Feral Blood

by Siara Brandt

  She waited until another long, rolling peal of thunder died away, much closer now than it had been. “I should get back inside,” she said although it was the very last thing she wanted to do.

  Lise had just taken the seat beside her mother when Doradean Dinwitty sat down behind them again. Lise wondered if the woman was following her on purpose. Doradean leaned forward so close that Lise could feel the heat of her breath on her neck as she whispered, “Do you know what Elvina Seldon just told me? Lem Huber just shot someone who tried to break into his house last night.”

  “What?” her mother hissed back over her shoulder. “Did he kill whoever it was?”

  “No,” Doradean answered her. “Whoever it was is still out there somewhere. Wounded. Lem was sure he hit him.”

  “He’s sure?” her mother asked.

  “Lem saw the man stagger,” Doradean informed them all. “And he could hear him wheeze as he disappeared in the darkness,”

  A loud creak intruded upon the heavy silence that followed her words. Everyone’s eyes automatically focused on the casket, until they realized the sound couldn’t be coming from there.

  Lise was watching the almost-stealthy shadow of Elbert Durnan as he appeared and then immediately vanished behind a curtain. Lise could only describe the look on his face as dread. Terrible dread. Why, she wondered, should he look like that?

  “I need another tissue,” her mother said.

  Lise immediately got up to get one but before she could take her seat again she stopped dead in her tracks at the sound of a long, wheezing groan. She automatically turned to see where the sound was coming from, assuming it had come from one of the mourners.

  Jes Rawlins was standing in the aisle in front of her. He had his back to her and now he stopped so that Lise, too, had to stop abruptly to avoid running into him.

  Hearing a collective gasp from all corners of the room, Lise looked around again to see what was happening. She tried to see around the man in front of her but his broad back was blocking her view.

  She glanced to the side and saw her mother slowly press her hand to her throat. She was staring intently in the direction of the casket and the look on her face was even worse than Elbert Durnan’s had been. A moment later Lise heard the noise again. It was definitely coming from the front of the room. This time she thought someone might be hurt.

  She tried again to see past the stranger’s back, but instead was drawn to Mirin as she raised a hand to cover her mouth. Her hand stayed there, only half concealing her shocked expression. Lise couldn’t see what she was looking at, but she heard another low moan, something more feral this time. By now she could tell that the crowd was definitely reacting to- something.

  And why was Jes Rawlins suddenly announcing in a commanding voice to the entire room of mourners that he was an FBI agent as his quick strides suddenly took him up the aisle straight to the casket?

  Other people in the room were getting out of their seats now. Her mother, too, had half risen out of her seat. But now, as she stood there, she seemed frozen as she kept her hand clenched tightly against her chest.

  The roomful of mourners was growing louder. What had been uncertain whispers of conjecture now became shocked comments and astonished gasps that surged rapidly through the guests.

  “He’s alive,” someone called out dramatically as if they were comically reenacting an old black and white Frankenstein movie.

  How could someone be so crass, Lise wondered? But now, she, too, could see what was causing all the commotion and she was held frozen in place by the scene before her. Uncle Alford was sitting upright in the casket. As he turned his face in her direction, she drew her breath in sharply as she heard - they all heard - another groan, a much louder one this time. Only this time the groan was half snarl.

  Suddenly the room was dead silent, until Lise heard someone say that someone should check for a pulse. No one volunteered. At the same time, Lise was thinking that someone was going to have to pay for this mistake, because that’s all it could be, a horrible, horrible mistake. What else could it be when the deceased turned out to be not deceased after all?

  “Stay back,” the stranger ordered as if he was a man used to taking control of impossible situations.

  Lise looked around for Elbert Durnan. Wouldn’t he know better than anyone else what to do?

  Wouldn’t he be the likely candidate to be able to distinguish a dead body from a live one? She agreed that somebody needed to check for a pulse, although at the same time she was thinking: of course there had to be a pulse.

  By now her eyes, like everyone else’s, were riveted on what had formerly been the deceased who was clutching the sides of the coffin with what she could only describe as a death grip. Uncle Alford looked disoriented. Macabre. Ghoulish. And a little feral, too. She couldn’t help thinking, most of all, that he looked like something that had stepped out of a horror movie with his dark suit and his gray face.

  Lise could only guess the state of his mind. Anger, confusion. Horror. How would someone who wakes up in a coffin feel? Enraged maybe as he realized where he was, because his dark lips suddenly drew back in what she could only describe as a vicious snarl. She could actually hear his teeth grind as his mouth worked. And then those teeth, all thirty-two of them, began to snap like- Well, unlike anything she had ever seen. A rabid dog maybe.

  How this could be? Lise wondered again. He’d been embalmed, hadn’t he? Could someone live after being embalmed? In any state? Alive or dead?

  She herself gasped, as did most of the other people in the room, as a loud keening wail rose from Uncle Alford. The people nearest the coffin stumbled back almost in a wave. Before the wail ended, a booming crash of thunder ripped across the sky, so loud that the very foundation of the funeral home shook.

  Lise wasn’t the only one confused. Not a single person in that funeral home understood what was happening. And even if they had seen the future, they would not have been able to imagine that it was the beginning prelude to a horror scenario straight from their nightmares.

  Someone asked the inane question, “Is he dead?” But the very same question was on all their minds.

  Of course he wasn’t dead, Lise thought. He was sitting up. He was making noises. He probably had damaged neurons in his brain and obviously wasn’t in his right mind. But he wasn’t-

  Dead.

  The lights went out again and stayed out. Uncle Alford’s face looked ghastly in the shadowy twilight. And while everyone was trying to make sense out of something that made no sense at all, Uncle Alford screamed. It was a prolonged, awful sound. Something primal. Something more than one of the onlookers was describing in their minds as unholy. Demonic even.

  And now her uncle was moving. The coffin rocked alarmingly with the frenzy of his movements. There was a real fear that he would tip the entire coffin over. Someone could get seriously hurt. Not any of the onlookers. They were all backing away now. After that hellish scream. They even began to run for the exits as Uncle Alford leaned far over the side of the coffin. It didn’t take him long to bring it to the ground with a tremendous crash. When Uncle Alford landed heavily on the floor with a bone-jarring, painful-sounding thud, nobody rushed forward to help him. Something held Lise back, too.

  Her uncle thrashed about on the ground and struggled to get to his feet. After he managed to rise, however, the toe of his right shoe got caught on the edge of the carpet, sending him pitching forward again to his hands and knees. He struggled to get up again, even managed a couple of steps after he regained his balance. And then he stopped and faced the cowering crowd.

  Another guttural cry, an almost strangled sound, came out of his throat. This time he sounded pissed. Beyond pissed. Lise, like everyone else around her, continued to stare at the man who had apparently returned from the dead. She stared at him with the incredulous horror of seeing someone who had apparently been brought back to life again right before her eyes. Something that was impossible.

  As Alford Ca
gle looked around, the mourners pressed even further back against the walls, as far as they could go. They stayed frozen there, waiting to see what would happen next. Out of the corner of her eye, Lise saw lightning flash beyond the windows. The storm wind gusted through the open door of the funeral home and immediately cooled some of the stifling heat. The lights were still out, but there was enough light coming through the windows and open doorway to very clearly see Uncle Alford with his grayish pallor and his colorless eyes. His dead eyes. That’s the only way she could describe them.

  He stood there growling like a ravening beast. And then he stopped. A strange silence fell over the room as the storm clouds reached across the sky like a vengeful hand as the last vestiges of sunlight vanished.

  Slowly Uncle Alford’s head lifted at the same time that a startled gasp died on Lise’s lips. Real fear gripped her heart and the blood in her veins turned as cold as ice water as she wondered: Were those translucent dead eyes really looking at her?

  Chapter 6

  Linwood Cagle put his palms together and bowed over the roll he had just set in the exact center of his plate. After murmuring his thanks, and without raising his head or appearing to do so, he glanced around the restaurant to see how many people had noticed his pious gesture. As he lowered his hands with slow deliberation to the sides of his plate, he finally lifted his head and leaned stiffly back in his chair, his expression changing as soon as he saw that no one else seemed to have noticed. Not that it surprised him that no one had noticed. Nor that no one else had prayed before they ate. He had already made up his mind that none of the other diners could possibly be as devoted as he was. And even if they did pray, how could he be sure they were praying the right way? Be that as it may, as in most things, Linwood saw this as an opportunity to lead by example.

  It was early so the restaurant was only half full. That was just the way Linwood liked it. He didn’t like crowds, not large ones anyway. He felt lost when there were too many people around, maybe a little threatened without knowing why. But he could still make an impression. He scanned the restaurant once more before he picked up his roll. He had already decided that the waitress would get only a token tip since it had taken her too long to come over to their table and take their order. It had taken even longer for her to bring the basket of rolls. There was no excuse for that kind of service when the restaurant was only half full.

  As he buttered the warm, fragrant roll which came, thankfully, with real butter, he continued to look around at the quaint country décor, which included antique farm equipment and several paintings of farm animals. The farm animals were readily identifiable, of course. The farm equipment not so much. It wasn’t the kind of décor that Linwood was used to. The only time he had ever stepped foot on a farm in his entire life was during a field trip in grade school. The only thing he remembered about that experience was that the huge black bull had scared him. He still believed it was because he had made the mistake of wearing red that day. What other reason would the bull have for singling him out with his snorting and his aggressive stare?

  At one point, Linwood found himself staring back at his own reflection in the row of big windows at the front of the restaurant. His dark brown hair was drawn back severely from his face, as it always was, with not a hair out of place. His tie was perfectly centered as well. He had never been able to tolerate anything but perfection. A man had to put his best foot forward at all time. What he didn’t notice was his slightly receding chin nor the tautness in the lines about his mouth, lines that never relaxed. Ever. Like all misguided, self-righteous souls, he was intolerant and judgmental to a fault.

  As he bit into the generously-buttered roll, he heard a low rumbling sound. It took him a moment to realize it was thunder. By the look of the sky, he had already decided that it was going to storm. He wasn’t looking forward to making the rest of the trip in a downpour, but he had no control over the weather. Like so many things in life, he would have to bear it with a minimum of complaining. Or at least he would keep his complaining to himself.

  His decision to stop and eat before they reached Stone Creek was a last-minute, impulsive one due to the fact that they hadn’t had time for breakfast before they left that morning. Or rather, that afternoon. As always, Floris kept them from leaving on time. Sometimes he wondered if she didn’t do it on purpose just to annoy him, but if that was true, it was one more thing he no choice but to bear with a minimum of grumbling.

  Maybe they should have waited, but he was hungry and it might be hours before they would be able to get something to eat, what with the visitation and everything that went along with that. Besides, he didn’t want to have to eat with the rest of his family. Who knew where they would want to go. On top of that, he didn’t want to get stuck paying for everyone else’s meals, especially not if Mirin was choosing the restaurant. Wine would undoubtedly be included, along with over-priced desserts. While he had kept his nose to the grindstone all these years and made a success of his business and as a result was doing well financially, he didn’t want to squander his hard-earned money away. As the saying went: A penny saved was a penny earned. He intended to save every last penny he could.

  The food finally arrived and as he tasted his first bite, a pot roast complete with mashed potatoes and what looked like fresh creamed carrots, not canned, his look changed to one of pleasant surprise. The service might not be up to par, but the food definitely was above average. Everything, from the rolls to the carrots, tasted like it was homemade. You didn’t find that very often, especially not on the road.

  Giving in to his hunger, he devoted himself equally to his meal and to his thoughts. He had been asked to give the eulogy at the funeral tomorrow, a difficult, almost impossible, and definitely a thankless task, but one he had no intention of shirking. His uncle Alford had not been a believer. How did you give comfort in a case like that? By telling the mourners that the deceased was going to burn in hell for all of eternity? He couldn’t very well say: He’s in a better place now. He couldn’t share memories of the deceased because there were no pleasant ones that he could remember. Uncle Alford had been a cruel individual with no tolerance for children. Linwood actually shuddered visibly when he thought of the times his abusive uncle had screamed at him over insignificant infractions, threatened him, and, in general, terrified him.

  But he had to come up with something. He could talk about a life well lived without going into details. That might work. Just gloss over everything. And while death provided the perfect opportunity to witness to the survivors, he didn’t hold out any hope that he would get through to any of them.

  As for Lise, the only Christian among them, or so she said, he would have something to say to her, too, when he got her alone. If Lise had lived a more pious life, it wouldn’t be necessary, but she was following a dangerous path, in his opinion, one that might lead her right into the fiery pit if he didn’t set her straight. It was bad enough that she was divorced. Now she was turning away from her family, according to his mother and his sister, which wasn’t going to do her any good, but would only hasten her downfall. He had tried to reach out to her all these years, especially about the divorce, but she wasn’t having it. In fact, he would go so far as to say that she had been avoiding him over the years. But that was no surprise. Lise had always had been stubborn. Hard headed. Rebellious. She especially didn’t like rebuked. She never had, but she needed to know the error of her ways. And that was his job. Someone had to do it, someone who lived a life that she could model her own after. He had tolerated a difficult marriage. She should have been able to do the same.

  He took another bite of pot roast, pushing the roll through the gravy and sopping it up until it was dripping with the savory liquid before he brought it to his mouth. It was a satisfying meal. The plates were huge, the portions generous. Best of all, the prices were more than reasonable. He looked over the meal, almost nodding his head with approval. And the waitress was finally being a little more attentive. To him at l
east. She was young and pretty, which was probably why Floris was giving her the evil eye. Floris had always struggled with jealousy, even when it wasn’t warranted, and it could make her malicious. Really malicious and downright vindictive. Deep down, Linwood understood it was all due to her insecurity and her past. There were things she had never shared with him, things that he suspected had happened to her. But they never talked openly about things like that so the best he could do was to guess. If she wanted to keep it all buried, who was he to rock the boat? Besides, Linwood didn’t think he could handle all the gory details if it ever all came out.

  He raised his index finger to summon the waitress back for a refill on his soda and heard Floris say in a suppressed whisper, “Did you see that? She’s friendly enough with the people at that table, but she makes us wait. I’m sure she saw you.

  “They’re probably locals,” Floris went on spitefully. “That or she’s purposely flirting with that tableful of men to get a good tip.” Jealousy lent a bitter edge to her words as her upper lip curled and she said nastily, “Hmph. See if she gets a tip from us.” An unladylike, nasal snort followed her declaration.

  Linwood wasn’t successful in keeping the irritation out of his voice when he told her sharply, “Keep your voice down.” So sharply that someone at another table gave him a look which mortified him.

  Floris, herself, paused with her glass before her mouth and gave him a death stare. She was just like Lise. She didn’t like being reprimanded, either. Over the years, however, they had both learned the give and take of at least pretending to tolerate each other’s presence. Barely at times, it was true, but at least they had not decided that a divorce was the answer. Floris, mindful of drawing any more negative attention, smoothly changed the subject. She was good at it. She’d had a lot of practice over the years. Without looking up from her plate, she asked, “Did they figure out what he died from yet?”