Witch Island (29 page)

He’d managed to take out three with his .30-30 rifle, his speed and former military training proving handy. The fourth, however, grabbed him. Man and zombie wrestled, slamming into walls and thrashing about, sending empty bottles and cardboard boxes sailing. During the struggle Bill dropped the rifle, his hand slipping up high and grazing the creature’s mouth. He felt the nauseous sting of rotten, infected teeth puncture his skin. The zombie held on like a pitbull, biting down with ferocious force, taking a large chunk of Bill’s fleshy hand.
 

He needed to chop off his infected arm before it managed to spread, but the zombie wanted more of his flesh.
 

Bill dove, grabbed his rifle from the floor and managed to get the weapon under the creature’s jaw. He pulled the trigger and sent a splattering of brain and skull matter to the ceiling. The zombie’s left eye went dim, but the right was still aglow. The creature attacked, slamming its fist into his temple as he got another shot off, blasting its right eye to hell. The creature slumped to the floor like it was made of blubber, but the impact from its punch sent Bill flying backward. He bashed his head against the countertop’s jagged edge, knocking him unconscious.
 

He awoke four hours later; amputation of the infected area no longer an option. The sickness had had enough time to spread throughout his body.
 

The disease, or virus, was spread through the blood stream, killing cells as it traveled. He’d bandaged the wound, hoping there was a chance he’d be okay, but that evening his joints were already aching. By the next morning he found it difficult to move his limbs, experiencing the beginnings of living rigor mortis. He hadn’t told his daughter; the thought of her alone in the world was horrifying.
 

Since the planet’s initial outbreak, in 2020, Bill had been keeping a journal of their travels, sights and methods of survival. And since returning from town, he’d spent his time writing down everything he could for his daughter. Every military tip he could think of, adding precise details for fishing, boiling water, cooking meat and hunting. Tears fell on the paper as he wrote, blurring some of the words.
 

When Riley was awake, he spent every second with her while teaching her the basics of self preservation, and giving her as much love as he could. She was only twelve.
 

She had asked him why his hair was falling out, if he was feeling all right, and why he looked so weak. And every time she asked a question, he would answer the same, telling her not to worry and that he’d be okay.
 

Alone, the food would last her eight months. He’d already taught her how to shoot; a necessity for surviving in a world gone to hell. Her shoulder, from practicing over time, had hardened, making the rifle’s impact no longer a problem. Bill’s time was up.
 

“Daddy’s going away,” he said, her azure eyes locking onto his. He stared into the extension of himself, the female version, her silky dark hair hanging off her shoulders like angel hair spaghetti.
 

“When will you be back?” she asked, gripping his hand, worried.
 

He was sweating, the fever reaching delirium levels.
 

“I’m sick, baby. I don’t have any time left.” He paused, holding back tears. “Everything is prepared, a bit rushed but ready, nonetheless. You don’t have to worry about food or water for some time.”
 

His head ached as if a hammer pounded at it. He was having a difficult time concentrating. “Wait here,” he said, getting up off the bed. He walked over to the mirror hanging on the wall; his reflection was sickening, as if staring into the face of a severely burned radiation victim. His hair was almost gone, with strands poking about in patches. Blackened teeth lined his bleeding gums; his eyes were sunken in and hollowed out revealing the skull beneath. The face he looked upon so many mornings was now an unfamiliar gaunt mess, void of color and lined with sweat.
 

“I have to go now,” he said, turning to his daughter. He was amazed at how little she’d asked about his condition as it worsened hour by hour. She had believed him when he told her not to worry.
 

“No, Daddy,” Riley cried, jumping off the bed, running to him and wrapping her arms around his torso. Bill let her have her last good-bye before pushing her away.
 

He had thought about telling her how truly special she was, but what was the point? Riley was twelve and would be hitting puberty soon. He had no idea what would happen then. Nothing about her condition was known for certain, and telling her could lead to her doing something careless. So he decided it was best to keep her past a secret. She needed to be on her toes, cautious.
 

“I love you, Riley. Always and forever.” He turned, grabbed the rifle—knife attached to his belt—and left, closing the door behind him.
 

He limped, brushing aside prickly pines and bare branches, leaving a dogged trail through the snow-covered forest. His right leg dragged as it refused his commands. When he made it to the grave he turned and stood with his back to it.
 

If done correctly he should fall backward, collapsing and breaking through the branches he placed across the hole. The forest leaves, twigs and other debris should cover him enough. He didn’t want his daughter burying him or seeing his dead body when she came for the rifle. He’d left her with the .38 snubnose revolver. A nice piece for close encounters, but she’d need the rifle for hunting and long-ranged defense.
 

He picked up a small branch and bit down on it before raising the knife to his left eye and jabbing himself with the tip. The eyeball ruptured, its juices exploding like a jelly-filled balloon. He moaned, wanting to scream from sheer terror, but his daughter might hear.
 

With blood and eye fluid leaking down his cheek, he spit out the piece of wood. He placed the rifle against his good eye and pulled the trigger, knowing his daughter was special and would be fine.
 

Only he can stop the gates of Hell from opening wide.

Damaged Souls

© 2013 David Bernstein

John Crawford wasn’t able to deal with the pain and took the easy way out. At least he thought he did. Instead, he’s been offered a deal by a nightmarish creature and given a second chance at life. But he’s no longer human. And he’s been assigned an impossible task. He must kill a demon before it opens the gates of Hell and brings about the apocalypse. If John succeeds, the human race will be safe and he can become human again. If he fails, mankind will perish and he will be lost for all eternity.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Damaged Souls:

The demon ran through the woods of Black Rock Mountain, just outside of the small hamlet known as Salisbury Mills, a small town located in Upstate New York. The hell-fiend’s powers were weak. It had to use them to defend itself against the throng of villagers that were chasing after it.

The demon had taken over the body of a local farmer, a sick and twisted man who enjoyed killing children. The human had been easy pickings, and perfect for the fiend. But the demon had lost control and was careless, killing too many, too close to home.

The murder spree had been euphoric, its favorite body parts there for the taking. Oh, how it reveled in the pain of others. It had gained the attention of the townsfolk and its constable, a man with a keen nose for solving murder.

The demon heard the villagers’ footfalls and the snapping of branches as the townspeople pursued it. With the Sinerth, the tome of suffering, in its possession and knowing its time would be up soon, the demon headed for the shack where it had brought its victims—the place it had built the ceremonial chamber.

Bursting through the door, it only had minutes to hide the book. It stepped over the corpses it had acquired, the five bodies positioned to form a pentagram. The place was rank with the odor of blood, the metallic smell exciting the fiend. Seeing what it had almost accomplished—the bodies, the altar, the blood bowls—the demon cursed itself. It had been so close to fulfilling its duty.

Opening the ancient tome, a book made from human and demon flesh, the fiend read a spell of resurrection. The fiend felt its power drain further, the spell a powerful one. Then using the blood in one of the sacrificial bowls, it splashed each corpse on the head and poured the remaining blood onto the page containing the spell. Black smoke sizzled from the parchment and rose into the air, spreading out like a swarm of agitated bees. The dark cloud broke into five separate funnels, then shot into each of the corpses’ mouths.

“Come out, demon,” the town’s priest demanded.

Torchlight flickered against the shack’s windows, through which the demon saw the angry mob. Standing beside the priest was the constable, a rugged and hardened man from the town. Most of the villagers carried farmers’ tools, axes, pitchforks and sickles, but a few had double-barrel shotguns.

The demon couldn’t hope to survive, but the book would at least be safe until the creature returned. How ever long that might be, it did not know, but unlike
this
time, it wouldn’t have to wander the countryside looking for the tome. It would know where to go, having secured it properly, and would be able to go to work on its task and redeem itself, for surely its master would be furious at its failure.

The dead bodies rose to their feet, standing before the demon, ready to do its bidding. Pointing to the door, it commanded the undead to attack the villagers and keep them at bay for as long as possible. The soulless things exited the shack, fear unknown to them.

Gunshots rang out. Villagers screamed.

With the townsfolk occupied, the demon had time to hide and secure the book. In the far corner of the building, it wrapped the tome in an enchanted cloth, a cloth that would help keep the book’s powers at bay, yet still allow the thing to be active.

Next, the fiend pulled up a set of the floorboards and placed the book inside before replacing the planks of wood. With the book covered and out of its grasp, the demon grew even weaker, having used most of its strength to raise the dead.

The gunshots had stopped.

“Burn the unholy place,” one of the villagers yelled, and the entire crowd began chanting.

“Burn! Burn! Burn!”

The demon heard the thuds of the villagers’ torches as the flaming sticks collided against the shack’s walls and roof, hoping to turn the place into nothing more than a pile of ash. But the building wouldn’t burn—no, and the demon knew this—for the ancient tome protected its place of rest. Not wanting to take a chance that the villagers would venture inside, the demon ran outside, stopping a few feet from the lawman.

The crowd went quiet.

The priest began reading from the Good Book.

The demon felt the man’s words pierce its flesh, like thousands of needles puncturing its skin. It was too weak to flee or fight, and the man was a true believer. At full strength it could have silenced him, ripped out his tongue and eaten it.

Fighting through the pain, the demon laughed.

Can two kids alone stop a monstrous evil?

The Tree Man

© 2014 David Bernstein

Women and children have been mysteriously disappearing from Evan’s town.
 
And now Evan may know why.
 
He was climbing a tree in the woods when he saw a decrepit old man toss a helpless woman into the mouth of a hideous tree-like creature.
 

Evan knows he can’t stop the man and the creature by himself, but he also knows no one will believe a kid with such a wild story.
 
Only his best friend, Peter, can help him confront this terrifying evil.
 
But if they aren’t careful, they will soon be missing too.
 

Enjoy the following excerpt for
The Tree Man:

A decrepit-looking, elderly man, skin hanging from his bones like loose rubber bands, wearing a flannel shirt and shabby blue jeans, dragged the body of a screaming woman through the woods. The man’s appearance didn’t match his inhuman strength. The woman thrashed around, but the man marched on, unaffected. She was bloodied and full of gashes. Her cobalt-colored dress was shredded, exposing her hot-pink panties and bra. Many of her fingernails were missing, leaving only raw and exposed meat, but the few remaining were painted a brilliant scarlet.

The man passed through thorn bushes, but never bled or gave the slightest suggestion that they bothered him.

He approached a cultivated hayfield, halting just inside the tree line. Summer winds blew, swaying the lazy grains of hay in unison as if caught in a melodic trance.

The field was rectangular in shape, extending like an airport runway to his left, before abruptly ending at the base of Black Rock Mountain. The forest picked up again a quarter mile across, the direction he was heading.

The woman’s monotonous screams became audible pleadings. She wanted to negotiate, to strike a deal, but the man wouldn’t hear of it. He let go of her ankle, walked up to her teary-eyed face, and nonchalantly kicked her in the forehead. Her head jerked violently back and forth, as if spring-loaded, and she fell silent. Her long blonde hair, caked with briars, dirt, and leaves, lay over her face, covering it like a misplaced wig. If the man had wanted, he could have kicked her head clean off her shoulders. Grabbing an ankle, the man continued into the golden field.