Resurrection (42 page)

Arland was suddenly terrified.

Because unless there were dozens of people, no single person could have put out that much urine. Nobody had that much water in them. Yet, he was still hearing those squishing sounds and he knew there was only one individual down here.

Okay, you fool old man, now what? Do you try and run or do you face what’s been doing this?

But Arland knew there was really no choice.

For if he tried to make it up the steps, he would feel the motion
behind him, then cold white fingers
at the back of his throat. Because this was not some mere prank, this was all done for his benefit. Just like that trail of jars was meant to lure him into the rec room like a trail of candy leading to a witch’s cottage.

There were things in life you knew and those you could never know.

And what was waiting for him in the rec room was definitely of the latter variety. It had come slinking in here to
torment him.
Something hideous that had perhaps went door to door up Kneale Street trying locks until he or she or
it
had found one unlatched.

You might as well have invited it in,
he told himself.
Something that wanted to get out of the rain and wind, something lonely looking for warmth and…companionship.

And what could that be?

What exactly could that be?

Because he was pretty certain it was not the government.

It was something else.

Arland went to the rec room door and heard a muted giggling in there. The sound of someone laughing into their hands. His throat dry and his heart hammering painfully, he pushed open the door.

He saw the pool table right away. There were three more jars sitting on it, all half-filled by this thing with an inexhaustible bladder. Oh, its smell was nauseating and it reminded him of barns filled with rotting hay and boxes packed with wet, decaying leaves. Nothing alive could carry such an odor, only something dead and gassy and blackened.

He heard that giggling again.

More pain threading through his chest, he brought the lantern around and the knife clattered from his hand. He could not say exactly what he saw, only that it was a great blubbery shape plastered with brown Autumn leaves. Its head was matted with strands of gray hair that fell over its distended face. Its flesh, what he could see of it through the leaves, was white and puckered, smeared with streaks of dark mud. And it was naked. The breasts were pendulous and thickly-veined with blue, the belly hanging in greasy rolls.

A woman…or something that had been one once.

She was squatting on the floor, giggling with a wet congested sound as she filled yet another mason jar with piss. All the while, making a droning sound that was oddly musical and maybe was supposed to be a happy humming.

Arland gasped.

The piss kept running.

The sound of that was awful, not just the sound of liquid squirting into that jar as from a spigot, but chunks and clots of something dropping in there as well as if the bladder itself was coming apart.

Oh, Christ, no, no…

Arland went down on his ass, pain exploding in his chest and his vision blurring. Darkness moved through his head in waves. But after a moment, his vision cleared.

He heard the woman get up, sounding like a bag of wet laundry shifting. She came over to him with those splatting footfalls and stood over him. She was swollen and ripe, water dripping from her. With one bloated hand, she held up the mason jar she had filled and dumped it over Arland’s head. The urine was cold and filled with bits of sediment and chunks of tissue. He vomited right away, trying to cry out the whole while.

The rancid thing stepped over him and he could see beneath that tangled hair and accumulation of leaves, that she had eyes…black, shining things, jellied and glistening like bubbles that wanted to pop. He saw a mouth, gray broken teeth licked by a black tongue.

She stood over him, filled with squirming things and larval activity, bits of her dropping away. Oily fluids and watery discharges ran from her and she kept smacking her lips.

When she spoke, it sounded like her mouth was filled with oatmeal.
“Arland…let’s take some samples, eh? One more for our class action suit…that’s a boy…open your mouth…let me fill it for you…”

As Arland’s heart ruptured in his chest, he felt those flabby and greasy fingers yank his mouth open as she squatted over him, bringing the cancerous ruin of her green and undulant privates into his face. Humming happily, she drained her bladder into his mouth.

But by the time that gray, sludgy water overflowed his mouth, Arland was thankfully dead.

24

An hour after those things attacked the bus, Bobby Luce lost what control he’d had of the kids. Some wanted to leave and some wanted to stay and nothing he seemed to say could bring them together again. So much for team spirit. So much for the Fairstreet Flyers. Their camaraderie, if it had ever really existed, was now just dust in the wind and Bobby simply did not have enough hands to hold it together.

He was tired.

He was fed-up.

And, yes, he was scared.

Even now, a good hour after those things, those
people
, had tried to get into the bus, it was still on him as he imagined it was on the others: that deep-set, almost automatic fear that made him start whenever the wind picked up or something splashed. How could you put that business into context? How could you absorb that into your world-view and not come out of it with white streaks in your hair? Those people…there were other words for them he didn’t dare use…those people had not been normal. They had looked pale, waterlogged, like corpses pulled from rivers and lake bottoms. And yet, they had been alive…well, at least, they had moved. Because their eyes had not been what you might call alive…dead and shining and just empty, hollow.

And they had been deranged, psychotic, something.

They wanted in and Bobby refused to speculate as to why.

And then, of course, if all that wasn’t enough to kick your legs out from under you, there was always the hand. Because he’d seen it, that severed dead hand crawling up the windshield. And so had some of the others.

“They’re zombies,” Cal Woltrip said as if it was all too obvious. He had dropped the horror host voice now that the shit had been finally scared out of him and had adopted an almost clinical tone, like Van Helsing talking about vampires. “That’s what they are. They can’t be nothing else.”

Alicia Kroll just shook her. “Walking dead people? Oh, come on.”

“Yeah, as if,” Lacee Henderson said.

But if these two girls were the last bastions of reason, no one else dared to argue the point. They sat around in the darkness, sunk in their personal mires of terror, and just accepted.

“Zombies,” Kyle said. “Zombies.”

“You saw them,” his brother went on, “you saw what they looked like. You think normal people look like that? You think even crazy people have faces and eyes like that?”

Bobby opened his mouth to object, but what was the point?

“I’ve seen zombie movies,” Chuck Bittner said. “And they eat people. They come back to eat people.”

At which point, Kayla Summers started sobbing uncontrollably.

Bobby just sighed and buried his face in his hands, wondering if Kayla’s tear ducts ever ran dry.

“Oh, God, does she ever stop?” Tara Boyle said. “Wah, wah, wah, wah. I’m so sick of this bus and I’m so sick of that crying. God.”

“Shut up,” Alicia told her.

Lacee put her arm around Kayla. “Is this stupid crap necessary? Do we have to sit around and talk about zombies?”

“That’s what they are,” Cal pointed out.

“Lah-tee-dah,” Lacee said. “So what? What does it matter
what
they are? They’re creepy and flipped out and nutso. That’s all I need to know. And what makes you the authority, Mr. Know-It-All? Just because you’ve seen more dumb movies than anyone else?”

“They’re not dumb!” Kyle said, either defending his brother or zombies in general, it was hard to say.

Lacee laughed. “They are, too! I’ve seen those dumb movies, they’re totally lame! Zombies stumbling around like a bunch of retards! I’m so sure. Unless you’re really slow, stupid, or crippled, I think you could outrun them even if those morons in those movies can’t…”

Oh, dear Christ, she was insulting the Holy Grail here, pissing on the cross, taking a dump on the altar… to Kyle and Cal, zombie movies were everything. They were both zombie freaks, collected dvds and toys and comics and masks and you name it, had waded through the gory waters of Italian splatterfests, and could both openly quote from George Romero’s Dead Trilogy. It was a religion to them and you didn’t make fun of a man’s faith.

“You’re a dumb bitch!” Kyle told her. “Everybody knows you’re nothing but a dumb bitch! A slut! A sleezebag! A whore! A

”

“All right,” Bobby said. “That’ll do.”

Kyle had a horrible temper, but Bobby was pretty certain that Cal wanted to say pretty much the same things to Lacee. Although she was none of those things, still being in the fifth grade, it didn’t slow Cal down.

Lacee thought it was funny. “Cal, can you please restrain that little disease? He’s so gay.”

Kyle fought to get free, but Cal would not let him. Bobby figured if Kyle got loose, he would probably start swinging on Lacee. But whether the Woltrip brothers liked what Lacee said or not, she did have a point. Those zombies in those movies were not exactly known for their speed or grace. They were slow, drunken, dim-witted. He didn’t think that these things were of that variety.

“This is all dumb,” Chuck said. “You’re all dumb. And especially you, Kyle. You and your stupid, stupid, stupid zombies! I’m sick of it! I’m sick of all you assholes!”

Kyle started laughing, then singing: “Chuck is a friend of mine, he will blow me any time. For a nickel or a dime, fifty cents for overtime. If you have a credit card, he will blow you extra hard

”

Chuck dove at him and Kyle met him, the two of them swinging and kicking. Cal and Bobby broke them up. Both were panting and bleeding and just wild. It took about five minutes before they both quit swearing and calling each other names.

Finally, Tara said, “Let’s just go.”

Bobby said, “It’s not safe out there.”

“Well, it’s not safe in here, that’s for sure,” she pointed out.

And that’s how the team finally, ultimately broke up. Tara and Chuck, the Woltrip brothers, and six or seven others just got to their feet and made for the door. Bobby let them take one of the flashlights, but that was about it.

“And you guys are just going to stay?” Cal said.

Alicia nodded. “That’s right.”

“You’re all nuts,” Kyle said.

“Maybe,” Bobby told him, “but we’re not going to die out there like you guys.”

“No, you’re going to die in here.”

Bobby watched them go, knowing he couldn’t stop them. He took hold of the lever and opened the doors. And it was at that particular moment, in the light of Cal’s flashlight, that Bobby saw indecision on their faces, as if maybe they weren’t real sure this was the best idea after all.

“Cmon,” Cal said, stepping down into the water and the others followed one by one, complaining about how cold it was.

The water up to their chests, they all looked back up at Bobby. “Last chance,” he said.

They turned and waded off, Cal in the lead.

Bobby shut the door.

He never saw any of them again.

25

Well, contrary to popular belief

or that of one Sergeant Oates

Hopper, Liss, and Torrio were certainly not dead. Maybe what they were going through was not exactly balloons and funny hats, but they were certainly not dead. They’d passed right through All Saints Cemetery in their boat and had not collided with a thing. Not until Hopper brought them back around into the city proper and they’d hit a partially-submerged car. And that had sent all three of them ass over teakettle into the drink, left them scrambling in that dirty water with nothing but their rifles and the gear they carried on their backs: a few packs of MRE’s, some emergency flares, a couple extra magazines for their M-16s.

But that was about it.

Their boat flipped over, dumped them, and then magically righted itself as boats sometimes will do. Last they’d seen of it, it was making headway out into the darkness without them. And if that hadn’t been so unbelievably tragic, it might have actually been funny.

On foot, in the flooded byways of River Town. If there was humor in that, you’d have to dig pretty deep to find it. The only good thing was that they were unhurt and far enough into River Town so that the water was only about waist-deep…unless you happened to step in a pothole.

But what did any of it mean, really?

It meant that Hopper, being a corporal, was in charge of Torrio and Liss, both privates. It meant that he was responsible for them and that if anything untoward happened to their shiny white asses, the captain would eat him alive over it. Not to mention what that professional ballbuster, Sergeant Henry T. Oates, would do to him. Hopper wanted command like he wanted a third tit or a removable skull-cap. Maybe not even that much. Because with command came responsibility and he was not very good with that. At 21 years of age, Hopper had lost no less than three jobs in the last year and a half because he’d forgot to set his alarm. His mother still had to remind him to wear clean socks and if it hadn’t been for his sometimes girlfriend, Cathy Jo, he would no doubt never clean his apartment or even remember to get some food in his belly on a regular basis. He would have happily zoned out playing Cellcom or Grand Theft Auto on his X-Box, screw reality.