by Brian Keene
"Here you go," Martin handed him a steaming cup of coffee. "It's not very good, but it'll wake you up."
"Thanks," Jim nodded. He sipped it and took in the surroundings. "Pretty secure. You do all these fortifications yourself?"
The preacher laughed softly.
"Yes, by the grace of God. I managed to get the place squared away before it got bad. I had some help. John, our janitor. He's the one who got the windows boarded over."
"Where is he now?"
Martin's face darkened. He didn't speak for a moment, and Jim wondered if he had heard him.
"I don't know," he said finally. "Dead I suppose. Or undead more likely.
He left two weeks ago, insisted on getting his pickup truck. Planned on driving us out of here. He was convinced this was a localized problem, thought the government might have this section of the state cordoned off. John figured we should make for Beckley or Lewisburg, or maybe Richmond. I never saw him again."
"It's like this everywhere, as far as I can tell," Jim told him. "I-I came from Lewisburg."
"On foot too, it would seem," Martin commented in wonderment. "How did you manage that?"
"I almost didn't," Jim admitted. "I was on auto-pilot I guess."
"These are times when men are forced to do what they must," the Preacher sighed. "I had hoped it was different elsewhere. I prayed for a ham radio set, or even a decent pair of those AM/FM headphones I see the kids wearing, just so I could know what was happening. I've had no contact with folks, and the power has pretty much been out, except for a few streetlights here and there. I heard a plane go overhead a few days ago, but that's been it."
"The power was still on in Lewisburg. I had radio, TV, and the net.
They're worthless though. There's nothing, no one. As for this being a localized event, it's been over a month. I think they'd have had troops in here by now, if that was the case."
The Preacher thought about this, then excused himself and disappeared into a side room. Jim began to lace up his boots.
Returning, Martin offered him Oreo cookies, bread, animal crackers, and warm grape juice for dinner. "Got the cookies and crackers from the Sunday School room. The bread and juice were for communion."
They ate in silence.
After a few minutes, Martin caught Jim staring at him.
"Why?" Jim asked.
"Why what?"
"Why did God let this happen? I thought the end of the world was supposed to be when Russia invaded Israel and you couldn't buy anything without having a 666 on your credit card."
"That's one interpretation," Martin nodded. "But you're talking about end-time prophecy and you've got to remember, there are many, many different ideas about what it all means."
"I thought that when the Rapture happened, the dead would return to life? Isn't that what's happening?"
"Well, the actual word 'Rapture' never occurs in the Old or New Testament. But yes, the Bible does speak of the dead returning to life, after a fashion, to live with the Lord upon his return."
"No offense Reverend, but if He's returned, He's made a hell of a mess of things."
"That's just it, Jim. He hasn't returned-not yet. What's happening isn't of God. It's Satan who was given mastery over the Earth. Yet even in this, we must stand firm and trust in the will of the Lord."
"Do you believe that, Martin? Do you really believe this is God's will?"
Martin paused, choosing his words carefully.
"If you're asking me if I believe in God, Jim, yes. Yes I do. But more importantly, I believe that there is a reason for everything, good and bad. Despite what you may have heard, bad things are not caused by God.
When there's a tornado, that isn't God's will. But it's his love and power that gives us the strength to carry on in the tornado's wake, And it's that same love that will get us through now. I believe we have been spared for a reason."
"I have a reason, alright," Jim nodded, standing. "My son is alive, and I've got to make it to New Jersey and save him. Thanks for the meal and the shelter, Reverend, and more importantly, thanks for saving my ass today. I'd like to pay you, if you'll let me. I don't have much, but I've got some extra sardines and Tylenol in my pack-"
"Your son is alive?" Martin repeated. "How can you be sure? New Jersey is a long way off."
"He called me last night on my cell phone."
The old man looked at him as if he were crazy.
"I know it sounds crazy but it happened! He's alive and hiding out in my ex-wife's attic. I'm got to get to him."
Slowly, Martin rose from the pew.
"Then I'll help you."
"Thanks Martin. Really, thanks. But I can't ask you to do that. I need to move quickly, and I don't want-"
"Nonsense," the preacher interrupted. "You asked me about God's will and the meaning in all of this. Well, it's His will that you received that call, and it's His will that kept you alive to receive it. And it's also His will that I help you."
"I can't ask you to do that."
"You're not asking me. God is." Martin stamped his foot, then more quietly, said "I feel this in my heart."
Jim stared at him, unflinching. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his tired face.
"Alright," he reached out a hand. "If it's God's will and everything, I guess I can't stand in the way of that."
They shook hands, and sat back down.
"So what's your plan?" Martin asked.
"We need a vehicle. I don't reckon the church has one that we could use?"
"No," Martin shook his head. "That's why John left. To get his truck.
But there's plenty in the streets and driveways."
"I don't suppose a man of the cloth knows how to hot wire one?"
"No, but there's a dealership just off the interstate. We could get one there, keys and everything. It's right off Sixty-Four."
"Works for me," Jim said, mulling it over. "When can we make a move? I can't waste any more time."
"We'll leave tonight," Martin said. "Those things don't really sleep, but the darkness will give us more cover. That's how I've avoided discovery so far. I stay quiet, watch for them during the day, and sleep at night. With the boards over the windows, they can't spot the candlelight, and I've been careful not to give them a reason to be curious."
"Well, let's hope that luck holds."
"I told you, Jim. It's not luck-it's God. All you have to do is ask Him."
Jim began reloading his clip.
"In that case Pastor Martin, I'm going to ask for a tank."
"They can drive?" Martin sputtered, astonished.
Jim pored over the atlas spread out on the pulpit in front of him. "The ones I saw last night sure could. They can shoot, use tools. Everything you and I can do. They're just a little slower at it. That's our only advantage."
"I saw one a week or so ago," Martin told him, while waterproofing his boots. "Mike Roden's boy, Ben. Mike was the manager over at the bank.
Anyway, Ben was carrying a skateboard at his side. Not riding it, but carrying it, as if he was planning on riding it if he could find a suitable spot. I just figured it was some kind of rudimentary instinct-a trace memory of before."
"It's more than just memory, I can tell you that," Jim said, then paused. He thought back to the basement, and to what Mr. Thompson and Carrie had said. A part of them, the physical part, were people he had known and loved. But there was something else too. Something inside of them that was-old. Ancient.
And very, very evil.
"I was there," Mr. Thompson's corpse had said, when talking about the war. "Well, not ME, of course. But this body was there. I see the memories."
"I don't think these zombies are the people we knew."
"Well of course they are, Jim. That one I shot this morning was Becky Gingerich. She'd been our organist for almost seven years."
Frustrated, Jim struggled for the words to express what he was thinking.
He was a construction worker, damn it. Not a scientist!
"The bodies are the same on the outside, yes, but I think what's making them come back is something else. A force of some kind."
The zombie's taunts came back to him. "We are what once was and are again. We own your flesh. When your soul has departed, you belong to us.
We consume you. We inhabit you!"
Jim told Martin of his escape from the shelter. He paused when he came to Carrie and the baby, then finished, swallowing hard. "It's like they possess our bodies, but not until after we're dead. Like they have to wait for our souls to leave or something."
The old man nodded patiently. "Demons."
"Maybe," Jim agreed, "but I've never taken that stuff seriously."
"The dead walk the Earth, Jim. What could be more serious than that?"
"I know, I know!" Jim slammed his hand down on the pulpit. "But if they're demons, then shouldn't we be able to throw holy water on them, or exorcise them or something? There's so much we don't know! Why can you fill them full of holes and they keep coming, but hit them in what's left of their brain and they drop? They eat us, but is it for nourishment, or just because they're sadistic bastards? Their bodies keep rotting, the meat just slides right off the bone, and yet they keep going!"
He stopped, shocked by his outburst. He hadn't realized he was crying till he felt the wetness on his cheek.
"I'm sorry, Reverend," he apologized. "I'm just worried about Danny."
"I don't have the answers, Jim. I wish I did. One thing I can tell you is that God does have the answers, and with his strength, we will win the day. We will save your son!"
Jim nodded in acceptance, and turned back to the atlas. Inside, he wished he could believe it.
An hour later, they were ready, and sat discussing the plan one last time.
"I still think we should avoid any population centers," Martin said.
"The more people that lived in a town, the more zombies there probably are in that area. Let's stick to the back roads."
"I agree," Jim conceded, "and if it was just you and me, I'd say we head higher up into the mountains. But the longer we take, the less chance Danny has. Other than the Appalachians, the whole East Coast is pretty much one big population center. At least on the Interstate, we can avoid going through the center of any town, large or small. If these things are on the move, and driving in numbers, we'll have a better chance outrunning them on an Interstate I'm familiar with, rather than some winding back road."
"So," he continued, "we hit the Chevy dealership, get us a vehicle, and see what kind of attention we've attracted. If we don't have company, we do a quick stop at the Super Mart next door, stock up in the sporting goods section, and then we're on the road. Sound good?"
"Not really," Martin grinned, "but I've got nothing better."
Jim smiled back. "Let's go."
They walked to the door, moved the pew aside, undid the bolts and peered out into the night.
The street was empty.
Stealthily, they made their way across the street and slipped into the shadows. Martin led the way, and Jim was surprised at the older man's stamina and speed. They crept between houses, careful to stay out of the moonlight and the few scattered areas where the automatic streetlights still worked. Martin led him through backyards, a small urban woodland, around a baseball diamond, and through a culvert.
Occasionally they spotted or heard the undead, but were careful to stay hidden until the danger had passed.
Finally, upon exiting a cornfield, they reached the car lot. The dealership shared the highway exit with a strip mall and several fast food restaurants. Ghostly sodium lights bathed the parking lots in a yellow glow.
"Looks deserted," Martin whispered. "Do you think it's safe?"
"I don't think anything's safe anymore, Reverend," Jim said grimly, "but we've got no choice."
Crouching between the rows of new vehicles, they crept across the lot. A few of the cars showed signs of vandalism-a smashed windshield, several slashed tires; but most still looked brand new. Banners and stickers in the windshields promised o% FINANCING and warned TWO-DAKS ONLY!!, begging them to TAKE ME HOME TODAY.
A black Suburban caught Jim's eye.
"How about this one?"
"I reckon that should do us just fine," Martin agreed. "But how do you plan to get us going?"
"Follow me and I'll show you," Jim told him. "My friend Mike used to sell cars. They usually keep the keys in one location." Jim stood quietly for a full minute, memorizing the Vin number on the sticker by repeating it over and over to himself. Then they walked toward the showroom.
Something hissed behind them. Something else joined in. Then several more.
"What the hell?"
They turned, and with a howl, something small and black and furry launched itself at them. They stumbled backward, pressing against the garage doors, and the blast from Martin's shotgun cut the leaping cat in half.
Three more undead felines crept forward. Their fur was matted with dried blood and gore. One's entrails dragged uselessly along behind it.
The feline zombies leaned back on their haunches, preparing to jump.
Martin stared in disbelief.
"They're cats!"
"They're zombies, Martin! Shoot the fuckers!"
They opened fire, dropping two where they crouched. Spitting with rage, the third ran beneath a car and darted out the other side. Martin fired after it, but Jim held up a hand and stopped him.
"Forget about it! If the shooting didn't let the whole town know we're here, then that furball will. We'd better find those keys quick!"
"Even the animals," Martin hyperventilated. "Oh Jim, I had no idea."
"I forgot to tell you about that. I'm sorry about my language too."
"No need to apologize. It was the heat of battle." The old man reloaded the shotgun. "Besides," he gave Jim a wink, "I've been known to say worse upon occasion."
"How you boys doing this evening?"
Both men whirled around as the glass doors swung open. A zombie stepped into the lot. It grinned at them, revealing blackened gums and a grayish tongue. Fly larvae wriggled in its nose. The formerly white shirt and gray dress slacks that it wore were stained with the corpse's juices. A tie hung askew around its neck.
"Shit." Jim raised the gun.
"Now son," the zombie rasped. "There's no need for that. Tell me, what do I need to do to put you in a new car today?"
"No thanks," Martin's voice quavered. "We're just looking."
Jim fired, the shot sinking into the creature's chest. It took another step toward them.
"Well then, maybe the question is, what do I need to do to put my friends in the two of you!"
It ducked a second before Jim's follow-up shot. Weaving to the left, it lunged forward and it made a grab for Martin's thigh. The black man shrank away.
"Mmmm, dark meat!"
Jim's third shot found a home in the zombie's temple, and an exit on the other side. It collapsed to the pavement, thudding against the bumper of the truck in front of them.
"Let's move!"
They scanned the showroom and cautiously entered the building. Jim quickly found what he was looking for; a lock box mounted on the wall, directly across from the sales manager's desk.
"Here goes nothing."
He fired a shot at the lock, and they both ducked as the bullet ricocheted off the metal lock box and into a filing cabinet.
"Damn! That thing's strong. I thought we'd be able to shoot the lock off."
"Maybe he has a key," Martin offered, pointing outside at the re-killed corpse.
"Maybe," Jim agreed. "Go look. It should be a small, round key. I'll check the shop."
Jim disappeared into the back, and Martin said nothing, staring after him.
He walked back outside and eyed the zombie warily. It lay in the same position it had fallen in.
"The Lord is my shepherd," Martin recited, creeping closer. Then he was above it. The stench was overpowering. Something wriggled
beneath the skin of its forearm, tunneling beneath the waxy flesh.
Taking a deep breath, Martin bent down and reached for the creature.
The lights went off, plunging the lot into darkness.
Martin cried out, scrambling backward. He heard Jim holler in surprise as well. Something crashed inside the dealership. The building was dark too, as were the strip mall and the restaurants.
"Jim?" He ran back inside. "Jim! You okay?"
