Undead

by John Russo

  The two men continued climbing the steep hill, struggling and stumbling through brush and tall grass. Carl kept going, but when they reached the top he collapsed. They had taken refuge in a clump of trees, some seventy-five yards from the road. Carl lay weak and exhausted, breathing heavily, half-sprawled against the trunk of a tree. Dave laid the baby on some soft grass next to Carl and handed Carl the revolver.

  With Carl aiming the beam from the flashlight, Dave set to work. He began to stretch and hang the generator wires through the low branches of trees, so that the wires would encircle an area of about a hundred square feet. When the generator was running the wires would be electrically charged, and within the encircled area Carl, Dave and the baby would be relatively safe. While Dave continued to work frantically, Carl got his breath back, stopped hurting so much, and picked up the baby and rocked it, making sure it was warm and protected inside the folds of its makeshift blanket.

  Carl kept moving the beam of the flashlight, dancing it through the foliage, keeping a lookout for danger. Twice while Dave was stringing the generator wires, the horrid white faces of humanoids were revealed in the beam of light and the work had to stop while the two men watched and waited for the dead things to approach close enough for Carl to shoot them down.

  Carl reloaded the revolver while Dave kept watch with the cleaver and a knife. Then Dave started the generator, pulling a cord similar to the cord on a lawn mower, until the gasoline-powered engine turned over. The engine revved up and purred, running smoothly. Dave took the flashlight and uncapped the gasoline tank and peered in, and was gratified to discover a full tank. The two men and the baby huddled together in the center of the small electrified area.

  “How are you doing?” Dave asked, breathing deeply and resting a little—but keeping his eyes moving through the dark surrounding foliage.

  “Okay,” Carl said. “I’ll make it. My bandage has soaked through a little…but I didn’t bleed too much, considering. This kid’s probably scared to death.”

  “I’ll bet he’s starving to death. Listen, the wire’s about five feet away on each side, so stay put.”

  Suddenly there was a flash and a loud crackling burst of flame as the body of a ghoul touching the electrified wire became silhouetted for an instant in the intense light and then ran off, burning and groaning into the night. The ghoul stumbled and rolled, its breath hissing from dead lungs, flames and sparks leaping from its burning clothing.

  For a short while the woods were silent, except for the rasp of crickets.

  “We can stay here overnight,” Dave said. “But the baby’s got to be taken care of and fed. In the morning we’ll try to find some people. Maybe we can get you and the baby to the hospital in Willard. It’s not too far.”

  “I’ll be okay,” Carl said. “If the slug had hit anything vital I’d be dead by now. I just hope it doesn’t get infected.”

  “I sure wish we could see,” Dave said. “We should’ve ransacked the house for some candles.”

  “We’ve got to save the flashlight,” Carl said, but he switched it on anyway and shined it on the baby, taking care to aim the beam off to one side.

  “Still sleeping,” Dave said. “Amazing after all he’s been through.”

  “Maybe he’s sick,” Carl speculated. “Is it natural for newborn babies to sleep this deeply?”

  Just then there was a rustling sound of something moving through the underbrush and Carl pointed the flashlight and moved it around, searching. The beam located two ghouls, their dead white faces starkly illuminated against the background of shadows and dark green foliage. One of the dead things had been a woman and must have died of natural causes, as there was no visible evidence of wounds, but her dress was ripped away in places, revealing a dead white leg and a hard, flattened bloodless breast. Carl moved the circle of light away from the two creatures and allowed them to approach. He heard the rustling sound of their movements and the painful wheezing of their dead lungs. Then they touched the wires and burst into flames, their skin much drier and deader than the ghoul who had burned on the wires earlier, because with a crackle of electricity and a mad dance of sparks these two were consumed in flames. The woman made a frightening fiery image, running with a burning mass of hair until falling and rolling down the grassy hill. Her companion had fallen among the trees and continued to burn there, the flames rising from dead flesh, making a low orange glow, casting flickering shadows among the trees.

  Dave and Carl looked at each other, their faces illuminated weirdly. Carl switched the flashlight off. “How long will the generator run?” he asked. “We got enough gas to get through the night?”

  Dave considered the question a while and realized he didn’t know the answer. He took the flashlight from Carl and went over to the generator, scanned the motor and fuel tank in the beam of light, looking for instructions. There were none. He sized up the tank as compared to the one on his power mower at home and also tried to compare the two engines; the generator was much larger, in both respects. Dave clicked the flashlight off and rejoined Carl and the baby. “It should last until morning,” he pronounced. But he didn’t feel confident.

  Carl looked toward Dave, although he could not see his face in the dark. Then he looked at the baby, patted it and said softly, “Hang on, pal.”

  The generator motor continued to hum.

  In a little while, despite their attempts to keep scanning the surrounding foliage for signs of danger, both men dozed off in total exhaustion.

  CHAPTER 17

  In the first light of dawn, the generator continued to run, its lawn mower sound filling the surrounding woods.

  Dave, Carl and the baby were asleep, the baby cradled against Dave’s inert body. They were protected within the circle of generator wires strung through the branches of trees.

  A few yards from the circle of wire lay the charred unmoving corpse of a vanquished ghoul, wisps of smoke still rising from its blackened remains. On the grassy hill, sprawled where they had fallen, were the charred remains of two more of the vanquished humanoids.

  The generator motor sputtered.

  Carl moaned feverishly in his sleep.

  The motor continued to run smoothly again, as if a bubble in the fuel line had caused it to miss a beat.

  The baby stirred slightly, still cuddled against Dave’s body. The revolver remained weakly clutched in Dave’s right hand. Carl had dropped his cleaver onto the dewy grass.

  The morning air was damp with a faint mist that had not yet been burned off by the rising sun.

  The generator sputtered again, and stopped. The chirping of birds and the quieter sounds of the woods stood out in the shocking silence of the stopped engine.

  The two men and the baby continued to sleep. In their sleep they were now defenseless, and were being approached by soft footsteps moving cautiously through the tall grass of the hill and entering the clump of trees. Whoever was approaching had been lured by the sound of the generator, now silent.

  Dave slumbered, tiredness and anxiety etched on his face as he slept the deep sleep of exhaustion, his mind wracked with dreams of his wife and child. He was not a handsome man, but his face possessed strength and character; his short sandy hair was rumpled and matted, there was a bruise on his forehead and a smudge of dirt on his cheek. He was dressed in the jeans and flannel shirt which had formerly belonged to John Carter, while Carl was wearing similar clothes once belonging to Wade Connely.

  Carl was deeply asleep, but was not sleeping well. He moaned and stirred frequently in the throes of fever brought on by his wound. Though the morning was damp and cool, Carl’s brow ran with perspiration, his dark, wavy hair hanging down and plastered against his forehead. His complexion, normally ruddy, was pale. His wound radiated a soreness and stiffness that had spread through the muscles of his side, so that he was aware of it even in sleep though it did not rouse him to consciousness. The tiredness of his body helped numb the pain.

  The approaching footsteps continued
to move as softly as possible, picking their way carefully amidst foliage and dead branches in the clump of trees.

  Quietly, a hand parted a low-hanging branch, revealing the face of a boy peering between the leaves. The boy’s face was dirty and tanned, his eyes alert, the eyes of one who is used to living in the woods. The boy’s eyes surveyed the dead generator and the circle of wires, and the two men and the baby sleeping within the circle. Then the boy took a quiet and decisive step forward, his arm raised in a gesture of silence. He was carrying a bow and a quiver of arrows, a hunting knife tucked under his belt.

  Other boys stepped forward, all of them armed. Some carried bows and arrows, others had knives and guns. They moved silently out of the woods, surrounding Dave and Carl and the baby.

  The first boy, the leader, ducked under the useless cable from the dead generator, advanced quickly and quietly and stepped on Dave’s wrist, preventing him from using the revolver. Other boys moved forward, pointing their weapons.

  Startled, Carl jerked awake and tried to raise himself up, but his bewilderment and the pain in his side caused him to fall back to the ground. The stiffness of his muscles had gotten worse during the night, and he sat there staring at the newcomers and realizing at the same time that he had a fever and that his wound was probably infected.

  “Who are you?” Dave demanded of the leader, after he came to his senses and realized that they were surrounded. He was not sure of the exact nature of the predicament they were in, and he retained some hope that it would turn out for the better somehow, if he played his cards right. The hope came from the fact that they were, after all, surrounded by boys, their ages seeming to range from about thirteen up to perhaps eighteen. There were about a dozen boys in the pack.

  One of the boys reached down and gingerly picked up Dave’s revolver and fondled it in his hand, pleased with the acquisition. The boy flipped out the cylinder and noted that the revolver was loaded.

  “That’s my gun,” Dave said, “and we need it to protect ourselves and the baby. Put it down on the ground.”

  “Shut up,” the leader said with soft-spoken authority and power.

  “I’d like to get some more ammunition for this,” the boy with the revolver said, gloating.

  “Frisk them,” the leader ordered to the troops behind him.

  Carl stood up painfully, not wanting to be rolled around on the ground. Obligingly, he raised his hands over his head and stood with his legs apart. The boys frisked him, quickly and professionally, taking from him one long knife and the heavy cleaver, which had been next to him on the ground. He did not have any wallet, watch or money; anything of value had already been taken the previous day by John Carter’s gang.

  Dave laid the baby on the ground gently, and rose to his feet also. He raised his hands over his head and allowed his pockets to be turned inside out. From him the boys got only the flashlight and the revolver, and the ammunition for the revolver which was inside his jacket pockets. Dave stooped and picked up the baby, and the baby woke up and started crying.

  The tribe of boys began grumbling, disappointed not to have found any money.

  “We don’t have anything,” Carl said, speaking with effort. “We’ve already been plucked clean.” He debated the advisability of telling the boys they were State Troopers, finally deciding the revelation would not improve their chances. He was certain it would most probably have the reverse effect if the boys had committed any crimes during these lawless days.

  The baby continued to cry. Dave held it tightly and rocked it and looked to the boys’ leader hoping the gang’s hostility was based on fear and that there might be a chance to get out of this together, helping each other. “The baby’s hungry,” Dave said at last, seeing nothing but hatred in the boy’s eyes.

  “Shut up,” the leader said again, as though it was his response to everything.

  “We’ve got to get this baby to a doctor,” Dave said. “His mother is dead. And my partner is wounded.”

  “We’re State Troopers,” Carl said, taking.a chance.

  “Yeah. I’m the mayor,” the boy with the revolver said. He seemed to be the second in command.

  “Where did you come from?” the leader asked.

  “The Miller farmhouse up the road,” Dave said, pointing down the hill, then patted the baby and tried to comfort it while it continued to cry terribly. “Everybody else was killed. The baby’s mother died. Why don’t you go down there and see?”

  One of the boys snickered. “Sure…and get torn apart by all those monsters down there.”

  Dave had decided the boys weren’t going to give him and Carl any help, so it was best to channel their energy somewhere before they got more dangerous. Maybe he and Carl and the baby would be lucky enough to escape with their weapons. His mind formulated an argument. “You can see we don’t have any money or anything valuable. Why don’t you just give us back our gun so we can protect ourselves and try to find some food for this baby?” He looked to the leader for an answer.

  “Good try,” the leader said. “But we’re keeping the gun. We need it, too. It’s dog eat dog now—you should know that.” He laughed cruelly. “Now get moving.” He raised his bow, an arrow pointed at Dave’s chest.

  Dave and Carl hesitated. The other boys also pointed their weapons. The boy with the revolver squeezed the trigger, so that the hammer moved back; a further squeeze and a round would fire. “I said move!” the leader shouted. The force behind his voice made the threatening arrow quiver slightly.

  Reluctantly, Dave and Carl began to walk down the grassy hill toward the dirt road, the baby still crying.

  The leader called after them, using his right arm—the arm that still held the bow—to point up the road, away from the Miller house. “There’s another farm about three miles up that way! You might be able to get some help there!”

  “To hell with them, let them fend for themselves,” the second in command said, fondling the revolver. “Specially if they’re State Troopers. They could put in a call and get someone on our ass.”

  “Phone lines are dead,” the leader said. “Besides, we’ll be long gone before they can do us any damage. What say we try that farmhouse, like they said? If they’re all dead, it should be easy pickins.”

  The leader gave the command to move forward and, whooping and yelling, the tribe of boys began to run down the hill, toward the scene of desolation and death.

  CHAPTER 18

  It took Dave and Carl the better part of an hour to cover the three miles to the next farm. During the trek, which was exceedingly painful for Carl, the baby cried itself to exhaustion and fell asleep, weak from hunger. Dave continued to carry the baby, keeping a lookout for possible attack. The two men had to move slowly, keeping to the cover of foliage at the side of the road wherever possible. The surrounding terrain, above and below the road, was so hilly and thick with undergrowth that it would have been impossible to travel through it, especially for Carl in his condition.

  Carl’s fever was much worse. His shirt, soaked with perspiration, his body becoming weaker with each step. For the last mile or so, he moved in a dogged half-stumble, refusing to give up, fighting a lapse into delirium or unconsciousness. They were terrified to stop, but they did anyway, a couple of times, to give Carl a chance to rest. The rest periods did not seem to help; he seemed to do better when he could keep moving, and for the last half mile Dave tried to support his partner and help carry him along. If they could get to the farmhouse, he reasoned, there was a good chance they could obtain some kind of help. If there was a farmhouse. If the boys had not lied.

  They rounded a bend in the road and spotted a small shed through the trees. At the same time they came upon a dead chicken in the road. They kept moving, not commenting, and when they had advanced a few more yards, past the clump of trees which obscured the chicken shed, they saw a white frame farmhouse about forty yards back from the road. Instinctively, both men stepped behind the protection of a huge tree. They peeked out,
looking toward the house across its yards of tree-dotted lawn. There were dead, inert forms on the lawn—the remains of dead animals and some humanoid forms, ghouls which had obviously been conquered. The windows of the house had been boarded up; the place had evidently withstood an assault.

  Looking at each other and making a wordless decision, Carl and Dave stepped from behind their tree.

  A shot rang out and Carl was blasted back and fell dead.

  For an instant Dave did not move, seeing the frozen expression on Carl’s face and the blood soaking through the front of his shirt. Then a flurry of shots rang out and Dave dived and rolled for cover, ending up in a gully behind some low shrubs. In his rolling he had tried to protect the baby with his body and had apparently succeeded—the infant was badly shaken up, but un-hurt. He was crying violently, the tiny body wracked with sobs that seemed too terrible for it to sustain. Dave was afraid the baby was going to die. Keeping as flat as he could in the gully, he peeked over the edge, back at Carl’s body near the tree. He saw what he had not seen earlier; in addition to the chest wound, the top of Carl’s head had been blown off, probably struck by a second bullet in the flurry which had followed the first lone shot. Guilty relief swept over Dave as he realized that at least Carl would not get up again. He would not become one of them. Then he shuddered at the deeper realization of the sorrow he felt at his partner’s death. All these feelings were mixed with the knowledge that he and the baby were trapped and had to find a way to survive. The people in the farmhouse had mistaken Carl and Dave for attacking humanoids, and had fired without asking any questions.

  The baby continued to cry loudly, so loudly that Dave felt sure it could be heard from the house. “Help me! Please! I have a baby! Help me, please!” he shouted across the lawn.

  Another shot rang out, disturbing leaves. Then came a moment of silence. Dave tried again, cupping his hand around his mouth. “I’ve got a newborn infant with me who’s starving. Please! You don’t need to help me—but take the baby!”