by Ron Ripley
The prisoners surged forward in silence and Shane tried to hurry forward.
One of the guards stopped, turned and faced him.
"This isn't your concern," the dead man said. "We need to be avenged."
"You can't kill him," Shane said. "You've killed enough people."
The guard shrugged. "And how will you stop us?"
Another scream cut off Shane's response.
They had dragged the old man out, his arms and legs stretched. Fear was etched on the man's face, and Shane stepped forward. The guard shook his head, reached out, and Shane slashed the man, the ghost vanishing.
Even as Shane pushed forward, the prisoners began to kill the man.
Chapter 61: Edmund has a Discussion
The cold on Edmund's face was a blast of hot air compared to the hands of the dead.
Anger bubbled at the edges of his thoughts as he remembered his failure. He had sought to save himself the agony of a slow death, and to deny the dead any sort of satisfaction.
Will they expect me to be sorry? Edmund wondered. Will they demand me to beg for forgiveness?
He wouldn’t of course. And he couldn’t. Lying was impossible, and he had never, ever felt badly about the accident.
The only event he regretted, was not being able to pull the trigger fast enough when the dead had broken into the house. They had ripped the pistol out of his hands, a single shot firing as his finger broke in the trigger guard.
Edmund kept his expression impassive as they held him steady.
With slow, maddening movements they stripped his clothes off him, his skin blackening with every touch. Soon he was naked, the dead pressed close around him, and he felt sharp, hideous pinching. He shrieked until his throat was raw and felt as though it was going to burst.
One of the dead held up a piece of bloody meat, pressed between forefinger and thumb, and Edmund knew it was his own flesh.
He closed his eyes against the horror of it, but someone pried them open, finally ripping the lids off in frustration.
When hands reached into his body and broke off a rib, Edmund felt his heart stop. And while the pain continued on for a moment, he relaxed, for he knew he was finally dying.
Chapter 62: A Frenzy of Dead
Shane tightened his grip on his knuckle-dusters and looked at the dead around the shattered house. Some of them turned and focused their attention on him, the remainder were still intent upon shredding the body of the old man.
Adrenalin surged through Shane and he knew he had reached the end.
He wouldn't survive the fight, not with so many of the dead in front of him. Not with only a single piece of iron for defense, and an arm that was next to useless.
Shane grinned and took a step forward.
A prisoner came in from the right, and Shane cut him down. As the ghost vanished, the others hesitated, suddenly wary of the knuckle-dusters. Yet even as they hung back, still more turned around.
Shane was now the focus of attention.
Who really wants to live forever? Shane asked himself, and he lunged forward. Dead hands struck him, each blow painful as cold shot through his clothing and into his flesh. Shane found himself laughing, great billows of white issuing from his mouth as he attacked and defended.
The ghosts formed a circle around him as they had the old man, and for a moment, Shane wondered if he, too, would be stripped down and gutted.
The thought was obliterated by the sound of shotguns being fired.
Ghosts vaporized around him and something tore through Shane's left ear. He let out a howl of pain mixed with rage. Blood rushed down his neck from the wound, soaking into his undershirt. A ghost stepped in and Shane snarled as he thrust his hand through it.
The ghosts pressed in closer while Shane continued to fight. Again the shotguns were fired, this time towards the ghosts on either side of him.
"Shane!" Frank yelled. "Drop!"
Shane dropped into the snow, wincing at the pain in his shoulder. The shotguns roared, then another one sounded again.
"You good, Shane?" Frank asked.
"Yeah," he said. "Fantastic. Which one of you meatheads hit me?"
"Not it, Gunny" Mason said.
"Probably me," Frank said. "Still out of it."
Before Shane could answer, the dead rushed at them.
He didn't have time to get out of his sitting position, and he was forced to remain where he was. Fear gripped him as the cold of the snow and the winter air worked into his flesh.
A curious silence fell over him, and Shane heard nothing. Not even his own heartbeat. The world seemed to hesitate, as if someone had pressed pause on a movie. Each ghost moved a fraction at a time, and Shane watched the battle unfold around him.
The shotguns were silent as they fired, the only sign of their existence being the vanishing of ghosts in ones and twos and threes.
Shane forced himself back to his feet, grinding his teeth at the pain in his arm. To remain on the ground would be his death, and Shane found he wasn’t comfortable with the idea of dying on Mulberry Street.
A short, thick prisoner, looking more like a sickly toad than a poisoned dead man, delivered a blow to Shane’s injured arm, and Shane screamed. Furious, he struck the ghost with the knuckle-dusters, causing it to vanish. Even as he did so another ghost appeared, latching onto Shane’s left hand and tearing off his glove.
The sudden cold sent a fresh shiver through Shane, and he punched the iron through the ghost’s face. Shane’s stolen glove dropped to the churned snow at his feet.
A prisoner and a guard attacked, and before Shane could react, the guard had hold of his left arm, while the prisoner secured his right. The guard held up Shane’s left hand, gripping it by his coat, and a second guard arrived. This man was taller and wore captain’s bars on his collar. A sense of power emanated from the new ghost, as he whispered, “You shouldn’t have tried to interrupt us.”
Shane fought against the ghosts holding him. The dead captain reached out and took hold of Shane’s exposed left pinky finger.
The pain was immense, and Shane would have collapsed to his knees if the dead hadn’t held him up. His vision blurred and when it returned to focus, he saw the captain had let go of the pinky, that particular digit black.
“This is our place,” the captain said. “And this was our time for retribution. Your interference has robbed us of our pleasure. Do you have any idea of how I’ve had to work, to keep them all in line? To keep them all focused?”
Shane ignored the question and tried to free himself, but he couldn’t. The dead were too strong.
"Reloading!" Mason yelled.
"Damn it, so am I!" came Frank's reply as Shane continued to struggle. In horror, Shane watched as the captain reached out for Shane’s ring finger.
When the dead officer grabbed hold of it, Shane screamed. As pain tore the sound out of his voice, Shane saw a shape racing towards them. It was another ghost; a woman.
And she was running straight at the Captain. She was barefoot, and wore only pants and a bra, loose hair hanging about her shoulders. A snarl curled her upper lip, and she slammed into the dead officer. The temperature around Shane plummeted, and he blacked out.
When Shane opened his eyes, the captain and the woman were gone. The ghosts who had held Shane upright dropped him to the snow.
Shane fell to his knees and watched the dead turn to run, but they vanished instead. Frank and Mason passed by him, focused on the last few of the dead who were present. The men pushed through the snow with slow steps. Shotguns were pressed to their shoulders, and Shane could watch the muzzle-flashes. Frank continued to fire as Mason stopped and reloaded with the grace of a dancer, each movement fluid and precise.
Then Mason was firing and Frank was reloading.
And the dead were gone.
Shane could hardly think through pain as the world slammed back into full speed.
"Is that all of them?" Mason asked, his face flushed.
"I
hope so," Frank answered.
Mason offered Shane his hand and helped him to his feet.
"How you doing, Gunny?" Mason asked.
Shane held his left hand up in reply.
Mason’s eye’s widened as he whispered, “Oh hell.”
“Shane,” Frank said. “Are you in pain?”
Shane shook his head. In a hoarse voice he said, “Not too much. Mostly the ear. I can’t feel much in those two fingers.”
“Alright,” Frank began.
The sound of a car horn interrupted him, and all three of them turned to look toward the noise.
It was the Jeep. Someone was laying on the horn, and a dead guard was rushing towards them. The man slammed into Shane, throwing him backward into Mason, their heads colliding.
And even as Shane collapsed to the ground, Frank fired the shotgun, the ghost instantly vanished. Salt ripping the snow apart only inches from Shane.
“Come on, Frank!” Shane yelled.
With his head pounding, Shane rolled over onto the snow, and felt pain blossom where his left ear should have been and shook his head.
"What is it?" Frank asked. "Are you hurt again?"
"No," Shane said, groaning.
"What then?" Mason asked groggily.
"There's always one more," Shane spat. "Always one God damned more ghost."
Chapter 63: A Final Conversation
Shane sat at his kitchen table.
He had finished his cigarette and his whiskey, and he still dreaded the task which stood before him.
On the old, dark wood of the table top, standing between a pack of Lucky cigarettes and a half empty bottle of Jameson's whiskey, was a box of salt. A dark blue, rectangular piece of cardboard with the top torn off.
The current resting place of Courtney DeSantis.
She had been going mad, slowly, but surely. Shane had done some research, digging through internet pages, looking at old books. All of them had said the same thing, that sometimes ghosts lose their minds.
Something broke inside of them. Some became despondent, and could be seen moaning their fate.
Others, like Courtney, became violent.
And from what Shane had read, there was no salvation for them. No way to talk to them and bring them back from the edge of the precipice of insanity.
Courtney would become worse, and there was nothing Shane could do about it. She would lash out, attacking. At some point, she might even kill.
Shane sighed and shook his head.
Part of him wanted to take the coward's way out, to stuff her into a lead box and hide her away. Perhaps take her out years hence when he had worked up enough courage to do so.
But he wasn't one to put things off, as his many scars reminded him.
Shane reached up, touched the bandage over the remnants of his left ear, and felt a small, bitter smile slide across his face. His left hand was heavily bandaged as well, the pinky and ring fingers having been amputated due to terrible frostbite inflicted by the dead captain.
No, you never put things off, do you. He sighed, contemplated another cigarette, and, realizing it was another way to delay the inevitable, pushed the thought down.
Shane pulled the box close to him, shoved his hand into it and searched for the chain of his dog tags amongst the grains of salt. He found it quickly, and as soon as he pulled them free, Courtney appeared in the kitchen.
The temperature plummeted and the lights flickered.
She solidified as the bulbs dimmed and stayed low.
Courtney glanced around the kitchen.
"When did we get home?" she demanded.
"This morning."
"How long was I in there?" she asked, a harsh, dangerous tone in a once pleasant voice.
"Three days," Shane answered.
"You left me in there for three days?" she snapped.
He nodded.
"Why?!"
Shane sighed. "You attacked me."
Courtney glared at him. "Who's Emma?"
"The girl who you helped to rescue," Shane said.
"I should have told you they were all dead," Courtney hissed. "Should have left her there to be butchered. You shouldn't have spoken with her."
"Courtney–" Shane said.
"No," she cut him off, her voice shaking. "I'm dead because of you. Your friends want you with a living woman. Not a dead one. I'll kill them, too. But I'll kill Frank slow. It's his fault. All of it. Every last bit of it. And your fault, too. I'm going to hurt you, Shane Ryan. And when I'm done hurting you, you're going to be with me."
His shoulders sagged.
"Courtney," he whispered.
She took a step forward, the temperature in the room plummeting. Several of the lights flickered out.
"Courtney," Shane begged. "Please."
Courtney moved closer, and tears stung Shane's eyes. He dropped his chin to his chest, and said in German, "Now, my friend."
Screams of rage echoed off of the kitchen's walls as the rest of Shane's dead friends raced into the room. Carl and Eloise, Thaddeus and the dark ones. The sounds were horrific, the cold so terrible that it set Shane's teeth to chattering.
Courtney’s screams changed into high-pitched wails, and Shane looked up, blinking away the tears.
Carl and Thaddeus had her, gripping her arms holding her up as she sagged between them, her head bowed. Eloise and the dark ones waited at the open pantry door. Beyond it was darkness, the shadow too deep to be natural. It was then that Shane knew they had opened the trap door into the root cellar.
Courtney lifted her head, locked her eyes onto him, eyes filled with rage, fear, and sadness.
“Shane,” she moaned, his name sounding like a curse as it left her lips.
Shane sobbed and squeezed his eyes closed.
Courtney let out a long wail, but it was silenced as the first door to the pantry, and then to the root cellar, were slammed shut.
The light strengthened and Shane opened his eyes.
Carl stood alone in the room. The others, Shane knew, had taken Courtney deep into the house. She would be in the walls, bound and kept from him, kept in some secret place only the dead knew of. A prison for the woman who had gone mad, and who loved him beyond death.
Carl looked at Shane sympathetically.
"Is there anything else I can do for you, my friend?" Carl asked in German.
Shane nodded as he reached out and grabbed hold of the whiskey bottle.
"What is it?" Carl asked.
"Don't ever tell me where you've hidden her," Shane whispered. He removed the bottle's cap, and didn't bother with a glass.
* * *
Bonus Scene Chapter 1: Kurkow Prison, April, 1982
Ronnie Ducharme stumbled out of the back of the French Canadian Club. The noise of the bar was cut off with the closing of the door, but the absence of sound didn't help his headache.
Never should have had that damned tequila, he thought, wincing. Ronnie dragged a hand along the brick siding of the bar, not only to guide himself in the dim light of the alley, but to make sure he didn't fall down, too. Thirteen rough and painful steps brought him to the back parking lot. A full moon hung fat in the sky, the stars bright, a reminder of how cold the next day was supposed to be.
Ronnie took a deep breath and the knot in his stomach relaxed. The tequila and the mess someone had left in the bathroom had threatened to overwhelm his gag reflex, forcing him to go outside. Because if he threw up in the club, Henri would ban him for a week.
A week at the house with Betty, he thought, or a week of doing overtime until she goes to the diner for the late shift.
Ronnie shook his head. Neither one of the thoughts were pleasing.
So he stood in the back lot, looking out at the dark, hideous blot that was Kurkow Prison. The building dragged his eyes to it and seemed to pull the starlight down from the heavens.
Everything about the place was miserable, and Ronnie couldn't understand why the state hadn't ripped it down after the accide
nt.
Or why they didn't even tell anybody about the accident, he thought. Ronnie took out a cigarette, lit it and coughed out the smoke.
"God," he muttered, spitting onto the ground. Ronnie stuffed his free hand into his pocket, suddenly cold. Movement caught his eye and he squinted. From where he stood, Ronnie could see the pair of doors that led into Kurkow.
They were open.
"I want a drink," a voice said from behind Ronnie.
He twisted around and saw a shape in the alley.
"What?" Ronnie snapped.
"A drink," the man said, his voice thick with a Canadian accent. "You know. Some whiskey. Something. Anything."
"Then go and get it," Ronnie snapped. "What the hell are you bothering me for?"
"Get me a drink," the man snarled, stepping forward. "I don't want any of your lip. Go get me a God damned drink!"
Ronnie stepped back, his cigarette falling from his lips. Sparks jumped up as the butt struck the pavement. He tried to talk, raising his hands in front of him. But his voice wouldn't work. Fear caused his throat to tighten, and it was an effort to force air into his lungs.
The man in front of Ronnie was dead. Nothing more than a hint, as if the image of a man had been burned into Ronnie's eyes.
Ronnie tried to move away, but his legs failed him. He couldn't breathe. He was having an asthma attack.
And his inhaler was at home.
"Get up!" the ghost shrieked, stalking forward. He grabbed hold of Ronnie by the neck, and the man's touch was cold and excruciatingly painful.
Ronnie's vision clouded over, and the last image he had was of the dead man's bloated face in front of his own.
Bonus Scene Chapter 2: Nothing He Wanted to See
Edmund Dumas had left the French Canadian Club a few minutes after Ronnie Ducharme. He had been getting ready to leave when Ronnie had exited the club, and thus had been forced to wait. It wasn’t that Edmund disliked Ronnie. In all honesty, Edmund didn’t like or dislike anyone.
Edmund only despised conversations, and Ronnie was a chatterbox. Especially when he was drinking. Leaving the club when Ronnie did was a sure way to suffer through an exchange of mundane and mind-numbing pleasantries.
