Mort

  Mort

  By

  Rod Redux

  Mort is copyright 2010 by Rod Redux

  Published by Cobra E-books

  Metropolis, IL

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living, dead or re-animated is unintended and entirely coincidental.

  Originally published under the pen name Rodd Reduxxx.

  Also by Rod Redux

  NOVELS

  The Oldest Living Vampire Tells All

  The Oldest Living Vampire on the Prowl

  Menace of Club Mephistopheles

  Mort

  For Aaron

  Prologue

  Esther tried very hard to keep the screams bottled inside as the zombies groaned and scraped their fingers across the windows of the van. Her grandson lay in her lap, sleeping God knows how, his little hands clamped over his ears. He was a pale, beautiful boy with long, dark eyelashes. His father—who had traded his life in a vain effort to buy their escape—had bemoaned his son’s sensitivity, but Esther didn’t care that little Drew was small and gentle and thoughtful. Drew was her only grandchild, and she loved him with the fierceness that only a grandmother can muster. If that meant that she had to bite back her terror and remain quiet so that he could steal a few moments of rest, then that is what she would do.

  She and her grandson had been trapped in the Dodge for about thirty-six hours now. Drew’s father had tried to lead the zombies away so that they could make it to the van. Only problem was: the keys to the vehicle were in his pocket. Esther and Drew had clambered inside—slamming the doors shut just in time—only for Esther to realize she had no way to start the engine. They were trapped! And her son-in-law’s agonized screams had drawn even more zombies to the area.

  Esther stroked her grandson’s fine hair, pushing it back from his brow, her knuckled old woman’s fingers trembling. The sight of his parched lips, cracked and peeling, filled her with fresh panic every time she looked at him. They could not stay here much longer. They were dying of dehydration.

  Perhaps it would be better if her grandson passed away in his sleep. Wouldn’t it be a merciful thing if little Drew simply didn’t wake? Didn’t have to look at the horrors scratching at the windows ever again?

  No! No-no-no! Esther thought. You mustn’t give up! Never!

  Esther did the only thing she could do. She prayed. She prayed to God. She prayed to Jesus and the Virgin Mary. She prayed to any supernatural being who might be listening. She didn’t care who it was-- Allah, Buddha or Holy Ronald McDonald in Cheeseburger Heaven—so long as Somebody heard her.

  Please, save us! Oh God in Heaven hallowed be Thy name…

  She was not a religious woman. Technically a Lutheran, Esther hadn’t set foot in church for years. She’d become too disenchanted with organized religion. Disgusted by the cliquishness, the gossip and drama, of her local church, and the scandals and greed of the larger Christian organizations, with their fast-talking televangelists and constant pleas for donations. It was spiritual blackmail. Gimme fifty million dollars, or God is gonna take me home. Jesus will heal your arthritis if you buy this ridiculously overpriced prayer pillow. She’d gotten so tired of seeing the same three people walk the aisle every Sunday to be saved. Goodness! How many times did a person have to get saved? Didn’t it take last week?

  She wished now she had been a better Christian. Just like the Bible said about the End Times, the dead had arisen. Funny thing, though. The Bible never mentioned the resurrected killing and eating everybody! Maybe if she had been a better Christian, she would have been taken up before the Tribulation-- and all this nasty brain-eating-- commenced.

  Too late now, she told herself. You thought you were too smart for religion. You thought you could slide by on good deeds, and now look where you are! Stuck in a van, surrounded by dead people that want to eat you-- just like they ate poor Sissy and Drew’s daddy Jake-- and you’ve dragged your grandbaby along for the ride! Oh, you stupid old bitch!

  She wished she’d gone to church more often. She wished she’d believed better, harder, for her whole family’s sake. If she had been more devout, and insisted all her loved ones go along with her, they might not be dead right now, and she might not have gotten trapped in this van with her grandson in her arms and about three dozen zombies outside, groaning and drooling for their brains.

  Drew stirred, whimpering a little in his sleep.

  She stroked his hair and shushed him.

  The zombies crowded around all the windows, ogling in at her with their soulless, cataract eyes. They were moaning. Pawing at the glass. They left smears and streaks of greasy looking slime on the windows. Snot and viscous yellow foam dangled from their chins. Every now and then, one would strike the glass harder, and Esther’s whole body stiffened up, waiting for the glass to break.

  It was nearly impossible for her to bite back her cries. She wanted to scream her fool head off. She wanted to surrender to the horror and hysterics squeezing her heart. If she was alone, she would probably have thrown open the door and let them have their way with her. But she was not alone. She had Drew. And so long as she had Drew, she would persevere.

  Please, Lord, send me an angel! Esther prayed.

  The dead one she was most worried about had circled around to the passenger side of the van. Esther had been watching him closely. He didn’t seem as dull-minded as the others. There was a glimmer of cleverness in his milky eyes. He’d actually tried the door handle on her side of the van. She’d locked the doors, of course—just to be safe. And thank God she had, because he’d shuffled up to it and gave it a few yanks, grinning through the glass at her with his filthy teeth, bits of rotten food stuck between them, and black oozing lips, his eyes twinkling at her beneath thick, devilish eyebrows.

  His name was Richard. She knew this because it was embroidered on his name tag. He was dressed in a stained gray mechanic’s uniform, the logo for Sal’s Quik Change and Lube emblazoned across the back. He had a long, bristly beard, pumpkin orange and caked with the brown crust of dried blood, and teardrops tattooed to his right cheek.

  Esther watched him closely, her litany of prayers trailing off in her head. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her. The foul thing kept grinning like he was up to something. He was acting too sly. The other zombies were slow, but he was slow in a different kind of way. A sneaky kind of way. He kept slipping out of sight. He kept circling the van.

  ‘Mammy, I’m firsty,” Drew croaked in her lap, stirring a little.

  “Shhh, baby. Go back to sleep. We’ll get something to drink in the morning, okay?” Esther whispered. She patted his hair brusquely, peeking at the rear view mirror to see if Richard the Zombie was in back of the van. He’d given her the slip again.

  “But ‘m firsty now,” Drew said in a terribly soft, weak voice.

  It broke Esther’s heart to hear him so. The poor baby. He sounded so distant and faint. His life, she knew, was playing out into a very thin and very fragile gossamer thread. One that could snap so easily. The image of it was vivid in her mind. It was as if she could actually see it. That single, shining filament.

  They must find some way to escape—or be rescued soon—or they would both die. A person could only go a couple days without something to drink, she knew. Their spirits would simply dry up and blow away if they were not released from this horrible prison soon.

  “Can I have a soda pop in the morning, Mammy?” Drew murmured. “With ice cubes and a bendy straw?”

  “Of course, baby,” Esther said. “In the morning.”

  Despite her dehydration, she apparently had enough bodily fluids to squirt out a couple tears. Cursing her wastefulness, Esther wiped her cheeks. She saw something sneaking toward her out of the corner of her eye and turned to look.

  Richa
rd the Zombie was back, grinning moonily through the driver’s side window at her.

  Go away! She thought. Shoo! I’m tired of looking at your ugly mug tonight!

  There was something in his hand. At first she thought it was a stick. He was holding a stick in his hand like he wanted to play fetch. It reminded her of an old dog she used to have. A golden retriever named Skipper. That was the fetchingest dog she’d ever seen! He was always trotting up with a stick or a toy or a shoe in his mouth, wagging his tail in excitement, wanting to play Go-get-it! Her husband Burt, God rest his soul, had loved that dog so much!

  CRACK!

  Esther jerked back, squawking in surprise, as a white starburst suddenly appeared in the glass next to her cheek.

  Richard the Zombie leered at her, looking like he wanted to fuck her instead of kill her and eat her. That was no stick in his slimy gray hand, Esther realized. It was a tire iron!

  Richard raised the iron over his head and brought it down gracelessly.

  CRACK!

  The webbing of fissures in the driver’s side glass grew just a little broader.

  “Mammy? What’s that? What’s happening?” Drew asked shrilly, struggling to sit up.

  Esther scooped him against her generous bosom and began to sob, surrendering finally to despair.

  Crack! Chunk! Crackle!

  With each spiritless strike of the tire iron, the passenger window gave. It began to flex inwards. Any moment now, Esther expected to feel a shower of glass, and then an instant after that: cold, greedy fingers digging into her skin. She expected to be dragged from the van and eaten alive.

  God, let it be quick! She thought.

  She cried out as something heavy crashed onto the roof of the Dodge. Whatever it was, the impact rocked the van on its shocks. The roof actually buckled in a little. There was a punching sound. The squeal of tearing metal.

  She saw something drop to the hood of the van a second after. Something black and sinuous. She couldn’t make out what it was in the night, despite the fact that the moon was nearly full and her eyes had adjusted to the darkness. But it was fast, a blur of motion.

  She felt cool air swirl in on her head and neck and looked upwards.

  What she saw did not make sense to her.

  Half the roof of the van had been peeled neatly back, like the top of a can of Spam. She could see the silver, gibbous moon, and ribbons of thin clouds, their edges gleaming in the lunar light. Stars, too. The faint band of the Milky Way, arching over the world. The Little Dipper.

  A shadowy thing dropped into the van, landing in a crouch on the passenger seat.

  “What is it, Mammy?” Drew piped, turning his face from side to side, trying to see what was going on beyond her censoring breast.

  The shadowy thing on the passenger seat cocked its head at her, bird-like, then smiled. For a moment, Esther recoiled in disgust, for the thing she saw was not human. It had large, round black eyes and white skin and teeth like the teeth of a shark. White picket fence teeth. Rows of them, encircled by bright scarlet lips.

  Then her thoughts swam and she put her hand to her brow, blinking dizzily.

  No, not human… but beautiful.

  An angel!

  “Don’t be afraid, Esther Rosenbaum,” the thing—the angel—said to her. His voice was smooth and honey sweet. His eyes were blue like the sky on a fine, clear autumn afternoon. His skin was alabaster white and flawless. So white and pure it seemed to glow with its own inner light. And he had wings. Beautiful, shining black wings, each feather gleaming like oil, not a pinion out of place, thick and soft and downy.

  “You… you came,” Esther stammered. Her voice was full of wonder. Her eyes glimmered with awe and gratitude.

  “Of course we came,” the angel said. “We heard your prayers and came as fast as we could.”

  Esther rubbed her eyes. She could almost see the angel’s halo, a faint gold nimbus about his head. So wondrous!

  He held his hands out to her. His fingers, she saw, were long and thin and white.

  “Give me the child,” he said sweetly.

  She looked at the angel, suddenly hesitant. Though she did not know why, she was reluctant to pass her grandson to the wondrous being. He smiled at her with patient understanding. His face was so beautiful, long and thin and pale, with high cheekbones and a narrow aristocratic nose. His hair was black and lengthy and straight. It sloped down from his widow’s peak, gleaming and clean, all the way to his shoulder blades. He was dressed in armor, and flowing red robes.

  “It’s okay. I understand,” he said. His teeth seemed very white and broad when he smiled at her, but… but… now why couldn’t she think straight all of a sudden?

  Esther looked out past the windshield and saw something dark and strangely serpentine twisting and whipping within a ring of howling zombies. A quicksilver gleam sketched abstract patterns around the whirling black dervish. There were moist, meaty sounds coming from the dancing form. Thwack! Chunk! Shwip!

  Something thunked onto the hood of the van, coming to rest in the well of the wiper blades.

  It was the head of Richard the Zombie.

  It had been sliced neatly off its neck and, as Esther gawped at it, Richard the Zombie’s evil little eyes rolled toward her and narrowed to slits. His lips split into a cruel grin. It almost looked like he was laughing at her!

  The spinning dervish came to a sudden stop, and Esther realized it was another angel. It stood crouched on the pavement, one arm extended back behind it, a sword in its grip, dripping dark, syrupy zombie blood. The angel—a “her”, Esther saw, not an “it”—had made quick work of the zombies that had surrounded the van. They were lying in chunks of varying sizes around the angel’s knee-high black laced boots.

  The female angel turned her head and smirked at Esther, and the old woman gasped in wonder as the angel’s wings suddenly unfurled in the moonlight, tan with intricate black patterns. Impossibly large, unbelievably beautiful. The wings spread out until they swallowed half the sky, shivering slightly in the breeze, then they folded suddenly and diminished to a more believable dimension. Closed against her back, the wings became almost invisible.

  “Her name is HaMerkavah. I am Metatron,” the angel in her passenger seat said mildly. “We should hurry before more of the infected ones come, Esther.”

  “But where are you going to take us?” Esther asked.

  “We’ve come to take you to New Jerusalem, where you will both be safe,” the angel—Metatron—answered her. Again, he held his hands out. “I can only carry one of you. Put the child in my arms, or place him in HaMerkavah’s care and come to me. We must be away quickly.”

  Esther took Drew from her bosom and pressed the boy into Metatron’s arms. At first, her grandson fought against it, looking horrified, but then the angel stroked his head and he slumped into a blissful sleep.

  “Please be careful with him,” Esther said, ashamed that she should worry. Her grandbaby lay in the arms of one of God’s divine messengers. Why should she be frightened?

  “Of his safety, have no fear. He is the most precious thing to us in all the world,” the angel said, smiling down at Drew.

  The other angel, the female named HaMerkavah, strolled to Esther’s door, hips sweeping back and forth. She was smiling. Pleased with herself. She sheathed her sword as she drew near and stood waiting outside the van.

  The male angel stood and spread his wings. Eyes gleaming with love, he said, “I promise you this, Esther Rosenbaum. On this child’s bloodline, God will found nations.”

  The great wings beat down and the angel lifted into the air, her grandson in his arms.

  Esther heard the howls of distant zombies. A whole pack of the horrid things, and they were coming this way. She opened the van door and clambered down to the street. Her movements were stiff. She’d been trapped inside the Dodge, in a seated position, for more than a day. Her legs didn’t want to work. Her knees and ankles popped.

  “Ow! Oh, dear!” she gro
aned.

  The angel HaMerkavah slammed her door shut impatiently, knocking little chunks of glass loose, then swept Esther into her arms. “We have to hurry, old woman. Those beasts are getting close!” The angel’s voice was not kind, but Esther dismissed her rudeness. The divine creature was obviously one of God’s warrior angels and made for battle, not gentleness.

  One of the arms encircling her was armored with a heavy and ornate gauntlet, its fingers jointed and brutal-looking. The sword at her hip was massive. HaMerkavah peered down the street with narrow, suspicious eyes. The howls were growing louder.

  Esther held tight to the angel in black leather garb, squeezing her eyes shut as the first of the zombies came shambling around the end of the block, running and screaming for her hot, fresh brains.

  Goodness, she was cold to the touch! Esther thought. The angel’s flesh was icier than the metal armor that adorned her body.

  “Don’t let go,” the female angel commanded. HaMerkavah craned her face towards the heavens then and, unfurling her wings, took flight.

  Part One

  City of Decay

  1

  Deadheads

  The really sad thing, Mort thought as he watched the deadheads trudge lifelessly along the street below, was that the city didn't look all that different than it had before the outbreak. If you didn't know the zombie apocalypse had gone down a few weeks ago, sweeping away the old familiar civilizations in an orgy of gore and violence, you would be hard pressed to see much of a change in the scene twelve stories down.

  The sidewalks still crawled with humanity, an ant-like parade. Men in business suits, marching as if to work. Mothers and their children, dressed in spring pastels, tramping hand-in-hand like they were going down to the local park to swing and ride on the teeter-totters. Even teenagers, all anti-establishment in their rock-n-roll t-shirts and torn jeans, loitering outside their favorite headshop. Though the Armageddon Phage had turned 99.9 percent of the human population to brain-eating zombies, its rotting victims retained a faint, sad echo of each person's previous personality. Their habits and mannerisms. Sometimes their cunning.