No Rest for the Undead

Something I wrote with the same protagonist from the previous story.

        It had been a couple of months now.  He believed the scent was off him for a while.  Soon they would return for more.  After slaying his sister, then his best friend, whom he stayed with for a while, he had begun to track them more effectively.  Darkness swelled in the rankest of places, abandon buildings, empty houses, graveyards, and even sewers.  It seemed any place with a hint of death surrounding it was commonplace for these things to dwell.  And he knew exactly what they were, the undead.  Utterly captivating and demonic they had become, terrorizing his home life then his public one.  They had become vile, but there seemed to be no strategy behind their movements.  They only seemed to mobilize whenever death was drawing near, they were attracted to the loved ones first.  They would demonize the mortal, their killing streak highly effective of the closest ones you would cherish the most.  That was how they got you.  They would tear apart your soul first, feasting off your closest of kin and friendship.  This made you less of a person, less of a mortal being.  The building blocks that held your sanity together would start to crumble, that was when they attacked you, when you are at your weakest.  He started to recognize this pattern.  They slain the ones you held to your heart.  

Moving briskly down the parkway, he headed to his hiding place that he had been camping out.  Of course it had been abandon but a church was sacred ground.  Sanctified territory had been a threat to them.  Anything spiritual went against their nature, so he took upon himself to catch up on reading the bible and blessing himself with leftover holy water whoever blessed it last.  It had been a humid night, and his duffel bag weighed him down.  Over the months his bundle of weapons got bigger, a machete, a dagger, hooks, and even iron stakes that he stole from some old man’s garden a while back.  His steps were heavy, leaving behind the sound of giants which anyone could hear especially the dead.  

He neared the entrance with a sigh of relief, swinging open the double doors.  Inside the church it stank of rotten food, the smell of leftovers littered the aisles.  He set up a cot in the back vestibule, where he was currently living.  Lugging the bag now, he walked in on the dimly lit room.  A single lamp stand was the only thing emanating light.  His tired feet needed some rest, so he kicked off his Sketchers and landed upright on the cot.  His head pounded with streams of nightmarish thoughts, the kind that made an imprint on you forever.  He dug out the bible out from the bag, and he opened up to where the ribbon marker had been placed previously.  Countless pages stuck together as he continued his reading.  Something in this book stirred his thoughts into clarity, it gave him hope, it gave solace to carry on.  While he read, his eyes slowly shut as he drifted off to lulled sleep.  

The day couldn’t have come any sooner.  The bible splayed out on his chest, the pages still crisp to the touch.  The church had been eerily quiet.  But outside he could hear the new morning, birds fluttering and chirping outside the half open window.  His eyes adjusted to coming day as he turned off the lamp.  As he stood he tripped over the bag, and immediately he cursed.  He did not mean to, but with it any mistake some profanity was bound to come out.  Rubbing his face with fresh water from a basin, he looked at himself in the mirror for the first time in a long time.  He could have sworn that those creases in his forehead had not been there before.  His eyes remained flushed and full of countless nights remaining awake.  It took a toll on him tracking their movements, noting their behaviors in a handwritten journal that he kept on him at all times.  Sometimes he would jot down what he was feeling compared to what was necessarily important.  His handwriting had been sloppy as he flipped through the pages, even some drawings that plagued his dreams he drew.  Pacing back and forth, he kept the journal at arms length as he re-read his last entry.  “Sometimes I can feel them near as if it some sort of defense mechanism rumbles in my stomach for a hunter such as I.”  Was that what he was now, a hunter, a slayer of the damned?  He fit the title almost perfectly.  Weapons stashed away, tracking by day, hunting by night, slaying in the late afternoon?  This was his life now, and he shuddered and downed a can of warm soda pop that was left out from yesterday.  The stale carbonated drink tasted almost like acid going down his throat.  It made his head twitch as he gained a sugar high instantly.  He hadn’t eaten in two days and the hunger was getting to him.  He could feel his stomach rumble and turn, it did not feel good.  

As his watch struck ten, he made his way out of the church and into the blistering sun.  A pair of sunglasses came out from his coat pocket to shade his eyes from the rays.  This is what those damned creatures must have hated.  Too many ultraviolet rays crisped and burned them.  He saw it first hand, and that had been a month ago.  He waited for one of those things that inhabited a dreary old mansion across town.  He lost track of time, and the phone he carried didn’t wake him from the alarm he set.  The mansion held its gloomy glare as he stirred awake.  From inside he could see the sunlight beaming through the shades as if God had shaken his mighty hand.  Wallpaper slowly came undone from unsettling glue, and the stink of death was nearby.  The basement door was ajar and he swore it was closed when he arrived there that morning.  He must have drifted off for an hour or two waiting for his courage to spew through his veins.  It had been time to hunt down  the damned as he made his way down the steps towards the cemented basement.  There in the corner lying next to the furnace had been the creature, its eyes closed, unaware of his presence.  As he approached, its eyes bore open, bloodshot and wanting.  Both of them struggled as the creature constantly went for his throat.  Only by bashing its head with a nearby crowbar was the young man victorious.  One swing across the face made the undead stumble, the second swing knocked it out permanently.  Blood trickled down from its forehead as he dragged the corpse up the stairs and toward the back porch.  Its body had been heavy but still frail, and once he approached the sun, the undead squealed and burned, its face melting, its hands disintegrating.  After a whole minute the body writhed in pain, scars etched in his face blistered and its wailing could be heard for a couple of blocks.  

He could not shake off the feeling of being watched as he made his way down the street.  He kept a fresh wooden stake handy tucked beneath the back of his belt and the dagger dug deep on the inside pocket of his beige jacket.  It sliced the cold perfectly, keeping his body warm.  Hunger did not phase him one bit, even though he knew he should eat.  He stopped by a nearby drug store and bought himself a couple of candy bars that he munched on right away.  There was a plan aching in his mind, the extermination of these violent entities.  Every once and while he chewed off another piece of a Milky Way.  Every taste of hunger gained him a better understanding of the undead.  Why did they target him?  Was this a game of chess?  And if so, who were the pawns?  Who was the king?  

He must have strode for miles until he came to the local library.  The sun cascaded down in sharp rays, encircling the giant building.  It was a beacon held by constant light.  Here we would find some more answers hidden away in folklore and myths.  One by one he walked up the steps, each one an entrance into reverent solitude.  The library was like any other, its aisles of books stretching on for miles it seemed.  All crisp laden novels eager to read, those that wanted to expand their horizons, dipping into all fantastical knowledge.  He made his way to the occult section which had been up on the second floor, the books neatly stacked in orderly fashion, tucked away in a corner of the library that barely anyone touched.  Some may say it could be heretical to dabble into the madness of Satan, Wicca practices, and witchcraft.  But his mind was geared towards the unknown, his mind fathoming everything that had happened to him the last month.  

Book by book was unleashed, and he thumbed the pages of each one.  Every myth and folklore about the undead walking, drinking the blood of its victims led him to believe he was dealing with vampires.  The corpses of the recently deceased rising from the grave to etch its strain of terror upon those who scarcely believed in them.  He decided to take volume after volume of every myth he could grab, in total it equaled to seven fictionalized books.  Using his library card, he rented everyone, the librarian giving him a watchful eye.  He intended never to bring them back, so they would have to charge him the full amount for the book when it was past due.  Grabbing a plastic bag to those who had taken three books or more, he lunged them carefully across his shoulder and out into the afternoon sun he once again was.  

He did not stop anywhere on his way back to the church, reluctantly he eyed everyone who dare to seem to follow him.  He did not know if any humans had been on their side, at least for the time being.  He read somewhere that vampires kept humans as guardians and dogs as alarm bells, to ward off intruders spying on them in their hidden lairs.  But that could have been myth.  Anything up to this point was disregarded as being fictitious and everything was allowed.  The church’s odors still remained as he entered, this time the dust made him sneeze.  Back in his sanctuary, he opened up another can of Pepsi, downing half the drink in a minute.  Another sugar rush engaged him more thoroughly.  He dumped the books on the cot, and he neatly separated them all out according to the ones he wanted to read first.  The first two books were about vampire mythology, those who were deemed blood suckers on this earth.  They spoke about how they lived, what they did, and their deaths.  All of it seemed intriguing.  That night he finished off the first volume, jotting down notes about the various rituals on how to kill the undead.  Of course he already downed two of them, one being his sister, and the other being a close friend.  Each one of them had a strong attachment to the young man, both bonds were sacred, best friend and sibling.  It seemed to him that they attached themselves to those who they cared about most, so the first of kin was always their first target.  Good to know, in case he had to aid anyone in this squeamish yet horrific hunt he reluctantly took.  

He must have passed out late in the evening with his stomach rumbling once again.  He awoke with a startle, beads of sweat forming around his eyes.  His sight had been hazed over as once before when he stared into the eyes of his sister.  Oh how we wanted her in the wrong way.  Only by reciting a meaningful prayer out of the book of Psalms did his energy return.  It felt that way again, this time the odor had been far more relenting.  He dug deep in his bag to find the machete, and he pulled it out with sweaty greasy palms.  His breaths were steady as he came out of the vestibule.  The moon glowed through the stained glass, and he swore he could see the darkness form deadly shadows across some of the holy statues of saints.  

“Hello?” his words seemed hurried and squeaky.  His mind raced, and his heart filled with emotions of despair and wanting.  He could have swore he saw pair of solid red embers stare back at him when he made his way up to the altar.  A hand reached for the golden dusty cross lying there open for the taking.  He moved silently as if he was rat hunting down a piece of cheese.  Whispers surrounded him, little voices of haunting proportions.  He could not make out what they said, but they seemed tricky almost devilish.  He sat down in the priest’s chair, its old wooden frame creaking after years of no use.  The blade seemed heavy just then as a wave of torment engulfed him.  That was when he saw the man standing at the front door, its deep inset eyes glaring its hateful obsidian stare.  

“Well…we meet again, young one,” the man spoke almost telepathically.  His words languid and horrible, quite menacing to be quite frank.  His eyes were as dim as the moon and as bright as a candle.  Bags underneath his eyelids quenched together, creating a face that bulged out from his seemingly small head.  Incisors sharp with anticipation gleamed at the man as he snarled methodically.  

“I thought you could not come in unless you were invited,” the young man boomed.  His figure stood up straight, his back tightening with heroism.  The machete remained in his grip, this time the sweat melting away.  

“Of course you are referring to a dwelling, or home.  However a place like this…” the man gestured with arms wide open, “…is public property, anyone of any faith is invited, father.”  The man laughed as he pictured his prey with a large popish hat on his head, the secular world was indeed absurd, following in vain repetitious sermons.  His feet began to move, and the darkness seemed to beckon to him, creating an aura of blackness that coated the stone saints that resided at the entrance of the once palpable church.  

The young man descended from the altar, his terror subsiding as his faith grew immensely.  The golden cross dangled from his right hand, and he brought it up as he noticed the gentleman walk towards him.  But this thing did not flinch nor stop, he kept walking that slow languid walk.  He wondered why such a relic did not work in a spiritual place as this.  How was he doing this?  What sort of demonic entity had the power to cross sacred ground?  He shoved the cross further ahead of him, and the man in black came closer, enough to reach out and grab the cross from his grip.

“You are probably wondering why your religious icon is not working properly?” The man questioned as he eagerly gripped the cross.  The gold buckled and weighed, and in one swift stroke, the cross broke in two.  Easily he let the piece slip out of his hand, the gold puttering against the ground.  The young man stood paralyzed out of shock, the sweat returning to his brow.  One or two gulps made their way down his throat until the man in black grasped his neck.  His strength was equal of ten or so men, he felt his larynx being suffocated.  The young man panted and sighed as he limply awaited for his death.  “Such trinkets are ineffective against the powers of the devil.  You should know that by now, shaman.  Your weapons will never destroy me.  Your faith will fail you.  And your life will be as your sisters.”  

He knew then this thing was the creature who was inexplicably invited to his house.  Once he referred to his sibling, the man in black’s eyes grew large and hypnotic.  Its red fungal tinge grew in those two orbs.  His breath tasted like death, but there was a sweetness to it.  The blade worthlessly dropped out his hand as the hand gripped his frail throat rose him.  His eyes slanted into slits as consciousness began to fade from his vision.  Little by little, his hand rested upon the man in black’s shoulder, wanting for him to stop, needing him to stop.  This undeniable horror flooded all corners of his mind as protruding fangs came out, closing in on his neck.  What kind of evil was this?  Not warded off by a significant symbol of the Christian faith?  His other hand dove deep into his pocket, pulling out the only defense he could find, the beaded rosary he kept on him at all times that belonged to his grandmother.  He whipped it against the man in black’s face, and the silver cross at its end made an imprint on its cheek.

Steam rose just then as his grip loosened, and the young man jumped back, separating himself from the ferocious vampire before him.  The man in black howled and pressed his hand against the mark on his cheek.  “What kind of sorcery is this?”  The young man held the silver cross in front of him, the rosary held some type of supernatural power.  The man in black staggered back, its feet knocking into the pew behind him.  “How can it be…you…a mortal?”  The young man picked up the machete and swung it violently towards the vampire.  A slash ripped open the vampire’s shirt, leaving a trail of blood behind on his chest.  The man in black squealed as it curled back into the depths of the church, moving vertically through the pew.  The silvered cross still repelled the creature, and the man came closer to the vile entity.  Another swift stroke of the machete had been unleashed, and the vampire’s arm instantly came apart in two.  Blood sparkled everywhere from the open gash, its stream of endless crimson soaked the carpeted floor.  The end of the machete was bleached red, and the young man ran at him for one final attack.  He drove the blade through the chest, making the vampire scream in pain as blood gurgled from its mouth.  Its eyes rolled in the back of his head as those orbs became ghostly white.  The blade easily came out, and the vampire fell to the ground, its body convulsing and twitching.  

The vampire remained there for a while, its voice trembled with fear as the young man huddled over him.  There was only one true way to kill a vampire.  Running toward the back vestibule, he grabbed one of the iron stakes and a mallet.  Hovering over the damned creature gave him some semblance of courage.  Carefully he held the stake over his heart, and with one pound from the mallet, the stake disappeared inside of his chest.  It took a couple of hard swings, but he made sure the stake surely destroyed the vampire.  Its face grew soft and more pale, its lips faded from color, its hair grew dry and bristle.  All life left the undead once the stake entered the heart, its life dwindled away on a breeze.  Its fangs retracted back into the caverns of his mouth, and his snarl turned upside down into a dazed frown.  The vampire’s hands wiggled at first with inches of life left, but now they rested gravely against the carpet.  The young man sunk into the pew beside him and began to pray the Lord’s prayer, his voice echoing throughout the church.  The saints sung their song of mercy, and the altar seemed to come to life, the whispers of the damned ceased.  The carnage was over, and the man and the vampire rested their bodies in the quiet damp stained glass building.  

A couple of minutes went by and the vampire was dragged to the front of the church, the stake still protruding out of its chest.  He left him by the altar, where he gathered the holy bible to give the vampire its last rites.  He read a Psalm of David, one that gave the dead peace and everlasting solitude up in heaven.  The words of a true soldier of God, the righteousness shining down on  the young man as he stood there exhausted and out of breath.  A true spirit shown the way of the victorious, that was what he was now, a vessel of the living God, one of his henchmen sent out into the world to banish the wicked to condemnation.  He had gone up against one of the darkest specters he had ever faced as if he walked into a haunted house to tempt a ghost.  He came out as a glimpse of hope, a beacon of unfocused light, a cross to bear when the devil swings its pendulum back and forth.  He had seen the devil tonight, it came in the form of a vampire, one that utterly strong and entirely deceptive.  

He knew he could not stay there any longer, he would have to take refuge somewhere else.  A single Bic lighter came out of his coat pocket, and he lit the end of a cigarette which he thoroughly enjoyed.  While smoking he dragged some of the busted pew pieces and built a pyramid of wood around the vampire.  With a piece of paper in his hand, he ignited the parchment and placed it by the hem of the vampire’s coat.  It took a while but it caught aflame, the cotton material instantly ensnared with fire.  The wood took a while to coax with fire, but he waited there till the pyramid took the form of an outdoor grill, its dry grainy sand paper like quality wilted away with flames.  The body of the vampire began to melt, its pale white skin scarring and burning.  Its blood shot gaze that looked up towards the ceiling gave way to a shade of blue, and the face around its deadly glare vanished within the fire.

The young man finally left the church, and he knew it would be a while before the whole building would turn into a firefighter’s nightmare.  The officials would be called, police men would show up tapering up the sight with yellow ribbon, and the hoses would be set lose upon the sweltering inferno.  But now that that he stared death in the face, he could not help but to take notice that his work just began.  The darkness would never subside only fester into new destructible forms.  More of the undead would follow, most of them had to be hunted and slain.  The night had been cooler than most nights, he tugged at his jacket nervously walking towards the city lights that loomed high up in the sky rise.  They bled out insanity in front of him.  And somewhere in the distance he heard the night’s first call, a coyote singing to its brothers, a call to arms.  The darkness was a plague unlike any other.  It seeped into human souls, calling out to the wicked, tempting the weak to fall to its knees.  And he had thing on his mind, the death of darkness.  

Reviews

[Sargon Dorsai]

An interesting story. A peak inside the head of someone who had so much taken away from him. What lengths he had to go through for vengeance. I would have liked to learn more about the world around him. If they had any clue where the things had come from, how prevalent they were and whether it was something local. Still, it was an interesting story, one that you could definitely build on.

I did notice some grammar and spelling errors. Mostly some poor word choices that distracted from the story, but overall, well done.