by Robert Price
“It’s not working properly. It’s going to get hotter and harder to breathe. Unless somebody leaves the shelter,” I say, “we’ll all die from lack of oxygen.”
Everyone is silent. MacNeil’s fingertips brush against his holstered pistol.
“Then we have to decide who,” says Frank, dropping his fork into the chicken stew Mrs. Henderson made.
“How?” asks Carol. “Draw lots?”
“You keep out of this,” Harve tells his wife. “It’s a decision for the men.”
“Baloney!” says Frank. “Everyone should have a say.”
The Cassidys and Mr Glenville agree with Frank.
“What about you, Doc?” Harve asks with a glare.
The women look at me. For a moment I see my wife’s face instead of Marcy’s.
“I agree with them,” I say. “Everyone gets a vote.”
“Jesus Christ,” says Harve. “A real bunch of commies, aren’t we? McCarthy should’ve weeded out our neighborhood first.”
“MacNeil, you’re an idiot,” says Frank.
Before another argument can erupt, Ed says, “So, how do we decide?”
Old Mrs. Henderson stands. “No need,” she says. “I’ll go.”
“What? Harve asks. I don’t suppose he’s ever seen a willing sacrifice before.
Mrs. Henderson looks down her nose at him. “Yes Mr MacNeil, I’m a woman and I can make a decision all by myself,” she says. “Unless you’d like to volunteer, I suggest you keep quiet.”
Harve folds his arms.
“Fine,” says Mrs. Henderson. “Well, I’m the eldest here, by about thirty years; I’ve no family; I’m losing my memory and I only just survived cancer two years ago. I’m the obvious choice.”
“And you’ve got more guts than anyone,” says Frank.
She smiles. “Well, don’t let that stew go cold.”
Slowly, we see her to the hatch. She walks more upright than she has in years. We mutter our goodbyes, guilt weighing on all of us. She refuses any offers of food or warm clothes. “You’ll be needing those,” she tells us. I wind up being the one who seals the inner door; I operate the outer hatch from in here, knowing that she’ll die out there to save the rest of us. And there’s nothing I can do to bring her back.
Day 39
The ground rumbles again. Half-asleep, I imagine myself in the good old days, when Pa’s generation was blasting in the mountains ten miles from town, mining and quarrying. Riding the streets on my bicycle, I’d duck, pretending I was a Confederate cavalryman dodging cannonballs at Gettysburg.
But now the rumbles get louder; the concrete walls shake; tins of food tumble from the shelves. We’ve never had earthquakes before, and I think we can rule out mining blasts. Bombs? But the President said the communists surrendered. So what is going on out there?
Day 42
Mrs. Henderson’s death isn’t enough. The needle on the air unit dial rose for a few days then sank back down. So we’re all gathered again, struggling to breathe, fighting off headaches as we work out who else is going to die. This time there are no volunteers.
Harve lights a cigarette. “I fought at D-Day and Inchon in Korea. I’m a survivor and a hunter. When all this is over, the rest of you’ll need me.” He leans back so we can see the pistol on his belt—the only gun in the shelter. “It can’t be me,” he says, “or my wife.”
For the first time, Carol looks glad to be with him.
“Well,” says Dan Cassidy, glancing at his brother, “it was Mrs. Henderson last time. Her reasons made sense. Who’s the oldest now?”
“We can’t just get rid of the oldest!” Frank says. “We need to think about what skills we’re going to need.”
“I’m an engineer,” butts in Glenville, “I’ll be building bridges, repairing water pipes—there’ll be a whole heap of things to do. My wife’s a teacher. And whatever we decide about age, we can’t be killing the kids first.” He puts his arms around Clara and Paul.
“Well, Finkelstein,” says Harve, smirking at Frank, “you’re a journalist. Do we need your skills?”
The Cassidys laugh.
Frank glares at them, clasps his hands together. “As a matter of fact, you do. First, I’m an Editor, not a journalist—so that makes me a leader and a thinker. We’ll need good leaders. And we need to preserve language and knowledge—I think I’ve got a better handle on those than any of you.”
“What about Doctor Burroughs?” asks Marcy. “He’s got those skills. And he’s a Doctor.”
Frank sighs. “Well if you want to look at who’s the eldest, I believe the Doc beats me there.”
“You just said we shouldn’t go by age. Besides,” I say with a smile to Marcy, “I am a Doctor.”
“That settles it,” says Harve, drawing his pistol and moving towards Frank. The Cassidys move to back up Harve. Glenville moves in from the side to block Frank. Just like High Noon, where the cowardly townsfolk turn against Gary Cooper, rather than standing up to the real enemy.
Frank backs away, shaking his head. “I didn’t want to have to say this, but…”
“But what?” says Glenville.
Frank looks at me apologetically. “The Doc isn’t what he seems to be.”
A shot of fear courses down into my stomach. Everyone looks at me. I smile, trying to look innocent, but I fear what’s coming. I take off my tie, finding it hard to breathe.
“The Doc was struck off eight years ago,” Frank says. “The hospital tried to hush it up, but I heard things—awful things.”
Suddenly it’s me—not Frank—who feels the trap closing in. Harve’s gun is on me now.
Frank gulps. “After the Doc’s wife died, he tried to bring her back.”
I close my eyes.
“Who wouldn’t?” asks Marcy.
“He tried to bring her back from the dead,” says Frank. “Tried to reanimate her corpse by injecting it with chemicals, after reading about some crackpot in Arkham who did the same thing, half a century ago. Does that sound like the actions of a sane man to you? Would you trust him with your lives?” He turns to the Glenvilles: “With the lives of your children?” Like I said, he has a way with words.
The verdict is as damning as it was at the hospital. They surround me. It’s a matter of survival now and there’s only one course of action left. I laugh. “Is that the best you can come up with, Frank? Jesus Christ, did you get that from Weird Tales? What a load of baloney!” I can tell I’ve already won Marcy back and Harve might be dumb, but he doesn’t go in for anything that stretches his imagination. “You wanna hear another one? Finkelstein’s paper was accused by McCarthy. Looked to be in deep trouble for a while there, didn’t you, Frank?”
Harve points his gun at Frank. “I was right all along.” Pure hatred erupts over Harve’s face. “All this time, a goddamned commie living among us.”
The Cassidys grab Frank and drag him to the hatch.
“You’re making a mistake!” Frank wails, wrestling in their grasp. “It’s all lies!”
Glenville operates the inner door. The Cassidys shove Frank; he twists, trying to force his way back in. Harve fires. The crack of the shot echoes around the shelter. Frank staggers, blood welling from his leg, but still he doesn’t give up. He shoves the Cassidys aside and he’s halfway back in before I slam my fist into his jaw. Frank reels and I shoulder the door shut. Pushing past the stunned Glenville, I take the controls of the outer hatch and seal Frank’s fate. Harve grinds his cigarette end beneath his shoe.
We sit in silence. I wonder if any of them think there’s a grain of truth in what Frank said. A grain? It was a sack-full of truth and there’s no denying it. But even Frank didn’t know the full story.
And then he’s back, hammering on the outer hatch. “My God!” he screams. “There’s something out here.”
Harve leaps up, pistol drawn. The Cassidys gather behind him. Glenville holds his wife and daughter, their faces buried in his shirtfront. I close my eyes and pray it will be ove
r quickly.
“You’re all trapped in there!” Frank cries. He thuds against the steel hatch. There’s a raucous squalling, as if a monstrous bird is flapping around him. With a dreadful rending noise, his screams are silenced.
Day 46
None of us mention the creature outside, as if by ignoring it, it will cease to exist. Frank’s death brought us a temporary respite, but the air unit is still failing. And so, the process begins again, each justifying their usefulness to the rest of the group. Harve MacNeil presides over us, pistol within reach. The Cassidy boys tell how their childhood on a farm will be useful when we grow crops in the future. Glenville still counts on the fact we won’t break up his family.
“I’ve got a family too,” says Marcy, smoking, “and my husband’s a scientist. We’ll all be together again.”
“Don’t count on it,” says Harve with a snort.
“Tell him, Doctor Burroughs,” she says. “Remind him what you said about them going to the store at Devil’s View.”
It was all baloney, I want to say, but I don’t think I can break that little heart of hers. She’s too much like my wife. “Adam and the kids are in a bunker up there, alive and well,” I say. “Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
My reasons for remaining must be looking shaky. Even if I’ve convinced the others Frank’s story was wrong, there’s still the fact I was struck off eight years ago.
“That leaves you then, Doc,” Harve says, cigarette between his teeth. “What’ve you got to say this time?”
“You need a Doctor more than you need a couple of farmers.”
Ed and Dan don’t like that, of course.
Harve butts in: “You reckon, Doc? Cause all we really need is your medicines.”
The Cassidys and the Glenvilles chirp in agreement.
This is it then. Either I go, or it’s time for another secret. “What it comes down to, Harve,” I say, “is this: do you really want to share this cozy little shelter with a pair of homosexuals?”
Harve’s eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”
I point at the Cassidys. I don’t want to do it, but it’s them or me. “Look at their faces. They’re no more like brothers than you and me, Harve.”
“Why, you goddamn liar!” says Dan.
Harve’s gun is already hovering in their direction.
“What are you talking about?” Ed blurts.
“I’m talking about one night last week,” I say, “when you crept across the aisle into Dan’s bunk. I saw the whole thing. Don’t tell me that was brotherly love.”
Ed goes as pale as a corpse. Dan looks to him, panic darting across his face.
“Three years you’ve been living on our street,” I say, “and not once have either of you brought a girl back.”
“Jesus Christ,” Harve barks, pointing the gun at Ed’s head. “Get the hell out of here—now!”
Ed and Dan back up to the hatch, then—darting forward—they jump Harve. The pistol goes off; with a strangled cry, Dan sinks to the floor. Ed kneels beside him, cradling Dan’s head as blood wells from his neck. I open the inner door.
“Get out,” Harve spits.
Ed drags Dan through. As I seal the door, Ed glares at me, anger and sorrow etched onto every crease of his face. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve nothing against their type. It’s just that I’ve seen death and I intend to avoid mine for as long as I can. Whatever it takes. I operate the controls for the outer hatch. Ed’s screams are immediate, desperate and primal. There’s a cacophony of leathery flapping; the sounds of flesh being shredded. Whatever is outside, there’s more than one of them.
Day 47
I wake early as the shelter vibrates again. Even though we’re not talking about it, we must all be asking ourselves what is going on out there: the strange creatures that sound like a flock of gigantic flesh-hungry bats; the subterranean rumbles. What has happened to the world while we’ve been underground?
“Dammit,” Harve mumbles.
Leaning over the edge of my bunk, I peer down in the darkness. There’s enough room now for me to have a bottom bunk, but I feel a little safer up here.
“You got anything to put us back to sleep, Doctor Burroughs?” Marcy asks.
“Sorry,” I say, though I reckon I could put them all to sleep. For a very long time. Marcy last, of course.
I swing my legs over the side and clamber down the ladder. At the bottom, I step into my shoes and sit on the empty bunk to fasten the laces. “I’ll make us some breakfast,” I say. Putting my jacket on—over the clothes I’ve slept in for the past week—I head for the cooking area and turn on the lamp. The food we brought with us is almost half-gone. Some of our suppers have been a little extravagant. Squeezing the tin opener into a large can of beans, I begin to peel back the lid.
There’s a deep thump, like someone banging on the outer hatch. A screeching sound—as of metal being cut by an industrial machine—sears through the shelter.
Harve dashes out of bed. “What the hell?” he cries. I’ve never seen him afraid before. I imagine him like this in Korea; his animal instinct breaking down his façade. Leaving the half-opened can of beans, I walk in a daze towards the inner door. An empty clunk sounds from right outside, as if—against all possibility—the outer hatch has fallen off.
“What was that?” Marcy says, wide-eyed.
Before I can answer, the buzzing restarts and a great pointed blade pierces through the inner door, cutting a vertical line downwards. The Glenville kids’ screams have barely echoed around the chamber when the inner hatch curls back, as if it’s no thicker than the lid on the can of beans. White dust swirls into the shelter, followed by the hideous squawking and leathery flapping of the creatures. Like eight-foot bats, they swarm in, with hooked claws and pronged beaks. One swoops on Harve’s wife, pierces her and fastens its dark maw around her neck, making a nauseous sucking sound. Harve shoots; the thing flies off, releasing Carol. She drops to the floor, drained of color. Extreme blood loss.
A bat-creature swoops towards me. I turn, grab Clara Glenville’s arm and swing her into its path. The creature thrusts her to the floor, beak clamped to her neck. Her little brother rushes at the creature; its claw whips out, slashing the boy’s throat. As more creatures descend on the adult Glenvilles, I rush to the hole where the hatch used to be. Marcy joins me; we almost collide with Harve who lunges for the opening too. Elbowing me against the doorway, he forces his way through. I yell as the serrated metal gouges a line into my back. Stumbling, I race to catch up with Harve, as he scurries up the steps outside. With a screech, a bat-creature descends on him; Harve brings up his pistol and fires. Twisting in the air, the thing plunges into the white dust on the ground.
“Good shooting, Harve!”
He turns and looks at Marcy and I, as if deciding whether to shoot us too.
“Let’s get away from here,” I say, and then we’re running down our street, kicking up a white mist. Behind, agonized screams burst from the shelter. Destroyed houses flash by as we run, their roofs caved in. Only a few partial walls stand, bearing gaping holes where the windows have melted. A line of black ash marks where Mrs. Henderson’s picket fence was; the crumpled hulk of Harve’s Chrysler Saratoga waits uselessly. I pass Harve, who seems more upset about the automobile than about his wife. On the corner, my house is a flattened wreck; one plantation-style pillar emerges as a reminder of the porch.
“Doctor!” Marcy shouts. “Don’t stop!” She pulls at my arm. I take a deep breath and break into a jog again. Glancing back, I see Harve speeding to catch up.
“Wait for me, goddammit!” he shouts.
“Maple Drive,” Marcy gasps. “There’s another shelter here.”
I hurry down the street with her, expecting one of the bat-creatures to bear down on us at any moment. If we can get to the end of Maple Drive, the folks holed up there might let us in. A picture of the Burtons flashes into my head for a moment; I hope the folks in Maple Drive prove to be more neighborly than
we were. We dash past more flattened houses and skeletal, burned-out automobiles, until we reach the shelter.
Marcy collapses against me. “My God, it’s horrible,” she sobs.
The Maple Drive shelter is like ours, hatch ripped open by a metal cutter. In the debris and dust lies a femur. Tassels of gnawed flesh cling to it. A tremor shakes the ground. Hearing a distant screech from a bat creature, we set off again.
Near the next shelter we duck behind a collapsed wall, as two of the winged fiends suckle on the blood of an occupant. When the beasts go inside the bunker, we dash around the next corner and into the remains of a food store. We huddle inside, shaken and restless. Marcy shares a cigarette with Harve. Tearing a strip off my shirt, I bandage the deep cut in my back.
“Jesus Christ,” Harve mutters, surveying the ashen mess of the store.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Marcy cries. “All those people survived the bombs, only to be killed by those creatures.”
“I’m afraid it makes a warped kind of sense to me,” I reply, tying up the bandage. “People are nothing more than preserved food for those creatures—like meat in a tin.”
“What are you saying?” Marcy asks. “What are these creatures?”
As my wife’s condition deteriorated month by month, I became fascinated with the ghoulish descriptions of those reanimation experiments in Arkham. And from there, my research led to other dark, unsavory works—the journals of mad cultists, some would say. But together, the connections in these works painted a hideous picture of life beyond our planet and beyond our understanding.
“They’re from another world,” I say, “that much is obvious. I think they’ve found a new home here and a ready supply of food.”
“This is our planet,” Harve growls. “The President built these shelters for us, so we could emerge into a new world without the damned communists.”
“You still believe that?” I ask. It takes effort not to laugh—it’s a new world alright.
Running his hands through his hair, Harve turns away. I wince as I put my jacket back on.
“Adam and the children are trapped,” Marcy says, finishing the cigarette. “I’ve got to find them.”
