Necro Files: Two Decades Of Extreme Horror Part 6

"Abed" has had a rather controversial life. Following the initial publication in Still Dead, it was rejected for a later zombie anthology (as a reprint) because the publisher (not the editor) thought it was too graphic. Twice, independent movie makers had to shelve it because others who were to be involved with the production got cold feet and said they just couldn't go that far. Now, however, it looks like it may be made into a short film ... fingers crossed. (My preference is that most of what goes on in the story will happen "off stage"; you'll know what I mean once you've read it.) Personally, I see it as a sad story of isolation, despair, and resignation ... but it's all wrapped up in a pretty graphic package. :) In a recent interview, John Skipp said, "Elizabeth Ma.s.sie's 'Abed' is probably still the hardest-punching zombie short story I've ever read."

Meggie's a-line dress is yellow, bright like a new dandelion in the side yard and as soft as the throats of the tiny toads Meggie used to find in the woods that surround the farm. There aren't many stains on the dress, just some spots on the hem. Mama Randolph, Quint's mother and Meggie's mother-in-law, ironed the dress this morning, and then gave it to Meggie with a patient and expectant smile before locking the bedroom door once more. Meggie knows that Mama likes the dress because it isn't quite as much a reminder of the bad situation as are the other blotted and bloodied outfits in Meggie's footed wardrobe.

From the open window, a benign breeze pa.s.ses through the screen, stirring the curtains. But the breeze dies in the middle of the floor because there are no other windows in the room to allow it to leave. The summer heat, however, is quite at home in the room, and has settled for a long stay.

There has been no rain for the past fourteen days. Meggie has been marking the days off on the Shenandoah Dairy calendar she keeps under her bed. Mama has not talked about a grandchild in almost a month now; Meggie keeps the calendar marked for that, as well. Mama Randolph's smile and the freshly ironed dress lets Meggie know that the cycle has come 'round again.

Meggie moves from the bed to the window to the bed. There is a chair in the comer by the door, but the cushion smells bad and so she doesn't like to sit on it. The mattress on the bed smells worse than the chair, but there is a clean comer that she uses when she is tired. She paces about, feeling the soft swing of her hair about her shoulders as she rocks her head back and forth, remembering the feel of Quint's own warm hair in the sunlight of past Julys and the softness of the dark curls that made a sweet pillow of his chest.

At the window, Meggie glances out through the screen, down to the chain-linked yard below. The weeds there are wild and a tall and tangled like briars in the forest. The fence is covered with honeysuckle. There is the remainder of the sandbox Quint used as a child. It is nearly returned to the soil now, and black-eyed Susans have found themselves a home. Mama says it will be a fine thing when there is a child to enjoy the yard once again. She says when the child comes she and Meggie will clean up the yard and make it into a playground that any other child in Norton County will envy.

Mama had slapped Meggie when Meggie said she didn't know if there would ever be any more children in the county.

On the nightstand beside Meggie's bed is a chipped vase with a bouquet of Queen Anne's lace, sweet peas, red clover, and chicory. Mama said it was a gift from Quint, but Meggie knows Quint is long past picking gifts of wildflowers. Beside the vase is a picture of Meggie and Quint on their wedding day three years ago. Meggie wears a white floor length dress and clutches a single white carnation. Quint grins shyly at the camera, the new beard Meggie had loved just a dark shadow across his lower face. It would be four months before the beard was full enough to satisfy him, although it never satisfied his mother.

"You live in my house, you do as I say, you hear me?" she had told Quint. And although Meggie believed in the premise of that command, and managed to follow the rules, Quint always had a way of getting by with what he wanted by joking and cajoling his mother. And in the dark privacy of night, while cuddling with Meggie in bed, he would promise that it wouldn't be long before he had saved enough money to build them their own small house on the back acre Mama had given him by the river.

But that was back when Quint worked the farm for his mother and held an evening job at the Joy Food Mart and Gas Station out on Route 146. Back when they had a savings account in the Farmers' Bank in Henford and Meggie happily collected her mother-in-law's cast off dishes to use as her own when the house by the river was built.

And then came the change. Things in Norton County flipped a.s.s over teakettle. Old dead Mrs. Lowry had sat up in her coffin at the funeral home, grunting and snarling, her eyes washed white with the preserving chemicals but her mouth chattering for something hot and living to eat. Then Mr. Conrad, Quint's boss down at the Joy Food Mart and Gas Station, had keeled over while changing a tire and died on the spot of a heart attack. Before Quint could finish dialing the number of the Norton volunteer rescue squad, Conrad was up again and licking his newly dead lips, his hands racked with spasms but his teeth keen for a taste of Quint-neck. Quint hosed him down with unleaded and tossed in his Bic lighter and then cried when it was over because he couldn't believe what had happened.

They all believe now, alrighty.

The dead wander the gravel roads and eat what they may, and everyone in Norton County knows it is no joke because they've all seen one or two of the dead, at least. The newspapers say it's a problem all over now; the big cities like Richmond and D.C. and Chicago got dead coming out of their ears. There is a constant battle in the cities because there are so many. In Norton County it is a problem, and a couple people have been eaten, but mostly the walking dead get burned with gasoline or get avoided by the careful.

A thud in the downstairs hallway causes Meggie to jump and clasp her hands to the bodice of her yellow dress. The permanent chicken bone of fear that resides in her chest makes a painful turn. She presses her fists deep into the pain. She waits. Sweat beads on her arms and between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Mama Randolph does not come yet.

Meggie turns away from the wedding portrait on the nightstand and tries to remember the songs she sang in church before the church closed down. But all she can remember are some psalms. She walks to the clean spot on the bed and sits. She looks at the window, at the footed wardrobe, at the stained chair near the locked door. Above the chair is a Jesus picture. If there was some way to know what Jesus thought of the change, Meggie thinks she could bear it. If Meggie truly believed that Jesus had a handle on the walking dead, and that it was just a matter of time before He put a stop to it all, then Meggie would live out her confinement with more faith. But the picture shows a happy, smiling Jesus, holding a little white lamb with other white lambs gathered at His feet. He does not look like He has any comprehension of the horror that walks the world today. If He did, shouldn't He be crashing from the sky in a wailing river of fire to throw the dead back into their graves until the rapture?

Meggie slips from the bed and kneels before the picture, Jesus' smiling face moves her and His detachment haunts her. Her hands fold into a sweaty att.i.tude of prayer, and in a gritty voice, she repeats, "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want ..."

The crash in the hall just outside the door hurls Meggie to her feet. Her hands are still folded but she raises them like a club. The sound was that of a food tray being carelessly plopped onto the bare hall floor, and of dishes rattling with the impact. Mama Randolph brings Meggie her breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day, but today Mama is early.

Meggie looks at the screened window and wishes she could throw herself to the ground below without risking everlasting d.a.m.nation from suicide. There is no clock in the room, but Meggie knows Mama is early. The sun on the floor is not yet straddling the stain on the carpet, and so it is still a ways from noon. But Meggie knows that Mama has something on her mind today besides food. Mama's excitement has interrupted the schedule. Mama has been marking a calendar as well. Today, Mama is thinking about grandchildren.

Meggie holds the club of fingers before her. It will do no good, she knows. She could not strike Mama Randolph. Maybe Jesus will think it is a prayer and come to help her.

The door opens, and Mama Randolph comes in with a swish of old ap.r.o.n and a flourish of cloth napkin. The tray and its contents are visible behind her in the hall, but the meal is the last of Mama's concerns. When business is tended, the meal will be remembered.

"Meggie," says Mama. "What a pretty sight you are there in your dress. Makes me think of a little yellow kitten." The cloth napkin is dropped onto the back of the stinking chair, and Mama straightens to take appraisal of her daughter-in-law. There is something in Mama's ap.r.o.n pocket that clinks faintly.

"Well, you gonna stand there or do you have a 'good morning'?"

Meggie looks toward the window. Two stories is not enough to die. And if she died, she would only become one of the walking dead. She looks back at Mama.

"Good morning," she whispers.

"And to you," Mama says cheerily. "Can you believe the heat? I pity the farmers this year. Corn is just cooking on the stalks. You look to the right out that window and just over the trees and you can see a bit of John Johnson's crop. Pitiful thing, all burned and brown." Mama tips her head and smiles. The ap.r.o.n clinks.

Neither says anything for a minute. Mama's eyes sparkle in the heavy, hot air. The dead folks' eyes sparkle when they walk about, but Meggie knows Mama is not dead. The older woman is very much alive, with all manner of plans for her family.

Then Mama says, "Sit down."

Meggie sits on the clean spot on the mattress.

Mama touches her dry lips. She says, "You know a home ain't a home without the singing of little children."

Oh, dear Jesus, thinks Meggie.

"When Quint was born, I was complete. I was a woman then. I was whole; I'd done what I was made to do. A woman with no children can't understand that till she's been through it herself."

Meggie feels a large drop of sweat fall and lodge above her navel. She looks at the floor and remembers what Quint's shoes looked like there, beside hers in the night after they'd climbed beneath the covers. Precious shoes, farmer's shoes, with the sides worn down and the dark coating of earth on the toes. Shoes that bore the weight of hard work and love. Shoes Quint swore he would throw away when he'd earned enough money to build the new house. Shoes that Meggie was going to keep in her cedar chest as a memory of the early days.

Quint doesn't wear shoes anymore.

"You know in my concern for you and Quint, I would do anything to make you happy." Mama nods slowly. "And if I've got it figured right, you're in your time again. I know it ain't worked the last couple months, but it took me near'n to a year and a half before I was with Quint."

Mama steps over to Meggie. She leans in close. Her breath smells of ginger and soured milk. "A baby is what'll help make some of the bad things right again, Meggie. It's a different world now. And we's got to cope. But a baby will bring Joy back."

"A baby," echoes Meggie. "Mama, please, I can't ..."

"Hush, now," barks Mama. The smile disappears as quickly as the picture from a turned-off television set. She is all business now. Family making is a serious matter. "Get abed."

The word stings Meggie's gut.

"Abed!" commands Mama Randolph, and slowly, obediently, Meggie slides along the mattress until her head is even with the pillow.

Mama purses her mouth in approval. "Now let's check and see if our timing is right." Meggie closes her eyes and one hand moves to the spotted hem of the yellow dress. In her chest, the bone of pain swells, hard and suffocating. She cannot swallow around it. Her breath hitches. She pulls the hem up. She is naked beneath. Mama Randolph has not allowed undergarments.

"Roll over." Meggie rolls over. She hears the clinking as Mama reaches into her pocket. Meggie gropes for the edge of the pillow and holds to it like a drowning child to a life preserver. Her face presses into the stinking pillowcase.

The thermometer goes in deeply. Mama makes a tsking sound and moves it about until it is wedged to her satisfaction. Meggie's bowels contract; her gut lurches with disgust. She does not move.

"Just a minute here and we'll know what we need to know," crows Mama. "Do you know that I thought Quint was going to be a girl and I bought all sorts of little pink things before he was born? Was cute, but I couldn't rightly put such a little man into them pale, frilly clothes. I always thought a little girl would be a nice addition. Wouldn't a little girl just be the icing on the cake?"

Jesus help me, prays Meggie.

"Here, now," says Mama. The thermometer comes out and Meggie draws her legs up beneath the hem of the dress. She does not want to hear the reading.

"Bless me, looks like we done hit it on the head!" Mama is almost laughing. "Up nearly a whole degree. Time is right. My little calendar book keeps me thinking straight, now don't it? I'll go get Quint."

Mama goes out into the hall. Meggie watches her go. Then she falls from the bed and crawls on her knees to the Jesus picture. "Oh dear blessed Lord you are my shepherd, I shall not want I shall not want." Jesus watches the lambs and does not see Meggie.

Meggie runs to the window and looks out at the flowers and the dead sandbox and the burned cornfield over the top of the joy woods. It was those woods that killed Quint. One second of carelessness that crushed Quint's skull beneath John Johnson's felled tree. Quint had gone to help the neighbor clear a little more land for crops. John and Quint had been best buddies since school, and they were always trading favors. But when Quint went down under the tree trunk, brains and blood spraying, and he died, and when he rose up again, he was through trading favors. He wanted a lot more of John than he'd ever wanted before. And he got it. There wasn't enough of John left to rise with the other dead folks, just some chunks of spine and some chewed up feet.

Mama Randolph found Quint after this meal. He showed no immediate urge to eat her as well, so she brought him home and found he was just as happy eating raw goats and the squealing pigs he had tended as a live man.

Mama is in the doorway again. Behind her is Quint. He is dressed in only a pair of trousers that are gathered to his bony waist with a brown, tooth-marked leather belt.

"Abed!" says Mama. "Let's have this done."

Meggie goes back to the bed. She lies down. She knows what Mama will do next. It is the worst to come.

Quint is directed to stand in front of the old chair. Meggie cannot see Jesus anymore but that is a good thing. What is to happen is not for anyone's eyes, especially the Savior's. Meggie looks at her husband. His hair is gone as is the flesh of his mouth and the bulk of his nose. There is a tongue, but it is slimy and gray like an old rotted trout. The left side of his head is flattened, with the exposed brain now blackened and shimmering, reminding Meggie of a mushroom she tried to save once in a sandwich bag. The eye on the left is missing, but the right eye is wide and wet. The skin of Quint's abdomen is swollen and it ripples like maggots have gotten inside. One hand has no fingers, but the other has three, and they grope awkwardly for the zipper of his trousers. Quint somehow knows why he has been brought upstairs.

Mama Randolph moves beside Meggie and motions for her to hoist up her dress. Meggie flinches, hesitating, and Mama slaps her. Meggie does not hesitate again.

Mama then rolls up her sleeves. She says, "Quint needs the extra stimulation to do what he has to do. Watching helps him. You know that. So be still and let me do my job."

With the perfunctory movements of someone changing a fouled diaper, Mama coaxes the younger woman's legs open, and parts the private folds so Quint can have a better view. Then she begins to rub Meggie's c.l.i.toris slowly, while stroking the sensitive skin of Meggie's inner thighs with the other hand. Meggie will not watch. She digs her fingernails into her sides until the pain sings with the rush of blood to her genitals.

"Quint, do you remember? Do you see Meggie? Her pretty dress?" says Mama. "Look Quint, now isn't this lovely?" She leans her face into Meggie's crotch and licks the whole length of slit. The breath from her nose is warm; the wetness of her saliva is cool. Meggie groans. Shame boils her mind and soul. Pleasure teases her body.

Mama, Quint, Jesus, no! I shall not want I shall not want!

Quint grunts. Meggie bucks her head and shoulders and glances at him. He has opened his fly and has found his p.e.n.i.s. It is yellowed and decaying, like a bloated fish on a riverbank. As he pulls, it rises slightly. The pre-c.u.m is purpled.

Mama sucks gently and then with a fury, Meggie's body arcs reflexively. Bile rushes a burning path up her throat and dribbles from the corners of her mouth. When Mama's lips move away for a second, Meggie crashes back to the mattress. The acid rockets upward once more and Meggie gags. Mama brings her tongue to Meggie's spot again, and then thrusts her thumb into the opening. Meggie feels the walls of her v.a.g.i.n.a gush, betraying her in her ultimate moment of revulsion and horror.

I shall not oh dear G.o.d Jesus I shall not!

"Good girl," Mama says matter-of-factly.

Meggie writhes on the bed, enraged tears spilling from her eyes and soaking the mattress. Mama stands up.

Quint has a line of moisture on what is left of his upper lip. One side of his mouth twitches as if it would try to grin.

Mama gestures to her son. "Come now, Quint, Meggie can't wait for you." Quint stares, grunts, then stumbles forward. As he pa.s.ses his mother, she says, "I'd really love a granddaughter."

Meggie turns her face away. She closes her eyes and tries to remember last summer. Days of light and shadows and swimming and play, days of work and trials and promises of forever. But all she can do is smell the creature climbing onto her. All she can do is feel the slopping of the trout-tongue on her cheek and taste the running, blackened brain matter as it drips to the edge of her lips. He burrows clumsily; his body wriggles as his knees work between her knees, and his sore-covered p.e.n.i.s reaches like a dazed, half-dead snake for her center.

Meggie bites her tongue until it bleeds to keep from feeling the cold explosion of s.e.m.e.n. And as if in some insane answer to it all, her v.a.g.i.n.al walls contract suddenly in a horrific, humiliating o.r.g.a.s.m.

It is all over quickly. Mama pulls Quint off, then gives Meggie a kiss on the forehead and tells her to stay abed for at least an hour to give the seed time to find the soil.

Alone, with the door locked and the lunch tray balanced on the smelly chair seat, Meggie lies still, her dress still hunched up. She holds her left hand in her right, pretending the right one is that of a living, breathing Quint. She puts the hand to her face and feels the tender stroking. And then she lowers the hand to her abdomen, and presses firmly. There will be a new human in there soon, if Mama has her way. There could be one already. This could be Mama's magic moment. Meggie wishes she could know. It is not knowing if or when that brings her mind to the edge of twisting inside out.

She looks at the window. There is no breeze now, only the persistent heat. The edge of sunlight stands on the carpet stain.

"S'different," Mama Randolph had said. "Different world now. Just adjustin' to cold water is all. Might not wanta do it, but sometimes just can't be helped. Gotta survive, after all."

Meggie holds herself and closes her eyes. She wonders about the different world. She wonders if there will be a baby to grow and use the playground outside her room. And she wonders if the baby, when it comes, will be cuddly and bouncy and take after his mother.

Or if it will be stillborn, and take after its father.

I am He that Liveth and was Dead ... & Have the Keys of h.e.l.l & Death.

Randy Chandler and t. Winter-Damon.

"I am He that Liveth and was Dead ... & Have the Keys of h.e.l.l & Death" was first published in Grue magazine No. 14, summer 1992. The story is an excerpt from their novel Duet for the Devil, published by Necro Publications in 2000.

Randy Chandler is the author of Bad Juju, h.e.l.lz Bellz, Dead Juju, and various short stories. He is also the author of Daemon of the Dark Wood and Dime Detective, both coming soon from Comet Press. He lives in Georgia.

t. Winter-Damon was a writer and ill.u.s.trator from Tucson, Arizona whose works of fiction, non-fiction, and poetry appeared in hundreds of magazines and anthologies. Tim pa.s.sed away in 2009.

Tim Winter-Damon would be pleased that this piece of Duet for the Devil is included in this book. I have the feeling that he is looking on from the Vast Beyond with a wicked grin on his mug.

Before he became something more than human, he liked to hang out in punk joints & coffee houses like Nouveau Expresso & 90 Night-funky little clubs where young radicals & Post Beat post-hip poets & punk musicians gather for mutual ego ma.s.sage or to have their philosophies styled in the latest fashion. In that previous life, Slice was an angry young poet known as "The Bard of Bones," because he always wore his hand-tooled leather-&-bones outfit when he read his mad poetry in public. T-bones, chicken bones, porkchop bones, dog bones, cat bones (painted black), squirrel skulls, a human femur, all rattling musically as he moved about like a demented witch doctor, mouthing his bone-chilling poems & death hymns. His outfit was topped off with a spooky hoodoo headdress made of a cow's skull & hung with chicken feet & bird feathers. He strutted his killer stuff & the tight little p.u.s.s.ies in the audience (those with the kinkier libidos that flamed darkly to the spark of his h.e.l.lcoals-&-gris-gris laden rap) would get wet & squirmy, aching for that big bone bulging beneath his loincloth. The Bard of Bones got a lot of p.u.s.s.y in those days.

Then came his Bloodbone Poems & his subsequent arrest on obscenity obsession with sordid s.e.x, urban bloodbath & megaviolence. Neither did they appreciate his state-of-the-art collection of S&M, fetishist & bondage zines. Their bootheels & balled-fists-in-the-gut made that rather clear ...

He was convicted, placed on probation & ordered to undergo psychiatric counseling. He enjoyed the cat-&-mouse mindgames he played with the shrink, entertaining private fantasies of extremely creative carnage. The drawback was that he lost interest in writing poetry. But he convinced Dr. Howard (who looked too much like Moe of the Three Stooges) that he had no desire to perform in public again. The baggy-eyed quack never scratched the surface of his mind's core-that dark chamber of id-horrors inhabited by a psyche blown wild by storms of evil. The stupid shrink never even caught a glimpse of the bloodl.u.s.t boiling behind those hooded eyes. His Freudian flimflam was a total flop. The Bard of Bones became "Slice" right under Herr Doktor's big nose, & now he is someone else-something else. Something more than human. A nocturnal predator attuned to the poetry of the blooded flesh. He sees the universe in bones laid bare by his blade. Slice became the hunter of the blue nocturne.

He blows into 90 Night like a storm-building thunderhead.

"Bones! Is that you, man?" squeaks a rat-faced f.a.ggot.

Slice shakes his head.

Negative, a.s.shole.

He picks up the sultry scent of choice prey.

His bootknife shifts against his ankle.

A pretty drag queen is sitting on a stool, reading into the mike a long poem about the gay plague.