Hellifax by Keith C. Blackmore

of cloth and flesh draw closer.
    A blue-grey hand slinked into sight. Broken nails hooked into a strip of wood and tensed as the corpse pulled itself closer. Scott wondered why he was waiting. The sight of the hand made him feel weak once more. It was soon quietly joined by a twin missing two fingers and a huge chunk of flesh from the edge of the palm. The top of its head seeped into view, its face twisting upward, the features hidden by its hair.
    Dead flesh parted black strands of hair.
    Lips split, and a ridge of teeth gleamed.
    Scott didn’t want to gaze upon any more features. He shot the dead thing in the side of its head, dropping it with the dull thud of a bowling ball. The sound of the suppressor lingered briefly in the church.
    He discovered he had all but stopped breathing.
    And for a moment, nothing happened.
    Then, from below, the sounds of awakening zombies reached him. Low moans rose up like phantoms escaping a witch’s cauldron. His spine went electric and he straightened up, peering over the edge of the last pew on the balcony level, into the pit below.
    Scott winced.
    Zombies, many zombies, rose up from between the pews, herky-jerky from the cold, but eager to locate the sound of whatever had disturbed them. A grisly collection of survivor types and Sunday-suited worshippers clawed their way to their swaying feet. Dead expressions and heads with broken necks gazed up and fastened onto Scott. Rising in the distant pulpit, a priest hauled himself into view, one arm lifting and praising the heavens for the living man in their midst. The father did not appear to have his other arm, but the one he did have stuck out like a tree limb and directed his congregation’s attention. Their gravelly voices rose up in unholy celebration.
    Scott turned around to leave and gasped at another zombie not two strides away from him and closing, its arms wide as if wanting a hug. The dead thing’s face had been utterly chewed away, leaving only a partial skull blotted in dried blood and framed in shreds of skin. With a hiss, it launched itself at Scott, who threw up his arms and warded off the zombie. He twisted to one side and pushed the creature off balance. It fell between the pews across from him with a clatter, and Scott saw that the thing wore the uniform of a Halifax police officer.
    He put a bullet into the deadhead’s skull when it presented itself a second time. Scott wanted to run, but the notion of searching the officer for weapons came into his head, making him hesitate for a moment before waving off the idea. He could see the holster hanging off the officer’s hip was empty. Gathering up his bat, Scott jammed the Ruger down his boot and retreated to the steps. He crashed down the two flights of stairs and hit the ground floor just as the congregation slunk into the main aisle, at least a hundred strong. As one, their faces turned to him.
    Scott hesitated, unsure if he could get through them all. There were too many to shoot or take with the bat.
    They drifted toward the stairs, pushed along by invisible currents.
    With a gasp, Scott plunged into the zombies, charging through the entire mob. Hands grazed his face and arms, too frozen to close upon him. Horrid faces sped by, and he shoved them back until he burst through the doors into a sky mired by black clouds. Scott turned and saw thick, billowing clouds coiling and twisting upward from the direction of the gas bar, turning the sun into a stark, staring eye. Legions of undead walked the streets beneath the clouds, some visible, some obscured by the smoke.
    They started for him.
    The church zombies spilled outside, slipping on steps and landing in a tangle at the building’s base. Scott crossed the road and chugged through a snow-covered driveway, fear pushing him onward. Breathing hard and feeling the weight of the backpack and shotgun for the first time, he slogged past a light-green house. A shirtless man lurched against the glass of a window, smashing