Men of Perdition Read online

  MEN OF PERDITION

  KELLY M. HUDSON

  OTHER LIVINGDEAD PRESS BOOKS

  THE TURNING: A STORY OF THE LIVING DEAD

  THE DEAD OF SPACE BOOK 1 AND 2

  PLAYING GOD: A ZOMBIE NOVEL * THE JUNKYARD

  PLANET OF THE DEAD * THE HAUNTED THEATRE

  ZOMBIES IN OUR HOMETOWN

  NIGHT OF THE WOLF: A WEREWOLF ANTHOLOGY

  JUST BEFORE NIGHT: A ZOMBIE ANTHOLOGY

  THE BOOK OF HORROR* KNIGHT SYNDROME

  THE WAR AGAINST THEM: A ZOMBIE NOVEL

  CHILDREN OF THE VOID * DARK DREAMS

  BLOOD RAGE & DEAD RAGE (BOOK 1& 2 OF THE RAGE VIRUS SERIES)

  DEAD MOURNING: A ZOMBIE HORROR STORY

  BOOK OF THE DEAD: A ZOMBIE ANTHOLOGY VOLUME 1-6

  LOVE IS DEAD: A ZOMBIE ANTHOLOGY

  ETERNAL NIGHT: A VAMPIRE ANTHOLOGY

  END OF DAYS: AN APOCALYPTIC ANTHOLOGY VOLUME 1-5

  DEAD HOUSE: A ZOMBIE GHOST STORY

  THE ZOMBIE IN THE BASEMENT (FOR ALL AGES)

  THE LAZARUS CULTURE: A ZOMBIE NOVEL

  DEAD WORLDS: UNDEAD STORIES VOLUMES 1-7

  FAMILY OF THE DEAD, REVOLUTION OF THE DEAD

  KINGDOM OF THE DEAD * DEAD HISTORY

  THE MONSTER UNDER THE BED * DEAD THINGS

  DEAD TALES: SHORT STORIES TO DIE FOR

  ROAD KILL: A ZOMBIE TALE * DEADFREEZE * DEADFALL

  SOUL EATER * THE DARK * RISE OF THE DEAD

  DEAD END: A ZOMBIE NOVEL * VISIONS OF THE DEAD

  THE CHRONICLES OF JACK PRIMUS

  INSIDE THE PERIMETER: SCAVENGERS OF THE DEAD

  BOOK OF CANNIBALS VOLUME 2 * CHRISTMAS IS DEAD…AGAIN

  EMAILS OF THE DEAD * CHILDREN OF THE DEAD

  THE DEADWATER SERIES

  DEADWATER * DEADWATER: Expanded Edition

  DEADRAIN * DEADCITY * DEADWAVE * DEAD HARVEST

  DEAD UNION * DEAD VALLEY * DEAD TOWN * DEAD GRAVE

  DEAD SALVATION * DEAD ARMY (Deadwater series book 10)

  MEN OF PERDITION

  Copyright © 2011 Kelly M. Hudson and Living Dead Press

  ISBN Softcover ISBN 13: 978-1-61199-012-6 ISBN 10: 1-611990-12-2

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. This book was printed in the United States of America.

  For more info on obtaining additional copies of this book, contact: www.livingdeadpress.com

  PART ONE

  I

  Wilkins, West Virginia

  Mandy Collins woke with a start as something wet and strong wrapped itself around her throat. She grunted and a wad of spittle flew from between her lips, open wide and kissing the air like a fish ripped from the water. The thing that held her down was heavy and murky, blacker than the night, an ink stain on the darkness, and it had no real substance, but still it held her tight.

  The thing around her throat shifted against her flesh, becoming a slimy tentacle before changing into a woman’s hand. Cold and harsh and unyielding, the hand gripped her throat, choking the life from her. The dark shape it was attached to hovered over her bed like a cloud of pollution. It shimmered and shook, taking on solid form, as the hand choking her thrust out of the dark cloud like a vengeful Greek god cursing a poor soul.

  Mandy bucked and tried to scream but it was to no avail. She thrashed her legs, trying to kick the shape, but her feet pedaled the air uselessly. She reached up and grabbed the hand holding her throat and it was cold, so very cold, and she felt her palms fuse to the skin of the hand like a wet tongue sticks to an ice cube.

  “Constance,” said a voice. It came from within the shape. It snarled and barked and laughed a deep, sonorous howl that shook the walls and rattled her own body so deeply she felt the fillings come out of her teeth.

  Then, as if with the snap of a finger, the dark shape pulled back and the hand let go of Mandy’s throat and retracted, fading into the dark mass from which it came. But Mandy’s hands were still stuck to it and the hand pulled her up from the bed, up and into the blackness.

  Mandy screamed and tore her hands free, the flesh of her palms ripping off with a wet, sucking sound. The hand receded into the darkness with scraps of Mandy’s skin flapping like tiny shirts hung to dry on a clothesline.

  Her head hit the pillow and her eyes flew open and Mandy bounced back up, gulping air. She tried to convince herself that it had been a dream, a horrible, terrible nightmare. But the chill running through her body told her it was all too real and not a dream at all. It had been a vision. And as the daughter of Macon Collins, regional prophet, she ought to know what a vision was.

  She slipped from the bed, her feet hitting the cold, hardwood floor. She flashed on the coldness of the woman’s hand in her dream and she checked her palms but they were fine. Nothing had happened. In fact, other than not being able to breathe when first waking up, she’d received no other validation of her vision. And that was odd, because as her father had taught her, you always took something of the vision back to reality with you.

  The window next to her bed was open and a frosty breeze was blowing through it, making the curtains billow like lonesome ghosts. She shut the window and pulled the curtains tight, shivering. The feelings of dread still hung around her heart like a tangle of cobwebs and she wasn’t sure if she could shake them.

  Mandy was twenty-eight and she’d lived in this house her entire life. She’d been born here, in fact, downstairs in the parlor. It was there where her mother, the blessed Maryanne Collins, died giving birth to her. Mandy had come early and unexpectedly, so there was no time to summon the doctor and her father had done the best he could, but it was too much. Maryanne spat out her last breath as Mandy took in her first. She was born eight pounds, five ounces, and didn’t cry when she came out, swaddled in her mother’s blood.

  Macon took care of her, raising her to fear the Lord and be gracious to those around her, but things had changed when she turned sixteen, when the first of the visions came upon her father. Since then, she’d taken care of him, for ten long years now, giving up any other pretense to having a life of her own. The visions were debilitating for her father, robbing him of strength and life. And sometimes, in the dark of night, she questioned whether his abilities really were a gift of God’s, like Macon insisted, or instead some kind of sinister curse.

  Mandy was plump but not really fat, what some would call husky if they were talking about a boy or big-boned if they were talking about a woman. Mandy had a tight perm on her head, the same kind of style her mother wore, and was short like her mother, five foot four, and stout, with deep blue eyes and brown hair and a pleasant smile, although she rarely smiled for anyone but her father.

  Sighing, she turned on the lamp next to her bed and whatever shadows were still lingering were chased away by the bare bulb’s glare. She knew she wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, at least not for a while, so her mind wandered down the stairs to the kitchen where she might put together a little midnight snack to tide her over. She probably shouldn’t—she needed to watch her weight—but she thought: why the hell not? Who was she trying to impress? Boys stopped courting her when Macon’s visions started and now everyone in town treated her and her father like they were some kind of freaks. Until they wanted their fortunes read, or they needed help with something, then they ended up on the doorstep, hats in hand
, faces cast down in shame.

  That was the part she hated the most; the condescending attitude of the preachers in the area and their followers. They acted like Mandy and her father had something wrong with them, even though Macon himself said the visions were straight from the Lord. It was inevitable, though, when somebody needed something, they showed up, acting like they hadn’t been talking down about them at all. Acting like they were friends from way back and gee, wasn’t it nice to see each other again? When they got what they wanted, when Macon touched their palms and went to sleep and saw whatever there was to see, and when he woke up and gave them their answer, those same people would smile and say thanks, go do what Macon told them to do, and turn right around and start mocking and slandering the Collins family like nothing had happened. The word for those people was hypocrites, and Mandy hated them for it.

  Often times she would beg her father not to help certain people and he would wave her off, telling her this was a gift from God and he had to use it just as a Good Samaritan would. They never got paid, and each vision, whether sought out by Macon or coming of its own accord, sapped a little more of the life from Mandy’s father. Still, he kept going until now he was confined to his bed, just shy of fifty years old, frail and emaciated like a man twice his age. It was horrible watching him shrivel away like this, but Mandy was helpless to stop him.

  Now she’d had her own vision, just like her daddy. What did that mean? Was the gift passed down? Mandy hoped not. She didn’t want anything of the like from God other than a tornado to come along and blow away the tiny town where they lived. Come down with mighty winds and sweep every living thing up and drop them to their deaths. That would be a fine day in Mandy’s life.

  She shook her head and got her thoughts back on the midnight snack. What she was really craving was a dozen Oreo’s and a glass of ice cold milk to dunk them in. They didn’t have Oreo’s, though, because they couldn’t afford them, so they had Hydrox instead; and those were good, but they weren’t the originals, by God. They would do, though, in a pinch.

  She slid on her robe, plush, baby blue housecoat, and slithered into the matching slippers. The coat was warm and fit snugly around her body like a second skin. She padded across the room and opened her door slowly, so as not to wake her father.

  Macon, despite his visions, was a pretty light sleeper. He’d wake at the sound of a stray hair brushing against Mandy’s ear, so she had her work cut out for her. She crept down the hall in the dark, having memorized every last inch of it from living in this house her whole life.

  She paused, passing the pictures hanging in the hallway of her mother, taken before Mandy was born. She’d memorized these, too, from a young age. Often she’d stare at the pictures and wonder what kind of woman her mother had been. Sometimes she’d come up with exotic stories around the most mundane of pictures and let her imagination run wild. Though she’d never known her, there wasn’t a day gone by when Mandy didn’t miss her mother.

  She reached the bottom of the stairs. Off to her left was the living room and it’s sad, old furniture, and to her right was the small hall that led to the kitchen. She took two steps down the hallway when Macon screamed upstairs. She froze in place, frightened all over again, as something heavy thudded to the floor above her head.

  Mandy snapped from her shock and bounded up the stairs to his room. She threw the door open and froze once again. Hovering over the prone body of Macon Collins was a dark cloud, just like the one that had visited her just minutes ago.

  The cloud bubbled, burbled and hissed. A thousand voices, all whispering and speaking over each other, bled from the cloud and filled the room with their quiet clamor. Mandy grabbed the sides of her head and fell to her knees. She screamed but the sound coming from her mouth slipped up and was absorbed by the cloud and spat back out, mixed with the other whispers, echoing off the walls.

  Macon’s body shook like he was having a seizure. He was small and wasted away, fifty-five years old, weighed close to 120 lbs of hanging, gaunt flesh that was draped over his six-foot tall frame. His eyes were sunken and dark circles ringed the tops of his cheeks, so defined and thick that they looked like some bad special effect from a movie. Macon’s teeth, what was left that hadn’t rotted out, clattered together as his body shook and those lost eyes of his stared up from their puddles of black into the darkness of the cloud above him. Blood trickled from his pointed nose, running down the top of his lip making a crimson mustache.

  The dark cloud spoke to Macon. Mandy could hear it, in the midst of the whispers and her own cries, another voice was audible, the same one that had spoken to her. Only with Macon, it talked in long sentences.

  All at once, it was over. The dark cloud thundered, shattering the bedroom windows, and rolled up into a ball and disappeared. Macon fell back on the bed but his body kept shaking uncontrollably.

  Mandy crawled over to her father’s side and onto the bed. She pressed her much larger body on his to calm the quakes and after a couple of minutes, Macon’s spasms subsided and his breathing, once ragged and desperate, leveled. Mandy looked at her father as he turned his dark eyes to her and stared back.

  “You got the vision, too, didn’t you?” he said. Mandy nodded slowly. “It was your first one.” Mandy nodded again. Macon broke his eyes from his daughter and stared at the ceiling above him.

  “It told me it spoke to you. I cursed it and told it to leave my baby alone, but it just laughed at me. It said that I was done, that I couldn’t make a difference, but that you could. I cursed it again,” Macon said. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes and leaked out and down, wetting the pillow beneath his head.

  “It’s okay, Daddy,” she said.

  “No, it ain’t,” he croaked. “It ain’t okay at all. You don’t understand, honey bunch. That wasn’t no ordinary thing we saw.”

  “I think I got that point, Daddy.”

  “No, ‘cause you ain’t had no visions before. And this thing, it wasn’t no vision, not really.” Macon shivered. He sighed and gazed at his daughter with the saddest eyes she’d ever seen.

  “That thing was the wrath of God,” he said. Macon closed his eyes and fell deep into his trance.

  Mandy stayed next to him all night. It was usually that way, when he got a vision. Macon made a declaration and then fell right to sleep. It seemed his brain would process what he’d seen and then when he woke, he’d speak on it with more clarity. She got up only twice, once to pee and once to get two glasses of water, one for her and one for him, when he awoke.

  Dawn broke on the horizon and the room filled with hazy, orange-red light. Mandy looked out the broken window and saw the sky lighten. The morning birds came out, singing their songs. She was tired. Her whole body ached and every time she blinked it was like someone was rubbing glass inside her eyelids. But she kept awake and waited.

  She looked around the room, staring at the pictures of her dead mother, conjuring fantasies over them like she had as a child. In some cases, the fantasies had become so ingrained they became a sort of history that Mandy swore by. Even now, as she looked at the photos, she knew their accounts by heart.

  An hour later, Macon woke up. He rolled over and stroked the curly hair on Mandy’s head.

  “My baby,” he said. Tears poured from her eyes. He looked like he’d lost five pounds during his sleep.

  “Daddy,” she said. The rest of the words, whatever she’d meant to say, got caught in her throat and she swallowed them like dry aspirins.

  “The time has come for you to take up my mantle,” Macon said. “The wrath of God told me so. It told me of what was coming, of the great evil on the horizon. It spoke of the Men of Perdition, foul beings that even the Devil himself disavows.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “Listen,” he said. “For we do not have much time.”

  And Macon spoke. He whispered what he’d learned from the dark cloud and every word that dripped from his lips added a heavy burden to Mandy’
s heart, so that by the time he finished, she felt like someone had tied a hundred large rocks around her neck and tossed her into a deep pond.

  “Where?” Mandy asked.

  “A small town, just west of here,” he said.

  “Tell me its name.”

  “Constance,” he said. He looked Mandy in her eyes. “I love you, honey bear.”

  Macon closed his eyes and stopped breathing.

  Mandy hugged her father tight and felt his body grow cold in her arms, crying the whole time.

  II

  Carroll, Iowa

  Peggy said goodbye to her kids and shut the door, their happy voices ringing off down the sidewalk. She was sad to see them go but at the same time she needed a break. It was hard enough to raise a boy and a girl, seven and five respectively, as part of a normal, functioning marriage. It was even tougher when you were divorced and the Dad was a total asshole.

  The kids were off to spend the weekend with their grandmother, the asshole’s mother. She was a nice lady and for the life of her, Peggy couldn’t understand how a piece of shit like her ex came from such a loving family.

  She ran her hands through her long, dark hair. A flicker of silver caught the corner of her eye and she grabbed that handful of hair and studied it. Three more gray hairs. At this rate, she was going to be a white-haired albino by the time she hit thirty. And that was just a year away.

  Peggy wondered where the time went and when she nearly tripped over her daughter’s tricycle, parked just behind the door where it didn’t belong. She laughed and shook her head, pushing the tricycle up against the wall. She wandered over to the couch and plopped down, sighing. She looked down her body and shut her eyes to the sight. She was getting pudgy, with love handles forming on her hips and a pooch popping up from her belly. What did she expect, though? Thirty was coming on like a train jumping the tracks and she hardly had time for anything but her job and the kids. The gym was a luxury. She still thought she was pretty, at five four, with auburn hair that flowed straight down the middle of her back and matched her hazel eyes. But more often than not, she felt that beauty was being wasted.