Brian Keene (5 page)

The blast reverberated through the cellar. The slug whined by Jim. Above the shots, the other zombies clamored for him, stampeding toward the cellar. The thing that had been Mr. Thompson moved aside, allowing them to slip down the stairway.

Jim fired the Ruger again. Thompson's eyeball imploded. The hunting rifle dropped from its grasp as it fell to the floor. Howling, the undead hordes rushed forward.

Jim backed towards the basement window, aiming and shooting as he went. There were eight shots left in the clip. Eight more zombies dropped to the floor. The others paused, forming a semi-circle around him. Jim kept the Ruger pointed at them, sweeping it back and forth. He prayed they wouldn't realize it was empty.

Behind him, half-empty buckets of driveway sealant sat stacked in front of the window. He stepped up, balancing his weight on the lids, and quickly considered his next move. With an empty clip, he couldn't defend himself. If he turned to climb out the window, they would swarm him.

"Concede," rasped a zombie that had once been his 39 paperboy. "Our brothers await release from the void. Give us your flesh as our sustenance and their vehicle."

Slowly, Jim inched his hand toward his back pocket.

"What are you?"

"We are what once was and are again. We own your flesh. When your soul has departed, you belong to us. We consume you. We inhabit you!" His hand closed around the clip.

Glass exploded behind him as two arms crashed through the window. Claw-like fingers clutched his shoulders. He was yanked upward, and jagged spears of glass slashed at his arms and chest. Below him, the zombies cheered.

His attacker flung him through the air. He landed on the wet grass, tasting blood in the back of his throat.

Page 27

"Hello, Crazy-Man," Carrie teased.

"Oh God," he sobbed, fishing the clip from his pocket and slamming it into the pistol. "Honey, if you can hear me, stay back! I don't want to shoot you!"

Her voice was like leaves blowing in the wind. "Aren't you glad to see me, Jim? I've been waiting so long and I'm so very hungry. I missed you." Jim scuttled backward as she advanced on him. The tatters of her robe billowed in the night breeze.

"Get the fuck back, Carrie!"

"I'm not the only one who missed you, Jim. Somebody else wants to meet you." Beneath the thin material of the robe, something moved. Her bony fingers released the drawstring, allowing the robe to slip from her shoulders.

Jim screamed.

Carrie's abdomen was gone, eaten away from the inside. In the hollow cavity, the baby wallowed, clutching the rotting umbilical cord that still attached the two. Smiling, it waved a tiny, desiccated arm. The thing inside the infant tried to speak, but the sounds were unintelligible. Its voice was deep, guttural and old.

40 "Give your daughter a hug," Carrie squealed. The fetal zombie leapt to the ground. Wet strands of tissue fell with it. It scampered toward him, the dangling umbilical cord trailing along behind it like a leash.

"We had a girl, darling," the Carrie-thing rasped. "Aren't you happy?

She's sooooo HUNGRY!"

"Honey," he pleaded. "Don't do this. I've got to get to Danny! He's alive!"

"Not for long," Carrie taunted. "Someone is waiting to take his place. Someone is waiting to take yours as well."

The baby padded across the wet grass, panting eagerly as it drew closer.

"Da...Da...Da.."

Its mocking, guttural chant paralyzed him. Each half-formed word sounded like a belch. It tripped over the remains of the umbilical cord. Finally, it ripped the rancid tissue away from its belly and closed the
Page 28

gap between them.

Small, decomposing fingers brushed against the soles of his boot. A tiny hand gripped his ankle.

Shrieking, Jim opened fire. The shots slammed into the baby, sending it sprawling backward. Jim's cries were lost in the barrage. The infant stopped moving and still he fired.

Enraged, Carrie raced toward him, hatred etched onto her decaying face. Obscenities poured from her; a thousand promised tortures that she would bestow upon him.

Jim continued screaming.

Smoke poured from the barrel, as the gun grew hot in his hands. The tenth shot hit Carrie in the forehead, dropping her to the ground. His finger clenched and unclenched even after the gun clicked empty. His mouth was still open, but all that escaped was a low, mournful whine. Jim sprang to his feet as more of the creatures poured from the house. He slid a third clip into the Ruger and

41 opened fire again, mechanically aiming for their heads with each shot. He ran into the road, feet pounding on the blacktop.

He fled from the house, the neighborhood, his wife, his unborn daughter, and his life; and slipped into the darkness, his tears leaving a trail behind him.

His agonized screams echoed through the empty streets of Lewisburg, West Virginia, and there was no living thing left to hear them. An hour later, as he staggered along the road, fear and despair gave way to cramps. Exhausted, he tumbled down an embankment, and saw no more. He awoke in a culvert; cold, wet, and wretched-but not alone. The night was alive with the sounds of the dead. He wiped the rain from his brow and shuddered as a horrible, gibbering laugh echoed over the hills. After several minutes, it faded, but the silence left in its wake was just as awful.

He lay in the dark. Thunderheads covered the moon. He decided against lighting a match or using the flashlight out here in the open. Instead, he thumbed water from the face of his watch and squinted. Three a.m. He'd passed out on his stomach, and the muddy water running through the
Page 29

culvert had soaked his jeans and shirt. He fumbled in the dark for the pistol, and found it lying on the bank.

His pack had remained mostly dry. Cautiously, he crawled from the stream and eased it from his aching shoulders. Something rattled inside. He searched the contents, nicking his finger on a jagged piece of broken pottery.

The coffee mug, the one he'd packed as an afterthought, was shattered. The one Danny had bought him for Father's Day.

42 Jim could hear Danny's voice, full of trust and innocence-and terror. Groaning, half-nauseous, he got up. His knees popped. He froze, waiting to see if he had attracted the attention of anything hidden in the night. Cautiously, he began to crawl up to the road. Then he heard it. Distant, but unmistakable.

The growl of a Mopar, distinct and beautiful. Two headlights stabbed the darkness. Tires squealed, and the engine roared as gears were shifted.

"Oh, thank Christ," he sobbed in relief, dragging himself upright. He stepped out into the road, waving his hands above his head. "Hey! Over here!"

The car thundered down the road. The beam from the headlights speared him, bathing him with light.

He took another step.

The car accelerated, hurtling toward him.

"Fuck!"

He leaped out of the way, tumbling back into the culvert. As he jumped, he caught a glimpse of the driver and the passengers.

They were zombies.

Jim rolled to his feet, crouching in the darkness. The car screeched to a halt, the smell of burning rubber filling the air.

He clutched the pistol.

The motor hummed, idling. Then, a car door slammed, followed by another. And another.

"Did you see that?" The voice sounded like sandpaper. "Sent him flying!"
Page 30

"No you didn't!" rasped another. "You didn't even tap him."

"And you shouldn't have tried," reprimanded a third. "What use is the body if you've shattered it beyond mobility?"

"Bah. There's enough for all of our brothers. Let's have some fun with this one."

Jim crept backward, into the treeline. A skull, draped

43 in tattered flesh, peered over the ravine.

"Hey meat! Where do you think you're going?"

Two more appeared, and slowly, they began to clamber down the hill. Jim raised the pistol, fired, then turned and fled into the woods. Their catcalls echoed off the trees as he ran. Head down, he barreled his way through the clinging vines, forcing his way through the undergrowth. Branches from a deadfall clutched at him, and for one fearful moment, he thought that perhaps the dead tree had come back to life as well. Then the branch snapped, and he sprang free. As he made his way deeper into the forest, the sounds of pursuit faded. Pausing for breath, Jim leaned against an oak and listened intently. The forest was quiet. No bird sang, no insect buzzed. There was nothing, not even the wind.

Mind reeling, he tried to figure out what to do next. They could talk, shoot guns, drive fucking cars! Was there anything they weren't capable of?

He thought back to the zombie movies he had watched through the years. In the movies, the things weren't smart. They just shambled around-vacant, thoughtless eating machines. In the movies, the zombies didn't shoot back. The only similarity he could find between the movies and real life was that they were slow, and they ate living flesh. Their lack of speed was an obvious advantage. All he had to do was stay ahead of them. But what they lacked in quick mobility, the made up for in their cunning. They were intelligent. They could plan and calculate. Outrunning them wouldn't be enough. He had to outthink them. His goal had been to make it to White Sulphur Springs on foot, and steal a car from the Chevy dealership there. Then, he'd planned on taking Interstate 64 to 81 North. That would take him all the way to Pennsylvania, where he could then head towards New Jersey. Jim realized the folly in that line of thinking now. The 44 creatures could drive, and he didn't know what shape the highways
Page 31

were in. They could have traps set all along them, waiting for unwary survivors like himself.

But he couldn't do it on foot! He needed to get to Danny and he needed to get there now! New Jersey was a twelve-hour drive. Doing it on foot was inconceivable. His son would be long dead by the time he got there. Even the twelve-hour drive offered no assurances that he'd make it in time. So then what the hell am I doing? He's probably dead already!

Danny's pleas rang in his ears. He thrust his fists against them, shook his head, and trudged forward.

For most of his life, Jim had hunted deer and turkey in the mountains around Lewisburg. White Sulphur Springs was roughly five or six miles away, through a deep hollow and over two mountain ridges. Once there, he'd arm himself better, find a rifle to replace the one he'd lost to Mr. Thompson, and move on. Barring any trouble, he'd make it to White Sulphur Springs by dawn.

He needed to come up with a plan between now and then.

He walked on, the shadows between the trees swallowing him. From high above, a whippoorwill sang its lonely song.

Jim's grandmother had always said that if you heard a whippoorwill at night, it meant someone close to you was going to die.

The bird sang again, and Jim froze. It was perched directly in front of him. And it was alive.

It chirped at him, and spread its wings.

"Nice to see I'm not the only one," he whispered. "I wish I had your wings." The bird took flight, vanishing into the darkness.

He pressed on.

45

The old man sat on the park bench feeding the pigeons.

Their bloated corpses buzzed around him. Frankie watched from the safety of the restroom as the dead birds devoured him. A pigeon swooped down, one of its eyeballs dangling from the socket, and claimed the old man's left eye in return. Strips of flesh were sheared away by snapping, razored beaks.

Page 32

The old man did not scream.

He sat in stony silence, seemingly unaware of what was happening. He absentmindedly brushed at the side of his head. The mangled ruins of his right ear stained his white collar.

"Damn skeeters," she heard him mutter. A pigeon darted for the plump offering of his tongue. When the beak clamped and tore off a small morsel of meat, blood flowed into his mouth.

"Fly! Be free!" he flapped his arms as he sat on the bench. The pigeons around him fluttered and circled. No sooner had he slumped back than the birds descended again.

"Fucking nutcase," Frankie muttered, grinding her teeth. The old man continued to move under the barrage of beaks. He squirmed and laughed, as if he were being tickled.

46 She started shaking again, though whether from revulsion or withdrawal or fear she could not tell. The jones called to her. The scabs dotting her slender arms itched, and three blunt, cracked fingernails dug at them without hesitation. She needed a fix. She needed some skag. She needed.

That need landed her at here at the Baltimore Zoo. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

T-Bone and Horn Dawg and the others had to have seen her climb the fence. The question was, would they follow? Would they leave her be, so she could rest in peace?

Rest?

Yes, rest. Rest from the running all over town.

Rest forever. In peace.

Frankie thought she could damn well die here, in a men's bathroom with dead, hungry animals walking around outside, and a gang of pissed-off dope dealers who wanted the bag of dope she now carried. The street value on that particular bag of dope had skyrocketed, because there would be no further bags of dope like it.

Unfortunately, she was down to the last of it. Somehow, she didn't think T-Bone and the rest would be happy to hear that.

The old man was silent now. Cautiously, Frankie peered out the door. His black suit was a pink, quivering mass of exposed muscle and nerve endings. His chest continued to rise and fall. Stubbornly, the life his parents gave him continued with tenacity. It would not quit without a fight.
Page 33

Death was stronger.

Patient.

She watched him die and wondered how long before he rose again?

Her arms howled. Her gut clenched, and she felt the pang of emptiness there. She dug into her pocket in search of something to take it away. The last of it.

She cooked up the batch, blotter and spoon,

47 disposable lighter, and she began to lick her cracked lips. Soon, none of these thoughts would matter. Not the old man, the pigeons, T-Bone and the others; not even the baby. What mattered was the greedy, puckered mouth track marks that dotted her arms, like the insistent mouths of newborns, hungrily demanding a nipple.