The Dead Are Sleeping

by Paul Westwood

  “You shouldn’t climb those stairs,” Tom said with concern as he ran over to help her.

  Allison sat down on the chair that Tom had just vacated. She patted her belly. “I still have a few more weeks, dear. Anyways the exercise will do me some good.” She looked across the blue water. “Living in paradise is making me fat and lazy.”

  “Where is Sarah?”

  Allison pointed down. From his standing position Tom could just make out a girlish figure playing along the shoreline.

  “She brought the pistol?” Tom asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Good. I had the idea of rowing across and then taking the truck over to Beaufort. We are going to need some supplies, including a crib and hundreds of diapers. I want you and Sarah to stay hidden in the cabin while I am gone.”

  She shook her head. “You worry too much. There’s no one here, Tom. We’re safe.”

  “I know. Now let me help you down. I’ll feel better if you hold my hand.”

  After he had seen Allison safely to the park ranger station they had taken over as a house, Tom went to the beach. The shotgun hung from his shoulder. He saw Sarah playing in the waves. She gave him a friendly wave. Once she saw him pull out the rowboat from its hiding spot underneath a pile of palmetto leaves, she ran over to help.

  “Going into town?” Sarah asked as they hauled the boat to the shore. She was tanned brown and her hair had turned a white blonde from all of the sun.

  “Yes. Do you need anything?”

  “Candy. And some books.”

  “Your teeth are going to rot and your brain is going to turn to mush reading all that teen fiction. Haven’t you had enough of real vampires? Why do you have to read about fake ones?”

  She stuck out her tongue. “Just get me the next book in the series, okay? If you can find it.”

  “Okay.”

  Tom rowed out on the water. Sarah watched his progress from the island shore. When he got to the other side, he hid the boat underneath a bush. From there he walked another mile, taking his time. There was the truck, parked underneath a moss-covered tree. He got inside, made a small prayer, and was delighted when the engine started. He began to drive toward Beaufort.

  The side of the road was choked with weeds. Small businesses and homes dotted the landscape. Except for the birds and the thrum of the tires on the pavement, it was quiet. A few miles later he drove over a long bridge and then into the town. He didn’t get very far. Seeing someone lying in the road, Tom hit the brakes. Lying on the asphalt was a vampire – emaciated the point where it was sickly thin like a scarecrow. The pale skin shined in the southern sun, looking even whiter from the glare. The thing was moving with painful spasms as if desperately trying to shield itself from the sun.

  Leaving the engine on, Tom got out of the truck. He approached the vampire cautiously with the shotgun at the ready. He kept his distance.

  The thing was once a young man. Any clothes had been lost long ago. The creature was painfully thin, reminding Tom of the old movies that showed the horrors of the concentration camps. It didn’t seem to notice the Tom. Instead it continued to weakly flail against the bright sun. It was dying. There were no more humans to prey on and hunger had turned to starvation. The vampire was so weak that it had been caught out in the rays of the morning sun. It no longer had the power to drag itself into the safety of the darkness.

  Tom took aim and fired. The shotgun boomed and echoed against the walls of the nearby buildings. It was the merciful thing to do.