The Devil's Dead and More Tales



  The Devil’s Dead

  and More Tales

  Marius Renos Dicomites

  Copyright 2013 Marius Renos Dicomites

  Cover by Fantasia Frog Designs

  Table of contents

  The Devil’s Dead

  After the Apocalypse

  The Undead

  Home

  The Dangerous Hours

  The Devil’s Dead

  What was the point of running?

  “He’s catching up.”

  “Don’t stop – for God’s sake. Come on.”

  For the good part of an hour, he had been pitilessly urging them on, shouting impatiently at them whenever they slowed down. But he was the first one to recoil and pause temporarily as they turned a corner - reluctant witnesses to another death; on the opposite side of the road, a neighbour, Owen Brayson, being effortlessly lifted up against a store window by one of their indomitable attackers – a panic-stricken cry for help snuffed out as a bloated hand crushed his face inwards. Impulsively, Nathan raised a hand to shield Carol from the appalling sight. But it was too late. Shaking her head, pressing their baby against her chest, she clutched his arm, urged him to keep moving. His friend, Greg, his face set into a grimace, deliberately directed his sight ahead of him and led them on. They were fighting for their lives. The other villagers had to fend for themselves.

  From different directions, the screams of the dying resonated through the night air – more cries for help that would go unheeded. Everyone in the village was being hunted down. But what had they done to deserve this? Who wanted their deaths?

  They had run through a church littered with dead bodies, but even now he couldn’t accept what was happening in the village he had grown up in. Not more than an hour ago he had been with Carol in the living-room, listening to the radio, getting ready for bed. Hearing a commotion in the street – a fight, they thought - he had been about to investigate, when Greg rushed into the room from the kitchen. On his way home from theirs, he realized what was happening and had come back to warn them. They didn’t believe him at first, until he made them look out of the window – and they witnessed their first killing; right outside the house, someone who wasn’t quite human slitting a man’s throat with a serrated knife.

  They had been minutes away from being slaughtered themselves. Escaping through the kitchen into the garden, they listened to an uninvited visitor pounding his fists on the front door – and, far too soon, as they climbed over the neighbour’s fence into the garden, breaking into the house and hurtling through the rooms in their direction. At the time they thought they had escaped, but they soon realized the whole village was under attack, and the intruder who had broken into their home didn’t have to stop at the house.

  He was still following them.

  “He’s gaining on us,” Carol cried.

  “We can’t keep running,” Greg insisted. With a tremor, he pulled himself back and turned to confront their pursuer, his hand shaking violently as he aimed his gun at the heavily-built figure. “Get out of here.” The words were said through clenched teeth. “I’ll slow the bastard down.”

  But Nathan couldn’t run; he knew what he had to do if Greg failed. They all stopped in the middle of the road. "Nathan, come on," Carol cried urgently, pulling at his arm.

  "Don't wait," Nathan shouted at Greg. "Now!"

  He watched as his friend fired the gun repeatedly. Each bullet penetrated the man's chest; they could see the holes through the suit he was wearing. He should have been killed. Instead, he staggered backwards with the force of each shot, and, when the last one was fired, lurched toward them again, twisting the knife in his hand in readiness.

  "Carol, get out of here," he ordered. He couldn’t look at her. He was afraid he would change his mind, and he wanted to change his mind. But he had to stay and give Carol a chance to get away with their baby.

  "Not without you," she pleaded.

  They were running out of time. "The baby," he screamed at her, his chest pounding. "You've got to save Alicia. Get away. Please, get away."

  With a sob, she reached out and brushed the side of his face with her hand. And then she was gone. Greg threw the gun to the ground with frustration. They stood together. Despite everything he had seen, part of him still hoped they could overpower the man.

  But there was the face.

  The man was near enough for Nathan to discern every detail. An irreversible contamination was progressively consuming and mutilating the features from the inside. Sunken eyes shifted sluggishly in their sockets. Dark blood trickled from every opening. Distended flesh drooped as if ready to slip free. Lacerations scarred the face; open wounds exposing glimpses of bone, threatening to split further as the man’s lips stretched into a grin smothered by blood from his gums and tongue.

  They had been standing there like lambs waiting for the slaughter, but it was better to attack first than wait – a decision simultaneously made in silence by both of them. Breathing heavily, shaking his head with disgust, Greg hurled himself shoulder-first at the man in an attempt to bring him down. As he staggered backwards, Nathan rushed forward and threw his white-knuckled fists across his head and face – the eyes with a desperate hope that it was his weakest point. He failed to notice the knife being swung across the air – an involuntary cry tore from his throat as he felt the metal slice across his scalp. Recoiling, reeling as the blood spilled over him, it took a moment to recover from the shock, and even then a sickness in his limbs caused him to stumble forward.

  But a lot had happened in the short time it had taken him to recover. He was too late to stop the man from reaching out and seizing hold of Greg’s neck – lifting his flailing body into the air and plunging the knife through the under part of his chin and, with a second thrust, deeper up into his head.

  Nathan shuddered as his friend’s body went limp. A drawn-out moan escaped from his lips as the man turned his attention to him. His wound must have been deeper than he thought, because he could hardly stand – drained of strength, his legs were rubbery – he was ready to collapse. But he was resigned to this – even with the dread gnawing at his consciousness. The only thing that mattered was that Carol had been given time to escape. He had to believe she would make it; at this moment he needed to believe.

  Fighting for breath, he confronted the man, stared at the dead, squirming eyes. “Do it," he choked, and lowered his head as he found he couldn’t stare at the face anymore - and shut his eyes as the man’s shadow stretched over the ground and lunged towards him.

  "It's all about the view!"

  Kara suppressed a smile. Even out in the country, real estate agents sold properties as if their lives depended on it. She wondered how many more clichés Mr Prior would come out with before the "hard sale" was over. This was number three.

  But it was really was all about the view. The house was fine – there was hardly any work to do, but out in the garden, looking out across the fields beyond their fence – it couldn’t compare to the city; a landscape unmarred by towering, unsightly buildings, streets teeming with noisy traffic, and restless, urgent souls jostling and shoving past with no real purpose, absorbed in their own worlds and deliberately indifferent to all else.

  Adrian placed his arm around her shoulder. From the big grin on his face, she could see he was tempted by the idyllic promise of the place as well. "What do you think?"

  "It is beautiful," she admitted. "And the house has a lot of room - there's hardly any work to be done on it."

  "We could move straight in," he suggested, oblivious to Mr Prior’s watchful eyes.

  "But," she went on forcibly, giving him a quick, warning look,
"it's a new build. In fact, all the homes around here are new builds. I thought we wanted something with more character.”

  As if on cue, Mr Prior stepped forward, smiling. Plainly, it wasn’t the first time the observation had been made in his viewings, and he was well rehearsed. "There used to be another village here, but it fell into decline after the coalmines closed – would have been before the First World War. There were only hollowed ruins here six years ago – we couldn’t do much with them. We had to start from the beginning. I think it’s been a success. To think of all the wasted potential in this area – we’ve brought the village back to life.”

  “Who’s we?” she asked.

  “My partners. When we found out about West Blackstone we thought it was ideal for property redevelopment.”

  “You bought up the village?” Adrian said warily.

  "No, no," he laughed. “We’ll be gone after we’ve sold the remaining properties on our books. We did kick off the redevelopment in this area by buying up plots of land; other property developers, even some of the relatives of people who used to live here – those who wouldn’t sell to us – moved in to take advantage of the opportunities as well.”

  "How far is the nearest town?" Kara said, moving the subject on, turning now to the practicalities of living in the country. The smile returned to her lips as he stretched out his hands with an over-enthusiastic grin, ready to pull another rabbit out of the hat.

  "Only a ten minute drive," he announced. "Some stores in town also deliver. But we have some stores here as well, and I’m sure there’ll be more as the village grows.”

  "Well, what do you think?” Adrian said.

  "It's an opportunity that might not come up again," Mr Prior warned, still grinning.

  “I do like the place,” she conceded.

  Adrian kissed her cheek. "Do you need time to think about it?”

  The truth was she didn’t want Mr Prior to think his irritating sales talk had anything to do with their decision. Despite that, it was the perfect property in a perfect location. “No,” she answered. “Let’s buy it.”

  It was what he wanted to hear. He kissed her again, took her hand as he turned to Mr Prior, who was scarcely able to contain his excitement, his eyes roving over them both expectantly. “Mr Prior,” Adrian said, “we'll take it."

  There was someone there with her.

  Blinded in the pitch black, she could only hear their quick, rasping breaths, seizures of agony. Indefinable, persuasive, the realization drove her scrambling blindly on her hands and knees to get away, grazing her skin against rough, uneven ground, her body quaking with a constant, piercing chill.

  Her head struck an obstruction at her side – in time, she choked a cry in her throat as she grasped what it was - the cracked, rough-hewn surface of a rock wall. Fumbling in the dark, she wound herself round and pressed her back up against the wall, folded her arms across her stomach and shrank into herself, listened as the presence scrabbled in different directions.

  It was searching for her.

  Holding her back to the wall, she worked her way alongside it as the presence continued its search, frantically groping for the entrance she convinced herself had to be there. Instead, the wall curved, broke away from the ceiling and sloped down the further she went, widened and stretched across the ground – taking a step back, she caught her foot in a gap. Stumbling, she pulled herself up.

  But it was too late; she had given herself away.

  Breaths reduced to suffocated gasps, the thing clambered in her direction. Meeting the same obstructions, it clawed at the stone with frustration. Unable to retreat, she kept still, praying it wouldn’t find her. But then two veined, blood-red eyes emerged from the dark in front of her; and a long, emaciated hand with protruding bones and cracked skin clutched hold of her neck and pulled her down.

  She screamed.

  “Kara…?”

  She sat bolt upright in bed, and exhaled with relief.

  "Another bad dream?" Adrian said sleepily beside her.

  "Sorry, did I wake you?" she apologised.

  He placed his hand on her arm. "It's stress," he suggested. "There's a lot happening right now; you’re bound to be a little anxious. It'll be alright when we move into our new home."

  "Yes," she agreed, unconvinced, only agreeing to reassure him.

  "Give it time. Go back to sleep."

  "Yes," she repeated, and sat back against the headboard, and watched as he drifted off. The truth was she had tried to go back to sleep; the dream had simply continued where it left off. No, she didn’t want to return. She would wait until morning.

  They had spent so long fantasizing about and planning their move to the country that there were no obstacles, second thoughts or delays once the decision was made. There was nothing to stop them – how could there be when this was the realization of one of their life’s goals. They both threw their energy into ensuring the move went painlessly and quickly; and for the most part, despite minor traffic delays, sullen, foul-mouthed delivery men, and some broken crockery, they succeeded. The builders and decorators they hired completed the additional work they wanted on the house before the move. When they got to the house they only had to unpack their possessions and decide the best place for them; and here, after working together so effectively, was where there were a surprising number of disagreements and eventual compromises between them.

  Their only neighbours were an elderly couple who lived out of sight, further down the road, and didn’t seem to be particularly interested in them. The other homes were scattered throughout the village. The heart of the village - or the only place with any activity - was the square, which consisted of a general store, butchers, restaurant, café and pub. There was also Mr Prior’s office; his base of operations until he sold his last house. Every time she saw him he was busy showing more prospective buyers around; with his salesman grin fixed on his face and constant chatter, he still had time to wave to her

  In attempts to dissuade them from the move, their well-meaning friends had warned them about the perils of country life; living in a small population out in the middle of nowhere. Supposedly, because there was nothing better to do, everyone spent most of their idle time snooping on and gossiping about their fellow inhabitants. But no prying villagers turned up at their door. They did receive some interested glances when they were out and about, but nothing more. And there were things to do. If the activities in the village weren’t sufficient, the neighbouring town was only a twenty minute drive. But it wasn’t what either of them wanted. They had known what to expect when they made their move: a quiet life.

  Of course it would have been foolish to expect everybody to be a model, considerate citizen; every village or town place had to have its fair share of eccentrics, anti-socials or busybodies, and as neither she or Adrian had made any effort to socialise, it wasn’t until she ventured into the general store instead of going to town that she had her first experience of them.

  “You’re new.”

  It wasn’t a question; it was a statement delivered in a quiet, flat, monotone voice by the store owner; a thin woman with a smooth, expressionless face and lustreless eyes. On the opposite side of the counter, a man stood beside her with the same vacant look. They had the same build and height, and even wore the same thick-rimmed glasses – brother or sister, or individuals who had somehow discovered each other because of their likeness.

  Kara smiled at them. “Yes, only been here a month. My name’s – ”

  “You moved here by yourself?”

  The smile froze on her face. “Yes,” she answered evenly, “with my husband.”

  “Children?”

  “No, but we’re – ”

  “Do you work?”

  “I’m a graphic designer. I work from home. Sorry, I’m in a rush. Can I pay – ”

  “What about your husband?”

  “Journalist.” Her patience was wearing thin. Determined to finish the w
elcoming party’s interrogation, she pushed the items on the counter forward and took out her purse.

  “Why did you move?”

  “What - ”

  “Bloody hell, Vanessa, do you have to give all the new people the third degree?” a voice from behind her interrupted.

  Flustered, Vanessa began to put the items through the till. “Just taking an interest, Rachel,” she said defensively.

  Stifling a laugh, Kara turned to face Rachel, who was wrapped up in a thick, parka coat, overlong scarf she had wound around her neck twice, and a chunky knitted hat- she caught glimpses of auburn hair tucked inside. Her face was half-concealed by the warm clothing, but nothing could hide the glittering eyes and wide, infectious smile.

  Rachel winked discretely at her. “Well, let the poor woman settle in first,” she went on.

  “Well, really, I didn’t mean anything by it,” Vanessa said defensively, nudging her companion to put the goods into a bag as she took Kara’s money and worked out the change.

  “Of course you didn’t,” Rachel responded. She waited for Kara to take the change, and then grabbed her arm and led her away. “Well, we’re off for coffee. Bye.”

  Rachel and her boyfriend, Luke, had lived in West Blackstone for two and a half years. They were artists; Rachel was a painter, Luke a sculptor, and, though the rewards were intermittent, they made sufficient money from their work to get by. There were the basic utility bills to be paid, but living in the country was cheaper than the city. Both vegetarians, they managed to grow most of their food in a spacious garden, and made an additional living by selling their produce.

  Despite the overcast sky and the slight chill in the air, they decided to sit outside the café – the owners were gossip buddies with Vanessa and her husband (not her brother after all) and to be avoided. Apart from people passing by from time to time, there were builders working on a new shop on the opposite side of the road. The town was definitely the place to go to for any excitement, but neither of them had the inclination to make the journey. They were happy to stay where they were.