Stephen Jones (ed)

by The Mammoth Book of Zombies (mobi)

  He ran until he reached the playground, falling against one of the canted iron legs (cold; it was cold) supporting the swings, grasping it and gasping, sliding down to his knees as his gaze fixed on a car's headlights speeding west to east.

  The school was dark, its white turned to shadow. Lights from the complex were trapped by the sky, a glow not quite white, not quite grey, that shimmered like a storm cloud uncertain of its power. He stared at it, shivering, until he heard the steps behind him. Then he broke from the swings and loped across the grass, slid down the slope and stumbled like a drunk until he reached his doorway.

  Keys jumped and jangled while he cursed them; the doorknob was curiously slick in his hand.

  One step inside, and something poked him in the back.

  "You ever do that again," he said to Carl Andrews, who was on the stoop and laughing, "I don't care if I give away ten years and a hundred pounds, I'll break your goddamned neck."

  It was fifteen minutes before he stopped shaking, before he felt warm again. By that time drinks had been poured and Andrews was in the recliner, while Keith, pacing through a narration loudly defensive and belligerently shamefaced, told him where he'd gone, though he couldn't explain exactly why.

  "I just did, that's all," he said, finally allowing his legs to fold him to the floor. "It seemed like a good idea at the time." But he didn't tell him about the dark, about the cold.

  "I believe it," Carl said. "That old broad's been around for damn ever. Easy to see why you'd think she - "

  "I did not say she killed anybody," he snapped. "I just… hell, I don't know. I just did, and that's all there is to it." Thinking: first thing in the morning he was going to borrow Moira's car and take the boys around to German's house, to show them where she lived before he broke both their necks.

  Carl emptied his glass and placed it on the floor beside him. "Let's talk about Stan."

  "Why? We saw each other a few times, had a few drinks, and I mostly listened to his war stories, that's all."

  Andrews seemed disappointed. "He never talked about school?"

  Keith shook his head, then caught himself. "Well, hardly a word. If he'd had a bad day he'd bitch, but nothing more than that." He looked up. "Good Lord, Carl, you're not suggesting…" He laughed nervously. "No, I see you're not. I guess they aren't nasty enough."

  Andrews squirmed slightly. "You didn't see Stan. And you didn't see the kid."

  "Bad?"

  "Worse. Thought for a while we had wild dogs. They were done like that. Not all over. Just in… pieces."

  Keith stared at his hands, pondering. "Rabies maybe. Animals don't eat even though they want to. You might - "

  "We did. All over the damned place."

  "The paper sure keeps quiet about it."

  "The paper gets read by tourists."

  A pause while Keith pulled at the side of his neck. "So, what do you think?"

  "If I knew I'd be out there."

  They talked a few minutes more, saying little, getting nowhere. Then Andrews thanked him for the drink and left, leaving Keith on the floor to decide finally that he had to see the school's basement. He wasn't sure why, but he knew if he didn't he wouldn't sleep for days.

  The following morning he broached Bonachek, arming himself with an article premise he'd thought up on the way over. The principal refused politely.

  "But those records," Keith protested gently. "I mean, they'd be invaluable."

  "I understand," the man said, "but I'm afraid my hands are tied. It's school board property. You'll have to fill out a request, and they meet in two weeks."

  Keith shrugged and left, stood in the corridor for a moment fuming over bureaucrats even in country schools, then checked for watchers before hurrying toward the back. Steps led down to the rear double doors. A sharp right, and another staircase leading to a thick-planked door bolted and padlocked. And though he knew he was no expert, he also knew by looking that neither bolt nor padlock was stiff from disuse.

  Somebody, he thought, is lying through his teeth, and when he said as much to Jane when he stopped her before lunch, she turned to him, scowled, and told him to mind his own business.

  "You're crazy," she said, and he had to trot up to keep up as she hastened outside. "There's nothing down there but dust."

  "Then what's the harm?" he said softly, taking hold of her arm. "Come on, Jane. You know where Checkie keeps the keys. Show a little leg or something. I'll wait for your call after school." He kissed her cheek before she could refuse, almost ran home, and almost collided with Moira, who was standing by his door. Her blouse was unbuttoned midway down her chest, her sunglasses off, and her jeans snugly inviting. Moira, whose husband he hadn't seen in over two years. A shadow behind the window, a just-closed door. Whenever he went over for lunch or dinner the man was gone on a trip, and small wonder the boys had taken him for an uncle.

  Moira. Jane. How much of a lecher are you, he wondered as he pushed in the door, though remained outside.

  "The kids again, right?" he said.

  She shook her head. "It's Jane. I'm worried about her."

  "No kidding?"

  A finger touched his hand, cool and demanding. Standing with her was like lying in shade, and it didn't take him long to make up his mind her husband was a fool, and fools deserve fooling.

  "Have you seen her today?"

  "Can you keep a secret?" And before she could answer he told her about the keys, Mrs German, and the scare he'd given himself. When he was done, she shook her head and looked pointedly up the staircase. "You're crazy," she told him. "No wonder the boys love you."

  Not like. Love.

  He swallowed. "I…" A hand to her shoulder. "I've got some work, Moira."

  "That's all right," she said brightly. "I just wanted to invite you to dinner."

  "Deal. And afterward I'll tell you all about my adventures."

  She leaned into him suddenly, kissed him lightly on the chin. "It's Jane's loss," she whispered, and was gone.

  He had no idea how long he'd stood there, gaping at the image she'd left in her wake, but the next thing he knew Peter and Philip were standing there, grinning. "He's a Greek god," Peter said solemnly to his brother.

  "Nope, he's one of those dinosaur things we saw in the city. All stuffed and stuff."

  Keith roused himself with a mock scowl. "Beat it, punks, or I won't give you dinner."

  "We don't care," Peter said. "We're going to grandma's."

  Keith almost contradicted him, but the telephone was ringing. He waved and ran up, snatched at the receiver on the fifth harsh summons. It was Carl, demanding to know where the hell Jane was. Keith explained what he knew - which wasn't much - and Carl complained she hadn't answered any of his messages, complained a moment longer before suddenly hanging up.

  So what am I, Keith thought sourly, your girl friend's keeper?

  But the call bothered him. It wasn't like Jane to ignore messages; nor, he remembered as he aimed a finger toward the dial, does she like personal calls at school.

  He dropped into his chair and stared at the telephone, willing it to ring. Willing, squirming, rising once to fetch a beer and returning at a run.

  Moira called at six, and he told her he'd be late.

  Twice he called the school, and received no response.

  At seven Carl called back, worried and angry and warning him not to go off on one of his half-assed explorations.

  Seven-thirty, and he stood. Wavered. Then he took a look at the sky and grabbed his raincoat from the closet, a flashlight from the desk drawer, and whispered an apology to Moira before he ran outside.

  All he could think of was Mrs German, and the cold.

  The air was a curious shade of dim grey-green, and the leaves were turning belly up to the keening damp wind. Mutters of thunder. No traffic at all.

  By the time he reached the school he was gasping for breath, and cursing the cigarettes he could feel in his pocket. The clouds were shifting rapidly, the steeple that
once housed the morning bell seeming to topple when he approached the front steps. He glanced to either side, took the six steps two at a time and yanked at the door. It rattled but didn't give. He tried again, fighting panic, then swung off the porch and walked quickly around the side. All the shades had been drawn halfway, eyelids drowsing, but the sills were too high for him to see if the windows were unlocked.

  He pulled the flashlight from his coat pocket and tapped it impatiently against a palm.

  It darkened.

  There was lightning.

  He bunched his shoulders in frustration and turned a circle against the wind. She must have changed her mind, he decided, and had finally gone to Carl's. Or gone for a drive. Or gone through the woods to Mrs German's for a cup of her damned tea. The wind gusted, and he ducked, stopped when he saw the playground in a flash of blue-white.

  Slides. Swings. A sandbox. An iron horse.

  He held his breath and began to walk slowly over the wet trampled grass.

  Swings.

  At one end there was a bench with a plank floor, two seats facing each other. Jane was sitting with her back to the school, her legs too long, her feet touching the ground. He didn't call out, and he didn't break into a run. He vaguely heard the rear doors slamming open with the wind, vaguely heard the rain pattering on his shoulders.

  Blue-white again, and he saw without blinking the red gleaming in her hair.

  He stopped directly behind her, reached out a hand and dropped it as if he'd been burned. The blood had trailed down the back of the seat and had gathered blackly on the ground. He swallowed. He whispered her name. He took a step to one side, and spun down to his knees.

  Her face. It was gone.

  The rain, then, and the lightning, and the darkmoon above the storm, and he rocked back to his heels and screamed at the thunder. Staggered to his feet and lurched toward the school. The door. He remembered the door, saw it now waiting through sheets of cold water. There was no time to think, no time for grand designs; he stumbled over the threshold and down the steps to the basement. Then he looked to his hands; the flashlight was gone. A slap to his sides and the feel of a matchbox crammed into his pocket.

  A tearing shriek of lightning, and he saw his shadow slip through the open basement door.

  He walked quickly, then, and down four more steps, pulled out a match and struck it on the railing, a quick sound that made him wince, the simultaneous hiss of burning sulphur that flared to lighten the dark and narrow his eyes. But there was nothing else. No breathing. No footfalls. No creaks of rotting planks or sighs of storm wind sneaking down behind him; only the light that wavered a curious blue-yellow above his pinched fingers.

  He waited for a moment, then moved away from the stairs.

  The basement was large, a disturbingly silent cave that extended beneath the entire central core of the school building above. On the left, along a rough stone wall mottled by dampness, were rows of crates that seemed as if they would disintegrate at a touch; on the right, the same. Along the uneven stone flooring were aisles created by warped shelving atop crumbling brick, four tiers of them, with more cartons, mildewed books, papers wrapped with string or faded yarn - all of it nibbled at, eaten, littered with droppings like tiny black pebbles.

  Beams hung low from the sagging stone ceiling, and there were no windows. There was only the silence and the mausoleum cold.

  He hissed suddenly as the flame scorched his fingers, dropped the match and fumbled with a heel to crush it. He lit another quickly, and wished he hadn't lost the flashlight. But Jane… Jane… he felt the bile rising and swallowed hard and often.

  When he felt dizziness slip by him, then, he stepped into the centre aisle, shivering now with a cold that hadn't come with the storm. Shadows writhing, wind soughing, the weight of the building blackly descending. Toward the front he shuffled, cursing the children and all their foolish talk about vampires, cursing the stories about the travellers and the darkmoon.

  At aisle's end he stopped, and waited.

  For the first time since entering he knew he wasn't alone.

  And for the first time since it started he knew who was with him.

  Overhead and behind him a bare lightbulb flickered, painting his image darkly against the sweating blocks of stone. He would not move. He would not give his company the satisfaction of his fear. Instead, with movement so slow he wanted to scream, he slipped his hands into his pockets and bunched them to fists.

  Remembered a time, too much time ago, when his father had brought him out at twilight onto a lake's shore and they'd waited for the bats to come out for their feeding. "Quietly now," the old man had told him. "Quietly now, you don't want him to hear."

  Quietly now.

  Don't let him hear you.

  He turned to face the staircase, and the figure waiting by the railing. He glanced up at the ceiling. "Has… anyone guessed?"

  "Danny," a voice said, made sexless by thunder and by the dead time in the basement. "Stan broke in. A few others over the years."

  "Those people from New York?"

  "One gets hungry, you know. I can't do anything about that."

  "I don't believe it."

  "You don't believe I get hungry, or you don't believe what I am."

  "I don't believe in vampires, no matter what the children say."

  A laugh slipped through the darkness. "To them everything monstrous is a vampire. Surely you can forgive them that."

  I'm afraid, he thought; I'm afraid and I can't run. But he knew it wasn't the fear that held him; it was worse, much worse - he wanted to know. There was a good chance of his dying, but he wanted to know.

  "Werewolf," he said then. "Or are you a ghoul?"

  A pause, more a hesitation, and he closed his eyes briefly, grunting silently as he fought against the loosening of his bowels.

  The voice, then, and the cold.

  "I'm too old to remember exactly how it began. But it did. One moment I was normal, the next…" An invisible shrug. "And living out here has made it very easy. Here, and places like here, all over the country. You move on when you're suspected, before someone can kill you. A nibble here" - a giggle - "a nibble there. It all adds up, Keith. It all adds up."

  "You bitch! You killed Jane."

  The cold was on the outside, but there was a heated rage working through the marrow, through the blood. His head was spinning, his eyes fighting a squint.

  "You didn't have to, you know, Moira. You could've let her live.

  But then, you've known her for so long she must have suspected, must have wondered what wonder drugs you were taking."

  A noise. Rumbling, snarling, cut off as if bitten. The figure shifted, and he shaded his eyes, glancing from side to side as he tried to make her out, tried to find something he could throw while escaping. She wouldn't follow; she couldn't. She knew he'd called Carl, he'd be here soon to hunt for his lover. All he had to do was keep talking, and make his way to the stairs. The door was still open, and he could hear the rain on the landing.

  "How did you manage the children?" he said, moving an inch at a time back up the aisle.

  "What children?" the voice said, and he stopped when she moved directly under the bulb.

  Her face was moon pale, her lips dark and gleaming, her teeth when she smiled coated with saliva.

  The cold. He could feel the cold now, could hear the yellowed papers rustling as they crumpled, could hear the orange crates creaking as they buckled.

  The cold in his apartment.

  He put a hand to his forehead, trying to think. It was important he keep on using his mind, to prevent its collapse in the face of her smiling.

  Cold. A signal, perhaps, that portends her feeding, and the longer she's denied it, the colder she gets.

  Moira touched a long finger to her chin. "The children," she said as though the thought amused her. "No, Keith, we're just one tiny family, kindred spirits if you will. It doesn't matter where we came from; we just came, that's all. Back t
here in the hills, and we decided to stick together. Strength in numbers, my love."

  He heard the boys shifting quietly behind him.

  Danny, Stan, Jane: We're going to grandma's for dinner tonight.

  He bolted. Whatever he believed, whatever madness he was facing, it shrieked through his enforced calm and sent him charging toward the doorway. Moira yelled when he shoved her aside, clawed at his arm, and he was halfway to the door when the boys each snared a leg. He kicked frantically, punched wildly, slipped to the floor and was stunned when his skull cracked against the bottom step.

  "No," he whispered. "No, please, Moira."

  Philip sat on his stomach, Peter on his thighs. Moira loomed behind them, the light from the ceiling turning her face black and giving her hair an umbra of stark white.

  "You don't know what it's like," she said then, reaching between the boys and coldly stroking his cheek. "To have to fake a husband.

  A man who's never home. Leaving yourself open to every damned horny bastard who comes to your door, and you're not even hungry."

  His mind faded from a whimpering to a daze; there was only the cold, and the sound of her voice.

  "I've had enough," she said wearily. "I've had quite enough."

  Manoeuvred, he thought; all this time I've been manoeuvred.

  He swallowed. He sobbed once.

  "Hey, don't worry," Peter told him. So old. So old.

  Moira nodded. "You're not going to die, love. At least not for long."

  He closed his eyes, opened them. Wide, and staring.

  "Yes, dear, Jane is our meal. Little Jane is our meal. We brought you down here because I'm tired of all the deceptions. And besides, the boys need a father they can point to with pride."

  Peter nodded quickly, his eyes bright and eager.

  "Just a little pain," Moira whispered, dead wind over velvet. "Don't worry, just a little pain, a little dying. Then I'll say the words, the incantation, and you'll be just as good as new."

  Philip leaned closer, his breath fetid and iced. "And then I can call you daddy. Boy, won't that be great?"