by Brian Keene
Getting his second wind, Martin grabbed shells from the gun cabinet and began reloading the rifles.
"See to your father," Jim told Jason. "We'll handle this."
"How many are there?" Martin asked.
"Three that I can see. Maybe more that I can't. I don't know. You ready?"
"No, but let's do it anyway."
Jim flung the door open and leaped onto the porch, firing as he went.
The shots were wild, but they deterred the zombies long enough for him to take position, eject his shells, aim, and fire again. He drew a bead on the doe and quickly squeezed the trigger. The gun jumped in his hands and the bullet tore into her neck. The next shot dropped her.
Martin targeted the closest human, an obese hillbilly who had swollen to hideous proportions in death. His first shot shattered the creature's kneecap. He readjusted and the second plowed into the prodigious stomach. The stench spilling from the monster's intestines clouded the porch. He aimed higher and the next two shots separated the zombie's head from its body. It dangled on a few thin scraps of sinew and flesh, before falling off the shoulders and rolling across the ground. The body dropped beside it.
Martin approached the head. The eyes followed him and the lips moved, forming words but now lacking the lungs and vocal chords to express them.
He knelt down next to it and the teeth snapped at him soundlessly.
Rising, he thrust the barrel into its mouth. The eyes grew wide. He fired.
The third zombie turned to run. Leading it for a moment with the barrel, Jim drew a bead on it, fired, and watched its brains exit through the back of its skull.
Breathing hard, the two men smiled at each other grimly. The echoes of the last shot rebounded off the hills. Finally Martin spoke.
"Clendenon's in bad shape." It wasn't a question.
"Yeah, I'm afraid so."
"Jim," he paused before continuing. "You realize we can't leave them like this."
"I know."
He stared into the setting sun. New Jersey-and Danny-had never seemed farther away at that moment.
They used two bottles of peroxide and several boxes of cotton balls on the bites. Martin gave him a liberal dose of aspirin and a bottle of Jim Beam to kill the pain while they bandaged his wounds. Delmas had lost a lot of blood, and his skin was chalk-white. His leg was swollen to almost twice its normal size, and Jim had to cut the pants leg off around it. They elevated it with pillows, and when Jim touched his thigh, the flesh was hot and tight.
Mercifully, Delmas finally passed out, moaning himself to sleep.
"We've got to do something about that leg," Jim said, "but I don't know how."
"We could try to set it," Martin said. He looked at Jason. "Did your Pop ever teach you how to do anything like that?"
"No. Mamma taught me how to make a poultice, but we don't have the stuff to do it."
"Are there any neighbors who would be able to help?"
"No. torn and Luke and old John Joe were the last."
Jim paced the floor while Martin cared for his own wounds and washed up in the sink.
"Try to get some sleep," the minister coaxed Jason.
"Can't, sir. I'm not sleepy."
"Well then, why don't you go sit with your father a
spell. Mr. Thurmond and I will try to figure out what to do next."
After the door closed behind him, Martin sighed, loosening his collar.
"So what do we do?" Jim stopped pacing.
"I don't know. I've been thinking about that. Best case scenario; we fight off any infection and the man is a cripple for the rest of his life. How long do you think they'll last if he can't walk?"
Jim didn't reply.
"We could take them with us," Martin suggested. "Find a van or something. Sooner or later we'll have to run into a doctor or at least somebody with medical knowledge."
"He's in no shape to travel, Martin. A few hours ago, you weren't even sure that I was."
"You certainly act like you're feeling better."
"I am better, but driving him is out. We can't move him with that busted leg."
"So we wait."
"And Danny-" He choked, unable to finish.
"I'm sorry, Jim."
Martin sank into the sofa and propped his feet up. Jim began to pace again.
"Maybe this is how it's supposed to be, Jim. I could stay here with them while you went on."
Jim considered this.
"No, Martin, I can't leave you here. You came with me, offered your friendship and support. It wouldn't be right."
"It may not be right, but that doesn't mean it's not God's plan. Maybe the Lord needs me here."
"Let me think about it. We're not going to be able to do anything until it's light outside anyway."
In the darkness, a whippoorwill sang its lonely song to the accompaniment of chirping crickets. Martin went to the window.
"My Mama used to say that when you heard a whippoorwill at sunset, it meant that somebody close to you was going to die."
"My folks used to say the same thing," Jim responded. "If it's true, they must be singing an awful lot these days."
Jason woke in the middle of the night, slumped in the chair next to his father's bed. He stretched his legs, yawned, and went to his father's side. Delmas lay utterly still, and Jason felt a momentary twinge of panic. He placed his ear next to the sleeping man's mouth, and sighed with relief when he heard him breathing quietly.
Jason's bladder let him know with a sense of urgency that he needed to pee. He tiptoed to the door and peeked out into the living room. Pastor Martin lay on the couch, mumbling and thrashing fitfully in his sleep.
Jim sat facing the window, silhouetted in moonlight. He was staring at something in his hands.
"Mr. Thurmond," Jason whispered, but Jim didn't turn or acknowledge him.
Jason crept behind him. In Jim's hands was a wallet-sized photograph of a little boy.
"Jim," Jason whispered again, and this time he heard him. Bleary-eyed, Jim turned to face him.
"Hey Jason," he murmured wearily. "Couldn't sleep?"
"I had to pee. What about you?"
"Can't sleep."
"Is that Danny?"
"Yep, that's him," Jim sighed, turning back to the picture before putting it back into his wallet. "How's your Pop?"
"He's sleeping. I guess that's good."
"It certainly can't hurt," Jim agreed. Jason was hopping back and forth from foot to foot now. "Go ahead and pee. I'll watch your Pop while you're gone."
"Thanks."
Rising to his feet, Jim tiptoed into the bedroom.
Delmas' worsening condition shocked him. He hadn't expected the injured man to be up and dancing a jig, but the deterioration was happening much quicker than he had thought it would.
His skin had taken a ghostly pallor and dark circles surrounded his sunken eyes. Despite their efforts, Jim could smell the infection rotting Delmas from the inside out. The stench reminded Jim of hot dogs in a microwave, and he gagged. Delmas' leg was swollen and the flesh glistened in the candlelight. Purplish-black splotches dotted his thigh and calf, and the veins bulged through the skin.
From the bathroom, Jim heard the sound of the toilet flushing and with a last, pitiful look at Delmas, he turned to leave.
"Kill me."
He wheeled around. Clendenan was awake and staring at him.
"Kill me," he wheezed again. "Don't let me-"
Jim went to his side, trying to calm him down.
"That'll be enough of that talk. You don't want to scare your son."
Kill me!" Delmas insisted. With a sudden burst of strength, he grabbed Jim's shirt, clenching it tightly.
"Hey," Jim protested, "what are you doing?"
"Listen to me, Thurmond! I don't want to be like one of those things out there! I don't want Jason to see me like that. You've got to put me in the ground yourself."
"Don't be silly," Jim soothed. "You're going to be okay, Delmas. We're
going to find you a doctor-"
"Bullshit! Ain't no doctors around here! We both know I ain't gonna make it, Jim. I can smell myself rotting. I'm burning up with fever."
He broke off into a violent fit of coughing. Jim tried to lean him forward but Delmas waved him away and brought it under control. Jim noticed in dreadful fascination that rusty colored fluid was leaking from the corner of his mouth.
"Kill me."
"I can't, Delmas. I'm sorry, but I can't."
"Then I will."
They both turned. Jason stood in the doorway, and Jim could tell by the expression on his face that the boy had heard the exchange. Martin stood blinking behind him, one hand on his shoulder. There were sleep seeds in the old man's eyes.
"You can't be serious," Jim said. "You're just a boy."
"Yes sir, and he's my Pop. I reckon I should be the one."
Delmas stared at his son gravely.
"You know what you're saying, boy? Are you sure about this?"
Jason nodded, struggling to contain the torrent of emotions that threatened to break loose. He was afraid if he started crying now, he'd never stop.
"For Christ's sake, Delmas, give it a few days," Jim urged. "Maybe we can stop the infection!"
The big man silenced him with a wave of his hand.
"I'm dying," he said simply, "and if we give it a few days, what happens if I pass on in my sleep? Then I'm a danger to all of you. No, it's better this way. This way we're sure."
Scowling, Jim moved away from the bed and knocked his head against the wall in frustration.
"Jason," Delmas rasped, and held his hand outstretched. The boy floated to his side. A tear ran down his cheek as he took his Pop's hand in his own.
"You've got a job to do, Jason," he wheezed. "You understand why I had to do what I did with your mother. Now I need you to do it for me. It won't hurt me, I promise. It happens so quick-" A sob caught in his throat.
"I can do it, Pop. I'm not afraid."
"I don't want you to look at me when you're done," Delmas commanded him. "After you pull the trigger, just close your eyes and walk away. I don't want you to be haunted by it. Just leave the room. I'm sure Pastor Martin and Mr. Thurmond here will bury me."
Martin nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the floor. Jim struck the wall with his fist.
"Go and get the twelve gauge."
As Jason left the room, he called them over to his side.
"You still heading on to find your boy?"
"Yes."
"Take Jason with you?"
"Sure," Jim vowed, meeting Delmas' pleading eyes. "We'd be honored. I promise you, from one father to another, that I'll watch over your son and not let any harm come to him."
"Thank you." He coughed again, spraying the sheets with blood and grimacing in pain as his leg rolled off the stack of pillows.
"I've got it," Jason said quietly, and shuffled toward the bed.
"Delmas," Martin queried, "I must ask you-do you know Jesus as your personal savior? Have you accepted him into your heart?"
"Yes, about twenty years ago when we went to a revival and the preacher gave an invitation. I haven't always done right, but I've tried to live the way he'd want me to."
Martin nodded.
They formed a circle; Delmas lying in the bed, Jason on one side, and Martin and Jim on the other.
"Let us pray," Martin requested, and placed his hands on top of Delmas and Jason's heads. He began to pray, and his voice was soft, yet strong and firm at the same time. There was no hint of old age or weariness or doubt in it. "Heavenly Father, we ask that you watch over Delmas and Jason, and that you be with them in this hour of need; that you give them strength and comfort and the will to do what must be done. We ask that you guide Jason's hand, and that he not be troubled, and that you accept this man, your humble servant, who knows your power and glory, into the place you have prepared for him by your side, that he may bask in the wonder of Heaven.
We ask Lord, that you comfort both father and son with the knowledge that they will see each other again, because of your gift, that they shall not perish, but have eternal life.
"Lord, we know that these bodies you have blessed us with and this flesh that you have breathed life into are just that-bodies. We know that our soul is eternal and we ask that you welcome Delmas Clendenon's soul now.
We ask these things in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, as we pray: Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be They name..."
"Thy kingdom come...Thy will be done..." the others repeated the Lord's Prayer along with him.
"...and deliver us from evil..."
And please let my son be alive, Jim thought.
"Amen," Martin finished.
"Amen," Jim echoed softly. He raised his head and all of them were crying.
"Goodbye, Mr. Clendenan." Martin shook his hand. "May the peace of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ be with you."
"Thank you Reverend."
Jim was next.
"I promise," he whispered firmly, "I'll watch over him like he was my own."
Biting his lip in pain and sorrow and preparation, Delmas nodded. He squeezed Jim's hand tightly, then sobbed "Thank you."
They filed out of the room and Jim shut the door behind them, leaving father and son alone to confront the inevitable task at hand.
"Should we let him go through with this?" Jim asked. "Is this right?"
"I don't know if it's right," Martin admitted, "but it's something that both have decided and we must respect that. The boy is old enough to know what it is he is doing, and the ramifications that come with it. In a strange way, there is almost a familial dignity in this."
"I didn't have you picked for a supporter of assisted suicide, Martin."
"And you would be right, but this is a new world we live in, and the rules have changed. Jason is but a young man. Let him learn those rules now, while he is a young man, that he may do what is necessary when we cannot."
"Necessary," Jim mused, "that's pretty harsh."
"Is it? I suppose it might be at that. But isn't it harsh that that man is suffering, dying a slow death? Isn't it harsh that the corpses of our friends and neighbors are being corrupted by some evil force after their souls have fled? Isn't it harsh that your son is in danger, and you are beset with perils on your way to rescue him? Wake up, Jim! It's a harsh world! This is the path the Lord has put before us. It is not one I would choose to willingly walk, but God has given me no choice and I will follow. You must let Jason and Delmas do the same."
They lapsed into silence. Martin knelt before the couch and began to pray again.
Jim began to pace the floor again.
They waited.
"I want you to know that I'm proud of you son," Delmas wheezed, "and that I love you."
The tears were streaming down Jason's face now, and sniffing, he wiped his eyes.
"I love you too, Pop."
"Put the barrel right here," Delmas indicated, tapping the space on his forehead right between his eyes. "And then just let go and don't think about it."
With trembling hands, Jason started to lift the shotgun. Then his shoulder sagged and it pointed to the floor.
"Pop," he sobbed in protest, "I can't do it!"
"Yes, you can," Delmas said softly. "You're a good son, Jason. The best a man could ever ask for. I know that you can do this. You have to, just like I had to with your Mamma. It's not easy, but it's got to be done.
Promise that you won't let me come back! Don't let me turn into one of those things."
Unable to speak, Jason nodded.
With fading strength, Delmas squeezed his hand. His face was wet with tears.
"Don't ever forget me," he croaked, "and if you have a boy of your own some day, I hope you'll teach him all the things I taught you."
He glanced around the room one last time and then looked out the window at the barn.
"The sun will be up soon, and I'm tired. My leg hurts so
mething awful.
It will be good to see your Mamma again."
He reached down along the side of the bed and lifted the barrel of the shotgun to his head, placing it firmly between his eyes. It was cool against his feverish skin, and he found comfort in this.
