Thomas Sniegoski - Where Angels Fear to Tread

The dead were like a swarm of ants, rushing at them even through a hail of gunfire.

“Form a circle!” Samson bellowed over the roars and moans of the reanimated. His kids obeyed to the best of their ability, shooting off their pistols and rifles in an attempt to reach their siblings and father.

Some made it; others. .

Delilah’s people were less inclined to listen, choosing instead to hold their ground.

Remy saw they weren’t doing all that well; every corpse to fall was quickly replaced by three or four others. He did the best he could, firing his enhanced weaponry and taking down their attackers one at a time.

But it wasn’t enough.

“Any tricks up your sleeves would be greatly appreciated,” Samson said as the corpse of a legless woman scrambled between them, biting into the thigh of the big man with jagged yellow teeth.

Samson bellowed, reaching down to tear the woman from her hold. He broke the corpse, snapping and folding it as if getting ready to throw a cardboard box in the trash.

“Holy Hand Grenade, a one-time divine-intervention phone call,” he said, tossing aside the pulverized body. “Anything, anything at all.”

Remy glanced over to see Dagon standing there, his arms spread to the Heavens, a divine power crackling from his hands.

This was the power that Delilah had been seeking; the power of creation, the power of life over death.

This was the power that had to be shut off if they were going to survive this, but was that possible?

Remy knew this power; he had felt it exude from That which was his Creator. This was the power that had made the universe. . the power that had made him. . the power that had made them all.

It made him feel sick to see it being used in such a tawdry fashion. And he didn’t want to even think about how this creature had acquired it.

More and more of Remy’s comrades were falling, and as they fell and were torn apart by the vicious dead, they too rose to join the legions of the reanimated against their brethren. The dead were relentless in their attack.

Remy ejected an empty clip from his Colt, quickly snapping in the next in one fluid movement. He took down an old woman in a flowered nightgown, her white hair already speckled with blood and brains, even before two of the special bullets were unloaded into what remained of her face.

Their own number had dwindled by half, most of Delilah’s followers having already been taken to join the ranks of their attackers.

Automatic gunfire blared like staccato blasts of thunder as those who had managed to hold their own continued their struggle. Samson, his clothes torn and bloody, continuously lashed out, powerful blows falling upon the dead with the force to pulverize.

And still they kept coming.

Remy knew what he had to do, and though it was excruciating to admit, little else would suffice.

Reaching down beneath his human façade, he found the power of Heaven waiting, and he extended his hand.

I have need of you , Remy called, urging the power to come forth. And as it surged upward, his body flushing with the power of God, he felt it recede as quickly as it had arrived.

Remy was shaken, his body filled with the agony of his true nature repressed. He looked toward the ancient god whose gaze had fallen directly upon him.

“ I know what you are ,” the deity roared inside Remy’s head. “And you are not wanted here, warrior of Heaven.”

By now the dead were at him, so close, and so many, that his weapon could do little. The dead had him, dragging him down to the ground, the sickening stench of blood and decay flooding his nostrils enough to suffocate him. .

As the dead made great efforts to make him one of their own.

Delilah held the metal bowl against herself, moving the electric mixer around through the golden cake batter until all lumps had disappeared.

Satisfied, she turned the mixer off, ejecting the beaters onto a waiting paper towel from which she picked up one of them, hungrily licking the batter from the blades.

Perfect , she thought, enjoying the taste of the cake batter she had made from scratch. She spooned the thick contents of the bowl into the cake pan. Completely content in her actions—indeed, in her life—Delilah hummed a song, the name of which she did not know.

Right then she experienced a moment of perfect bliss. She couldn’t imagine life being any better.

Smoothing out the batter with a spatula, she opened the preheated oven and slid the cake inside to bake. Setting the timer, she prepared to clean up, and then get the dining room decorated for the party.

It was her youngest’s birthday. David was going to be six years old. He would be starting school this year, and she experienced a pang of sadness, which quickly went away when she felt the stirring of life in her protruding belly.

Five months pregnant , she thought with a smile as she laid her hands upon the material of her flowered maternity dress. She and her husband had assumed they were done with babies.

This thought made her laugh as she strolled from the kitchen toward the dining room. She could hear the kids going wild outside with their father, and she strolled over to the sliding glass door to see what they were all up to.

It was warm outside, and the kids were enjoying the pool, as well as squirt guns and the hose.

There were children everywhere she looked, and for a moment, she fought to catch her breath.

How many children do I have?

The thought was totally bizarre, and she had no idea where it came from. She had as many children as she had, and that was that.

A water balloon struck the glass door, exploding in wetness, and she instinctively screamed aloud, jumping back.

Her husband, Sam, was looking at her through the door, a huge smile upon his rugged face. Looking at him standing there, wearing only his shorts, his muscular body exposed, she could understand completely why they had as many children as they did.

She slid the door open a crack to speak to him.

“It’s a good thing for you I’m pregnant,” she said, shaking her fist.

He pretended to cower in fear, just as six of her children, three boys and three girls, between the ages of eight and twelve, attacked him with their own water artillery.

She laughed uproariously as she watched them chase her husband around the yard, shrieking at the top of their lungs, as he narrowly evaded being hit by the water-filled balloons.

Perfect , she said to herself, again thinking of her life and how absolutely rewarding and wonderful it all was. She couldn’t imagine it being any better.

Delilah sensed she wasn’t alone in the dining room, and she turned from the view of her family to see a little girl, no older than six, sitting on the floor beside her dining room table. The child rocked from side to side, staring ahead at something Delilah was not privy to see.

“Who are you, darling?” she asked, cautiously moving closer, not wanting to scare the little girl. “Are you here to play with the kids?” she asked.

The girl must’ve been one of her kids’ friends, but she didn’t recognize her from the neighborhood. The child said nothing, continuing to rock back and forth and to stare intensely ahead.

“Hey, are you all right?” Delilah asked her. “Do you. . do you want me to call your mommy?”

The girl suddenly sat up bolt straight, her eyes widening as if she were seeing something terrible.

“My mommy’s hurt,” she said, her voice rising to the level of a scream.

“Oh, honey,” Delilah said, grabbing hold of the back of one of the dining room chairs as she lowered herself down to the child’s level. It wasn’t as easy as it used to be with her belly growing so. .