Part 8 (1/2)

Tos.h.i.+ro hurried to the rescue. He stood over them, following the mouja's head with the tip of his blade. The thing was a young man, no older than nineteen. Tos.h.i.+ro pushed his blade straight through the young man's ear...but it wasn't really a young man anymore. It was a dead thing.

Seiji sat up, clutching his b.l.o.o.d.y hands. The creature had bitten off the third and fourth fingers of his left hand. He glanced at Takas.h.i.+ expectantly. Tos.h.i.+ro backed away, waiting for Takas.h.i.+ to make a move.

Takas.h.i.+ had always viewed Seiji with a certain invincibility, and seeing him in that state, unable to shoot, barely able to wield a katana, it set Takas.h.i.+'s heart on the edge of a blade.

Seiji howled. His body snapped rigid and flailed about on the floor. His muscles hardened, his skin turned to the color of the ocean depths, and his eyes clouded like dirty cubes of ice. He emitted one last sound, a sound like steel against a rough stone. Beneath the grating noise, Takas.h.i.+ discerned a single word-kaishakunin.

Seiji retained none of his masterful dexterity in the afterlife. His stiff legs fought to propel him forward, limping and forcing every jerky step. His arms dangled. His fingers could not flex. His sword forgotten, Seiji's mouth and shredded fingers dripped dark blood as they reached for Takas.h.i.+.

Was Seiji's final word a request? Kaishakunin. When a samurai committed seppuku, the kaishakunin served as the princ.i.p.al's second; once the samurai had disemboweled himself, the kaishakunin decapitated the princ.i.p.al to alleviate the immense pain. It was a difficult job, physically and emotionally. Was this what Seiji asked of Takas.h.i.+? It sickened him to think of destroying a great warrior such as this. To kill a friend.

Seiji lunged at Takas.h.i.+ with a growl. Takas.h.i.+'s blade flashed.

For all of Seiji's proficiencies, his neck was no thicker than any other man's. His head rolled into a dark corner of the room.

The silence that followed unnerved the remaining samurai. Takas.h.i.+ opened the door and inspected the area surrounding the lodge. There were bodies all around, but the rest of the mouja appeared to have vanished.

Tos.h.i.+ro wrapped the muskets in the belt and blanket the way he had found them and strapped the parcel over his shoulder. ”They may still be useful,” Tos.h.i.+ro said as he joined Takas.h.i.+ outside the lodge, ”from a distance.”

Takas.h.i.+ was too stunned to lead the way, so Tos.h.i.+ro guided him back to the village. The forest was dark. Without a torch, Takas.h.i.+ had no idea where they were going. He was amazed that Tos.h.i.+ro was able to find the right direction, weaving between trees, dodging exposed roots, and not once did they come across what they both feared-more of the mouja. Takas.h.i.+'s thoughts were of Seiji, the elegant work of art that he had been forced to destroy. No. That he had chosen to destroy. There must have been a way Takas.h.i.+ could have saved Seiji, or at least preserved him in his undead state long enough to find a cure for this illness. The wound was superficial. With skill such as his, a few short digits would not have slowed Seiji for long.

A pain twisted in Takas.h.i.+'s stomach again, a dull rotting pain, tying his guts into knots. It was tragic, really, what happened to Seiji. ”Is there no honor left in this world?” Takas.h.i.+ shouted over the noise. There was a grumbling roar in the distance, growing louder. ”A man such as Seiji deserved better. I should not have cut him down, Tos.h.i.+ro. I have dishonored myself. I must face consequences for that.”

But no, Takas.h.i.+ thought. Seppuku was not the way. He had a mission. He had sworn an oath. It was his duty to protect these helpless farmers.

Tos.h.i.+ro was not listening. They had reached the ridge overlooking the town. Down in the pit, the town served one final purpose. It would act as a signal fire to warn neighboring villages that the swarm was on its way. The houses were all aflame, the air was polluted with acrid black smoke, and countless mouja prowled the streets. Takas.h.i.+ couldn't see any people. They must have been in the streets, among the mouja, driven only to feed on their families. Isao and Daisuke were nowhere to be found.

Looking down at the village, Takas.h.i.+'s heart sank. He fell to his knees and drew his tant. Slowly and carefully, Takas.h.i.+ untied the sash of his kimono and pulled it open. He tucked the sleeves beneath his knees. He wanted to be sure to fall forward. ”I swore to protect these people, Tos.h.i.+ro, and I have failed. This is my fault.”

”This is no one's fault,” Tos.h.i.+ro said.

”It was my decision to leave the village, and this is the result. Tos.h.i.+ro, you will have to be my kaishakunin. Once I make the cut, be very quick and careful. I do not want to return as one of those things. When I am gone, hurry to the next village. You are fast in the dark. Perhaps you can warn them before those creatures arrive.”

Tos.h.i.+ro sneered. He grabbed Takas.h.i.+ by the collar. ”No. I will not allow you to do this. Better we go down fighting with steel in our hands. Besides, two samurai with katanas are more powerful than the tallest tsunami. We will take many of them with us. We may even find survivors.

Takas.h.i.+'s eyes met Tos.h.i.+ro's intense gaze. Where Seiji had skill, Tos.h.i.+ro had spirit. Takas.h.i.+ held out his hand; Tos.h.i.+ro grasped his arm and pulled him to his feet. They drew their swords, walking with deliberate steps down the ridge. Their eyes glowed with fire. They navigated around the fallen bodies, cutting down mouja whenever one came near. Takas.h.i.+ whispered, ”These poor farmers. They never stood a chance.”

Tos.h.i.+ro spat. ”It is their lot to suffer.”

At the center of town, a crowd of mouja had congregated. Their shadows danced on the sandy ground like demons in the firelight. One thousand cloudy eyes found the samurai at once. The mouja charged. Takas.h.i.+ and Tos.h.i.+ro swung hard.

Blood and fire glinted on their blades.

Category Five By Marc Paoletti

Marc Paoletti is the coauthor (with Patricia Rosemoor) of the novels The Last Vampire The Last Vampire and and The Vampire Agent The Vampire Agent. He is also the author of Scorch Scorch, a thriller that draws upon his experiences as a Hollywood pyrotechnician. His short fiction has appeared in anthologies such as Young Blood Young Blood, Book of Voices Book of Voices, Horror Library Vol. 2 Horror Library Vol. 2, The Best Underground Fiction The Best Underground Fiction, The Blackest Death Vol. 2 The Blackest Death Vol. 2, Cold Flesh Cold Flesh, and Thou Shalt Not Thou Shalt Not. Earlier this year, he had a story published in First Thrills First Thrills, edited by Lee Child.

Hurricane Katrina in 2005 was the worst natural disaster in U.S. history. Almost 2,000 people died, both in the storm itself and in the severe flooding that followed. And bad as the storm was, the real horror was the human element-the engineers' failure to maintain the levees, the incompetence of the federal response, and the disorder that ensued. People attempting to flee the storm-ravaged city of New Orleans were turned back at gunpoint by locals who feared looters. FEMA director Michael Brown, a political appointee whose most relevant prior experience had been managing horse shows, became a laughingstock after the president absurdly praised him for doing a ”heck of a job.”

Most of us never imagined we'd see corpses lying unattended on the streets of an American city. The author of our next story writes, ”I watched Hurricane Katrina decimate New Orleans live on CNN. Talk about horror. I was shocked by the devastation, and appalled that the most disadvantaged people were bearing the brunt of the disaster. I finished the first draft of this story in one sitting. Funny what happens when you're fueled by outrage. Also my childhood home in Sacramento was almost flooded a few years back. I was in Los Angeles at the time. Believe me, it's grim to get a call from your folks in the middle of the night and hear the fear in their voices as they tell you the levee-which is less than a mile away from them-is about to break.”

Remy listened to the wind beat the walls, listened to the rain whip the windows. Since the power was out and it was after sundown, he'd lit candles in the bedroom and rest of the house. He might have considered the thras.h.i.+ng beat a hip tempo if not for what he'd heard over the battery-powered radio crackling on the dresser.

Category five.

This hurricane was supposed to be the worst in a generation, like nothing they'd seen, yet the mayor had done little to get folks like him and Marta out. They were late seventies. Too poor to afford a car. Too old to venture far on their own. They were black. They didn't matter.

Their home was ramshackle, single story, built long ago in a crumbling ward that sat below sea level and lacked the comfort of close neighbors. On the radio, he'd heard that the 17th Street Ca.n.a.l levee was under a.s.sault by storm surge from Lake Pontchartrain. If the levee failed, the ward didn't stand a chance. Their home didn't stand a chance.

He sat next to Marta who lay under thick covers, eyes closed, breathing fitfully. He placed a wrinkled palm on the wrinkled forehead of his love, her sweaty skin the color of coffee and sooty with age, but still beautiful to him after fifty years of marriage.

Remy touched her as he listened to the radio's thick crackles, to the broken bits of news, to the random chatter. Other wards had been flooded, he'd made out that much. The water had carried away cars and trucks, had swept houses from their foundations, and had caved in crypts and mortuaries freeing the bodies within.

That's where things got strange.

He thought he'd heard reports that said disinterred bodies were coming back to life. Witnesses on the radio had sworn it was true. Supposedly, dead bodies had writhed and flailed as floodwaters swept them along and when they'd washed against higher ground, they'd clambered to their feet and walked. Walked Walked. He shook his head. Here people were spinning foolish tales about the walking dead when Marta couldn't walk at all.

”We'll get through this, you 'n' me,” Remy whispered, taking his wife's hand. ”Like we got through so much else.”

She moaned softly. Marta had been sick for a long, long time. So long, in fact, that he'd nearly forgotten what their life had been like before the disease. Ovarian cancer. It didn't make sense to him since she was far past childbearing age-not that they'd had children-but her ovaries had become polluted just the same, and the cancer had spread to her stomach and then her spine.

”We'll get through this, hon,” he repeated, but didn't know how to make good on the promise if the levee broke. How could he when most of the city had run off? When the police and fire fighters had run off as well?

Lightning flashed, casting the room bright white, and then thunder growled as fiercely as the apocalypse.

Taking the radio, Remy shuffled down a dark hallway into a kitchen lit by candles. He fetched more matches from a cupboard, and then counted cans. They had enough food for a week, which would have been fine if the morphine he'd dripped so carefully onto Marta's tongue with a baby's eyedropper hadn't run out that very morning. He couldn't call the hospital for more, either, because the landline was dead and he'd never been able to afford a cell phone. Of course that was a.s.suming the hospital staff hadn't left town, which they probably had.

Without morphine, Marta had nowhere to hide from the pain; already it was becoming too much for her. One moment she'd be lying there peacefully, and the next she'd be mewling and balling her fists and crus.h.i.+ng her eyes closed with such force that he'd feel her agony like it was his own.

Mewling... that was the only sound she could make now.

Remy looked into the living room at his trumpet, which hung on the wall in a gla.s.s case above the fireplace. He'd put it away over a year ago when Marta got so sick she couldn't sing along with him any more.

At times he'd fooled himself into believing that folks had come to the Bourbon Street clubs they booked to hear his sharp-noted riffs, but deep down, he'd always known they'd come for her. Achingly hourgla.s.s in form-fitting blue, Marta would take the stage as quietly as an afterthought, press her full lips to the mic, and then float her voice sweetly, robustly, through a room's smoky air in time with his trumpet's plaintive moan. Jazz, blues, gospel, rock-she could sing them all. Transform Transform them all. Her soulful, smooth-rasping lullabies never failed to transfix, to shake free what was hidden, to soothe like promises of hope the damaged spirits of those who listened. None more than his. None more. them all. Her soulful, smooth-rasping lullabies never failed to transfix, to shake free what was hidden, to soothe like promises of hope the damaged spirits of those who listened. None more than his. None more.

No more.

Marta's voice had been siphoned by the cancer. What he would do to give Marta her voice back. To stop her constant suffering.

The radio crackled. Remy placed it on the kitchen counter and fussed with the dial.

”...broken...” he heard the broadcaster say. ”...17th Street Ca.n.a.l levee...mercy on our souls...”