Dead Horizon Read Online Free PDF Page B

had all been a great hoax? Had my mind played a trick? I thought not, but the proof of it seemed before me, illustrated by the vast emptiness of the dark, dank room around me.
    A man was never more eager than I to leave that unholy room. I turned on my heels, desperate for flight, and here I came face to face with the thing in the attic—a rotting corpse.
    I stood there, my mouth open in horror, staring at the cadaverous thing before me, its eyes black and degenerated, its skin thin and gray, like wet flower pasted over brittle bone. The jaw hung down, exposing rotted teeth and a black tongue like a bloated leech.
    I stepped back from the sheer horror of the sight, endeavoring to get as far away from the anomaly as possible. It came toward me, a leering grin upon its thin, twisted lips. My heart thumped madly. My blood ran like a flood-stricken river. There was no place for retreat. Had there been a window, I surely would have flung myself through it, even at the risk of broken bones or death.
    I pleaded with the thing, but it was of no use. It cocked its head to one side and advanced upon me, reaching out with gnarled fingers. I screamed without shame. The creature followed suit, matching my own wail with the same full intensity, though perhaps an octave lower. Our screams melded, creating a verbal obscenity that most certainly pierced the depths of Hell.
    My foot slipped at the opening of the trapdoor. I caught myself as I plunged through it, dangling above my desk, my feet searching madly for something solid upon which to rest. Just as the ghastly thing peered down at me with the curiosity of a child, I let myself fall to the desk top, sending books in every which direction.
    As I lay flat on the polished mahogany of my desk, the thing in the attic came down and bent over me. I could smell its rancid breath. I tried to get away, but my arms and legs were twisted at uncanny angles. My head swam and my sight grew dim, then I slipped into a black void that provided a welcome relief from reality.
    When next I was aware of my surroundings, I was pacing the attic as if it were my sacred domain, though I knew not for the life of me how I had managed to get there. Passing an old mirror with beautiful gold trim, I gazed upon the reflection it held. Complete horror gripped me, for the pale skin and bleak eyes of the thing in the attic stared back at me. . . .
     
     
     

Born Again
     
     
     
    He’d risen from the cold, dank earth, shaking off maggots like rainwater as he made his way through the cemetery. Others were rising too, but he didn’t care about them. He cared only about the home and family he’d left behind. He was sure they needed him. He could hardly wait to see the joy on their faces when he returned.
    Surely there would be joy.
    Others wandered the streets. So many lost souls. He kept moving. He had a purpose. He had somewhere he needed to be.
    There were noises. Gunshots. He remembered the sound. He remembered so many things. Being dead hadn’t changed any of that.
    Dead things falling around him, dying again.
    He kept moving, minding his own business. If he didn’t wander, no one would realize he was one of those who’d been born again. As best as he could tell, he was still in pretty good shape. His rotting flesh still covered most of his bones; his organs were mostly intact.
    He minded his business and kept moving.
    A truck roared past him. There were more gunshots. A bunch of yokels in back, throwing flaming bottles at a group of the newly risen dead—those, like him, who had been born again.
    He kept his head down and forced himself to walk.
    Not shamble, walk.
    The dead things (funny, he couldn’t quite include himself in this group) had a way of shambling. That was a funny word when you got right down to it. Say it. Listen to it roll off your tongue . . . shambling.
    Maybe if he could walk instead of shamble, just maybe no one would notice his clothes were moldering and the maggots clung to him no