A Host of Shadows

by Harry Shannon

  Wells resumed his first position, firing madly to keep up with the ground he had lost.

  “There are still more coming,” said Bowen, peering out his little cell window. His voice was high and tight with panic.

  “We aren’t going to make it, are we?” Stillman looked ready to piss in his pants. A crashing sound erupted from Sheriff Miller’s office area. “What the fuck was that?”

  Miller didn’t know if she should keep firing through the window or shift to deal with the new threat. Torn, the Sheriff tried to keep her eye on the window and her office simultaneously. “Fuck a duck!” she mumbled under her breath.

  Suddenly the door to Miller’s office burst open. A zombie in full football gear emerged through the door, cleats clacking on the tile. The foul smell of decomposition flooded the room. Wells swung around and blasted at it, but only took off one shoulder pad. The shot came close enough to Stillman to cause him to jump. He was still handcuffed to the chair, and went over backwards. The zombie wore the number twelve and looked like a quarterback. It turned to Stillman. It was just shy of two yards away and moving closer. It fell on Stillman, biting off large chunks of the small man’s face. Stillman shrieked like a girl. Blood spouted and pooled around him.

  Miller struggled to get a clean shot. Before she could fire, Wells made his own decision. He shot the quarterback, exploding his helmet and shearing off the top of the boy’s head. Sadly, half of Stillman’s face vanished as well.

  Stillman lay still, mouth gaping wide. Blood pooled red around him.

  “Needles!” Bowen stood at the cell door, gripping the bars. “Wells, you miserable fuck. You killed him.”

  Wells shrugged. “Sucker was toast anyway.”

  Another zombie in a filthy business suit emerged from the office. Miller fired, hitting the thing in the right arm to no effect. She shot it through the face and it dropped like something made of sticks and rags.

  “Fall back!” Miller grabbed a box of ammo as she retreated. Wells scooped up two boxes of shells and followed the sheriff.

  Miller dashed into the old cinderblock jailhouse, motioned Wells in and closed the door after him. She turned the key in the lock, and stepped back from the barred door. “At least that will keep them out for a while.”

  “A while?” Bowen’s voice cracked. “That’s your master plan?”

  Miller turned to confront Bowen, but she was cut off by a blast from Wells’ shotgun. The new zombie went down, but several of the shot ricocheted off the iron bars, some fragments narrowly missing Miller’s head.

  “Knock that shit off,” Miller said. “They can’t get in here. And, yes, that’s my plan. Find a way to stay alive.”

  “How are we supposed to get out?” whined Bowen. He seemed afraid, alone in his own little cell.

  “Why don’t you shut the fuck up and let the lady think?” Wells raised his shotgun to his hip, aimed at Bowen.

  Miller put her hand on the warm barrel. She shoved it down, hard. “Bob, we’ve got enough to worry about as it is. Besides, he’s my responsibility.”

  “Give me two reasons not to blow his ass to hamburger,” snapped Wells, jerking the weapon out of her grasp.

  Miller ignored Wells’ insubordination. A gore-splattered housewife was reaching through the jailhouse door. The moaning of the creatures outside the jailhouse door was constant and piteous, impossibly loud. Wells drew his sidearm and shot one, two, three times. They fell, piling in front of the barred door. Others tugged them aside and struggled to get in. The entrance was blocked for the time being. Those outside began to eat at the ones in the way. The beasts turned upon one another, biting and clawing.

  She stood between Wells and the temporarily blocked door. “Listen up. We’re in deep shit. The rest of the guns and nearly all of the ammo are out there with them,” she said. “We have no food in here—it’s all in the galley. No one knows we’re here. That means we’re on our own. If we’re going to get through this, I can’t have you two at each other’s throats. We need to work together.”

  Miller stepped up to the cell door where Bowen waited. She hesitated, reading his eyes, and then unlocked the door.

  “Wait!” Deputy Wells put his hand on Miller’s. He had a look of real terror on his face. “You ain’t actually gonna trust that scum-sucking bastard, are you?”

  “I don’t see we have any choice,” she replied. She turned the key in the lock, swung the door open. It squealed. “Come on out.”

  Bowen stepped forward, bloody from the cut on his head. He smiled for the first time. Seeing that grin, Wells brought his shotgun up to his shoulder, aiming at Bowen’s head. Bowen stopped short and looked at the sheriff.

  “Bob,” she said quietly, “until this shit storm is all over, he’s with us. Got it?”

  Wells glared at Miller. He could see that she meant it. He lowered the shotgun.

  “Scratch,” she said, using the prisoner’s gang name, “don’t make me regret this.” Miller unbuckled her gun belt and handed it over to Bowen. Disgusted, Wells turned away and spat on the floor.

  “Thank you, Sheriff. That’s mighty decent of you.” Bowen buckled the belt around his hips like an old-style gunslinger. He quietly drew the handgun. Expertly, Bowen pulled the slide halfway back to make certain it was loaded. In one smooth movement, he raised the pistol and fired. Wells’ face collapsed into itself. His thick neck gushed; the lifeless body dropped heavily to the floor.

  Instantly, Miller and Bowen both raised their weapons. They aimed at each other. Mexican standoff. The mob of creatures outside kept trying to push and shove their way into the jail.

  “Drop it,” said Miller from the other end of her rifle. She was stunned to see her hands were still not trembling. They stared at one another in silence. On the floor, what was left of Wells farted noisily.

  “Sorry, Sheriff,” said Bowen. He grinned. “That prick has been looking for a way to get shot since he cracked my skull. I was just, you know, helping out.”

  “You’re still my prisoner, Scratch. Put down your weapon!”

  “What, so you can lock me in that cell again to get eaten alive by them things?” He gestured toward the door behind her. “You saw what that son of a bitch did to Needles a minute ago. He flat out had that coming. Like you said, we got to work together. Now come on, they’ll be on us again soon enough.”

  Miller applied a small amount of pressure to the trigger. The Remington seemed to vibrate. She was about to fire when she saw a hulking creature appear behind Bowen. Miller rapidly shifted her aim and shot the tall, thin zombie just before it bit down on Bowen’s neck. It flew backwards.

  Bowen’s gun discharged. His shot was a half second behind hers. Miller found herself spinning; a pain in her left shoulder that bordered on unbearable. She went down hard, hitting the tiles. Her small body slid through slimy gore and entrails. She ended up several feet away, face down. She passed out.

  Miller woke up to a buzzing sound. Her right eye wouldn’t open; it was crusted shut and covered with blood. Her left shoulder hurt like blazes. Someone was talking to her, but she couldn’t understand—the shooting had damaged her ears. She could feel pressure on her shoulder. She looked up to see Bowen kneeling over her.

  “You awake, Sheriff?” she heard Bowen saying from a distance. “You’re one tough bitch, I’ll tell you that.”

  “What happened?” she managed. Her voice sounded far away.

  “We made it,” he announced. “I shored up the hole in the wall with some of the lumber, pumped a few rounds into some of those miserable fucks, and then they just kinda went away. Thought you died a couple of times, but sure as shit, you made it.”

  He finished tying the bandage around her arm, stood, and picked up a shotgun.

  “Now here’s the way this is going to work. I’m gonna get you outside, into your truck, and put the keys in your hand. Then I’m gonna hop on my ride and get the ever-lovin’ fuck out of here. After that, you’re on your own. Deal?”

  “
You killed Wells,” she protested, without much conviction.

  “Come on, Sheriff. Let’s let bygones be bygones. He had it coming and you know it. Besides, what are you gonna do, arrest me?” He held the shotgun casually, and smiled.

  “I saved your life.”

  “Yes you did, much obliged. So now I’m gonna save yours, and we’ll be even.” He hefted her off the floor. “God, you are a sight, Sheriff. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you was one of them zombies.” Bowen slung a shotgun over his shoulder and carried her past the decomposing bodies. It was early morning outside. They went out the back door.

  The dead lay everywhere. Wells had a hell of an aim, that was sure, because hardly one had its head anymore. The stench was unbearable, but Miller was too weak to vomit. The first hint of the sun peaked out over pines to the east, bringing a bone-chilling wind. She felt cold, colder than she’d ever been before. It was the loss of blood, she knew it, but she couldn’t do much of anything about it. Miller shivered.

  Bowen opened the door to her cruiser, a worn brown-and-white Ford Blazer, and shoved Miller inside. He got her feet and hands situated on the pedals and wheel, took the keys from her gun belt. He inserted them into the ignition, started it up.

  “There, I done what I promised. Good luck, and thanks for saving my ass.”

  “Scratch,” she began, “I could die without your help.”

  “Oh, quit bitchin’, Sheriff.”

  He closed the door with a slam, strolled over to his impounded Harley. Her ears were still ringing. She watched Bowen through the windshield as he stepped on the starter, saw him gun the engine and shake a bit when it roared into life. A hulking zombie came out of nowhere. It jumped up behind Bowen, kind of like it was going for a joy ride, and then chomped down on his neck. Bowen’s eyes popped open, all funny and wide. Blood sprayed his face. The motorcycle went over sideways, taking Bowen and the huge zombie with it. His boots kicked. The motor kept roaring. She couldn’t hear if he screamed.

  Moments later the zombie reappeared. It looked up at her, Bowen’s blood dripping from yellow, broken teeth. It rose up, lumbered towards her. Miller had a moment of clarity. Her adrenaline kicked in. She let her hand fall on the gearshift, slammed it into drive. The Blazer surged forward. The zombie didn’t flinch. It went ‘thump thump’ as she drove clean over it.

  Swerving like a drunken teen on prom night, she made her way roughly out onto the open highway. Sheriff Miller didn’t know what she would find out there in what was left of the world, but she knew that she had a job to do.

  And no fucking zombies were gonna stand in her way.

  All the Dead Lie Down

  The large Hollywood motor home/trailer squatted incongruously in a ragged patch of shade, wedged right between the red-streaked thighs of a long crack in the hardpan. This was in a remote part of a destitute county that tiptoed between Texas and Mexico. It was the perfect spot to do a quick rewrite of a western movie; a timeless, shimmering country freckled with scrub brush and gopher holes, ground parched and panting. The huge vehicle itself, on loan from the production company, wasn’t half bad either. Maggie had a DVD player, a Nintendo, books and some video games. And for Pete Collier, power for his laptop, a reliable air conditioning unit, and a comfortable bed with down pillows. They’d only planned on staying a few days, a week tops. Still, Maggie had just turned ten. She got bored easily. Normally, Pete would not have dragged her along at all, but…

  Pete stopped typing as something like a breeze moved along the back of his neck and stroked a few hairs erect. He heard an eerie sound, something pressured and tiny, the amplified scream of a field mouse. His stomach flipped over. He spun around in the office chair.

  Maggie, mute since the death of her mother in their car wreck a few months before, was standing slack-jawed and weak-kneed in the evening heat, pointing at the bookshelf. Poor little angel. She’d been struggling to scream.

  “Sweetie, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  Pete rushed to her side, his tired eyes searching the trailer. Maggie held on like a drowning child, little chest heaving. Pete felt tears moisten his shirt. Then he saw what had shocked her and sighed. He knelt down, brushed her blonde hair aside, felt the mournful gaze searching for answers.

  “We talked about this, Maggie. He was old for a goldfish, you know?” Archie had been swimming upside down in the bowl for a couple of days. He’d had time to prepare Maggie. But still, with the death of her mother so fresh in her mind…

  Just like you to do this, Gwen,

  Pete thought. So I cheated a time or two, who doesn’t? But then you dump me for some no-talent TV director who’s rude to my kid, move to San Diego so I hardly know her anymore, rip me off for a fortune then let the asshole drive drunk on a rainy night. How much did she see of what happened? Did you bleed out in front of her? Did the poor baby have to watch his brains splatter on the windshield? Or did she just wake up in the backseat afterwards, and maybe catch it all under the emergency lights as they pried her squashed family out?

  Fuck you, Gwen. I hope you’re burning in hell.

  “Do you want to bury him?” Someone else’s voice from another dimension. Pete stuffed his ongoing rage into a mental dumpster. “Just like we planned?”

  Maggie nodded. Pete kissed her forehead. He covered the fish bowl with his body, scooped the tiny fish out of the water and dropped it into a waiting sandwich bag.

  “Come on.”

  Outside, the sunset was fading, steadily crumbling into darker colors like a widening bruise. Greedy desert air sucked the moisture out of their clothing. Pete grabbed the flashlight and shovel and led Maggie a few yards into the gloom, where they’d already marked the spot with a bouquet of sage flowers. Maybe this will give her a bit of closure. If we do this thing right, perhaps she’ll come back into this world for a while, at least begin to speak… Her perpetually wounded presence had grown devastating to him, a brute silence that caused clocks to thump forward like slow blows to a body bag. One gasp could morph into the wail of a tormented prisoner. Please talk to me, Maggie. Say “Daddy” just one more time. Save me…

  “You hold the flashlight,” Pete said.

  Maggie obediently stepped back, leaving her father, the bagged goldfish and the small shovel trapped in a frail, wavering beam. Further away, the night slammed down hard, like the lid of a coffin. Pete dug, tossed a bit of dirt, dug deeper. “Think nice things, sweetie,” he said. “Think about your goldfish going to be with Mommy and Uncle Jack in heaven.”

  He scooped, tossed. Scooped and tossed. But then the shovel clanked a bit, slid to the right, and after brief resistance crunched through something. Pete’s skin writhed. He knew this had turned bad, could sense that even before the sickly sweet odor assailed his nostrils. An insect distracted Maggie. She looked down and away. The beam of her flashlight crawled across the ground to reveal the face and shallow grave of a young woman with Latino features. Her eyes were open, lips parted slightly, mouth still dripping dirt. Reflected moonlight glinted from a cheap cross still dangling from her mottled neck.

  Pete jumped back. He quickly angled his body so that Maggie’s view was obstructed, stuffed the baggie and fish into the dry brush and tamped the earth back into place.

  He mumbled a simple prayer.

  “Let’s go back inside.”

  ««—»»

  Later, something nocturnal screeched high up in the rocks. Hazy stars speckled black velvet sky. Moonlight bore down, but was beaten back by harsh electric lights. The tall, slender Sheriff chewed on his wet cigar butt. His face had skin tight as saddle leather. He shrugged. “Don’t know what to tell you. Sorry you caught such a fright, but as you can see, we dug things up pretty good.”

  “I saw her,” Pete said. He still did. Something wet broke in his chest.

  “Well,” The Sheriff watched his men turning out the lights, rounding up the electrical cord, the tarps and sheets of clear plastic. “People see things ‘round here.”

 
; Pete hugged himself against a sudden chill. “What do you mean by that?”

  Maggie was asleep inside, having bought his cover story that this was all about his next movie. The other lawmen tore down the yellow crime scene tape, walked back to the trucks as if more than a little pissed off.

  “What do you mean, Sheriff, people see things?”

  “Just that,” the Sheriff said.

  Maybe you were right, Gwen. Maybe I have been steadily losing it.

  “Look, you believed me when I called.”

  “Sure did. You see that flat area behind you, goes off into the scrub? That fairly loose dirt? Wets get found there, from time to time.”

  “Wets?” Pete thought he’d understood, knew the history of this area and spoke a bit of Spanish. He just wanted to be sure.

  “Wetbacks coming across looking for work,” the Sheriff said. “You go a bit higher up the arroyo, you’ll find clumps of old running shoes, empty water bottles, torn clothes. If you search and dig, more than a handful of bones. Wets. Lot of ’em just die of thirst, but some get themselves murdered by coyotes. And I don’t mean the critter.”

  “No,” Pete said. “The outlaws that bring them across.”

  “Yup, those bastards. They’re called ‘coyotes,’ men that take money in exchange for a little hope. A few get ’em just about to or over the border, cut their throats or gun ’em down for the money and property. See, turns out some people just too damned lazy and dishonest to bother doin’ their jobs.”

  “Sounds pretty awful.”

  “You don’t know the half of it, mister. What it’s like to really find not one, but maybe a dirt field full of dead folks who just wanted a decent wage.” The Sheriff looked up at the merciless stars. He spat and turned to go. “Anyway, don’t surprise me at all people see a ghost ‘round here now and then.”

  The cars drove away with a spray of sand and the rattle of pebbles and stone. The little clearing fell silent.

  Pete stared into the gloom at that one patch of ground. He imagined the desperate terror of a young woman’s final moments, thought he heard a frail moan and a rattle of earth and pebbles on skin. Thought about Maggie. His miserable life. Damn I hate you, Gwen. He shivered and went back into the trailer for a strong drink.