Undead

by John Russo

  “Look, you two can do whatever you like,” Cooper said, morosely. “I’m going back down to the cellar, and you’d better decide—because I’m gonna board up that door and I’m not gonna be crazy enough to unlock it again, no matter what happens.”

  “Wait a minute!” Tom exclaimed. “Let’s think about this for a minute, Mr. Cooper—all our lives depend on what we decide.”

  “Nope. I’ve made my decision. You make yours. And you can stew in your own juice if you decide to stay up here.”

  Alarmed, Tom began to urge desperately. “Now wait a minute, damn it, let’s think about this a while—we can make it to the cellar if we have to—and if we do decide to stay down there, we’ll need some things from up here. Now, let’s at least consider this a while—”

  Ben added: “Man, if you box yourself into that cellar, and if there’s a lot of those things that get into the house—you’ve had it. At least up here you can make a break for it—you outran them once, or you wouldn’t even be here.”

  Flustered and still not quite decided, Tom went to one of the front windows and peered out through the barricade.

  “Yeah, looks like six—or maybe eight of them out there now,” he said, his voice showing his increased alarm after attempting a head-count.

  “That’s more than there were,” Ben admitted. “There are quite a few out back, too—unless they’re the same ones that are out here now.”

  He burst into the kitchen, as the fringed rifle sling snapped and the weapon started to fall; he twisted to keep it on his back and tried to grab it, reaching behind. His attention on the gun, he did not see the window as he moved toward it; but regaining control of the gun he looked up—and stopped cold. Hands were reaching through broken glass behind the barricades—graying, rotting hands, scratching, reaching, trying to grab—and through aspects of the glass could be seen the inhuman faces behind the hands. The barrier was being strained, no doubt about that, but it seemed to be holding well enough.

  The man smashed with the rifle butt against the ugly extremities. Once. Twice. The rifle butt stamped down on the decaying hands…driving one of them back with a shattering of the already broken glass it had been reaching through. The rifle butt smashed another of the hands against the window molding solidly—but the hand, unfeeling of any pain, continued to claw after a hold.

  Ben slid his finger to the trigger and turned the rifle, smashing the barrel through some unbroken glass, and two of the gray hands seized the protruding metal. A dead face appeared behind the hands…ugly…expressionless…rotting flesh hanging from the bones. Ben’s face looked directly through the opening in the barricade into the dead eyes beyond, the man struggling desperately to control the weapon and the zombie thing outside trying to pull it away by the barrel. For a brief instant, the muzzle pointed directly at the hideous face; then…BLAM! The report shattered the air and the lifeless thing was thrown back, propelled by the blast, its head torn partially away, its still outstretched hands falling back with the crumpling body.

  The other hands continued to clutch and grab.

  Tom rushed into the kitchen behind Ben, and Harry was standing cautiously a few feet from the doorway. A distant voice, that of Harry’s wife, Helen, suddenly began to cry out from the cellar.

  “Harry! Harry! Harry! are you all right?!”

  “It’s all right, Helen. We’re all right!” Cooper called out in a quavering voice which betrayed his fear and anxiety and was not likely to calm Helen very much.

  Tom immediately rushed to Ben’s aid. The big man was pounding at a dead hand that was trying to work at the barricade from the bottom. The blows from the rifle butt seemed ineffectual as the hand, oblivious except for the physical jouncing from the impact, continued to claw and grab. Tom leaped against the barricaded window and seized the rotting wrist with both his hands and tried to bend the wrist back in an effort to break it, but it seemed limp and almost totally pliable. Disgust crept over Tom’s face. He tried to scrape the cold thing against the edge of the broken glass, and the absence of blood was immediately evident in an appalling way, as the sharp edge of broken glass ripped into what looked like rotting flesh. Another hand suddenly grabbed at Tom’s hand and tried to pull it through the glass. Tom yelled, and Ben tried to swing the barrel of his rifle toward the thing struggling with Tom; but another hand clutched at him even while he was trying to help the boy—a hand was clawing and ripping Ben’s shirt, but he managed to free himself and step back long enough to aim the gun. Another loud blast, and the hands Tom was fighting jerked back and fell into darkness. Badly shaken, Tom just stared through an opening in the broken glass behind the barricade. Ben took careful aim and pulled the trigger again; the blast ripped through the thing’s chest, leaving a big gaping hole—but it remained on its feet, backing slowly away.

  “Oh, good God!” Tom exclaimed, panicked at the failure of the rifle, as the dead thing recovered and stepped forward again, oblivious to the fact that half of its upper torso had been blown away.

  Ben cocked his weapon and fired again—another loud report. This time the shell ripped through the thing’s thigh, just below the pelvis. The thing backed away, but as it tried to put weight on its right leg it fell to a heap. Tom and Ben just stared, in disbelief. The thing was still moving away, dragging itself with its arms and pushing against the ground with its remaining useful leg.

  “Mother of God! What are these things?”

  Tom fell back against the wall. His eyes fell on Harry, and he saw the unmistakable cowardly fear in the bald man’s face.

  Ben wet his lips, took a deep breath and held it, carefully sighting down the barrel of the rifle again. He pulled the trigger. The shell seemed to blow open the skull of the crawling form, and it fell backwards.

  “Damn…damn thing from hell!”

  Ben’s voice trembled as he let out his held breath.

  Outside, the thing that had fallen limply, without the use of its eyes, moved its arms in groping, clutching motions, seemingly still trying to drag itself away.

  From the cellar:

  “Harry! Harry!”

  After a moment of silence, Ben turned from the barricaded window with its shattered glass. “We have to board up this place a lot stronger,” he said and, out of breath, he made a move to start to work when Harry spoke: “You’re crazy! Those things are gonna be at every door and window in this place! We’ve got to get into the cellar!”

  Ben turned to Harry and faced him, with absolute fury in his eyes. In his rage, his voice bellowed, deeper and more commanding.

  “Get into your goddamned cellar! Get the hell out of here!”

  The shouting stopped Harry for an instant, then his adamancy returned. His mind made up, he knew he would have to go into the cellar without the others if need be, and he had better gather whatever supplies they would let him keep without interference. Perhaps in the confusion of the moment, he thought, he could snatch up a lot of things without an argument. He moved toward the refrigerator, but Ben stopped him.

  “Don’t you touch any of that food,” Ben warned

  He tightened his grip on the rifle, and though he did not point it at Harry, Harry was well aware of the power it implied.

  Harry allowed his fingers to fall away from the handle of the refrigerator.

  “Now, if I stay up here,” Ben said, “I’m gonna be fighting for what’s up here—and that food and that radio and anything else that’s up here is part of what I’m fighting for. And you are dead wrong—you understand? But if you’re going to the cellar, get your ass moving—go down there and get out of here, man, and don’t mess with me anymore.”

  Harry turned to Tom.

  “This man is crazy, Tom! He’s crazy! We’ve got to have food down there! We’ve got a right!”

  Ben confronted Tom also. “You going down there with him?”

  “No beating around the bush. You going, or ain’t you? This is your last chance.”

  After a long moment of silence, Tom turne
d and faced Harry Cooper apologetically, for he had decided in favor of Ben.

  “Harry…I think he’s right…”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “I really think we’re better off up here.”

  “You’re crazy. I have a kid down there. She couldn’t possibly take all the racket up here, and those things reaching through the glass. We’ll be lucky if she lives, as it is now.”

  “Okay,” Ben said. “You’re the kid’s father. If you’re dumb enough to go die in that trap, it’s your business. But I’m not dumb enough to go with you. It’s just bad luck for the kid that her old man’s so dumb. Now, you get the hell down the cellar. You can be boss down there. And I’m boss up here. And you ain’t taking any of this food, and you ain’t touching anything that’s up here.”

  “Harry, we can get food to you,” Tom said, “if you want to stay down there and…”

  “You bastards!” Harry said. From the cellar, his wife was still crying out:

  “Harry! Harry! What’s going on, Harry?”

  He moved toward the cellar, but Tom stopped him.

  “Send Judy up here,” Tom said. “She’ll want to stay up here with me.”

  Ben glanced at Tom, with a surprised expression on his face. No one had told him there was anybody in the cellar except for Harry’s wife and daughter.

  “My girlfriend,” Tom explained. “Judy’s my girlfriend.”

  “You should’ve told me she was down there,” Ben said.

  In the meantime, Harry had pivoted and stomped down the cellar stairs, and the sound of lighter footsteps told them the girl was on her way up.

  She hugged Tom and looked sheepishly at Ben. She was about Tom’s age, dressed similarly to him, in blue jeans and denim jacket. She was a pretty girl, blond, scared, and probably—Ben thought—going to be about as much of a problem as Barbara. With Tom, she moved to the closed cellar door, behind which could be heard the sounds of Harry boarding it up.

  “You know I won’t open this door again!” Harry shouted, through it. “I mean it!”

  “We can fix it up here!” Tom shouted back, not giving up. “With your help we could—”

  “Let him go,” Ben said. “His mind is made up. You’d be better off to just forget about him.”

  “We’d be better off up here!” Tom shouted. “There are good places we can run to up here!”

  From behind the cellar door, there was no reply. Just the sound of Harry’s footsteps going down the stairs.

  Ben tied the broken fringe back onto the rifle, then began reloading it, replacing the spent shells. When it was loaded, he strapped it to his shoulder again, then turned and moved toward the upstairs. In passing, his glance fell on Barbara; he stepped backwards off the stairs and looked at her.

  The radio had taken up again with its monotonous recorded message.

  Tom had not given up and was still pleading with Harry, shouting against the closed cellar door.

  “Harry, we’d be better off if we was all working together! We’ll let you have food when you need it—” He glanced warily at Ben, half-expecting reprisal for making his offer of food, contrary to Ben’s wishes. “And if we pound on the door, those things might be chasing us, and you can let us in.”

  Still no answer from Harry.

  Tom listened a while longer, then retreated, disappointed and worried about the fractionalization that had occurred and the realization that each of them could be heavily dependent on any of the others if worse came to worst.

  Judy was sitting quietly in a chair, and she gave Tom a worried look as he stood beside her and brushed her cheek with his hand.

  Ben was with Barbara, stooping beside her as she lay on the couch. She stared into an unseeing void. Ben felt sorry for her, and just as helpless as ever where she was concerned.

  “Hey…hey, honey?”

  She made no response. He brushed her hair back from her eyes. She trembled; it almost seemed for a moment that she might acknowledge his tenderness, but she did not. Ben felt very sorrowful, almost as he would feel for one of his children at a time of illness. He massaged his forehead and eyes, tired from the fear and exertion of the past hours. He bent finally to cover the girl with a coat that he had brought from the den, then stepped away and heaved a log onto the fire and stirred it to keep the blaze good and warm; his primary concern in this effort was for the girl. Behind him, Tom stepped forward, and Ben sensed his presence and his worries concerning Harry Cooper.

  “He’s wrong, man,” Ben said, positively.

  Tom remained silent.

  “I’m not boxing myself in down there,” Ben added. “We might be here several days. We’ll get it good and strong up here, and he’ll come up and join us. He won’t stay down there very long. He’ll want to see what’s going on—or maybe if we get a chance to get out, he’ll come up and help us. I have a truck outside…but I need gas. If I could get to those pumps out back…maybe we’d have a chance to save ourselves.”

  With that, Ben turned and mounted the stairs to continue his work up there, taking it for granted that Tom would be willing and able to man the downstairs.

  CHAPTER 5

  The cellar, with its stark gray walls and dusty clutter, was cold and damp. Cardboard cartons tied with cord and a hanging grid of pipe-work all looked dirty in the heavy shadows cast by bare light bulbs. The cartons took up much of the space; they varied in size from grocery boxes with faded brand names to large packing crates that might have contained furniture. The washing machine, an old roller type, sat off in a corner of the cellar near a makeshift shower stall. Lines for drying clothes were strung over the pipe work so low that Harry was forced to duck under them as he walked from the stairs to the other side of the confining quarters.

  A pair of stationary tubs and an old metallic cabinet stood against one of the walls, where Harry’s wife, Helen, leaned over the faucet of one of the tubs, wetting a cloth with cold water. She looked up as Harry entered, but remained more interested in what she was doing at the moment; she wrung out the cloth, feeling it to ascertain that it retained the correct amount of dampness, and took it to where a young girl, their daughter, lay motionless atop a homemade worktable. On a pegboard above the table there were hanging tools and cables, and built into the table itself were drawers for smaller tools—screws and bolts, washers, and so forth.

  Helen’s movements were a little stiff in the coolness of the cellar; she was wearing a dress and sweater while a warmer coat was spread on the table under the little girl, its sides flopped up and over her, covering her legs and chest. The woman bent over her daughter and wiped her head with the cool cloth.

  Harry quietly walked up behind Helen as she concentrated on caring for the girl, pulling the coat more securely around her. Without bothering to look up at Harry, she said, “Karen has a bad fever now.”

  Harry sighed, with concern for his daughter. Then he said, “There’s two more people upstairs.”

  “Two?”

  “Yeah,” Harry acknowledged. Then, half-defensively: “I wasn’t about to take any unnecessary chances.”

  Helen remained silent, while Harry awaited some sign that she approved of his decision. “How did we know what was going on up there?” he said finally, flinging his arms into the air with a shrug. Then he reached nervously to his breast pocket for a cigarette, produced a pack that turned out to be empty, and crumpled it in his hand and pitched it to the floor. He stepped over to the worktable where there was another pack, snatched it up, and it, too, was empty—and with the same crumpling action Harry discarded the pack, violently this time, the action spinning him into a position facing his wife and daughter. Helen continued to quietly swab the girl’s forehead, while Harry stared at them for a moment.

  “Does she seem to be all right?” Harry asked, anxiously.

  Helen was silent. The daughter, Karen, motionless.

  Harry was sweating to the point where beads of sweat had formed all over his face. He waited and, seeing no answer for
thcoming, changed the subject.

  “They’re all staying upstairs…idiots! We should stick together. It’s the safest down here.”

  He went to his wife’s purse and rummaged through the contents long enough to find a pack of cigarettes. He tore the pack open, yanked a cigarette out, lit it, and dragged in the first puff deeply; it made him cough slightly.

  “They don’t stand a chance up there. They can’t hold those things off forever. There’s too many ways they can get into the house up there.”

  Helen remained silent, as if her respect and tolerance of her husband’s ideas had long ago been dissipated.

  On the floor, next to the workbench, was a small transistor radio. Harry’s glance fell on it and he stabbed at it, scooped it up, and clicked it on.

  “They had a radio on upstairs. Must’ve been Civil Defense or…I think it’s not just us, this thing is happening all over.”

  The tiny radio would pick up nothing but static, try as Harry might. He spun the tuning dial back and forth, listening anxiously, but across the receiving band the transistor just continued to hiss. Harry held it up and turned it into various positions, trying for reception, spinning the tuner constantly. Still, nothing but hissing. He began pacing the room, holding the radio up and down and sideways, with no results.

  “This damned thing—”

  Still just static.

  Helen stopped wiping her daughter’s forehead, neatly folded the cloth, and draped it over the prostrate girl’s brow. Gently placing her hand on her daughter’s chest, she looked over toward her husband, who was still pacing around the cellar, his cigarette dangling from his lip, waving the little radio around in the air.

  The radio continued to emit nothing but static at varying volumes.

  “Harry—”

  He continued his fidgeting with the radio, as though it had become an obsession. He moved near the wall at the foot of the stairs, holding it high and still spinning the dial. He was breathing and perspiring heavily.

  “Harry—that thing can’t pick up anything in this stinking dungeon!”