Holiday of the Dead (41 page)

I fought to gain composure, barely able to stand. Daddy’s feeding had punctured something other than Conlon’s abdomen, and the room was beginning to fill with the reek of vomit and shit. I gagged but swallowed hard. I hefted the axe and stepped up to the bed where ol’ DD was buried up to his shoulders in the cavity he’d opened in the doctor’s belly.

“Heads up, you asshole!”

Daddy Dearest pulled his head out of Conlon with a sucking slurping sound. The ice blue eyes peered out from a crimson mask, and he was suddenly interested again. But by this time the axe was slicing through the air, and my arms prepared for steel to make contact, which it did seconds later, shearing one of his arms off at the elbow. Even for me, this was a spectacular miss.

“Shit!”

The arm struck the head board where it writhed like a mottled pink and red snake. Daddy Dearest pumped his blood onto the doctor, but neither was in any state to be concerned by it. Seemingly invigorated by his recent feed, daddy came at me, forcing himself upright, his remaining arm reaching out, his bloodied mouth hanging open.

Again I swung the axe, this time making contact with his forehead, but I was off balance and it was a glancing blow, knocking his head fiercely to one side, and lifting a piece of his scalp so that it waved in the air before slapping back into place like some macabre pedal bin. I tried to create more space, moving away from the bed towards the doorway, but Conlon’s legs got the better of me. I went down hard, going so far over on my right ankle that I heard the tendons shear shortly before the bolt of hot fire shot through my calf.

I cried out and clutched at my fractured ankle, the pain now the centre of my universe. And in the melee the axe went spinning away from me, skittering under a bed that was now seeping with gore, dulled only by the cloud of bright spots speckling my vision. And through this, the shape of Daddy Dearest emerged to say “hi” in the only way he knew how.

Through the pain I raised a hand to fend him off. It was feeble and resulted only in his teeth ripping off two fingers and a thumb. The pain in my ankle, the knuckle splitting agony flaring in my right hand, were nothing to the knowledge that even if I got out, even if I could do what I did so well and run away from the clutches of Daddy Dearest, The Sickness would soon be coming to pay me a visit. And all I could think of was Lindsey, standing in the doorway watching her world come apart, and making sure that she would be okay, making sure that she didn’t have to do the do.

Daddy Dearest was on top of me, possibly far stronger in death than he ever was in life. But I fought. Even with the severed fingers and the shattered ankle I fought, driving him off, shoving him so hard he pin-wheeled backwards and into the dressing table where his head struck the vanity mirror turning the glass into a tangled web of cracks. Then I was at the door, where Lindsey was wan with despair.

“Oh God, John. What do we do?”

I knocked her sideways onto the landing and reached for the key jutting out of the door. I’d yanked it out before Lindsey could realise my intention.

“Time for me to take care of Daddy Dearest, Linz,” I said as she scrambled back to her feet. “Time for you to get the hell away from here.”

I shut the door on her screams and jammed the key into the lock, turned it and yanked it to one side so that it snapped in the tumbler.

Heavy pounding on the door now as Lindsey called my name over and over, and Daddy Dearest climbed to his feet; his stump weeping, echoing the tears coursing down my cheeks. He stumbled over to me and I reached into my pockets, the Zippo and the hip flask becoming wet with my blood.

“Well how about it, Daddy?” I said hoarsely. “How about you an’ me share a little Ol’ Jack?”

Of course, Daddy Dearest was way past such things. His poison was very different these days. I sparked the Zippo, its flame a testament to the searing heat in both my hand and ankle. Daddy loomed, the hip flask blessed us both, splashes of alcohol maybe not enough to endure under the touch of flame, but enough to help it take hold, enough to send us both to the places we were destined to be.

Never to return.

Daddy lunged and I sparked him up. His nylon PJ’s roaring into a blistering heat, the burning material hanging like fireflies in the air before landing on the alcohol splashed about my own clothes. Even as the flames licked at my skin, I felt different, I felt The Sickness going to town on me. I rolled about the floor, ensuring the fire took hold of the room, of the house. The world became a blinding place of fire heat and pain and I knew that of all the people in the house only one truly deserved to be free of it.

THE END

HOME FOR THE ZOMBI-DAYS

By

A.P. Fuchs

There was no other tree like it.

Roy Davies swore up and down it had been reserved just for him. Or, at least, a guy like him full of Christmas cheer, blood pumping with hot cocoa, images of his family and their smiles dancing in his head.

Ol’ Sammy Dean said he had something special for him when Roy called in to Sam’s Treetop Top Trees Christmas Lot early that morning. The plan was to get a jump on all the other tree-buyers by hitting the place early, even wait outside the fence a few minutes before the lot opened with anyone else who was crazy enough to get there at 7am, and forfeit a Saturday’s sleep-in.

Except Roy didn’t count on Old Man Winter sending a dilly of a blizzard, covering the town of Dellisburg with two feet of snow. The white stuff came down in sheets for most of the morning, but the sky had cleared by early afternoon.

Roy’s truck wouldn’t budge out of the driveway, so he spent an hour shovelling to clear it up. Sure, after that the truck moved, but only got to the bottom of the driveway before hitting a snow ridge that it couldn’t clear.

Roy had no choice but to wait.

The afternoon wore on. He sat on a fold-out chair in the landing of his house, looking out the window of his screen door, waiting on the town to send a few street cleaners through.

The first showed up around two.

Roy got in the truck and headed out to Sammy’s lot, hoping to snag a tree before anyone else did, wanting to get it home in time for when his wife and kids returned from visiting his mother-in-law in Alberta. He just hoped the storm had been localized and they’d still make it through on schedule, getting here just after midnight tonight.

It was slow-going getting to Sammy’s. Most of the time Roy was stuck behind a street cleaner, waiting for the big bulk of a machine to clear the road before he could even drive on it. It didn’t matter. The wait was worth it and he had plenty of time.

He checked the rear-view mirror. No one was behind him. Either no one else was coming out to claim a tree or they were taking an alternate route. According to his GPS, he was taking the fastest way.

Suckers,
Roy thought.
See you at the finish line.

Twenty-five minutes later, the street cleaner turned off at the yield. Roy continued in a straight line, the road still covered in snow but packed down. Looked like dozens of other cars had already been up this way, having come in from the south.

Only a few minutes in and the sky went gray. A few minutes more and the snow came down. Another minute and there was nothing but white in front of the windshield.

Roy had to pull over almost immediately the snow was so bad. He tried his cell to call ahead to Sammy’s and let him know he was coming. No signal.

So he waited, running the heater intermittently, hoping the snow would die down soon.

It didn’t. Roy got out of his truck and hit the road, toes frozen. So were his fingers. His nose, well, he lost feeling on that hundreds of meters back; same with the tips of his ears. He was never one to dress for the snow. Car heaters, he figured, had a job to do and he was more than glad to let them do it. Besides, he hated all those layers anyway. Now he regretted not listening to his wife’s naggings about dressing for the weather and even wearing an extra layer “just in case,” especially since his heater conked out on him as if it knew he was counting on it to stay warm in this stupid blizzard.

Sam’s Treetop Top Trees Christmas Lot had to be up there just ahead, somewhere behind the veil of white that made it near impossible to see more than five feet in front of him.

He just hoped he’d get there in time and get warm before he became a Roy-sicle forever.

* * *

They say that mirages only happen in deserts. Something about the heat draining all the moisture from your body, even drying up your brain so you start seeing things that aren’t there. No one ever said you started seeing things in the cold, namely a blizzard where there was only white, white and more white.

There was a shadow up ahead, looking something like a fuzzy rectangle with a spotted triangle made from mozzarella. There were other triangles as well, fluffy and somewhat transparent behind the snow.

Roy, forehead frozen, pressed on against the cold wind, hoping to God he’d make it to … to … He didn’t know where he was supposed to make it to.

Roy blinked – then couldn’t open his eyes, the bits of frost from the wind-caused tears freezing his lashes shut. He squeezed his eyes, hoping the skin-on-skin from doing so would be enough to melt the ice so he could see again. It helped, but only a little.

* * *

A sharp rod of pain spiked through Roy’s heels, drove right through his shinbones and slammed into his knees. His thighs ached just above the kneecaps as warmth blasted through his system.

The old voice again: “Hurts, I know, but you’ll thank me later. This here ain’t just hot water. If I did that I’d probably ensure you’d lose a toe or something. Maybe more. What you got here is what I called ‘The Blend’. At least, that’s the name I’m thinking of giving it. Never made it before, but have thought of it for years. Call me crazy, but warm water and some of the sap from my trees will make you just fine and dandy. Sap’s supposed to have magical properties, so says some legends I heard. I don’t buy it, but it sure is fun thinkin’ it.”

Roy groaned.

The old voice went on. “Maybe I should call it ‘Sam’s Warmer Upper Before Supper’?” He let off a whooping chuckle then followed it off with an old-timer’s cough. “Nah. ‘The Blend’ works just fine for me. Listen, you’re blue in the legs, my friend. This stuff’ll help. Sap’s supposed to be good for all sorts of things. You know, kind of like honey – syrup stuff – and killin’ colds is one of honey’s big things. So Mama used to say back in the day.”

“I don’t …” Roy started but the words slipped off his tongue and a moment later he forgot what he was trying to say.

“Anyway,” Ol’ Sam said, “I know you came for the trees. Saw you hobbling up the road. Saw you fall. ‘No good weather to be out in,’ I said. So I come and got you. Still blowin’ up a snow cone out there. We’re gonna have to just wait ’er out till she’s done. Then I’ll take you home. Know where you live?”

“Manersh sha blin errr …” Roy said.

“No matter. I’m sure you got a wallet on you somewhere.”

* * *

Roy’s world was black. The fresh scent of pine and burnt wood hit his nostrils. Despite wanting to open his eyes, he couldn’t. The smell from the pine and wood filled his nose, went down his throat and hit his lungs. He tried moving, but the best he could do was wiggle his toes. They were in something liquid, something warm and sticky.

A craggily voice hung over his head like a wet blanket, each sound it made just that: sound without meaning.

Head hurting, confusion setting in, the sound of his heartbeat began to fill his ears and pulse away, each
thump-thump thump-thump
getting louder as if it was pumping inside his head instead of in his chest.

Muscles aching, he tried to move again, but like before the most he could manage was wiggling his toes. The sticky liquid sloshed over his feet, its warmth sending goosebumps up and down his skin.