Cavern of the Blood Zombies (2011) Read online

  Cavern of the Blood Zombies

  Volume One of The Grave Robbers’ Chronicles

  By Xu Lei

  The Grave Robbers’ Chronicles:

  Cavern of the Blood Zombies

  By Xu Lei

  Translated by Kathy Mok

  Copyright©2011 ThingsAsian Press

  Edited by Janet Brown and Michelle Wong

  Illustrated by Neo Lok Sze Wong

  All rights reserved under international copyright conventions. No part of the contents of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher.

  ThingsAsian Press, 3230 Scott Street, San Francisco, California 94123 USA

  ThingsAsianPress.com

  ISBN 10: 1-934159-31-X

  ISBN 13: 978-1-934159-31-6

  Table of Contents

  1. Fifty Years Ago…

  2. Fifty Years Later…

  3. Temple of Seeds

  4. The Carcass Cave

  5. The Shadow in the Water

  6. The Unburied Dead

  7. Hundreds of Heads

  8. The Valley

  9. The Ancient Tomb

  10. The Shadow

  11. Seven Coffins

  12. The Door

  13. 02200059.

  14. Poker-face

  15. Fart

  16. A Small Green Hand

  17. An Opening in the Cave

  18. Tree of Death

  19. The Female Corpse

  20. The Key

  21. The Green-Eyed Fox-Corpse

  22. Disintegration of a Beautiful Corpse

  23. Inner and Outer Coffins

  24. Releasing the Zombie

  25. The Jade Burial Armor

  26. Secret of the Purple Jade Box

  27. A Lie

  28. Fire

  29. The Purple-Enameled Gold Box

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  FIFTY YEARS AGO…

  At the edge of an open grave squatted three men and a boy, all of them silent as they gaped at a shovel. This was a special sort of tool, known as a Luoyang shovel, used by men who loot burial sites. The long, tubular spade they had just pulled up from the grave was covered in dirt that oozed with a thick red liquid, as if the shovel had been dipped in blood.

  The oldest man in the group stamped out his cigarette as he released an impatient cloud of smoke. “We’re in big trouble. There’s a zombie in that grave and if we aren’t careful, we’re all going to end up buried in there with it forever.”

  “What’s wrong with you, Lao Yantou? You’re always bitching about your old legs bothering you—are you too decrepit to go down into that grave?” said a one-eyed youth in his late teens. “We don’t want to hear your bullshit—just give us a one-word answer, yes or no. If you won’t go, my little brother and I are more than willing. Come on!”

  Lao Yantou looked at the young man calmly and then turned to a big, bearded fellow standing nearby. “This son of yours has a bad attitude and a big mouth, grandson—you really need to teach him that in our trade loud words aren’t enough to keep him from slipping and falling flat on his ass.”

  “You little bastard,” the bearded man scowled at his son. “How dare you be so rude to your great-grandfather? He was robbing graves when you were still safe in your mother’s belly.”

  “I was out of line,” the one-eyed teenager apologized. “I spoke without thinking. But you know, if there’s a zombie in that grave, it must be guarding treasure, and a lot of it. That’s a good sign. We’d be stupid to leave without going down there. This is our chance to make ourselves rich and we can’t ignore it.”

  “And now you dare to talk back to me?” The father raised his fist but Lao Yantou blocked his blow before it fell.

  “Don’t hit him—he’s just the same as you were when you were young. If the upper beam of a house isn’t straight, then the lower one is sure to be crooked too.”

  The teenager began to laugh as his father was reprimanded but Lou Yantou cuffed him on the side of his head. “What’s so funny? Believe me, a zombie is no laughing matter. When we were working in Luoyang, one of your uncles dug up this same kind of bloody dirt and he’s been a lunatic ever since, mumbling to himself all day, all night, with nobody understanding a word he says. Yes, we’re going down into that grave and I’m going first.” He nodded at his bearded grandson, “You follow me. One-eye, you go only as far as the first excavation level and your little brother had better stay out of the grave altogether. If all four of us are down there at one time, there isn’t going to be enough room for us to get out fast if we need to. You, boy—One-eye here is going to hand you the rope after he ties it to this bucket—pull it up when you hear us yell.”

  “That’s not fair,” the boy grumbled. “Why do I have to stay out of the grave? I’m going to tell Mom you wouldn’t let me go with you.”

  “Cheer up,” laughed Lao Yantou. “Stop your fussing and Great-grandfather will find a nice little golden knife for you to play with, baby boy.”

  “I don’t need you to find things for me. Let me go down into the grave and I’ll find my own knife.”

  Grabbing his little brother by the ears, One-eye shook him as he yelled, “Why are you messing everything up for us and bothering Lau Yantou with your precious little tantrums, Mommy’s boy? Even Mom wouldn’t think you’re so cute if she heard you whine like that. Shut up—if you say one more thing I’m going to kick your little sissy ass all the way back home to Mama where you belong.”

  “Cut it out!” Lao Yantou shouted. “We have work to do, stop squabbling—let’s get at it,” and he began to shovel dirt like a human whirlwind.

  In half an hour, the grave opening had become a gaping abyss, and when the boy peered into the dark opening he could see nobody. One-eye emerged from time to time to get some fresh air but not a sound came from Lao Yantou or his bearded grandson.

  It was dark and cold and lonely, waiting at the edge of the grave, and finally the boy called down into the depths, “Great-grandpa, have you found any treasures yet?” A few seconds passed before his brother’s voice could be heard faintly, funneling up from the blackness, “No—we don’t know. You, stay where you are—be sure to pull hard when we yell—pull that rope tight.”

  The boy heard a cough, and then Lao Yantou’s whisper echoed in the dark, “Be quiet—listen! There’s something’s moving!” And then there was nothing but dead silence, leaving the boy terrified, unable to move or make a sound. Suddenly he heard an eerie rattling noise, as if a toad were calling from inside the grave, and then his older brother roared, “Pull, damn you, pull!”

  The boy planted his feet as firmly as he could on the slippery ground, grabbed the rope that was tied to the bucket, and pulled with all of his strength, but then he felt resistance, as though something below had suddenly grabbed the other end. There was a giant tug and the rope was jerked back into the grave, with the boy almost going in with it.

  Quickly he tied the end of the rope around his waist and leaned backward, almost touching the ground, using his entire weight to pull. This is how he always won at tug-of-war when he played with the other boys in his village and he knew he could exert enough force this way to hold his own even against a mule, if he had to. And sure enough, the boy was able to withstand whatever was trying to pull him into the pit, but the force on the other end was too powerful for him to pull the rope back up to the surface.

  The sound of a gunshot came from within the grave and then his father’s voice shouted, “Run, boy, run!” The rope slackened and the bucket sho
t out of the pit. As the boy grabbed it, he thought he saw something clutching the rim but there was no time for him to look. Holding the bucket tightly in one hand, he ran as rapidly as he could, knowing something terrible was happening to his family in that open grave.

  Only after a couple of miles did he stop to draw breath. As he released his grip on the bucket, he looked at it and screamed. Hooked on the rim was a severed hand, dripping blood. As he looked, the boy knew this was the hand of his one-eyed brother, who was now a cripple, if not a corpse.

  I have to go back. I have to help my father and brother and Lao Yantou, he thought. He turned and there, sitting and staring at him, was a creature the color of blood.

  This boy wasn’t an ignoramus. He had gone on grave-robbing expeditions with his father many times before and in his short life had seen quite a few strange and unearthly things. He knew that anything could happen below the earth’s surface and that the most important thing was never to panic, no matter how bizarre the circumstances might become. He knew that no murderous spirit could be stronger than any living person, and that anything, whether it be a black demon or a white devil, had to somehow comply with the law of physics. Once it was hit with a bullet and destroyed, the most terrifying ghost was nothing to be afraid of.

  The boy always carried a pistol, an old box-gun his great-uncle had found in a warlord’s tomb. He had never used it before but he knew what he had to do. Stepping back, he pulled the pistol from his waistband and aimed at the creature before him. If this bloodred thing made a move toward him, he was ready to shoot.

  The monster rose to its feet and as the boy looked at it, his scalp turned numb and his stomach churned violently. This creature was a man who had been skinned alive, as bloody and raw as if it had been squeezed out of its skin like a grape from its peel. How is it possible that this thing is still able to move? the boy wondered. Have I finally seen a blood zombie? Is this what they really look like?

  As he stood frozen in shock, the boy saw the zombie hurl itself toward him, the smell of the blood dripping from its face and the sickly sour stench of its flesh wafting around its body like poison gas. The boy pulled the trigger of his pistol repeatedly and his volley of bullets struck the zombie’s chest. Hit hard and spraying a fountain of blood, it reeled backward. The boy aimed at its head and squeezed the trigger again. This time the box-gun refused to fire; its ancient mechanism jammed.

  With all of his strength, the boy hurled the useless gun at the zombie as hard as he could and raced away, not daring to look back at what might be following him. He sprinted toward a nearby tree, hoping that his pursuer would be unable to climb after him—and then he tripped, face flat against the tree trunk, his nose and mouth filled with blood.

  How in the hell could I be so clumsy, he asked himself, beating the ground angrily with both fists. He heard the sound of thundering footsteps coming closer. He knew death was approaching, but, he thought, if I’m going to die, I might as well die lying down. And then the zombie raced over the boy’s body, leaving bloody footprints on his back. It kept running and faded away into the distance, still chasing the quarry that it had failed to see.

  The zombie was surprisingly heavy, and with its first footstep the boy had felt as though its weight had squeezed all of the bile from his liver. His back began to itch with a tingling, burning sensation and everything before his eyes grew hazy. I’ve been poisoned, he thought, I’m going to die.

  As his vision faded, all he could see was his brother’s severed hand lying on the ground in front of him, with something clutched in its grasp. He blinked as hard as he could to see more clearly what was held in those dead fingers—it was a piece of glowing silk. My brother died to bring this up out of the grave, he thought, so it must be rare and valuable. I need to take care of it so even if I die, somebody will find what my brother found. Perhaps it will be important enough that neither of us will have died for no reason.

  Painfully and slowly, the boy crawled to the hand, pried open the stiffened fingers, removed the piece of silk, and tucked it inside the sleeve of his own shirt. His ears began to buzz, his vision blurred as if a layer of wool had suddenly covered his eyes, and his hands and feet felt freezing cold. I just hope I don’t pee and shit my pants, the boy told himself, people who are poisoned usually look disgusting when they die. I hope that pretty girl who always smiles at me in the village doesn’t see how bad I look when they find my body and take it back home.

  His thoughts raced wildly and began to make no sense, but through the buzzing that filled his ears, he could hear the same rattling sound he had heard coming from the grave before his brother had yelled at him to pull on the rope. What can this be? the boy wondered. The blood zombie didn’t make a sound, even when I wounded it. Why do I hear this sound now? If it’s not coming from the zombie that chased me, then what is making that noise?

  His brain was no longer capable of giving orders to his body, but a reflex made him lift his head and focus his fading vision. There leaning toward him with a vacant stare was a gigantic, unearthly face. Its eyes had no pupils, and not the slightest spark of any sort of emotion came from their depths.

  Chapter Two

  FIFTY YEARS LATER…

  Half a century after all of this had taken place, as I read these words at the Hangzhou Xiling Printing Company, I was interrupted by someone coming through the door. I closed my grandfather’s journal, and looked up to see an old man.

  “Do you buy ancient books of ink inscriptions on silk here?” he asked. It was a question I’m asked often since I’m quite well-known in the antique book trade, and I answered him with little interest, “Yes, but I don’t pay much for them.” What I really meant was, if you don’t have anything good, get lost and let me go on with my reading.

  I was good enough at my line of work that I could close my business for three years, then reopen it and almost immediately make enough money to stay idle and comfortable for another three years. I was used to doing what I pleased during the day and had come to detest customers who knew just a smattering about old books, a loathing that increased over time. When I saw this sort of person coming my way, I would put on an expression of deepest boredom and shoo them away. But recently my free time had been a little more than it should have been, and the peak bookselling season would soon be over. There hadn’t been much good stuff coming in, so I was a bit more eager than usual to do some business.

  “In that case, I would like to ask if you have any silk books of ink inscriptions that date back to the Warring States Period? I’m especially interested in one found by some grave robbers fifty years ago that was later spirited out of the country by an American,” the man asked, peering at the books displayed on my counter.

  “If it were taken away by an American, then how could I have it?” I replied, annoyed at what seemed a pointless request. “If you’re looking for volumes like that, go to the antique market and don’t bother me. How could you be so stupid as to think you could find this particular book? Who would ever be able to put their hands on it?”

  He lowered his voice. “I heard you had the money and the connections. You were recommended to me by Lao Yang.”

  Suddenly I snapped to attention, wildly alert. Didn’t Lao Yang go to prison just a year ago? Why was he blabbing about me from his cell? My heart raced and cold sweat rolled down my back. “Which…what Lao Yang? I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “I know, I know.” He smiled and took a watch out of his shirt pocket. “Take a look. Lao Yang said you’d understand once you saw this.”

  Lao Yang had been given that watch by his first love when he was up in the Northeast, and he treated her gift as if it were as valuable as his own life. Many times when he was drunk, he would take the watch out, look at it, and call out “Azalea! My beautiful girl!” I once asked him what on earth he was yelling about, and he was silent for a long time, then out of the blue began to sob and told me he couldn’t remember. If Lao Yang had given his watch to this o
ld man, that was a clear indication that he thought this stranger was someone worthy of my attention.

  Nonetheless, as I looked at the man in front of me, I thought he was nothing more than a hideous old pain in the ass. But since he had approached me with Lao Yang’s most treasured possession, I thought it best to make him think that I spoke frankly and openly. Raising both of my hands clasped into one fist as a gesture of respect and mutual trust, I asked, “So you are a friend of Lao Yang’s. Why do you want to see me?”

  The old man grinned widely, exposing a large gold tooth. “I have a friend from Shanxi who brought back something from there. I’d like for you to take a look at it and tell me if it’s real.”

  “I can tell from your accent you’re from up north. You’re a big wheel from Beijing who’s come south to ask advice from me—I am so flattered. But why? There are many expert appraisers in Beijing. I’m afraid the drinker’s heart is not in the cup!”

  He laughed, “Ha! When people say that Southerners are intuitive, they are absolutely right. I see that you’re a young man but you are already very perceptive and you speak the truth. Indeed, I did not hope to see you on this visit. I came to see the elderly gentleman in your household.”

  My expression changed at once. “Looking for my grandfather? What do you want?”

  “Do you know if there were any other books made at the same time as the silk book of the Warring States Period that your grandfather stole from that grave fifty years ago? My friend wants to know if the volume we have is from that historical period.”

  Before he finished speaking, I was already shouting at my salesclerk who dozed at the other end of the counter, “Wang Meng, show this visitor out!”

  The old man looked confused. “Why do you shoo me away when I’m still talking?”

  “What you said about my grandfather is true, but you have come too late. He died last year. If you want to find him, go away and kill yourself!”

  As I yelled, I thought to myself, what happened a half-century ago was so dreadful that it shocked even government officials. Why would I ever let this old fart rummage through the past to stir up that old story again? If all that came back into the public eye, how could anyone ever think well of my family again?