Nightmare of the Dead: Rise of the Zombies (11 page)

"You're hurt," he said with the mallet in his hand. "Let me help you, please."

Abigail allowed him to come closer, and he slowly reached out with his hand; she cringed and drew back, shaking her head. A meek whimper escaped from her lips and she shook her head frantically. She may have been trying to clear the cobwebs from her head, or she was incredibly afraid of the monster who was betraying her.

"I don't want to die," she said.

"I need you," he said, "and you've always been there for me."

Abigail didn't see the mallet, but when it struck her in forehead, fresh blood poured over her face. She spat thick, crimson gore out of her mouth and slid down the wall. The woman began to beg and plead for her life, placing her arm over her face to shield herself. Why wouldn't she resist?

Saul understood the magnificent, addictive power of fear.

He brought the mallet down upon her head with another skull-crushing crack. She slumped to the cavern floor. He hit her again, and when he looked at the mallet, he saw the strands of hair that stuck to his weapon. Abigail's body twitched for a few moments.

He couldn't stop giggling as he selected his tools for the next step. He'd read about people who felt remorse or despair when they killed others in battle, but this was something different. He was extremely pleased with the way Abigail died. In the end, she really did care about him.

For the rest of the evening, he worked diligently to cut her body up into pieces. He opened her stomach and marveled at the organs on display there. The chest cavity was also exposed; he identified all of the organs, and was very pleased when he was able to perform several precise surgical cuts. Beyond a doubt, he could be a doctor, someday.

Would all of these morsels be far more delicious to eat than anything the mice could provide? With his hands, clothes, and tools covered in gore, he continued to dig through the body and remove each component that once belonged to Abigail.

All he could think about was cutting his dear little sister into tiny pieces.

Relief washed over him. His entire body felt exhausted, as if he'd just experienced a release of pressure from his stomach. He began to feel like anything was possible.

He'd finished cutting and lay with his back against the rocks, when he turned his head to find the looming shadow of his beloved Mother standing in the cave's mouth, he believed her to be a hallucination created by his sense of relief.

The shadow said, "Your father wanted this for you, but I didn't."

Saul swallowed a gulp of air; he was unsure what to say to her. His face became flushed with intense heat, and he glanced around at his instruments as if he'd never seen them before. He feared that it was all over, once and for all.

She stepped into the cave, a harsh breath of wind rifling the black tendrils of her hair about her face, which was rendered invisible by darkness and Saul's perception of time and memory. "Your father believed in this plan, but I didn't. He was right, after all. But this is not for you to understand."

Saul didn't know what to say. He merely stared and awaited her wrath.

"Only the strong survive in this world," Mother said.

He nearly choked on his words, but he managed to let them stammer out of his mouth. "I want to kill her so badly, Mother. I want to prove that I'm a man. I'm strong, like you want me to be. I'm not supposed to suffer her insults. Let me cut her several times. Let me bleed her."

"You will do as you must. The world must burn in order for the new race to thrive, and everything must be erased. The weak must be destroyed. This is the lesson I impart to you. This is your sister's destiny, though it was also supposed to be yours."

She left him in the cave to ponder her words. His entire life had been a grand experiment that would shape the eccentricities that caused in him the abnormal behaviors other adults often snickered at. His instructors often thought him aloof and awkward, or they recommended him to an educational institution better suited for those with under-developed brains. He was a genius, but he was the only one who knew it. Mother kept him in those schools, because she loved him. All along, she'd given him the choice to determine his life's path.

Mother was right. The strong survived.

***

Until the day when riders came and Mother rode off with them, he'd spent most of his hours convincing himself that it must be done. There wasn't an argument taking place within his consciousness—there was no debate. In his mind, his sister was already dead, and he would be left alone with Mother. He would be strong for her love. When she returned from her trip, he would surprise her with the gift of his sister's head.

Saul gripped the banister in his hands, and his stomach seemed to feel incredibly empty and light. He wanted to move quickly and defile his sister in every way imaginable. There were so many things he needed to say to her, so many things he needed her to feel.

Rushing back to his bedroom, he opened his favorite kit, one that he'd never had an opportunity to use: his trepanning kit. He looked at all of the tools, but he wasn't sure what he would take. He cursed himself for not being prepared. He should already know what he needed! But there were so many things… how would her flesh taste? Would she scream in terror, or would she ask for forgiveness?

He couldn't wait to find out.

With the kit in his hand, he raced downstairs and searched the house for her. The house servant was attending to matters in the kitchen (it was the fourth servant in as many months…the others simply disappeared and never returned, though all of them seemed to perform their functions adequately). Nobody else was around.

She was in the stables where the horses were kept. Brushing the mane of hair along her favored stallion's neck was a beloved pastime of hers. The stable hand was nowhere in sight (they'd also gone through several of those, for no apparent reason), and the little girl was humming a song while stroking the horse's hair. Halter chains rattled when Saul stepped into the barn with the kit in his hand. Gold triangles of light poked through the boards and painted the room dusty shades of orange. His sister's face was a pale white beneath a brown river of long hair that fell freely along the length of her back. She wore a simple black cotton dress with red flowers printed in a haphazard pattern.

"Dear sister," Saul began with a confidence that was both alien and welcome. While he spoke, he seemed to be listening to someone talk with his voice. He no longer commanded his own body.

She didn't turn her head. She continued to brush her horse, Napoleon, while standing on a stool. One of the horse's big dark eyes noticed Saul momentarily, and then it lowered its head to allow the girl to continue her habit.

"Where's Santiago?" he asked.

"Fuck do I know?" the eleven-year-old girl replied. "He's out killing something, I think."

"I've come to play with you," Saul said and stepped toward her.

"Go away," she said, her attention focused on the horse. "I've no time for you."

He grabbed a fistful of her dress and yanked her away from the stall. She fell back against an empty stall's door, and she was too slow to stop his hands from seizing her slender throat. He was careful enough to distance himself from her so that her frantic kicks struck nothing but air. Her eyes bulged, and adrenaline coursed through Saul's veins. The excitement was nearly overwhelming. He was strong! It was going to happen, now. Mother would shower him with love and adoration.

Saul pushed her to the floor amongst scattered strands of hay. He positioned himself between her legs and felt his own arousal, but was suddenly unsure what he wanted to do with her, exactly. He hadn't expected to feel the sudden rush of desire, and he hesitated; he didn't know what he should do. Would Mother be upset with him? What should come first? Where was the kit with his instruments?

His grip weakened during his moment of confusion. One of her kicks landed right between his legs, and burning pain raced upward into his lungs and stole his breath, while his stomach curled inward. He collapsed to the floor, clutching himself helplessly.

But the smile on his face couldn't be destroyed by her threatening presence. With stray strands of hair askew over her eyes, she clutched the trephine from his medical kit in her small fist.

"I hope you've had a good time," she said, "but now it's my turn."

The blunt end of the instrument was quite efficient at smashing his teeth from their gums. Later, he would count himself fortunate for not choking on his blood.

May 20th, 1863: This Terror Dreams of You

Glaring white light poured between reaching branches and brightened the swampland. Crystalline light warmed the flesh on her cheeks, and she stared into th
e
vivid sun for uncounted minutes, blinking against a crowd of flies that buzzed around her head. Sweat trickled along the sides of her face and pooled around her neck.

She was alive. Her sleep had been dreamless, and fresh pain reminded her that her wounds might still be lethal. Part of her shirt had been ripped off and wrapped around her wounded shoulder. The joints in two fingers on her left
hand
had been popped out of place. Her back ached. Her clothes were covered in gore.

The three fleshless corpses attracted the battalion of greedy flies. Birds chirped overhead while Neasa grabbed a nearby piece of tree bark and bit down; she popped her fingers back into place and screamed against the bark.

When it was over, she fumbled around in the brush for her revolvers. After retrieving them, she attempted to replace the cylinders
but
dropped them into the dirt twice. The canopy of trees above her provided little shelter from the humidity and the rampant flies. With muddled thoughts, she tried to remember how many of the corpses were still left.

There were two others. Had her plan worked? She barely survived fighting four of them; she would have been dead if McPhee hadn't intervened, although he should have helped from the start. The man was a braggart and a coward.

Where could she go? She'd managed to chase Dr. Lynch away, though it was obvious he still wanted to work with her. She was a part of his schemes, and he was the key to unlocking her memories.

Westward. She would travel in the same direction and rest at the first town. Everybody apparently thought she was dead, so she might still be able to find a doctor who'd be willing to help her. She was penniless, but she was a wounded woman.

Staggering away from the wasted creatures, Neasa believed she could still be saved.

Weak from blood loss, she stumbled along with her twisting thoughts. There was water left in the canteen she pilfered from the train and some scraps of food, but her strength refused to return. Her shoulder burned. After pushing her way through high grass, tree branches that hung low enough to be hidden by the wild greenery scraped across her back, causing new blood to ooze out of the scratches.

There had to be a road. Where was it?

She stopped more than once to wipe sweat from her eyes. Memories from the previous day assailed her attempt to cross the vast Mississippi swamp. The dead creatures with their melted flesh dripping over blood-slick muscles
and
Santiago's black moustache lingering beneath the shadow of his hat
kept flooding her mind
.
Then,
Carter lying face down between the seats, never to return home to his farm
,
Doctor Lynch's shrill voice
,
McPhee's tongue rolling over his dry lips.

Santiago astride his horse, his spurred boots kicking into the horse's sides while the boy waited for his death among the smoldering ruins of his town, where his family lay dead from the wrath of smoking guns.

Shivering uncontrollably, she collapsed into the dirt while stomping through an open field. A flock of birds took flight and passed beneath the glare of the sun. She closed her eyes and thought about sleeping again. Behind her heavy eyelids, she saw the wide, black mouth of the monster that held her when she stood in the water with mud between her toes. She could feel its hot breath on her face again, and she opened her eyes with a start. She may have dozed off.

The wounds were serious. It was a silly notion that she would die without knowing who she was. Did she still have a soul if she didn't have an identity? Could she be accountable for the sins of her past if she didn't know what they were?

The heat bore down upon her, and she willed herself to her feet once again while her body protested. She shook the images from her mind and pushed herself into the shade of the trees, where a cool wind brushed against her cheeks and provided a moment of peace from the warmongering sun.

She was nobody, with nowhere to go.

Neasa had fought for her life and prevailed. The defeatist mentality certainly couldn't belong to a notorious outlaw. She'd won against creatures that belonged in Hell. While she shivered against exhaustion, blood loss, and the onset of infection, she was weak against the same images which continued to haunt her.

The boy in the middle of the fiery street, watching helplessly as the horse charged toward him, heralding his doom with each hoof-beat through the dust.