the dead still had rights. He had argued that the fact that they no longer breathed did not necessarily change their legal status and the Governor’s legal experts did not have any counter to that argument. So, until the lawyers got their act together they would have to put up with their share of visitors, although few of them came this far upstate.

It had all started two years ago as an act of final defiance by an Indian Shaman before his tribe had been kicked off their land. Nobody knew for certain what had happened. The accepted version was that an Indian Shaman had put a curse on the white man stating that ‘the dead would rise and ravage that which he held most dear’. Carter assumed that the Shaman had meant for the dead to kill the living but something had gone wrong. The dead
did
crave that which the white man held most dear, there was no argument about that, it was just that the Shaman had miscalculated on the white man’s priorities. It wasn’t life the white man held most precious. Out here in the west, it was gold men lusted after. And gold meant power.

Of course some idiot had gone and killed the Shaman in the meantime so the curse could not be reversed. So, for now at least, they were stuck with the dead folk.

The two men reached the wooden boardwalk that stretched from Tracy’s Hardware all the way up to the hotel. The saloon was about half way along, past a barber shop, a few houses and the doctor’s office. The path boasted a wooden canopy so they were shielded from the brunt of the storm as they continued walking. Unfortunately this also meant that it afforded Boyle the opportunity to launch into another question and, as if on cue, he did just that.

“It’s kind’a weird don’t you think?”

“What’s that?” Carter rolled his eyes and reminded himself that Boyle was the only able bodied man in the town willing to work for the wages that the state paid.

Carter could understand the young man’s confusion. He had been incredulous himself when he had heard it. He had since found out that hundreds of years ago Kings and Queens in Europe frequently took gold in the same fashion, believing that anything so expensive must be good for them. The problem now was that the living also coveted gold, and so trouble had begun almost as soon as the dead’s cravings became common knowledge.

Carter sighed and stopped. Boyle didn’t notice for a moment and continued on and had to hurry back. He smiled sheepishly. “Look. These things are dead. If we left them alone they’d eventually rot away and solve all our problems. Unfortunately that Shaman worked some weird shit and gold slows their rotting. And before you ask I don’t know how.” Carter put his hand up to enforce his statement. “Anyway their teeth ain’t as strong as they used to be so they have to take it in a drink or as a handful of finely shaved dust.”

Carter had had enough questions. “Bill,” he placed a shoulder on the young man’s shoulders. “I’ll handle this, you go on over to Muriel in the hotel and let her know that the Governor will be here later today and no doubt he’ll want his usual suite.”

“That’s the fourth time this month,” Boyle grinned lasciviously. “Those bedsprings must be bust by now.”

“The Governor’s sexual antics are no concern of yours,” Cater admonished him and then grinned. “Mind you keep your mouth shut though, if his wife finds out he’ll probably fire us just for spite.”

The younger man grinned and headed off towards the hotel giving Carter a moment to collect his thoughts before he entered the saloon.

* * *

He pushed open the battered swinging doors to the saloon and winced as the hinges creaked and sent pain stabbing through his already delicate head. He stood for a moment and breathed a sigh of relief as he brushed dust and grit from his clothes. Outside, the town church began summoning the faithful to worship and the incessant tolling of the bells reverberated painfully in his head.

He looked around the saloon taking in his surroundings in a practiced glance. He hadn’t survived twenty years as a lawman by being stupid and he had long ago perfected the ability to read the occupants in a room by their stance, or the look on their faces when he entered a room, even when he was suffering from a hangover. Long slabs of wood lay on top of numerous barrels and dominated the room in front of him. The wooden planks acted as a bar until the new one arrived from St. Louis. The owner had promised the town a beautiful mahogany bar, with brass fitting, though Carter would miss this beer-stained monstrosity when it went, it had a certain charm. Large ornate oil lamps hung from a low ceiling and they burned merrily and cast deep shadows into the corners of the room. Tables lay scattered around the room in a chaotic jumble that seemed to have no plan other than to fit as many customers as possible into a relatively small space.

His eyes were drawn immediately to three Mexicans in the corner. The three men leaned in on the table conspiratorially with their elbows on the edges. Their quick, furtive glances towards Peterson behind the bar intimated some illicit activity, though their harsh accented voices and guttural laughter were far too loud to suggest anything he needed to be involved in.

They were probably looking for somewhere to ride out the storm and had their own bottle hidden under the table rather than pay the exorbitant prices Peterson charged. Their clothes were simple and of poor quality and they did not appear to have weapons of any kind. He eyes continued to scan the room.

It was early yet so only two girls prowled the floor. Their gaudy colors and heavy makeup were more suited to the dim lighting of the evening. The morning’s brightness, though somewhat subdued from the storm, still illuminated their tired faces and lusterless hair more than they probably would have liked. They looked up with hope in their eyes as the doors creaked and announced his entry but they quickly lost interest when they saw him. The ‘moral majority’ in the town constantly put him under pressure to run the girls out but the law still tolerated their profession. Until that changed he could do nothing, though he did make sure that he was seen as neutral and that meant keeping his distance from both groups.

John Peterson stood behind the bar in his usual boiled white shirt and brocaded vest. He sported an over-large moustache as if to compensate for the lack of hair on his head and his ruddy complexion hinted at an addiction to the liquor he sold. He rubbed furiously at a glass and moved his head towards the far corner of the bar. Carter nodded and glanced over towards the indicated table near the window where a lone man sat quietly.

He spent another moment casually brushing dust from his clothes and used the time to look the stranger over. The man’s boots and jeans were almost the same color as each other, with the natural fading of the materials and the dirt encrusted liberally over them both. He wore a dark blue shirt of good quality, though the material was worn in places and the collar was frayed. A black vest with three silver buttons, dulled from lack of attention, completed the man’s wardrobe. He also wore a matching black hat that cast a shadow over his face but Carter could see that he was relatively clean-shaven and that his hair was still quite short, the ends only curling slightly above the frayed collar.

Not dead that long then, he mused as he continued to study the figure. It had become somewhat of an accepted method of judging the duration of a dead person’s existence. Hair seemed to grow for quite a while after death so many of them had long hair and uneven, scraggly beards. The dead seemed to have no interest in hygiene after death so most of them smelled foul, somewhere between rotten meat and an open sewer, and their hair was usually matted and infested with all kinds of parasites.