Metahumans vs the Undead: A Superhero vs Zombie Anthology Page 3

  “I saw your battle with the demon on the TV that last night.”

  “So?” Death said, continuing his search. “I imagine everyone did.”

  “You may believe you lost, but you didn’t. You destroyed it. It wasn’t your fault its taint got loose.”

  “Then who’s fault would it be, Anne? We were the last line of defense the world had.”

  “Some things just happen, ya know? Some things are meant to be . . . even the bad ones.”

  Death stood up and stared at her. “Drop it. I’m not going to ask you again.”

  “Or what? You’ll kill me? Ha. I don’t think so. That’s not who you are.”

  She was surprised as Death smiled at her. “I’ve killed more men than you could possibly imagine, little girl, and I’m not talking about this—” He gestured at the ruins of the city beyond. “Not all of them were evil. Some of them I killed in the name of the United States, others from pure rage, and some just to watch them die. The Angels weren’t heroes. We were misfits, freaks, and criminals. There was even a serial rapist on the original team. We weren’t pure-of-heart, white knights. We were just as screwed up as everyone else, likely more so. The government kept our existence a secret for as long as they could because if folks had really known who and what we were, people would have been just as terrified of us as the things we fought against.”

  “I didn’t say you were perfect,” she said. “I said you were a hero. You held the line when no one else could and gave it your all in the face of impossible odds.”

  “Maybe I was just trying to save my own tail. Did you ever think of that?”

  “Maybe . . . but I don’t think so. I can see the good in you.”

  “Trust me kid, there’s an awful lot of evil, too.”

  Night had fallen. A chorus of snarls and howls arose in the darkness outside the shop. The dead were coming. Death glanced into the street and Anne followed his gaze. She saw dozens and dozens of the creatures come rushing through the night toward the coffee shop. She also saw the fear in Death’s eyes and it shook her to the core.

  Death turned to face her. “I’m not as powerful as I once was. The taint has touched my soul like it has the world. You better run, kid.”

  Anne shook her head and reached down to retrieve her baseball bat from where it lay on the floor.

  “What are you doing?” he asked. “Get out of here while you can. I’ll hold them.”

  “See,” she said, “you are a hero.”

  Death scowled at her, but had no time to argue the point further.

  The dead reached the coffee shop. Death stood between the sea of snarling faces and Anne, blocking their way inside. Blue energy crackled up and down all over his body as his hands became glowing orbs of blue fire. Anne watched as he thrust both his hands forward with a painful cry as if he was using his very lifeforce to fuel the flame. A wave of fire so wide and powerful she felt its heat even behind him exploded outward into the street. The closest of the dead were completely vaporized as it slammed into them and continued on. The wave of fire washed over those who had been behind them, the cars, the nearby buildings, and just seemed to keep going. The night became a bright shade of blue and orange as the secondary explosions began. The cars erupted into sprays of burning metal and even the pavement melted before Death’s furious power. Anne didn’t know if it was fuel left in the tanks of the cars or an underground gas main, but the explosions boomed over and over as one seemed to set off the next. She hurled herself behind the shop’s counter, taking cover.

  The night was silent except for the crackle of the lingering fires in the street beyond when she poked her head up to check on Death. He still stood at the shop’s large window.

  “Death?” she called to him.

  He began to turn around, but stumbled as he did so. Death toppled sideways to the floor. Anne pulled herself to her feet and rushed to his side. Numerous shards of glass, half-melted metal, and blackened concrete protruded from his body. A small strand of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth.

  “Think I got them all?” he asked. The darkness of his eyes was different somehow. Their depth and coldness now just seemed . . . hollow.

  Still, Anne couldn’t help but giggle at his question. “You could say that.”

  Death grabbed her wrist. “Don’t fool yourself, girl. There will be more. There always is.”

  She didn’t know what to say.

  “You remind me a bit of another kid I once knew.” Death coughed. “Stupid, spunky, and full of themselves.”

  The pool of blood forming around his body continued to grow. Anne felt the wetness touch her knees and tried to hide the sickness that washed over her. The floor was wet and warm beneath her. She forced herself to keep calm and try to think rationally. “Can you move?”

  “I’m not going anywhere. At least not in this body.”

  “Yes, you are.” Tears welled up in her eyes, but she fought them down. “I can rig something together and carry you.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m broken and tainted.” His voice was like a whisper. “Do you want it, Anne?”

  “What?”

  “My power. The chance to be the hero you accuse me of being. I can see your soul. You can handle it if you stay strong. Take it and rebuild this world. It’s time hasn’t come yet. Humanity will survive if you help it.”

  Before she could answer, tendrils of darkness entwined with shafts of light snaked outwards from Death’s flesh and wrapped over her arm. Anne screamed as they worked their way up to her shoulder; like a spear they plunged into her heart.

  When she woke up, Anne found herself lying on the floor clutching a skeletal hand. It belonged to what remained of Death, which was nothing but bones and tattered clothes. The sun was high in the sky and the haunting howls of more of the dead as they prowled the city rose the distance. Their cries echoed among the buildings. Somehow the things must have overlooked her in the night. Either that or Agent Death’s power had protected her. But it was hers now, wasn’t it?

  A smile spread over her lips.

  Anne found she was no longer afraid of the dead. Unimaginable power flowed through her veins. She knew impossible things and the truth of Heaven and Hell themselves. Somehow part of Agent Robert Death was inside of her. She understood what life must have been like for him even before the taint. The Light and Dark warred within her very soul for control of her actions. She was no longer limited to this mortal world. With but a thought, she could leave it for the world beyond.

  Slowly, she got to her feet and stared at her hands. Blue lightning danced and snapped between her fingers. Anne promised herself then and there that this world would live again. There were others still alive out there . . . and they needed a hero.

  Anne stepped into the charred, black and melted portion of the street outside the shop and stared at up the buildings around her. A growl came from the alleyway to her right as the dead sprang their trap. Creatures emerged from the ruins all around her. With a grin, she stood ready to face them. It was as good a time as any to start her crusade.

  “Come on,” she called to them. “Let me show you what I got.”

  Hellfire roared and blue lightning crackled and danced from her palms, frying rotted flesh, as shouts of excited glee filled the early morning below the cloudless sky above.

  Knight of the Zombies

  by

  J.B. Robb

  For the first few months, whispers had followed the man with the cart wherever he went.

  The cart itself appeared ordinary. It was made of wood, its close-fitted joints held together by pegs. Its two twelve-spoke wheels were five feet high and rimmed with iron. The load bed was made up of wide boards almost seven feet long, with the joints covered by battens. Its sides rose three feet above the bed, vertical posts with lath woven through them, giving it the appearance of a large wicker basket on wheels. There was a seat at the front, lower than normal, and perhaps because of this it was farther back than normal, intruding into t
he load bed. It carried whatever the lord abbot needed moved from time to time among the abbey and the village churches within the lord abbot’s wide holdings.

  The man who drove it, known as Old Jack, was not entirely commonplace. He looked like he might once have been a fighting man, but if so, those days were long behind him. He wore no armor and carried no weapon. The tunic he wore over his shirt was of brown homespun, as was his cowl: a hood with a short cape to protect his head and shoulders from the elements. From beneath the hood a lock of iron-gray hair occasionally escaped. Although he was tall he had a shrunken look to him, as if a once-powerful build had wasted away. When he walked, as he did when the cart was heavily laden, his stiff left leg gave him a rocking gait.

  The horse that drew the cart was most unusual indeed. The magnificent black stallion, said those who boasted a knowledge of horses, was a courser. Such an animal was worth but a fraction of the cost of a destrier, it was true, but even so a courser was a good war horse, suitable for tourney and battle both, and had no place between the poles of a humble cart.

  So for the first few months, wherever the cart went, villagers and the highborn alike whispered amongst themselves. Eventually, it was the village priests, whose churches were the waypoints and the destinations for the cart’s comings and goings, who finally provided the explanation so eagerly sought by all.

  Word soon spread the man had indeed been a man-at-arms long ago, the hero of some minor battle long forgotten. Crippled from wounds and no longer able to fight, he had wandered from village to village taking whatever work he could find. The lord abbot, seeing potential in the man, had taken him on. He had learned the smith’s trade and had worked at the abbey for many years, but as of late an illness had taken his strength. Forced again to abandon his trade, he now earned his keep driving the lord abbot’s cart.

  The horse was indeed a courser, the priests explained, but from the first he had shied from lance and sword, and went mad with fear from the smell of blood. The lord who had owned the animal could use it neither for battle nor for sport, and was unwilling to use it as breeding stock lest it pass on its unwarlike attributes to its offspring. Deciding that it was best to mitigate his losses, he had traded the horse to the abbey. The lord abbot had put the powerful horse between the poles of the cart, where it was equal to the heaviest load the cart itself could handle.

  Once all knew the story, Old Jack and his cart became an accepted part of daily life.

  Still, much to the story had yet to be told.

  The cart creaked along the forest road, empty but for a foot of straw in the back and a small but sturdy oaken chest, reinforced with iron, sitting beside Old Jack on the seat. It had been a lovely spring morning, sunny and warm, but now the sky was besieged with dark clouds that threatened rain. This, together with the shade from the newly-greened trees, gave mid-afternoon the appearance of twilight.

  Old Jack was little surprised when the men stepped onto the road in front of him. There were five of them, their garb an obvious attempt at uniform dress although no two of them were clothed identically. They were a tough and capable-looking lot, armed with an assortment of weapons—one with a bow, two with staves, one with a mace, and one with a sword. The latter, who alone among them wore a helmet, was obviously their leader, and it was he who spoke.

  “Last week you carried a full load of pottery from the abbey to the market fair, and now you return empty except for that strongbox. I’m thinking it’s full of coin from the selling of all that pottery.”

  “And if it is?”

  “Then we will be taking it.”

  “You would steal from the Church?” Old Jack made it half a question, half an accusation.

  “Without hesitation or remorse,” came the reply, which was obviously the motto of the little band.

  Old Jack looked each of the men in the eye, and each grinned and nodded his agreement.

  “On your heads be it, then,” Old Jack said with a sigh as he pushed the strongbox sideways off the seat of the cart. In that moment, as all eyes followed its descent, he reached up and pulled the front edge of his cowl down over his face until it touched his chin, and immediately let it go.

  The transformation was nearly instantaneous. Old Jack thrilled to the sensation as the years dropped away like a discarded garment, the aches and pains of old age replaced by the strength and energy of youth.

  His external appearance changed as well. His cowl disappeared. In its place was a great helm, a steel cylinder with a flat top that covered his entire head, with slits for vision and breathing. His tunic was gone as well, replaced by a white surcoat blazoned with a red cross. Beneath the surcoat were a hauberk and chausses of mail, and gauntlets protected his hands.

  Reaching under the seat of his cart, he pulled a sword and a dagger from the secret compartment beneath the floorboards. The compartment also held a kite-shaped shield, but he decided that for this fight he was better off without it. Then he leaped forward off the cart, landing on the back of the courser. The cart poles fell away as harness became saddle and bridle, and he seized the reins in his left hand as his feet found the stirrups.

  “It’s the Crusader,” cried the leader of the outlaw band. “At him, lads!”

  The Crusader rode him down. As the man fell screaming beneath the courser’s hooves, the Crusader took a backhanded swing at the outlaw with the mace, who fell with a mortal wound where neck met shoulder.

  Wheeling his horse, he lined up the two men armed with quarterstaves, aiming his horse slightly to the left of the first man. He in turn ran at the Crusader, holding his staff as if it was a lance. The Crusader parried the staff away easily with his sword, and his riposte nearly took off the man’s head.

  The fourth opponent moved to his right, to the Crusader’s off hand, and holding his staff near the end, took a two-handed swing at the mounted warrior’s back. Without conscious thought, the Crusader shifted his sword into his left hand and blocked the blow. Seizing the end of the staff in his right hand, he tucked it under his left arm and wheeled his horse to the left, ripping the staff from his opponent’s grip. Then he shifted his grip on the staff, drew it back, and threw it like a spear. It found its mark, striking the bandit squarely between the eyes.

  The Crusader looked around for the last man, seeing him just as he loosed an arrow from his bow. The shaft struck the Crusader squarely at the center of the cross on his surcoat. It failed to penetrate his mail, and ended up hanging from the surcoat with the arrowhead inside. Seeing this, the bowman wheeled and ran toward the woods, where a man on a horse would have difficulty following. The Crusader took up his dagger and let it fly. It struck the fleeing man between his shoulder blades and he fell forward, clawing at his back with both hands but unable to reach the dagger with either.

  The Crusader dismounted and walked to where the bowman had fallen. He reached down and pulled the dagger from the wretch’s back. He took a moment to assess the wound; judging it mortal, he walked back to the road to check the rest of the fallen. All were dead but the leader, who lay on his back near the cart, his chest crushed.

  “Mercy,” he gurgled.

  “May God grant you mercy,” the Crusader replied as he thrust the dagger up under the man’s shattered ribs.

  The strongbox lay in the shallow ditch beside the road, undamaged by the fall.

  “Best to do this while I’m still young and strong,” the Crusader said, although none but his horse could hear his words.

  He lifted the strongbox without effort and replaced it on the seat. Next, he checked the right wheel of his cart. The hub appeared to bear a golden mark in the shape of a sword, its pommel at the center of the hub and its blade pointing up and to the left.

  “An hour, or perhaps a little more,” the Crusader muttered to himself. There had been so much work for him lately.

  He removed the helm from his head. The years fell on Old Jack like a great yoke upon his shoulders. Helm, surcoat and mail disappeared. The arrow remained, hanging f
rom his tunic. He snapped the shaft in two and removed the head from the inside, rather than risk enlarging the hole. He reached up and took the top of his cowl between his fingers, feeling the scrap of leather that was sewn within, and gave thanks that it had done its job again.

  The scrap of leather was from the Scabbard of Excalibur, an artifact no less wondrous than the sword itself. It had given the wearer eternal youth, enhanced his speed, strength and stamina, and protected him from wounds. It had made King Arthur unbeatable until Morgan le Fay had stolen it from him and thrown it into a lake. The lord abbot had discovered it many years ago, within a heap of clay destined for the potter’s wheel. The scabbard had disintegrated, but not before the lord abbot recognized it for what it was. He had been able to salvage two scraps of leather that had been preserved by the clay. One of these was sewn into Old Jack’s cowl. The other was within the hub of the right wheel of the cart. The motion of the wheel created the energy that remained in the scabbard, enabling it to confer the powers it still had.

  Its residual powers were still miraculous, but limited. The scabbard could restore Old Jack’s youth, further increase his physical prowess, and protect him at least as well as the finest armor. It also caused others to see Old Jack as he had been at the height of his abilities, with a crusader’s armor and knightly accouterments, including saddle and bridle when he was mounted.

  This effect was at once real and illusory. The magic artifacts looked and functioned as though real, but had no more weight than the clothing they replaced. This gave the Crusader an even greater advantage in mobility than his enhanced strength and speed alone would have done. Further, although others saw the helm, he did not, which eliminated the restricted vision problem that was the great helm’s main disadvantage.

  The other limit to the scabbard’s powers was time, for after a time it ceased to function until its power was renewed. Old Jack had found through experience that a full day’s travel, about twelve hours, gave him an hour of time. Only the Crusader could see the golden mark on the cart’s right wheel, by which he could judge how much longer the scabbard could maintain him in that state. However, as Old Jack, he was unable to see the golden mark just like everyone else.