Cemetery Club (21 page)

“More importantly,” Todd said, “I believe we might be the only ones who
can
stop it, because we started it.”

“Which brings us back to my question.” John took another sip of soda. “What do we do now?”

“We need more information,” Todd said. “We’re doing all this research, learning about aliens and demons and possession but we don’t know if we’re on the right track.”

“I do,” John interrupted. “Don’t forget, I’ve seen them.”

“We’ve seen things too John,” Marisol said. “Like the undead walking. One of them bit me, remember? I’ve heard of aliens abducting people, experimenting on them, but never possessing someone. Or trying to eat them alive.”

Cory patted her leg, a not-so-subtle hint for her to ease up. She did, mainly because deep inside she knew her anger was just camouflaging her real emotion: fear.

“Maybe the aliens turn people into zombies.”

“That’s the problem,” Todd tried to placate them. “Conflicting experiences. We need definitive proof one way or the other. So I think we should take a visit to Gates of Heaven.”

“No!” John jerked back in his chair. His soda can fell from his hand, splashing cola across the small table.

Todd shrugged. “It’s the only way to be sure of what we’re dealing with.”

“The cemetery’s a big place. Where would we start?” Cory asked, mopping up soda with some paper towels.

John shook his head. “Don’t even say it.”

“Where it all started. The crypt.”

“I knew it. This is just plain foolish. We’re all gonna end up dead, or worse.”

“John, be quiet.” Marisol touched his hand to take the sting out of her words. “Much as I hate to admit it, ‘cause it’s the last place I ever want to see again, I think I agree with Todd. If we have to get involved, we need as much information as possible. I think this is something we have to do.”

“Not you,” Cory said. “At least, not until you go home and get some sleep. Doctor’s orders, remember?”

Todd stood up. “All right. We’ll all meet here at eight o’clock tonight. That will give Marisol time to rest, while John and I gather the supplies we’ll need.”

Looking more despondent than usual, John said, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Cory tossed away the wet paper towels and took Marisol’s hand. “And on that sunny note, we’re out of here. See you all tonight.”

*  *  *

Gina Torelli was pouring herself a second glass of wine when her front door crashed open. She screamed, dropped her Merlot and backpedaled across the kitchen as three intruders stormed through her small living room. Only when her back hit the kitchen counter did she remember the phone she’d left next to the sink when she finished talking to her son Michael, who was spending the week with his father.

She grabbed the phone and ran for the dining room, fumbling for the redial button. Behind her, the three men - Oh God, was that blood all over their clothes? - knocked aside the kitchen table, their faces contorted and their wild hair matted to their scalp.

“Hello?” Her ex-husband’s voice, tinny and distant from the phone’s speaker. It was the first time in five years she’d actually been glad to hear it.

“Help! Jim! Someone’s here! They—”

A heavy blow struck her back and she fell, losing the phone in the process. It sailed through the air, Jim’s voice shouting - “Gina! Gina, what’s wrong? Gina—” - and then her head hit the floor and the world exploded into colored lights. She tried to cry out again but a heavy weight landed hard on top of her, driving the air from her lungs.

Daggers of pain lanced through her neck and she clawed at the ground, trying to pull herself away. The phone lay just out of reach, Jim’s impotent voice still shouting her name. Strong hands gripped the sides of her head, digging and clawing and pulling. Fresh agony detonated in her skull just as she found her breath. Before she could call out for help, something landed on the floor, directly between her and the phone.

It took her a moment to comprehend that the object was one of her own ears.

A mud-splattered foot came down on the ear and more hands dug at her body, tearing away clothes and flesh with equal ease. She had time for one more scream before teeth clamped down on the back of her neck and all the pain disappeared.

Gina closed her eyes and tried to ignore the gravelly sound of teeth on bone.

Then there was only quiet darkness.

Jim Torelli arrived at his ex-wife’s house less than a minute after the first police car got there. He was running up the front walk when one of the officers emerged from the house, hands over his mouth and vomit spraying out from between his fingers.

“Gina!” Jim rushed past the officer, who ignored him and continued puking.

The living room and kitchen were in shambles, furniture overturned and broken, shattered glass everywhere. In the kitchen, spaghetti sauce covered the walls and floors in red splatters.

Something important tapped on his brain for attention.
Gina doesn’t eat spaghetti sauce.

“What...?” The truth of it hit him just as he turned and saw the scraps of flesh, bone and clothing scattered across the room, standing out like islands in the sea of red that covered the tiles.

“Nooo!” The cry tore from Jim’s throat as if he could put things right by shouting loud enough. He fell to his knees in the tacky blood, put his head down and cried out again. And again and again, until the paramedics arrived and sedated him.

Even then his screams didn’t stop. The difference was, only Jim could hear them.

*  *  *

At two o’clock in the morning, the B-Line Diner was doing a typical business. Nightshift workers from the nearby machine shop, their hands tattooed with years of accumulated grease and grime, occupied four of the twelve counter seats, gulping down burgers and coffee before their lunch break ended. A group of mildly drunk college students took up two booths in the back, working their way through stacks of pancakes they hoped would soak up enough alcohol to prevent morning hangovers. A smaller booth, closer to the cash register, held two elderly men dressed in ragged, dirty clothes who cradled cups of coffee in grimy hands, as if it was winter outside instead of a warm summer night. They took only occasional sips between short bouts of conversation, doing their best to extend their stay in the relative comfort of the diner. While summer normally posed no hardships for the homeless, there’d been rumors going round lately that it wasn’t safe on the streets. The diner represented temporary safety and they were loath to leave.

Darcy Ellison, the only waitress on duty from midnight to four a.m., stood by the coffee machine, counting her tips. Where most people might have hated working the night shift at a cheap diner in the heart of the factory district, for Darcy it was the perfect job. She lived two blocks away, in a neat trailer in Lowlands Park. A chronic insomniac, she was up most nights anyhow. Working at the B-Line allowed her to make some money without having to bust her ass like the dinner or breakfast crews. The tips weren’t great but between them and her dead husband’s pension, she managed. Plus, Curt, the night cook, usually sent her home with a couple of to-go containers.

After more than five years at the B-Line, Darcy figured she’d seen it all. Drunken frat boys with sassy mouths, fights and more than a few couples in the back booths who thought they could get away with a little sex under the table when no one was looking. She’d even had a gun pointed at her during a robbery. So when the front glass came crashing down, Darcy’s first thought was that a car had plowed into the building, like had happened three years earlier when a drunken factory worker never hit his brake while parking.

Then she got a look at the people climbing through the broken window and she realized there were still surprises left in the world. Staring at them, all she could think of was the scary movie she’d watched the night before, the one about the dead people in the shopping mall.

The sound of screaming filled the air. It took Darcy several seconds to realize the screams were hers.

The four men at the counter stood up and formed a clumsy line facing the things that had broken in. They were outnumbered three to one but they had years of metal-working muscles in their arms and tempers as hot as the flames of their welding torches. None of them showed any fear as the dead-looking people surged forward.

The first couple of attackers went down quickly as the factory workers dealt out swift, hard punches. The crunch of noses and jaws breaking was like music to the men, who shouted encouragement to each other and swung their calloused fists with something approaching manic glee, as if the act of hitting someone’s face was some sort of cathartic release.

The college boys cheered and hollered from the back; the two elderly men had disappeared the minute the window shattered, running for the back door. Darcy told herself she should do the same but her feet seemed frozen to the ground.

Chet burst out of the kitchen, a cleaver in one hand and an iron skillet in the other. “Call the police!” he shouted to Darcy as he joined the fight.

Darcy tried to force her feet to move but they still refused to listen.
I can’t!
She wanted to cry but her mouth - still hanging open from her previous screaming - stayed as immobile as the rest of her. Held captive by her own body, she could only watch as the tide of the fight quickly turned in the monsters’ favor.

Three more walking corpses climbed through the window, as if drawn by the sounds of the fighting. At the same time, the ones who’d been knocked to the ground started to rise, showing no effects from their beatings.

“Son of a bitch!” one of the workers said, his breath coming in heavy gasps. “Fuckers won’t stay down.”

Chet struck a blow with the skillet, the impact of metal-on-skull sounding like a muffled musical note. Instead of collapsing, the corpse grabbed Chet’s arm and bit into it. The lanky cook cried out and swung his cleaver, burying it in the other man’s back. The dead man straightened up, blood running from his mouth, smiled, and then bit Chet’s arm again. Two of the factory workers tried to pull the creature off him but almost immediately had to let go when other dead people jumped on their backs, digging and tearing with nails and teeth.

An old man, his pale face covered in savagely-deep cuts and a black hole where one eye should have been, darted past the melee and approached the counter. He opened his mouth, exposing crooked, yellowed teeth that had bits of flesh hanging from them. Darcy leaned back as the man placed bloody hands on the counter and prepared to leap across.

A surge of adrenaline ran through her and her muscles came to life. She dropped the tip jar and reached behind her, feeling around until she found the handle of a coffee pot.

“Get away!” she shouted, and swung the pot as hard as she could into the creature’s face. Glass broke and steaming hot coffee sprayed across her attacker. Hot droplets burned her hand but she paid no attention. Relief and a feeling of victory filled her as she turned to run into the kitchen. From there, a short sprint would bring her to the back door and the back parking lot where her car - and safety - waited.

She’d managed two steps when a hand clutched her shoulder and pulled her backwards. Her feet flew out from under her and she landed hard on her back, knocking her breath away.

The old man’s face, droplets of coffee still dripping from it, loomed over her. She screamed, thinking it was about to sink its vile teeth into her.

What came next was far worse.

From over the man’s shoulder a new face appeared, this one in no way human. Eyes that burned with the fires of Hell looked down at her, seeming to stare into her very soul. Darcy's next scream turned into a choking sound, the last sound she ever made, as the creature forced itself into her mouth. Her lungs fought for air and her hands pounded impotently on the dirty floor tiles.

Then the evil was inside her and Darcy ceased to exist.

Instead, there was only the Horde.

“Morning John,” Todd said, noticing his friend enter the kitchen. It was just after ten. Todd had risen twenty minutes earlier and started the coffee pot. Abigail was due at eleven and he liked to be done with breakfast and out of the way before she got there.

“Uh.” John sat down at the table, accepting his cup of coffee without any other comment.

Todd knew how he felt. They’d spent nearly the entire night in Gates of Heaven Cemetery, camped out twenty yards from the old crypt, without seeing a single zombie or alien. Still, they’d stuck it out until four a.m. before admitting defeat and going home.

“Why weren’t they there?”

Todd turned away from the sink as he pondered John’s question. “I don’t know. Maybe they don’t come out every night. Maybe they have more than one route. Hell, maybe they saw us and didn’t want a confrontation.”

“Confrontation?” John gave a sarcastic laugh. “The motherfuckers
eat
people. You think they’re scared of us?”

“It’s possible. Not us per say, but the public in general. Think about it. Whoever,
whatever
these things are, they only attack at night and never in a crowded or public place. They obviously don’t want to be seen.”

“What about that bar? That’s a public place.”

“Yes but it was late and only a few people were inside.”

John frowned. “All right, but what about the attack on Marisol?”

Todd shook his head. “Again, late at night. Only Marisol and a couple of other people were working. I doubt the monsters expected the police to show up so fast.”

“I still don’t—” John broke off as someone knocked at the back door.

“It’s Cory and Marisol,” Todd said, glancing out the window. “I wonder what they’re doing here so early.”

Cory wasted no time in telling them. “Did you see the news?” He hurried into the living room and turned on the television, not waiting for an answer.

“No, we just got up.” Todd said, as he and the others followed him.

The TV came to life in the middle of a reporter’s dialog. “...continue with our breaking story. We’re here live at the B-Line Diner in Rocky Point, where four people are confirmed dead and at least five others are missing. Among the missing are Darcy Ellison, a waitress, and Kip Weals, a nineteen-year-old student at Rockland Community College. Police say the attack occurred sometime between two and three in the morning and that several people, perhaps as many as ten, may have been involved. Sheriff Nick Travers—”