Nightmare of the Dead: Rise of the Zombies by Vincenzo Bilof Page B
Authors: Vincenzo Bilof
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images from her mind and pushed herself into the shade of the trees, where a cool wind brushed against her cheeks and provided a moment of peace from the warmongering sun.
She was nobody, with nowhere to go.
Neasa had fought for her life and prevailed. The defeatist mentality certainly couldn't belong to a notorious outlaw. She'd won against creatures that belonged in Hell. While she shivered against exhaustion, blood loss, and the onset of infection, she was weak against the same images which continued to haunt her.
The boy in the middle of the fiery street, watching helplessly as the horse charged toward him, heralding his doom with each hoof-beat through the dust.
The rolling tongue of a hungry mouth, the fetid breath of decay washing over her face.
"There you are!" Doctor Lynch's voice called out.
Delirium wasn't going to take her, not now. She struggled to stand against the tree, but slid back down into the soft earth. Another cool breeze brushed across the sun-soaked field where she'd slept.
She could die so easily in the shade. She could rest there forever.
"I've missed you dearly, after all this time!" the doctor shouted.
"No," she said. "You're not real."
"Open your eyes," a woman's voice shouted. "I'm real, and I'm here."
She opened her eyes and looked upon a face that stirred a note of familiarity, although she didn't know the woman's name. A ghost, more likely or t he image of a specter floating through the recollection of a woman who was supposed to be dead.
A tall black woman with a square jaw, hard eyes, and short hair sat astride her horse. Two revolvers rested in their holsters, while a complement of single-shot revolvers were tucked into a belt that wrapped around her waist beneath a long, brown jacket. A Springfield rifled rested across her lap.
"I know you," Neasa said.
"It has been some time," the woman replied, her words carefully enunciated. She stepped off her horse and knelt near the wounded outlaw. She brushed a lock of hair away from Neasa's face. "You've been bitten by one of the demons. Their bite is poison. You're half-dreaming, but I'm here with you. Ambala is here."
"Ambala," she said, testing the name's familiarity, "this isn't a random meeting . " S he remembered McPhee mentioning a bank robbery in Houston with a Negro woman.
Ambala nodded slowly. "Yes. I've been hunting you."
"My shoulder."
Ambala eyed the wound and shook her head. "You want me to help you, after everything that's happened."
"Yes. I want to live."
"This is the moment where I tell you I cannot. I am surprised you would ask this of me, but I've thought of you for so long…you're my ghost. You left me to die, but you never really left me. I forgave you a long time ago, and I looked for you. I heard that you were dead, and now, here, you die for me. This was meant to be, and what will be , will be."
Neasa shook her head. "I don't…know who I am. They took my memories…listen to me. I don't know why you would be hunting me. I'm not…who I was."
Ambala's brow furrowed, and her nostrils flared. Her horse snorted behind her and stomped its hoof impatiently in the grass.
"You play another game. This is good a place as any to die. It is peaceful here, though you deserve less. Where you go, the demons go. It is only right that you suffer their curse. You are in a waking dream. It will end when you close your eyes and rest."
Neasa never thought she would become so desperate. "I don't know my crimes. You have to believe me. Help me…I will atone. Don't let me die like this."
The hard woman shook her head slowly. "Your soul is still stained with blood. You would betray me again, because it is your nature. You don't need an identity, or a name."
"I know my name…it's Neasa…Bannan…"
Ambala's face contorted in a mixture of pain and confusion. "You've traded one dead soul for another…"
Fresh pain bloomed in her shoulder, and she sucked in a long breath as more chills tickled her spine. When she opened
She was nobody, with nowhere to go.
Neasa had fought for her life and prevailed. The defeatist mentality certainly couldn't belong to a notorious outlaw. She'd won against creatures that belonged in Hell. While she shivered against exhaustion, blood loss, and the onset of infection, she was weak against the same images which continued to haunt her.
The boy in the middle of the fiery street, watching helplessly as the horse charged toward him, heralding his doom with each hoof-beat through the dust.
The rolling tongue of a hungry mouth, the fetid breath of decay washing over her face.
"There you are!" Doctor Lynch's voice called out.
Delirium wasn't going to take her, not now. She struggled to stand against the tree, but slid back down into the soft earth. Another cool breeze brushed across the sun-soaked field where she'd slept.
She could die so easily in the shade. She could rest there forever.
"I've missed you dearly, after all this time!" the doctor shouted.
"No," she said. "You're not real."
"Open your eyes," a woman's voice shouted. "I'm real, and I'm here."
She opened her eyes and looked upon a face that stirred a note of familiarity, although she didn't know the woman's name. A ghost, more likely or t he image of a specter floating through the recollection of a woman who was supposed to be dead.
A tall black woman with a square jaw, hard eyes, and short hair sat astride her horse. Two revolvers rested in their holsters, while a complement of single-shot revolvers were tucked into a belt that wrapped around her waist beneath a long, brown jacket. A Springfield rifled rested across her lap.
"I know you," Neasa said.
"It has been some time," the woman replied, her words carefully enunciated. She stepped off her horse and knelt near the wounded outlaw. She brushed a lock of hair away from Neasa's face. "You've been bitten by one of the demons. Their bite is poison. You're half-dreaming, but I'm here with you. Ambala is here."
"Ambala," she said, testing the name's familiarity, "this isn't a random meeting . " S he remembered McPhee mentioning a bank robbery in Houston with a Negro woman.
Ambala nodded slowly. "Yes. I've been hunting you."
"My shoulder."
Ambala eyed the wound and shook her head. "You want me to help you, after everything that's happened."
"Yes. I want to live."
"This is the moment where I tell you I cannot. I am surprised you would ask this of me, but I've thought of you for so long…you're my ghost. You left me to die, but you never really left me. I forgave you a long time ago, and I looked for you. I heard that you were dead, and now, here, you die for me. This was meant to be, and what will be , will be."
Neasa shook her head. "I don't…know who I am. They took my memories…listen to me. I don't know why you would be hunting me. I'm not…who I was."
Ambala's brow furrowed, and her nostrils flared. Her horse snorted behind her and stomped its hoof impatiently in the grass.
"You play another game. This is good a place as any to die. It is peaceful here, though you deserve less. Where you go, the demons go. It is only right that you suffer their curse. You are in a waking dream. It will end when you close your eyes and rest."
Neasa never thought she would become so desperate. "I don't know my crimes. You have to believe me. Help me…I will atone. Don't let me die like this."
The hard woman shook her head slowly. "Your soul is still stained with blood. You would betray me again, because it is your nature. You don't need an identity, or a name."
"I know my name…it's Neasa…Bannan…"
Ambala's face contorted in a mixture of pain and confusion. "You've traded one dead soul for another…"
Fresh pain bloomed in her shoulder, and she sucked in a long breath as more chills tickled her spine. When she opened
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