“I thought you did,” said Willie.
No matter; it was Andy that Jack swore at and smacked on the side of the head. Willie looked pained, as if he, too, had been hit.
Jack glanced up the slope, then turned and angrily continued down the trail. “Let’s go!” he snapped over his shoulder. “Too late to go back for it now.”
They got lost twice coming down, squeezing between boulders, clambering over jagged rocks, and slipping on patches of ice. But just as night had settled on the mountain, and Andy could no longer make out his brother’s red hair or his friend’s pale face, they all felt the familiar hard-packed earth of the trail beneath their boots.
They were dog-tired and aching by the time they stumbled into camp. They had no flashlights and were too fatigued to try to build a fire. Poor Willie, weariest of all, felt his way to the tent and crawled inside. Andy hung back. In the darkness he heard Jack yawn and slip into the other tent.
He was alone now, with no light but the stars and a sliver of moon, like a great curved mouth. The night was chilly; he knew he couldn’t stay out here. With a sigh, he pushed through the tent flaps, trying not to think about what waited for him inside.
The interior of the tent was pitch black and as cold as outdoors. Willie was already asleep. The air, once crisp, seemed heavy with an alien smell; when he lifted the flap of his sleeping bag, the smell grew stronger. Did all new bags smell like this? He recognized the odors of canvas and rubber, but beneath them lurked a hint of something else: fur, maybe, or the breath of an animal.
No, he was imagining things. The only irrefutable fact was the cold. Feeling his way carefully in the darkness, Andy unlaced his boots, barely noticed that his socks were encrusted with snow. Gingerly he inserted one foot into the mouth of the bag, praying he’d feel nothing unusual.
The walls of the bag felt smooth and, moments later, warm. Too warm. Surely, though, it was just the warmth of his own body.
He pushed both legs in further, then slipped his feet all the way to the bottom. Lying in the darkness, listening to the sound of Willie’s breathing, he could feel the bag press itself against his ankles and legs, clinging to them with a weight that seemed, for goosedown, a shade too heavy. Yet the feeling was not unpleasant. He willed himself to relax.
It occurred to him, as he waited uneasily for sleep, what a clever disguise a bag like this would make for a creature that fed on human flesh. Like a spider feasting upon flies that had blundered into its web, such a creature might gorge contentedly on human beings stupid enough to disregard its warning: One size eats all… Imagine, prey that literally pushed itself into the predator’s mouth!
Human stomach acid, he’d read, was capable of eating through a razor blade; and surely this creature’s would be worse. He pictured the thing dissolving bones, draining the very life-blood from its victim, leaving a corpse sucked dry of fluids, like the withered husk a spider leaves behind…
Suddenly he froze. He felt something damp—no, wet—at the bottom of the bag. Wet like saliva. Or worse.
Kicking his feet, he wriggled free of the bag. Maybe what he’d felt was simply the melted snow from his socks, but in the darkness he was he was taking no chances. Feeling for his boots, he laced them back on and curled up on top of the bag, shivering beneath his coat.
Willie’s voice woke him.
“Andy? Are you okay?”
Andy opened his eyes. It was light out. He had survived the night.
“Why were you sleeping like that?” said Willie. “You must be frozen.”
“I was afraid to get back in the bag. It felt… weird.”
Willie smiled. “It was just your imagination, Andy. That’s not even your bag.”
“Huh?” Andy peered down at the bag. A label near the top said Arctic Explorer. “But how—”
“I switched your bag with Jack’s when the two of you were starting for the summit,” said Willie. “I meant to tell you, but I fell asleep”
“Jack’ll be furious,” said Andy. “He’ll kill me for this!”
Trembling with cold and fear, he crawled stiffly from the tent. It was early morning; a chilly sun hung in the pale blue sky. He dashed to Jack’s tent and yanked back the flaps, already composing an apology.
The tent was empty. The sleeping bag, his bag, lay dark and swollen on the floor. There seemed to be no one inside.
Or almost no one; for emerging from the top was what appeared to be a deflated basketball—only this one had red hair and a human face.
RESURRECTION by Adam Meyer
Part of the crop of younger writers who are beginning to appear in The Year’s Best Horror Stories, Adam Meyer explains: “Born St. Patrick’s Day 1972, I have not an ounce of Irish blood in my body. Though my native county is Queens, New York, I now live in Washington, D.C. with my fiancée, two cats, and enough books to fill the Grand Canyon. A graduate of SUNY Albany, I’m now studying for my Master’s in film production at the American University.”
Meyer’s short fiction has been published in the small press, as have his interviews and reviews; he currently has three novels seeking a publisher. Meyer made a film of “Resurrection” for a video class, and he threatens to send me a copy. Meyer wrote, directed, and edited the film, which starred his former roommate and his current fiancée. Good luck, kids.
I watch Donna as she sleeps the sleep of the dead, dreams the dreams of eternity. I glance at my watch, see it’s 12:18 A.M., do the arithmetic, and realize that it’s been over four hours since I killed her.
If the old witch’s chant works, it shouldn’t be long. I’ll give it another hour, I think. If nothing’s happened by then… what? Go back to the rundown apartment downtown, where the walls reek of cat urine and death? What will I say to her? Demand my money back? Kill her, too?
I am not a murderer, I tell myself. I care about life, not death.
I sit in a chair at Donna’s bedside and watch, wait, hope. Her black hair fans out across the pillow, her ice-blue eyes peer out from a face as white as marble, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Her hands lay palm down at her sides. Perhaps it’s my imagination, but I think I can see the faintest trace of a smile on her blood-red lips.
I get up from the chair, begin to pace. Time check: 12:32. She isn’t going to wake up, I think, and rage fills me. For two hundred bucks, I expect to get a resurrection chant that works. Then I think that maybe it’s better if Donna doesn’t get up. Maybe it’s best if I slip away into the night and forget this whole crazy plan.
I wonder what Donna will be like when she returns to life. The old woman said there’d be virtually no change in her personality (except for a little post-resurrection shock), she’d be as lucid and sane after death as before. Still, I wonder. I’ve seen the movies, everything from Frankenstein to Re-Animator. I know what can happen when you interfere with the processes of life and death. But, God, I’ve got to know. I must.
So I wait.
The phone rings, and I jump. I don’t dare answer it.
12:56 A.M. Another half-hour, I vow.
I remember the scene when Boris Karloff, the Frankenstein monster, hurls that little girl into the lake with as much thought as he’d tossed flowers a few seconds before.
In my mind’s eye I imagine a zombie-Donna with cruel soulless eyes hurling me through the window to a death awaiting me twelve stories below.
That’s crazy, I tell myself. But I can’t help wondering.
By 1:14 A.M., I’m furious. That old witch is a phony. She doesn’t know a thing about magic, let alone raising the dead.