Metahumans vs the Undead: A Superhero vs Zombie Anthology (23 page)

“Julia,” he managed to say, the will to fight no longer burning within him.

She leaned in, mouth open, the stench of death bombarding his senses. His eyes watered.

This is it
, he thought, for every horror movie he had ever seen taught him she was not leaning in for a kiss.

Angela Harwell soared through the night air, her long jet-black hair blowing wildly behind her. Her bat-like wings created a swooshing sound with each powerful flap. She closed her eyes and allowed the wind to whip her face.

How she loved the freedom of the skies. Up above the busy streets and nightlife of Orlando, no one could gawk at her, point, or shy away at the sight of her. And if a demon decided to use her body to escape the pit, they’d fall to their death—unless they had wings of their own. She stopped in mid-flight and hovered, her gaze locked on the nine, black typographic ligatures circling her abdomen around her belly button. Each infernal mark represented a circle of Hell, and combined, the living hell her life had become since turning eighteen years old.

Why don’t you come out now?
she thought, daring Hell’s prisoners.
And if you do have wings . . . well . . . I’ll just cut off your head.
She looked at her right hand and watched her shadow extend from the tips of her fingers. Designed for separating flesh from bone with the ability to touch on the molecular level, the shadow claws were capable of penetrating any substance on Earth—above and below it.

A tap on her shoulder caused her to turn around. The moment her gaze locked on her living shadow, whom she affectionately called Dusk, it pointed down. She followed the direction and saw a man on a rooftop; he just stood there staring back at her with his hands resting on the top of a cane.

Odd
, she thought, but the moment she made a move to descend, Dusk grabbed hold of her shoulder.

“What is it?” Angela asked.

Her shadow’s right hand slowly plunged in the air, then raised upward and repeated this vertical motion. Without a voice of its own, or any facial features to relay expression, communicating with Dusk was often quite difficult and turned into long games of charades, but Angela trusted it completely. Her shadow was privy to knowledge she wasn’t, arcane knowledge long forgotten or ignored by mankind.

“Okay,” she said, “I’ll take it slow.”

Dusk’s grip loosened and they slowly descended toward the rooftop.

As she approached, she sized up the strange man. Adorned in a black tuxedo with a top hat, he seemed as if he was dressed for a party.

Perhaps a masquerade ball with that face paint
, she thought.

He smiled at her as he watched her intently. Under the paint, his skin looked as though it was sucked tight against his bones. He gripped the cane’s handle with long, almost skeletal fingers as if he was readying for a fight.

Most likely there’s a sword sheathed inside there
, she thought as her tiptoes touched down on the rough, gravelly rooftop.

Behind the stale aroma of tobacco and rum, Angela caught a whiff of brimstone and knew he didn’t belong here, not on this Earth. But if he didn’t travel through her, using her as a portal, how did he get here? If she didn’t know better, she would have guessed the man passed through her brother—but he had died at her hand. She made sure of it, after their second battle.

“So you are the one they call Midnight Angel,” the man said in a nasally voice.

Are those cotton balls in his nose?
Weird.
She scanned the roofline, making sure he was alone.

“And here I thought you’d be difficult to find.”

“Who are you?” she asked.

“You are far more lovelier than I could have ever imagined. It’s a shame I have to destroy you.”

The stranger’s hungry eyes unnerved her. For the first time she questioned her metallic brassiere and bikini-bottom outfit. She had always shown a lot of skin to detract the male eye from her grotesque wings, but the way the stranger stared at her as if she was a piece of meat chilled her to the core. He looked at her as though she was a plaything he could have his way with. Angela could even feel Dusk tremble in his presence.

She steeled her nerves and asked again with a more commanding tone, “Who are you?”

“I am the
cemetary
man. The
loa
of the dead. I am Baron
Samedi
.”

The name meant nothing to her. She narrowed her eyes and wondered what manner of demon he was.

“Your vacant expression tells me you have no idea who I am.”

“Should I?” She elongated her shadow claws on both hands.

The baron smiled. “The only thing I love more than a stiff drink and a fine cigar is the companionship of a beautiful woman. Unfortunately, you violate the natural laws—”

“As do you. You reek of the fires of Hell.”

“I escort the dead to their final resting place. That is the purpose for my existence. My place. And you have no place in this world. Your body is a conduit to Hell. You allow things to walk the Earth, things only meant for the pit.”

“It’s not all that black and white.” Angela stood firm.

“No, I suppose it never is. Nonetheless, you’re responsible for my heavy workload. I can’t remember the last time I had a night to myself.”

With that said, the door for the stairwell burst open and dozens of men and women spilled out onto the roof. Their clothes looking in good condition though faded with stained blotches from bodily fluids, and Angela safely assumed they had not clawed their way out of the ground. They all stared at her with silver, soulless orbs; their faces were contorted in snarls and their skin was withered and gray.

Zombies . . .
eww
!

Dusk circled around her and took on a three-dimensional shape. Her shadow stood between her and the wall of the dead encompassing the baron. She represented the only ally she had in the war against Hell.

“You certainly are a remarkable creature,” he said, “but I cannot let you upset the balance any longer. Send her back to her father!”

On his command, the zombies stumbled forward, arms outstretched and ready to tear into her exposed flesh.

Her shadow instantly grabbed the first zombie to reach it: a bulbous male, who shoved his weight into its nearby brethren, knocking them off balance and out of the way. With a quick jolt, Dusk yanked his head from his shoulders, then tossed the chunk of decayed flesh aside and prepared to attack the next lumbering creature.

A female zombie, dressed in a white gown that revealed her curvy body under the light of the full moon, stepped up to Dusk. With her arms at her side, her body swayed with each step. Her head was
cocked
at an odd angle and a look of confusion was etched on her emaciated face as if she didn’t know what to make of Dusk.

As if not feeling threatened by the female zombie, Dusk quickly sliced the head off another that lumbered toward her with its arms outstretched, then plunged her claws into the forehead of a young male. She dragged her claws down, ripping the zombie’s decayed flesh from its face to its abdomen. Liquefied intestines spilled through the slits and another zombie slipped in the slick mess.

Finally identifying Dusk as an enemy, the female zombie in the white gown leaned in, mouth wide. Her yellowed teeth clamped down on emptiness and when she straightened her back, her jaws worked up and down, not realizing she hadn’t taken a bite out of Dusk.

Not amused, Dusk whirled around, separating the female’s head clean from its shoulders. Two more fell with a backward slash, but more dead stumbled through the stairwell and onto the roof, while the baron stood, laughing with a deep, maniacal glee.

Two male zombies managed to avoid Dusk’s deadly claws and flank Angela. Their bodies moved with an unnatural fluidity and when Angela swiped with her shadow claws at the closest, it dodged and moved in, clamping its teeth down on her shoulder. The pinch and tear of her milky-white skin was a minor annoyance that she shrugged off, and quickly plunged her claws into her attacker’s head, right between the eyes. With the flick of her wrist, the upper portion of the zombie’s skull hurled into the air while she spun around and decapitated the other as its fingernails pawed at her shoulders.

They’re outnumbering Dusk
, she thought as her wounds healed.

Angela took a step toward the wall of the dead, and suddenly her stomach constricted into a knot and a fire deep from within radiated throughout her entire body. Sweat beaded on her skin as her stomach roiled with pain. She knew this feeling all too well. Something was coming.

Why did it have to be now?
She leaned forward, pressing her arms tightly against her toned abs. Though it never relieved the pain or stopped whatever hell spawn daring enough to break free, it was something Angela couldn’t help but do. The pain was unlike anything she had ever felt. A baseball bat to the head—a mosquito bite; claws ripping through the thick membrane of her wings—a playful cat scratch; a tusk through the heart—an unexpected jab. Her body was built to last. The only wound her body was incapable of healing was decapitation.

Sensing the danger, Dusk fought harder and went on the offensive, no longer content waiting for the undead army to reach her. Her movements were a macabre dance, slicing through flesh and bone with grace. Heads were lopped off, bowels eviscerated, and limbs torn asunder.