Nightmare of the Dead: Rise of the Zombies (20 page)

The old reflexes returned. She reached for the gun, and the weapon appeared in her fist. She shoved the pistol into the corpse's mouth, and it attempted to rear back. Neasa arched her back and was thankful the hammer was half-cocked. When she pulled the trigger, the entire process had taken only a moment in time, for the corpse was also fast and recognized imminent danger. It couldn't escape the blast that rattled its head, nor could it see the gray brain matter that decorated the wall behind it, or the smoking chunks of skull that landed on Neasa's exposed legs.

Santiago slumped backward, its legs straddling her stomach. The zombie's shoulders and head bent were backward as if in supplication or some desperate show of faith. Its knuckles rested upon the floor, and its bony rib cage was open to the ceiling as if they were the remains of an ancient species that would rot beneath the rays of the sun until dust and time cloaked it in mysteries best left for benevolent discoverers.

She took a moment to breathe. There was a part of her that expected the dead bastard to go for her again, but a shot to the brain was good enough for the kill. Covered in blood, her wrist aflame with pain, her shoulder bleeding anew, she slid out from beneath the dead-again corpse. It slid to the ground in a grotesque display of twisted limbs and white bone.

There was no time to collect herself; every moment she waited gave McPhee and Saul a better chance to escape. She leaned over Santiago and picked away at his pistol belt with her good hand. The pain was intense, but there was no time to consider her own plight. The job was unfinished.

With the ammunition and holsters belted around her waist, she holstered the gun she'd already fired and removed the other gun with the fresh cylinder. She wouldn't be able to reload if it came down to it; she would have to drop the gun and draw the second. Every shot had to count. There were eleven shots loaded, with eight outlaws outside, not counting McPhee and Saul, or the two corpses from Cedar Rock. That made twelve. And what about Mother? Certainly, she deserved a bullet to the head, too.

She limped back up through the tunnel, bracing her wrist against her body. There was no time to prepare a makeshift splint; she had to finish the fight.

The walk back to the surface seemed to take years. Each agony-inducing step reminded her that she was still alive.

Was this about vengeance, or about the human race? Sure as shit, vengeance figured into it. Emotion drove her onward. She would never lose sight of that corpse sitting astride Ambala and eating her face.

Careful not to let her enemies see her, she dropped to her knees and approached the mouth of the tunnel slowly. They were loading Mother into a carriage, while McPhee sat in the driver's seat with a gun on his lap and the reins in his hands. Canisters of green, swirling gas were loaded into the carriage while Saul supervised.

Ignoring every painful sensation that stiffened the entire left side of her bleeding, broken body, she found the two corpses from Cedar Rock chained to the other carriage. She needed a diversion, and even though the guns could hardly be counted on for accuracy at a distance, she lay on her stomach and used her right elbow to inch herself along.

***

Neasa snuck around the camp until she managed to get close enough to the carriage to which the remaining zombies were chained. She waited on the other side of a hospital tent; she needed the perfect shot to create her diversion—she would use those dead bastards against their creator.

But something else was happening. She caught snippets of conversation between McPhee and the other men.

"You have the dynamite ready?" McPhee asked. "Union can't know we were here, and they can't see what was done there."

"Nobody wants to blow this place more than me. We getting our pay after we ride out of here? Where's Santiago?"

"He's dead, and we're going to bury him along with that witch. We'll get our pay when we ride out of here."

"You think you'll be in charge now that Santi's gone? I'm clearing out of this outfit as soon as I get my stake. The others feel the same. Ain't enough money in the world can keep me around. Not with those things."

"Way I figure it, we don't have much choice. The doc has powerful friends, and they got their own idea how they want this war to end. We don't want to be on the losing side, and we're losers if we ain't on the doc's side. Sticking around isn't a bad idea."

"We're ready to blow."

"Cover your ears! Cover your ears!"

It was exactly the moment she was waiting for.

The blast kicked up dust and rock, and she steadied herself and took aim through the smoke. 

As soon as she fired her shot, every man standing dove for cover. She managed to shatter one of the chains, and the unleashed creature loped toward an outlaw who ran for cover on the other side of the carriage. Two men dove into the second carriage while they attempted to wave another man over to take the reins.

Neasa could hear a man's screams while she took her second shot and freed the remaining zombie, which immediately rushed over to the carriage where the men had taken refuge and leapt inside with them. As one of the men jumped into the driver's seat to take the reins, the team of horses reared up and neighed, lifting the entire carriage into the air. The horses reared up again and tipped it.

Instead of standing to fight, two men leapt upon their horses and took off. Other horses not tethered fled in a variety of directions.

One of the canisters had been left on the ground. She couldn't let them take it, no matter what happened. Her eyes blurred from sweat and pain, and when Saul suddenly stood to jump into the carriage, Neasa had her chance.

She fired twice, and the mad doctor jerked. She'd hit him in the leg with both shots. His legs dangled over the back of the carriage, and he managed to drag himself into the carriage while Neasa's final shot missed wildly.

She dropped the revolver into the dirt and drew the other, which had already been fired once to destroy Santiago in the macabre chamber below the surface.

Blood had painted the dust, and for a moment, the frightened panic of men faced with death disappeared altogether. Neasa could feel the wind on her face, and she stared up for a moment at the wall of gray clouds above. She wanted to believe that Ambala was watching over her. Since when did she seek solace in faith?

McPhee stood from his seat and opened fire at one of the corpses, caving in its face with a well-aimed shot. When it slumped into the dust, there was a moment of sudden, startling silence that seemed to echo across the camp and shock every remaining man to the very fiber of his soul.

McPhee surveyed the abandoned camp to find Neasa.

"Come on out! Let me have a look at your pretty face!"

"Go! Go!" a voice shouted, and McPhee turned his gun on the two horses of the overturned carriage and fired upon their restraints, freeing them. He might not be able to find Bannan, but he would be damned if he would allow her a chance to come after them. He sank bank into the driver's seat and urged his horse team
onward
. A pair of outlaws who remained loyal (or perhaps they had nowhere else to turn, their own fortunes having run out long ago, or maybe the promise of wealth the mad doctor guaranteed was too much to pass up) rode alongside the carriage as it rumbled out of the camp, leaving one of the canisters sitting in the dust.

She took a deep breath and stood. The wind was very strong, and deep within her bones, she could feel the storm that brewed beyond the horizon.

The remaining zombie was sitting inside the carriage that had been left behind. The inside seemed a canvas splashed with manic, haphazard streaks of red. The corpse looked up at Neasa but continued eating a mouthful of flesh. The dead men beneath it stared at nothing with wide eyes. Neasa shot the creature in the head and closed the curtain on the carnage. 

***

She listened to Saul's carriage rumble through the dust for a good distance, or perhaps she heard thunder from the impending storm. Time itself seemed to pause and the world may have stopped spinning. A dash of lightning cut across the darkening sky. Laborious breath began to slow, and her racing heart crashed against the waves of consciousness that once again fought control against adrenaline and
blood lust
. Her mind refused to work. She wasn’t sure if she'd failed or if she could claim victory. Many men were dead, and she remained.

The canister would have to be dealt with. This much she understood, but rational thought was denied any further involvement in her brain as she sat where she stood and closed her eyes against the pain in her damaged wrist and wounded shoulder. In her shredded,
bloodstained
clothes, she listened to the intensifying wind rifle the edges of the still-standing tents.

She waited for the storm. She may have died, or she may have slept. When she opened her eyes, her body remained weak and unresponsive. It seemed to be a replay of the day Ambala had found her near the clearing. Where was Ambala now? She was an angel perhaps, with blood-soaked wings.

There would be no struggle between life
and
death; Neasa just needed her rest. As the wind picked up, she lay amongst the bodies of dead men and watched as garbage and debris from the camp rolled across her vision. She picked up the canister and stumbled into the large command tent that stood over Saul's lab. She smashed the jar of green, glowing gas near the tunnel's sealed mouth, hopeful that the wind wouldn't carry it over the nearby river.

She hadn't been bitten or shot, so her chances at survival were good.

Would Ambala be pleased with what happened? Could it be considered a victory? Santiago was dead, and Saul was wounded. She managed to grab one canister, but there were supposedly others. On top of everything else, she couldn't allow herself to die—her corpse would spread Transmortification across the country.

Hours passed; she succumbed to the pain and drifted into a deep sleep. When she awoke, she found that she was not alone.

A young, well-muscled man stood over her with a mane of thick black hair falling over his shoulders. A necklace with various animal bones lay against his leather vest. He blinked his dark eyes, and Neasa waited for him to speak. She felt helpless against both his majesty and grace. He was a man of power, and his bloodline was as ancient as the American soil. Deep within his eyes resided a combination of sorrow and strength that had shaped a philosophical wisdom that protected him against fear. His world was both real and surreal. He saw what could not be seen.

She listened to the sound of her heart against her chest. There was something she wanted to say, but as their eyes locked, they both understand that her life was in his hands. He recognized her situation, and she refused to plead or beg.

With a deep voice that accompanied the sound of thunder he said, "There are evil spirits here. They must be sent back to their world."

From a leather sheath on his thigh, he drew a long, serrated knife.

May 25th, 1863: Epilogue Remains

The wind outside howled with the ferocity of a demonic army stepping out of its hellish realm and into the human realm for a feast of flesh. The hotel room was dark, and Mother had been silent for some time. She sat in her chair in a corner of the room by the nightstand, where an oil lamp threw a weak yellow glow across the room. Why wouldn't she speak? Her admonishments were expected, but he was ready to argue with her. She always failed to see the bigger picture.

They still had two canisters of Transmortification. One was destined for Vicksburg.

McPhee stood near the door with an unlit cigar in his mouth. "Give me one good reason why I should stand here, with you."

Saul shook his head. His leg continued to bleed through the makeshift bandage. His sister had managed to hit him twice: once below knee, and the other shot wounded him in the lower thigh. He already knew his leg's fate.

"I am grateful for your services," Saul nodded. "President Davis is also very pleased. Perhaps I might require your services for a bit
longer
or perhaps not. I have yet to decide."

"We want our money, then," McPhee decided.

Saul grimaced and spoke in the darkness. "You've already been given an advance. After I wire a message to my associates in Atlanta, there can be much more for you."

"I want immunity," McPhee demanded. "I don't want to turn into one of those things. I want membership in the Collective. I can't speak for the other two guys. Maybe just pay them and they'll fuck off."

It was difficult to resist the chuckle that tickled his throat. He wanted Mother to speak, but instead, he was left to converse with this pig-headed ruffian. It was a shame Santiago had wanted to end his life, because he'd proven to be incredibly useful. McPhee could make all the demands he wanted, but there was much he didn't know.

The Nightmare Collective was nearby. They were very, very close. He no longer needed McPhee, unless he wanted to engineer another batch of Transmortification.

McPhee could be heard scratching his beard. "If you don't pay, I'll make sure your operation gets shut down. I'll tell everyone."

Saul wanted to laugh. Who would believe this overweight coward? His threats were useless. Help was already on the way. The Collective had invested much in the design of their weapon, and they would see it deployed.