SKMB 2016 Halloween Story:
The Graylands
2016 HALLOWEEN STORY
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SKMB 2016 Halloween Story:
The Graylands
This story is dedicated to Nate Watkins:
A SKMB member whom we loved dearly, then tragically lost... he will always be remembered.
"...So close no matter how far
Couldn't be much more from the heart
Forever trusting who we are
And nothing else matters..."
♥ Nathaniel Watkins ♥
Nov 29th 1986 - Aug 24th 2016
R.I.P nate_watkins
A SKMB member whom we loved dearly, then tragically lost... he will always be remembered.
"...So close no matter how far
Couldn't be much more from the heart
Forever trusting who we are
And nothing else matters..."
♥ Nathaniel Watkins ♥
Nov 29th 1986 - Aug 24th 2016
R.I.P nate_watkins
The Graylands --
GNTLGNT
Another monochromatic day has dawned. Oh who am I kidding? Every day looks like dishwater in this little slice of non-existence I call The Graylands--that realm between the land of the breathing and whatever lies beyond.
My name is Wesson Smith. Sure, make the gun jokes. Everybody does, they get a real "bang" out of it--har, har, har. I'm a Private Detective, but not of the Mike Hammer variety--more like something H.P. Lovecraft might have brain burped. I specialize in Paranormal investigations, and am able to wander about in this Purgatorial Plain due to some meta-physical abilities gifted to me, the origins of which are beyond my understanding or the needs of this tale.
My client is a nameless/faceless shadow group of governmental and military entities that have requested I look into the workings of the now raging global Zombie infestation. Yeah folks, this ain't your normal Walking Dead-"Daryl's gonna save the day" episode--this is the real dead deal, but with a twist--which is why I find myself coating my boots with the wan dust of The Graylands.
Allegedly, a Global Cabal had been working on weaponizing mold spores to kill off select non-believers, when as any movie or Stephen King story could tell you, things went terribly wrong and now 65% of the world's pop are shuffling about, looking for a tasty Homo Sapiens sirloin.
Here's the aforementioned twist though, scattered global ground reports and also satellite imagery seem to indicate that these 'bies aren't dumb-'bies, but do-'bies. They appear to be able to cross the borders between worlds and appear at will anywhere they choose and at any time, which puts my particular brand of gumshoeing into action.
I don't want anyone to think that I'm some kind of supernatural super-sleuth and only I can pull the Dr. Strange moves between worlds, some of the dearly departed simply chose not to move on into their own afterlife and have managed to put together a loosely assembled community of reluctant revenants.
That's where my trip today takes me. I have previously spent time among them, when more prosaic ghostie and ghoulie adventures made it necessary. Though conversations can be a bit "lifeless"(rimshot please!)--overall, this buncha true deaders is a decent lot. I need to drop in to see Jerry Garcia. YES, that Jerry! He sure is dead, but "I ain't grateful" as he's told me more than once. To bad he can't still collect royalties because, "Touch of Grey" would be a great theme song for these acres of in-between. Anyway, Jerry knows a thing or two about weed, dope, reefer, chronic, pot, bud and herb. This is important, because my employers have picked up intel that seems to indicate someone is able to control the appetites of these cross-dimensional zombies by using THC! Ain't that ironic??? Instead of the Walkers using us "Breathers" as two legged Scooby Snacks, and then looking for Taco Bell and Twinkies--the old 420 appears to whet their appetites, instead of being pro munchie!!
GNTLGNT
Another monochromatic day has dawned. Oh who am I kidding? Every day looks like dishwater in this little slice of non-existence I call The Graylands--that realm between the land of the breathing and whatever lies beyond.
My name is Wesson Smith. Sure, make the gun jokes. Everybody does, they get a real "bang" out of it--har, har, har. I'm a Private Detective, but not of the Mike Hammer variety--more like something H.P. Lovecraft might have brain burped. I specialize in Paranormal investigations, and am able to wander about in this Purgatorial Plain due to some meta-physical abilities gifted to me, the origins of which are beyond my understanding or the needs of this tale.
My client is a nameless/faceless shadow group of governmental and military entities that have requested I look into the workings of the now raging global Zombie infestation. Yeah folks, this ain't your normal Walking Dead-"Daryl's gonna save the day" episode--this is the real dead deal, but with a twist--which is why I find myself coating my boots with the wan dust of The Graylands.
Allegedly, a Global Cabal had been working on weaponizing mold spores to kill off select non-believers, when as any movie or Stephen King story could tell you, things went terribly wrong and now 65% of the world's pop are shuffling about, looking for a tasty Homo Sapiens sirloin.
Here's the aforementioned twist though, scattered global ground reports and also satellite imagery seem to indicate that these 'bies aren't dumb-'bies, but do-'bies. They appear to be able to cross the borders between worlds and appear at will anywhere they choose and at any time, which puts my particular brand of gumshoeing into action.
I don't want anyone to think that I'm some kind of supernatural super-sleuth and only I can pull the Dr. Strange moves between worlds, some of the dearly departed simply chose not to move on into their own afterlife and have managed to put together a loosely assembled community of reluctant revenants.
That's where my trip today takes me. I have previously spent time among them, when more prosaic ghostie and ghoulie adventures made it necessary. Though conversations can be a bit "lifeless"(rimshot please!)--overall, this buncha true deaders is a decent lot. I need to drop in to see Jerry Garcia. YES, that Jerry! He sure is dead, but "I ain't grateful" as he's told me more than once. To bad he can't still collect royalties because, "Touch of Grey" would be a great theme song for these acres of in-between. Anyway, Jerry knows a thing or two about weed, dope, reefer, chronic, pot, bud and herb. This is important, because my employers have picked up intel that seems to indicate someone is able to control the appetites of these cross-dimensional zombies by using THC! Ain't that ironic??? Instead of the Walkers using us "Breathers" as two legged Scooby Snacks, and then looking for Taco Bell and Twinkies--the old 420 appears to whet their appetites, instead of being pro munchie!!
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The Graylands (Part Two)
Ebdim9th
“Gimme that old time body-count, it’s good enough for meeee….” Jerry’s been following me for the last hour singing his version of that hymn; it’s annoying, but appropriate, I guess. Earlier he was even more obscure when he clasped his hands together and did an elbow-rotating dance which I’m pretty sure he never did in life while rapping, “It’s Sexy Time!” I suppose since he’s already passed this mortal existence and has no fear of death, he can afford to have the time of his afterlife and help us poor living stiffs out too.
Somewhere ahead in the Graylands there floats a city in the mist, or a geometric collection of buildings pointing in impossible directions, like MC Escher in a blender with our buddy Lovecraft. What pours out is apparently a late arrival in the land of the late. It seems others have been utilizing skills similar to my own and have constructed themselves a little headquarters on this side of the veil. In fact, this may be where the whole zombie plot was hatched.
My cell phone goes off, playing as its ringtone Deicide’s “Dead by Dawn” and I answer, Jerry giving me a bushy eyebrow raised look at my choice of said ringtone. Through the ether my partner Tobit, an honest-to-gosh independent contracting golem for-hire (like a ronin, he has no master because he has outlived him, poor fellow was shot down over the English Channel in World War II trying to escape Nazi-occupied European territory) has called, giving me the news of the living world’s current travails.
“Shoot,” I say.
“Well, Wesson, I still haven’t tracked down exactly who these guys are that started this whole mess from my end, but I do know that their THC dead-control scheme seems to have backfired on them already. The THC had unpredictable effects after the initial uniform reaction ….it started to split the effect. Some of the flesh-eaters got hungrier, some lost their appetite like they were supposed to, only to gain it back faster than I believe their handlers intended, (if I understand correctly, someone witnessed a couple of guys releasing a dead one out of the back of a van, following it for awhile, until one got too close and it turned on him; he seemed quite surprised before he died) and some …well, here’s a real interesting side-effect. Some have lost control of their veil-materializations and in some cases have solidified stuck in walls, moving automobiles, one right in the front of a jetliner, it’s legs wiggling out of the nose under the cockpit, its head trying to bite the co-pilot’s ankles… it succeeded and the plane crashed, taking all on board with it, including their unexpected stowaway. Some appeared at random heights, twelve feet, twenty feet, you name it and drop to the ground or on top of whoever and whatever might be unfortunate enough to be beneath them at that moment.”
“That’s quite an exposition clayman, and not exactly good news. We may have discovered the despots’ lair of evil over here in Fifty Undistinguishable Shades of Grayland. It would have been better if those rotheads were under somebody’s control.”
“Keep in touch chief, and as soon as I catch one of these dead-ers, I may figure out how to use him or her to join you over there to give you some back-up.”
“Man, if you figure out how to do that, you’ve got to show me. That’ll be a neat little trick. Of course, when I reach the Tor of Terror, I may just squeeze the answer out of those dirtbags that decided to feed the rest of the world to the undead infidel army. They surely wouldn’t defile their own dead that way.”
“They don’t have a choice now, everybody’s turning up undead.”
With that, we both signed off and I looked ahead at the distance between us and our destination. It still seemed indeterminate and the mists of the Shroud no doubt contained things which had never been alive, and fed off of the energy of the spirits of the departed unquiet. But what came out of the ground cloud ahead wasn’t that, it was a platoon of dead soldiers. Of course they were Americans, I think somebody at least wants us to assume a particular ideology, although, since everyone comes back from the dead in such a circumstance, I suspect it may not be a fundamentalist Global sect as we’ve been led to believe. Or maybe, like the magic herb leash on their pets, it just got away from them.
Ebdim9th
“Gimme that old time body-count, it’s good enough for meeee….” Jerry’s been following me for the last hour singing his version of that hymn; it’s annoying, but appropriate, I guess. Earlier he was even more obscure when he clasped his hands together and did an elbow-rotating dance which I’m pretty sure he never did in life while rapping, “It’s Sexy Time!” I suppose since he’s already passed this mortal existence and has no fear of death, he can afford to have the time of his afterlife and help us poor living stiffs out too.
Somewhere ahead in the Graylands there floats a city in the mist, or a geometric collection of buildings pointing in impossible directions, like MC Escher in a blender with our buddy Lovecraft. What pours out is apparently a late arrival in the land of the late. It seems others have been utilizing skills similar to my own and have constructed themselves a little headquarters on this side of the veil. In fact, this may be where the whole zombie plot was hatched.
My cell phone goes off, playing as its ringtone Deicide’s “Dead by Dawn” and I answer, Jerry giving me a bushy eyebrow raised look at my choice of said ringtone. Through the ether my partner Tobit, an honest-to-gosh independent contracting golem for-hire (like a ronin, he has no master because he has outlived him, poor fellow was shot down over the English Channel in World War II trying to escape Nazi-occupied European territory) has called, giving me the news of the living world’s current travails.
“Shoot,” I say.
“Well, Wesson, I still haven’t tracked down exactly who these guys are that started this whole mess from my end, but I do know that their THC dead-control scheme seems to have backfired on them already. The THC had unpredictable effects after the initial uniform reaction ….it started to split the effect. Some of the flesh-eaters got hungrier, some lost their appetite like they were supposed to, only to gain it back faster than I believe their handlers intended, (if I understand correctly, someone witnessed a couple of guys releasing a dead one out of the back of a van, following it for awhile, until one got too close and it turned on him; he seemed quite surprised before he died) and some …well, here’s a real interesting side-effect. Some have lost control of their veil-materializations and in some cases have solidified stuck in walls, moving automobiles, one right in the front of a jetliner, it’s legs wiggling out of the nose under the cockpit, its head trying to bite the co-pilot’s ankles… it succeeded and the plane crashed, taking all on board with it, including their unexpected stowaway. Some appeared at random heights, twelve feet, twenty feet, you name it and drop to the ground or on top of whoever and whatever might be unfortunate enough to be beneath them at that moment.”
“That’s quite an exposition clayman, and not exactly good news. We may have discovered the despots’ lair of evil over here in Fifty Undistinguishable Shades of Grayland. It would have been better if those rotheads were under somebody’s control.”
“Keep in touch chief, and as soon as I catch one of these dead-ers, I may figure out how to use him or her to join you over there to give you some back-up.”
“Man, if you figure out how to do that, you’ve got to show me. That’ll be a neat little trick. Of course, when I reach the Tor of Terror, I may just squeeze the answer out of those dirtbags that decided to feed the rest of the world to the undead infidel army. They surely wouldn’t defile their own dead that way.”
“They don’t have a choice now, everybody’s turning up undead.”
With that, we both signed off and I looked ahead at the distance between us and our destination. It still seemed indeterminate and the mists of the Shroud no doubt contained things which had never been alive, and fed off of the energy of the spirits of the departed unquiet. But what came out of the ground cloud ahead wasn’t that, it was a platoon of dead soldiers. Of course they were Americans, I think somebody at least wants us to assume a particular ideology, although, since everyone comes back from the dead in such a circumstance, I suspect it may not be a fundamentalist Global sect as we’ve been led to believe. Or maybe, like the magic herb leash on their pets, it just got away from them.
The Graylands (Part Three)
niro
Hi, my name is Lucy. Currently I am sitting in our bunker. Our bunker, it’s more or less mine now. I shot my hubby cause he wanted to eat me dead or alive. But, let me tell you the story a little bit more accurate.
Me and Chris have been married for five years now. Our anniversary was last Saturday. We met while attending a survival camp. It was something I went to with my brother. We learned how to survive in the forest. They also taught us some basic stuff like this rule for instance:
You can survive three minutes without breathing,
three hours in some really cold climate,
three days without water and
three weeks without food.
Though my hubby did not want to take a chance after that, he became a prepper. Yeah, you know, one of those crazy guys who prepares for the end of the world. That’s why we have a bunker. I have enough food and water for two years. I should be fine, huh? Nope. The problem is, we trained and planned for something like a nuclear catastrophe or plague, maybe even a superflue. Though what we got is a zombie apocalypse with a little twist of the supernatural.
Long story short, people like my hubby became Zombies, who want to eat whole people, not only their brains. Seems those Zombies are really really hungry these days. After I killed Chris, I saw him get up again and then he was gone.
After that, I just jumped in the car and went to our secret place. Preppers won’t tell anybody where they exactly hide their stocks of food etc....
It wasn’t easy peasy believe me. It’s a three hour drive by car and then you you have to walk through the Graylands, a big gray forest -- you don’t want to be there but it’s the only way. It took me 48 hours and I had to shoot some more zombies.
Right after I got here, I tried to catch some news. There are rumors that they tried to cure the Zombies and as you guess, it went wrong.
Zombies appeared in closed facilities. They seem even to be able to cross dimensions now. I am scared that Chris could come here. Should I leave or should I stay?
I am in the middle of the Graylands.
niro
Hi, my name is Lucy. Currently I am sitting in our bunker. Our bunker, it’s more or less mine now. I shot my hubby cause he wanted to eat me dead or alive. But, let me tell you the story a little bit more accurate.
Me and Chris have been married for five years now. Our anniversary was last Saturday. We met while attending a survival camp. It was something I went to with my brother. We learned how to survive in the forest. They also taught us some basic stuff like this rule for instance:
You can survive three minutes without breathing,
three hours in some really cold climate,
three days without water and
three weeks without food.
Though my hubby did not want to take a chance after that, he became a prepper. Yeah, you know, one of those crazy guys who prepares for the end of the world. That’s why we have a bunker. I have enough food and water for two years. I should be fine, huh? Nope. The problem is, we trained and planned for something like a nuclear catastrophe or plague, maybe even a superflue. Though what we got is a zombie apocalypse with a little twist of the supernatural.
Long story short, people like my hubby became Zombies, who want to eat whole people, not only their brains. Seems those Zombies are really really hungry these days. After I killed Chris, I saw him get up again and then he was gone.
After that, I just jumped in the car and went to our secret place. Preppers won’t tell anybody where they exactly hide their stocks of food etc....
It wasn’t easy peasy believe me. It’s a three hour drive by car and then you you have to walk through the Graylands, a big gray forest -- you don’t want to be there but it’s the only way. It took me 48 hours and I had to shoot some more zombies.
Right after I got here, I tried to catch some news. There are rumors that they tried to cure the Zombies and as you guess, it went wrong.
Zombies appeared in closed facilities. They seem even to be able to cross dimensions now. I am scared that Chris could come here. Should I leave or should I stay?
I am in the middle of the Graylands.
The Graylands (Part Four)
Nomik
Chris knew that he was dead. He had to be, right? You don’t survive a gunshot to the head delivered at the hands of your loving wife, who happens to be a skilled marksman. Chris had always believed that death would bring about a great finality; not a heaven or hell, just an end to pain and stress, as well as the moments of elation and thrill. He did not expect death to feel like a post frat party hangover.
Nearby, the sound of fingernails on wood registered on his foggy radar. His hand flew to the holster on his hip, grasping nothing. He opened his eyes only to be greeted by the stale, pitch darkness of his living room. He scanned his peripheral surroundings: two overturned end tables, one broken television, and what appeared to be an aspirin which had long ago fallen onto the dusty hardwood, forgotten, until now.
He silently thanked Lucy for being a terrible housekeeper before lunging for the aspirin, knocking over a set of tray tables in the process. The ensuing clatter was loud enough to wake the dead, had the dead not already been awake and currently congregating around his home, sniffing for the telltale signs of human life. The scratching was now a full- fledged echoic nightmare of rattling and slow, methodical banging.
He popped the aspirin, swallowing it dry. Gingerly, he brought himself to touch his left temple, expecting to feel a raw, mushy, powder charred hole. Instead he felt only a trickle of blood.
She just grazed me! She meant to kill me and succeeded in giving me a flesh wound instead, how sweet.
Lucy did not shoot Chris because he had turned into one of the “walkers”. As he recalled, they were boarding up the house against the undead onslaught. Lucy seemed to be preoccupied with the bunker; she kept asking about rations and supplies. Chris felt strongly that the primary goal was to not get eaten, and concerned himself only with securing the home. They argued, like they had on many occasions. The argument escalated, culminating with Chris staring down the barrel off his own pistol, heart pounding, sweating fear. The silencer muffled the pistol’s report, rendering him unconscious.
Now alert, he listened to the rhythm of impending doom: heavy footsteps dragging across his front porch, an ungodly murmur, and now the reverberating thud of fists on glass windows.
Quickly weighing his options, wait to be mauled or move posthaste, Chris opted for the latter. He took three edifying breaths and leapt to his feet just as the door gave a final groan, and cracked mightily, spilling at least four reanimated corpses into his living room. He took the stairs four at a time. Damn, those suckers are fast!
Chris turned to face the closest abomination, gagging as her hot breath singed his nostrils. Her countenance betrayed a soulless hunger. One eyeball floated back into her skull, the other black eye stared directly into his. He felt a tug as the next creature grabbed for his ankle. Chris’s steel-toed boot made contact with a sickening crunch, as the creatures toppled backwards down the stairs like grotesque dominoes.
Chris made a beeline for the guest bedroom. Once inside, he shoved the bed against the door. it wouldn’t be long before the ornery bastards forced their way through. He opened the closet door, swiftly parting the curtain of suits and sundresses. The back of the closet was adorned with a full length mirror, hand crafted with black lacquer. Chris ran his fingers along the top of the mirror until he found a cleverly hidden latch, opening a small door. He stepped through and descended along spiral staircase, finally reaching a reinforced steel door.
The door guarded a panic room stocked sparingly with a handful of MREs , a cot, a bucket, and an impressive armory of military grade weapons. He unlocked the door, the automatic lights flickered on, and he found himself face to face with a stranger. A young girl of about twelve looked up somberly from the cot. Her faded jeans and orange t-shirt clung loosely to her skin. He began to back away, sure that she was about to make mincemeat of his flesh, when she spoke.
“Do you have anything else to eat? This stuff is garbage.” She gestured to the empty MRE packages.
“Who the hell are you? How did you find this place?”
“Your wife brought me here three days ago. My name is Rachael and I’m your daughter.”
Nomik
Chris knew that he was dead. He had to be, right? You don’t survive a gunshot to the head delivered at the hands of your loving wife, who happens to be a skilled marksman. Chris had always believed that death would bring about a great finality; not a heaven or hell, just an end to pain and stress, as well as the moments of elation and thrill. He did not expect death to feel like a post frat party hangover.
Nearby, the sound of fingernails on wood registered on his foggy radar. His hand flew to the holster on his hip, grasping nothing. He opened his eyes only to be greeted by the stale, pitch darkness of his living room. He scanned his peripheral surroundings: two overturned end tables, one broken television, and what appeared to be an aspirin which had long ago fallen onto the dusty hardwood, forgotten, until now.
He silently thanked Lucy for being a terrible housekeeper before lunging for the aspirin, knocking over a set of tray tables in the process. The ensuing clatter was loud enough to wake the dead, had the dead not already been awake and currently congregating around his home, sniffing for the telltale signs of human life. The scratching was now a full- fledged echoic nightmare of rattling and slow, methodical banging.
He popped the aspirin, swallowing it dry. Gingerly, he brought himself to touch his left temple, expecting to feel a raw, mushy, powder charred hole. Instead he felt only a trickle of blood.
She just grazed me! She meant to kill me and succeeded in giving me a flesh wound instead, how sweet.
Lucy did not shoot Chris because he had turned into one of the “walkers”. As he recalled, they were boarding up the house against the undead onslaught. Lucy seemed to be preoccupied with the bunker; she kept asking about rations and supplies. Chris felt strongly that the primary goal was to not get eaten, and concerned himself only with securing the home. They argued, like they had on many occasions. The argument escalated, culminating with Chris staring down the barrel off his own pistol, heart pounding, sweating fear. The silencer muffled the pistol’s report, rendering him unconscious.
Now alert, he listened to the rhythm of impending doom: heavy footsteps dragging across his front porch, an ungodly murmur, and now the reverberating thud of fists on glass windows.
Quickly weighing his options, wait to be mauled or move posthaste, Chris opted for the latter. He took three edifying breaths and leapt to his feet just as the door gave a final groan, and cracked mightily, spilling at least four reanimated corpses into his living room. He took the stairs four at a time. Damn, those suckers are fast!
Chris turned to face the closest abomination, gagging as her hot breath singed his nostrils. Her countenance betrayed a soulless hunger. One eyeball floated back into her skull, the other black eye stared directly into his. He felt a tug as the next creature grabbed for his ankle. Chris’s steel-toed boot made contact with a sickening crunch, as the creatures toppled backwards down the stairs like grotesque dominoes.
Chris made a beeline for the guest bedroom. Once inside, he shoved the bed against the door. it wouldn’t be long before the ornery bastards forced their way through. He opened the closet door, swiftly parting the curtain of suits and sundresses. The back of the closet was adorned with a full length mirror, hand crafted with black lacquer. Chris ran his fingers along the top of the mirror until he found a cleverly hidden latch, opening a small door. He stepped through and descended along spiral staircase, finally reaching a reinforced steel door.
The door guarded a panic room stocked sparingly with a handful of MREs , a cot, a bucket, and an impressive armory of military grade weapons. He unlocked the door, the automatic lights flickered on, and he found himself face to face with a stranger. A young girl of about twelve looked up somberly from the cot. Her faded jeans and orange t-shirt clung loosely to her skin. He began to back away, sure that she was about to make mincemeat of his flesh, when she spoke.
“Do you have anything else to eat? This stuff is garbage.” She gestured to the empty MRE packages.
“Who the hell are you? How did you find this place?”
“Your wife brought me here three days ago. My name is Rachael and I’m your daughter.”
The Graylands (Part Five)
Dana Jean
Wesson sat in his tin boiler, a nondescript dusty clunker that blended well with all the other abandoned hulks scattered among the tall weeds strangling the shabby town.
Acrid smoke curled around his stubby black eyelashes as the tip of his Red Buck gasper flared and faded and flared again in the darkness with a regularity of a traffic light. His lungs burned with a cancerous satisfaction. He wanted to cough and spit a dobber-sized tar ball into his Folgers can--at the ready for just this need. But, hacking up the phlegm would draw unwanted attention, so he grabbed the warm Schlitz tilted in the cup holder instead, hoping to wash the wad down. The swill tasted as bad as it smelled, but not bad enough to pass up. Any beer in this world was precious. His face soured.
He had a bead on a dame, a tip given to him by a sweaty little slimeball who became cooperative when he crushed his nose between a pair of pliers. Needle nose pliers to be exact. har, har, har.
As he shifted his bulk, his back twitched with spasms and his right foot felt fat and gooey, the circulation sluggish between point A and point B. He'd been watching the house for a good 4 hours when he heard the shot.
A man stumbled out the front door of the sad little shack, and he melted down against the porch railing. He looked like one of those blow-up tube-men that used to wiggle their arms with wild abandon, beckoning one and all to purchase the latest land yacht. Only, this one had a hole in it and the air leaked out.
"What the hell?" Wesson said. Down the road, he slowly sat straighter behind the wheel with just a smidge of interest. Dead people were everywhere, why should one more matter. His concern was not the obvious murder of some scraggily tweaker -- where was the girl?
He needed that tattoo and a dead girl would be easier for him to deal with. The body part in question was what he had to procure. Alive, though -- she might have some good information that would garner him favor with the right people. No, she had to stay breathing.
What a stupid dame. He never understood the desperation of these broads who hung onto men who put them in such obvious danger--used them with so little regard. The recipe for the chemical compound in this new strain of THC was tattooed somewhere on her body, and everyone wanted it. Wanted her.
His employer would reward him well for that little bit of pharmacology. They had it once, and then the scientist who developed it died, bitten by a rabid squirrel with Chlamydia on his lunch break. He never would share his recipe, and Wesson respected that. Mister science guy's knowledge and skill raised his value. The powers-that-be thought the recipe was lost, until they raided his lab and found his hidden journals. Reading them, they discovered the name, Lucy, a tattoo parlor called Dink's Inks, and a lead straight to a poor unfortunate man with a horribly mangled nose.
Wesson sat back and waited for this scene to play out. As a P.I., patience was a virtue that paid in spades. The girl walked out. She stepped over the man without a glance and loaded a suitcase into her own wagon and fired it up. Wesson didn't touch his keys. With a trained calm, he let her start her roll down the road. He could stay well back, and even in the dark, there was enough light from the crescent moon to allow him to follow her without headlights and without detection. Why'd she shoot the guy? And where was she going? Curiosity was hard-wired in a private dick's genes. His job would be easier if he just took her down now, but, life was boring and slow these days, and the game excited him.
He started his car and took his dead foot off the brake, slow as a snail, he followed. As he went by the melted man, he saw he was still alive and attempting to crawl his way back inside the door. At least the guy was aware enough to know he would have to move inside before the Zombies smelled his blood.
The man didn't register a second car rolling by. Wesson shot a finger gun at him and knew he could always come back if he lost the girl and needed information. That dude wasn't traveling anytime soon.
Dana Jean
Wesson sat in his tin boiler, a nondescript dusty clunker that blended well with all the other abandoned hulks scattered among the tall weeds strangling the shabby town.
Acrid smoke curled around his stubby black eyelashes as the tip of his Red Buck gasper flared and faded and flared again in the darkness with a regularity of a traffic light. His lungs burned with a cancerous satisfaction. He wanted to cough and spit a dobber-sized tar ball into his Folgers can--at the ready for just this need. But, hacking up the phlegm would draw unwanted attention, so he grabbed the warm Schlitz tilted in the cup holder instead, hoping to wash the wad down. The swill tasted as bad as it smelled, but not bad enough to pass up. Any beer in this world was precious. His face soured.
He had a bead on a dame, a tip given to him by a sweaty little slimeball who became cooperative when he crushed his nose between a pair of pliers. Needle nose pliers to be exact. har, har, har.
As he shifted his bulk, his back twitched with spasms and his right foot felt fat and gooey, the circulation sluggish between point A and point B. He'd been watching the house for a good 4 hours when he heard the shot.
A man stumbled out the front door of the sad little shack, and he melted down against the porch railing. He looked like one of those blow-up tube-men that used to wiggle their arms with wild abandon, beckoning one and all to purchase the latest land yacht. Only, this one had a hole in it and the air leaked out.
"What the hell?" Wesson said. Down the road, he slowly sat straighter behind the wheel with just a smidge of interest. Dead people were everywhere, why should one more matter. His concern was not the obvious murder of some scraggily tweaker -- where was the girl?
He needed that tattoo and a dead girl would be easier for him to deal with. The body part in question was what he had to procure. Alive, though -- she might have some good information that would garner him favor with the right people. No, she had to stay breathing.
What a stupid dame. He never understood the desperation of these broads who hung onto men who put them in such obvious danger--used them with so little regard. The recipe for the chemical compound in this new strain of THC was tattooed somewhere on her body, and everyone wanted it. Wanted her.
His employer would reward him well for that little bit of pharmacology. They had it once, and then the scientist who developed it died, bitten by a rabid squirrel with Chlamydia on his lunch break. He never would share his recipe, and Wesson respected that. Mister science guy's knowledge and skill raised his value. The powers-that-be thought the recipe was lost, until they raided his lab and found his hidden journals. Reading them, they discovered the name, Lucy, a tattoo parlor called Dink's Inks, and a lead straight to a poor unfortunate man with a horribly mangled nose.
Wesson sat back and waited for this scene to play out. As a P.I., patience was a virtue that paid in spades. The girl walked out. She stepped over the man without a glance and loaded a suitcase into her own wagon and fired it up. Wesson didn't touch his keys. With a trained calm, he let her start her roll down the road. He could stay well back, and even in the dark, there was enough light from the crescent moon to allow him to follow her without headlights and without detection. Why'd she shoot the guy? And where was she going? Curiosity was hard-wired in a private dick's genes. His job would be easier if he just took her down now, but, life was boring and slow these days, and the game excited him.
He started his car and took his dead foot off the brake, slow as a snail, he followed. As he went by the melted man, he saw he was still alive and attempting to crawl his way back inside the door. At least the guy was aware enough to know he would have to move inside before the Zombies smelled his blood.
The man didn't register a second car rolling by. Wesson shot a finger gun at him and knew he could always come back if he lost the girl and needed information. That dude wasn't traveling anytime soon.
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The Graylands (Part Six)
Leif
As Wesson drove by, dust, exhaust, and billowing smoke from his stinking cigar combined to form a noxious cloud that enveloped the injured heap. He coughed again and the hock spit he suppressed earlier rose up again. He expelled it out the jalopy's window with an impressive yet ghastly THWOP! Feeling some remnants of the expulsion clinging to the corner of his mouth he wiped it with his sleeve and revealed a bloody smear. He had no reaction.
Wesson hated those rotten "cabbage patch kids" as much as the next guy but wasn't surprised they existed. It seemed to him that humans were already Zombies mindlessly possessed by second hand reality shows, consuming blindly and wandering aimlessly through life. This viral progression was fitting. He was excited to crack one last case before he exited the Graylands and crossed to the other side permanently. Thoughts of seeing his mother, father and wife Pam again drifted around in his head and brought a faint smile to his grizzly unshaven face. His focus quickly shifted to Lucy.
Lucy was quite a looker from what he could see and being a leg man; he couldn't help but notice those gams. Maybe that's why he gave second thought to the “bring her in alive” approach as opposed to the dismemberment/skin her alive one he considered. In any event she was a bit trigger happy and even though he didn't have long wanted to finish the job and possibly save humanity at the same time. Who knows, maybe even save Lucy. He was romanticizing even at this stage. He thought about it and felt foolish. Morning was approaching as false light shed a gray cast on the broken road.
As he continued to tail Lucy he thought about the THC formula, its effects, Jerry's useless brain dead mumblings and gestures during his visit to the afterlife. Jim would have been a much better candidate for consultation. He was cooler in Wesson’s mind and was the expert on weed and other mind altering drugs that gave you a peek into the beyond. But Jim Morrison wasn't available. He broke on through to the other side without the stop over Jerry had taken.
Sometimes you have to make do with what you have as far as resources go but it made him think. This THC was THC on steroids! He laughed to himself at the ridiculous description but thought that this stuff was so concentrated that it was more like acid or mescaline or peyote. One of the side effects was that it actually could put these meandering meat heads in another dimension but the inconsistency or bootleg version of the formula caused the mush mouths to drop out of the sky or show up anywhere at any time and cause more problems. His employer needed the real formula to get things on track and quell the rising tide of the roving recycled dead.
The ramshackle station wagon slammed into the makeshift roadblock ditch with such force that the back end lifted off the ground, slammed down and blew out all the back windows. Wesson watched from a distance as a pack of those shuffling menaces approached Lucy’s vehicle like it was opening night at an all you can eat Chinese buffet. Without moving his eyes off the wagon he snuffed out the Red Buck clipper while simultaneously reaching for his trusty 12 gauge. The gun was modified to hold 15 rounds and after sliding out of the car with surprising grace, he adorned himself with a crisscrossed chest strap of shells that made him look like a cross between a disheveled Arnold Schwarzenegger terminator and Mexican Bandito ready for battle.
The first blast took the arm and part of the shoulder off one of the bloody dust bags and got the attention of the others. A few clambered toward him with outstretched arms but buckshot at close range was no match for these mutants and two more heads disintegrated in an instant. Their bodies toppling over like dusty lifeless sacks. Wesson could see movement in the front seat and turned his attention to the driver side of the wagon. He made quick work of the sucker trying to reach in and grab his tattooed prize. He was having none of that and dismantled the creature close range, spraying a confetti of rotted flesh and tattered clothing into the morning air.
Wesson looked at Lucy, smiled, and reached over to extract her from the death trap.
Leif
As Wesson drove by, dust, exhaust, and billowing smoke from his stinking cigar combined to form a noxious cloud that enveloped the injured heap. He coughed again and the hock spit he suppressed earlier rose up again. He expelled it out the jalopy's window with an impressive yet ghastly THWOP! Feeling some remnants of the expulsion clinging to the corner of his mouth he wiped it with his sleeve and revealed a bloody smear. He had no reaction.
Wesson hated those rotten "cabbage patch kids" as much as the next guy but wasn't surprised they existed. It seemed to him that humans were already Zombies mindlessly possessed by second hand reality shows, consuming blindly and wandering aimlessly through life. This viral progression was fitting. He was excited to crack one last case before he exited the Graylands and crossed to the other side permanently. Thoughts of seeing his mother, father and wife Pam again drifted around in his head and brought a faint smile to his grizzly unshaven face. His focus quickly shifted to Lucy.
Lucy was quite a looker from what he could see and being a leg man; he couldn't help but notice those gams. Maybe that's why he gave second thought to the “bring her in alive” approach as opposed to the dismemberment/skin her alive one he considered. In any event she was a bit trigger happy and even though he didn't have long wanted to finish the job and possibly save humanity at the same time. Who knows, maybe even save Lucy. He was romanticizing even at this stage. He thought about it and felt foolish. Morning was approaching as false light shed a gray cast on the broken road.
As he continued to tail Lucy he thought about the THC formula, its effects, Jerry's useless brain dead mumblings and gestures during his visit to the afterlife. Jim would have been a much better candidate for consultation. He was cooler in Wesson’s mind and was the expert on weed and other mind altering drugs that gave you a peek into the beyond. But Jim Morrison wasn't available. He broke on through to the other side without the stop over Jerry had taken.
Sometimes you have to make do with what you have as far as resources go but it made him think. This THC was THC on steroids! He laughed to himself at the ridiculous description but thought that this stuff was so concentrated that it was more like acid or mescaline or peyote. One of the side effects was that it actually could put these meandering meat heads in another dimension but the inconsistency or bootleg version of the formula caused the mush mouths to drop out of the sky or show up anywhere at any time and cause more problems. His employer needed the real formula to get things on track and quell the rising tide of the roving recycled dead.
The ramshackle station wagon slammed into the makeshift roadblock ditch with such force that the back end lifted off the ground, slammed down and blew out all the back windows. Wesson watched from a distance as a pack of those shuffling menaces approached Lucy’s vehicle like it was opening night at an all you can eat Chinese buffet. Without moving his eyes off the wagon he snuffed out the Red Buck clipper while simultaneously reaching for his trusty 12 gauge. The gun was modified to hold 15 rounds and after sliding out of the car with surprising grace, he adorned himself with a crisscrossed chest strap of shells that made him look like a cross between a disheveled Arnold Schwarzenegger terminator and Mexican Bandito ready for battle.
The first blast took the arm and part of the shoulder off one of the bloody dust bags and got the attention of the others. A few clambered toward him with outstretched arms but buckshot at close range was no match for these mutants and two more heads disintegrated in an instant. Their bodies toppling over like dusty lifeless sacks. Wesson could see movement in the front seat and turned his attention to the driver side of the wagon. He made quick work of the sucker trying to reach in and grab his tattooed prize. He was having none of that and dismantled the creature close range, spraying a confetti of rotted flesh and tattered clothing into the morning air.
Wesson looked at Lucy, smiled, and reached over to extract her from the death trap.
The Graylands (Part Seven) --
Garriga
Civilization rise and civilization fall
Because Nebiros rules us all
No one knew about Nebiros, the master of secrets. Through the ages he had been behind the rise, as well, the fall of many governmental agencies. Power always came with a steep price. But magic was free. It didn't take long for his coven to take control over the weak minded men of Global, giving them the powder for their experiment. The living believed mold rose the dead. Who'd blame magic? Only the witches knew who gave them the magic spores. And they were all dead. Except for one.
***
Lucy kicked the door open and stumbled out of the station wagon. She tripped on a torso and fell to the asphalt. She was a woman without grace. But she was lean and strong with legs like a Clydesdale. She jumped to her feet and kicked the body out of way.
Wesson cocked his shotgun.
“Young lady, you got a lot of explaining to do.”
“Says who?”
“Dunno,” he said, “Tobit told me to bring you in.” He pulled a set of cuffs out of his pocket. “Let's not make this hard.”
She rolled her eyes and held out her wrist.
“Good girl,” he said. “Tell me about this famous tattoo.”
She turned her head to the side, showing him a web of benzene ring, that curved around her hairline. “it doesn't belong to him.”
“What so special about it,” he said bending down for a closer look. There was a click and he felt cold metal close around his wrist. Now he was cuffed to the bumper of the station wagon.
“Hey, How did you--”
“Magic,” she said with a grin.
Garriga
Civilization rise and civilization fall
Because Nebiros rules us all
No one knew about Nebiros, the master of secrets. Through the ages he had been behind the rise, as well, the fall of many governmental agencies. Power always came with a steep price. But magic was free. It didn't take long for his coven to take control over the weak minded men of Global, giving them the powder for their experiment. The living believed mold rose the dead. Who'd blame magic? Only the witches knew who gave them the magic spores. And they were all dead. Except for one.
***
Lucy kicked the door open and stumbled out of the station wagon. She tripped on a torso and fell to the asphalt. She was a woman without grace. But she was lean and strong with legs like a Clydesdale. She jumped to her feet and kicked the body out of way.
Wesson cocked his shotgun.
“Young lady, you got a lot of explaining to do.”
“Says who?”
“Dunno,” he said, “Tobit told me to bring you in.” He pulled a set of cuffs out of his pocket. “Let's not make this hard.”
She rolled her eyes and held out her wrist.
“Good girl,” he said. “Tell me about this famous tattoo.”
She turned her head to the side, showing him a web of benzene ring, that curved around her hairline. “it doesn't belong to him.”
“What so special about it,” he said bending down for a closer look. There was a click and he felt cold metal close around his wrist. Now he was cuffed to the bumper of the station wagon.
“Hey, How did you--”
“Magic,” she said with a grin.
The Graylands (Part Eight)
Shoesalesman
Chris gazed at the young girl in front of him. The fortified bunker seemed to be the only room left in the world as he struggled to make sense of what had just happened upstairs, of what he’d just been told by this stranger.
“Young lady, you are not my daughter,” he said defiantly. “Her mother and I watched her die of respiratory failure eight years ago. I held her hand as she fought for breath until it didn’t come anymore.”
“That’s because He hid it from you,” the girl said.
Half-listening, Chris surveyed the cache of weapons behind her. Regardless of what was truth or fiction, this kid was in the thick of things down here with him. With a huddle of the undead trying to ascertain his whereabouts and closing in fast, he could not simply wish her away.
Chris pulled a pistol from the rack on the wall, taking comfort in its weight. He decided a useless conversation with a delusional kid was better than silence. So he played along. “Who hid your breath?”
“Nebiros. Made you think I had no air left, made you think I was dead.”
Nebiros?
Chris stepped back like he’d been slapped. A long-forgotten tide of memory started to fill him like an empty flue. He reached for the end of the cot with his free hand for support.
Rachel had said those words before she died, he remembered.
“Civilization rise and civilization fall, because Nebiros rules us all," Rachel repeated in a small voice that Chris instantly recognized from that godforsaken day.
Sitting down on the mattress, he let the pistol slide out of his hand to the floor in one fluid motion.
“Rachel? It is you!” Tears blurred his vision. “That rhyme. Right before you started struggling, at the end. You were… humming it.”
From somewhere above them, glass shattered, followed by the screech of prying wood.
“His magic was inside me. He was the one humming. Slowed my air, my heart. I was alive, but to everyone, even the doctors, I was dead. When I was left alone, Nebiros came out of the shadows and took me away. He wanted my power.”
“Power? What power, sweetheart?” Chris searched her eyes for answers. Then: “Rachel, why did your mom bring you here?”
“She found me, stole me back. And because of what she did, He’s after her. We need to go to her before it’s too late. Dad, she’s not who you think she is. She’s a w—”
The lumbering stomp of bare feet on the metal staircase reverberated against the steel door of the bunker. The stench of rotten meat started to fill the room. Chris picked up the pistol from the floor and yanked Rachel up by her shirt.
“Get behind me,” he ordered, “I’ll be damned if I’m gonna lose you twice.”
“Dad, I’m not who you think I am either,” Rachel divulged.
“I don’t understand, baby, get away from the d—”
“Are you ready to go to her?” Rachel looked up at him, offering her hand.
Chris looked at it, hesitantly. The last time he had held it… it was so tiny. So lifeless.
“I’m scared, Rachel,” was all he could say. And as fate would have it, those three words had been the last thing he remembered whispering in her ear the day he thought he’d lost her forever. Chris started to cry. He discarded the gun on the mattress and gathered up his daughter’s hand.
“Not me,” Rachel said. “Not anymore.”
Then something behind her face began to glow.
“Just don’t let go,” she said, her words seeming to come from a distance.
Then something beneath their feet moved.
Chris watched in disbelief as the bunker started to come apart at the seams. It didn’t unfold as much as it unfurled, concrete and conduit-piping rippling apart like they’d been drawn on a canvas of stilled water. The guns, cot and bucket melded into slivers of deep-red before disappearing completely. Everything came apart and bled together until it was too nauseating to watch.
As Chris closed his eyes, as father and daughter faded to black, the bunker rebounded and returned to form in a flash of effulgence, with only a cot, a bucket and a wall of war to keep it company.
As quickly as Rachel had taken her father into the unknown, they came out of it. The first thing Chris heard was the quicksilvered clink of handcuffs.
Shoesalesman
Chris gazed at the young girl in front of him. The fortified bunker seemed to be the only room left in the world as he struggled to make sense of what had just happened upstairs, of what he’d just been told by this stranger.
“Young lady, you are not my daughter,” he said defiantly. “Her mother and I watched her die of respiratory failure eight years ago. I held her hand as she fought for breath until it didn’t come anymore.”
“That’s because He hid it from you,” the girl said.
Half-listening, Chris surveyed the cache of weapons behind her. Regardless of what was truth or fiction, this kid was in the thick of things down here with him. With a huddle of the undead trying to ascertain his whereabouts and closing in fast, he could not simply wish her away.
Chris pulled a pistol from the rack on the wall, taking comfort in its weight. He decided a useless conversation with a delusional kid was better than silence. So he played along. “Who hid your breath?”
“Nebiros. Made you think I had no air left, made you think I was dead.”
Nebiros?
Chris stepped back like he’d been slapped. A long-forgotten tide of memory started to fill him like an empty flue. He reached for the end of the cot with his free hand for support.
Rachel had said those words before she died, he remembered.
“Civilization rise and civilization fall, because Nebiros rules us all," Rachel repeated in a small voice that Chris instantly recognized from that godforsaken day.
Sitting down on the mattress, he let the pistol slide out of his hand to the floor in one fluid motion.
“Rachel? It is you!” Tears blurred his vision. “That rhyme. Right before you started struggling, at the end. You were… humming it.”
From somewhere above them, glass shattered, followed by the screech of prying wood.
“His magic was inside me. He was the one humming. Slowed my air, my heart. I was alive, but to everyone, even the doctors, I was dead. When I was left alone, Nebiros came out of the shadows and took me away. He wanted my power.”
“Power? What power, sweetheart?” Chris searched her eyes for answers. Then: “Rachel, why did your mom bring you here?”
“She found me, stole me back. And because of what she did, He’s after her. We need to go to her before it’s too late. Dad, she’s not who you think she is. She’s a w—”
The lumbering stomp of bare feet on the metal staircase reverberated against the steel door of the bunker. The stench of rotten meat started to fill the room. Chris picked up the pistol from the floor and yanked Rachel up by her shirt.
“Get behind me,” he ordered, “I’ll be damned if I’m gonna lose you twice.”
“Dad, I’m not who you think I am either,” Rachel divulged.
“I don’t understand, baby, get away from the d—”
“Are you ready to go to her?” Rachel looked up at him, offering her hand.
Chris looked at it, hesitantly. The last time he had held it… it was so tiny. So lifeless.
“I’m scared, Rachel,” was all he could say. And as fate would have it, those three words had been the last thing he remembered whispering in her ear the day he thought he’d lost her forever. Chris started to cry. He discarded the gun on the mattress and gathered up his daughter’s hand.
“Not me,” Rachel said. “Not anymore.”
Then something behind her face began to glow.
“Just don’t let go,” she said, her words seeming to come from a distance.
Then something beneath their feet moved.
Chris watched in disbelief as the bunker started to come apart at the seams. It didn’t unfold as much as it unfurled, concrete and conduit-piping rippling apart like they’d been drawn on a canvas of stilled water. The guns, cot and bucket melded into slivers of deep-red before disappearing completely. Everything came apart and bled together until it was too nauseating to watch.
As Chris closed his eyes, as father and daughter faded to black, the bunker rebounded and returned to form in a flash of effulgence, with only a cot, a bucket and a wall of war to keep it company.
As quickly as Rachel had taken her father into the unknown, they came out of it. The first thing Chris heard was the quicksilvered clink of handcuffs.
The Graylands (Part Nine)
Tery
Wesson reached into his coat for the key to the handcuffs.
“Magic, my ass.” He knew sleight-of-hand when he saw it. The option of bringing in the girl’s skin -- sans girl -- was looking better and better. With both hands now free, Wesson brought up his gun.
“Stop right there, girlfriend.”
The sound of a gun being cocked is an amazing incentive. Lucy stopped. Wesson approached her carefully, on guard for more “magic.”
“Put your hands out.”
Lucy complied, allowing Wesson to handcuff her. But, as his hands closed over hers, she grabbed him.
The landscape became elastic, tilted, deformed. Like he was on bad acid. Jerry, help me, he barely had time to think before a room formed around them. It was a dark chamber. At one end was a dais lit by an ethereal glow. On it, there was a figure; a tall, slender, robed form. Wesson felt the gaze from the shadowed cowl and heard a voice… but not with his ears.
WHO IS THIS?
Lucy knelt before the figure, her still-handcuffed hands raised in supplication.
“I don’t know, Master. He captured me so I brought him along.”
HE SMELLS OF THE GRAYLANDS
“I’m sorry, Master. He has a gun.”
NOT ANYMORE
Wesson found himself grasping thin air where his 12 gauge had been. Now this, he thought, was real magic. Old magic. Dark magic. He took a deep breath.
“Who are you?” he asked the figure.
The chamber echoed with Lucy’s laughter. “He is Nebiros, you idiot. You’re in for it now.”
The cowl regarded her and she stopped laughing as suddenly as she had started. Who or whatever that is, Wesson mused, she’s terrified of it.
Wesson’s question was not answered with words. He was in space, floating amid a sea of stars. He was huge, so big that his eyes were galaxies. He was bored. He searched for a world, found a blue-and-green marble. He smiled and began to play. He took a form from the mythology of the world, one that would inspire fear. He created a place outside of time and space. He chose a handful of the bipeds that lived on the world and brought them there. He gave them “powers,” planted twisted seeds of ideas and then sent them back. He watched the chaos. And he was amused.
Wesson came back to himself with a bad case of pissed-off-at-a-god.
“So you just got bored and decided to play with people’s lives?”
THEY ARE OF NO CONCERN
“They bloody well are!” He glanced over at Lucy. “Does she even know what you are? What you’ve done to her?”
SHE CARES NOT. SHE THINKS SHE IS A WITCH.
“Well, that explains a lot.” Wesson decided to go for broke. If he could get some answers -- and get back to the Graylands -- maybe he could do what his bosses wanted him to do. “I suppose the zombies are your doing, too?”
OF COURSE. THEY TERRIFY YOUR KIND. IT MAKES ME LAUGH.
“What about the THC?”
A SIMPLE MATTER OF REARRANGING ATOMS
Wesson fell silent. That pretty much does it. Now if I can just get out of here. He hoped that his ability to move between worlds would work from a place outside of time and space. He had to admit, making that room, that was a pretty cool trick.
The sound of a voice singing, “Book of the dead, pages bound in human flesh…” broke the silence. Well, the room had cell phone coverage, that was for sure. The cowled figure seemed to shrink a bit at the noise, almost as if it hurt him.
“Tobit, buddy. This is not a good time.”
The voice on the other end of the phone was faint and Wesson barely heard, “I have some news…” when the call was cut off. Guess ol’ Nebiros figured that one out.
DO NOT USE YOUR TOYS IN MY REALM.
“Listen, Nebiros -- if that is really your name -- I have a job to do. I need that formula. And she’s got it. So just let me take her and we can both go on about our business.”
NO
Figured he’d say that. Wesson grimaced. Now what?
“Master,” Lucy whined. “Please remove these.” She held her cuffed hands up.
VERY WELL
As her cuffs fell off, two more people appeared in the room. Wesson turned and saw the man who had been at Lucy’s house. The one she thought she had killed. With him, was a young girl.
Well sh*t, Wesson thought, this is going to complicate things.
Tery
Wesson reached into his coat for the key to the handcuffs.
“Magic, my ass.” He knew sleight-of-hand when he saw it. The option of bringing in the girl’s skin -- sans girl -- was looking better and better. With both hands now free, Wesson brought up his gun.
“Stop right there, girlfriend.”
The sound of a gun being cocked is an amazing incentive. Lucy stopped. Wesson approached her carefully, on guard for more “magic.”
“Put your hands out.”
Lucy complied, allowing Wesson to handcuff her. But, as his hands closed over hers, she grabbed him.
The landscape became elastic, tilted, deformed. Like he was on bad acid. Jerry, help me, he barely had time to think before a room formed around them. It was a dark chamber. At one end was a dais lit by an ethereal glow. On it, there was a figure; a tall, slender, robed form. Wesson felt the gaze from the shadowed cowl and heard a voice… but not with his ears.
WHO IS THIS?
Lucy knelt before the figure, her still-handcuffed hands raised in supplication.
“I don’t know, Master. He captured me so I brought him along.”
HE SMELLS OF THE GRAYLANDS
“I’m sorry, Master. He has a gun.”
NOT ANYMORE
Wesson found himself grasping thin air where his 12 gauge had been. Now this, he thought, was real magic. Old magic. Dark magic. He took a deep breath.
“Who are you?” he asked the figure.
The chamber echoed with Lucy’s laughter. “He is Nebiros, you idiot. You’re in for it now.”
The cowl regarded her and she stopped laughing as suddenly as she had started. Who or whatever that is, Wesson mused, she’s terrified of it.
Wesson’s question was not answered with words. He was in space, floating amid a sea of stars. He was huge, so big that his eyes were galaxies. He was bored. He searched for a world, found a blue-and-green marble. He smiled and began to play. He took a form from the mythology of the world, one that would inspire fear. He created a place outside of time and space. He chose a handful of the bipeds that lived on the world and brought them there. He gave them “powers,” planted twisted seeds of ideas and then sent them back. He watched the chaos. And he was amused.
Wesson came back to himself with a bad case of pissed-off-at-a-god.
“So you just got bored and decided to play with people’s lives?”
THEY ARE OF NO CONCERN
“They bloody well are!” He glanced over at Lucy. “Does she even know what you are? What you’ve done to her?”
SHE CARES NOT. SHE THINKS SHE IS A WITCH.
“Well, that explains a lot.” Wesson decided to go for broke. If he could get some answers -- and get back to the Graylands -- maybe he could do what his bosses wanted him to do. “I suppose the zombies are your doing, too?”
OF COURSE. THEY TERRIFY YOUR KIND. IT MAKES ME LAUGH.
“What about the THC?”
A SIMPLE MATTER OF REARRANGING ATOMS
Wesson fell silent. That pretty much does it. Now if I can just get out of here. He hoped that his ability to move between worlds would work from a place outside of time and space. He had to admit, making that room, that was a pretty cool trick.
The sound of a voice singing, “Book of the dead, pages bound in human flesh…” broke the silence. Well, the room had cell phone coverage, that was for sure. The cowled figure seemed to shrink a bit at the noise, almost as if it hurt him.
“Tobit, buddy. This is not a good time.”
The voice on the other end of the phone was faint and Wesson barely heard, “I have some news…” when the call was cut off. Guess ol’ Nebiros figured that one out.
DO NOT USE YOUR TOYS IN MY REALM.
“Listen, Nebiros -- if that is really your name -- I have a job to do. I need that formula. And she’s got it. So just let me take her and we can both go on about our business.”
NO
Figured he’d say that. Wesson grimaced. Now what?
“Master,” Lucy whined. “Please remove these.” She held her cuffed hands up.
VERY WELL
As her cuffs fell off, two more people appeared in the room. Wesson turned and saw the man who had been at Lucy’s house. The one she thought she had killed. With him, was a young girl.
Well sh*t, Wesson thought, this is going to complicate things.
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The Graylands (Part Ten)
FlakeNoir
“Jesus Lucy, you shot me!”
“I know, and I’m sorry! I needed you to have the ability to move from realm to realm.”
Lucy desperately wanted Chris to understand that although their marriage had been up-and-down, she still loved him and that her actions were the result of a mother trying to protect her daughter.
“That makes no sense! I’m not dead, how could I have even been in these… Graylands?”
Lucy dropped her eyes, “That wasn’t aspirin on the floor. All you needed was the belief that you were dead… and a little help from Pharmac.” She rubbed her wrists, glad to be free of the cuffs, then reached out to Rachael.
“It’s so good to see you again baby.” Rachael pushed Lucy’s hand away and rubbed at her temple, there was pain and a rush of adrenaline.
“Mom! I feel his power, it’s like he’s in my head and smooshing my brain.“
COME TO ME, CHILD.
Rachael took three steps toward the dais at the end of the room. Lucy shot out an arm and halted her daughter’s progress.
“No Rachael! Nebiros is not who we thought he was! He’s been playing us like pawns from the start.” Lucy scratched at the tattoo that ran up through her hairline, it itched like mad; she was aware of Wesson moving toward them now and spun to meet him.
“We need to bolt.” He said as he grasped her wrist again.
With his free hand he flicked off a quick txt to Tobit: Phone me. NOW! Then he turned his ring-tone up to its full volume.
Wesson had made a mental note of Nebiros’ reaction when Tobit last called, the God had appeared to experience a degree of pain at the sound or vibration the cell had made.
A drum beat, then lead guitar burst from his phone. A raspy voice spewed out acid-filled lyrics:
“Book of the dead, pages bound in human flesh….
Feasting the beast, from the blood the words were said…”
The tall figure at the end of the dais raised talons to his head, twisting with fury or pain, Wesson wasn’t sure which and didn’t care. He took the opportunity. Gathering Lucy and Chris and cursing his weak right leg, he got in close to Rachael and whispered,
“The phone is interrupting his thought pattern, we need to move. Now. Rachael, get us out of here!”
His phone rang on...
“I am unseen, dreamt the sacred passage aloud
Trapped in a dream of the Necronomicon…”
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
The God thrashed about, vitriolic heat rising from under his cowl and filling the room so that the small group could almost taste his pain and fury.
Rachael closed her eyes in concentration, she fought Nebiros; evicting him from her mind… but knowing that this would probably only be a temporary separation.
CHILD, STOP THIS FOOLISHNESS...
As she drew away from his poisonous hold, a drop of sweat fell from the tip of her young nose and Wesson followed its progress…. down, down,
…all the way,
...down.
Rachael opened her eyes. She was facing her mother, father and the grisly looking stranger in her parents panic room.
“He'll come after us, Mom! If I know where we are, then he will too… and I can’t keep him out!”
Wesson moved in fast, drew back his arm and then hit her hard in the temple. The kid fell like a brick; her dad put out an arm and caught her just before she hit the ground.
“Jesus Christ you’re going to pay for that!” Chris spat out.
Lucy stepped in and kicked Wesson in his bad leg, dropping him to the ground, he knew it was coming, but hadn’t been prepared despite that.
“Hold on…” Wesson put up a hand, “if Rachael isn’t conscious then perhaps Nebiros won’t be able to see us so clearly? We’ve been on opposite sides, true--but now we need to pool our resources.”
Chris and Lucy knew this dirty-looking old fool was probably right, but hell… he’d just poleaxed their kid and joining forces with him felt like a bitter pill to swallow.
“The bunker” Lucy said. “If we can get back to the bunker, we might be safe there long enough to form a plan.”
The panic-room door moved in its hinges as the weight of the undead outside increased.
“Lucy, the magic you used before, was that you, or Nebiros? Wesson looked up at her. “Can you help us get out of here?”
She shook her head. “I think it was mostly him, making me believe I was a Witch, it made me able to... do stuff.”
Chris selected a 12 gauge from the wall brace and threw it at Wesson. “You’ve already got the shells.”
He took down a backpack and filled it with army–issue hand grenades, a pistol for each of them and enough cartridges to sink Titanic’s sister.
Wesson said, “I need to contact Tobit when we get to shelter, he had something to tell me… I think he might have some dirt on the Cabal.”
FlakeNoir
“Jesus Lucy, you shot me!”
“I know, and I’m sorry! I needed you to have the ability to move from realm to realm.”
Lucy desperately wanted Chris to understand that although their marriage had been up-and-down, she still loved him and that her actions were the result of a mother trying to protect her daughter.
“That makes no sense! I’m not dead, how could I have even been in these… Graylands?”
Lucy dropped her eyes, “That wasn’t aspirin on the floor. All you needed was the belief that you were dead… and a little help from Pharmac.” She rubbed her wrists, glad to be free of the cuffs, then reached out to Rachael.
“It’s so good to see you again baby.” Rachael pushed Lucy’s hand away and rubbed at her temple, there was pain and a rush of adrenaline.
“Mom! I feel his power, it’s like he’s in my head and smooshing my brain.“
COME TO ME, CHILD.
Rachael took three steps toward the dais at the end of the room. Lucy shot out an arm and halted her daughter’s progress.
“No Rachael! Nebiros is not who we thought he was! He’s been playing us like pawns from the start.” Lucy scratched at the tattoo that ran up through her hairline, it itched like mad; she was aware of Wesson moving toward them now and spun to meet him.
“We need to bolt.” He said as he grasped her wrist again.
With his free hand he flicked off a quick txt to Tobit: Phone me. NOW! Then he turned his ring-tone up to its full volume.
Wesson had made a mental note of Nebiros’ reaction when Tobit last called, the God had appeared to experience a degree of pain at the sound or vibration the cell had made.
A drum beat, then lead guitar burst from his phone. A raspy voice spewed out acid-filled lyrics:
“Book of the dead, pages bound in human flesh….
Feasting the beast, from the blood the words were said…”
The tall figure at the end of the dais raised talons to his head, twisting with fury or pain, Wesson wasn’t sure which and didn’t care. He took the opportunity. Gathering Lucy and Chris and cursing his weak right leg, he got in close to Rachael and whispered,
“The phone is interrupting his thought pattern, we need to move. Now. Rachael, get us out of here!”
His phone rang on...
“I am unseen, dreamt the sacred passage aloud
Trapped in a dream of the Necronomicon…”
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
The God thrashed about, vitriolic heat rising from under his cowl and filling the room so that the small group could almost taste his pain and fury.
Rachael closed her eyes in concentration, she fought Nebiros; evicting him from her mind… but knowing that this would probably only be a temporary separation.
CHILD, STOP THIS FOOLISHNESS...
As she drew away from his poisonous hold, a drop of sweat fell from the tip of her young nose and Wesson followed its progress…. down, down,
…all the way,
...down.
Rachael opened her eyes. She was facing her mother, father and the grisly looking stranger in her parents panic room.
“He'll come after us, Mom! If I know where we are, then he will too… and I can’t keep him out!”
Wesson moved in fast, drew back his arm and then hit her hard in the temple. The kid fell like a brick; her dad put out an arm and caught her just before she hit the ground.
“Jesus Christ you’re going to pay for that!” Chris spat out.
Lucy stepped in and kicked Wesson in his bad leg, dropping him to the ground, he knew it was coming, but hadn’t been prepared despite that.
“Hold on…” Wesson put up a hand, “if Rachael isn’t conscious then perhaps Nebiros won’t be able to see us so clearly? We’ve been on opposite sides, true--but now we need to pool our resources.”
Chris and Lucy knew this dirty-looking old fool was probably right, but hell… he’d just poleaxed their kid and joining forces with him felt like a bitter pill to swallow.
“The bunker” Lucy said. “If we can get back to the bunker, we might be safe there long enough to form a plan.”
The panic-room door moved in its hinges as the weight of the undead outside increased.
“Lucy, the magic you used before, was that you, or Nebiros? Wesson looked up at her. “Can you help us get out of here?”
She shook her head. “I think it was mostly him, making me believe I was a Witch, it made me able to... do stuff.”
Chris selected a 12 gauge from the wall brace and threw it at Wesson. “You’ve already got the shells.”
He took down a backpack and filled it with army–issue hand grenades, a pistol for each of them and enough cartridges to sink Titanic’s sister.
Wesson said, “I need to contact Tobit when we get to shelter, he had something to tell me… I think he might have some dirt on the Cabal.”
The Graylands (Part Eleven)
mal
Tobit called Wesson as requested but there was no answer. He needed to get through to Wesson with his new discovery and time had become a factor. His new information led him to Chris and Lucy's house where he now waited. He was hoping he'd find Wesson there on a stake-out, but no sign of him was to be found. Tobit parked a few houses back to avoid the group of zombies around and in the house. He may have to go on to the City in the Mists by himself. He mentally went over the events that lead him to this address.
He had shaken off a tail earlier while on his way to see Wesson in his dingy one room bedsit. As he approached he saw someone entering Smith's front door and it wasn't Smith. He continued to drive by, taking a discreet look at the lay of the land, and drove around to the alley behind the street. He got out and walked closer towards the building when someone walked past the window from the inside. He peeked in and recognized a Cabal operative, French Industrialist Alfred Kenneth Fortais Sayvonne, who he had once spared in an earlier confrontation, sending him off with a warning to mend his evil ways.
Tobit tapped on the window and shouted "Alfie! Stay right there, I'll be right in and we can have a talk. If you're a good dog and stay, I may let you live!".
The shock and fear in Alf's initial reaction pleased Tobit greatly. When he entered, Alf was still waiting, holding a briefcase and a paper bag.
"Set those things on the table and sit on the couch." Tobit was amused at how easily he complied. "Why are you here Alf? I gave you a chance to fly the straight and narrow and yet we meet again?"
"They have my family, I have no choice! If I'm not heard from soon they'll be killed! Please!!"
"Hold on, hold on...". Tobit was unbuckling the case and rifling around. He glanced at the paper bag and it looked greasy. Tobit, by a misguided first attempt from his original maker, had no nose, otherwise he would have immediately smelled the rotten stink of zombie oozing out of the bag. He opened up the briefcase and turned to Alf.
"What am I going to find here?"
Alf slumped back on the couch, defeated. "Maps, starcharts, dossiers, you name it...it's all there".
"What's all there?" he grabbed a file marked 'Nebiros' and glanced through it.
"The conclusion and the beginning. Nebiros is behind it all. He'll control all realms!!"
"What do you mean? Tell me. NOW!!!" Tobit's voice boomed like a God of old and Alfie sank even deeper into the couch.
"There will be a sacrifice today at the City in the Mists. Nebiros will escape the netherworld of magic to wreak havoc throughout the realms. This has been his goal all along. The zombies were just a means to an end!"
Tobit continued to quickly sift through the documents. The woman Smith was tailing was involved, and so was her daughter. He looked at Alf. "What's in the bag Alf?"
"A Zombie heart. I was supposed to leave it here as a message to Smith. I wasn't told why."
"That leads to even more questions and there isn't enough time." Tobit leaned over Alfie and grabbed him by the sides of his head and gave a quick little twist. Alfie sagged like a rag doll, dead. Tobit thought how sad it was, this neverending human strife. He was doing Alfie a favour, no one rats on the Cabal and lives. Besides, Alfie didn't have a family.
And here he sat at a dead end. He was about to leave when he heard some gunshots and an explosion coming from Lucy's house.
mal
Tobit called Wesson as requested but there was no answer. He needed to get through to Wesson with his new discovery and time had become a factor. His new information led him to Chris and Lucy's house where he now waited. He was hoping he'd find Wesson there on a stake-out, but no sign of him was to be found. Tobit parked a few houses back to avoid the group of zombies around and in the house. He may have to go on to the City in the Mists by himself. He mentally went over the events that lead him to this address.
He had shaken off a tail earlier while on his way to see Wesson in his dingy one room bedsit. As he approached he saw someone entering Smith's front door and it wasn't Smith. He continued to drive by, taking a discreet look at the lay of the land, and drove around to the alley behind the street. He got out and walked closer towards the building when someone walked past the window from the inside. He peeked in and recognized a Cabal operative, French Industrialist Alfred Kenneth Fortais Sayvonne, who he had once spared in an earlier confrontation, sending him off with a warning to mend his evil ways.
Tobit tapped on the window and shouted "Alfie! Stay right there, I'll be right in and we can have a talk. If you're a good dog and stay, I may let you live!".
The shock and fear in Alf's initial reaction pleased Tobit greatly. When he entered, Alf was still waiting, holding a briefcase and a paper bag.
"Set those things on the table and sit on the couch." Tobit was amused at how easily he complied. "Why are you here Alf? I gave you a chance to fly the straight and narrow and yet we meet again?"
"They have my family, I have no choice! If I'm not heard from soon they'll be killed! Please!!"
"Hold on, hold on...". Tobit was unbuckling the case and rifling around. He glanced at the paper bag and it looked greasy. Tobit, by a misguided first attempt from his original maker, had no nose, otherwise he would have immediately smelled the rotten stink of zombie oozing out of the bag. He opened up the briefcase and turned to Alf.
"What am I going to find here?"
Alf slumped back on the couch, defeated. "Maps, starcharts, dossiers, you name it...it's all there".
"What's all there?" he grabbed a file marked 'Nebiros' and glanced through it.
"The conclusion and the beginning. Nebiros is behind it all. He'll control all realms!!"
"What do you mean? Tell me. NOW!!!" Tobit's voice boomed like a God of old and Alfie sank even deeper into the couch.
"There will be a sacrifice today at the City in the Mists. Nebiros will escape the netherworld of magic to wreak havoc throughout the realms. This has been his goal all along. The zombies were just a means to an end!"
Tobit continued to quickly sift through the documents. The woman Smith was tailing was involved, and so was her daughter. He looked at Alf. "What's in the bag Alf?"
"A Zombie heart. I was supposed to leave it here as a message to Smith. I wasn't told why."
"That leads to even more questions and there isn't enough time." Tobit leaned over Alfie and grabbed him by the sides of his head and gave a quick little twist. Alfie sagged like a rag doll, dead. Tobit thought how sad it was, this neverending human strife. He was doing Alfie a favour, no one rats on the Cabal and lives. Besides, Alfie didn't have a family.
And here he sat at a dead end. He was about to leave when he heard some gunshots and an explosion coming from Lucy's house.
The Graylands (Part Twelve)
Demeter
Chris was holding Rachael when the first undead came through the door. He shifted her weight on his left shoulder and grabbed a gun in his right.
“Lucy, get me a grenade and fast!” he shouted.
“Got one!” Wesson yelled.
“Then use the damn thing!” Chris shouted while trying to side-step a hungry son-of-a-bitch who came straight at him. Lucy whacked the thing over the head with a shotgun before blowing its head off. Another took its place and Wesson had trouble finding enough space to throw the grenade.
“Whatchadoing, man, waiting for Christmas?” Chris yelled right before he felt something grab his leg. He managed to land a kick and heard a satisfying crunch. Lucy gave out a yelp of surprise as a monstrous thing clothed in rags went for her hair and started shaking her head like it was fruit picking time.
“Lucy!” Chris shouted again and fired two bullets. Two more corpses had walked in and the place was filling up fast. Luckily the door was not that wide so they still had to come in one at a time.
“A …whack…little…thump…busy!” she barely had time to yell before two hands were clasped firmly around her neck and started to squeeze.
Wesson saw his chance and pushed a mush head out of the way, shot another, then took out the pin and prepared to throw the grenade into the group of zombies that was coming just outside the door of the panic room. His scream stopped everybody in their tracks. Even the undead seemed a little confused for a few seconds.
“Wesson!” Chris yelled.
“Bastard just bit me!” Wesson yelled back. He looked at his right arm in disbelief, and there it was, an abomination, teeth clamped firmly in his flesh. He punched the thing in the face and managed to dislodge its teeth for long enough to throw the grenade into the swelling group of undead that was just outside the door.
The explosion seemed to rock the whole house and for a moment the humans could not hear a thing.
Chris was the first one out the door, Rachael in his arms. Lucy scrambled after him and Wesson brought up the rear, cursing his bad leg and trying to ignore the searing pain in his arm. The blast had scattered the undead like bowling pins and the little group ran to the door which they could barely see ahead though all the smoke.
“To the car and fast!” shouted Chris, but nobody needed any encouragement. They nearly collided with Tobit as the man came in, guns in both hands.
“Tobit! Go, go, go!” shouted Wesson. “Let’s get the hell outta here! They’re coming!” As if on cue, a chorus of moaning started in the house and nobody needed to look back to know the zombies were regrouping.
They all ran outside and Chris wished they still had a door to lock behind them to slow down the undead. But the door had been kicked in by the mush heads and a gaping hole yawned at them like a toothless mouth.
“To the car!” shouted Chris, running. “Lucy, Rachel and I will take my car. You guys follow us to the bunker. You do have a car, right?” he shouted over his shoulder at Tobit.
“You’re not going anywhere without me”, said Wesson, sprinting after them. “Tobit, you follow us back to the bunker. I’m going with them. I need to know what’s going on and they can tell me on the way. The sooner the better. Go, there’s no time.”
It was one of the things Wesson appreciated about Tobit. The man could talk up a storm but in times like these he knew when to open his mouth and when to keep it shut and do what he was told. Besides, the zombies would be more likely to follow the group, and Tobit could protect their backs and kill the damn things if they got too close.
“Mom?” Rachael asked in a small voice. She had begun to stir on Chris’ shoulder. Wesson wondered how the girl hadn’t woken up earlier but was glad she hadn’t.
“I’m here, baby, right here”, said Lucy. “Don’t worry. Sit tight, we’re going to the bunker. You’ll be safe soon.”
NO ONE IS SAFE!, boomed a voice and Chris was so shocked he nearly dropped Rachael. It took him a whole two seconds to realize the voice was coming from his daughter.
Demeter
Chris was holding Rachael when the first undead came through the door. He shifted her weight on his left shoulder and grabbed a gun in his right.
“Lucy, get me a grenade and fast!” he shouted.
“Got one!” Wesson yelled.
“Then use the damn thing!” Chris shouted while trying to side-step a hungry son-of-a-bitch who came straight at him. Lucy whacked the thing over the head with a shotgun before blowing its head off. Another took its place and Wesson had trouble finding enough space to throw the grenade.
“Whatchadoing, man, waiting for Christmas?” Chris yelled right before he felt something grab his leg. He managed to land a kick and heard a satisfying crunch. Lucy gave out a yelp of surprise as a monstrous thing clothed in rags went for her hair and started shaking her head like it was fruit picking time.
“Lucy!” Chris shouted again and fired two bullets. Two more corpses had walked in and the place was filling up fast. Luckily the door was not that wide so they still had to come in one at a time.
“A …whack…little…thump…busy!” she barely had time to yell before two hands were clasped firmly around her neck and started to squeeze.
Wesson saw his chance and pushed a mush head out of the way, shot another, then took out the pin and prepared to throw the grenade into the group of zombies that was coming just outside the door of the panic room. His scream stopped everybody in their tracks. Even the undead seemed a little confused for a few seconds.
“Wesson!” Chris yelled.
“Bastard just bit me!” Wesson yelled back. He looked at his right arm in disbelief, and there it was, an abomination, teeth clamped firmly in his flesh. He punched the thing in the face and managed to dislodge its teeth for long enough to throw the grenade into the swelling group of undead that was just outside the door.
The explosion seemed to rock the whole house and for a moment the humans could not hear a thing.
Chris was the first one out the door, Rachael in his arms. Lucy scrambled after him and Wesson brought up the rear, cursing his bad leg and trying to ignore the searing pain in his arm. The blast had scattered the undead like bowling pins and the little group ran to the door which they could barely see ahead though all the smoke.
“To the car and fast!” shouted Chris, but nobody needed any encouragement. They nearly collided with Tobit as the man came in, guns in both hands.
“Tobit! Go, go, go!” shouted Wesson. “Let’s get the hell outta here! They’re coming!” As if on cue, a chorus of moaning started in the house and nobody needed to look back to know the zombies were regrouping.
They all ran outside and Chris wished they still had a door to lock behind them to slow down the undead. But the door had been kicked in by the mush heads and a gaping hole yawned at them like a toothless mouth.
“To the car!” shouted Chris, running. “Lucy, Rachel and I will take my car. You guys follow us to the bunker. You do have a car, right?” he shouted over his shoulder at Tobit.
“You’re not going anywhere without me”, said Wesson, sprinting after them. “Tobit, you follow us back to the bunker. I’m going with them. I need to know what’s going on and they can tell me on the way. The sooner the better. Go, there’s no time.”
It was one of the things Wesson appreciated about Tobit. The man could talk up a storm but in times like these he knew when to open his mouth and when to keep it shut and do what he was told. Besides, the zombies would be more likely to follow the group, and Tobit could protect their backs and kill the damn things if they got too close.
“Mom?” Rachael asked in a small voice. She had begun to stir on Chris’ shoulder. Wesson wondered how the girl hadn’t woken up earlier but was glad she hadn’t.
“I’m here, baby, right here”, said Lucy. “Don’t worry. Sit tight, we’re going to the bunker. You’ll be safe soon.”
NO ONE IS SAFE!, boomed a voice and Chris was so shocked he nearly dropped Rachael. It took him a whole two seconds to realize the voice was coming from his daughter.
The Graylands (Part Thirteen)
Kurben
"Oh, no, not again," Chris thought when he recognized Nebiros' voice in his daughter's body. He put her down, looked her in the eyes and said:
"You know I don't want to do this," and then he raised his arm and hit Rachael hard. Once again the girl was unconscious.
"Chris!" Lucy yelled.
"I had to, dear. Otherwise that nebulous Nebiros guy would have got us all, including Rachael."
"And now we really must get out of here." Wesson added, silently approving Chris' action. "To the cars! You drive, Chris. Lucy, you take Rachael in the backseat."
Arranged according to plan, they drove away leaving the shuffling zombie hordes far behind.
"What do we do the next time she wakes up? Hit her again? I really can't stand the thought." came Lucy's voice from the backseat.
"I hope not. I have a little idea. Do you remember how he, that Nebiros guy, seemed not to like when Tobit called me on the cell? Wesson said.
"Yeah... What of it?" Lucy asked.
"Well, the signal from a cell ain't strong so why did it bother him so much? Or was it the music that bothered him? If we can find out what it was we could make that signal stronger and it might function as a weapon or wall against him. Then perhaps Rachael couldn't be 'taken over' or whatever it is that's going on. See what I mean?"
Yeaah...." Lucy sounded doubtful. "But how are we to find out? Time isn't exactly on our side at the moment."
"True. But this bunker thingy..." Wesson turned to Chris. "You set it up in case of radioactive downfall or superflu or something, right?"
"Right. So?"
"So then you ought to have a good radio equipment there. We make that copy the signal from the cell but stronger. I can't guarantee it works but it is worth a shot, don't you think?"
"I sure do. And the radio is tiptop. It can do anything but stand on its hands!"
"Good. Then that's one worry less."
---------------------------
They had entered the bunker and Tobit had joined them. The bunker was situated in a beautiful forest glade but at the moment no one saw the beauty. When the world was at its dusk and humans struggled to survive, beauty was shown the door. On the inside, four people (Rachael slept soundly now because so far the radio seemed to work) sat around a table and thought about what to do. They had exchanged their stories and were mulling them over.
"I don't think we have much time. Just to sit here is only to invite a slow death," Wesson said.
"I know," Chris said. "But... Wait a minute! I know i recognized these names from somewhere. Nebiros - The Gatekeeper of Hell, didn't you say, Tobit, that in your research you encountered two other names, Belial and Asmodeus, that were supposed to work hand-in-hand with the Gatekeeper?"
Tobit nodded. "Yes, that was part of the news I came here to tell Wesson."
"Then I don't think it is any doubt. This is some kind of Apocalypse. All three names are well known names of Demons and the dead walking is a common part of many apocalypses."
"What about the Zombie heart?" Tobit asked. "It can't be any ordinary zombie heart." He threw a glance at Wesson beside him. "How is your arm, my friend? By the way, i don't know how long it takes for the infection to spread."
"Hurts, but never mind my arm. I'm also curious about two things. Rachael's part. Why does Nebiros want her so? And this ceremony/ritual you talked about, Tobit, I don't like it at all. And if this Apocalypse theory is correct, worlds end and all, can we stop it?"
"Only by attacking before they are ready. If they don't like this radio gizmet can we make it portable and bring it? It might also be the only way to save you, Wesson. If they are destroyed, chances are your arm will heal. And Rachael must be powerful. If we can use her powers against them..." Tobit mused.
Shrieks of protest from both parents that suddenly was silenced when Rachael sat up in her bed.
"I can take you to the gate but I can't seal it." she said in a voice all her own. "And to stop the apocalypse, it must be sealed."
"Darling, you can't! You might get hurt!" said Lucy.
"I probably will, but i must or we all will die. Wesson can't hold out more than a week with that arm and that Ritual will probably open the gate wider."
"Have you been awake?" Lucy smiled in spite of herself.
"Of course! I might not be grownup but I know more of Nebiros than any of you. I'll be of use."
"It's settled then." Wesson smiled. "Tomorrow after dawn we five will stop the world from an apocalypse." Then he laughed. It was totally true but totally laughable at the same time and the others joined him in laughter.
Kurben
"Oh, no, not again," Chris thought when he recognized Nebiros' voice in his daughter's body. He put her down, looked her in the eyes and said:
"You know I don't want to do this," and then he raised his arm and hit Rachael hard. Once again the girl was unconscious.
"Chris!" Lucy yelled.
"I had to, dear. Otherwise that nebulous Nebiros guy would have got us all, including Rachael."
"And now we really must get out of here." Wesson added, silently approving Chris' action. "To the cars! You drive, Chris. Lucy, you take Rachael in the backseat."
Arranged according to plan, they drove away leaving the shuffling zombie hordes far behind.
"What do we do the next time she wakes up? Hit her again? I really can't stand the thought." came Lucy's voice from the backseat.
"I hope not. I have a little idea. Do you remember how he, that Nebiros guy, seemed not to like when Tobit called me on the cell? Wesson said.
"Yeah... What of it?" Lucy asked.
"Well, the signal from a cell ain't strong so why did it bother him so much? Or was it the music that bothered him? If we can find out what it was we could make that signal stronger and it might function as a weapon or wall against him. Then perhaps Rachael couldn't be 'taken over' or whatever it is that's going on. See what I mean?"
Yeaah...." Lucy sounded doubtful. "But how are we to find out? Time isn't exactly on our side at the moment."
"True. But this bunker thingy..." Wesson turned to Chris. "You set it up in case of radioactive downfall or superflu or something, right?"
"Right. So?"
"So then you ought to have a good radio equipment there. We make that copy the signal from the cell but stronger. I can't guarantee it works but it is worth a shot, don't you think?"
"I sure do. And the radio is tiptop. It can do anything but stand on its hands!"
"Good. Then that's one worry less."
---------------------------
They had entered the bunker and Tobit had joined them. The bunker was situated in a beautiful forest glade but at the moment no one saw the beauty. When the world was at its dusk and humans struggled to survive, beauty was shown the door. On the inside, four people (Rachael slept soundly now because so far the radio seemed to work) sat around a table and thought about what to do. They had exchanged their stories and were mulling them over.
"I don't think we have much time. Just to sit here is only to invite a slow death," Wesson said.
"I know," Chris said. "But... Wait a minute! I know i recognized these names from somewhere. Nebiros - The Gatekeeper of Hell, didn't you say, Tobit, that in your research you encountered two other names, Belial and Asmodeus, that were supposed to work hand-in-hand with the Gatekeeper?"
Tobit nodded. "Yes, that was part of the news I came here to tell Wesson."
"Then I don't think it is any doubt. This is some kind of Apocalypse. All three names are well known names of Demons and the dead walking is a common part of many apocalypses."
"What about the Zombie heart?" Tobit asked. "It can't be any ordinary zombie heart." He threw a glance at Wesson beside him. "How is your arm, my friend? By the way, i don't know how long it takes for the infection to spread."
"Hurts, but never mind my arm. I'm also curious about two things. Rachael's part. Why does Nebiros want her so? And this ceremony/ritual you talked about, Tobit, I don't like it at all. And if this Apocalypse theory is correct, worlds end and all, can we stop it?"
"Only by attacking before they are ready. If they don't like this radio gizmet can we make it portable and bring it? It might also be the only way to save you, Wesson. If they are destroyed, chances are your arm will heal. And Rachael must be powerful. If we can use her powers against them..." Tobit mused.
Shrieks of protest from both parents that suddenly was silenced when Rachael sat up in her bed.
"I can take you to the gate but I can't seal it." she said in a voice all her own. "And to stop the apocalypse, it must be sealed."
"Darling, you can't! You might get hurt!" said Lucy.
"I probably will, but i must or we all will die. Wesson can't hold out more than a week with that arm and that Ritual will probably open the gate wider."
"Have you been awake?" Lucy smiled in spite of herself.
"Of course! I might not be grownup but I know more of Nebiros than any of you. I'll be of use."
"It's settled then." Wesson smiled. "Tomorrow after dawn we five will stop the world from an apocalypse." Then he laughed. It was totally true but totally laughable at the same time and the others joined him in laughter.
The Graylands (Ending)
Leif
The landscape was beginning to blur making it hard to differentiate between the Graylands and life here on earth for Wesson. It was like living in slate dank twilight without any hopes of the gray turning blue. It reminded Wesson of that old movie with Charlton Heston, “Soylent Green.” “Its people!” he thought and laughed to himself. This time it was live food instead of those tasty little biscuits the masses waited in line for. The sweat, the dreariness, THE GRAYNESS in both worlds was unbearable. His only joy now was stumbling upon a remnant of the past. He missed the simple things that he took for granted like a fresh apple, a sunrise, or the mini whirlwind of rustling leaves scraping along the sidewalk.
Wesson worried about his arm and horrible cough. He worried more about lasting long enough to complete this monumental task. His thoughts went back to a better time. He saw youth and his wife Pam, her gauze dress floating in the breeze waving back and forth and dancing in unison with waves of daisies in an open field. Her smile and doe like eyes looking up at him. He wanted to see her again.
The continuing onslaught of gray ghouls seemed to coincide with the deteriorating fabric of what once was. Wesson was tired but he took comfort in being with Tobit, Chris, Lucy, and Rachael. This was his family now and time was running short. This day was different and the sky was taking on a different hue today. A black aura. A sky that undulated in slow motion black gray and crimson tones. It reminded him of his vision precipitated by Nebiros.
Wesson and Chris were the first to awake and were both surprised how well the others slept given their daunting task. They sipped their coffee as they toiled over the old but solid CB radio, cell phones and parts from an old Panasonic boom box that you could record and play music on. No CD player but a cassette deck that made them think, “endless loop.”
There was an old Fender tube amplifier in the corner under some boxes that Chris used to drum out Smoke On the Water with before Rachael was born. He yanked it out of its dusty lair and thought If they could just record and amplify the cell signal that caused Nebiros so much grief it may buy them time. That is exactly what they did.
Like two nerds in electronics class, they hunched over the circuit boards, and assorted parts, smoke billowing from the soldering iron and cursing as they progressed. Chris and Wesson captured the signal within the ring tone and ran it through the amp. The squelching sound even at low decibels was unpleasant to say the least. With the knob on the amp turned up to 10, it felt like a razor encrusted electric ice pick was being shoved into ones’ auditory canal.
Wesson knew the cell signal booster alone wouldn’t end the apocalypse. He also knew he would have to battle within the Graylands with whatever and whoever he could muster. Jerry Garcia, the army of ghosts in the mist, Rachael and her powers. Then there was Lucy. Whatever it takes.
He also knew that if they were able to push Nebiros and the other demonic duo back into Hellion hibernation there needed to be a plan to stop the rising tide of Zombies that was started by the chemical mold spore concoction.
The THC Hunger deterrent was pretty much useless and it made Wesson question why the recipe was so important. Why was so much weight put on that formula? It didn’t make sense.
Tobit entered the room clutching the brown paper sack with the Zombie heart. He reached inside the bag and plopped it on the table. “Wesson!! Get over here! I want you to take a look at this.” “I was thinking about what Alfie had said. There is a reason he and the Cabal wanted you to have this heart.” (although the reasons may have differed) “I think Alfie had a change of heart!! Wesson let out a big “Hardee har har!”
Tobit may have been right as the information provided was meant to save the world rather than destroy it.
“Wesson! Grab that paring knife on the counter and hand it to me.” Wesson obliged. Tobit massaged the myocardial muscle like he was testing the ripeness of an avocado. As he cut into the rubbery gray tissue a gelatinous ooze spilled out releasing a gas that caused an automatic gag reflex. Tobit reached inside the aorta with his bony finger like an Aye-aye grabbing a tasty grub and revealed a capsule with a note enclosed.
it read:
LUCY IS THE ANSWER. THE TATTOO HOLDS THE KEY TO THE MOLD ANTIDOTE
Alfie was trying to make good on his bad deeds thought Tobit but didn’t dwell on it.
The five sat huddled together in the bunker and Wesson laid out the plan like a lieutenant speaking to a room of cops and detectives.
“I will go with Rachael to the Graylands to summon help from the army in the mist so we can storm and close the gate." He continued. “There have been a million and a half killed in wars just in our country and from what I have seen, some are still restless and would love to lend a hand.
Chris and Tobit will stay here and protect Lucy from Nebiros and his accomplices with the cell signal booster. The cell booster won’t work well on their turf. We need to protect Lucy with everything we have so the mold antidote can be duplicated and mass produced.
Tobit, call upon your old chemical engineer buddies and check around for every pilot, crop duster pilot and plane you can muster up!”
“Most of my buddies are dead but you may run into a few in the Graylands”, said Tobit. “I’ll do my best down here Wesson. You can count on that.”
“Good” said Wesson. “Any other questions?” There was silence.
Rachael sat on her bed and rocked back and forth, eyes fixed straight ahead.
“Rachael! Rachael!!”, Lucy yelled. “Are you OK?”
“Yes I’m fine. I see Nebiros. The gates of hell are opening. Civilization rise and civilization fall, because Nebiros rules us all. Civilization rise and civilization fall, because Nebiros rules us all.”
“Not anymore baby”, said Lucy. “Snap out of it!”
She did and Wesson took her little frail hand in his calloused paw. He thought, we are in big trouble.
Wesson was surprised to see Jerry waiting for them in the mist and even more surprised to see Lemmy Kilminster all decked out in black donning a WW II army helmet. His t-shirt said Born to Lose Live to Win on the front, Motörhead on the back and Wesson liked that.
Behind him was an army of one hundred thousand ghost troops. A vast improvement from the dead soldier platoon he'd witnessed earlier. Most of the troops were young looking, armed to the teeth and they bristled at the chance to organize and fight evil.
“You read my mind Jerry.”, said Wesson.
“Thought you might need some help buddy.” Jerry winked. “I peeked into the real world and heard your plan. Thought Lemmy might be better suited to kick some ass. I’m built for weed but Lemmy’s built for speed. Tried to get Dio but Ronnie James pretty much wrote the Book of Revelation and he went straight to Hell.” Even Rachael had a chuckle out of that one.
The army assembled and disappeared into the silver gray star dusted milky way toward the gate. They were led by Rachael and Nebiros knew it.
Nebiros called upon his cohorts. Asmodeus, the king of demons commanded Belial, the wicked one to obliterate the army. Nebiros, in his rage made his first and last mistake. He left the gate in Asmodeus’ hands in order to pursue Lucy who'd betrayed him. Rachael could feel his rage as he collided and ripped through the ethereal veil toward Lucy and her protectors. There was no subtleness this time. No kneeling or explaining. The demon appeared in front of Lucy as Chris fumbled with the switches and knobs nervously.
YOU BETRAYED ME
Lucy thinks.... When there is no enemy within, the enemy outside can’t hurt you.
Nebiros coiled back turning red then a blackish metallic blue. A devil cobra appeared splitting its skin, tentacles flailing and fangs dripping venom within inches of her face, she was calm. She was at peace. Chris shouted “Adios Nebiros.” and flipped the switch on the old Fender.
The initial hum caused the diabolic demon to whip its head in his direction. Within seconds the amplified radiofrequency energy kicked in and all hell broke loose. His fury spun off in meteoritic fire spouts that raged hundreds of miles into the abyss. A vacuum of a thousand light years was sucked into one space the size of a quarter and opened on itself. Silence and then immeasurable propulsion rendered the beast into a spray of plasma drifting in the universe.
“Lucy! Are you OK?” Tobit and Chris reached out helping her to her feet. “Lucy we have to go. Wesson called me. He is headed to the gate with Rachael and has help but we need to get you over to my buddies’ lab so he can take a look at your tattoo and start producing the antidote. I have everything lined up but we have to go now.”
They ran from the bunker escaping the grappling Zombies. Several hungry “hangers” were dismembered as Tobit’s car sped off to the lab.
Rachael, Wesson and the marching dead could see the gate in the distance but arrived there in seconds. It wasn’t a gate per se but an opening in the universe. Asmodeus and Belial flanked the opening. Wesson saw his nightmares spilling out of the black hole, and heard a cacophony of desperate cries, moans, and wails too horrifying to describe. He saw all the bad he had done and none of the good.
Rachael saw and heard nothing. “Hold my hand Wesson”, her tiny voice tweeted. It was an odd contrast to the agonizing moans. He held her hand and saw through her eyes. A little child playing in the grass, arms flapping up and down like a little bird and laughing. The smell of fresh cut grass and moist rotting wood filled his senses. A warm breeze lifted the corn silk hair in little tufts as his mother watched from the picnic blanket. Tears now filled Wesson’s eyes and the demons cried.
“We have to feed the gate with the good, the lost and the innocent. Only love can stop it.” One hundred thousand souls marched to the gate. One hundred thousand who died and left their spouses, mothers, fathers, friends and lovers. “General Lemmy” led the way, baton in raised hand as the masses spearheaded the gate. Asmodeus and Belial blasted torrents of energy and fire toward the lines of soldiers toppling them over in wave after wave but the troops poured in like a hoard of killer bees disappearing with lightning speed into the blackness.
Wesson and Rachael were now watching from another liquid realm. Angels from all places came. Nasargie, Barbiel, Jehudiel, Raphael and others joined. Rachael was now the conduit of good and the battle was being won. The demons were outnumbered.
The last soul entered the gate and at that moment a tiny white light appeared from the gate. Total silence and then an expulsion of souls flying out to the heavens. The beauty was unfathomable as lavender plumes, and colors that you could hear and smell enveloped the angelic faces as they met their final destination. As the last soul dissipated so did the city in the mist, melting away as they watched. The gate was shut.
Wesson turned to Rachael and said, “I want to go home now.” She released his hand, and he did.
The last of the walking dead were eradicated and those infected were cured as a result of Wesson and Tobit’s concerted effort. The shadow government and military joined the public sector and flew the last duster plane containing a load of Zombicide over a remote area out west as rumors were circulating that a few of those putrescent pumpkin heads still existed. The Global Cabal and more importantly, evil was defeated.
Lucy, Chris and Rachael sat together on the front porch of their home. They stared out in the distance and saw the “life” coming back. It had only been three months but the sky was clear and bright with purplish hues. Tobit was busy in the kitchen as he was over again for Sunday dinner. He made a mean brisket and it was Rachael’s favorite.
After dinner they all sat outside and had coffee and dessert. Tobit noticed a rustling sound to his right and saw a poor little disheveled squirrel approach him in nervous little jerks. Tobit snapped off a bit of his peach pie crust and offered it to the mangy little feller. It gladly accepted and absconded with the morsel as quickly as it came.
THE END
SKMB -- September -- October 2016
Leif
The landscape was beginning to blur making it hard to differentiate between the Graylands and life here on earth for Wesson. It was like living in slate dank twilight without any hopes of the gray turning blue. It reminded Wesson of that old movie with Charlton Heston, “Soylent Green.” “Its people!” he thought and laughed to himself. This time it was live food instead of those tasty little biscuits the masses waited in line for. The sweat, the dreariness, THE GRAYNESS in both worlds was unbearable. His only joy now was stumbling upon a remnant of the past. He missed the simple things that he took for granted like a fresh apple, a sunrise, or the mini whirlwind of rustling leaves scraping along the sidewalk.
Wesson worried about his arm and horrible cough. He worried more about lasting long enough to complete this monumental task. His thoughts went back to a better time. He saw youth and his wife Pam, her gauze dress floating in the breeze waving back and forth and dancing in unison with waves of daisies in an open field. Her smile and doe like eyes looking up at him. He wanted to see her again.
The continuing onslaught of gray ghouls seemed to coincide with the deteriorating fabric of what once was. Wesson was tired but he took comfort in being with Tobit, Chris, Lucy, and Rachael. This was his family now and time was running short. This day was different and the sky was taking on a different hue today. A black aura. A sky that undulated in slow motion black gray and crimson tones. It reminded him of his vision precipitated by Nebiros.
Wesson and Chris were the first to awake and were both surprised how well the others slept given their daunting task. They sipped their coffee as they toiled over the old but solid CB radio, cell phones and parts from an old Panasonic boom box that you could record and play music on. No CD player but a cassette deck that made them think, “endless loop.”
There was an old Fender tube amplifier in the corner under some boxes that Chris used to drum out Smoke On the Water with before Rachael was born. He yanked it out of its dusty lair and thought If they could just record and amplify the cell signal that caused Nebiros so much grief it may buy them time. That is exactly what they did.
Like two nerds in electronics class, they hunched over the circuit boards, and assorted parts, smoke billowing from the soldering iron and cursing as they progressed. Chris and Wesson captured the signal within the ring tone and ran it through the amp. The squelching sound even at low decibels was unpleasant to say the least. With the knob on the amp turned up to 10, it felt like a razor encrusted electric ice pick was being shoved into ones’ auditory canal.
Wesson knew the cell signal booster alone wouldn’t end the apocalypse. He also knew he would have to battle within the Graylands with whatever and whoever he could muster. Jerry Garcia, the army of ghosts in the mist, Rachael and her powers. Then there was Lucy. Whatever it takes.
He also knew that if they were able to push Nebiros and the other demonic duo back into Hellion hibernation there needed to be a plan to stop the rising tide of Zombies that was started by the chemical mold spore concoction.
The THC Hunger deterrent was pretty much useless and it made Wesson question why the recipe was so important. Why was so much weight put on that formula? It didn’t make sense.
Tobit entered the room clutching the brown paper sack with the Zombie heart. He reached inside the bag and plopped it on the table. “Wesson!! Get over here! I want you to take a look at this.” “I was thinking about what Alfie had said. There is a reason he and the Cabal wanted you to have this heart.” (although the reasons may have differed) “I think Alfie had a change of heart!! Wesson let out a big “Hardee har har!”
Tobit may have been right as the information provided was meant to save the world rather than destroy it.
“Wesson! Grab that paring knife on the counter and hand it to me.” Wesson obliged. Tobit massaged the myocardial muscle like he was testing the ripeness of an avocado. As he cut into the rubbery gray tissue a gelatinous ooze spilled out releasing a gas that caused an automatic gag reflex. Tobit reached inside the aorta with his bony finger like an Aye-aye grabbing a tasty grub and revealed a capsule with a note enclosed.
it read:
LUCY IS THE ANSWER. THE TATTOO HOLDS THE KEY TO THE MOLD ANTIDOTE
Alfie was trying to make good on his bad deeds thought Tobit but didn’t dwell on it.
The five sat huddled together in the bunker and Wesson laid out the plan like a lieutenant speaking to a room of cops and detectives.
“I will go with Rachael to the Graylands to summon help from the army in the mist so we can storm and close the gate." He continued. “There have been a million and a half killed in wars just in our country and from what I have seen, some are still restless and would love to lend a hand.
Chris and Tobit will stay here and protect Lucy from Nebiros and his accomplices with the cell signal booster. The cell booster won’t work well on their turf. We need to protect Lucy with everything we have so the mold antidote can be duplicated and mass produced.
Tobit, call upon your old chemical engineer buddies and check around for every pilot, crop duster pilot and plane you can muster up!”
“Most of my buddies are dead but you may run into a few in the Graylands”, said Tobit. “I’ll do my best down here Wesson. You can count on that.”
“Good” said Wesson. “Any other questions?” There was silence.
Rachael sat on her bed and rocked back and forth, eyes fixed straight ahead.
“Rachael! Rachael!!”, Lucy yelled. “Are you OK?”
“Yes I’m fine. I see Nebiros. The gates of hell are opening. Civilization rise and civilization fall, because Nebiros rules us all. Civilization rise and civilization fall, because Nebiros rules us all.”
“Not anymore baby”, said Lucy. “Snap out of it!”
She did and Wesson took her little frail hand in his calloused paw. He thought, we are in big trouble.
Wesson was surprised to see Jerry waiting for them in the mist and even more surprised to see Lemmy Kilminster all decked out in black donning a WW II army helmet. His t-shirt said Born to Lose Live to Win on the front, Motörhead on the back and Wesson liked that.
Behind him was an army of one hundred thousand ghost troops. A vast improvement from the dead soldier platoon he'd witnessed earlier. Most of the troops were young looking, armed to the teeth and they bristled at the chance to organize and fight evil.
“You read my mind Jerry.”, said Wesson.
“Thought you might need some help buddy.” Jerry winked. “I peeked into the real world and heard your plan. Thought Lemmy might be better suited to kick some ass. I’m built for weed but Lemmy’s built for speed. Tried to get Dio but Ronnie James pretty much wrote the Book of Revelation and he went straight to Hell.” Even Rachael had a chuckle out of that one.
The army assembled and disappeared into the silver gray star dusted milky way toward the gate. They were led by Rachael and Nebiros knew it.
Nebiros called upon his cohorts. Asmodeus, the king of demons commanded Belial, the wicked one to obliterate the army. Nebiros, in his rage made his first and last mistake. He left the gate in Asmodeus’ hands in order to pursue Lucy who'd betrayed him. Rachael could feel his rage as he collided and ripped through the ethereal veil toward Lucy and her protectors. There was no subtleness this time. No kneeling or explaining. The demon appeared in front of Lucy as Chris fumbled with the switches and knobs nervously.
YOU BETRAYED ME
Lucy thinks.... When there is no enemy within, the enemy outside can’t hurt you.
Nebiros coiled back turning red then a blackish metallic blue. A devil cobra appeared splitting its skin, tentacles flailing and fangs dripping venom within inches of her face, she was calm. She was at peace. Chris shouted “Adios Nebiros.” and flipped the switch on the old Fender.
The initial hum caused the diabolic demon to whip its head in his direction. Within seconds the amplified radiofrequency energy kicked in and all hell broke loose. His fury spun off in meteoritic fire spouts that raged hundreds of miles into the abyss. A vacuum of a thousand light years was sucked into one space the size of a quarter and opened on itself. Silence and then immeasurable propulsion rendered the beast into a spray of plasma drifting in the universe.
“Lucy! Are you OK?” Tobit and Chris reached out helping her to her feet. “Lucy we have to go. Wesson called me. He is headed to the gate with Rachael and has help but we need to get you over to my buddies’ lab so he can take a look at your tattoo and start producing the antidote. I have everything lined up but we have to go now.”
They ran from the bunker escaping the grappling Zombies. Several hungry “hangers” were dismembered as Tobit’s car sped off to the lab.
Rachael, Wesson and the marching dead could see the gate in the distance but arrived there in seconds. It wasn’t a gate per se but an opening in the universe. Asmodeus and Belial flanked the opening. Wesson saw his nightmares spilling out of the black hole, and heard a cacophony of desperate cries, moans, and wails too horrifying to describe. He saw all the bad he had done and none of the good.
Rachael saw and heard nothing. “Hold my hand Wesson”, her tiny voice tweeted. It was an odd contrast to the agonizing moans. He held her hand and saw through her eyes. A little child playing in the grass, arms flapping up and down like a little bird and laughing. The smell of fresh cut grass and moist rotting wood filled his senses. A warm breeze lifted the corn silk hair in little tufts as his mother watched from the picnic blanket. Tears now filled Wesson’s eyes and the demons cried.
“We have to feed the gate with the good, the lost and the innocent. Only love can stop it.” One hundred thousand souls marched to the gate. One hundred thousand who died and left their spouses, mothers, fathers, friends and lovers. “General Lemmy” led the way, baton in raised hand as the masses spearheaded the gate. Asmodeus and Belial blasted torrents of energy and fire toward the lines of soldiers toppling them over in wave after wave but the troops poured in like a hoard of killer bees disappearing with lightning speed into the blackness.
Wesson and Rachael were now watching from another liquid realm. Angels from all places came. Nasargie, Barbiel, Jehudiel, Raphael and others joined. Rachael was now the conduit of good and the battle was being won. The demons were outnumbered.
The last soul entered the gate and at that moment a tiny white light appeared from the gate. Total silence and then an expulsion of souls flying out to the heavens. The beauty was unfathomable as lavender plumes, and colors that you could hear and smell enveloped the angelic faces as they met their final destination. As the last soul dissipated so did the city in the mist, melting away as they watched. The gate was shut.
Wesson turned to Rachael and said, “I want to go home now.” She released his hand, and he did.
The last of the walking dead were eradicated and those infected were cured as a result of Wesson and Tobit’s concerted effort. The shadow government and military joined the public sector and flew the last duster plane containing a load of Zombicide over a remote area out west as rumors were circulating that a few of those putrescent pumpkin heads still existed. The Global Cabal and more importantly, evil was defeated.
Lucy, Chris and Rachael sat together on the front porch of their home. They stared out in the distance and saw the “life” coming back. It had only been three months but the sky was clear and bright with purplish hues. Tobit was busy in the kitchen as he was over again for Sunday dinner. He made a mean brisket and it was Rachael’s favorite.
After dinner they all sat outside and had coffee and dessert. Tobit noticed a rustling sound to his right and saw a poor little disheveled squirrel approach him in nervous little jerks. Tobit snapped off a bit of his peach pie crust and offered it to the mangy little feller. It gladly accepted and absconded with the morsel as quickly as it came.
THE END
SKMB -- September -- October 2016
- Status