Hotel of Madness Page 4

  “You’re a zombie, ain’tcha.” Lucky for me, I keep that thought to myself as other creatures shamble out the room. Their slow, awkward gait doesn’t hide the predatory danger they pose. They could chase me down before I have time to scream.

  “Fuck.”

  The Multiverse has a variety of ways to screw you. Most of these ways usually boil down to something older than the formation of the stars and big enough to be called a God that wants to num-num your universe. Now usually, for said God to do this, he, she, or it needs to squeeze itself into our reality, usually with the help of an invitation from a helpful idiot and merry group of friends.

  Lacking said invitation, you can always just push your way through if the barrier between reality and unreality is getting thin. How does that happen, you may ask? Well, if you’re stupid enough to base your entire society around using necromancy the way Americans use fossil fuels, cough *Atlantis* cough, then you too can achieve a universe with a barely functioning border fence between you and the Old Ones.

  So, where do zombies come into play? Going to have to rack my brain, most of my past lives, and even alternative reality versions of myself for that one.

  Ok, not really…you see, some things I’d prefer to assume don’t exist. Vampires, werewolves, and zombies, to name a few. Not because they can’t exist, but because I choose to decline all requests to hunt things generally well represented in pop culture.

  Normally if something comes over from the other side, it has to conform to our reality, and the best way it does that is by matching the locals’ expectations of what a num-num monster is supposed to look like. Those expectations tether it to our world, as opposed to being formless blobs of ego and hunger, which is why they tend to establish M.O.s to further bind them as permanent fixtures of our reality. Hence the tendency for lesser otherworldly beings to snack exclusively on children; impressionable minds are more willing to conform to what the monster actually is without putting up much of a fuss.

  However, it doesn’t take much juice to assume the M.O. of something we already believe in. And what do we already love? Zombies, Werewolves, and Vampires. It is only luck and coincidence that most self-respecting Lings and Daemons would rather not materialize and masquerade as Edward Cullen. There is also the small fact that this occurred coincidentally in the same room as where the Necronomicon was in.

  “What did you dumbasses do?” I grumble under my breath as I back up slowly. Not sure how it finds what it wants to eat, but to fight, I need a weapon, and super strength is not one of my skillsets. So in hindsight, running is definitely an option. So is stealing a phone, calling the League, the Feds, or maybe the Maryland National Guard, and hoping the best.

  But while I contemplate saving myself, three room doors swing open, and people stumble out, wondering who or what was screaming earlier. The zombies, now steadily spilling out of room 12321 and into the hallway, converge on the poor bastards. A wave of bodies blocks my view of the people getting torn to pieces. But I can hear them being shredded, which is, by several magnitudes, worse.

  So run! But by doing so, I might as well add everyone on this floor to the army of the undead... If I’m going to fight, it’ll have to be now while there’s still only two dozen of them. Even if I call for help right now, it won’t arrive until these things are literally pulling people out of cars on the highway.

  No, I can make a difference. The book is another matter, one that I’m quickly losing track of. Focus. Focus and find a weapon.

  The mangled soul of the two cops Derek destroyed is more than enough to work with. I’d like to think I regret eating their souls, but I’ve visited the afterlife. There is none, by the way, so they’re better off doing me this one favor.

  Fuck! I have no choice but to self-cast with the things masquerading as zombies eating people, body and soul.

  Self-casting is necromancy minus the middle man. You squeeze juice from your own soul instead of drinking it from an available outside source. Humans can’t “eat” Other, i.e., souls, directly, so self-casting is usually reserved for small-time magic, compulsions, mind-reading, third eye, etc. Usually, you can replenish what you burnt naturally with rest, but sometimes you run the risk of spending more than you currently have, and much like a debit card, the overdraft fees can kill you. So one solution is wards, which are good ways to extend your reserves, being very cheap and easy to make. But they do jack shit when it comes to replenishing your reserves, and you can burn through half a dozen by accident before you even realize it. So another solution revolves around creating items that can aid in the digestion of souls directly, i.e., my knife.

  Not just any knife, but a knife from Atlantis, the first and only Necromantic superpower. A keepsake from when a predecessor jumped to this dimension, which has been passed down three times so far. Not as good as, say, a Trident, but it’s a legal sidearm in most parts of the world, so I don’t complain. Which is to say, as long as I remember where I left the rental car and assuming said car hasn’t been towed or otherwise moved, I can link two points in space and—

  It hits me like a defensive lineman. I’m driven to the ground before I register by what or how. For a brief second, awareness of my incoming doom crosses my mind before a sharp nauseating pain is all there is; the thing’s face is buried in my neck, its teeth chomping away at skin and muscle. A wordless scream escapes my lips, and I almost give up the ghost until something hungry and angry kicks into high gear.

  The “King of Atlantis” geas/protocol/destiny entanglement roars into action, and I roar with it. Jabbing the knife into the base of its neck, I instinctively drive the shark tooth-like blade through the opposite end of the zombie’s neck. The zombie slows down but not by enough, so I stab him through the ear and twist the knife to give the brain a good scramble. The zombie’s jaw goes slack, then chomps down even harder on my neck.

  “Oh fuck this!” I stab its neck, its ribs, its brain, its midsection in rapid succession before it finally stops moving.

  I heave it off me and roll to a combat position. Sweat and blood drip off me, but nothing else comes running around the corner. Slightly disappointed, I feel for my wound and thank Cthulhu that the stars aligned, and I summoned my knife and not some other version of it in the Multiverse. Self-casting comes with the small risk of eating your own soul if you get the math wrong, and calling for an interdimensional taxi for a soul-eating combat knife is the sort of thing that’ll do that.

  I step around the corner and observe that the evil dead appear to have high-tailed it. Not sure what their response to sensing necromancy should have been, but I’m getting rather uncomfortable with the thought that zombies know how to throw distractions.

  Fuck.

  The bite marks hurt like a bitch. Something tells me I should examine my kill while I have the chance.

  “O-k…”

  So rule one, whether you ask George Romero or whoever made 21 Days Later, a headshot does the trick. But this fucker tanked three or four. Bending down gingerly, I look over the body and see the problem.

  First, the poor kid is wearing a Bible-black t-shirt. Not a good way to go. Second, beyond the rapid decomposition, the corpse is human. No extra eyes, arms, mouths, finger digits. Not even a third leg, which leads me to my third observation. I lick the blood of the knife and—

  “Oh God, that’s bad!”

  Tasting the blood of a freshly turned zombie is terrible but not being human by the strictest definitions gives me some advantages. While most people would be turning into zombies right now, I just have a very sore shoulder and chemically burnt tongue. I wouldn’t advise doing that again, but the information gathered was almost worth it.

  This thing was created when the bacterial colonies that usually live inside the human body were somehow swapped for their equivalent cousins from beyond the veil. Predictably the alien microorganisms find their new environment quite hospitable to their version of life, so they quickly overwhelm this kid’s immune system and start eating his br
ain. On the outside, he may look relatively normal beyond the obvious signs of decomposition, but on the inside? Something very, very not human once the new bacteria settled into the roles needed to keep this body autonomous after the internal organs have been liquified. I doubt very much of a brain is left in this thing which is probably why going for the head barely slowed it down.

  Maybe a few good hard swings with a metal baseball bat or some generous double tapping would do the trick. This is, of course, assuming it still needs a brain to function as the central nervous system or even has a central nervous system.

  Yeah, this is very manageable.

  Madness Interlude

  It may sound like I have shifting priorities, but there is a perfectly reasonable explanation why I’m checking room 12312 again.

  The Necronomicon can still be in there, and assuming I can’t stop the zombie apocalypse, getting that book out of the wild is a win. Trust me, there are far worse things that can be accidentally released on humanity than flesh-eating zombies.

  Now room 12312 was probably a good place to host a party. Was, because currently, the floors and walls and ceilings are painted in an unhealthy varnish of dried blood with a bit of spoiling meat and flesh to add to the overall ambiance and smell. Carefully, I step over the corpse of a small woman whose body was torn to literal pieces. Her torso is separated from her waist, and her right arm hangs loosely from her shoulder socket while her entire spine is visible.

  “Not enough meat to revive, huh?”

  I spoke too soon. It almost gets the opportunity to reach for my ankle before I stab it through the crown of its head. I give the shark tooth blade time to eat the little buggers animating her insides, watching the zombie thrash weakly as I pin it to the floor. Eventually, life runs out, and the thing settles down.

  Slowly I remove the blade, and cautiously I resume my search. The last thing I want is to be ambushed. Base immunity to being turned is one thing. Being ripped to pieces for blood and meat is another. Rethinking the empty hallway I crept through, I decide it’s likely the majority of the zombies were following the people who could run away. Most likely, the bugger that almost got me left the room late and was investigating the next interesting thing.

  Or something else entirely. Focus on finding the book, Arthur. It shouldn’t be hard. The smell of ozone leaks from the bedroom, a faint smell compared to everything else but a distinct one all the same. Sufficiently powerful necromancy tends to burn the air around it. A nose for that smell is the sign of a good Necromancer. Well, the ones still alive anyway.

  A good sign of necromantic activity is when common appliances stop working; phones, outlets, anything battery-powered. The bedroom lights aren’t working, and minus a phone, the only good view inside is coming from the ambient light behind me. This is a sign of an inexperienced caster; if you get the math wrong, the “fuel” gotta come from somewhere. But usually, that fuel is you. So not finding the dried husk of the caster is disappointing. And no Necronomicon.

  I inspect the room. Maybe I’ll find a summoning circle? Nope. Or maybe those useless herb bags those Wiccans carry around with them? None of that either. That would have made a half-decent point of reference for a scry.

  Then something catches my attention as I leave through the alternate exit. The bedroom spills into the bathroom, but the bathroom has a door separating the toilet and sink from the shower. The door is closed, but it clearly looks like it was almost broken down from the outside. The frame barely holds it on. So I knock on the door.

  I hear muffled voices at first, then some scrambling and “shsssssh” before one survivor shouts, “Are they gone?!” under a collective chorus of “Oh my God!” and “Fuck you, Brittany!”

  I roll my eyes, “I wouldn’t say you're safe, but I’m not a zombie, in case you're wondering.”

  The door bursts open as the girls scramble over each other to leave the confined space. Going by the smell, one or two of them didn’t take the near-death situation too well. One of the girls, who I can only imagine was a scary version of Harley Quinn earlier, speaks up first;

  “Are they gone?”

  “No.”

  “Than how did you—”

  “Otherside of the hallway,” I say, looking the three women up and down. I see a blonde (the Harley), a brunette (some kinda cheerleader), and a small Asian girl (I have no idea) who's seen better days. “Normally, I would ask you what happened here, but,” l look around the destroyed restroom, “I’ve already got a pretty good idea.”

  “Wait!” The Harley reaches for me as I try to go. I move away from her hand and resist the urge to threaten her with my knife. Killing zombies by eating their souls is nice and all, but the extra energy has me effectively juiced on necromantic steroids. The kind of ‘roids that awaken an inner eldritch hunger for more souls, more death. And though I’m not liable to stab her, simply touching me would be enough for my baser nature to take a quick nibble.

  “You're going to leave us?” demands the dismayed Harley.

  “That’s the plan.”

  “You're not going to help us?” adds the cheerleader, her voice cracking due to her renewed sense of panic.

  “Do I look like a firefighter? A cop? EMS?”

  They shake their heads no.

  “If you want to survive, either stay in the bathtub or run to the stairs.” I gesture to the opposite end of the hallway the zombies no doubt ran to. “My advice, take your chances.”

  “Where are you going?” The Asian girl speaks up. For some reason, I recognize her as the alpha.

  “Nowhere, in particular. Got a book to find, and it’s not here.”

  I turn to run, but I stop and remember something.

  “Have you called 911?” Actually, cops would at least slow this down a bit… assuming the first ones to respond can call for backup in time.

  They all huddle around the cheerleader working her iPhone. I wait patiently for the start of the 911 dispatch before confusion spreads on the group's faces.

  “Busy…” The cheerleader's face is ashen. Her friends grab her before she loses her grip on reality.

  “Can I see that?”

  The Harley hands me her friend's phone as she sinks to the floor. As they counsel her, I try a few numbers.

  Feds, Leagues, and my adopted grandmother all ring busy. I look up the local Dominos, and that also rings busy.

  “Too early for that trope.” So I call one number that I remember.

  “Derek.”

  “Arthur… I—”

  I hang up. I don’t have time to be hexed again. The phone rings, and I look at it with my third eye and see the Other flowing into it. A part of me is almost curious how he managed to figure that out before I realize the answer button is clicking itself and promptly smash the phone against the wall and ram my shark tooth knife through the casing.

  “What the fuck, man!” The cheerleader jumps, her mind seemingly recovering after seeing her i-appendage get ruined. To her credit, I would have responded the same way.

  Hands up, I try to explain myself, “Look, you really didn’t want that call to go through.”

  Her friends are fuming with her (trivial anger triumphs over fear once again), and a part of me wants to help them escape this scenario, but I wouldn’t put money on them making it to the lobby. “Alright, let me level with you. I am what you call a caseworker. Necromancy is my trade.”

  I watch their facial expressions change slowly from anger to what to fuck. “The zombies weren’t my doing, but I have a lead on who is responsible, and I’m going to need to get going to take care of them. So sorry about your phone—”

  “Stacy.”

  “Stacy? Ok, you definitely look like a Stacy.”

  “How do you look like a Stacy!” demands the Stacy

  “Well, you do kinda look like one,” the Asian girl points out.

  “Then what do I look like?”

  I look at the Harley Quin, “Well, I’m assuming you're the Brittany.”
>
  She nods her head, impressed by my powers of prediction, though overhearing the conservation leading up to them spilling out of the bathtub helps.

  “I’m Dan, by the way.”

  “Dan?”

  “She shortens it so people can pronounce it properly,” notes Stacy, who is the most talkative of the bunch.

  “Well anyway,” leaving people behind in a crisis tends to be awkward for some reason, “really got to get going.”

  I make my way to the front door and peep my head out cautiously. No zombies. Good. I step out and realize I may have spoken too soon. As if on cue, the creatures step from the individual rooms lining the hallway. The curious fucks who open their doors doom their friends and family inside. I should work on my ability to sense these things even with my third eye open their Other sparks dimly like tiny LED lights flickering off a cable box.

  They haven’t noticed me yet, which I almost thank God for. Right before they all turn in my direction. I realize what they're looking at and scream behind me, “RUN!” before charging at the ever-growing horde.

  Everything is Fine

  “Come on, Meg, I’m fine.” The Holder is not “fine.” The ritual burned large portions of his soul as payment. But he was spared complete consumption.

  His final breath is mine.

  “I don’t think you are.” The Holder's friend speaks with intuition. Most undoubtedly, her third eye will awaken from this experience.