Christopher Golden - The Nimble Man

Mr. Doyle took a long breath and let it out slowly. He pulled his pocket watch out by its chain, glanced at the time, and then slipped it back in. They had to go. There was no more time for discussion.

Julia must have seen it in his face, for she began to shake her head, her breath coming faster, in sharp hitches. "No. Not my boy," she said. Then she turned to her son. "You're wrong, Danny. Maybe part of you is what he says. But there isn't… I won't believe there's some kind of evil in you."

"That's just your mouth talking, Mom," Danny said softly. "You know what's true. I know you do."

The two of them were gazing at one another, Julia's heart breaking, when there was a soft whisper of noise, like the ocean in the distance. It ceased as abruptly as it had begun, but Conan Doyle glanced around, recognizing the sound.

Squire emerged from the shadows beneath the coffee table into the flickering candlelight.

"Brought them the limo, and the message," he reported.

"Thank you, Squire," Conan Doyle said. Then he nodded toward Julia. "Now, if you'll keep Mrs. Ferrick company, young Daniel and I have an appointment to keep."

Eve drove wildly down Beacon Street; wielding the limousine like a weapon of war, running down the bothersome dead, crushing them beneath its wheels. She couldn't have even begun to describe the satisfaction she felt.

"Tell me again why we let you drive?" Clay asked from the backseat, as the corpulent body of a naked man suddenly covered the windshield, pale rolls of decaying flesh pressed against the glass, obscuring what little they could see of the road ahead.

"Think of it as a reward for the good job you did in finding the Eye," Eve said, swerving the car in an attempt to dislodge their passenger. The zombie held on, its nubby, yellow teeth scraping the glass as it attempted to bite its prey.

"Fat son of a bitch," she growled. "How am I supposed to see what I'm hitting?"

Graves did not precisely sit, but rather lingered in the passenger seat beside her. Now the ghost leaned forward and reached through the windshield, his ectoplasmic arm easily passing through the glass and then through the chest of the obese man on the hood of the car. The animated corpse went rigid as Graves tore out its imprisoned soul, the spiritual essence writhing and wailing in his grasp. Graves let the soul swim free, but the corpse remained on the windshield.

"Great," Eve barked. "First I had a living dead guy blocking my view and now it's just a dead guy. That's such an improvement." Steering the car with one hand, she fumbled for her seatbelt. "This calls for drastic measures," she said, as she snapped her restraints into place. She shot Clay a glance in the rearview mirror. "Buckle up."

"What are you going to do?" He knitted his brows, clutched the mummified head of Eogain protectively beneath his arm, and struggled to strap himself in.

Eve pressed down on the accelerator, rocketing down Beacon through the blood-red mist. She watched the speedometer climb past eighty, feeling the car shimmy and shake, listening to the bumps and thumps, as it obliterated the obstacles in its path.

"Eve?" Clay asked again.

"That oughta do it," she hissed, squeezing the steering wheel in both hands.

She could feel Graves' cold, spectral stare upon her. "Perhaps you should slow down before — "

Eve stomped on the brake. The abrupt stop at that speed threw her forward. In the back, Clay grunted as he, too, was caught by his seatbelt. Graves was entirely unaffected. He studied her with cold detachment as the brakes screamed and the car fishtailed, spinning them completely around. But Eve had accomplished what she'd set out to do. The fat corpse flew off the hood of the limo, a missile of decaying flesh that collided with other shambling dead walkers, clearing a path through them.

"Extreme, but effective," Graves said, unruffled, floating just above the passenger seat.

Eve grinned as she banged a U-turn in the center of Beacon Street, crushing more of the dead beneath the wheels. "That's me in a nutshell."

The dead staggered through the blood-red fog. Some of them sensed the presence of the living and began to move toward the State House. On the steps of that grand structure, Conan Doyle tugged out his pocket watch and checked the time, wanting nothing more than to begin their attack, to get back into his home and discover whether or not Ceridwen still lived. He cursed under his breath and clicked the watch cover shut, then glanced out across Boston Common, ignoring the dead.

Danny Ferrick stood beside him on the stone steps. "Holy shit. Zombies," the boy said. "Real zombies. I mean, you did notice the zombies, right?"

The boy's voice cracked fearfully, but he held his ground as the walking dead began to ascend the steps toward them.

"Yes. I noticed them," Conan Doyle replied. He allowed himself a small smile. Danny was a brave boy. The rotting carcasses of these decrepit creatures had been returned to life against their will. Conan Doyle thought that perhaps when his own time came, at last, when the herbs and magicks of Faerie would no longer keep him alive, it might be best to be cremated.

The scent of the dead, the stink of grave rot, assailed his nostrils as they moved closer. Close enough that Conan Doyle could see the maggots that squirmed in their decaying flesh.

"Stand close to me, boy," he told Danny, and he extended his arms, pointing his open palms toward the advancing cadavers.

The spell flowed from his lips in guttural Arabic. Symbols etched in purple fire swirled up from his hands, increasing in number and size, flowing in a crackling wave toward the dead things upon the stairs.

One moment they were ascending and the next, as the fiery sigils touched them, they were no more, their decaying flesh and bone turned to trails of oily black smoke that became lost in the churning, scarlet mist.

"Damn, Mr. Doyle. That is wicked cool. Do you think I could ever learn to do something like that?" Daniel asked with admiration.

"Could you learn?" Conan Doyle repeated, "Yes. Will I ever teach you? I seriously doubt it."

"Why not?" the demon boy asked. "Afraid I'm going to use my super powers for evil or something?"

Conan Doyle simply stared at the boy. He could feel the arcane energies still coursing through his body, leaking from his eyes. And within Daniel Ferrick, he could sense an altogether different brand of Arcanum. "There is nothing at all amusing about that, young man. Do not make me doubt my decision to include you in this endeavor. We'll discuss your place in the greater scheme of things another time."

The boy avoided eye contact, choosing to look everywhere but at him. Conan Doyle watched at Danny's gaze grew wide and he pointed down the steps at the sidewalk below.

"There're more of them," the boy said.

Conan Doyle saw that he was right. More of the dead were appearing out of the mist, approaching the steps.

"Lots more," Danny added, his voice a rasp.

The corpses ambled out of the concealing fog, up onto the sidewalk and through the open gate that encircled the statehouse steps. One of the dead, little more than dirt-covered bones, tilted back its eyeless head and opened its mouth in a silent scream. Rich black earth, rife with squirming life, spilled from its gaping maw, and Conan Doyle prepared to summon another incantation to defend against this latest incursion.

He never released the spell. Just as he was about to raise his hands again, there came the shriek of rubber on pavement and the roar of an engine, and his limousine erupted from the bloodstained night, riding up over the curb onto the sidewalk, colliding with the zombie horde, splintering bones and scattering bits of their decaying corpses.