Undead

by John Russo

  Wade stood up and grinned. The bound and gagged men on the floor followed Wade and Flack with their eyes.

  “It’s gonna be dark for a long time now,” Flack said. “We might need a bonfire to cheer things up. There’s plenty of dead, dry skin outside. It ought to be put to some use.”

  Angel jerked her head toward Flack and stared at the man as though she didn’t know whether to laugh or shudder. Wade grinned, then chuckled as he and Flack picked up their rifles and went outside into the yard. The area was bathed in the stark illumination furnished by bright lights on both the front and side porches. Keeping their rifles ready, Flack and Wade Connely stepped to the back of their pick-up truck and Wade covered him while Flack struck matches and got a kerosene lantern going. He placed the lantern atop the cab of the truck, where it would increase the light spilling out over the front lawn.

  At the edge of the lighted area, several humanoid forms backed off and stood still, trying to conceal themselves in shadow as if they were frightened by the presence of men with fire. The humanoids moved with their characteristic painful slowness and did not really succeed in concealing themselves, but merely moved from the bright light into light which was murkier and must have seemed like total darkness to their dim eyesight. Flack and Wade Connely scanned the perimeter of the lit area and also peered deep into the darkness beyond. By comparing observations, they were sure they had spotted at least eleven humanoids trying to keep hidden in the overhang of trees and shrubs. A half dozen more were apparent in the shadowy light at the edges of the lawn.

  “We better light some torches,” Flack said. “We can use our revolvers and keep the rifles leaning against the side of the porch in case we need to get to them in a hurry.”

  The two men moved to the back of the truck and again Wade Connely covered Flack while he wrapped and tied cloth strips around the ends of what looked to be old table legs. Flack soaked the rags in kerosene from a five-gallon can, struck a match and lit the make-shift torches one by one.

  “That’ll keep the dead bastards away,” Wade said. And, each with torch in hand, he and Flack stepped away from the back of the truck, leaned their rifles against the porch railing, drew their revolvers and surveyed the once-human debris in the front yard.

  The area was littered with the bodies of vanquished ghouls, while others not yet conquered had gathered enough courage to move out of the partial darkness and now stood, bathed in stark light and hard shadows, looking on. An eerie, hissing sound came from the edges of the lawn and from the deeper darkness, a sick sound emanating from the dead things that made their presence more ominous. This sound was the painful rasping breaths of dead lungs, a chorus of death-rattles that sent chills up the spines of the two men carrying the torches. They observed several of the creatures step forward out of the semi-darkness and it made them uneasy.

  “Bastards don’t stay frightened long,” Wade Connely said, whispering, as though not wanting to call the things’ attention to himself.

  “Get the meathooks,” Flack said, his voice as tight and strained as Wade’s. Before moving, Wade shot a glance at Flack because it was so unlike Flack to let anyone see he was rattled. It made Wade feel better to know tough old Flack was as nervous as he was.

  Flack stared with horrified fascination into the faces of the dead things. Their complexions, so bloodless and white, emphasized the black, swollen bruises they must have sustained prior to death. He wondered if the black, caked, dried blood was from their own wounds or from wounds of recent victims of their quest for human flesh.

  One of the creatures took a step forward and Flack gritted his teeth. A loud report belched forth when Flack squeezed his trigger, and the dead thing was flung backward by the force of the bullet exploding inside its brain, blasting out the back of its skull, crumpling the thing onto the grass in a stinking heap of soiled clothing and rotting flesh and dead bones.

  The rest of the creatures did not back off. They seemed uninterested in the death of one of their own kind. They did not attack and cannibalize the newly fallen one. They craved instead freshly slaughtered human flesh, warm and bleeding, still with the taste of life. Warm human flesh was the only kind that could nourish the living dead.

  Wade Connely looked up, startled, when Flack’s gun went off. He watched the shot humanoid reel and tumble to the earth and shuddered when its companions exhibited no reaction, no wariness or fear of a similar fate. You could not frighten these things off by killing them. The only thing they seemed to fear instinctively was fire, their dry, dead skin being exceedingly flammable.

  “Gimme a meathook. Hurry up!” Flack shouted, the bark of his voice setting Wade moving again, rummaging in the back of the truck. Wade pulled out two pairs of gloves, tossed one pair over toward Flack and put the other pair on. With every move the two men made, they had to juggle torches and revolvers from one hand to another.

  “Only one meathook,” Flack said. “I’ll do the work, you keep me covered.” Figuring to rely on his flaming torch for protection, Flack holstered his revolver and took the meathook Wade handed him.

  Wade Connely covered while Flack moved over to the body of one of the vanquished humanoids and, swinging the meathook hard, thrust it into the soft abdominal flesh of the solar plexus, where the bones of the rib cage would furnish a solid anchor for the hook so it could be used to drag the dead body over the ground. One by one, Flack moved each corpse in this way, dragging them to a chosen spot in the center of the lawn and piling them like firewood. Working fast and hard because of the undercurrent of fear the task inspired in him, Flack finished the grisly job of piling nearly a dozen dead bodies in a surprisingly short time.

  The stench of the rotting flesh was overpowering, making the two men breathe in short gasps when they could no longer hold their breaths. Flack was exhausted. He needed more air than this method of breathing provided, and he finally forced himself to breathe normally, fighting against gagging and the urge to vomit.

  When the corpses were stacked in a pile, Flack poured kerosene over them, sloshing the fluid out of the can in great quantities, splashing it sloppily in his hurry to get finished. Wade Connely watched, his finger tightening on the trigger when he considered shooting a few more of the things for the peace of mind he thought he might get from blasting a few more. “Save your ammunition,” Flack said, noticing Wade’s anxiety.

  “You shot one,” Wade replied.

  Flack capped the can of kerosene. The ghouls were doused, ready to be burned. The two men did not intend to immediately ignite the dead bodies, but wanted to do it later should it become necessary to make a break from the house to the vehicles. Hopefully the bonfire of dead flesh would cause any attacking humanoids to back away. With a back-up of supporting gunfire and handheld torches, an escape path could be cleared.

  The two men took off their gloves and tossed them into the back of the truck along with the meathook. They backed into the house, carrying their rifles and torches. Wade made another trip outside for the lantern and the can of kerosene. When he entered the living room again, he barred the door and bolted it.

  CHAPTER 13

  Angel was dozing on the couch. John Carter was sitting in the easy chair by the cold fireplace, his eyes straying now and then to the trussed-up prisoners lying flat on their backs in the center of the floor. Beside Carter an empty teacup rested on the arm of the chair.

  Flack and Wade went into the kitchen to wash their hands, found cups on the kitchen table and a steaming pot of tea on the stove. “I want more than tea, for Chrissake,” Flack said, “I’m hungry,” and opened the refrigerator to look for something to eat.

  Upstairs, Billy and Ann got Sue Ellen into bed and were watching over her hoping she would regain consciousness.

  Karen walked slowly to the top of the stairs, having left the kitchen upon hearing Wade and Flack enter the living room. She averted her eyes and held back tears when she passed her father’s bedroom on her way down the hall. The door to that bedroom was half cl
osed, a pale beam of light from the hall throwing murky shadows into the room. Most of the room hid in darkness. Deep in the room, seeking the blackest spot, a hulking humanoid form stood silent. This dead being had feasted on Bert Miller’s flesh. Its bestial craving temporarily sated, it was content to remain motionless, biding its time, for now unmotivated and devoid of purpose.

  Karen entered the room where Sue Ellen was, half-expecting to see her sister awake and doing better. Ann and Billy looked up, their faces conveying the message that there had been no change in her condition. “I’ll watch her,” Karen said. “You two can go downstairs and get some tea, if you want to.”

  As Billy and Ann started down the stairs they heard a wild squeal of laughter from the living room. Flack, stuffing a sandwich into his mouth, rushed past the landing followed by Wade Connely as Ann and Billy reached the bottom of the steps and entered the living room.

  Angel was laughing, kneeling before something in the far corner of the room. Wade and Flack were hovering over her, and Flack’s giggle joined Angel’s excited cries. The two bound and gagged men strained to look in the direction of Angel’s laughter. They saw that she had moved a set of bookshelves and discovered an old floor safe with a combination lock.

  “Bet I can guess the combination,” Angel said, wetting her lips with a flick of her tongue. “I had an aunt who was psychic.”

  “Maybe the real vultures got us after all.”

  Everybody looked in Billy’s direction, stunned, just staring at him.

  “That was an ungrateful thing to say,” Angel said, her eyes flashing.

  Flack and Wade turned and took a few menacing steps forward, Flack drawing a knife from a sheath on his belt. Suddenly Flack swung the knife toward Wade, handle first, the handle thrust toward Wade’s lips as though it were a microphone. Wade laughed, understanding the charade to come. Angel grinned and laughed. John Carter remained silent in his chair, watching everything. Ann and Billy, beginning to be frightened, felt cold beads of sweat run down their faces.

  Holding the “microphone” toward Wade, Flack said, “I understand that—just a couple of hours ago—State Troopers rescued a few country bumpkins during an attack of ghoul-like creatures.”

  “That’s the way I got the story,” Wade replied, looking serious and obviously enjoying his part. “The Troopers came out of nowhere and rescued the countryfolk in the nick of time. I’d say that the Troopers were really troopers about the whole thing.” He grinned broadly at his own wit.

  “Indeed they were,” Flack said. “And what does it feel like, Trooper Connely, to be a hero, to have saved the lives of total strangers? To have risked your neck for persons you didn’t even know?”

  “It feels good at first, but…”

  “But what?”

  “People have short memories,” Wade said slowly, looking directly at Ann and Billy.

  “Now you just wait a minute!” Billy blurted, but Flack cut him short, pushing him backward onto the couch. Flack leaned over the boy, holding him down with a knee on his chest, the point of the knife inches from Billy’s throat.

  “You wait a minute, pal,” Flack retorted, spitting the words through clenched teeth.

  “What did you do to Sue Ellen?” Ann blurted. She was so frightened the words rushed out before she could stop them, her fear giving voice to something which before had only been a subconscious suspicion.

  Flack looked astonished, wounded, stunned. He left the boy on the couch, facing Ann with a hurt look in his eyes. Billy lay on the couch, rubbing his throat and chest, his flushed face contorted with anger, fear and pain.

  In a serious, sincere tone Flack said, “You see those two prisoners over there? Take a good look at them. Child molesters! And we have to risk our necks to keep their filthy flesh alive just to bring them to trial.” Flack paused and grinned. “We didn’t really have to stop and save your lives. But we did. And since we’ll be holed up here a while, we’re going to need some cooperation. Now, I think it’s time we had a little something to eat. A little home-cooked meal. We don’t know how bad it’s going to get out there. Now, which one of you is the cook?”

  Ann and Billy looked at each other. Billy, his face still red, was sitting upright on the couch.

  “All right. I’ll do it,” Ann said in a barely audible voice. She made a move toward the kitchen but stopped when she heard the sound of the TV. John Carter had flicked on the set and stood over it waiting for the tube to warm up.

  Carter’s eyes were fastened on the TV screen, not that he was particularly interested in the picture slowly forming; he was simply uninterested in anything else at the moment. He possessed an aura of quiet authority. Although he had not said much, his presence was always a factor in the room. He seemed to speak only when he disapproved of something or wanted a thing done a certain way. He was willing to let things happen until they needed to be stopped. Carter was clearly the boss without needing to constantly remind everyone of it.

  A news program drew everybody’s attention. An announcer was speaking from behind a desk in the television studio:

  “Apparently the phenomena is not confined to the two-state area as was first believed. Reports have been coming in from all over. A night nurse in a New York hospital tells of her bizarre experience.”

  The people in the living room of the Miller farmhouse moved closer to the TV as the image dissolved from the announcer to a news film of a young woman being interviewed. Karen, drawn downstairs by the sound of the broadcast, moved quietly to a place next to Ann. The prisoners on the floor raised their heads to try and see the screen, peering between the legs standing in front of the set. On-screen, the nurse spoke into a microphone hand-held by a reporter on the scene at the New York Hospital.

  “Well,” she began to explain, still very shaken from the experience, “I had just wheeled a dead organ donor from the operating room downstairs into the anteroom. The heart had been removed. I wheeled him into place, turned away for a moment, and when I turned back again he was walking toward me—I still can’t believe it—I ran out of the room, called for help and when we looked inside, he had broken through a window. In a second, he was gone.”

  The broadcast returned to the anchorman in the studio. “I repeat, terrible reports of this kind are coming in from all across the nation.”

  Karen suddenly moaned loudly, backed against a chair and fell into it, doubled over in pain. Billy and Ann rushed to her and tried to help her walk to the couch. She moved slowly, very stiffly, frightened at the possibility that her labor pains had begun. “It’s supposed to be a month away!” Karen cried, her arms folded over her body as Ann and Billy eased her down onto the couch. “This can’t be happening now!”

  “How bad is it?” Ann asked.

  “That pain before hurt real bad. And it feels like it’s goin’ to start again.”

  While Billy and Ann tried to comfort Karen, the TV broadcast continued, watched attentively by Flack and Angel, John Carter and Wade Connely. The face of the announcer filled the screen.

  “The recently dead—people from morgues, funeral homes and hospitals—are coming back to life and feasting on human flesh. No one knows how many people have been killed by the ghouls only to rise themselves to join the ranks of the walking dead. Obviously, if this plague is not checked, it could lead to the destruction of the human race. In most areas local police, National Guard units and volunteers have begun working around the clock in order to control the problem. Needless to say, this is turning both our cities and rural areas into bloody battlefields. And the disaster has been worsened by the fact that people are turning against each other. Bands of looters and rapists are wandering the countryside—especially in remote rural areas—taking advantage of the breakdown of law and order that has come in the wake of the invasion of the ghouls. Reports of murder, rape and arson have become commonplace. Here in our own county, Sheriff Conan McClellan, who dealt efficiently with a similar emergency ten years ago, has once again taken command of an ar
med posse of policemen and civilian volunteers. We interviewed Sheriff McClellan earlier today.”

  The TV broadcast cut to newsreel footage of the McClellan interview. McClellan and a reporter stood in the foreground, while in the background there was a bustle of activity. A bivouac area could be seen behind the two men. Tents were going up, and men with dogs, guns, campfires, Jeeps and emergency vehicles were everywhere. The Sheriff had on civilian clothes—the trousers of his dark suit were tucked into scuffed hiking boots, and his tie was loosened. He looked very tired. He carried a high-powered rifle with a scope and a belt of ammunition over his shoulder.

  “Sheriff…how does the present emergency compare with what happened ten years ago?” asked the reporter, holding up a mike.

  The Sheriff answered decisively. “This is worse. Much worse. The people have turned against each other. We can control the ghouls, I think, but we have the looters and rapists to contend with.”

  “Do you have any explanation for what’s happening?”

  “None whatsoever. I just do my job. I never thought this damned business would happen all over again.”

  “Sheriff, what makes you think you can defeat the ghouls?”

  “We did it once before. We can defeat and destroy these things. Cleaning up afterward, that’s the difficult—”

  John Carter stood and switched off the set. He turned and faced Ann and Billy, who had been listening to Karen’s regular moaning. They were quietly asking her about the intensity of her pains, trying to keep her calm, and talking about the likelihood of the baby’s premature birth.

  “It hurts so bad,” Karen wailed after a particurly bad spasm of pain. “And the pains are coming again and again.”

  “We’ll have to get her to a hospital,” Billy said, darting his eyes toward John Carter for approval.

  Carter shook his head from side to side. “It’s too dangerous to go outside.” Flack smirked, jerked a cigarette out of a pack and lit it.