Nightmare of the Dead: Rise of the Zombies (2 page)

Flies rapidly dropped out of the air; the tiny insects writhed on the floor with spasmodic wings until they finally died. The sunlight filtering in through the windows was afflicted with a sickly green glow.

The other passenger stood, his figure darkened by the swirling mist. He doubled-over and weakly slipped against the seats. A pair of eyeglasses slipped from his face as a coughing fit forced his hands around his throat. He clawed blindly at the protruding veins until he spat thick gobs of blood against the floor.

Carter glanced over his shoulder. "Supply car behind us. We should…"

"What?" she hissed. "Jump off? Hide? Go ahead and jump off a moving train. I'd like to watch an idiot like you break his damn neck."

The passenger ripped at the flesh along his throat until gashes opened and fresh blood leaked out of the wounds. As the mist curled around the seats, the woman could taste the man's death upon her
lips.
His
struggle stained the air with a warm, metallic taint. She realized that it wasn't the first time she'd tasted blood.

She licked her lips as the mist enveloped her.

Taking a deep breath, she waited as Carter's entire body began to shake. A wet, dark stain appeared around the crotch of his pants.

The passenger suddenly leaped to his feet as if he were nothing more than a puppet controlled by a master with violent tendencies. He threw his head back and roared as the exposed skin on his hands melted away in a mess of gore that plopped onto the carpet and sizzled as if it'd been cooked over an open flame. The loose skin beneath his eyes liquefied and bled over his
freshly pressed
black suit. Clumps of hair joined scalp that bled from his face. The upright passenger stumbled forward and reached out with blood-red hands while skin and blood continued to rain upon the floor. Chunks of skin and hair slid out of pant legs, and a mouthful of teeth opened over a rolling
tongue,
which seemed to search the edges of its mouth for the lips that had disintegrated.

"We're fine," she placed her hands on Carter's shoulders. "The mist isn't doing anything to us. Get your act together."

The rebel youth seemed to wither in her grasp. The passenger continued to walk down the aisle toward them, while beyond, in the hospital car, the frenzied scratching continued.

"Stop where you are!" she ordered, though she knew her words would have little effect. What was it? No man could continue to walk while his skin burned away, revealing wet,
and bloody
muscle tissue. His clothes sagged as the rest of his body collected into the folds of fabric, and the weight of human waste
caused him to
stagger
.
.

She held the gun near her hip and cocked the hammer. Carter continued to shake, but both of them were unharmed by the mist. Why wasn't she afraid? Her shirt clung to her body, but besides the heat, she was unscathed. Carter was paralyzed by the bleeding terror that approached them without pause.

Could she kill a man?

Wasn't he already dead?

"Your last warning," she announced.

When the creature continued to lumber forward, she said, "Well, so much for being nice."

She fired two shots into its chest. The creature jerked, and then opened its mouth again to reveal the probing, flicking tongue as a waterfall of blood cascaded over the edge of its jaw
.

Her aim had been true. Why was it still standing?

She fired once more into its stomach. The creature paused and looked down at the smoking hole. Her ears rang from the close-quarters gunfire.

It stretched out an open
hand.
Its
fingers were inches away from her face.

Carter screamed and barreled into the shambling horror. The creature nearly lost its balance as the rebel delivered a hard right hook to its face. One gore-stained hand curled thin, skeletal fingers around Carter's throat. With inhuman strength, it lifted him from the floor. Its free hand maliciously dug into his face and tore at those youthful cheekbones. As Carter cried out, the creature arched its fingers and poked its fingernails directly into his eyes. The pressure it applied to his eyes created pools of blood. Carter's shrieks sounded like those of a tearful boy who'd skinned his knee and needed his mother.

The woman fired her fourth round into the back of Carter's head; his agony subsequently ended with his life. "Don't think I do favors very often," she mumbled to herself and raised her gun again.

The creature turned its head; her shot grazed the side of its face.
Its grip released
Carter and
it
crumpled to the floor in a lifeless pile of Confederate clothing.
Gun smoke
collided with the mist and obscured the awful, malignant creature.

One more round.

"You're quite the handsome fella," she backed up against the supply car's door. "Come a little closer so I can get a better look at you."

She had to be close for her final shot. She'd missed once, and the waves of confidence that seemed to accompany a seemingly automatic, natural skill were dispelled. For only a moment, she'd felt invincible. Maybe she really was the outlaw that Carter mentioned. She wasn't afraid, yet, she was convinced the monstrosity before her could be killed.

However,
none of this was real, was it? When did people wake up and find themselves on a train without any connection to reality? Who could live without memory—without identity—and find themselves face-to-face with a nightmarish being that twitched and convulsed as it stepped over a dead man's body? As soon as that thing held her within its foul arms, she would awaken. She would know her name, and the strange calm that cloaked her senses and shielded her from the all-encompassing fear would no longer be hers. She would awaken and find herself a normal woman with a normal life. The creature would have been nothing more than a subconscious metaphor for her human experience.
Perhaps,
her husband was some kind of tenacious alcoholic, or
perhaps,
he'd gone off to fight the Yankees or the rebels in the cataclysmic war that engulfed the country.

Maybe
her husband was dead, and the creature was the war itself
,
a terrible threat to the entire
world,
as she understood it.

The gun's grip was slick with sweat from her palm. The mist swirled around the bloody fiend—its black maw opened and its bulging eyes rested hungrily upon her. She took a deep breath. It reached for her. She took another deep breath. Her chest heaved. She had to remember the gun. She had to remember to shoot.

Blood oozed from between its teeth while it heaved; syrupy gore splashed over her face and neck. She was blinded, but there was no time to wipe the blood from her eyes and recover herself; she opened one
eye, shoved the gun into its mouth,
and pulled the trigger. The top of its skull expanded as shards of bone disconnected from the top of the hellish creature's head. It immediately crumpled and lay at her feet. The barrel of her smoking gun was slick with blood. Immediately, she spat several times to get the taste of blood out of her mouth.

It was dead. Finally.
She took
another deep breath.

Her hands moved of their own volition; she ejected the empty cylinder and deftly removed a fresh one from her belt while returning the empty.
Salty sweat burned
her eyes and trickled over her nose.

The train screeched along the tracks and the gunslinger lost her balance and fell forward into one of the seats. She held on as horrified metal protested the train's sudden desire to stop with a loud, ear-shattering scream. Something must have happened to the conductor. She could only guess what it was.

Her suspicion was confirmed as the door to the hospital car blasted open. Fleshless, bleeding, gore-soaked men with bright, white eyes clamored over one another through the cloud of sickly green mist. Mounds of melted flesh had collected along the floor as the blue-jacketed creatures toppled out of the car and piled atop each other.

She could feel her stomach betray
her.
It
growled and churned as burning bile collected in the back of her throat. Pitching forward, she heaved and expelled whatever food she'd eaten before succumbing to the nightmare realm. How vivid
was
such a nightmare—how powerful
was
her imagination to conjure such dreadful, impossible creatures
?
Would her surrender into their lustful hands finally exile her from this sanity-crushing netherworld? She could feel every sensation; she could taste the sour chunks of food that were lodged between her teeth. Strands of hair stuck to her forehead, and she struggled for her balance as the tracks beneath the train complained with a long groan. She spat and steadied herself against a seat with the gun gripped tightly between her cold fingers.

Surrender? No. It wasn't an option. If reality had spiraled into an unnamable hell, then she would resist the demonic creatures with every last ounce of strength. Dream or reality, it made no difference. Though she was unsure about her identity, she was certain that no fiber of her being was willing to give up.

Among that twisted menagerie of greedy hands
,
were
a finite number of creatures. She counted them
;
five. The Remington in her fist was
fully loaded
.

The train groaned and crawled to a final stop. The former Union soldiers scrambled over one another to reach the woman who held a gun at her hip. They were in various states of disrepair; some of them already had their arms or legs severed. Those victims of the horrific war's battle-machinery had been homeward bound, their sacrifice earning them a reprieve from the conflict that tore the country in two.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and cocked the hammer back.

May 19th, 1863: Mother's Always Right

The scientist hummed softly to himself the words of the Confederate "Battle Cry of Freedom
,”
tripping between his metal teeth while he pushed the wheelchair ahead of him between the hospital tents. The wheelchair was his own design; not only was it easy to maneuver over different types of terrain, but it efficiently supported his mother's weight, whose large body seemed to pour out of the chair between the armrests and the wheels.

"Our flag is proudly floating

On the land and on the main,

Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom!

Beneath it oft we've conquered,

And we'll conquer oft again!

Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom!"

A light breeze
floated
through the field hospital as Confederate nurses and surgeons moved quickly between the tents. Nearby, birds fluttered between trees while the banks of the Big Black R
iver were awash in the blood of dead and dying men. Powerful screams that were capable of shattering man's faith in divine deities
,
seemed to contest with one another in a war of voluminous pain. Nurses and doctors cast their eyes downward, as if searching within the bloodstained grass for some emblem that would guide them through the field of human torment
in which
they
had
found themselves.

The scientist adjusted the bifocals over the bridge of his nose and smiled to himself; he couldn't help but feel affection and adoration for his mother. It was a beautiful day, after all. The sky above was a bright, blank blue. The springtime air was light and cool and the distant sound of cannon fire was hardly enough to mar the heavenly peace that dominated the horizon beyond the encampment.

"Mother," the scientist sang her name. "Has the smell of distant cannon fire struck your nostrils? Can you hear the wounded beg for release while they wait for death? Ah, yes, you will be very proud of me soon, Mother. You shall see. Yes! You shall see!"

A single line of drool connected her bottom lip to her soiled shirt. Locks of greasy, matted black hair curled around her ears and her head seemed to waver in the midst of the breeze
,
as if her skull was a tree branch from which hung the blank expression of an invalid.

He tousled her mess of hair and continued to hum the battle hymn while passing by another sullen surgeon.

"You're quite beautiful today, Mother." He was a good son, and very soon, he would produce the cure for the affliction that left her nearly incapacitated. There were people who used to tell him that she should be put out of her misery. They believed she was nothing more than an unfeeling automaton, but he knew better.

Mother spoke to him in a voice only he could hear.
Saul, your plan is foolish. It would have been better to kill her. She will never respect you, and the new strain of
Transmo
rtification
could still fail. She will tear you to pieces.