Sleepers Awake

by Patrick McNulty

  “You outta here?” Kelly asked, tossing a tennis ball against

  the far wall and catching it easily in her baseball glove.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll see you Monday.”

  “Okay, Sheriff.”

  Sean was just past the front desk when he turned and said, “And Kelly ...”

  “Yeah?”

  “No calls tonight, okay? Short of Armageddon, you two just handle it, okay?”

  “Gotcha,” she said, tossing the ball at a faded poster of Smokey the Bear.

  Outside, Sean dusted a few fresh inches of snow from his jeep while he waited for the interior to heat up. When all was clear he slid behind the wheel. So far so good, he thought. He pulled out of the station house parking lot smiling.

  Bishop soon found what he was looking for in a small office off the main hall. Displayed on the wall was a diagram of the Danaid Cemetery, the plots numbered from 1 to 1905. Along the bottom edge of the diagram he found the funeral home’s address, phone, and fax number along with its web address.

  The computer sitting on the desk was already on. Its screen saver was a picture of Norman and his dog, a yellow lab. Norman was dressed in fishing attire, complete with the vest of a million pockets and the floppy hat studded with pins and hooks and lures. And even though time and age had softened the young man’s features and replaced his black hair with gray, Bishop could still see the young man he saw over thirty years ago in that smiling face.

  Bishop moved the mouse and the smiling couple disappeared, exposing the desktop icons. The icon labeled

  Danaid Cemetery led him to a searchable web site. The cursor blinked. For a moment Bishop’s fingers hovered over the keys. Finally, he typed in a name he hadn’t spoken for thirty years and pressed ENTER. He didn’t speak the name, for that would dredge up too many memories. Memories that should remain buried. Or maybe it wouldn’t. What if he spoke the name, and it meant nothing to him? Just another name without a past. A void. What would be worse?

  Almost instantly the request came back and for a moment the screen was black. Slowly, as the file downloaded, the screen filled with three different articles that included the name he had entered. Apparently the cemetery web site was cross-referenced with the local newspaper, the Danaid Daily. He clicked on the last one and read the short obituary. Beneath the obituary a line read: Danaid Cemetery plot number 1879. The listing came with a printable map detailing the location of the cemetery and the grave. Bishop elected to print the map and Norman’s printer ground to life.

  When the map was printed he exited the program and the house.

  Sean steered his jeep through the narrow covered bridge while the stoplight was still green. He switched on his headlights and illuminated the interior of the bridge, revealing the rotting boards and shaking timbers as he bounced over the uneven planks that hadn’t been replaced since the town built it about a hundred years ago.

  When he emerged on the other side, the road curved to the right as it wound around the cemetery. The black wrought iron fence stood out in sharp contrast to the snow. He had always thought of the cemetery as a particularly creepy place, especially in the fall after the knotted and gnarled trees lost their leaves. But today, with the snow covering everything in a deep blanket of white, even this place looked beautiful.

  Bishop stepped through the plots, through the heart of the cemetery. He moved quickly as the wind rode up the rolling land to meet him, powdering his coat and needling his face with clouds of snow and ice. At a tall twisted tree, he consulted his map again and then turned left, following the line of headstones toward the northwest corner. Here the plots were much older, their names rubbed smooth by weather and time.

  After one quick backtrack he found the stones he was looking for. They were higher than the ones nearest them, standing tall. Two tall stones turned inward toward a smaller one. He brushed away the snow and read the names for the first time in over thirty years.

  Bishop could feel him before he saw him. He looked to his left and saw Oliver Dannon leaning on a nearby crypt.

  “I saw you pull in,” Oliver said, “I thought you might find your way up here.”

  Sean dropped the jeep into fourth and climbed the crest of the hill. The iron fence whipped by and the tombs were a blur, but a smear against the white landscape made him turn.

  The large man was dressed in a leather car coat, black gloves and jeans. His dark hair was cut short and pushed forward over a face that was as pale as the surrounding snow. He didn’t know why he stared at the man, gazing intently at the graves; it wasn’t in his nature to be prying or rude, but something about

  the man put him off. His foot eased up off the accelerator.

  The man’s head snapped up and he stared straight at Sean. It might have been a trick of the failing light, it might have been the glare off the snow, but Sean could have sworn that the man’s eyes were silver, frosted like chips of glass. Sean couldn’t look away. The encounter couldn’t have lasted more than three seconds, but he was a mile away from the cemetery before he realized that he had been holding his breath.

  He hit the brakes and steered his jeep to the side of the road. He reached for the Wanted poster sitting on the passenger seat and said, “You gotta be shitting me.”

  He made a u-turn and headed back toward the cemetery.

  “Jordan, where are you?” Sean barked into the radio.

  After a pause, Jordan’s voice. “I’m on my way to Duke’s—I mean, going to get something to eat. For dinner. For my dinner break.”

  “Shoot pool on your own time, Jordan,” Sean said. “I need you at the cemetery right now. I’ll be parked outside.”

  “What’s going on?”

  Sean slowed to a stop outside the cemetery gates and killed the engine.

  “I don’t know. Maybe nothing. Just get over here.”

  “On my way.”

  Oliver found Bishop’s gaze. “It seems things have progressed faster than we anticipated. We don’t have a lot of time. She’s awakened others.”

  “How many?”

  “At least five so far. Maybe more.”

  Jesus Christ. Five. And those five would awaken more and the chain would continue until there were no humans left in Danaid. Until they were everywhere. Until they were everyone.

  “Have your wraiths found the nest?”

  In every city that the Ministry had found them, they had found a nest. It was usually close, or even within the target city limits, and usually underground.

  “She’s made her nest in the Monk’s Head Mine, about ten minutes outside of town.”

  Oliver drifted away and blended into the shadows. Bishop remained staring at the three tombstones in silence.

  Sean stared into the cemetery. He pulled his pistol from his shoulder holster and checked that it was loaded. His heart skipped a beat as it always did when he handled his weapon. He felt himself breathing faster. He put it away.

  When Jordan finally got there, Sean was out of his jeep before the wheels of Jordan’s ride stopped spinning. Jordan looked excited and scared.

  “What’s going on?”

  Sean handed Jordan the Wanted bulletin.

  “He’s here,” Sean said.

  Jordan read the bulletin and his complexion dropped from pale to ashen.

  “You sure?” Jordan whined. “It says he killed a family outside New York City. A whole family, Sean.”

  “I know.”

  Jordan paused for a moment, a little out of breath. “Jesus. What’s he doing here?”

  “I don’t know.” Sean drew his weapon and Jordan’s eyes popped. “Come on. Take out your gun, Jordan. But keep your safety on, for Christ’s sake. I don’t want to get shot in the back out here.”

  Jordan did what he was told, looking like he was ready to puke. His weapon hung limply in his hand.

  Sean led his deputy through the cemetery gates and into the parking lot. Only Norman Conklin’s piece of shit pickup truck sat parked in front of the garage a
t the end of the long drive.

  Scanning as he went, Sean moved quickly. He made his way through the plots up to the older section of the cemetery. He passed a crumbling archangel and a moss-covered tomb. He reached the top of the slope and surveyed the area.

  He registered only movement at first. Then he saw the black coat like a shadow pass behind a stand of trees. He grabbed Jordan’s shoulder and pointed.

  “Head off to the left and make your way back up to me. Flush him toward me.”

  Jordan nodded, not taking his eyes off of the shadow down below.

  “You okay, Jordan?”

  Jordan nodded again and was off. Sean cut to the right and headed toward the stand of trees, and the shadow they were trying to hide.

  His heart racing, Sean stepped as quietly through the snow as he could, but a deaf guy could have heard him crunching through the hard pack a mile away. He moved around an ornately decorated crypt and found what he was looking for.

  The man had his back to him, standing stock still in front of three tombstones. From the jeep he had looked much bigger, broader. Now that Sean was up close and not whipping by at fifty miles an hour, the long black coat hung off the man’s narrow frame. His shoulders were slumped and rounded. About twenty feet in front of the suspect, Jordan picked his way through the graves. Sean stepped closer and raised his weapon.

  “Freeze! Police!”

  The man in the black coat jumped and jerked like he was jabbed with a hot poker. His hands shot into the air and he spun toward Sean’s voice. He lost his footing and fell into the snow on his ass, his arms still in the air.

  “Jesus Christ, Sean!” Norman Conklin yelled. “What are you trying to do to me? Give me a heart attack?”

  “What are you doing here?” Sean asked.

  “What am I doing here? I live here. What the hell are you doing here?”

  Sean scanned the grounds all around him and suddenly felt a little stupid. Embarrassed even. Jordan slipped his gun into his holster and dragged out a cigarette. Norman brushed snow from his pants and coat, all the while giving Sean the stink eye.

  “I was driving by and I thought I saw someone out here in the yard.”

  Norman nodded.

  “Congratulations. You found me.”

  “Not you. Someone else.”

  “Someone else?” Norman asked. “Who, Sean?”

  Sean took another long look around the graveyard.

  “Sean?”

  All he saw were graves and crypts and the darkness closing

  in.

  “No one, Norman,” he answered. “I guess, no one.”

  11

  Sean sang along with the Rolling Stones at the top of his lungs as they grinded through “Paint it Black.” He chopped vegetables and peeled potatoes; he even made biscuits from scratch. Tonight he could do no wrong. Everything was turning out as it should. In forty minutes, Petra would be home and his plan would be complete.

  He turned toward the spice rack for a little paprika and nearly bumped into the woman standing in his kitchen. He let out a quick shout and stumbled back.

  “Jesusfuckingchrist!”

  The woman, wrapped in a woolen parka, made a pained face and tried to say something but the music drowned her out. Sean held up a finger and scrambled for the remote to the stereo. He tossed aside bags of produce and cookbooks as the woman peeled off layer after layer of outerwear until she was down to a cable knit sweater and jeans. She held her coat, scarf and gloves to her chest. A small puddle of melting snow grew at her feet. Sean found the remote under a box of pasta and killed the volume.

  “I’m so sorry, Sean,” Nancy Tinsel began. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I tried calling, but no one answered, so I just came over. I knocked, but with the music so loud ...”

  “It’s okay, Nancy, I just—wow! You scared the shit out of me.”

  Nancy gave up a weak smile and ran a nervous hand through a tangle of red hair, pulling it back over her ear.

  “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Something stronger?”

  “No, no thank you, Sean. I don’t know why I came over, I’m just, well .”

  Sean took a sip of his beer and asked, “What is it?”

  “Well, you know Floyd takes Randy out to the Monk’s Head Mine every year to go hunting.”

  Sean nodded. “Sure.”

  “Well, they left three days ago and they haven’t come back.”

  “When were they due?”

  “This morning. They always come back the same time, for Randy’s birthday. He has a party and everything.”

  “Well, they’re probably just waiting out the storm. Weatherman says we’re supposed to get hit pretty hard for the next few days.”

  “Still, I’m worried.”

  And she looked it. Nancy had always been a happy, pleasant woman with an easy smile. Tonight she looked like she had aged ten years. “If they were going to be late they would have radioed.”

  “Well, of course you’re worried, but really, you shouldn’t be. Floyd knows these parts better than anybody.”

  Nancy started to cry. Her eyes squeezed shut, her lips trembled.

  “Oh, Sean, would you ...?”

  Sean set down his beer bottle and took her by the shoulders, guiding her gently to a kitchen chair, and sat her down.

  Sean’s eyes squeezed shut, because he knew what was coming. Not tonight. Jesus, any time but tonight.

  “Would I what?” he asked and winced.

  “Take a ride out there to Monk’s Head,” she said, tears welling in her already red eyes. “Look for my family. Please?” Sean’s shoulders slumped.

  “Please .” she whispered. “I would go myself, but I have to get back to watch Samantha.”

  “Who’s there now?” Sean asked.

  “Trisha Evans, she lives across the way, but she’s got dance class and can’t stay,” she replied, scanning the wall clock. “I have to get back.”

  Nancy got to her feet and pulled on her coat and the rest of her gear. When all of her red hair was tucked beneath her toque she edged toward the door.

  “Sean, I’m sorry to ask you to do this, but I’m just so scared. This hasn’t happened before. Ever.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll go. I’ll go right now and take a look.”

  Nancy grabbed him with her mittens and kissed him quickly on the cheek.

  “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  “No problem.”

  “And you’ll call me?”

  “The minute I’m back. I swear.”

  Sean walked her to the door where he watched her climb onto her snowmobile and spark it to life. After a quick wave she disappeared into the swirling snow.

  Back inside the kitchen he watched as all of his culinary creations rapidly turned to shit. Sauces boiled over, biscuits were ready to smoke. He turned off all the power and swore. Repeatedly. He then ripped a sheet from a scratch pad and scribbled a quick note to Petra. He left it under the bottle of wine on the counter.

  Ten minutes later he stepped into his garage wearing a backpack containing, among other things, emergency first aid, food, water and extra bandages. He wasn’t sure what he would find out there but he wasn’t going empty handed. And just to be safe, he slipped his 9mm Beretta into a front pocket of his coat.

  He pulled the tarp from his snowmobile and cranked the engine. In a cloud of oil and gas, he sped out of the garage into the storm, heading due north toward the Monk’s Head Mine.

  12

  Sean followed the path of the abandoned train tracks through the forest all the way to the mine. It was a longer route than if he weaved through the trees, but the tracks were generally clear, and he wasn’t in the mood to do any backtracking. He had been out there for twenty minutes, and he was already freezing. His face was numb and his hands felt like they were welded to the handlebars.

  When he finally broke through the trees, the mining office loomed high above him. Broken windows, the crumbling structure built right into
the mountain, the place had everything you needed for a good old-fashioned haunted house. Not to mention the ghosts of all the men who were buried here in a cave-in that finally shut the place down in ‘66.

  He pulled into the train tunnel and cut the engine. For a moment the grumbling of the engine rebounded off the brick walls. He climbed off the snowmobile and walked around a bit, working out the kinks in his thighs and back.

  He snapped on his flashlight and found the stairs that led to the raised platform of the loading dock and headed toward the only entrance on this side, a pair of double steel doors. If they weren’t open, he’d have to trek back through the snow to the front of the building. He reached the doorknob and pulled.

  “Fuck,” he said when they didn’t budge. He pulled again and the door creaked. He put his foot against the frame and pulled again. The door opened about six inches with a tortured groan. He took a better grip, planted his foot on the frame and pulled again. The door opened three more inches and froze. After a few more good pulls he realized that the door just wasn’t up to moving, so he held his parka tight to his body and squeezed inside.

  He found himself in a short corridor that was as wide as the double doors. He stepped to the end of the corridor where, through another set of doors, he found a large empty storeroom. Steel racks bolted to the floor stood bare. His footsteps sounded like gunshots on the concrete floor as he stepped through the empty racks to a single door at the far wall, the cone of light bobbing ahead of him in the dark, revealing the area twenty feet at a time.

  Next he passed through what must have once been the office core, a large, glassed-in room divided by partitions where abandoned cubicles gathered cobwebs, snow and the odd piece of garbage. At the base of a spiral staircase he shone his light around in a circle and called out to Randy and Floyd. Only his echo replied. He started climbing the spiral staircase.

  When was he going to learn to say no? Just say no. He could have. He could have said, “Nancy, I’m sorry, but it will have to wait until morning.” But no, he didn’t say that, and now he was climbing a spiral staircase in the dark in an abandoned mine looking for two grown men who probably weren’t here. They were probably at home right now with their feet up, having a beer.