The Dead Man: Kill Them All

by Shannon, Harry; Goldberg, Lee; Rabkin, William

  Matt licked his lips and his stomach rumbled. He was out of ideas and tired of waiting.

  Suzie and Jeb Pickens were in the top windows of the old whorehouse, armed with hunting rifles. Each had a makeshift Molotov cocktail of kerosene and a rag stuffed in an empty jelly jar. They knew to be careful, since most of Dry Wells was made of wood and highly flammable.

  Matt carried his ax over one shoulder. For security, he also had a Smith & Wesson snub-nosed .38 in his belt. He held a bottle of water in his right hand.

  Had he covered these people as well as humanly possible?

  Would they be ready and willing to fight, perhaps to the death?

  Would he?

  Kyle had managed to recover wicks for the old-style lanterns hanging outside all along the western street. He and Timmy had climbed ladders to put kerosene in them and test every one. Light would be their only defense. That and knowing the landscape far better than did their enemy.

  Why are they taking so long? They should do something.

  The mercenaries hadn’t made any attempt to contact them or attack, even to explore their defenses. Perhaps it had taken them longer to recover from the animal tranquilizers than Doc had originally thought. Hell, those mercenaries were already drinking and badly infected by evil. If Matt was lucky, maybe one or two had even died by accident from a lethal combination of drugs.

  Though right then Matt didn’t feel very lucky.

  Not since that damned avalanche.

  Unfortunately, an attack in the darkness, using some kind of night-vision equipment, seemed to Matt to be the most likely scenario. He’d worn the goggles while rescuing Suzie Pickens, so he had some idea of how they worked, how they made everything crisp and clear in a greenish way. As long as the ambient light was low and constant, the users—the mercenaries—would have the complete advantage over any normal human being.

  But bright light hurt—and could buy Matt and the townspeople a few precious moments.

  It was going to be four heavily armed men against sixteen defenders who had no real equipment and far less expertise. Their only advantage was that Scotty likely wanted to take Matt alive to draw more blood. The mercenaries would need to be careful with their fire and couldn’t just come in and blow shit up. They knew the forest fire would keep law enforcement reinforcements from arriving for a while, though, so Scotty had probably figured a night assault to be the safest, smoothest plan of attack. At least that’s what Matt told himself, though the truth was, he didn’t know much about any of this. Not really.

  Everyone seemed to be in place. If they could just last through the night, some kind of reinforcements should arrive via the National Guard or the police. Of course, the mercenaries knew that, too. And that every minute would count.

  Why are they taking so long? They should…

  “Mr. Cahill! Mr. Cahill!”

  Matt looked up. The boy called Timmy, on the hotel roof, was calling him. He gestured toward the mouth of the town. Another teenage boy named Clete stood on the roof of Wally’s bar, binoculars in his right hand. He pointed east.

  “Someone’s coming!”

  At last.

  Matt felt like throwing up.

  “Hold your positions!” Matt called. He hefted the ax, kept one hand on the .38, and jogged east.

  Sheriff Pickens and Wally had blocked the alleys to the west and the entrance to the east with old cars, wheelbarrows, junked bicycles, and trash cans. One defender held each position, with two at the open area.

  With the approaching sunset at his back, Matt went to the car and motioned for Sheriff Pickens and Wally to duck. Wally looked half in the bag, as usual. His jaw was set and his eyes were grim. His soul seemed at peace. Thank God, he’d do.

  Sheriff Pickens lowered his own binoculars. “We got us two men in a van, two on motorcycles. Looks like one of them is holding a white flag.”

  Matt took the binoculars and focused on the rapidly approaching clouds of dust. He immediately recognized the mercenaries in the van. The one who scratched his balls and the one with the red hair who smoked too much dope. He was easy to spot because of the smoke pouring out the passenger window. The one to the south on a motorcycle was the one who had always stared at him. Matt continued to scan the nearby desert. He finally located the man with the white flag. He almost jumped at how close the man seemed.

  Scotty.

  Through the binoculars he seemed confident and healthy, rather than twisted and evil. He wore shades and was smiling, chugging along, slowly waving the flag. Matt went up and down what he could see of the man’s body. Body armor for certain. Two sidearms, one long like a cop’s 9 mm, the other oddly shaped. He had a pair of goggles that looked like the NV stuff Matt had seen in movies. There was something else there on his chest, perhaps some kind of grenade. Matt was worried about grenades. The townspeople were scared enough already. Hell, so was he. It didn’t seem likely that the mercenaries would use anything that random, though, for fear of killing Matt.

  “That’s them,” Matt said. He handed the binoculars back to the sheriff, who raised one hand and waved it.

  “Looks like they want to parlay.”

  “That it does.” Matt thought for a moment. “Sheriff, can you loan me that flashlight for a bit?”

  Sheriff Pickens cocked his head, shrugged, and handed it over. Matt put his ax down in the sand, stuck the flashlight in his belt—behind his back, next to the .38—and then grabbed his ax again.

  “Thanks. Get them ready.”

  Pickens called out, “Nobody jumps the gun. Everybody just hold your fire until one of us gives the signal.”

  Matt Cahill scratched his neck. His pulse raced with anger and steadily increasing fear. The mercenaries could have and should have come after dark, when they’d have had even more of a natural advantage. Why hadn’t they? Something seemed out of place. He didn’t like surprises. He fingered the .38 beneath the back of his jeans next to the flashlight and cracked his knuckles. He was going to have to trust his instincts. Matt came to a decision.

  “Okay, I’m going to go out and talk to him.”

  “You serious?”

  “Believe me, I wish I weren’t. Looks like I have to, though.”

  “You’re out of your fucking mind, but better you than me.” Sheriff Pickens picked up a hunting rifle and sighted on Scotty. “I’ll aim for a head shot if this goes bad. Can’t hardly miss from here. Wally and Bert will cover the others. Don’t worry, Bert may be a chickenshit at heart, but he’s a damned fine shot.”

  Matt nodded and squeezed through the narrow space between the car blocking the entrance to Main Street and the front of Wally’s Saloon. Three long strides later he was out in the open. He felt naked. Four guns were trained on his chest. Behind him, Matt heard Sally crying. It sounded like Kyle was trying to comfort her. Matt did not look back. He just started walking.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Monday, 5:14 p.m.

  It was nearly dark. The sunset flowed rapidly across the desert floor like spilled paint, dragging long shadows in its wake. The night approached quickly, eagerly, like a predator cornering prey. The rider to the south turned and shut off his motorcycle. The van stopped as well. Scotty rolled to a halt, got off his hog, and left it standing. Dusk swallowed them and the air began to chill.

  I am out of my fucking mind for doing this…

  As the evening glowered, Matt Cahill walked, ax on his shoulder, his eyes fixed on the lone man on the motorcycle. Scotty smiled brightly, as if delighted to see him. They stopped, by instinct, perhaps five yards apart. Up close, Scotty’s eyes were bright and feverish. His nose was rotting away, writhing with worms. The flesh on his exposed arms was blackened and splitting and oozing yellow slime. He had two firearms on his belt, one unfamiliar and bulky, and that pair of NV goggles. He was also carrying one large grenade.

  “Well, damned if you aren’t causing us a bit of trouble after all,” Scotty said. Something rattled, deep in his chest, as if parts of him were be
ginning to break loose.

  “Guess I underestimated you.”

  “The jury is still out.”

  “It seems like we got ourselves a bit of a conundrum. Love that word. The way I see it is, we need to take you back with us. You don’t want to go. We got firepower and experience. You got innocent bystanders. You need this to take a few hours. We need it over and done. It’s fourth down and forty and you can’t punt. That about sum it up?”

  Matt kept the ax pointed at the sand. He casually put his trembling right hand on his hip, moving it closer to the items in his belt. “You going to talk all night, or did you have a proposal of some kind?”

  “Oh, I had me an idea,” Scotty said. He drooled pus from a drooping lower lip. “Figured I’d ask you to do the right thing.”

  The shadows swept over them. They were only a few yards apart now.

  “Shit,” Scotty said. “Wanted to get here sooner, but Mack was too fucking stoned. Now it looks like we timed this all wrong. I can’t hardly see you.”

  “Can’t see your face anymore either,” Matt said agreeably. “I don’t mind, though. You really are turning butt ugly.”

  Scotty laughed. “There’s something going on for sure. I can feel it. Sometimes when I look in the mirror, I catch something strange out of the corner of my eye, like that old Candyman piece of shit movie we saw when we were kids. Like there’s someone else over my shoulder. Something freaky.”

  “There is,” Matt said.

  Black squatted on the desert floor with them. The town had no power. The volunteers had no night-vision equipment. The darkness had arrived. Matt realized that Scotty hadn’t timed it wrong at all. In fact, he’d timed it perfectly. But then, so had Matt.

  “So are you going to do the right thing, Cahill? Let us take you back, so that we don’t have to kill all these innocent redneck men, women, and children?”

  Matt squatted in the sand. He bought time, wanted his eyes to adjust a bit. “Well, I’ve thought about that all day. That’s the big question. Does the Dark Man want me enough to let them go?”

  “Who?”

  He doesn’t know who sent him. He thinks it’s just the scientists from the university. But someone along the way is pure evil. They are all infected. I’ll need to find out who sent them one of these days…

  Scotty slowly rose, scratched the seat of his trousers. He moved a few steps closer.

  “Look, Scotty,” Matt said, as if he hadn’t noticed, “we both know you’re planning to kill the townsfolk anyway. The way I figure it, the only reason you’re here now, instead of just attacking us later under cover of darkness, is someone got word to you. Help is closer than any of us expected a while ago. What happened? Did they put that wildfire out already?”

  “You figured all that out on your own?” Scotty squatted, letting Matt know that he was still able to see reasonably well. “Okay, here’s the thing, straight up. There is a busload of weekend warriors on the way down from Salt Fucking Lake or somewhere. ETA about an hour and twenty minutes.”

  “And that changes things.”

  “Indeed it does.” Scott scooted closer, voice lowering as if imparting secrets.

  “Oh, Scotty? I also know I’m in somebody’s sights and you can take me out anytime you want. I’m not stupid.”

  “Didn’t think you were.” He casually edged even closer.

  Matt said, “But the thing is, you don’t want me dead. You want me alive. And if you kill me out here, all that precious blood runs out into the sand and it’s useless. Your boss will have to make do with whatever you’ve already got out there in the van. And if that’s not enough, the university will be royally pissed off. You might not even get paid.”

  “True enough.”

  The pocked moon was rising. The starlight was dazzling. Matt had his own night vision now. He was no longer helpless. He tried to summon the courage to act. His limbs shook. In the darkness, under the full moon, Scotty’s wicked eyes seemed to glow.

  “So we just give you a badass flesh wound,” Scotty said. He moved a bit closer. “Then we patch you up and take you with us. Game over.”

  “Nice plan. But you know what John Lennon said, right?”

  Scotty grinned like the corpse he was rapidly becoming. “You wondering the same thing I’m wondering, Cahill?” He moved a bit closer, now only ten feet away.

  “Yeah. Each of us wonders why the other one agreed to meet out here after dark. Why we’re talking for so long. Thing is, for me it was stalling for time and one other thing. When it comes to you, I already know that answer.”

  Finally close enough for accuracy, Scotty made his move. His right hand darted for the tranquilizer gun on his belt, but Matt was expecting the move. He reached for his flashlight and rolled away, hearing a chuffing sound as the first dart went harmlessly into a clump of dead sage. At the same time, Matt flicked the flashlight on, temporarily blinding the men who had been focusing intently through their night-vision goggles. He rolled again and felt a tranquilizer dart thwack into his boot heel. He shined the light directly into Scotty’s hideous face.

  Scotty was a gory zombie now, flesh hanging from his body, organs and excrement sagging and bulging from his bloody fatigues, a literal sack of shit. His pupils contracted in blackened sockets. Matt clumsily located the .38 and fired twice, knowing the flash would further damage the vision of the other mercenaries if they still wore the NV gear. One bullet struck Scotty in the Kevlar and stunned him. Gunfire came from Dry Wells as a few of the townspeople fired in response to the shot. Scotty was hit again, this time in the shoulder. He spun around, the dart gun dropping from his fingers, and fell flat on his back in the sand, probably just stunned.

  Matt crawled over to the downed mercenary on knees and elbows. He ripped the coveted NV goggles from Scotty’s webbing, grabbed the grenade from Scotty’s chest. He’d wanted the goggles for Timmy, the town’s lookout. Matt kept moving, rolling away as fast as he could.

  Scotty whispered, “Motherfucker!”

  Half as a mercy, Matt brought up the .38 to blow Scotty’s head off, but he felt the sand near his own head puff up. The report followed a half second later. Someone had him zeroed in. Panicked, Matt rolled behind Scotty’s body and fired twice towards the van parked in the darkness. He flashed the light again, got to his knees, flashed it the other way.

  Scotty moved, then sat up. Matt rose to his feet, decided not to waste his last two rounds so far from town. He kicked Scotty in the head and flashed the light both ways again. Then Matt Cahill raced back towards town.

  Townsfolk fired past him at muzzle flashes and where they thought the enemy was parked. At the same time, the mercenaries did their best to wound Matt and bring him down. Three times bullets tugged his clothing as he pounded through the sand, but somehow Matt made it to the parked cars. He threw himself in the air, slammed onto the roof of the old Toyota, rolled over it, and landed back inside his own lines with the night-vision goggles in his hand. He was wheezing and shaking like a willow in a windstorm. The townsfolk cheered.

  Soon, though, they all sat uneasily, whispering back and forth. Now there was nothing else to do but wait.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Monday, 6:22 p.m.

  Dry Wells was brighter now. They’d fired up the old-style streetlights. Kyle and Wally had them all working, plus most of the fighters had their own kerosene lanterns and flashlights. The town was lit up like a modern art piece, yellow and stripes of black shadow. The defenders could now see most of what would take place. They’d created some ambient light to work with, enough to slow down the effectiveness of any night-vision equipment. Still, the mercenaries had training and superior firepower.

  Zeke and Hog had parked like Siamese twins up near the sheriff’s office, holding both hunting rifles and handguns at the ready. They seemed brave enough in each other’s company. Matt hoped that would hold when the firing started.

  “You two ready?”

  “Shit yeah,” Zeke said. His voice crack
ed on the second word, but he managed a grin. Hog managed a giggle.

  Matt jogged low across the middle of the street and took cover by the gazebo, kneeling down in the trash and dried sage. Doing his best to sound official, he called up to his lookout.

  “Timmy? Stay down, but answer me. Do you or Clete see anything?”

  “Nothing.”

  The teenager was still on the roof of the hotel keeping watch. The desert floor was a gigantic ink pad in every direction. At least he now had the night-vision goggles as an edge. The mercenaries no longer had the element of surprise. They would have to be careful every step of the way.

  “All clear?”

  And then, ignoring the order, Timmy raised his head to answer.

  “Nothing, sir.”

  Chuff!

  In the flickering light and shadow, the top of his head vanished, a mist of blood and bone. The kid dropped flat onto the roof like a bag of flour. He’d been shot from afar with a night-vision sniper scope. Seeing this, the prostitute called Maggie wailed and kicked at the outside wall of the whorehouse.

  Matt grimaced and took a deep breath. His anger boiled over. “Here they come!”

  Sheriff Pickens called out, “Stay down, damn it! Cover, not concealment!”

  Scotty and company began their attack.

  In the end, the mercenaries weren’t cute about it. They just surrounded the ghost town, loaded up their weapons, and approached on foot, firing at will. They had body armor and darkness on their side, plus the ability to communicate via a group radio untouched by the jamming systems. They walked out of the shadows calmly, shooting to keep everyone down. Their fire was sparse but merciless, small dots of flame like pinpricks in a black balloon. Four tall bogeymen were striding arrogantly out of the eternal bedroom closet, shooting to kill.

  They had no fear of death. They were already at its doorstep.

  Matt pulled himself together. He gripped his ax handle.

  The assault continued. While the townspeople handled the return fire, Matt studied the mercenaries’ approach and worked out a plan. The stoner came from the west, towards the sheriff’s office. Scotty crawled and hobbled in from the east, where he’d originally been wounded with a lucky shot. The redhead ran in from the dunes to the south, and the buzz-cut professional warrior jogged into Dry Wells from the north. From the direction and lay of the land, it seemed likely that this was the bastard who had shot Timmy. Matt hadn’t seen anything of Clete, the other teen, since his friend had died. Matt couldn’t blame him for staying hidden.