Holiday of the Dead (8 page)

‘Oh, Cherry, baby!’ Dave said, sobbing. ‘You came here on your own? I’m sorry I left you alone! I didn’t know what to do.’

Cherry pushed him back, gently, and her bloody mouth grinned at him with something that, in life, might have been a joyful smile. In death, it was terrifying.

Dave saw her then as she really was. Not his Cherry, but a shambling, gradually rotting, facsimile. Yet, somehow, here she was; she had come to find him.

As Cherry suddenly lunged forward, tearing into his throat and feasting on his flesh, he knew that he and Cherry would be together forever. Until death and beyond.

Two shambling figures walked along the Quayside together the next day, decomposing fingers entwined.

Were it not for the gore that dripped from their mouths, the jerky, unnatural walk, and the smell of death and decay that hung around them, they could have been any loving couple enjoying a relaxing walk in the fresh air.

It wasn’t quite Alicante, but the sun was shining as if it shone only for them.

True love never dies. At least, not in the case of Cherry and Dave.

THE END

A SIDE OF CRANBERRY SAUCE

By

Clyde Wolfe

With a trembling hand he lifted the shot glass. Brimming two-hundred year old scotch threatened to cascade with every tremor. It took supreme effort to bring the glass to his lips, nearly half the contents spilling over the rim in tiny amber rivers. He threw it back in a rush; smoky, liquid fire burning and sliding down the throat, vapours opening long clogged sinus passages.

The glass clinked to the table, fallen from numb fingers. His head dropping into his hands. Sobs wracking the body. The scotch traversing his veins, mollifying anxieties and warming flesh.

“Madness,” he whispered. “Complete madness.”

Warren sat, head bowed over tear-stained hands. Before him lay a well-thumbed journal filled with scrawling handwritings and crude diagrams.

Steel cages rattled again. Warren didn’t bother to look up, knowing the horrible wailing was about to begin anew. He would have covered his ears had he not become immune to the sound over the last week.

Warren reached for the bottle, the need for more drink controlling his actions. The bottle was heavy in his hand yet freed from the tremors he was able to guide it to his lips without waste. He took a long pull, nearly sputtering on the single malt as it flooded his gullet. He sucked like a greedy infant at its mother’s teat, trying to drown himself free of the weight of ever-present anguish.

Half-shed tears shimmered on his eyelashes when at last he pulled the bottle away. He took several hyperventilating breaths until he was able to regain control.

Autumn was in full bloom. The trees were sporting a miraculous range of vibrant golds and yellows, deep reds and oranges. Few of the leaves were fallen; admirers given this one last chance to witness the splendour of nature before the cascade of colours morphed into nuisances to pile and bag for garbage collections.

Warren could summon no joy at the sight. As a man of science, a mid-level chemist of Valinson Pharmaceuticals, he was patently aware of the reason for the change. The trees were literally starving their extremities, blocking essential Chlorophylls and choking their leaves to death in a creeping, ghastly manner. Nature was a merciless bitch-mother.

The phenomena mirrored the state of Warren’s soul so keenly it stripped the glory of the spectacle. He too was suffocating. Mental asphyxiation was stealing him away by inches, sanity dispersing to the winds.

The world mocked his pain.

For many years Warren carried the burden in silence. The progression of ghoulish excitement to heavy, burdensome guilt had been an insidious worm gradually boring through heart and soul.

It had been nothing like imagined, Warren’s hopes and desires polluted by a shouting conscience he had not known he possessed. Finding his uncle’s papers and plumbing the depth of their import had trebled the acuity of his sorrows.

Warren had come out for a stroll this Sunday morning to clear his head. It helped, marginally. The underlying problem was not one capable of being undone. Rectified after a fashion, perhaps, but truly effaced? Never. Too many nights lost inside the depths of a bottle. Too many nights lost to sleepless hauntings of terrifying fancy and visitations of condemnation.

It had to end. Madness was steps away from dominance. Oh, he was guilty, no doubt of that. Warren bore no contrary illusions. Yet could it be done? Would some measure of reparation assuage the glut of his sin?

There was a way laid out for him, just a few mental leaps and a bridge or two and it became clear as polished crystal. Darkly veiled possibility delivered by the providence of serendipity. Had he really found those notes and charts by accident? Was it mere twist of Chance or the offered means by which to soothe his torment and right the wrong? Did he dare?

Church bells chimed in the distance announcing the end to a service of the faithful. Warren had not been inside a church in six years, not since Uncle Gerald’s funeral. Such an unholy deception that had been. Crocodile tears and affected sorrows. Warren listened to their tolling until the bells reverberated into silence. Heralds of endings and new beginnings.

Warren felt the tolling deep within and gave the world a last glance. The season was changing, the air full of vibrant death. Beautiful decay. Thanksgiving was mere weeks away and Warren found himself bereft of anything to be thankful for. Unless …

No, he decided. It couldn’t just be a quirk of fate.

Some higher force, divine or otherwise, must be showing him the means to rectify his errors so that he
would
act. This was the chance for redemption he had pined for. How could he fail to act now, when it was all unfolding for this very purpose?

Warren pulled the coat tight around his body as a chill thrilled his bones. The unkindness of years and faulty genes had little to do with the cold. He changed direction so fast he nearly trampled a woman walking several steps behind him. She freely spoke out her indignation, but Warren had no ears for it. Feet ate up ground as he hurried home. He had a phone call to make.

Lungs protested the race homeward. Warren barely had the breath to climb the steps to the mansion’s door. He used the railing as a crutch while recovering. Once inside he nearly ran down his maid-servant like the woman on the street, muttering a hasty, garbled apology before disappearing into his study.

A bottle of whiskey called and he answered by pouring two fingers into a tumbler and throwing it back neat. Alcohol set about calming nerves as he reached for the phone.

Warren’s older sister picked up after the fourth ring. “C-Cynthia? Hi, it’s Warren.”

A decidedly feminine voice carried over the line, full of confusion and surprise, “Warren?”

After brief moments of the usual pleasantries exchanged between estranged family, Warren steered the conversation toward his goal. The holidays were nearing, what better time for a family gathering.

Cynthia’s voice, while not unfriendly, barely resembled the girl Warren had looked up to as a child. There was a disaffectedness where once reigned laughter and smiles. “I doubt Harold and Paul would want to get together just because of the time of year. Let alone Ophelia, you know how she is, Warren.”

“Right. T-that’s why I wanted to pass it by you first. I-if anyone can get us all in the same r-room it’s you, Cynthia.”

“You know that’s next to impossible a feat.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s just, well,” Warren allowed his voice to drop an octave. “I f-found something in Uncle Gerald’s papers we should discuss. What better time than over Thanksgiving d-dinner?”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Warren held his breath; bowels clenching and spasming, the taste of bile rising to the back of his throat. A tremor started in his left hand. He shoved the offending limb between his knees to still it.

“Thank you, Gloria. That will be all.” Better if she wasn’t around. “Take the rest of the day … no, take the weekend.”

Dismissed, Warren’s servant left with a nod and plastic smile. Perhaps later, once everything was settled and the lawyers finished picking over estates, Gloria would come to remember him fondly. After all, he was leaving everything to her. Years of faithful and diligent service and all that.

One by one they had arrived. First Paul, clean and pressed as always. Then Cynthia drove up minutes later. Ophelia and Jerry arrived together, their marriage seemingly still intact when pundits gave the union no more than forty-eight hours to dissolution way back when. It amazed Warren that of all the Valinson children, it was the youngest and most impulsive whom managed to keep her marriage intact. Paul was a twice divorced bachelor and even mild-tempered Cynthia had one failed attempt under her belt. Warren himself never found the time nor the inclination to seek out a mate.

Meagre conversations took place while they waited for everyone to arrive, mostly concerning the weather. If Warren had not grown up in the same household as the rest of them, he could have sworn they were a gathering of strangers. It wasn’t long until silence reigned. No one was happy to be here.

Ice clinked as glasses were emptied and refilled. Then the doorbell rang. The final guest had arrived.

“Warren,” Harry said by way of greeting.

Though it had been near to eight months since last seeing his brother Harold Valinson made no move to embrace Warren, not even a handshake. It was just as well. Harry, once a collegiate linebacker, had lost only a fraction of his youthful strength. The days of pink-bellies and wedgies were not so distant a memory to Warren despite the divide of years. Harry was no more than a bully delighting in the torment of others; as likely to attempt to crush the fingers of a proffered hand than not.

Everything was coming together. All living members of the Valinson bloodline were accounted for, the hardest part accomplished. Cynthia had done her part, unwittingly, to be sure, but she had succeeded in proxy fashion nonetheless.

Warren herded his siblings from the guest parlour into the dining room, downing three fingers of whiskey on the way to steady himself.

Deep, staggering breaths calmed juddering spasms of the heart and lessened the outpouring of moisture beneath his armpits, along his spine, and at his crotch. He pulled out a silken handkerchief and wiped away the layer of grime that had formed along the back of his neck and the edges of his receding hairline.

He hoped no one noticed, but knew they were scrutinizing his every move.

Warren was the first to enter the dining room, leading a group of people whom had never deigned visit or call in spite of the so-called familial allegiance. They could contemplate and commit murder together, sure, but a friendly “hello-how’s-things-going” was out of the question. He immediately moved to the head of the table on the far end.

The table itself was almost as large as the room and laden down with so much food it could feed a starving nation for a day. Warren had not skimped on the selection, at least seven dishes for each guest in attendance. And more of the same just waiting to replace emptied bowls. Mostly the staples of the holiday, but with a few of the more expensive cuisines sprinkled in to appease more refined palates.

Six place settings were prepared including Warren’s own. To Warren’s right was a seventh seat, the furniture and place setting covered by a voluminous white sheet. There was an empty, eighth chair between this enigma and the next setting.

The guests milled around the doorway, unsure what to make of the scene. Wary, hostile glances washed over the white sheet. Warren realized he would need to placate them in order to further the evening’s plans, the aroma of fine victuals not enough to override and entice. Another moment of truth to hurdle. “The reason I wanted us all t-together is under this sheet,” he offered in the same mousy tone and stuttering cadence Warren always unconsciously affected around his kin.

“Funny,” Ophelia sneered. “Cyn said this all had something to do with old Uncle Gerald. Not your laundry.”

Jerry, ever the sycophant, was nodding enthusiastically at his wife’s side. He even set his lips in a snarl in time to Ophelia’s own expression. Warren could never tell if Jerry was loyal to his marriage out of a real desire to be with his shrew sister or out of financial dependency. Most likely the latter; Ophelia was only obsequious or courteous to those above her station. Why she chose to shack up with a rat from the low end of society in spite of lofty ambitions and tastes was a puzzle best left unfathomed.

“P-please,” Warren said, indicating for them to enter and find a chair. Trickles of icy sweat were running down his spine. He hoped none of the anxiety he felt gnawing at his bowels was showing on his face. “If you’ll just take a seat and s-start eating … there’s a lot to c-cover.” He tried to finish with a smile but his lips faltered.

Cynthia was the first to seat herself. Just the catalyst Warren needed.

Jerry followed suit, remarking how much a waste it would be to let dinner grow cold as he noticed the many bottles of vintage wines and spirits lying in the open liquor cabinet and the piles of fruit-filled pies and sweets laden on the dessert cart.

They stepped into the dining room until they were all finding a place at Warren’s table. In the six years since their mutual, ill-gotten windfall this cosy scene had never once come to pass.