“Fine by me,” Hocker said. There was a sing-song tone in his voice that irritated Dale as well as warned him to keep a close eye on this guy. Dale took the package of road flares from the trunk, then slammed the trunk lid shut. Hocker carried the can of gasoline to the tunnel entrance. What neither of them saw, as they lowered themselves down into the opening, was the pair of eyes watching them from the crack between the two large, sliding front doors. One of the eyes had a wide, dilated pupil, fringed with a cold, blue iris.
VIII
“We’re in deep trouble!” Donna said when first Hocker and Dale emerged from the tunnel into the cellar. Their faces were smudged with dirt and streaked with sweat.
“What’s going on?” Dale asked, glancing around the cellar. The steady pounding sound coming from up the top of the stairs immediately drew his attention. “Where’s Winfield?”
Donna cast her glance down at the floor and sadly shook her head. Her lower lip was trembling when she looked at Dale and said simply, “I think… they got him.”
“What? What do you mean?” The flood of anger and frustration that swept through him was almost too much to handle. All he could think was, I shouldn’t have gone! I should have stayed here!
“We were waiting in the kitchen, for some sign that you had made it, and those creatures broke into the living room. He tried to fight them off, but there were just too many. I…” Her voice choked off, and tears flowed down her face. “I turned and ran down here just as they piled all over him.”
“Holy Mother of God,” Dale said, shaking his head as he tried to absorb this new loss. He felt that same numb rush he had felt when Nichols had called him Saturday morning to tell him Larry Cole had died… that same cold hand on his neck that he had felt when the call had come eight years ago, informing him that Natalie had been hit by an oncoming truck.
“You’re… you’re sure he… didn’t make it?” he stammered, looking up at the door where the pounding continued, unabated.
Donna nodded, wiping at her eyes with the heel of her hand.
“Well, fuck it!” Hocker said. “We’ve got some fun ahead of us!”
He held up the can of gasoline and sloshed it back and forth. There was a wicked gleam in his eyes. Tasha recognized it as the same look from the night he had torched the old man’s truck and sent it off the cliff into the river.
Dale turned toward him, his jaw chattering with sputtering rage. He clenched his fists and, for the first time, fully understood how much Winfield had hated this man. The least he could do, he thought, in memory of Jeff Winfield, was throttle the shit out of this jerk; but he stopped himself: there might be time to throttle him later! First, they had to get everyone, including Donna, down that tunnel and out of the house!
The harsh sound of tearing cloth drew his attention, and he looked over to see Tasha, kneeling over her opened backpack by the coal bin, shredding one of her shirts. Hocker smiled and said, “Well, at least someone knows how to have a good time! If you two feel like helping, I could use a lot of flammable material—cloth, those wood shavings over there… anything to help the fire get along.”
He walked up the stairs to the closed door, still vibrating with the heavy hammering from the other side, and started to splash gasoline around the door frame and on the stairs.
Dale and Donna stood in the middle of the cellar, watching while they both tried to register the loss of Winfield in their numbed brains. Neither one of them had noticed that Tasha’s shoulder shook with wrenching sobs as she worked. She was thinking how she wasn’t going to need any of her clothes anymore; she was either getting out of here and going home, or she was going to be dead!
“If we can get enough gasoline, maybe use those road flares to get it real hot, to make sure the stairs go up good, we should have ’em,” Hocker said as he backed slowly down the steps, splashing gas as he went.
Dale suddenly had an idea. He went over to the space beneath the cellar stairs and trained his flashlight upward. The three stringers were made of well-seasoned wood, free of any rot. Clumps of black cobwebs hung in the corners, drifting lazily with the stirring of the air as Dale poked around. In a few spots, funnel-shaped stains of Hocker’s gasoline seeped through between the steps and dripped down.
“Hey! Hocker! Come here,” Dale called, once he was sure by the sound that Hocker had finished dousing the stairs.
With the gas can hanging at his side, sloshing with a hollow, near-empty sound, Hocker came around under the stairs. Dale directed his flashlight beam upward, toward the source of the heavy pounding.
“Think we could use the saw and maybe help this sucker collapse once they start coming down?”
Hocker snorted a loud laugh, and a fleck of mucous shot from his nose. He wiped his hand across his face and nodded. “Those fuckers are probably so stupid, they’ll keep coming even if the steps are gone. Christ, Harmon,” he said, slapping Dale on the shoulder, knocking him off balance. “There might be some hope for you yet!”
The comment made Dale miss Winfield all the more, but as waves of grief swept through him, he forced himself to smile and said, “Let’s get a move on. That barrier up there isn’t going to hold them all day.”
“You do the cutting,” Hocker said, “I want to check out where I can pop a few lighted flares, where they might get the floorboards upstairs burning.”
Dale got the rusty saw and, propping the light upward, set to work. The sound of his efforts were almost completely drowned out by the noise Rodgers’ creatures were making in the kitchen upstairs. As the rusty teeth chewed into the first stringer, dry sawdust, almost as dry as the dust in that tunnel, sifted down into his face. It fell down his neck and inside his shirt collar, mixed with his sweat, and started to itch fiercely. It wasn’t long before his neck and shoulders were screaming with pain.
Donna came over and held the light for him as he worked. She didn’t say a word while he was hacking away at the underside of the stairs, but when he stopped, gasping from the effort, her glance caught him, and he knew she had something on her mind.
“Don’t hold back on me,” he whispered. “What’s bugging you?”
He craned his head around the stairs to see what Hocker was up to. He was over by the workbench, pawing through the accumulated junk. Every time he found a can of paint or turpentine he’d shake it to see if there was anything left. The expression on his face reminded Dale of a kid on Christmas morning. He was having the time of his life. And maybe the threat of death added spice to it all, Dale thought.
Donna’s eyes flickered briefly. “It’s Tasha. She’s really freaking out.”
Dale nodded, sighing deeply as he regarded his work. So far, he wasn’t even a quarter of the way through the first stringer. The old wood had dried until it was as hard as steel.
“She’s really freaked that… they got Jeff.”
Dale nodded again. “I still can’t quite accept it, either,” he said.
“I don’t know,” Donna said, shrugging helplessly. “She keeps saying there’s no reason for us to make it out of here, that she can’t think of many reasons to live anymore.”
“Look, we’ve got things to do if we’re going to get out of here,” Dale said, suddenly charged with anger. “I mean, think about what I’ve got to deal with! For all I know, Rodgers has already been over to Mrs. Appleby’s and got Angie. You don’t think I’m a little anxious to get out of here? Tasha’s been through a lot for a kid her age. And I can imagine she feels pretty alienated, but I’m not going to let her bullshit slow me down! Tell her to get it together and come along for the ride! I really don’t have time to be her goddamned shrink!”
With that, he turned back to his sawing, attacking the wood with renewed fury. The sawdust flew everywhere, sprinkling the dirt floor like snow.
“Well, Mr. Sensitive,” Donna said, but she didn’t leave; she continued to hold the light for him while he worked in spite of the awkward silence that had fallen between them.
“I have no
fucking idea how much to cut these,” Dale said, sounding totally frustrated after a short-lived round of furious cutting. His face and hair were covered with sawdust, making him look like he had a case of terminal dandruff.
“I don’t know,” Donna said, laughing at how funny he looked. “As long as no one’s going up there, I’d say go almost all the way.”
She couldn’t account for her sudden giddiness. Maybe, like Tasha, she was finally buckling under the strain… only she was going to end up laughing hysterically in the corner of the coal bin while Tasha cried.
Either way, she thought, we’re both going to end up in the rubber room, writing letters home with Crayolas.
“Aww, screw it! That’s enough for that one,” Dale said, snorting as he brushed the sawdust from his face. He rotated his shoulder, trying to get the circulation back into it, then set to work on the middle stringer.
When the second stringer was almost cut through, both of them jumped when the stairs suddenly snapped and sagged. Wood popped, sounding like a gunshot.
“I think you’re through with that one,” Donna said, smiling and still fighting the urge to burst out laughing.
Dale scowled at her, lowered his arm, and, after giving it a quick shake, started on the last stringer. He had finally gotten his second wind with it and went to work slowly and steadily.
“Christ, man, are you about ready?” Hocker said as he came around under the stairs. “I’ve got everything else all set to go.” He glanced up the edge of the stairwell and saw plaster powdering where the crossbars were digging into the walls. “I don’t think they’re getting any more patient.”
“I—just—have—a—bit—more,” Dale grunted, each word timed with the stroke of the saw.
Hocker bounced up and down on his toes, a book of matches clenched in his hand. “Well,” he said, snorting and spitting onto the floor, “it doesn’t have to be a fuckin’ masterpiece, you know.”
“You do what you do, and leave me the Christ alone, all right?” Dale shouted. He turned and faced Hocker, the saw held up like a sword.
“Hey, hey… just checking, man,” Hocker said, holding his hands out and backing away.
Dale was exhausted from the effort, so after a few more passes, he dropped the saw to the floor. “Screw it… if it works, it works,” he muttered. He used his left hand to massage his right shoulder, but he knew that tonight his back and shoulder would feel like he had been wrestling a bear.
“Come on, man,” Hocker said. He was standing at the foot of the stairs, anxiously looking up. Bending forward and trying to take deep breaths, Dale came over and looked up, too.
The door was sagging inward as the combined weight of Rodgers’ creatures pressed against it. The steps were stained dark where Hocker had doused them with gasoline.
“Okay,” Dale said, turning to Donna and Tasha, “why don’t the two of you start down the tunnel?”
Donna looked at him, her eyes widening to perfect circles. Her mouth opened to say something, to protest, but the firmness in Dale’s voice told her, clearly, that it was now or never!
“Tasha? Will you go first?” Dale asked. She looked at him, and he saw for the first time how bad she looked. Her eyes were dark and rimmed with red, and the paleness of her face only made her eyes look worse. She looked like she had become a victim of anorexia in the span of a few hours, and Dale suddenly regretted his callous treatment of Donna’s concerns for her.
Tasha silently nodded, looking back toward the coal bin where her sleeping bag and backpack were stacked. She made a move to pick them up, then obviously thought better of it.
“Come on!” Hocker shouted, waving his arms in frustration. Dale thought he was just getting overanxious to touch off the fire, but then the cellar door suddenly gave inward with a loud crack, and one of the blocking wood bars came tumbling down the stairs.
“Look, Donna,” Dale said, approaching her and gripping her firmly by both arms. “We don’t have time to dick around here. You’ve got to do it! Now!”
“I—know,” she stammered. Then she turned and, directing her flashlight beam into the opening, walked over to the tunnel, got down on her hands and knees, and crawled inside. Tasha was no more than a pace or two behind her. Dale darted over as the two women were swallowed by the thick blackness.
Oh, he remembered that darkness all right!
“See you on the other side,” he called after them, then he turned and faced Hocker.
Hocker was standing at the workbench. With a quick glance over his shoulder at Dale, he lit one of the road flares and dropped it into the collected junk. Dale shielded his eyes from the sudden brightness as the red flames hissed and caught. In an instant, tongues of flame were licking upward toward the ceiling.
“Damn… he’s good!” Dale said to himself, watching, fascinated, as Hocker dashed over to where he had propped another flare. He lit it and, casting a worried glance up at the sagging door, stuck it up into the crossbeams. There was a tiny whoosh and flames started flickering to life.
The cellar door was groaning inward, and Dale could dimly see faces, peering down at him through the crack in the door. Thin but strong-looking hands scrambled to gain a grip inside the door and pull it off its hinges.
Hocker touched off a third flare and planted it up under one of the floor joists. Glancing at Dale, he spat and said, “Hell, man, you might’s well get your ass moving down the tunnel. I’m ’bout done here.”
Dale hesitated, but a final glance at the door convinced him to move. The second wooden bar gave way, and the door exploded inward. There was a dark, seething tangle of arms and legs as the zombies all tried to get through the doorway at once. “Move your ass, man!” Hocker shouted. He touched off another flare and stood there, about six feet from the foot of the stairs, smiling as he watched the creatures pour through the doorway. The last thing Dale saw before ducking his head into the tunnel was the harsh lines of Hocker’s sweat-streaked face, glowing madly in the red glow of the flare. His teeth were bared in a wide, crazy smile, and just before he tossed the flare into the gasoline, he dropped his head back and laughed like a madman.
Dale didn’t directly see the flames once the flare touched the spilled gasoline, but being only a few feet into the tunnel, he saw the sudden orange glow and felt a blast of intense heat slam him from behind.
At least the second time down the tunnel wasn’t as bad as the first: he knew there was safety at the other end. What scared Dale was what he’d find there. The heat from Hocker’s blaze railroaded down the tube with him, sucking air in as if the tunnel were a huge straw. Swirling dust made it difficult to breathe, but by keeping his head lowered, he made good progress.
All the time, though, he couldn’t help but wonder how Hocker was going to get out of the house. It was out of the question that Hocker would have done something so noble as to sacrifice himself so the rest of them could escape. He certainly seemed to know what he was doing; he probably wouldn’t have miscalculated.
Much sooner than he expected, he saw the dull gray light of the opening appear up ahead. As he got closer, he heard Donna frantically calling his name. Although his lungs felt as though they had been charbroiled, and his arms and legs were knotting with cramps, he re-doubled his efforts. In another few seconds, he was out of the tunnel mouth and standing in the middle of the barn floor, hugging Donna so desperately he thought he would never be able to unclamp his arms from around her back.
“Where’s Hocker?” Tasha said, her voice frayed with panic.
“He ought to be along right behind me,” Dale said, sputtering.
Tasha was looking down into the tunnel mouth. She couldn’t see the glow of the flames. The air sucking into the tunnel made a low, warbling whistle, and then suddenly thick black billows of smoke erupted outward.
“How’s he gonna make it through that?” Tasha wailed. She didn’t want even to think about losing the one person she felt had looked out for her through all of this,
Dale
ran to the barn window and, crouching, slowly stood until he could see the kitchen door over the window sill. The sun had dropped below the horizon, and the sky was stained deep indigo, blending into black. The cold pinpoint light of two stars winked over the house, but there was no sign that Hocker’s fire had caught.
The sudden slamming of a car door made Dale and Donna jump. Turning, they saw Tasha, sitting in the cruiser on the passenger’s side. She rolled down the window and waved frantically to them.
“Come on… He ain’t gonna make it,” she said, glancing over at the tunnel opening. The smoke boiling out of it was thicker, now, and it started to fill the barn.
The kitchen window suddenly sprang to life with a dull orange flicker. Dale imagined he could hear the roaring of the flames as they licked up the stairway and into the house.
Donna, who was standing beside him, burst into tears as she watched the fire gain strength, feeding into the kitchen and spreading from the flares propped under the floor joists. Her mind was filled with hundreds of colliding memories, swirling and mixing like paint until there was nothing but a muddy blur.
The glow in the kitchen window intensified. Dale was about to go to the cruiser when a sound came to him, vibrating the window with a low but gradually rising tremor. At first it sounded like the huge timbers of the house, groaning as they burned and sagged beneath the weight of the house. But after a moment, Dale realized that the sound was sustaining and building, until with a sinking sensation of horror and the thought, I’ve become a murderer!, he realized it was the sound of ten or twenty throats, crying out in pain and anger as the flamed consumed them.
Dead flesh! he reminded himself, seeing his own horror reflected in Donna’s terror-stricken expression. “They were already dead! Remember that!” he commanded himself, but nothing could erase those horrible, groaning wails.
The Siege Page 42
