Read Online Among the Fallen: Resurrection by Ross Shortall, Scott Beadle - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ross Shortall, Scott Beadle
Tags: Terror, thriller, Suspense, Science-Fiction, Gothic, Action & Adventure, Horror, Epic, SciFi, Zombie, supernatural, Zombies, Ghosts, Part One, Reincarnation, scary, Resurrection, psychological horror, Splatter horror, splatter, toxic shock publishing, Cannibalism, alexandra beaumont, ross shortall, among the fallen, Demonic Possession, Satanic Stories, Torture horror, B-Movie Horror, scott beadle, Paranormal horror, Macabre
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mourn; is it Sarah?
I approach the weeping crowd, their expressions frozen in grief and pain. Helicopters float in the air, soundless and as still as stone, the police and news crews spread out in the distance, holding their guns and cameras as clear as day; their faces blank and thoughts wayward.
I approach the crowd; my father is at the front, surrounded by his bodyguards, his hair dyed black, his face etched in experience and lines. His almost expressionless face gazing at the ground, his cold eyes hidden behind dark glasses.
The coffin is sat at the front, surrounded in flowers and words of respect. I approach it and run my hand over its cold surface, its photo baring my happy picture. I aint surprised, not as surprised as I should be, I aint deluded nor stupid; I know what I am. But it still feels strange; it haunts me as I stare at its smooth white expensive shell.
I stare at my monument, a statue of me that seems to look different than those of my ancestors. I look at it queerly as I try to make out the strange sight, its chiselled and almost macabre features eluding me. It looks like me as it stands defiant, carved wearing a jacket, chains wrapped around the arms, no pupils in the eyes and my hair tied back; I never wear my hair tied back, it makes me look too serious, but it stands before me, looking angry and evil, almost sinister as it glares down at me.
Nowhere near as elegant or as stunning as the others.
Suddenly I panic; I can’t stop myself, blinded by hope as I search for Sarah amongst the crowd, searching their legs and feet for my baby sister. I don’t know why, I know she’s dead; but something within me hopes she was saved, hopes that she was got to in time. I suddenly calm, in shock maybe, but I desperately wanted her to be alive, even if I wasn’t. I look upon the faces again; Collette is missing too. I struggle to think as the realization of the two people I cherish the most, are missing from my own funeral.
I stand among the crowd as my mind gradually comes back to me, a moment of madness suddenly gone; most of these people I do not even know. I recognize a few, the chief of police, deputy mayor and a few others that visited my father at home. Some of the staff are here, Gerry made it, I knew he would. He is staring at my father with a face of disgust, almost fitting and not surprising. I stand here, looking upon my coffin, and yet, I see these people looking at my father as the victim; which is about right.
I approach my coffin once more, lifting the lid and staring at the angel as my physical body sleeps.
As weird as it is, it feels peaceful, I look serene, but I still feel cheated, like I have had something stolen from me. I turn to look on the mourners, but they are gone, I’m alone with the casket, surrounded by my mute ancestors.
Suddenly I feel a sickness in my stomach, I feel bad, like a strong guilt, yet I have no idea why. The trees wilt, the leaves all suddenly fall and the grass crumbles under my feet. The sky turns dark and is lit up with lightening and scorched by thunder. I look around feeling sick, disgusted, I can’t shake the sickness I feel. I look into the casket and stare at my sleeping face. I watch as the skin cracks and turns rotten, the eyes sink back into the head, the hair wilting and thinning out. It suddenly leaps up, grabbing me by my throat, it’s disgusting smell making my stomach heave.
“Wake up you dumb bitch!” it screams at me, clawing at my neck and face. I fall to the ground and the body shatters, its bones scattering in the dead grass. I struggle to get my breath back, I feel like I am suffocating. I stand up, clutching my throat in agony, the blood squeezing through my fingers, but then, it stops. I look at my bloody palm, its deep red suddenly turning black, crumbling and flaking as I close my hand. I feel my throat frantically, my wounds have gone, I can’t express what’s going through my mind, it avoids even me at the moment.
I look
I approach the weeping crowd, their expressions frozen in grief and pain. Helicopters float in the air, soundless and as still as stone, the police and news crews spread out in the distance, holding their guns and cameras as clear as day; their faces blank and thoughts wayward.
I approach the crowd; my father is at the front, surrounded by his bodyguards, his hair dyed black, his face etched in experience and lines. His almost expressionless face gazing at the ground, his cold eyes hidden behind dark glasses.
The coffin is sat at the front, surrounded in flowers and words of respect. I approach it and run my hand over its cold surface, its photo baring my happy picture. I aint surprised, not as surprised as I should be, I aint deluded nor stupid; I know what I am. But it still feels strange; it haunts me as I stare at its smooth white expensive shell.
I stare at my monument, a statue of me that seems to look different than those of my ancestors. I look at it queerly as I try to make out the strange sight, its chiselled and almost macabre features eluding me. It looks like me as it stands defiant, carved wearing a jacket, chains wrapped around the arms, no pupils in the eyes and my hair tied back; I never wear my hair tied back, it makes me look too serious, but it stands before me, looking angry and evil, almost sinister as it glares down at me.
Nowhere near as elegant or as stunning as the others.
Suddenly I panic; I can’t stop myself, blinded by hope as I search for Sarah amongst the crowd, searching their legs and feet for my baby sister. I don’t know why, I know she’s dead; but something within me hopes she was saved, hopes that she was got to in time. I suddenly calm, in shock maybe, but I desperately wanted her to be alive, even if I wasn’t. I look upon the faces again; Collette is missing too. I struggle to think as the realization of the two people I cherish the most, are missing from my own funeral.
I stand among the crowd as my mind gradually comes back to me, a moment of madness suddenly gone; most of these people I do not even know. I recognize a few, the chief of police, deputy mayor and a few others that visited my father at home. Some of the staff are here, Gerry made it, I knew he would. He is staring at my father with a face of disgust, almost fitting and not surprising. I stand here, looking upon my coffin, and yet, I see these people looking at my father as the victim; which is about right.
I approach my coffin once more, lifting the lid and staring at the angel as my physical body sleeps.
As weird as it is, it feels peaceful, I look serene, but I still feel cheated, like I have had something stolen from me. I turn to look on the mourners, but they are gone, I’m alone with the casket, surrounded by my mute ancestors.
Suddenly I feel a sickness in my stomach, I feel bad, like a strong guilt, yet I have no idea why. The trees wilt, the leaves all suddenly fall and the grass crumbles under my feet. The sky turns dark and is lit up with lightening and scorched by thunder. I look around feeling sick, disgusted, I can’t shake the sickness I feel. I look into the casket and stare at my sleeping face. I watch as the skin cracks and turns rotten, the eyes sink back into the head, the hair wilting and thinning out. It suddenly leaps up, grabbing me by my throat, it’s disgusting smell making my stomach heave.
“Wake up you dumb bitch!” it screams at me, clawing at my neck and face. I fall to the ground and the body shatters, its bones scattering in the dead grass. I struggle to get my breath back, I feel like I am suffocating. I stand up, clutching my throat in agony, the blood squeezing through my fingers, but then, it stops. I look at my bloody palm, its deep red suddenly turning black, crumbling and flaking as I close my hand. I feel my throat frantically, my wounds have gone, I can’t express what’s going through my mind, it avoids even me at the moment.
I look
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