Massacre at Lonesome Ridge: A Zombie Western (6 page)

Charity's entire body ached. She opened her eyes and blinked into the sunlight that was streaming through the window. It hurt. A lot. She threw her arm over her eyes to shield them from the painful rays. "Ugh." She grimaced. Even her throat hurt. It ached as if she'd been screaming for hours on end with no respite and a deep pain throbbed near her shoulder.

She groaned and pressed the back of her free hand to her cheek. What was she doing last night? She thought back to the weird nightmares that had haunted her sleep. She laughed at her silliness. She was mad at David, and for what? Because of a stupid dream? He would never really bite her, would he? Of course not.

Her hand trailed down her face to find her throat. Tiny shocks of pain radiated out from the deep, ragged holes her fingers found there. Her hand dropped and she sat up straight, the pain in her head all but forgotten.

She was still in her bedroom, alone. The candle that had been burning on the dresser had melted into a hard pool of wax. Dark, shiny spots marred the normally spotless floor. Her nostrils flared as a coppery scent assaulted her. Her stomach rumbled at the same time.

With great effort, she moved to the edge of the bed and set her feet on the floor. It took two tries, but she finally pushed herself to her feet. She was unsteady and wobbled for a moment before regaining her balance. It felt like years since she had used her legs. She was weak, like a toddler just learning to walk. With a flash of annoyance, she took a tentative step forward. Her bare toes landed in one of the dark pools on the floor. She moved them experimentally. It was sticky and thick.

"Disgusting," she whispered as her stomach rumbled once more.

She stopped and stared at her naked foot. Since moving out west, her skin had darkened considerably to an unpleasant tan color that she grew to loathe. But her foot wasn't that dark tan. It was sickly gray in the morning light. She raised her hand. It had the same pale gray hue, too. Charity walked across the room to the mirror. Her scream lodged in her throat. Her hair was a matted mess and her face and upper body were covered in drying blood. A chunk of flesh was missing from her neck and every piece of visible skin was a shade of gray that she had only seen on her dead grandmother. Even her eyes were missing their usual blue sparkle.

She gripped the dresser and gasped for air. She felt sick, and hungry. Her eyes roved around the room and landed on the open doorway. Only then did she notice the bloody footprints retreating out into the hallway. The boot prints matched David's. Fear hovered in her stomach as faint voices echoed up to her from below. She cupped her hands over her mouth and thought frantically.

"What is going on?" she whispered to herself. "This is crazy." She looked in the mirror again and ran a hand through her tangled hair. She stared at herself for several seconds. Then she straightened her shoulders. "Stop this," she said. "You're a grown woman. Act like it."

She picked up the pitcher on the stand under the mirror and poured some water into the basin. With a cloth she pulled from the drawer, she washed herself up as best she could in the small space, then she straightened her hair and put on a clean dress. When she was finished, she looked in the mirror again.

She still felt like walking death and didn't look much better. Her fingers poked at her cheeks as she stared at her horrific visage. Was it the plague? She didn't feel sick. She felt hungry, voraciously hungry. She wanted to vomit, but it was more from looking at herself than from actually feeling sick. With an annoyed sigh, she pulled at the high collar on the dress. It covered most of the wound on her neck, which was at least something. She prodded the holes again. The pain there had disappeared. She shrugged her shoulders and wiggled her hips. All traces of pain were gone. She had woken up stiff and horribly sore, but nothing hurt anymore. Even more confused than before, she stared at the holes.

"It wasn't David," she whispered at herself in the mirror. Her image was as unconvinced as she was. Charity bit her lip. "Am I dreaming?" She bit her lip again, harder. Her teeth pierced the skin, bit all the way through, but that was it. She pulled her lip out and looked at it in the mirror. There was definitely a hole, but something was missing. She had bitten her lip before, many times. It always bled. She could imagine the coppery tang on her tongue even now. The thought of blood in her mouth made her hungrier.

"Ugh, gross." She shook her head and gave herself a scalding look before deciding she needed to go downstairs and find out what was going on.

Charity tiptoed around the blood on the floor and pulled the door open again. The voices were gone and it was all quiet downstairs. She had been in the house for six months, long enough to know where all the squeaky boards were. She made it to the bottom of the stairs without making a sound.

"Come in."

Charity froze with her foot hanging off the last step. She leaned over and looked into the sitting room. Someone with long black hair occupied David's chair. It faced the fireplace, away from the door. On the floor beside the chair sat a man. He was dressed in a ragged Confederate uniform that had dark brown stains on the sleeves and pant legs. He stared at her with dull eyes. His skin was gray, like hers.

"Come." The voice came from the man in the chair. It was thick with an accent Charity could not place.

She stepped down onto the floor. "Where's David?" She kept her hand on the banister and balanced on her toes, ready to bolt back up the stairs.

"Here," said the hidden speaker.

Charity heard a light scuffing sound before David's head appeared from in front of the chair. He looked terrible, much like she did before she cleaned up. Gray skin, lifeless eyes. He stared at her with his mouth hanging half open, like her grandfather after his stroke when she was just a child.

"Sit." David flopped out of sight.

Charity narrowed her eyes. She didn't like the idea of someone else treating her husband like a dog. Sure, he hadn't been kind to her lately, but he was still her husband. She stomped across the floor to the chair, a scathing retort on her lips. It died before it left her mouth.

Sitting in the chair was a young man. His long black hair flowed around his shoulders, but chunks were missing from the sides and back. His skin was a grayish brown. Wounds covered his body, but they did not bleed.

He turned his head to look at her. Where his eyes used to be were gaping red holes. His face was cracked like the ground in the middle of summer.

He spoke in slow, labored English. His voice was hoarse and low. “Hello, child. Welcome to a new world.”

Charity stared at the man in the chair, shocked into silence.

The man in the chair spoke again. "My name is Little Bear. You are Charity?"

Charity nodded. "Wh..." She stopped herself and glanced around the room. It was just the three of them. Outside the window, the world was still. She couldn't even hear the usual snorting of the horses and cattle. "What are you?"

Little Bear smiled. His teeth were stained a dark brown. "Death," he said.

Charity cut a look at David. He sat on the floor in front of the empty fireplace staring out into nothing. From this angle she could see his blond hair was matted in the back with dried blood. The lower part of his shirt was torn and stained.

"What do you mean?" Charity kept David in her peripheral vision and looked back at Little Bear.

The smile had not left his face. He spoke again. "In due time. You must be starving." He raised a hand and waved it toward the back.

The soldier rose and disappeared from the room. The front door slammed shut behind him. A minute later it creaked opened.

The smell hit Charity like a brick wall. It was Christmas dinner, the freshest baked bread, and the stench of fear, all rolled into one. Her body vibrated with a hunger so intense, it made her insides hurt. She could feel it in every part of her body, from her stomach all the way out to her fingers and toes. Her teeth rattled with anticipation of sweet, delicious food.

The soldier came into view. Behind him stumbled the kitchen maid, Isabelle. Her hands were tied and a rag was stuffed into her mouth to keep her from talking. Her eyes were huge and glistened brightly above tear-stained cheeks. She was being pushed by a big brute of a man with the same gray skin and dead eyes as everyone but Isabelle.

Isabelle was very much alive. Charity imagined she could hear the blood pulsing through the girl's veins. Warm, wonderful blood. A growl tore up Charity's throat and escaped before she could stop it. At the same time, David rose. The same hunger she felt burned in his eyes.

"Down," Little Bear commanded.

David hesitated as he stepped forward. He wobbled for a moment, his eyes shifting between Little Bear and Isabelle. Then with obvious reluctance he sank to the floor and scooted around so he could continue to stare at Isabelle.

Little Bear watched her as he spoke. "Go ahead, Charity."

Charity tried to look at him, she wanted to, but she couldn't tear her gaze away from the girl. "I don't understand." The words were forced through clenched teeth. She knew exactly what he meant. Isabelle's fear sweated out through her delicate skin. The wide doe eyes swelled with tears that spilled down her face. Charity knew they would season her cheeks with a delicious saltiness. She could almost taste the tender flesh on her tongue and it made her weak in the knees.

Charity jerked her head to the side, forcing herself to look away. Her nostrils flared as she glared at Little Bear. "What are you?"

Little Bear smiled again. "What are we, you mean. We are vengeance. We are revenge. We are death."

Charity shook her head. She still didn't understand. He was babbling.

Little Bear raised his hand and beckoned. The big brute brought Isabelle forward until she was standing right in front of Charity.

"Eat," he said.

Charity shook as she fought back the hunger that threatened to envelop her. Her hands clenched in tight balls that she used to beat upon her thighs. She berated herself for her stupidity. This was just a dream. Just a dream. She would wake up soon and David would be lying next to her in their bed upstairs.

But the hunger was very real, and she could no longer fight it. She took a step toward Isabelle. She was right in front of the girl now. The maid whimpered around the gag as she gazed at Charity. Her eyes pleaded with her mistress and she tried to speak. Charity didn't hear her. Her ears buzzed with Isabelle's pulse. She took another step forward. Isabelle tried to take a step back, but the big man was directly behind her and she couldn't move. Charity reached out a hand and trailed a finger down the soft skin of the girl's neck. She pulled the finger back and licked it.

Her legs nearly buckled at the intense flavor. It tasted so delicious. All her resolve evaporated in an instant. Before she knew what she was doing, her hand darted out and tangled itself into Isabelle's hair. The girl screamed around the cloth shoved into her mouth. Charity snarled and a vicious grin pulled at her lips. She ripped the cloth away to let Isabelle's screams pierced the air in full force. The sound sent shivers of ecstasy through Charity's body. Riding the high of the screams, she tipped the girl's head back and pressed her nose to the throbbing vein. She inhaled deeply and moaned.

The continued screams vibrated against her lips as they trailed along the salty skin and she savored the moment. Then Charity's teeth pierced the skin, tiny drops of blood ran over her tongue, she shook with a pleasure she had never before known. It was heaven. Nothing she had ever eaten or experienced, not during her childhood or even during her wedding, could match the explosion of flavor and joy that started in her mouth and coursed through her entire body. It was too much and not enough, all at the same time.

Charity's teeth snapped closed and she yanked her head back. As a chunk of flesh ripped from Isabelle's throat, the girl's screams became burbling gags. The meat tasted even better than the blood. She chewed slowly, making the moment last as long as she could.

Isabelle sagged against her as the last bit of life left her weak body. Charity forgot about everyone else in the room. It was just her and the girl, the girl she hated, the girl she now loved. She pulled Isabelle's head back again and trailed a finger down her throat. This time she took a bite from the shoulder. It was tougher than the flesh at the throat, not as tender. But it had its own unique flavor and it was still beyond anything she could have imagined.

For several blissful minutes, Charity ate, taking bites from various parts of the body, testing their delicacy, comparing their flavors, discovering her favorite bits. Finally, her hunger was sated and she let the dead maid slide to the floor. Charity sank down with her, feeling weak and spent.

"Take her outside." Little Bear's voice broke through the strange wall of happiness that surrounded her.

As the big man hefted Isabelle's body over his shoulder, Charity looked up at him. She was in a fog, confused by what just happened, by what she felt. She still floated in a dream world, but it had taken on an all too real hue. A small piece of her was appalled at what she had just done and it clawed its way out from under the animal urges that were threatening to take over. She shook as she realized what she had done. She was a cannibal, devouring the flesh of her very own kitchen maid. She wiped her arm across her mouth. The back of her hand came away streaked with blood.