Best New Horror, Volume 25 by Stephen Jones

Author:Stephen Jones
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Skyhorse Publishing
Published: 2013-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

SIMON STRANTZAS

Stemming the Tide

SIMON STRANTZAS IS the author of four collections of short fiction, including the recently published Burnt Black Suns from Hippocampus Press. His writing has appeared in The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror, The Best Horror of the Year and The Year’s Best Dark Fantasy & Horror; has been translated into other languages; and has been nominated for the British Fantasy Award. He lives in Toronto, Canada, with his wife and an unyielding hunger for the flesh of the living.

“‘Stemming the Tide’ is set at the Hopewell Rocks in New Brunswick, Canada,” reveals the author. “The mechanics of the tide are true, though I must confess the actual landscape differs in many ways from the real setting . . . apart from the walking dead, of course. Still, that landscape isn’t what the story was about, but rather the dissolution of relationships and the growing spite that can occur near its end.

“This tale came together in a very short time – only a few days, in fact – which its length no doubt suggests; but unlike much of my work it did its coming together in a blazing heat, burning on its way out.”

MARIE AND I sit on the wooden bench overlooking the Hopewell Rocks. In front of us, a hundred feet below, the zombies walk on broken, rocky ground. Clad in their sunhats and plastic sunglasses, carrying cameras around their necks and tripping over open-toed sandals, they gibber and gabber amongst themselves in a language I don’t understand. Or, more accurately, a language I don’t want to understand. It’s the language of mindlessness. I detest it so.

Marie begged me for weeks to take her to the Rocks. It’s a natural wonder, she said. The tide comes in every six hours and thirteen minutes and covers everything. All the rock formations, all the little arches and passages. It’s supposed to be amazing. Amazing, I repeat, curious if she’ll hear the slight scoff in my voice, detect how much I loathe the idea. There is only one reason I might want to go to such a needlessly crowded place, and I’m not sure if I’m ready to face it. If she senses my mood, she feigns obliviousness. She pleads with me again to take her. Tries to convince me it can only help her after her loss. Eventually, the crying gets to be too much, and I agree.

But I regret it as soon as I pick her up. She’s dressed in a pair of shorts that do nothing to flatter her pale lumpy body. Her hair is parted down the middle and tied to the side in pigtails, as though she believes somehow appropriating the trappings of a child will make her young again. All it does is reveal the greying roots of her dyed black hair. Her blouse . . . I cannot even begin to explain her blouse. This is going to be great! she assures me as soon as she’s seated in the car, and I nod and try not to look at her.

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