Dark Calling (The Demonata 9)

The whispers die away. Silence falls. I stand but don’t approach the window. I study it cautiously, fearfully. The lights pulse rapidly, then slide towards the center, all the colors angling to the focal point, drawn to it as if by gravity.

Then—an explosion. A ball of light bursts from the heart of the window and shoots across the ship’s swimming pool, circling it in a spiral pattern, like a punctured balloon careening across a room. The window resumes its white color.

The ball circles the pool a few more times, then drifts towards the deck and comes to a halt three or four feet above it. The ball is rainbow-colored, about the size of a large dog, though its shape changes constantly. It reminds me of the jellyish substance in a lava lamp, the way it oozes from one form into another, altering all the time.

“What the hell are you?” I gasp, not expecting an answer. But to my astonishment I receive one.

“I have no name.”

I’ve seen a lot of crazy stuff over the last few years that would leave most people’s jaws hanging. I thought I was immune to surprise. But this blows me away. All I can do is gape at the ball of light like a five-year-old who’s walked in on Santa Claus.

“You must come with me,” the voice says. I don’t know where the words are coming from. They seem to be forming inside my head.

“Come…” the voice insists.

“Come whe

re?” I croak. “Who are you? What are you?”

“There will be time for explanations later. We must depart this world before…” The voice stops and there’s a sighing sound. “Too late.”

“What do you mean?”

Before the ball of light can answer, my crazy fantasy of a few minutes ago becomes a reality. All around me, the corpses on the deck shudder, twitch, then clamber to their feet. As impossible as it is, the dead have come back to life, and they’re focusing their glinting, hungry eyes on me.

COME…

THE rising dead terrify me more than any demon ever did. Demons are natural. They obey certain laws. You know what to expect when you face one of them.

But the dead aren’t supposed to return. When a body perishes, the soul moves on. That’s the way it’s always been. But someone must have forgotten to mention that to these walking, snarling, slavering corpses.

I stand like a simpleton, watching them advance. I’d heard that zombies in movies walk slowly, stiffly, mechanically. Not these. They don’t have the look of living people, but they move like them, fluidly and firmly.

As the dead close in on me, teeth exposed, hands outstretched, the ball of light flits over their heads and flares, causing them to cover their eyes and stumble to a halt. They mewl like newborn calves and lash out at the light.

“Come…” the voice repeats. “Cross while they are distracted.”

“Where?” I howl, gaze fixed on the zombies.

“Come…” is the only response. The ball of light skims over the heads of the walking dead and hovers by the window.

“I can’t,” I whisper, studying the ranks of animated corpses. “The others…”

“Doomed,” the voice says. “You cannot worry about them. They are no longer your concern. Come…” It sounds impatient.

A man without a chest—it’s been ripped away, exposing the bones of his spine and shoulders—lowers his arms and blinks. Realizing he can see again, he sets his sights on me and rushes forward, howling wildly.

My hands, which have been trembling by my sides, shoot up and I unleash a ball of energy. The dead man flies backwards, knocking down those behind him. As others converge, I blast them with magic and back up close to the window.

“Yes,” the voice murmurs approvingly.

But I’ve no intention of going anywhere with this freakish ball of talking light. I ran out on Beranabus once, long ago. Never again.

Taking a firm stand, I construct an invisible barrier, a circle of magic six or seven feet in diameter, through which the dead can’t pass. I’m not good at this type of magic. I doubt I could put a barrier in place strong enough to stop a demon. But if these revived corpses are only as strong as they were in life, it should repel them.

My stomach rumbles with fear as the zombies cluster around the barrier. They scrape, punch, kick, and spit at it. I hear—imagine—a creaking noise. I reinforce the barrier, sweating desperately, and turn 360 degrees, trying to cover every angle at once, ensuring there are no weak points.

There aren’t. The barrier holds. As long as the magic in the air remains, I can keep these wretched zombies at bay.