Doppelgänger (27 page)
About the Author
Sean Munger is an author, historian and teacher. A former attorney, he is now researching environmental history of the United States in the Early Republic period. He has previously written two books for Samhain Horror,
Zombies of Byzantium
(2013) and
Zombie Rebellion
(2014). Sean's website at
www.seanmunger.com
specializes in history, heavy metal, wine and books. He also loves to connect with fans on Twitter at
www.twitter.com/Sean_Munger
.
Look for these titles by Sean Munger:
Now Available:
Zombies of Byzantium
Zombie Rebellion
The revolution of the living dead!
Zombie Rebellion
© 2014 Sean Munger
Roger Clymer has got the worst job anyone in Pennsylvania in 1794 can have: tax collector. But as a plague of undead zombies begins raking through the countryside, Roger realizes that the controversial new tax on whiskeyâand the ragtag band of rebels taking up arms to oppose itâare the least of his worries, at least until George Washington's army arrives to put them down. Until then all he's got are one and a half muskets, distrustful Indian allies and his twelve-year-old son to help him keep the zombie hordes at bayâbefore the entire frontier explodes into a bloody, flesh-devouring, whiskey-fueled inferno!
Enjoy the following excerpt for
Zombie Rebellion:
Roger and Nathan didn't speak until they'd already ridden some distance away from the Rinn farm. Back in the quiet forest there was the merciful shade of trees. The horses moved as if mired in molasses, dragging slow from the heat and humidity. With no antecedent Nathan said, “Do you really think he was going to shoot you, Pa?”
Roger shook his head. “No. Rinn's as mean as an old polecat, but even he wouldn't shoot a federal tax collector in cold blood.”
“What if nobody pays?”
“Then I tell Neville we did the best we could, and if he thinks he can collect more tax than I was able to, he's welcome to come try himself.”
They rode in dejected silence for nearly an hour. The next destination was the Saucken farm, a few miles down the St. Clair Road from Rinn's place. Roger held out hope that the Germansâ
Dutch
, the locals called themâmight be more reasonable. The Sauckens kept to themselves mostly and were rarely seen in town, but they were known throughout the countryside as pleasant, pious and highly moral folk. Roger had heard that Werner Saucken's son had contracted to send a shipment of whiskey on a flatboat out of Pittsburgh shortly after the last harvest. Perhaps they could be persuaded to set a positive example.
“But even the Dutch are paying,”
Roger hoped to tell some of the more recalcitrant farmers. It might not carry much weight, but it was worth a try.
The forest thinned and they began to see cultivated fields on one side of the road. The corn and rye were planted in neat meticulous rows, very European, unlike the haphazard and sloppy cultivation of many of the locals. From this Roger knew they were in Dutch country. Saucken's fences were arrow straight and painted white. Curiously there was little activity in the fields today. Werner Saucken had six sons, and a family with as strong a work ethic as they had would doubtless keep them toiling from sunup until sundown in good weather. But not a person or animal was stirring in the fields. When they came out of the shade of the trees Roger saw something even stranger: a large mound of hay at the corner of a field was burning, belching a column of black smoke into the humid air.
Nathan noticed it too. “What's going on, Pa?” he asked.
“I don't know.” He spurred Nettie to move faster. “Something may be wrong.”
They neared the burning hay mound, which stood blocking the entrance of the path that led across the gently rolling fields to the Sauckens' farmhouse off in the distance. Bits of straw, flaming and smoking, rained down around them. It was not just hay burning: a pile of sticks and lumber had been constructed with hay stacked on top of it, for what purpose Roger could not discern. Then he noticed that a makeshift sign had been erected next to the beacon fire. Someone had nailed several planks together and propped them up against a crude sawhorse. A message had been painted in whitewash on the planks:
FERNBLEIBEN! FERNZUHALTEN!
SIE KANN UNS NICHT HELFEN
ZURÃCKGEHEN!
RETTET EUCH!
SAVE YOUR SELFS!
Roger slid down from Nettie's saddle and stepped closer to the sign. He couldn't speak German, or at least not much, and did not recognize any of the foreign words.
“What's it mean, Pa?” said Nathan. Perhaps sensing danger, Passenger was skittish. The horse backed away from the fire, one hoof scratching the ground.
“I've no idea.”
Save Your Selfs!
sounded to him like a religious message, but the sign and the fire together seemed more like a warning of danger. Squinting from the sun Roger peered over at the farmhouse. There was little he could tell at this distance. There was nothing to do but check it out, but Roger was seized with an intense feeling of dread. “Give me the musket,” he said.
Nathan got down from his horse and brought the gun to him. He had not thought to load it when they took off, and now he realized how foolish that had been; if trouble arose that was serious enough to warrant use of the gun, it would undoubtedly come upon them very quickly. He took the cartridges and powder from the saddlebag, loaded the weapon as quickly as he could, then shouldered it. “Stay here,” he warned Nathan.
He had to walk through the corn to get around the flaming blockade. Once back on the dirt path leading up to the house, he became certain that something had gone terribly wrong here. The home of a family with six children should have been bursting with activity but it was as silent as a tomb. All the shutters were drawn, some on the upper level nailed shut from the outside. As he drew nearer Roger noticed the tall grass in front of the house had been thoroughly trampled and disturbed. There was a pile of something in the grass ahead of him. Nothing moved.
Timidly he approached. Through the grass he could see a human foot, shod in a very roughly made leather shoe, lying motionless. Creeping nearer, he was horrified to see a pile of human bodies. He estimated there were six of them, five men and a woman. All were dressed in plain frontier clothes, but they were torn, ragged and bloody. Most horrifying at all, their heads were crushed like overripe melons. One of the men's craniums had been utterly flattened. A bloody ear protruded from a jagged piece of skull with hair still attached. The flesh was gray and ashen, but the blood was relatively fresh.
Roger recoiled. “Dear God!” he gasped, turning away. A moment later a convulsion seized him and he retched violently into the tall grass.
When he felt well enough to look back at the horror he noticed several strange things. No flies buzzed about the corpses, nor were there worms. Roger had seen dead men in summer heatâhe'd served in the southern campaign at the end of the warâand was well-familiar with the smells and sights of rot. On a day like this the corpses should have been bloating, but they weren't. He couldn't tell how long they'd been dead. And their heads crushed, probably with some blunt and heavy object, a club perhaps. Why kill them in this way? Whoever had done this was a monster, a berserker.
His first thought was for the safety of his son.
Nathan! If there's a madman around here, I've got to get Nathan away!
Roger backed away from the pile of corpses and was about to start back down the path toward where his son waited astride Passenger. But at that moment he heard something from within the house. It was a low scratching sound, followed by a sort of guttural moaning.
“Pa?” called the boy from the foot of the path.
“Stay back!”
The scratching became a scrabbling. It was coming from the front door of the farmhouse, which Roger noticed for the first time was ajar. There were dark streaks upon its green-painted panels. At first he thought they were dirt or mud, but now he realized they were dried blood. His heart pounding, he brought the musket to his shoulder.
The thing that emerged from the doorway of the farmhouse was shocking and slovenly. It was a man, his face and hands crimson with blood. He was half-clothed in a white linen shirt, black breeches and frock coat, but the clothes were ripped and ragged. One sleeve of the coat trailed on the ground and part of the breeches were torn away, revealing a thin hairy thigh whose skinâlike the man's faceâwas the color of ashes. The man staggered slowly and uneasily, as if drunk. A guttural moan issued from his slack, open mouth. Most hideously, Roger could see a piece of raw bloody flesh in the man's mouth. A strip of skin dangled from his blood-slick lips. There was no question this was the berserker.
“Stop!” Roger cried, his finger curling around the musket's trigger. “Halt right there or I'll shoot!”
The gray-faced man stumbled down the front steps, his arms akimbo. He began to shuffle, slowly but with determination, directly toward Roger. He was not armed and he moved in a slow shamble. Nevertheless, Roger had no intention of letting him get any closer.
He pulled back the trigger. The breech of the musket flashed and spat a spark. A blast of acrid smoke exploded from its muzzle. Roger saw the berserker recoil, but he did not go down. The man issued a sort of surprised gruntâ“
Snerk?
Ӊbut then kept coming, though his left arm hung limply at his side. The musket had blasted a jagged hole in his shoulder. Roger could see the torn fabric of his coat and shirt, but there was no fresh blood.
eBooks are
not
transferable.
They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B
Cincinnati OH 45249
Doppelgänger
Copyright © 2015 by Sean Munger
ISBN: 978-1-61922-516-9
Edited by Don D'Auria
Cover by Scott Carpenter
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
electronic publication: February 2015
