Part III:
As I did so, I felt a rush of wind overhead as the other ghoul launched itself, undoubtedly intending to knock me over, but instead catching nothing but air. It sailed awkwardly for a few moments, then landed gracelessly in the snow a couple yards in front of me, seeming no less surprised than myself.
As I batted at my pants leg, swatting at the last of the flames, I saw the witch roll her eyes and let out a low growl. Once the fire was out, I crouched and aimed the torch again. Meanwhile, the ghoul righted itself and turned toward me, growling and snarling like a rabid dog. It spared a single glance with its black, soulless eyes for its fallen comrade, then began running at full pelt. This time I waited as long as I dared, letting the undead monstrosity get practically within spitting distance before pulling the trigger.
Apparently expecting the burst, the ghoul managed to avoid most of the fiery stream, but still took a hit to its right arm. It shrieked as the focused blast engulfed its desiccated flesh, setting its whole arm ablaze. As it doubled over, swatting at the flames and rolling in the snow, I released the trigger to conserve what little fuel was left; I wasn't sure whether there was enough left to light a cigarette, never mind set a whole ghoul on fire.
While I shook the canister and gave a sigh, the ghoul writhed on the ground, patting its arm wildly and continuing to shriek in pain—it was almost pitiable. It managed to douse the flames after only ten seconds or so, but the damage was done; the arm I had scorched was black and stiff, its skeletal-like fingers burned to the second knuckle.
As it stumbled sideways, trying to figure out how to move with just one arm, I realized I should be taking advantage of its clumsiness. So, dropping the blowtorch, I shrugged and grabbed the hatchet off my belt. The crude and unwieldy weapon probably wasn't ideal, but it had more reach than the knife, and required less accuracy. Unfortunately, I had acted too late.
Snapping a glare at me, the ghoul sidled backwards, stumbling slightly as it put some distance between itself and my hatchet. Like a cornered animal, it started becoming more frantic, turning its head in every direction as it matched my advances with hobbling retreats, until finally it snarled, put its weight on its hind legs, and lunged.
As it dove forward, I waited as long as I could, only dodging to the side just as it passed by, and swinging the hatchet as I went. Not being used to the unbalanced weapon, my attack missed completely, and the momentum sent me tumbling gracelessly. While I stumbled to keep my feet, the ghoul landed in a heap, yelping like a dog as it rolled onto its haunches and prepared to spring at me again; before I could even get my hatchet ready, it was poised to pounce.
Kicking up snow in its wake, it began dashing toward me, loping awkwardly due to the useless arm. Realizing we were too close for me to duck in time, I focused on setting my feet and preparing to take the tackle. Still, not feeling confident in my ability to wrestle a ghoul, I did what any half-Scot worth her lineage would have done: I quickly threw my hatchet. Flipping through the air, the small axe crashed its blunt side into the ghoul's face with a sickening crack, sapping the energy out of its strides, but not stopping it completely.
Its forward momentum kept it coming, but the loss of speed gave me enough time to levy the knife before we crashed together. In the confusion of our fall, the knife found its way deep into the ghoul's skull, but I wasn't about to take any chances. When we hit the ground, I yelped and started stabbing wildly, shoving the length of the blade into its skull numerous times before I calmed enough to realize it wasn't moving anymore.
When that realization set in, I forced the thing off me with a grunt, and started dry heaving from the smell and feel of gore on my face–fortunately, none of it had gotten in my mouth. Still gasping and choking, I stood up and nearly wretched, both from the disgusting smells, and the realization that I'd just come a hair's breadth from death. My grip on the knife tightened, then, as I remembered the witch was still nearby, and probably watching.
It didn't take long to spot her, a crackling silhouette against the fiery ruin of her pickup truck, her previously bemused expression replaced by that familiar, blackened snarl. Fortunately, she apparently hadn't expected me to survive her ghouls' attack, so she wasn't already preparing her own assault, but that soon changed.
Glowing green once again, her eyes glared at me with a mix of surprise and disdain while flecks of blue and green energy began dancing and arcing along her fingers. As I suspected, she was fed up with my continued survival, and had decided to do her own wet-work without so much as a villainous speech.
I felt a little hurt and disrespected by that, but mostly I was terrified.
As the electricity built around her hands, I swallowed hard and tried to think. The hatchet was lost somewhere in the snow, the blow torch was out of sight and probably empty, and I probably didn’t have time to hunt either of them down or fiddle with my last Molotov. All I had at my disposal was a knife covered in gore and a man’s blood, which may or may not work to absorb and redirect her blasts. The prospect of trying something so desperate made me cringe, but it had worked for Hisao, so maybe it would work for me.
Focused as I was on the looming witch, I hadn't noticed the odd silence coming from where Hisao had been battling the undead horde. The odd mix of groans, growls, and grunts was gone, and I was too scared to hear anything but the crackling fire of the lightning rod, and the soft cackling of the witch. As far as I knew, I only had one option: dive when she tried to blast me, then charge down the hill screaming bloody murder and hope I could sink the knife into her heart before she could ready a second shot.
It was a long shot, but it was the only chance I had–or so I thought.
As the witch raised her hands, preparing to strike, I finally noticed the silhouette stalking its way down the hill over her shoulder. Carefully looking without moving my head, I observed as Hisao's ragged and bloodied form marched toward the witch, his crunching footfalls muffled by the sound of fire and crackling lightning. Unsure how long that cover would last, I realized she was still focused on me, and I decided it was up to me to keep it that way,
“Your ghouls are dead, Bitch!” I yelled, holding the dagger up threateningly as I felt another surge of confidence, “And your parlor tricks don't scare me! I've got a husband and two kids, I'm surrounded by jerks all day, and I've met kindly old judges who're scarier than you... So, come on and try it, Bitch! You don't have a chance!”
My speech only made her cackle louder, and her eyes flashed with confidence as she replied, “Your words are wasted, Blondie—nothin' gonna save you now.”
My moment of bravado got a nod from Hisao as he neared, and I kept up the pretense. Kicking snow up in my wake, I yelled with maternal fury and started charging towards her. My charge was just a feint that I never intended to carry out, of course, but she didn't know that. Wholly focused on me, her eyes narrowed and she continued her cackling, completely oblivious to Hisao's approach—just as I'd hoped.
As I came to a slipping halt, skidding several feet along the grass beneath the snow, the electricity along the witch’s fingers crackled and hummed with greater energy, and Hisao started a flat-out run, raising the knife as he went. The witch grinned and licked her blackened teeth, ready to turn me into ash, her cackling reaching a crescendo just as Hisao lunged; a moment later, her cackle became a pained shriek as the knife sunk into the back of her knee.
The energy bolt came blasting toward me, released as the witch fell to her knees, but it wasn't aimed very well. Quickly diving into the snow, I felt the heat from its passing, then rose to my knees and spat up a gob of snow. As I turned to see what was happening, I saw the witch down on one knee, tugging vainly at the knife. Cowering instead of crackling, she collapsed onto her side as Hisao raised the poker menacingly and approached with the cold determination of an executioner.
Part of me wanted to turn away as the cold iron baton came repeatedly crashing down against her head, but my vengeful, maternal side wouldn't let that happen. Still, watching Hisao reduce her head to its basic parts was not something I’d want anyone else to see. Perhaps that was why we made such a good team, loathe as I was to admit it. I understood why he did it, both from a parental standpoint and the fact that the woman was a crazed lunatic who had perverted the very laws of nature, among other things.
I didn't think any normal court would know what to do with her, anyway.
As Hisao continued pummeling her skull, sending blood and chunks of bone splattering into the snow, I stood and scrambled to stand at his side. When I got there, I could see the result of his grim handiwork: the witch’s head was a disgusting pool of brain matter, blood, and broken bone splinters. The sparks were gone, her once-frizzy hair was matted and caked with blood and bone, her face was broken and mangled, and the only sign of life came from her twitching hands. She was most definitely dead.
Finally, Hisao stopped beating the remains of her skull, and instead shoved the poker through her chest. The limp body failed to react, and I merely raised an eyebrow, wondering whether there might be an occult implication to his action. Meanwhile, Hisao leaned heavily against the poker with one hand, clutching at his chest with the other as he sucked in shallow, raspy breaths.
Sweat was pouring across his forehead despite the cold, his breathing sounded terribly hoarse, and he basically looked like shit. His coat was torn to shreds, the clothes underneath were covered in blood and gore, his self-inflicted hand wound had reopened and was bleeding through the bandages, and his hair was matted with a mess of gore chunks and blood. There were stray bits of rotted flesh clinging to every corner of his face, hair, and clothes, actually—I imagine I looked no better, though.
Surprisingly, his strange bracelet of teeth was still intact, but Father's poker was dented in several places, no doubt from its being repeatedly slammed into zombies, ghouls, and the witch's thick skull. My adventure had been harrowing, and I knew he'd had the harder job, but somehow he'd gotten through it without any serious injuries; overall he looked like he could use a drink, and a shower, and a few days of uninterrupted sleep, but he otherwise seemed unhurt.
“You alright?” he asked between shaky breaths.
“No,” I replied, which drew a concerned look. “I'll be needing that drink,” I added, which made him smirk, “and a shower... and a therapist...”
Grinning, he let out a relieved sigh. “Ditto... well, I already see a therapist.”
As confused, horrified, and disgusted as I was, I couldn’t help being impressed that Hisao, a man who'd suffered a heart attack at the age of eighteen, had fought off a zombie horde single-handed. The way he'd handled the werewolf was impressive, but we had guns for that mess; this time he'd done it with a knife, a poker, and a few Molotov cocktails. Obviously this was something he did often, probably more often than he would ever admit, especially to Hanako, and, now that it was over, that worried me more than a little.
I wondered how his heart handled the strain.
Occupied as I was with that thought, I didn't immediately notice that the witch’s body was starting to crack and crumble. Unsure what that meant, I leaped back and croaked, “Hisao!”
My yell caused him to lift his head a bit and look down at the body, which continued to crack and desiccate, its skin beginning to look like a salt flat during a drought. As the skin darkened and began cracking to pieces, the innards started slowly turning to dust. The sound of crumbling dirt came from all around us, then; the ghouls had begun to dissolve along with their master.
Turning to inspect the hill where Hisao had made his stand, I saw the massive pile of undead start crumbling as well, their horrified faces collapsing in on themselves. In a matter of moments, all that remained of the witch and her undead monstrosities consisted of a few piles of black dust. After a few moments, a ghostly wind, which only seemed to effect the remains, began whisking them away into the ether.
As the last of it vanished, making me question whether any of it had actually existed, I heard a faint whisper echo lightly through the night, like a chorus of many voices sighing in relief.
“Thank you...”
Instinctively glancing around to find the source of the whisper, I whirled my head around like a drunk for a few moments before realizing what had happened; somehow, the raised undead were thanking us for their release. It wasn't an explanation I could readily accept, but it's all that made sense, and after all the supernatural shit I'd seen that night, I couldn't discount any possibilities.
I definitely planned to keep it to myself, though.
Meanwhile, Hisao just stared down at the empty, crunched snow below him. “You’re welcome,” he muttered, “...You crazy bitch.”
“Hisao?” I asked, “You… you’re not hurt, are you?”
Asking whether he was okay seemed like a dumb idea; obviously he was a disheveled mess.
Turning to me with a slight smile, Hisao stood up, pulled the poker from the snow and casually eased it against his right shoulder. “I’m fine,” he said, wincing as he held up the bandaged hand and flexed it lazily, “...‘cept for my hand... should probably take care of that...”
Nodding, and figuring I'd have to handle that once we got back to the house, I prompted, “That all?”
“Oh, and I'll have to call someone to get what’s left of...” he trailed off, waving his free hand at the burning pickup truck and surrounding junk, “...this crap.”
Turning to look at the still-burning heap of junk the witch had brought, which was all that remained to prove any of this had happened, I noticed the fire had spread to the batteries, and the pickup's cab had caught flames. Strangely, the Tesla coil itself, now devoid of crackling energy, had remained undamaged. That was probably significant somehow, but I didn't expect Hisao to explain what it meant, so I didn't ask.
Instead, I wondered aloud, “…I take it you know someone who can handle that?”
“Yeah, I know a guy...” he said, then turned toward me again, “You hurt?”
Staring at the growing pyre, I shook my head. “Nope. You still owe me a drink, though.”
“Yep...”
There’s not a lot to say after fending off the zombie apocalypse, apparently.
Sighing, Hisao turned back toward the house. “We should head in,” he suggested, hefting the poker up to rest across his shoulders horizontally, “We've got a lot of covering up to do, and a new set of kitchen knives to order... And I’m keeping this poker.”
“Good,” I said in monotone, “I don’t think Dad'll want it back.”
There were a million questions I wanted to ask, but I didn’t have the energy for them; it was late, my adrenaline was wearing off, and I was covered in melted snow, gore, and zombie dust. Supernatural weirdness or not, I just wanted to curl up someplace warm and hibernate for a few weeks, so I followed silently as Hisao led us back to the house.
Neither one of us spoke a word as we stumbled up the hill, passed the place where Hisao had fought off the horde, skirted the spot where we'd been ambushed, and trudged our way all the way back to the porch. Both of us needed to get ourselves cleaned up, lest there be a lot of unwanted questions in the morning—not counting the millions of questions I planned to ask of my good friend the part-time monster slayer.
First, though, we both needed that drink.
+++
Next Chapter
Make that a +1 Good-aligned Undead Bane Energy Immunity -Electricity Cold Iron Poker.
I want a halberd like that in my Wrath of the Righteous Campaign.
We got one more part coming up, but when depends on my friends on the Other Side, hehe.
.
I could beg to differ...