Best New Zombie Tales Trilogy (58 page)

Carter came to a stop at the table. The man moved his head slowly and regarded him with a cool appraisal of his own. The man had a strong jaw line but his desiccated skin was pulled too taut over the bone. This made the man’s face angular rather than strong. His nose seemed too long and narrow with the flesh having receded in death, giving him a hawkish appearance that threw shadows over his already sunken eye sockets. His eyes bore the hallmark of the dead. Skin stretched tightly at the sides making them appear as if they were constantly squinting. The high cheekbones, where the bone protruded and stretched the skin around his mouth, gave the stranger an insane-looking grin. It was unnerving to look at someone who grinned constantly at you. But it was the eyes that held him, as they always did.

They were entirely yellow with a small bead of black in the centre of each. There was no sense of life in those eyes as they regarded him, nothing but dark ovals of purest black.

The recent Civil and Indian wars had left thousands dead and the graveyards full to capacity. So, when the dead had begun to rise, there had been no shortage of corpses. Suddenly towns and cities were filled with ambling corpses that, while they seemed to pose no immediate threat to the population, did make everyone very uncomfortable. The first response had been to kill them. Thousands died, again, but the dead did not simply stand still and let it happen. Once they got over the shock of finding themselves walking around, the dead began to regain their wits and began to protect themselves. They were also bloody difficult to kill. They could survive almost any wound and only finally died when their brains were destroyed.

The figure nodded to him and Carter nodded back as he finished his appraisal. The man might be dirty and rotting but the two colts strapped to his sides were in beautiful condition. Even the holster shone with a recent oiling and the weapon’s worn bone handles testified to long years of use. He also noted that both guns were tied low on the man’s thigh. A gunfighter, Carter cursed his luck. He was not slow on the draw himself but he just knew as he looked into the stranger’s eyes that he would be no match for this man. Dead or not, this man exuded competence. The dead tended to move more slowly than they had in life––something to do with the blood stagnating in their veins he had been told––but this corpse did not look slow. He had moved with an easy grace when he turned to face Carter and not the exaggerated slowness of many of his kind. Carter also noted that the man had cut his fingernails short to accommodate a fast draw and he felt his heart beat faster.

People had begun to grow worried when the dead began to defend themselves. It was assumed that, strange as it was, the phenomena was still an isolated incident and once they killed off the walking corpses, things would return to normal. But once they realized that even those who recently died rose again, they knew things had gone to hell. The government had been forced to call for a cessation of hostilities on both sides until something could be done.

The most popular solution seemed to be that a reservation, similar to that put in place for the Indians, would be provided and everyone seemed to calm down while plans were laid. The subsequent discovery that the dead needed gold to survive threw everything into chaos though and hostilities broke out again. It had been at that point that one of the dead had written a legal paper citing that the dead still had rights and as such should have access to all the protection that the law could provide. The paper also called for the return of all the dead’s assets.

The banks disagreed. The banks had gotten used to keeping the money and assets that the dead left behind them, where no beneficiaries were involved, and they did not want to have to give these assets back. Cases were brought against the banks by a growing number of dead people but until the question of their basic rights was addressed there could be no decision on who owned the money. This of course meant the dead had no means of purchasing the gold they required to survive. That left the dead with few choices. If they wanted to continue to exist they only had two options; either they earned their money or they would have to steal it.

Most of the living would not employ the dead so many of them were forced into crime to survive. It was this fact that branded all of them as criminals. This had the result of the dead being shunned and violence had a habit of breaking out regularly when they came to town. While Carter was not allowed to simply throw the dead out of his jurisdiction, just because they were dead, he did make sure to warn any that did come through that he took a dim view of anyone causing trouble in his town.

He took a deep breath and addressed the man.

“Morning,” Carter managed finally, pleased that his voice didn’t break. The corpse nodded back, his mouth still grinning insanely at him. As a law officer he was not allowed to merely kill the stranger on a whim. Until the lawyers ruled one way or the other, this corpse had as many rights as any of the town’s citizens. His hands were tied. Only the elite Texas Rangers could kill without recourse, and they hardly ever came this far north.

The Governor had made the Rangers exempt in an attempt to mollify his richest supporters. He had dressed it up in fancy language extolling the Ranger’s proud history and supporting their judgment when on missions. It just wasn’t practical, he had stated in his address to the papers, to force these men to check in before they acted. It would be suicide for these trusted men to be second-guessed for every decision.

The result was that the Rangers had become untouchable. But Carter had heard stories of Rangers combing the state and quietly executing the dead. It seemed that the Governor was making sure that whatever may be decided by the Government about the issue of the dead’s rights, that it would not have an impact on the Governor’s own finances.

The stories were becoming more and more frequent of Ranger death-squads sweeping the state trying to accomplish their mission before the lawyers came to any decisions. Carter didn’t really care one way or the other. The dead were dead. Who cared if they were put back in the ground? Carter knew more than most about the current situation because the Governor’s mistress lived in his town. Each time he came to visit Carter made sure that he got an update from the Governor’s bodyguards.

Carter shifted on his feet nervously. Most of the dead he dealt with were easy prey and he could intimidate them easily. But this corpse seemed far too confident. He had never seen such confidence in the dead before, and it worried him. He cursed himself for letting Boyle go on to the hotel. He could have done with the younger man’s support.

Outside the bells finally stopped tolling and he sighed in relief as the pounding in his head began to subside. The sun flared briefly outside in momentary relief from the wind and its glare blazed through the glass and reflected off something on the man’s chest.

Carter frowned as he blinked and then the glare suddenly stopped as the wind picked up and sand once again drew its veil over the sun. He studied the man’s chest and saw that there was a badge there of some sort. Was he a lawman too? That would certainly make things easier. A lawman, even a dead one, would understand his predicament. He looked harder at the badge; the edges were not pointed like his own and it was more rounded just like…

Oh shit! Realization flooded through him. He’s a Texas Ranger. A dead Texas Ranger. No-one had provisioned for that. Did that mean he still had his immunity to the law? Shit, he had to warn the Governor.

Suddenly a terrible thought struck him.

If this ranger killed the Governor, would the Governor still retain his powers of office after death? That could turn the whole state upside down. The dead already outnumbered the living in the state. If they were in charge, might they be able to pass laws that would make living in the state almost impossible.

Up till now the dead had been limited to two options to obtain the gold they coveted; employment, which was unlikely, and crime, which gave the living an excuse to kill them. But now, it struck Carter, they had discovered a third option to their problem. If they controlled the law, they could control the gold. Up till now people had considered the dead to be stupid, merely an inconvenience rather than any real threat. If they were capable of such planning, it showed an intelligence that sent a cold feeling of fear flooding through his veins.

These thoughts flooded his throbbing head in a flash. The Ranger merely smiled insanely at him.

He had to do something. He dropped his hand to his own weapon, adrenaline speeding his reflexes. The Ranger moved in a blur and suddenly Carter was staring at the barrel of the Ranger’s colt before he even slapped leather. He looked into the Ranger’s dead eyes and thought for a moment that he saw a widening of the corpse’s grin.

Maybe that damn Shaman had got it right after all! By making the dead dependant on gold he had forced them to strike at the heart of the cornerstones of the country itself––its wealth and power. For a second he wondered what it would be like being dead.

And then he heard the shot and darkness swept over him…

The Worst is Yet to Come

PETE MESLING

Lyndon knew he wasn’t supposed to play on Duff Kendrick’s farm but it was impossible to resist. Rusting scraps of ancient farming equipment littered the yard. Railroad ties that lay strewn in an adjacent pasture were sad reminders of corrals that never got built. Cattle chutes were in need of mending. Sagebrush and leafy spurge ran riot among it all, right up to the front door of the ramshackle house. Everything about the place was paradise to a boy like Lyndon.

Or would have been, if not for the rumors.

Area boys were disappearing in Bradley County and there weren’t a lot of clues. But kids were good at filling in gaps, and it didn’t take long for the collective finger of Lyndon’s circle of friends to point to Duff Kendrick—Duffer, he was commonly called—as a prime suspect.

He approached cautiously from the field behind the Kendrick farm. The sun melted like topping on the horizon, which was the best time to strike. Well, maybe not strike…forage. Lyndon wasn’t a junk expert, but he knew what he liked. And Duffer Kendrick’s dilapidated farm was a gold mine. These expeditions also gave Lyndon an opportunity to do a little spying.

As he followed his usual course through high weeds and fossils of the Industrial Age, Lyndon’s eyes fell on something that hadn’t been there during his last scavenging run. Some kind of black metal cabinet, just to the right of the path he usually followed through the shabby yard. It was a safe, he realized as he drew near. Its door hung wide open, like an inviting amusement. Or a hungry mouth, he tried to warn himself. He rested one hand on top, the other on the door. It was big enough for him to get into, and he was already wondering how he might get it home and convert it into a bunker or hiding place.

His father had cautioned him against playing in things that could trap him, like ancient refrigerators. When the old man had been drinking, such cautionary tales were often punctuated with a backhand across the face or a kick to the shin. But this was different. The door of the large black safe was heavy, and the way the whole thing was canted backwards in a shallow cleft of soil, he didn’t see how the door could possibly close on him. Besides, it probably wouldn’t lock even if it did shut. All he wanted was to peek at the world from inside the thing; try it on for size.

As he stepped inside, it became clear there was more to his curiosity than wanting an unusual perspective on Duffer’s farm. Still facing the back wall of the safe, Lyndon felt the low tingle of a delicious fear. Not only was he doing something Father would have objected to in the harshest terms—would have belt-whipped him for—but it was something not every boy would have had the nerve to do. Finally he turned around and felt as though he’d conquered something. Duffer’s yard framed by the doorway of the safe seemed small, and Lyndon wondered if the whole world would seem a little smaller from now on.

But before he could step out of the safe to find out, it began to tip backwards. He struggled to reach the opening but was thrown off balance by the movement of the falling safe. It collided hard with the earth, and all motion ceased, except for the door, which seemed to swing inward in slow motion. He reached up, hoping to block the door, keep it from latching shut…but he wasn’t quick enough. And suddenly he was in the most complete, suffocating darkness he had ever known.

His own breathing deafened him to other sounds, if there were any. Instinct urged him to try the door, but fear—no longer delicious—kept him motionless, except for the rapid, heavy breaths he drew, wondering how many he could take in such a small space before they failed to deliver oxygen to his blood, and to his brain. His breaths quickened at the thought.

He considered calling for help, but that would have been a stupid waste of energy and air, especially without trying the door first. Slowly his right hand moved in the darkness, seeking the cool steel of the door above him. He pressed his hand flat against the surface, then brought his other hand up. With both hands in position, he began to push. For a tiny piece of an instant, he thought it might relent, but it was only an illusion caused by the slight give of his wrists and the fleshiest parts of his palms. The latch was secured. Escape was hopeless.

Mrs. Filch, his sixth-grade teacher, had told the class once that it was important never to panic in an emergency, that it only made matters worse. But caught up in the worst emergency of his life, Lyndon was surprised to feel more terrified of trying to remain calm than he was of throwing a useless fit. He’d rather make noise and tire himself than cross his arms on his chest like a vampire and let the horrible reality of his situation slowly choke the life out of him.

And that was all the invitation panic needed. He clawed the door, seeking a sliver of space to slip a finger into, praying for his eyes to adjust to the gloom and discover a razor-thin shaft of light at a loose hinge. But of course there was nothing, and his clawing had no effect. He took to screaming, but that was bad and unbearably loud in the small space. Made him feel a thousand miles deep inside the earth, so he stopped. But the fitful clawing and scraping and scratching continued for some time.