The Living Dead Series (Book 3): Dead Coast (5 page)

“Wait! Don’t shoot. I’m s-” Homer backed away.

David came forward. “Bea, it’s ok.”

She swung the gun in his direction then back toward Homer before slowly lowering it. “Aren’t you the same guy who hit me?”

“Um, yes. I’m Homer Hazard and I think we got off on the wrong foot earlier. I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

David sat down beside her and took her face in both hands, looking at her closely. “
Are
you feeling better?”

She pulled his hands from her face. “I’m fine, just sore. Not sure why. How long was I asleep? Wait,
what
did you say your name was?”

Homer rolled his eyes and repeated his name.

David spoke up, “You’ve been asleep a couple of hours. It’s almost dark. We’ll have to stay here for at least the night. Homer’s been trapped here for two days.”

“How bad is it? We saw a lot of infected in the streets.”

“Bad, really bad. Downtown is wall to wall zombies. Do you want a beer?”

Bea managed not to flinch at the alcohol on his breath. “No. Thanks, though.”

He muttered to himself, “Cannibals and monsters. Never thought I’d find them in my own yard. Are you sure you don’t want a beer?”

“I’m sure.”

“Suit yourself.” He ambled into the kitchen and got another beer from the fridge. “I’m going to warm up some soup. Are ya’ll hungry?”

“Yes, very. You have electricity? Do you mind if I charge my phone?”

“Not at all. Charge a hundred phones if you like. I’ll probably skip paying the electric bill this month.”

She fumbled through her backpack then stood up, charger in hand, swaying and almost falling before she sat back down and leaned against the cushions.

“Take it slow; you hit your head really hard. There’s no rush,” David said.

Bea put her head down for a minute then tried standing again with better results. She found an outlet in the kitchen and plugged her phone in then turned to Homer who was perusing the sparse contents of the cupboards.

“Do you still have internet?”

“Did last time I checked.”

“May I…?” She gestured toward the computer.

“Be my guest. Does vegetable beef sound good?”

“Sounds like a feast.”

Bea pulled up her email but other than spam (even the end of the world as we know it didn’t stop spam, apparently) the most recent mail she had were the docs from Sylvie. That seemed like a hundred years ago. So much had happened in the last week, so many horrible catastrophes. She hoped for an email from Brian, something that would let her know they were in a safe place. A part of her still hoped to hear from her mother or father. She still used the same email account she started out with as a teenager and even though she knew it was unlikely, she continued to check sporadically for some proof they were still alive. She checked now and found nothing, as usual.

She continued cruising, getting a lot of server error messages but a surprising number of websites were still up. Clicking on a link for the online paper
examiner.com
she read an article dated four days ago.

Headline India: Thousands throng Temples of Kali in Tarapith and Kamakhya

AP: Estimated thousands of ecstatic worshippers have converged on temples of the Hindu goddess Kali in the last week, celebrating the rise of the dead in honor of “Mother Kali.” Devotees claim the Mother has called them to surrender to death in order to rise in a new, ‘deathless’ body.

Death cults are nothing new to India. The cult of Kali (members are known as the Thuggee) has existed in India for hundreds of years. Members of the cult were known to befriend and attach themselves to groups of travelers prior to killing and robbing them, supposedly as a sacrifice to the goddess. The traditional method of sacrifice was by strangulation.

Approximately 200 years ago the British Raj launched a military campaign to wipe out these practitioners of holy homicide/robbery throughout India. The cult was considered largely extinct by the 1860’s but evidence has surfaced at various times and places that indicates it was never completely wiped out but merely went deeper underground.

On Tuesday, millions of onlookers watched as thousands of devotees scaled the walls of several compounds where victims of the Z-virus pandemic were quarantined, dropping their screaming children into the infected masses before leaping joyfully in to join them. The outbreak appears to have originated among the untouchables in the slum areas. Large areas of the city were barricaded then burned in an effort at sterilization. Anyone caught fleeing was shot on sight. Despite these efforts the disease has proved impossible to contain and satellite images show large groups of refugees migrating to the border with Nepal while others are attempting to board ships and flee by sea.

Bea clicked on the video embedded in the article and watched mobs converging on tall, mud-brick walls, throwing up rickety ladders and climbing up, most holding shrieking babies in their arms and throwing them over the walls as enthralled crowds cheered them on. It was difficult to see a lot of detail for the dust kicked up by the crowds but in one shot a larger than life-sized painted image of a naked, many-armed woman wearing a necklace of human skulls was clearly visible on a wall. A long, red, pointed tongue lolled from her mouth and she held a curved sword in one of her hands while severed human heads dangled from others.

An update noted that the worshippers succeeded in overwhelming the guards at one of the compounds and released the infected into Tarapith and were believed to still be spreading throughout the entire state of West Bengal.

“Anything interesting?” Homer set two bowls on the table and sat down. She joined him.

“Gruesomely so but not helpful. At least the internet is still working so we know some technology still exists.”

“A lot of it is automated of course. It will run until some component breaks down and no human is there to repair it.”

“I just hope some people with those kind of skills and education survive all this. This has to end at some point and we can start rebuilding.”

“Maybe we’ll survive and maybe we won’t. As a species I mean.”

“We’ll survive.” She wouldn’t consider any other option. Her brother was going to get the chance to grow up.

“I’m not so sure. I think it’s a do over. Mother Nature got sick of us and she’s exterminating us. Like the dinosaurs.”

“That giant asteroid killed the dinosaurs.”

“Nope. Just finished the rest of them off. Most of them were already dying from some kind of super-parasite growing inside them. Mother Nature plays nasty when she wants to.”

Bea sighed. “She’s definitely playing dirty now. Thanks for the meal. I can’t tell you how good warm food tastes after days without it.”

“That’s the last of what I found in the cupboards. My ex isn’t the kind to stock up for an emergency. I was really hoping to get out of here today.”

He left. Bea placed the bowls in the sink then looked through a crack in the curtains at the back yard. A six foot privacy fence surrounded the small lawn and so far nothing had broken through. Plastic swings dangled forlornly from a small swing set and slide.

The front of the house was a different matter. Mutilated figures shuffled mindlessly along the sidewalks and streets. Two figures, heartbreakingly small, lurched amongst them, the smaller one with a firm grip on the backpack strap the taller boy still carried.

Tears blurred her vision and her breath caught in her throat. Dead children were more obscene than dead adults and she was never going to get used to it. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She cursed herself again for ever letting Brian go on ahead of her. How would she ever find him again in this howling, death-blasted fright-scape that used to be the United States? She pressed her face against the cool glass.

Someone came into the room but she didn’t turn around, not wanting anyone to see her face at the moment. A hand, warm and comforting, came down on her shoulder.

“Turn around, Bea. I need to check your pupils,” David said.

“What- why?”

“Because I think you were concussed when we hit that ditch in the truck and now you’ve had another blow to the head.”

Annoyed she turned to face him and he checked her eyes then her pulse. “Any nausea or faintness?  Are you crying?”

“No, no, and no. I was dizzy earlier but I’m better- it’s just that- out there.” She gestured toward the window.

He looked out then gave a faint groan. “Oh, no.”

Footsteps came down the stairs and Homer walked over. “Hey. Have they cleared out at all?”

David dropped the curtain and moved away from the window hurriedly. “No, still out there. Maybe things will look better in the morning.”

Homer twitched the curtain aside and his face went white. “Jonathan? Ethan? Oh, God please-”

Cold air, rank with the smell of death flowed into the room as the door banged against the wall. Homer raced into the mob of infected so fast they could do little more than turn in his direction as he flew by. He snatched up both boys, running back to the house holding them close, one under each arm. David slammed the door. Homer peered in through the sidelights, an expression of shock and growing rage on his face.

He screamed, kicking the door furiously. “Open this door, open it RIGHT NOW or I SWEAR I will kill you both. I’ll-”

The smaller boy, whitened eyes staring expressionlessly, opened his mouth wide and bit into his father’s neck, skin and veins stretching then snapping free. Blood spurted onto his gray face as he chewed, then opened his mouth for more. Homer screamed and dropped both boys as he sank to his knees, clutching his neck in disbelief.

Now other infected reached the stoop, moaning excitedly. Bea pushed David aside and opened the door, grabbed the back of Homer’s shirt and pulled him inside, kicking the door shut just as the dead fell upon it in a gibbering mass, trampling the two boys in the rush.

Homer collapsed against the wall, alternately cursing and crying. Blood poured from his neck in a steady pulsing rhythm. His lips looked blue.

“He’s going into shock. Get that blanket.” Bea applied pressure to the wound and the bleeding slowed. The child had missed the carotid.

They wrapped him in the afghan and moved him to the sofa. The assault on the house continued but the door held. For now.

The night grew darker and though it was difficult to be sure, David thought the dead were beginning to thin out. One of the small figures lay in the driveway, not moving anymore.

Homer’s skin was cold and grew colder. He recovered enough to stagger to his feet and run for the bathroom where they heard him vomiting over and over again. When he stopped they helped him back to the sofa where he dozed. They kept vigil, checking his pulse and making sure he was warmly wrapped up but the outcome was inevitable. That bite was going to kill him.

“How long do you think?” David whispered.

“Hard to say but it was a deep bite in the neck not terribly far from the heart so the virus is being pumped rapidly through the bloodstream. If the bite had been in an extremity it would have taken longer, like with Mac. Dr. Osawy thought it also varied from person to person. A few hours maybe?”

Around three a.m. the wound was turning black and Homer’s breathing became labored and liquid. He tried to speak but only made garbled sounds. Bea took his icy hand and he held on tightly. His eyes opened briefly and the grief and pain Bea saw there tore at her heart. He knew what was happening to him. The expression in his eyes faded to dull acceptance and he coughed; a horrible loose cough that sounded as if he were choking. A bubbling, liquid sound rattled his chest which slowly expanded and deflated one last time. Then he was still.

T
hey knew they had only minutes before the body reanimated but it was hard to make themselves do what they had to do.

David whispered, “Not a gunshot unless we have no choice. If those things hear it they’ll trickle back and trap us here that much longer. Where’s your fence rail?”

She couldn’t find it. How could they have been this stupid? They knew how quickly the dead could revive. She dumped her back pack on the floor but no rail. Searching the kitchen yielded nothing but flimsy spoons and forks and a wooden rolling pin that looked as if it had never been used. Did they keep all the knives somewhere else? She continued looking for something more substantial but there was nothing.

David stood next to Homer’s body, gun ready. Less than five minutes passed but the legs had already started to twitch. Another minute and the left hand clenched into a fist, went limp and clenched again. The eyes opened suddenly. There was no intelligence in them anymore and they were drying out and dull. A moan, faint but deep-pitched arose from the depths of its chest and escaped the open mouth, accompanied by a rush of fetid air. Homer struggled to his feet and stood swaying, as if he were testing his balance. David backed away into the kitchen.

Upstairs, Bea tossed items out of closets, strewing toys, coats, and shoes on the floor.  Finally in the hall closet, on the very back of the top shelf, she found a carved wooden box about the length of a yard stick. Inside was a wicked-looking blade with a jagged edge and a complexly carved handle she thought might be ivory. It was fairly heavy and looked timeworn but there wasn’t a spot of rust on it anywhere and the metal shone even in the dim closet light. A moaning sound drifted up the stairs and she lowered the sword to her side and ran.

Homer now stood in the kitchen doorway, yards away from David. Bea handed over the weapon. Homer only now seemed to become aware of them and staggered forward, still moaning as if in pain but with teeth gnashing hungrily. With a broad, downward movement David sliced into his neck but missed severing the spinal column. He swung again and the head rolled free, thumping to the floor. David gave Bea the sword and she split the skull in two.

Though they were both shaken they didn’t talk about it. David started dragging the body out of the door way. Bea cleaned the sword on the blanket then started back up the stairs to put it away.

“Wait. Let’s keep the sword,” David said.

“It doesn’t have a sheath and it’s wicked sharp. I don’t want to carry it,” Bea responded.

“Put it in my pack then, would you?”

She unzipped his pack pulled out her fence rail. “Look what I found.”

“Oh? Good. I forgot I put it in there. Does the sword fit?”

Bea tried it. “Not without slicing a hole in the bottom.”

“Never mind then. We should probably try to move on once it’s daylight.” David finished wedging the body between the sofa and the wall, out of the way.

“I’m really tired, David. Also I must have lost some of the stuff out of my backpack. I only have a few packets of dried fruit left and no water. We’ll have to find a store that hasn’t been looted.”

“We’re bound to find something along the way. You sleep for a couple of hours and I’ll stand watch.”

“I don’t know if I can. His children- what must it be like to have someone you love so much come back to you but then- they aren’t who they were. They’re something monstrous and murderous, not even human. You’d still want to hold them and keep them safe but-”

“Don’t overthink it. You won’t make it if you do, Bea. Just go get some sleep.”

She went upstairs and David placed the pieces of Homer’s head in the coat closet. He didn’t want to have to look at it.

Feeling as weary as he could ever remember he searched the kitchen cupboards but they were completely bare except for plastic wrap and aluminum foil, etc. He sat down and sighed. A few dead still scratched and clawed at the front of the house but most had moved on, drawn by who knows what. The computer screen glowed in the pre-dawn darkness and he fumbled through his pockets, pulled Bea’s memory stick and plugged it in.

The race to conquer the Equatorial Poles and find the much-desired Northwest Passage linking the Atlantic and Pacific oceans during the 19
th
and early 20
th
centuries is well-documented. The horrifying failure of the Scott expedition and the triumphant story of the Peary venture are both well-known.

However, the burning ambition to conquer those frozen lands began long, long ago with figures such as Martin Frobisher, Godske Lindenov, and of course, the famous Erikson men, Eric and Leif.

A private journal from one such expedition of the 1700’s survived the rigors and vagaries of time within the Lytton family of North Lancashire and was recently sold at auction. This researcher purchased it as part of a bulk lot, bought sight unseen as a favor, wishing to help a friend in greatly reduced circumstances. As is so often the case, the kindnesses we think we are extending selflessly to others, work to our own benefit, and this treasure of a journal is proof of that. Ensign E.G. Lytton’s account of his quest for the Northwest Passage aboard HMS Leander is an enthralling and unusual read.

W.D. (Whitehall archivist, 1919)

The morning of the 23
rd
found us near Cape Repulse. Foggy, gray but sea calmer until we rounded a good-sized berg and were drawn into a strong tide that sent us amongst heavy streams of ice. We were certain to be dashed against them when an eddying current spun us around and into calmer waters near a large berg to which we anchored to wait out the tide. Very little progress today but managed to stay close to the bergs which, due to their deep draught, afforded us some protection from the floes and smaller drifting ice. That is to say, we crept like mice, avoiding our frosty, hulking predators.

June 6
th
. Approaching Repulse Bay we were surprised by a small flotilla of Esquimuax natives paddling furiously to overtake us. In less than an hour we found ourselves in the midst of at least twenty craft, which I shall later attempt to describe. For now I will recount the appearance of their occupants.

All had inky-black hair worn either in a knot on top of the head or else free and lying about their shoulders giving them a disheveled appearance. The men were mostly beard-less. Both sexes were somewhat squat and round though this may be due to their layers of clothing. Some sport spiraling blue tattoos around their mouths.

Some have difficulties with their vision and wear eyeshades made of wood. One wonders if the constant glare from the ice does not contribute to their condition.

Complexions were of brown or copper hue, difficult to be sure as they were not given to washing and thus were often quite dirty. Nosebleeds were seen frequently and to our disgust they lick and drink the blood with greedy enjoyment as it pours.

Made primarily of seal skins the dress of the sexes differed but little. The women’s outer jackets had a large pocket attached to the shoulders and hung down the back. This was used as a hood during less temperate weather but also served to transport their infants whom they left quite naked while thus contained. I leave it to the reader to imagine their condition of cleanliness or lack thereof. Older children were wrapped as warmly as the adults and their wonderfully tanned seal skins appear impervious to water.

They were eager to trade and I fear were cheated as we were offered (and accepted) oil, skins, and ivory in exchange for paltry items such as buttons and iron nails. With each successful barter they licked the received item before putting it away. I never saw them omit this ritual and the more they desired the item the more thoroughly they licked it.

As the evening came on they returned to their boats, some sleeping there but others withdrew to a small island about a mile distant and encamped there.

June 7
th
. Pressed on the next day, taking soundings as we went, always struggling to find a way through the ice. A small number of the natives continued to trail us in their boats but the majority turned back. We spied a group of sea unicorns
*
and though we dispatched a boat, could not get close enough to kill one.

About suppertime we came upon an island and took the opportunity to explore.  Our Esquimuax escort attempted to dissuade us from disembarking, one old gentleman giving a long speech of which we understood not a word. His companions nodded fearfully throughout and when they found we were determined to go on they paddled sorrowfully away and were soon lost to sight.

We landed a small party, led by myself and on the lookout for any signs of the large, yellow-white bears often seen in the distance. We saw no animals other than the snow buntins abundant throughout the journey. Quantities of driftwood lay washed up by the tide, so high that the island must suffer near complete inundation at times. Stunted, twisting trees, little more than scrub, marked the mouth of an icy pool of fresh water, constantly replenished by a sparkling waterfall.  There was no evidence of recent human habitation. A few old, ruined stone huts dotted the slope. One contained a human skull, broken in two.

Just past the broken, bleached bones of an ancient whale carcass we came upon a small, jagged rise of hills. A certain symmetry to their arrangement caused conjecture as to whether they had perhaps been made by humans but we never found convincing proof. An irregular opening, little more than four feet high, marked the largest hill.

Entering the yawning, black mouth we found a cave with a smooth pebbled floor that sloped down and presumably back into the hillside but the darkness revealed little else to our gaze. The ceiling was quite low though we were able to stand upright in the center. Water trickled down the walls and pooled shallowly in the middle of the pebble floor before running down and back out of sight. Retreating outside we made camp for the night.

Sometime after midnight, a gale set in and we were indeed sore beset. Stinging ice pelted us without mercy and our driftwood fire was extinguished. Stumbling in the darkness and seeking shelter we made for the cave. Seaman Peabody rescued most of our firewood and we soon had a warm, though smoky, encampment in the little grotto.

Unable to sleep we improvised flambeaux and made to explore our surroundings more thoroughly. I greatly feared coming across one of the gigantic, white bears seen on the ice and we all had our weapons out and ready.

Descending the slight slope we found evidence of an ancient battle. Scattered alongside the trickling water but not in it were broad swords flaking with rust and an occasional dagger, jeweled hilts glinting dully in the torchlight. Human skeletons, none in one piece, were flung about the passage in great confusion.

The cold increased as we went deeper into the earth. Not very far along the passage we came upon a jumble of stones where a portion of the ceiling had fallen. Ice, possibly condensed from ceiling drips  throughout the years, covered the entire mass.

We could go no further. The rocks and ice completely blocked the remainder of the passageway (if more there was) and we had turned back when Peabody called a halt. His voice echoed eerily off the constricting walls as he shouted that something was in the ice.

He stood holding his torch over the rock fall. Indeed there was a body. Upon closer examination it appeared to be a man. The face, though blackened and distorted, did not resemble the natives of this land. European features and fair hair were clearly visible. The facial features, despite their Caucasian bent, gave an odd impression of brutishness and vacuity.  Clothing, style or material, was impossible to make out. Clearly he died here long ago, probably in the rock fall, his body preserved by the ice.

Back at the cave entrance we were confronted again by the storm. It should have been close to dawn but of course little distinguishes day from night at this season. The ice and wind drove us back into the cave.

Trapped and restless as we were it took little for Peabody to persuade us to venture to melt the ice around the enclosed man for further inspection. An uneasiness, almost a fear, tugged at my mind each time I peered at the poor brute but I dismissed the notion. In short course we rekindled our fire the short distance to the back of the cave, leaving a guard posted back at the entrance. The light from the fire illuminated the low ceiling and Morgan pointed out marks there that looked like those of axes or picks, making me wonder if some human hand precipitated the long ago rock fall. Could they have been mining the cave? I saw nothing to indicate the presence of any precious mineral.

We dozed. The dark cave grew warm from the fire. The ice encasing the dead man cracked and popped as it melted but we paid it little mind until the clacking began.

It started with a rhythmic clicking, sounds just seconds apart. Startled, we assumed a defensive formation in preparation to battle we knew not what but the source of the sound was not hard to find.

Our ice man, blackened and decayed as he was, had come to life. His lower extremities remained ice-bound but his twisting head and clutching, writhing arms were thawed. The warmth also released an overpowering odor of putrefaction, so strong it was an assault on the senses. His teeth clashed together and he seemed possessed of a most desperate hunger.