The New Dead: A Zombie Anthology (48 page)

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Authors: Christopher Golden

BOOK: The New Dead: A Zombie Anthology
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Like a mummy’s curse,
Jeff thought,
some things are best left undisturbed.
 
But he couldn’t leave now, not once the government was involved.
 
He never should have told anyone - not even Biz - what he had found.
 
He should have left well enough alone.
 
If he hadn’t been so startled and, yes, even scared yesterday, he might have thought it through and kept his goddamned mouth shut.
 
But now, no matter what else happened, he and Wes had to bring this guy back to the surface so the state medical examiner could determine what had happened to him.
 
With apprehension winding up in his gut like a steel spring, Jeff turned back to the body. Wes approached it as if there was nothing unusual going on, but Jeff stayed back, determined to be cautious.
 
The drowned man’s upraised arms swung around to the left side, toward Wes. They moved like dual needles of a compass being drawn to true north. Wes seemed not to notice. He was bending down, unwinding the length of chain from around the corpse’s waist. Silt swirled in thick clouds, mixing with the bubbles coming from his respirator. The heavy chain clinked as the links, long rusted into place, shifted free. Jeff could see that Wes was struggling with it, but he didn’t move to help.
 
He couldn’t.
 
The beam of his flashlight was trained on the dead man’s face, and he gazed steadily into the drowned man’s eyes.
 
They were moving.
 
They jerked spastically from side to side, glaring with a cold, glassy stare that suddenly fixed on the back of Wes’s bowed head.
 
‘Look out!’ Jeff yelled, but all that came out was an explosion of bubbles spewing out from around his regulator. As the corpse’s hands reached out and grabbed Wes by the back of the neck, hooked fingers dug like hawk’s talons into Wes’s shoulders. They dimpled the material of the dry suit for a second or two and then ripped into it.
 
Wes reacted instantly, but Jeff knew it was already too late. The yellowed fingernails raked across Wes’s back, shredding the dry suit and cutting it into ragged black ribbons. Bright red billows of blood spewed forth, looking like the sudden eruption of a volcano. Wes started thrashing around, flipping over as he tried to fight back. One hand went to the back of his neck, as if checking the damage; the other hand waved in front of his face as he fended off his attacker.
 
But Wes couldn’t break free of the dead man’s grasping hands. Yellowed fingernails raked across his face, sweeping away his mask and regulator. A blast of bubbles exploded from Wes’s mouth, and Jeff could faintly hear the terrified screams. With another sweep of the dead man’s hands, Wes’s face was transformed into a tangle of shredded pink meat and exposed bone. Blood oozed from the wounds in thick, spiraling red ribbons that drifted away on the current.
 
Finally finding his courage, Jeff propelled himself forward. Making sure to keep a safe distance from the dead man, he grabbed Wes around the waist and yanked him back. The bubbles of escaping air mixed with swirling silt and clouds of blood, making it all but impossible for Jeff to see, but he knew which way was up. Without air, he knew he had to get Wes up to the surface as fast and as safely as he could.
 
Otherwise, he would die.
 
They would both die.
 
Struggling to contain his panic, Jeff clasped Wes to his chest and started swimming. He hardly noticed it when something caught hold of his left leg and held it for just a second or two. When he pulled away, a stinging sensation like a bee sting pinched his left calf muscle, but he ignored it as he swam toward the surface holding Wes.
 
It took effort not to surface too fast. There was no sense risking either him or Wes getting the bends. Taking the regulator from his mouth, he forced it into Wes’s mouth, but Wes was either unconscious or already dead. His motionless lips were as pale as snow. They didn’t move. His eyes were glazed over with a dull, milky stare.
 
The swim to the surface seemed to last forever, but the water gradually lightened, and before long, shimmering blue sky and a burning dot of sunlight sparkled above. Jeff could see the dark, hulking wedge of the underside of the Coast Guard boat, and he made his way toward it. When his head broke the surface, he let go a roar as he inhaled a lungful of air. It took a near superhuman effort to swim over to the side of the boat and the diving platform. Several crewmen leaned over to help him get Wes onboard.
 
‘What the fuck?’ the captain shouted, as Jeff heaved himself up out of the water and climbed over the gunwales and onto the deck. Several crewmen were already tending to Wes, but Jeff feared the worst.
 
‘You guys run into a shark down there?’ one of the crewmen asked.
 
‘Jesus!’ another crewman said. ‘Looks like someone went at him with a chainsaw.’
 
Kneeling down on the deck, Jeff and the men rolled Wes over onto his back. Blood was flowing from the wounds on his neck and face, dripping in large splashes onto the deck.
 
The captain went back to the cabin and started the engine and revved it. Within seconds, the cutter was speeding across the water, heading back to harbor. Looking down at Wes’s pale, motionless face, Jeff shivered and shook his head.
 
‘No need to hurry,’ he said to Mark Curtis, who was still kneeling beside Wes’s motionless form. ‘He’s gone.’
 
‘Christ on a crutch,’ Curtis said, lowering his gaze and shaking his head from side to side. Then he turned to Jeff and pointed at Jeff’s left leg.
 
Jeff looked and saw, through the gap in his dry suit, the flap of water-puckered skin, already looking an angry red with infection. Blood ran in a thick, single stream down to his ankle and onto the deck.
 
‘Looks like you got cut, too,’ Curtis said, frowning as he looked at Jeff’s wound. ‘What the fuck happened down there?’
 
Shock hit Jeff when a cold sting reached deep into him, striking all the way to the bone. Within seconds, the coldness radiated up his leg and into his groin and chest, where it started to squeeze his heart. His hands and feet were already growing numb.
 
Jeff stared blankly at the wound, barely aware, as Curtis knelt down beside him and inspected it more closely.
 
‘Jesus,’ Curtis said. ‘I’ll get the medical kit so we can get some antiseptic on that and bandage you up. You don’t want it getting infected.’
 
‘Infected,’ Jeff said, his voice an empty echo.
 
‘That’s a helluva gash you got there. We should get you to the hospital and have someone throw a few stitches into that to close it up.’
 
Jeff was shaking his head from side to side as a terrible, sad knowledge filled him.
 
‘It’s already too late,’ he said, as the dull heaviness spread through his body, dulling his mind.
 
‘Huh? What do you mean, “too late”?’ Curtis asked. ‘It ain’t nothing but a scratch.’
 
But Jeff lowered his head and stared at the blood running in a ruby-red stream down the slick black surface of his dry suit. Already, it felt like his guts were filled with an iciness that was eating him from the inside out. His vision was getting cloudy, and the buzzing of the boat’s engine was unbearably loud.
 
‘It’s the plague,’ Jeff said in a low, hollow tone. ‘It’s back.’
 
As the boat sped back to the dock, he gazed across the expanse of blue water at the approaching town. The glaring white steeple of the Congregational church stood out against the sky. The scene was gorgeous, but an immense sadness filled him. He was tormented by a question: would he be able to do what Old Man Crowther had done?
 
Would he have the balls to do what was necessary to protect the town?
 
As soon as the boat got back to the dock, he would have to find a cement block and a length of chain and head right back out to sea.
 
THE STORM DOOR
 
BY TAD WILLIAMS
 
 
 
 
Nightingale did not take the first cab he saw when he stepped out into the rainy San Francisco streets. He never did. Some might call it superstition, but in his profession the line between superstitions and rules of survival was rather slender. He stepped back onto the curb to avoid the spray of water as the second cab pulled up in response to his wave. Paranormal investigators didn’t make enough money to ruin a pair of good shoes for no reason.
 
Somebody should have warned me that saving the world from unspeakable horrors is like being a teacher - lots of job satisfaction, but the money’s crap.
 
‘Thirty-three Gilman Street,’ he told the driver, an ex-hippie on the edge of retirement age, with shoulder-length grey hair straggling out from under his Kangol hat and several silver rings on the fingers holding the wheel. ‘It’s off Jones.’
 
‘You got it.’ The driver pulled back into traffic, wipers squeaking as city lights smeared and dribbled across the glass beside Nightingale’s head. ‘Helluva night,’ he said. ‘I know we need the rain and everything, but . . . shit, man.’
 
Nathan Nightingale had spent so much of the past week in a small overheated and nearly airless room that he would have happily run through this downpour naked, but he only nodded and said, ‘Yeah. Helluva night.’
 
‘Gonna be a lot more before it’s over, too. That’s what they said. The storm door’s open.’ The driver turned down the music a notch. ‘Kind of a weird expression, huh? Makes it sound like they’re’ - he lifted his fingers in twitching monster-movie talons - ‘
coming to get us
. Whooo! I mean, it’s just clouds, right? It’s nature.’
 
‘This? Yeah, it’s just nature,’ agreed Nightingale, his thoughts already drawn back to that small room, those clear, calm, terrifying eyes. ‘But sometimes even nature can be unnatural.’
 
‘Huh? Oh, yeah, I guess so. Good one.’ But it was clear by his tone that the driver feared he’d missed the point.
 
‘That’s it - the tall house there.’
 
The driver peered out the window. ‘Whoa, that’s a spooky one, man. You sure you gonna be okay? This is kind of a tough neighborhood.’
 
‘I’ll be fine, thanks,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ve been here before; it was kind of my second home.’
 
‘If you say so.’ The driver called just before Nightingale slammed the door, ‘Hey, remember about that storm door. Better get an umbrella!’
 
Nightingale raised his hand as the man drove off.
An umbrella.
He almost smiled, but the wet night was getting to him.
If only all problems were that easy to solve.
 
 
As he pressed the button beside the mailbox, lightning blazed overhead, making it seem as though one had caused the other. A moment later the thunder crashed down so near that he did not hear the sound of the door being buzzed open but felt the handle vibrating under his hand.
 
The light was out in the first- floor stairwell, and no lights were on at all on the second floor, what Uncle Edward called ‘the showroom’, although no one ever saw it but a few old, trusted collector friends. Enough of the streetlight’s glow leaked in that Nightingale could see the strange silhouettes of some of the old man’s prize possessions - fetish dolls and funerary votives and terra-cotta tomb statuettes, a vast audience of silent, wide-eyed shapes watching Nightingale climb the stairs. It was an excellent collection, but what made it truly astounding were the stories behind the pieces, most of them dark, many of them horrifying. In fact, it had been his godfather’s arcane tales and bizarre trophies that had first lured Nightingale onto his odd career path: at an age when most boys wanted to be football players or firemen, young Nate had decided he wanted to hunt ghosts and fight demons. Later, when others were celebrating their first college beer-busts, Nightingale had already attended strange ceremonies on high English moors and deep in Thai jungles and Louisiana bayous. He had heard languages never shaped for the use of human tongues, had seen men die for no reason and others live when they should have been dead. But through the years, when the unnatural things he saw and felt and learned overwhelmed him, he always came back here for his godfather’s advice and support. This was one of those times. In fact, this was probably the worst time he could remember.
 
Strangely, the third floor of the house was dark, too.
 
‘Edward? Uncle Edward? It’s me, Nathan. Are you here?’ Had the old man forgotten he was coming and gone out with his caretaker Jenkins somewhere? God forbid, a medical emergency . . . Nightingale stopped to listen. Was that the quiet murmuring of the old man’s breathing machine?

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