Holiday of the Dead (64 page)

‘And?’

‘And, well this guy just stepped towards it and held up both of his hands in the air as if he was going to press the damn thing back. He was making some sort of mewling sound. Damn weird it was. I just stood there, didn’t know what to do. I just expected to see him get his arms torn off and his stupid head kicked into touch.’

‘And did he?’ Doug asked, really interested now.

I shook my head. ‘Nope. The strangest thing happened. The zombie just pulled up short. Stopped. Looked at the guy, tilted its head to one side, you know, like you see dogs doing, well like dogs
used
to do when they were still around.’

‘Shit!’

‘Shit yeah. I almost crapped myself and
I
wasn’t even the one close to the bloody thing.’

‘Did it get him?’ Doug asked.

‘No, it just stood there, head askance, like it was listening to him. Like it could understand what the guy was saying.’

‘What the hell? He was
talking
to it?’

‘Yeah, he’d stopped doing the mewling sound and was whispering to it, not talking. He had his damn mouth right up to the bloody thing’s ear!’

‘You’re shitting me …’ Doug said with a shake of his head.

‘I shit you not, Doug,’ I replied and made a cross sign over my heart. ‘Honest. The guy was whispering to it, right in the zombie’s damn ear!’

‘What was he saying?’

I looked at Doug open-mouthed. ‘You
really
think I was going to walk up and put my ear close to them to eavesdrop? Are you out of your mind, Doug?’

‘Weren’t you the least bit tempted?’ He shook his head. ‘The first time someone’s gone up to an undead, stopped it from trying to eat him and has
actually
spoken to it and you didn’t think of getting a little closer to find out how he did it?’

‘No!’

‘No? Why not?’

‘Listen, I saw a sword-swallower in a workingmen’s club in
Aberystwyth once
. He stuck bloody great blades down his throat. Blades that he took out afterwards and stuck in the floor. I didn’t go up to
him
either and ask him how he did it so
I
could have a go. So I sure as hell wasn’t going to put
this
pretty face anywhere near that big zombie’s gob, I can tell you,’ I replied, pointing to my ugly mug.

‘But
this
is different,’ Doug said animatedly, ‘don’t you see? If the guy can stop zombies attacking, imagine if he could teach all us survivors how to do it too! We’d be safe at last. You have to admit that.’

I could see his point, but all I remember is at the time I didn’t want to get close to them. It just seemed surreal. I expected any minute to see loads of blood and flesh flying all over the place. And besides, the last time I took on-board anything my best mate said I ended up getting stuck in the world’s zombie capital.
We can spend a night in Soho, the red light district!
He’d said.
Yeah great idea, only thing is after we’d gotten off the train from Swansea we found that
all
of London was a red light district and I don’t mean it was full of ladies of questionable moral standards. Everywhere was splattered with blood and gore. A great holiday; we spent it running like fuck until we’d completed the London Marathon at least three times over. I explained to Doug how I felt, but he just couldn’t get his head around it.

‘God, you don’t half moan,’ he said with a shake of his head, then added, ‘We
have
to find him.’

‘The guy, you muppet, the guy!’

I stared at Doug. ‘You want to give it a try, don’t you?’

He nodded. ‘Sure! If we can find him, and persuade him to let us in on his secret, then I bet we could do the same. Look, remember when they had those programs on the telly? You know … the Dog or Horse Whisperer ones? They not only had the expert training the animals but they also had
other
people learning how it was done too. They even wrote damn books about it. Like a do-it-yourself guide to whispering.’

I remembered them. ‘I suppose we could go look for him. He must live around there somewhere, I saw him quite a few times after the first meeting. Nearly every time I saw him he whispered to a zombie too. He was always at it.’

‘Bloody hell!’ Doug was excited now. ‘So, after he whispered to them what happened?’

I shrugged. ‘Not sure, but he got them to sit down,’ I replied. ‘Haven’t you noticed any zombies sitting around doing nothing?’ I asked him. ‘Not even looking at you when you walked past?’

He nodded. ‘Hell yeah, now that you mention it!’ then he frowned. ‘Some of them had died, really died. They looked as though they’d just rotted away.’

‘Perhaps he just tells them to sit there and they do, until they die …’

Doug grabbed my arm. ‘Let’s go over to Tesco. Perhaps we can spot him. It’s got to be worth a try.’

‘Okay, I guess. At least you can help me carry some more marrowfat peas back. They’re the only tinned food left. The store’s been emptied of everything else, but some bugger has got to be partial to them,’ I said and picked up my trusty double-barrelled twelve bore shotgun. I never used anything else after reading a Dumb-Arse’s Guide to Killing Zombies.

‘It’s strange seeing those zombies sitting around and knowing finally why the hell they’re doing it,’ Doug said as we made our way to Tesco’s. We must have passed dozens on our way there. Some were dead, some alive – well, not alive, but not dead – you know what I mean.

‘They’re not even going into that hibernating-sort-of-phase, all dried up and kind of mummified like they do when they can’t get enough nourishment. It almost looks as if they just give up and die,’ I remarked.

‘We need to find that guy …’

‘I know, Doug, I know. I should have spoken to him sooner. We could
both
be Zombie Whisperers now if I had.’

Doug patted me on the back. ‘Never mind. Once we find him I’m sure he won’t mind passing on his skills to someone else.
Everyone
should be taught it, don’t you think?’

I agreed with him and we pressed on. We’d almost arrived at Tesco’s car park when I spotted the guy. He was ambling along just like the first time I saw him, hands in pockets, eyes cast down and, on the wind, I could hear him tunelessly whistling something.

‘There he is!’ I said and pointed him out to Doug.

‘
And
he’s got a stalker,’ Doug noticed and he indicated a really decrepit-looking zombie that was shuffling along slowly behind the man.

‘Well unless he stops,
that
walking wreck isn’t going to catch him. It must have been ancient even before it was bitten. I swear I can almost see through its chest, the skin is so thin and papery,’ I said as we drew closer.

‘Our guy’s stopping. He’s seen us,’ Doug said as the man looked up and waved laconically in our direction. I’m sure he recognised me, because he smiled. I waved back.

‘He’s waiting for that geriatric zombie. He’s going to do his whispering thing,’ Doug said, all excited by the prospect. ‘We’ll let him do it and then ask him to teach us, okay?’

I nodded. ‘Sure. I feel better about it now there are two of us. We can watch each other’s arse.’

Doug pushed me. ‘I’m not that sort of bloke,’ he said and laughed.

‘Ha ha. Oh, look the bicentennial zombie has finally reached him,’ I said as we watched the guy. As before, he raised his hands and made a mewling sort of sound. The zombie faltered and stopped.

‘Bloody hell,’ Doug said quietly. ‘I have to admit that I still thought you were taking the piss, but you’re right. The guy
is
whispering to it.’

We watched breathlessly as the man bent forward and whispered into the ancient zombie’s ear. We continued to watch breathlessly as the ancient zombie tilted its head at an angle, dog-like – and then lunged at the man’s exposed throat and ripped a huge lump of it away. Part of the man’s windpipe dangled from the old zombie’s jaws as it moved forward again towards the Zombie Whisperer, who was trying desperately to stem the outpouring of blood from the gaping wound in his neck. It was a futile effort and, as we held our breath, the man was down and the gutter was running crimson with his blood.

I raised the shotgun to my shoulder and drew a bead on the ancient zombie’s head. It was pushing the remains of the man’s throat into its gore-encrusted mouth. It surprised both of us by staying upright for a second or two after I blew its head clean off with both barrels. But then it collapsed in a messy heap of bones, rags and desiccated flesh next to the dying man.

We both ran towards him and then stopped warily as he held a blood-soaked hand out to us. Something was clutched in it, but we were afraid to get too close. Dark blood gushed out of his mouth. He coughed it away and with his dying breath he managed to gasp.

‘The old fucker was deaf …’ and, as his hand fell to the floor, an ancient hearing aid fell from his lifeless fingers.

I reloaded and put two shells into the dead Zombie Whisperer’s head … just in case …

THE END

THE DAY I DISCOVERED THE TRUT
H ABOUT THE MAN IN THE RED SUIT

B
y
R. Phillip Roberts

*Dedicated with all my love to Raven Rachelle Dozier*

I had hardly slept a wink all night, when at nearly five o'clock in the morning, I once again opened my eyes. Another noise in the darkness of the night had me shooting straight out of bed and over to the window, only to discover that another branch had fallen, or quite possibly the barn door had blown shut again, as a result of the harsh blustery winter wind.

A fresh blanket of white covered the ground, hiding the tracks we had made over the last few days in the previous snowfall. In the light of the full moon everything took on an eerie cast, especially since the vast whiteness changed the appearance of all that I had grown familiar with over the last thirteen years of my life.

With disappointment in my heart, I returned to bed, just as I had all previous times, with a promise to myself that I would not jump out of bed again; that I would lay back down and fall asleep. Morning would come eventually, and if I could just fall asleep for a little while, then when I next opened my eyes, it would be time to go downstairs with the others.

Yeah, right! Like that was going to work. It was Christmas Eve, and all through the house, not a creature was
… well, you get the idea. I was filled with the excitement and anticipation that any child has at this time of year. And, I wanted to catch a glimpse of Santa, of course, even though my older brothers had told me that he did not exist. Liars!

I know, I know! You wonder why a thirteen year old girl such as myself still believes in Santa Claus, right? Well, I believe in him because I actually saw him last year. But he did not fly through the air, nor did he have
a team of magical reindeer to guide
his sleigh from rooftop to rooftop; none of that nonsense. No siree! But Santa did come by sleigh, however.

It was one year ago today, on a night just like this, in fact. As I lay in bed, I heard a sound. It was a familiar sound to be sure, but when one hears the approach of horses in the middle of the night out here in the country, it usually means something really bad has happened. So of course, I jumped out of bed and threw on my robe. I ran to the window, and to my surprise, saw that it was in fact Santa, coming across the field.

Well, who else could it have been? The man wore a red suit, a red hat, with black shiny boots on his feet. His long beard was white, and his belly was big and round. Once he brought the team of horses that pulled the sleigh to a stop, he climbed out, pulling a large sack with him, which he slung over his shoulder before approaching the house.

As if he could sense my presence, the jolly fat man stopped dead in his tracks and looked up at my window. For a moment, I was too scared to even breathe, but when he smiled and shook his head, I sighed with relief. Then the man bowed his head and continued up the path to the front door. I swear that I had heard the faintest sound of laughter, as the wind howled outside my window, blowing the large falling flakes of snow aloft in the air as they descended gracefully to the ground.

Too afraid to go downstairs and meet the man face to face, I silently crept down the hall. Taking a seat at the top of the stairs, I listened to the front door creak open, then gently shut. The sound of scraping followed, as I assumed that Santa was wiping his feet on the carpet near the entry, laid out for just that purpose.

When I heard him walk across the hardwood floor, with a soft creaking in the floorboards every few steps, my heart began to race. The sound of his bag slumping to the floor almost made my heart jump straight out of my chest. Then I heard a soft chuckle, and then a clunk. When I heard the blaze of the fire in the hearth begin to crackle and sizzle, I knew that the jolly old man had added a fresh log to the fireplace.

By the sounds that followed, I could tell that Santa had begun to set the contents of his hefty bag around our tree. While he went about his business, he whistled. It was a familiar tune. I believe the words to it had something to do with being naughty or nice, making a list, checking it twice, or something like that.

After about fifteen minutes, but really, it felt more like an eternity, everything went silent. I sat there at the top of the stairwell, straining my young ears to hear something, anything, in the silence. Then Santa chuckled once more, before opening the front door and disappearing back out into the cold winter night.