Best New Zombie Tales Trilogy (35 page)

“Okay, so you don’t believe in ghosts?”

Dr. Andrew Maitland stood at the window, looking at the moonlit grounds of Amicus House while his host, Roger Hilton, a businessman, sat in a comfortable leather armchair.

“Hmm.” Dr. Maitland turned his attention to one of the paintings that adorned the study walls and shuddered. Yet, “Remarkable,” was his verdict.

The painting was a nighttime scene of four figures in a cemetery. At a glance, it appeared they were grave robbers. Closer inspection revealed that the charnel defilers were something less than human; they were bestial, and disturbingly obscene. By the light of a gibbous moon the hideous creatures engaged in acts far fouler than the theft of a corpse.

“It’s a remarkable piece of work, and a remarkable likeness.”

Hilton grunted. “Damned grotesque, if you ask me. Do you think it’s worth anything?”

Hilton had recently inherited the house and its contents and this was his first visit to the property. Much of what he had become heir to, he had found not to his taste.

“Ghouls? When did you become an expert about the
Children of the Night?”
Hilton said, doing his best to mimic Bela Lugosi.

Despite his serious mood, Maitland had to laugh.

“Come on, Andrew. My impression wasn’t that bad, was it?”

“Roger, the
Children of the Night
are wolves.”

“Oh, you mean
Heaven and Hell.”

Apart from the ticking of the clock and the roar of the fire, the two men sat in silence. Hilton smoked, considering the question, whilst his friend gazed deep into the heart of the fire’s flames.

“No, I most certainly do not.” Hilton threw the remains of his cigarette into the fire. “Reincarnation, ghosts and ghoulies… all rubbish. I can’t believe we’re having this conversation, Andrew. Either we’ve had too much to drink or not enough.” The businessman reached for the decanter. “How about another?”

Hilton interrupted with a groan. “Oh, for goodness sake, Andrew, don’t tell me you’ve been dabbling with some sort of spiritualism.”

Hilton interrupted, “Come on Andrew; it’s nonsense. It must be. I mean, haven’t you noticed that everyone who claimed reincarnation was someone famous? How many were Cleopatra, or a Roman emperor? Without exception, all those previous lives were glamorous or important. They’ve been kings and queens, or at the very least a Red Indian princess.”

Maitland smiled again. “You’re exaggerating Roger. But as I said, I was skeptical myself. Then a colleague told me about a patient of his who claimed to have lived previous lives.”

“I don’t suppose this was a
mental
patient. Was it, old boy?”

Maitland sighed. “As a matter of fact, it was.”

“There you are, then.” Hilton grinned.

“I would have put it down to a delusion myself, but the patient was so convincing, and quite lucid… well most of the time. He was a scientist who specialized in recondite matters.” Maitland shrugged. “I was curious and looked into the matter a bit further.”

“Liao? I’ve never heard of it. And I’m surprised that you have. I never had you pegged for someone who’d be seduced by this new age counter-culture. You’ve not been seeing someone behind Barbara’s back, have you? Having an affair with some young hippie girl?”

“Well, I suppose the best analogy would be it’s a form of astral projection.” Maitland held up a hand to forestall the comment his friend was about to make. “Roger, the how is not the important thing. The important thing is, it works. And I’ve found that I lived many other lives.”

Hilton was about to say something about Indian princesses, but Maitland’s serious expression changed his mind. He decided it was best to humor his friend. “All right, suppose I said, prove it to me? Did you bring any of this Liao down here with you?”

Hilton frowned. “Okay, so how are you going to convince me?” He cut his question short; the rest of it––the words:
you haven’t gone mad
––remained unspoken.

“I’m going to tell you about an occurrence that happened when I was not Dr. Andrew Maitland, but George Prendergast, a soldier… ”

* * *

Before putting it back in his jacket pocket, Private George Prendergast kissed the picture of his sweetheart Sally-Ann, wondering if he would he ever see her again.

He took out his cigarette case and lit a woodbine, then returned the case to the same pocket as the photograph, over his heart. Prendergast had never smoked before the war. But had taken up the habit after hearing how Tommy Morsan had escaped death, when a bullet meant for his heart had struck the cigarette case he carried.

Around him, his fellow soldiers were going through similar rituals, checking weapons and equipment, saying prayers. The bombardment of enemy lines had been going on for some time; it would not be long before the signal would come and they would attack.

The signal eventually came; too soon for some, not soon enough for others, and over the top they went. Charging the enemy. Charging Death itself.

A charge across a patch of muddy, rutted ground. Shell holes filled with scummy water. A desolate wasteland where nothing grew except the number of corpses. A quagmire of death. Machine guns spitting bullets. A charge into tangles of barbed wire––except it couldn’t really be called a charge. The weight of the equipment the men carried combined with the treacherousness of the mud meant they moved little faster than a walking pace.

Into No Man’s Land, the zone of death. Soldiers scythed down by the hail of enemy bullets. Shells exploding, hurling men hither and thither. Prendergast was unsure whether the shells were theirs, or those of the enemy. It no longer mattered to the dead men.

“Please God, don’t let me die for nothing,” Prendergast prayed, convinced his death was a certainty.

Prendergast repeated the mantra as he progressed towards the enemy.

An orange cloud was drifting towards the advancing troops. “Gas!” Prendergast shouted, struggling to put on his gas mask. Before he had, the force of a nearby explosion threw him to the ground. He remained unmoving, and the battle raged on.

In the distance the guns rumbled and explosions flashed, lighting the grey sky. But that was far off, the battle had moved on.

Private Prendergast realized he was still alive. He wiped his face with his sleeve, but did not notice the blood. Instead he looked around, and was sick, adding the meager contents of his stomach to the detritus of human waste that surrounded him. Bodies and body parts lay everywhere.

He recognized the mangled remains of friends and comrades. There was Private Bobby Owens, or at least his upper half. The rest of the young soldier had been blown to kingdom come. At least the lad would not be complaining about trench-foot anymore.

Others were beyond recognition.

He heard a groan––someone else was alive.
Friend or foe?
he wondered. Unsteady on his feet, Prendergast rose.

Prendergast licked his parched lips. His
Enfield
rifle was near at hand; he wondered whether that was what the limb was aiming to reach. Prendergast crouched down and grabbed his weapon. He pounced, bayoneting the arm. The hand jerked, clawing spasmodically, then was still.

There was more groaning now. Prendergast pulled the blade free and backed away, almost falling over another body. The soldier moaned. Prendergast recognized a comrade: Dennis Trotter.

“Thank God you’re alive!”

Trotter groaned; his hand reached for Prendergast.

Prendergast bent over the wounded man, shrugging off his army pack. He would not be able to carry that and Trotter back to their own lines.

“Are you hurt badly?” he asked.

Trotter’s blood soaked jacket answered that question. Prendergast opened the jacket, reeled back, retching again. There was no way Trotter could still be alive with that gaping stomach wound.

Yet Trotter raised a hand and grasped Prendergast by the throat; he began to squeeze and pull the Private down towards him.

Shock kept Prendergast momentarily frozen; then realization that a dead friend was choking the life out of him spurred the Private into action. He struggled free, and smashed the butt of his rifle into Trotter’s face.

Around him, men of both sides, including Trotter, were rising slowly––men with terrible wounds, dead men. Private Prendergast began to back away.

They were closing in on him, staggering and shambling. Men that no longer breathed groaned and moaned. Some missing limbs, others with gaping wounds were spilling entrails. Staring with sightless eyes, ruined faces, one corpse entirely headless.

Prendergast watched dazed and amazed. “This can’t be happening,” he muttered. Hands reached out for him, but not all of them.

A Hun with his guts hanging out, grabbed, and pulled free, some of his intestines, intent on using them as a garrote.

Prendergast fired. His bullet hit the living corpse in the eye. Prendergast was amazed for two reasons. Normally he would not have achieved such accuracy even if he had aimed for the eye. Secondly, the shot had little effect––the walking dead man staggered at the impact, paused a moment, then continued its shambling advance.

“I’ll be damned if I let a bunch of dead men kill me!” he shouted, stabbing and slashing his bayonet wildly.

Though bullets had little effect, his blade proved more effective.