by Anthology
“Ted?”
“Well hell, Carl, I guess my house and my wife and working in the mines. I got lotsa memories.”
“I know you do, but what about right before? What do you remember about the flood? Who came and told you we needed to do this job?”
“Oh, now, Carl, that’s easy… I mean… that is to say…”
Mike stepped in. “Hugh, what year is it?”
“1912,” Hugh said immediately. “What the hell year you think?” He stood up. “You’ve all gone crazy, I –ouch!”
“Oh!” Ted grunted, grabbing his hand. “What’d you do that for?”
Carl held up a knitting needle.
“The year,” Mike said flatly, “is 1934.”
“Look at your fingers, fellas,” Carl said.
The two men raised their fingers. Eyes, suddenly wide, suddenly terrified, examined them closely. A thick, clear liquid dribbled down both hands in slow rivulets.
“Embalming fluid,” Mike said. “Unless I’m mistaken, I’m the only man here with a pulse.”
~
There was a great stir on Mike’s porch, and after the screaming and the exclaiming and the accusing and the shaking heads and frantic cries had ceased, three men walked the dirt road to Pineville and sought out their homes.
A short time later they returned, glassy-eyed and resigned.
“Now do you believe me an’ Carl?” Mike said.
Hugh and Ted nodded their hanging heads. Their houses were abandoned, their families gone.
“What year you say this is again?” Ted asked quietly.
“1934,” Mike said. “Pineville’s been dead since the early ‘20’s, when the coal gave out. I’m the only one here. All I do is tend the cemetery, see that no one bothers anything. Come from Pittsburgh, originally. Paid by the county.”
They trudged into Mike’s living room and slumped down in rocking chairs by the fire. Outside the wind blew cold, sending dried leaves scuttling across the porch boards and stressing the roof beams.
Mike said, “According to this chart, you all… er… passed away on the same date: May 23rd, 1912. You remember anything at all about it?”
They thought for a moment. “Come to think of it,” Ted said, slowly, “I do remember something… something about water. But it’s distant, like a dream.”
“The mines!” Carl exclaimed. “Culver Lake. The flood.”
“The roar… the rocks,” said Ted.
“By God,” said Hugh, “the collapse.”
“We all work… or worked… the same midnight shift,” Carl explained. “Looks like we didn’t make it out of that one with all our faculties intact, as the doctors say.”
Mike moaned. “This’ll teach me for not taking an interest in other people’s lives. If I’d only asked what you all did and where you all lived when you first got here… I just assumed you lived in Still Creek over the hill and were sent down to help. I never thought… that is, I never… I should have known when you was talking about Wilbur Collins. He died in 1893, and you all look so young, I––”
“Enough,” said Carl. “Don’t worry yourself over it. What we need to worry on now is the best course of action. There’s something going on here that ain’t natural, we’ve all guessed that since Day One, but now it seems we’re a pretty big part of it ourselves. Well, to be frank I’ve got to say I don’t think we belong up here, walking and talking, anymore than the rest of the folk out there who seem to be a tad restless too.”
“Agreed,” said Ted and Hugh.
“And I think we’d also agree that this is a fair bit, well, upsetting for us, what with us being dead and our families all moved on and away… Upsetting for our friend here too, who ain’t done nothing to deserve this kind of stress,” Carl continued, nodding to Mike. “So the sooner things get back to normal, the better. Now, we’ve laid out there quiet for twenty-two years and change. Why we up and walking again now?”
“The flood,” Hugh said.
“That’s how I see it,” Carl agreed. “The flood warshed us all up, something needed done to fix it, so we came back to ourselves. Taking care of this kind of thing is our job as volunteer firemen, after all.”
“Agreed.”
“But what about the others?” asked Ted. “Why are they up and about too?”
Mike said, “It’s like that saying my granddaddy was fond of, the morbid cuss: ‘The dead take care of their own.’”
“Sounds about right, given what’s happened,” said Hugh.
“Everyone out there in that yard and in that shed are doing their part, and we’re heading up the project,” Carl said.
“So all we got to do…” Hugh began.
“…Is finish what we started, and things’ll fall back into line around here.” Carl turned to Mike. “After all this, you mind if we stay on at the house a little while longer? That fire feels good, even if we ain’t supposed to notice such things in our condition.”
“Well hell, boys,” Mike said, and they were glad to notice the color had returned to his face, “I’d say you deserve that at the very least.”
~
They had the cemetery back in good order at the end of two weeks. Some gravestones needed replaced, including Carl’s and Ted’s (Hugh’s was found in a rain gully a short distance from the grounds, a little chipped but otherwise fine), but Mike made a trip over to Still Creek and came back with a half dozen new stones. Finally, on October 27th, they lined up in front of Mike’s cabin and looked out upon the graveyard, grass neat, stones straight, and declared it finished.
All except one thing.
“Everything trim and tidy again, everyone tucked back in,” Carl said. “Guess it’s time you saw us off, Mike.”
“Boys, it’s been my pleasure.” Mike shook hands all around. “You ready?”
They were. Three open graves lay side by side. Carl, Hugh, and Ted, dressed in smart, new tailor-made suits, climbed carefully down into the holes, minding the dirt, and lay down in the pine boxes they’d built for themselves the previous day.
“Feeling a bit tired, to be honest,” Hugh said, reaching up to close his lid. “Miss my kids. Maybe if I go to sleep I’ll see them again. So long, folks. Catch ya again sometime, I guess.” He shut the lid, knocked twice, and Mike stepped down and latched it.
“I guess all this was fitting,” Ted said, squirming slightly to get comfortable. “There ain’t many people left to look after us… It would’ve been too big a job for you to do alone, Mike.”
“You did great, Ted.” The lid creaked shut. Mike latched it.
Carl shook Mike’s hand again. “I want your honest opinion… You think this place looks good? Really good?”
“Even better that it did before.”
“An untended grave is a shameful thing. It was quite a shock, this, but I’m glad we came back to do it.” He reached up, grabbed the edge of his lid, and started to pull it closed over himself. “Oh, hey!” he added. “I almost forgot!”
“What’s that, Carl?”
“We talked it over, and if you ever need any help keeping your house in good order––a paint job, new roof, whatever—don’t hesitate, eh? We owe you.”
The lid shut. Mike latched it.
Later, he found himself whistling as he shoveled on the dirt.
The Basement
WILLIAM T. VANDEMARK
Julie screams. She’s in the kitchen.
I’m in the basement stacking canned goods next to bottled water. I glance up at a barred window. Outside, misshapen figures shuffle past. I drop a case of Dinty Moore and run to the stairs.
“Get down here,” I yell. “Right now, or we’re dead!”
Julie opens the door. She stands at the top of the stairs, pale with fear. She is claustrophobic. Yesterday, the idea of seeking refuge in a dank basement terrified her more than televised reports of zombies. This morning, the TV signal died.
Glass breaks––a picture window’s timbre.
I take the stairs two at
a time and grab Julie.
I pull, but she won’t let go of the door jam. Behind her, a wreck of a body appears. From its face, tendrils of skin hangs like a spider’s web. The zombie, teeth sharp and broken, lunges at Julie. I yank at her, slam the door, throw the deadbolt.
A voice howls. Fingernails scratch at the door. The scrabble gives way to pounding.
I hit the door back. “Hah, you bastard. No way in.”
And no way out. I turn to Julie, who clutches one hand with the other.
“It’s okay,” I say. “We’ll just wait ‘till they go.”
I take her hands in mine. They’re warm and wet––slick, even; the top joint of her index finger has been severed.
I swallow hard, resisting the urge to vomit. “Please tell me I did that with the door.”
She rocks back and forth. “I don’t know.” Tears roll down her cheeks. They spatter on the floor with drops of blood.
~
Hair unkempt, Julie sits on the floor, rocking; her jeans dark with stains. Ropes bind her wrists and ankles to bolts lagged in the cinderblock wall.
With an X-acto knife, I slice my thumb and drip blood onto a sponge. I take the sponge to her cracked lips.
The whites of her eyes bulge like boiled eggs. As I paint her lips red, she shies away. Suddenly, I’m greeted with her amazing azure irises, the highlight of my day. For a moment she looks at me. I reach out, but stop. She’s trying to draw me in.
I’m under no illusion. If she had the chance, she’d sink her teeth into my Adam’s apple.
She licks her lips, her eyes roll upwards; the azure disappears as she looks into the top of her skull. She moans and her head lolls. Blindly, she snatches at air. Ropes tighten.
~
Outside, the world has fallen apart. My radio hisses static.
Inside, sinew and bindings still hold.
Time crawls, the world whispers, floorboards creak. All the while, the door thumps like an arrhythmia.
On good days, when Julie moans, I close my eyes and remember the times when such sounds came from other primal desires.
On bad days, I lean forward. Ever closer. Waiting for her hot breath to splash across my throat.
Working Man’s Burden
DAVID C. PINNT
Harold knew things were about to go cock-eyed when Betty 248 stuffed the chicken guts in her mouth.
He sat up on his stool and flicked off the Mossberg’s safety. The rest of the Z-crew, Betties and Barneys they called them in the break room, continued to work the eviscerating carousel, shoulders slumped and jumpsuits sagging, hands moving slowly but efficiently as the chicken carcasses rotated on the hooks. Grabbing the breast with the left hand, right plunging into the gut slit and a quick pull and tug, dropping the offal to the stainless steel mesh. Heart, gizzard, and liver, onto the conveyor and the rest down the trough to the waste bins. The regulators implanted in the backs of their skulls, leads burrowing into their shriveling limbic systems, winked green, a slow happy cadence to a shift boss like Harold.
But Betty 248, he’d been watching her close anyway. So new she hardly looked dead, flesh sagging just a bit on her face, deep circles under her eyes. She’d been in the line three, four days? Soon enough her skin would take on a gray, waxy sheen and eventually, despite the hosing down with chlorine each night, it would break open. Dark, dry tissue, the blood long clotted. The sores opened at the knuckles first, then the elbows. Harold knew the repetitive motion—hour after hour gutting the chickens—was just too much for the dead flesh to bear.
Harold swung off the stool and edged around the carousel to see her face. The other crew kept at their jobs, jaws slack, weight tilting from side to side, their various numbers stenciled large across their backs and small over the left breast. The chickens, gleaming white skin still oozing droplets of blood from the defeatherer, swayed on the carousel. Emaciated fingers in rubber gloves grabbed, twisted, pulled, and separated.
On the far side of the carousel Harold stooped, a ratcheting pop sounding off in his left knee. Sure as shit, Betty 248 had a crimson smear across her cheek where she’d crammed the guts into her mouth. The other Z-crew stared straight at the carcasses or worked with eyes closed, but 248’s sunken orbs rolled left and right and Harold fancied he could hear a high keening rising from her smeared lips.
He jacked a shell into the Mossberg and thumbed open his radio. “This is Harold in EVR-4… I’ve got a situation. Send a crew down.” Maybe his voice tipped her over or the chewed entrails hitting the desiccated, empty stomach, but Betty 248’s regulator failed for certain. She yanked a carcass off its hook, ripped out a mouthful of pearlescent flesh, and turned on the Barney next to her, yellowed teeth gnawing the side of his face, latex-tipped fingers raking his cheap cotton jumpsuit.
Holy shit,” Harold flicked the radio open again. “Right now! I need a crew right now!”
The Barney, 109 on his chest, shuffled sideways his regulator working fine, still trying to gut the chicken before him, as Betty 248—shrieks rising in her throat—slavered and chewed at his neck. Harold crab-walked under the carousel, keeping one eye on the Z-crew, not knowing if the fracas would overload their regulators too. His boots squelched on the wet floor, stray clumps of feathers and gobbets of meat in the treads.
Betty 248 ripped off Barney 109’s ear, shriveled gray flesh on a zombie so old. The wound lay purple black under the harsh fluorescents.
With one economical step Harold slipped behind the pair, socketed the Mossberg’s barrel at the base of the Betty’s skull, just below her regulator—now amber—and pulled the trigger. The top of Betty 248’s skull vaporized, bone, hair and brain splattering across the carousel, the Z-crew and the chickens. Her body dropped to ground, head gone from the nose up, jumpsuit collar smoldering. Barney 109 turned back to the carousel, left hand twitching for the next chicken.
Levi and two rustlers banged into the evisceration room. The rustlers held lollysticks, steel tubes six feet long, a wire loop at the far end and a shank handle at the other to pull the loop tight. Pistol-gripped Mossbergs hung over their shoulders, barrel down.
Levi took in the scene, Barney 109’s gaping head, Betty 248’s still lump on the floor, and hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. One of the rustlers slapped the red kill switch by the door, shutting down the assembly line, chickens jerked and swayed on their hooks and the Z-crew stopped, limp.
“Goddamnit Harold, you shot her? Protocol is to wait on the rustlers. We just got her last week. Five thousand dollars! She had a good six months in her. Jesus Christ!”
Harold bit back his first reply. Still cradling the Mossberg he tipped its barrel toward Barney 109’s ragged head. “Her regulator failed all the way, Levi. Look at that one. She’d taken him down, the whole bunch might’ve tripped over.” He cocked his head toward the rest of the Z-crew, now complacently shifting from foot to foot, staring at the denuded chickens. “They could have all tripped over, you know? Every one. You want that happening?” Harold felt a thick muscle swell in his neck, veins bulging out along his temples—Christ, he’d been working the evisceration room for a dozen years before this ass-wipe was hired and now here he stood riding him on protocol. “They trip over and you got two dozen rampaging around the plant, who knows what happens. I’d be dead, the rustlers you send down dead, who else? A hell of lot more than five thousand dollars I can tell you that, hell of a lot more.”
Levi opened his mouth, red flush creeping into his ears, and then seemed to think better of it. He pulled the radio from his belt. “I need status check on the regulator for F-248. Variances for the last twenty-four hours.”
While Levi waited for answer the rustlers moved closer to Harold. One held his lollystick in a two handed grip.
“Any contact?” the second asked peering at Harold’s bare arms, his neck.
“Contact? Christ no. Only contact was with the Barney there.” They continued examining him, made him open his hands, show them his knuckles. Harold felt the po
st-adrenal surge working from his body. He needed to sit down. Even one scratch, Harold knew, and the loop would be over his head, dragging him into a quarantine room, waiting for the infection to surface.
Levi’s radio crackled and he held it to his ear, nodded as if the speaker could see him “A bad regulator, dipped 15 minutes ago and went off-line.”
Harold had been in the control room before. A technician monitoring all five hundred Z-crew in the plant, watching the output from the regulators, making sure the urge, the overriding urge that moved them, stayed dampened, the creatures docile.
Harold spit between his feet, prodded at Betty 248’s flaccid corpse. “Tell you what, Levi. This’ll happen again, the company going on the cheap like this. An approved regulator won’t drop completely in 15 minutes with no stimuli. Half this crew’s up from Nogales, ain’t it? Undocumented. What’s the cost now to slip in under the CDC?”
Levi’s tongue probed at his back teeth, lips parted. His ears stayed red. “You want to watch what you’re asking there, Harold. Two, three years to pick up your pension? Wouldn’t be right for man your age to be turned out this late in the game.”
When Harold didn’t reply Levi allowed himself a small, self-satisfied smirk and clipped the radio to his belt. He beckoned the rustlers “Move this crew out and get the room sanitized. Get this mess cleaned up.” He prodded Betty 248’s corpse. “And the chickens, shit, those four are gone. Run the rest back through the baths.” Barking orders now, the flush left his face. A rich pall of cordite and the yeasty smell of the Betty’s brains hung in the air, fighting through the ever-present chlorine, through the chicken offal’s briny scent.
