by Rob DeBorde
“I’m tired. Think I’ll have a rest ’fore supper.”
The twins parted to give their grandfather room to climb the stairs. Once they heard his bedroom door close and lock, both turned back to their parents.
“Are we eatin’ supper again?”
“No, Kick,” Kate said. “Your grandfather … he forgot.”
“He couldn’t remember at his house, either,” Maddie said. “About the digging, I mean.”
Kick nodded. “But he said it was a good idea at the time.”
“He was making fun,” Maddie added.
“About crackin’ open a coffin?”
“No, about it being a good idea.”
“Oh,” Kick said. “Then why was he diggin’ ’em up?”
Kate was surprised not by how much the kids knew but that they had information she did not.
“I’m not sure he knows what he was doing,” she said. “Sometimes when people get old they become forgetful, do funny things.”
“Like diggin’ in graveyards,” said Kick.
“Yes, like that.”
“You talked to him about this,” Joseph asked. “And he made a joke?”
Both kids nodded.
Joseph turned to Kate. He didn’t say a word but knew they were thinking the same thing—if he can joke about it, he can get past it. It was something.
Maddie broke the silence. “Why would someone pretend to be the Hanged Man? I thought everyone was glad he was dead.”
“It was part of a show, honey. Like a play that’s supposed to give people a scare and then they can laugh about it.”
“But the mayor said he shot people.”
“That wasn’t part of the show,” Joseph said. “But the same theory applies. This villain, whoever he was, wanted to get folks running for cover while his partners committed a crime. Fear is a powerful motivator, especially when it’s armed.”
Maddie thought this over but let Kick ask the next question.
“If this fella’s a fake, how come you’re scared?”
Joseph blinked. Was it that obvious?
* * *
Later that evening, outside under the stars that had become so common that spring, Joseph told Kate the rest.
“I think I know why your father was digging in the cemetery.”
Kate tensed up just a little. “You don’t think he was trying to bury the gun?”
“He was looking for the Hanged Man.”
Kate stared at her husband and then turned away to face the city lit up beneath the house. The night air was cooler than it had been in weeks, the warm wind replaced by a brisk but not unpleasant breeze. The weatherman was right: it would rain soon. At least one thing was returning to normal.
“They burned the body, Joseph. You know they did.”
“Do I? I didn’t see the fire. I wasn’t exactly lucid, as you recall. And you heard your father. The marshal may have actually remembered something tonight.”
“You’re basing this on Dad’s memory?”
“Not entirely. Do you remember Walter Peterson?”
Kate shook her head.
“We met him last October at your father’s place in Astoria. He was walking up the hill on his way to work.”
“The caretaker, sure. What about him?”
“He was one of those attacked last night.”
Kate rolled her eyes. “By a walking dead man, I suppose.”
“By the Hanged Man, or whoever’s pretending to be him,” he added quickly. “This man shot Walter while he was trying to flee, shot him in the cemetery.”
Kate folded her arms over her chest. “You got this from the mayor?”
“I contacted Deputy Barker in Astoria this afternoon. He relayed the information.”
“Why didn’t you mention this earlier?”
“I wanted to hear what the marshal had to say before I spoke to anyone else.”
Kate understood without being told. “You’re going to Astoria.”
Joseph held on to his answer for a beat, giving Kate time to accept it.
“I think it’s best we have a firsthand account, don’t you?”
Kate frowned. “I don’t know what you think you’re going to find.”
“Answers, hopefully. From those responsible. They’ve already got two men in custody.”
“Who?”
“Locals. One of them is the deputy’s brother.”
“That’s surprising.”
“Yes,” Joseph said, nodding. “Especially since he died over a year ago.”
21
The zombie lunged against the bars, arms outstretched in a futile effort to grasp a prize just out of reach. Only the left arm came close; the right swung freely, no longer anatomically sound. Had the creature been alive, the pain would have been excruciating. The zombie felt nothing. The only pain it knew—the only thing—was hunger.
Joseph approached the jail cell, close enough for the creature’s bony fingers to brush against his jacket.
“Careful,” said Deputy Collins. “Thing’s stronger than it looks.”
All three deputies—the tall and lanky Collins, an older veteran named Kendle, and Barker, a quiet, dark-haired man whom Joseph had first talked to—stood well back from the cell. They had no desire to be close to their prisoner but were eager to know exactly what it was they’d captured.
Deputy Collins took a tentative step forward. The creature rolled its head in the deputy’s direction but seemed to regard the skinny man as not worth the effort.
“We wrenched this one’s shoulder pretty good, but it don’t seem to mind.”
Joseph noted what appeared to be a broken collarbone pushing up against the dead man’s jacket at the left shoulder. There were also several small holes in the fabric, two in the chest and one in the right side of the abdomen. Given the dirty but otherwise reasonable condition of the suit, Joseph guessed these were bullet holes.
“You shot him?”
Collins nodded. “Three times.”
“For all the good it did,” mumbled Kendle.
Joseph studied the zombie’s face. It was pale and sunken, the skin stretched taut against the skull. The lips had pulled back, making every dry lick of the tongue clearly visible inside a mouth missing half its teeth. The eyes, impossibly black, stared lifelessly ahead between brittle lids that would never blink again. A shock of black hair fell across the left side of the creature’s forehead, offsetting its starboard droop.
Joseph waited for the zombie’s attention to drift elsewhere and then snatched its outstretched arm at the wrist. No pulse. Curious, he reached forward with his other hand, stopping a few inches from the creature’s mouth. The zombie snapped at his fingers but couldn’t push far enough through the bars to gain satisfaction. It did, however, break free of Joseph’s grip, and would have grabbed him around the collar had he not backed away.
“Told you it was strong,” said Collins.
The zombie issued a low moan that lingered in the back of the sherriff’s office. A weaker, thinner wail came from the floor of a neighboring cell, where a second male corpse lay mostly still on the floor. Only its jaw moved, slowly opening and closing.
“That one you can get close to,” Collins said. “Ain’t moved since we dumped it in there this morning. Just keeps flappin’ its gums, what’s left of ’em, anyway.”
“How many others were there?”
“Four we know of,” said Kendle. “All dead, we think. They ain’t movin’ at least.”
Joseph returned his attention to the standing corpse as it slammed against the bars with surprising speed.
“They’re fast when they wanna be,” said Collins. “Pretty slow most other times, but they’ll fool ya.”
“Is he alive?”
The question came from the third deputy, the one named Barker. Of the three, only his face registered anything other than sickening curiosity.
“Your brother?” Joseph said, pointing to the livelier of the two zombies.
The deputy nodded. “James. Died last June. Thought he did.”
Joseph heard the sadness in the deputy’s words and told him what he hoped very much to be true.
“I don’t believe this creature is a relation, Deputy, not anymore.”
Deputy Barker took a step toward the cell. The zombie regarded him with modest interest before returning its attention to Joseph.
“That’s not James?”
“I don’t think so,” Joseph said. “There’s no heartbeat, no breath intake, no recognition in its eyes. By any scientific measure this creature is dead.”
“Can it see me?”
“I suppose it can. But I doubt very much it knows you.”
“That is correct, Mr. Wylde.”
Joseph recognized the newcomer’s presence all at once, his senses all but telling him the man had materialized in the jailhouse out of thin air. It was a sensation he was not entirely unfamiliar with, given Kate’s abilities, but Joseph had never encountered another so skilled at camouflage. He turned to face the man, bringing his impressive size and African features into focus.
The deputies were equally surprised, each reaching for his pistol as they turned.
“Whoa, mister,” Collins said, his weapon in hand. “Who the hell might you be?”
Andre smiled, disarming the deputy instantly.
“My name is Andre Labeau, gentlemen. I believe I am expected.”
Collins lowered his gun. “You the fella up from Tillamook?”
“I am,” Andre said, moving forward to take a closer look at the creature behind bars. “And it does appear you could use my help.”
“Boy, we sure could, Mr. Labeau,” Collins said, holstering his weapon. The other deputies offered appreciative nods, although Barker held on to his weapon. “I figure with you and Mr. Wylde here, we ought to be okay.”
Andre turned his attention to Joseph, but not for the first time. He’d been studying him since making his presence known, Joseph was sure of it. There was energy about the big man unlike anything he’d ever encountered, and yet he seemed familiar. For Joseph, such a man would be hard to forget.
“Have we met, Mr. Labeau?”
“I do not believe so,” Andre said, extending his hand. “I do know your father-in-law.”
Joseph shook Andre’s hand and was shocked by the strength of the man’s heart: it beat loud enough that he should have heard it thumping from across the room.
Andre smiled. “I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Wylde.”
“And I you, Mr. Labeau.”
Andre held Joseph’s gaze for a moment longer and then turned back to the prisoner.
“And you are correct. This creature is not the deputy’s brother, but rather a soulless biological reanimation. I can tell you it knows nothing of itself or its family. It knows only an insatiable hunger.”
“That we noticed,” said Collins. “This one tried to bite the sheriff and me both.”
Andre furrowed his brow. “Did it draw blood?”
The deputy lifted up his boot to show off a jagged tear near the toe. “Ruined my boots, but never laid a tooth on me. Took a chunk out of the sheriff, though.”
Joseph noticed Andre’s attention flit briefly to a place where there was no one to receive it—only there was.
“Where can we find him, Deputy?” Naira asked.
Joseph had not felt the young woman’s presence at all—and could still not, save for her disembodied voice. He was stunned.
“The sheriff? He went to the doc’s to get patched up,” Collins said. “Think he was gonna check on some other folks was hurt after that.”
Andre shook his head. “We need to see him as soon as possible.”
“Why?” Joseph asked, still reeling from the young Native woman’s appearance. She was Indian, he was sure of that. “What’s going to happen to him?”
“If he has been bitten by the infected—” was all Andre managed before the gunshot rang out.
A single bullet fired from Deputy Barker’s gun pierced the chest of the zombie he’d once called brother. The creature stumbled backward but did not fall. A moment later, it lurched forward, reaching through the bars toward the deputy.
“Dammit!” yelped Collins, trying to make himself heard over the ringing in his ears. “What the hell are you doing, Barker?”
“I can’t look it no more. I can’t.” The deputy brought his gun up again, but Andre stayed his hand.
“You need to destroy the brain. Or what remains of it. That is the only thing that will return this body to rest.”
Deputy Barker raised his pistol three inches and fired again, striking the creature squarely in the forehead. The zombie flinched once and then crumpled to the ground. The deputy moved to the neighboring cell and dispatched the second zombie without hesitation. When he spoke again, the sadness was gone from his voice.
“You said you needed the sheriff?”
“Yes,” said Andre. “Right away.”
“You think he’ll get sick,” Joseph said.
“He ain’t sick,” Collins said. “Just a scratch. He’ll be fine.”
“No,” Andre said. “He will not.”
* * *
Sheriff Al Buellton had been shot twice while on the job, once thirteen years earlier and again five years later. In both instances, he’d come close to dying but managed to pull through. He felt he knew what constituted life-threatening; and no matter how he looked at it, the small gouge on his left calf hardly seemed a mortal wound.
“You’re telling me I’m going to turn into one of them,” Buellton said, making no effort to mask his disbelief. “I’m gonna die, come back to life, and then start bitin’ folks.”
Andre nodded. “Yes, within the week.”
The sheriff chuckled to himself. “I’ll turn into one o’ them freaks we got locked up in back, just like that,” he said, snapping his fingers.
“Not like that,” Andre said. “First, you will feel a tingle in your leg, a minor itch. Best to ignore it, but by tonight that itch will be a fire raging up and down your leg, and you will scratch—just enough to tamp down the worst of it. You will continue to tell yourself this, even after fingernails scrape against bone. Assuming you do not bleed out, you will start to feel better, much better. Warmth will fill your belly, and for a while you will know nothing else. This is because your guts have begun to rot. Soon the pain will come, but not death, not yet. If you are right enough in the head to put a bullet in it, consider yourself lucky. If not, then you will come to know the hunger for human flesh before you die. I am told it is unpleasant.”
Andre’s words had the desired effect on the deputies as all three began checking themselves for wounds they may have missed. Joseph felt their power, although he was too busy trying to focus on the man’s young companion to look for bite marks.
“That’s a pretty good story,” the sheriff said.
“But you do not believe it,” Andre said.
“Well, sir, I find myself wanting to hear the rest of it.”
Andre was surprised. He’d imbued a hint of his will in the telling, enough to make most men, even those he didn’t maintain eye contact with, fall in line. The deputy’s reactions were proof of that. He expected Joseph to be immune, but the sheriff had resisted, as well, which Andre found curious.
“Where would you like me to begin?”
“Tillamook,” said Joseph.
“That sounds about right,” the sheriff concurred.
“I see. You think I had something to do with that?”
“I think when my deputy tells me I gotta meet some important fella just up from the scene of a massacre, right after we have our own troubles … well, I think maybe I need to know more about this man.”
“Perhaps you need to hear from a different voice,” Naira began. Andre cut her off with a look. They would play the sheriff straight. Naira didn’t like it, but she kept her words (and gaze) to herself.
“I am tracking a man,” Andre said. “Two men, a
ctually, but only one is dangerous.” It was a lie, but Andre had no intention of explaining how a book he’d lost twenty years ago made Henry much more dangerous than the Hanged Man. “Both were in Tillamook last Friday night and I am certain they came here directly after.”
“We did have us a pair of unexpected visitors last night. Caused a ruckus up at the boneyard ’fore this other ruckus happened. I’m thinkin’ they may be connected.”
“A safe assumption,” Andre said. “Did anyone witness this, um, ruckus?”
“Caretaker,” said Collins. “Recognized one of ’em as a local went missing last week.”
“Henry Macke,” Andre said without hesitation.
“Yup,” said the sheriff. “Now, you mind telling me who he was riding with, ’cause I’m having a hard time reconciling that part of the story.”
Andre considered his words carefully before asking, “How long have you been in Astoria, Sheriff?”
“Long enough.”
“And you find it difficult to believe the man you seek may in fact be the Hanged Man of legend.”
Joseph had thus far avoided bringing up the dead man’s name. He’d been afraid to after seeing the creatures behind bars, afraid what the truth might bring. He was not the only one.
“We killed that son of a bitch years ago,” said the sheriff. “Got us a sign up on Main Street to commemorate it. And I seem to recall his body being burned.”
“It was not,” Andre said. “As I believe Mr. Wylde’s father-in-law will confirm.”
The look on the sheriff’s face changed. Gone was the defiance, replaced by a dawning realization that some of the things he’d been led to believe might not be true.
“He’s gone,” the sheriff said.
Andre looked at Joseph. “Gone where?”
“To Portland. He lives with us now.”
Andre connected that piece of information to those he already knew.
“He left recently?”
Joseph nodded. “Last week. There was an incident in the local cemetery. He took a shovel to a few of the plots. Said he was trying to find something, but when I asked him what, he couldn’t remember.”
