Tim Marquitz - Resurrection

Under slabs of rotten flesh, I crashed to the floor, narrowly avoiding having my nose bitten off. Assaulted by the smell as much as by the zombies, I squirmed, trying to get them off me. To my relief, my gun hand was free. Twisting my wrist into an awkward angle to point it toward the corpses, knowing it was gonna hurt for a while-if I lived that long-I snapped off a round. The recoil whipped my hand back and slammed my knuckles into the rock floor, causing an explosion of pain before going mercifully numb.

Though I was gonna have a hard time using my right hand effectively, the pain was worth it. My shot struck the top zombie in the side of the head. Its dead again body rolled to the side, and off me. I helped it along, using its bulk as a bulldozer to muscle the other two that were gnawing at me, off my chest. It worked somewhat. My upper body loose, I sat up just as a pair of gnashing teeth tore into the meat of my calf.

Biting back a scream, I pressed the barrel of my gun against its biting head and blew a fist-sized hole in it, my hand twinging like a motherfucker. Its head snapped back and crumpled, leaving behind its teeth, still buried in my leg. I shot the other one and swiped at the embedded teeth, knocking them loose in jagged little pieces. With a growl, I examined the wound. A gooey greenness was mixed in with the blood.

“If I catch Corpse Creep, I’m gonna kill you again,” I shouted at the toothless undead while I hopped to my feet. My leg gratefully supported my weight, though it felt as if it were on fire.

I glanced around for McConnell. He, too, had been caught off guard by the attack. While I played zombie snack, he must have freed himself. A pool of melted, disfigured flesh and yellowed bone encircled him. Steam wafted up from the waxy zombie puddle as he stood with clenched fists, sparkling gray energy whirling about his hands.

When the rest of the horde approached, their chaotic symphony of gibbered epithets leading the charge, he let loose. A fiery blast of energy burst from his hands, slamming into the clueless zombies. The temperature in the room rose by twenty degrees as the front line of undead exploded into ash. Black clouds filled the air, biting at my lungs. It was like sitting in a sauna that was built inside an ashtray-the perfect stop smoking ad.

Coughing out the bitter blackness, I watched as the next wave of zombies ignited with gray flame. Its touch was virulent, contagious. Methodically, the fire leapt about the room, attaching itself to the corpses like sentient napalm, sparing everything not undead, for which I was quite grateful. The surviving zombies shrieked their incoherence at the wizard, their ranks going up around them faster than a California hillside. They were pissed.

McConnell roared back, his energy building once more. He raised his hands, readying to finish the job. Right then, I saw a blur of black spring from one of the alcoves. It dove toward us. My mind whirled. It had to be the guy who attacked Baalth’s men. No zombie could move like that.

I spun and tried to track him with my gun, firing, but he was too fast. My shot whined off into the darkness. Less than a heartbeat later, the shrouded figure, dressed from head to toe in what looked like a ninja outfit, landed in a crouch beside McConnell.

The wizard barely realized he was there, focused as he was on the zombies. There was a flash of silver, followed by an arc of crimson that flung blood across the room. McConnell let out a pained cry and clutched at his stomach. He stumbled backwards toward the tunnel, his pants discolored with an ever-growing red stain.

I dove forward, angling myself for a clear shot, and let loose a barrage. The assailant saw me coming. He ducked, using The Gray for cover, and leapt to an alcove. The move was pure grace. He stared down at me for a split-second, his masked face hiding his expression. I leveled my gun as his cold eyes bored holes through me. Before I could get off another shot, he disappeared into the shadows just as McConnell collapsed.

Torn between chasing the guy and helping McConnell, my rarely present conscience took the lead. Hatred being too weak a word to express how I felt about the cowboy, he had probably saved my life. I couldn’t have decimated the zombies like he had. There’s no telling how I would have fared against the horde alone. I at least owed him a chance at survival, if nothing else.

My eyes peeled on the alcoves, my teeth grinding, I raced to his side holstering my gun as the few remaining zombies made their way toward us. I took a quick peek at McConnell, looking to assess the wound. It was bad; real bad.

A chasm of intermingled red and black ran a good twelve inches across his stomach, just below the beltline. It was ugly. The floor beneath him was slick with dark blood and there was a stinging, bitter scent coming off the wound I couldn’t recognize. Whatever it was, it’d have to wait. Unceremoniously, I dragged him bodily back into the tunnel. It was too narrow to carry him.

A trail of crimson bled out behind us in the passage and The Gray’s quiet moans punctuated the seriousness of his condition. As quick as possible, I hauled him back toward the crypt. There was no time for gentle. Deep down, I can’t say I was all that bothered by it.

At the base of the ascent, I propped him against the wall. “I need your help, McConnell.” I lifted his chin so we were eye to swimming eye. His were glassy and unresponsive. “If you want to live, we’re gonna have to do this together.”

He groaned, his head bobbling weakly. He was losing a lot of blood and I didn’t have time to staunch the flow, the zombies catching up. I could hear their garbled voices rebounding through the tunnel, drawing closer. Unable to fly, I was gonna have to do things the hard way. I yanked my shirt off and spun around, pressing my back into McConnell’s barrel chest.

“Put your arms over my shoulders,” I shouted, reaching back to help.

After a few fumbled attempts with McConnell doing nothing to help, I managed to drape his meaty arms over me. Using the shirt, I tied them together, just above the elbows. He grunted as I pulled the shirt uncomfortably tight. I muttered a half-ass apology while I yanked my belt off, my ammo cartridges dropping to the floor with a clack. I hoped I wouldn’t need them.

To the insistent sounds of approaching zombies, I leaned back against McConnell, drawing a muffled protest as I used the wall to support us. No time to be nice, I grabbed one of his legs and yanked it up, draping it over my own. I did the same to the second. Then I wrapped the belt around his ankles, circling it around until I barely had enough room to cinch it. Once I’d locked it in, his legs secure around my waist, I spread my own legs a little more to keep his from sliding off as I turned to face the wall. I caught a glimpse of shambling zombie as I did.

Spurred on, I stretched out, and pressed hard against the wall with my elbows, forearms, and feet. Finding the vague impressions of hand and footholds, I dug in, pulling us up. Weakened and unable to hold on, McConnell shifted downward as unconsciousness claimed him, the knotted shirt pulling tight against my collarbones and throat. I could barely breathe, but there was nothing I could do about it. The alternative was never breathing again. I couldn’t let that happen. Do you know how embarrassing a killed by a zombie epitaph would be?

“Ever hear of Jenny Craig?” I asked McConnell, sounding like a frog, my voice croaking. Built like a brick shit house, the wizard was a big, steaming pile of dead weight.

To make things worse, the rough rocks were like razors against my skin, slashing my arms to ribbons as I ground them into the walls to support our ascent. Now wet with my blood, the already awkward movement became even more difficult as each bracing thrust opened more wounds, adding to the slickness of the walls. I glanced up as I inched my way toward the mausoleum, the square patch of light seeming a million miles away.