The Hungry Dead (17 page)

His eyes were open . . . his hands were twitching . . . he was now one of the undead.

With the sickle blade still in him, he started to slowly get to his feet.

Sally screamed and ran out through the wide-open garage door—

And the zombie called Barney stepped right into her path. His flabby lips were grimacing and drooling, and he lunged at her even as zombified Slam staggered toward her from behind.

And there was even more jeopardy now, for there were about a dozen zombies all around the house. Their breath rasping hideously, they all started to close in on Sally in their demented desire for live human flesh.

Sally backed away from Barney, but this put her closer to Slam. He was coming at her, sickle and all. She jerked this way and that, trying to see a way out, but there was no place to run—the zombies had her hemmed in. One of them hung back a little, as if waiting for the others to take all the risks; this was Chub Harris, the one who in life was a serial rapist and killer of women.

Sally thought she was done for. But then a shot rang out—
BLAM!
—and Chub was blasted in the back of his head. He reeled and staggered and sank to the earth as a second shot was fired, and Slam took the slug right between his eyes.

The shooter was Henry Brinkman, and when Sally saw him she yelled, “Daddy!” He ran toward her, a smoking rifle in his hands, as another volley of shots was fired.

Sally became aware of the whirring of a police helicopter, circling overhead, and at the same time Sheriff Harkness and Deputy Barnes came toward her, leading a group of armed civilians. They tried to blast down Barney, the big zombie in bibbed coveralls, but he ducked into the surrounding woods.

Henry took Sally into his arms.

The posse men kept firing at any zombies they spotted.

And from the circling helicopter, cops were strafing the living dead with machine-gun fire. They even tossed a couple of grenades when they saw several zombies together in a close grouping.

Sally clung to her father and cried into his shoulder.

Both their faces were wet with tears.

There was a full moon in the night sky.

A pile of zombie corpses was starkly lit by the moonlight.

Posse men were carrying more zombie bodies, tossing them on the pile.

Henry Brinkman, a rifle slung over his shoulder, came forward with a large can of gasoline.

Sheriff Harkness stood by, watching, smoking his pipe. He said, “I told ya to take a break, Henry. We could have handled all this. You've been through enough.”

Henry said, “I want to do this part, Sheriff. Wanna see it for myself. One of these, if not all of them, probably helped kill my wife.”

Two posse men heaved yet another zombie body onto the pile, and one of them said, “That's all of them, Sheriff Harkness. All we could find.”

“Douse 'em then,” said Harkness.

Henry doused the pile of corpses with gasoline, moving around and around the pile. Then Harkness said, “Okay, light 'em!”

A posse man used a torch to set the pile of bodies ablaze. The flames leaped toward the sky, making a huge pyre.

The sheriff said, “May they rest in peace.”

And Henry said, “Amen.”

 

Standing back by the front porch of her home, Sally watched the burning pyre, the glow of the flames flickering on her face. Her bullet-wonded shoulder was bandaged, and her arm was in a sling. She felt worn out and sad. She averted her eyes from the pile of burning bodies, and for a long moment she lowered her head.

Suddenly she heard a scuffling noise, and she looked up, afraid.

But it was Bruce Barnes.

And to her surprise he was leading her horse into the front yard.

“Look who I found,” he said to her.

She murmured, “Sparky,” and allowed herself to feel some joy. She smiled and came down off the porch to pet her horse and make sure he was okay. “I thought for sure he was dead,” she said. “Thanks for finding him, Bruce.”

“Well, it was hardly any trouble,” he said shyly. “I was out there near the trees, and he came right toward me. I think he was headed home and would've made it all by himself.”

“You're too modest, Bruce. I'm sure you deserve some of the credit, and I'm giving it to you whether you like it or not. Sparky doesn't come to just anybody, I can assure you of that.”

“Well . . . thanks.”

They both fell silent. Both petted the horse.

Sally said, “Good boy, Sparky. I'm glad to have you back.”

Bruce worked up the nerve to say, “I'd like to come back here and see you sometime, Sally. If you wouldn't mind.”

“I guess that'd be okay,” she told him. “If we're still here, that is. My dad is talking about selling the saloon, and I don't blame him after what's happened. He might want to sell everything and move away. Me too.”

“Where would you go?”

“Maybe a complete change. Maybe move back to town. I could still keep Sparky. Pay somebody a stable fee.”

Bruce said, “I live in town with my daughter. I'm divorced. It's a long story. But I'd sure like to see you again.”

“We'll see,” Sally told him.

In the moonlight, Barney lumbered along the two-lane blacktop.

Two soft shots pierced the silence of the night—
Pfft! Pfft!
—sounding a bit softer than the suppressed sounds of Bearcat's and Slam's silencer-equipped pistols.

Barney's addled brain was stunned and confused all of a sudden, even more stunned and confused than usual.

He had been struck by two darts of the sort used by zoologists to anaesthetize wild beasts.

The darts had been fired by two men in dark clothing. They watched Barney fall unconscious, then they slung their dart-firing rifles over their shoulders and picked up a stretcher. With great difficulty because of his enormous weight, they loaded Barney's massive frame onto the stretcher and carried the stretcher and the inert zombie over to a white van parked a short distance away with its back doors open.

After loading Barney into the van, they slammed its doors shut and got into the cab.

Then they drove away.

In the gaudy central pavilion of an upscale suburban mall, two lovely young girls browsed the storefronts, window-shopping.

Victoria's ugly purple blisters were totally gone by now, and there was no evidence that they had ever existed. Her skin was clear and radiant, and she was every bit as beautiful as her sister Tiffany.

They approached a kiosk where two handsome teenage boys were fingering through racks of T-shirts silk-screened with images from various monster movies.

Tiffany said, “Oh, there you are, Benny! And this must be Mark.”

Mark said, “Right on.”

Victoria said, “Cool.”

Tiffany said, “This is my sister, Victoria. You can call her Vicky. She's your blind date, Mark.”

Lighting up in the presence of Victoria's awesome beauty, Mark said, “I never been on a blind date before, but maybe now I'm gonna try it more often.”

Victoria smiled coyly and said, “I guess that's a compliment.”

Tiffany patted her on her arm and said, “My kid sister used to believe she would always be an ugly duckling. And now she's become . . . well . . . something even better than a swan.”

At this, the two sisters flashed each other secret smiles.

Benny noticed this and complainingly he said, “I can't follow you half the time, Tiffany. Why do you even wanna go out with me? You sound too smart. Almost snooty sometimes.”

Tiffany said, “I already told you. You have something I especially need.”

The two sisters chuckled over this, but the boys didn't get it.

Benny said, “So what're we gonna do? See a movie?”

Victoria said, “I don't care.”

Marks said, “I don't care either.” He was trying hard to seem blasé, but he was already dreaming of getting into the sack with this hot little beauty. He reached out and took her hand.

The four teenagers strolled happily through the mall . . . very normal-looking to anyone who took notice of them.

Victoria said, “I was thinking maybe I'd like to take a walk through a cemetery tonight. There's supposed to be a full moon.”

Mark laughed and jostled her with his elbow. “What're you tellin' me, babe? You a werewolf or something?”

“Not exactly . . . no,” said Victoria.

Benny said, “Whaddaya mean, not
exactly?”

Mark said, “Yeah.”

“Well, Benny boy,” said Tiffany, “that's for us to know and you to find out. Right, Vicky?”

“Uh-huh.”

The two pretty sisters led the two handsome boys out of the mall and toward the fate that awaited them.

From the dirt road, they heard the demon screaming in pain and rage. It was trapped! It was out in the field like the other one.

“Run!
Run!”
Mama cried. “Don't be afraid—I'm right behind you!” She hurried along on her thin legs, a stout club of birch-wood in her hand.

Luke and Abraham, ages fourteen and twelve, each had shovels. They were leading the way, running real fast.

Cynthia, at ten the youngest, could hardly keep up. But she had said the prayers which had enticed the demon to their trap. She was thrilled and proud of herself. And scared, too.

Behind her, Cyrus giggled. He was almost sixteen, but not smart. He huffed and puffed, trying to make his fat legs churn up distance.

The family scurried down off the shoulder of the dirt road and out into the weed-grown field where the creature was screaming. They broke through a thicket of tall weeds and saw the thing in the middle of the gas company's right-of-way that cut a broad swath down the side of the mountain and across the field.

“It looks like Jimmy Peterson's sister,” Abraham blurted.

But it wasn't, of course. It was a demon.

“They can
look
like anything,” Mama cautioned. “Don't you dare get too close, Luke! Hit it with your shovel!” She stood back, brandishing her club.

The trapped thing wailed and screamed hideously. The steel jaws of the trap had bitten down hard, chomping clean through to white leg bone. There was plenty of blood. The thing couldn't get away because of the heavy steel chain and peg that had the trap anchored to the ground. Luke and Abraham always drove the pegs deep.

“Hit
it!” Mama yelled encouragingly.

The demon stopped wailing momentarily and cowered, looking surprisingly like Jimmy Peterson's little sister. The same reddish hair and freckles. But the eyes gave away the secret—they were a beast's green eyes, wild and flashing.

Luke stepped forward boldly and swung his shovel with all his might with both hands. The demon had started screaming again, but it stopped. The edge of Luke's shovel blade had split open its face and skull.

“Hooray!” Abraham shouted as the demon reeled and thudded to the earth. He ran up and both he and Luke smashed at the thing with their shovels again and again. It sounded like beating a rug. Once in a while the shovels hit each other, making a loud clang. Luke and Abraham chopped at the creature's head, legs, and body. When they got done it was a bloody mess. Its red hair was matted in blood.

“You did real good,” Mama said afterward. “Now Cyrus can make a coffin and we'll have a funeral.”

“Why did it look like Jimmy Peterson's sister?” Cynthia asked, as Luke and Abraham stood back a few feet, breathing hard, looking down at their gruesome handiwork.

Mama got angry. “I
told
you, they can take any form they want to—a rabbit or a possum, or even a human being. It's our job not to be taken in—if they're sent to us, we have to destroy them.”

Cyrus borrowed Luke's shovel and, looking to Mama for approval, hit the dead thing one more time on its shattered head.

Nancy Johnson let the heavy door of the church swing shut behind her, dipped her fingers in holy water, and made a careful sign of the cross. She was seventeen, blonde, and pretty, and panicked over the thought of going to confession. For two years she had lived in sin, committing mortal sins of the flesh with her boyfriend. Several months ago she had broken up with him and the wounds of the breakup were beginning to heal, and she wanted to cleanse her soul. She had already vowed never to give in to another boy till she was married. She had done it out of love, but he had ditched her for someone else, leaving her to get over the agony and the shame.

Nancy was a small-town girl, with a history of regular attendance at mass and frequent acceptance of the sacraments. She had graduated from the local parochial school, which only went up through eighth grade, then had enrolled in the public high school but continued to take the required catechism lessons once a week in the basement of the church. She was not fanatically religious, but to the extent that she was, she felt she had fallen short of worthy ideals better lived up to by priests and nuns. She had a guilt complex. Her healthy sex drive often made her secretly wish for the day she could be married so her indulgence would no longer be considered sinful.

As she advanced down the aisle of the church with its high vaulted ceiling and looming crucifix, she felt humble, even intimidated. The place of worship had an aura of piety and holiness. The statues of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph were shrouded in purple for the Lenten season and would be unveiled on Easter Sunday to celebrate the rising of Christ from the dead.

A few old ladies in black dresses and babushkas knelt in the pews. Not many people came to confession on hot Saturday afternoons. Nancy had been banking on this because she didn't want to stand in line. She wanted to get the ordeal over with before she lost her nerve.

During the past two years she had gone to confession ten times without telling the priest that she was having carnal relations with her boyfriend. And each of the ten times she had taken communion at mass the following day, accepting the sacrament while not in a state of grace, which was the most horrible mortal sin a person could commit: sacrilege. She had been afraid to tell the priest that she had given in to sex. And she had gone to the rail for communion, anyway, because her mother always went to mass with her and would have known something was funny if her daughter stopped taking the sacrament.

Nancy genuflected, squeezed between two pews, and lowered a padded kneeler to the floor as her knees bent to meet it. She prayed, reading from the chapter on preparation for confession in her missal. “Oh, my God, grant me light to be truly sorry for my sins. To think that I have offended Thee after being forgiven so many times! I lay the rest of my life at Thy feet. Let it atone for my past. Mary, Mother of God, help me to make a good confession.”

Leaving the pew, she entered the confessional and shut the door softly. Her knees found the kneeler in the dark. There was a cloth-covered aperture through which the priest on the other side of the compartment would be able to hear her voice, and she hoped he would not recognize it. Father Flaherty had said in catechism class that God helped him and all other priests never to remember a confession or a confessor. But Nancy did not lean too close to the aperture, for fear he could see through it. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It is two years since my last good confession.”

Father Flaherty's voice came back so loudly that Nancy just knew everybody in the church could hear. “Speak up! I can't hear you. Come closer to the screen.”

She inched closer, then repeated herself.

“You say it's been
two years
since your last good confession?” Father's voice was shocked, incredulous.

“Yes, Father,” Nancy meekly admitted. Her throat was dry, her tongue thick, her voice low and hoarse. She perspired profusely.

“Let me get this straight, young lady. Do you mean to tell me that during the past two years you just haven't been to confession, or do you mean that you made bad confessions during this time?”

“I made bad confessions, Father.”

There was a lengthy silence that Nancy was sure the priest needed to recover from being stunned. Then: “These bad confessions—how many did you say there were?”

“Ten, Father.”

“How do you mean they were bad? Did you fail to tell some sin you were guilty of?”

“Yes, Father.”

“And why in the world did you do that?”

“I don't know. I was afraid.”

“What sin were you afraid to tell?”

“Having carnal relations with my boyfriend, Father.”

“I see. Is he Catholic?”

“He was, Father. But we broke up.”

“It was undoubtedly the best thing that could have happened. You were living in sin with him. Do you realize that?”

“Yes, Father.”

“And yet you fail to tell this mortal sin in confession so that you might receive forgiveness. Does that make good sense to you? You realize, surely, that this kind of sin is grievous enough to send you into eternal damnation.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Would you rather go to hell for all eternity than suffer a bit of embarrassment here in the confessional?”

“No, Father.”

“All right.” Father Flaherty sucked in his breath, then delivered the question Nancy dreaded most: “Did you afterward go to communion with these mortal sins on your soul?”

“Yes. I'm sorry, Father.”

“Oh, my gosh! Do you mean to
tell
me that you existed in a state of mortal sin for two years? That during this time you defiled the sacrament ten times—just because you were ashamed to confess your sins?”

“Yes, Father.”

The priest let out a long sigh of exasperation. “You have committed the grievous sin of sacrilege ten times by making false confessions. And you have each time committed the worse sacrilege of accepting our Lord's body and blood while in the state of mortal sin. This is one of the most awful sins a Catholic can commit. Do you realize that you can burn in hell forever for this one sin? Do you understand that for a period of two years the power of sanctifying grace was absent from your soul? If you had died at any time during those two years, you would right at this instant be burning in hell. Your immortal soul would have descended directly into the arms of Satan.”

“I know, Father. And I'm sorry.”

“What other sins have you committed? Go on with your confession. And make it a good one, young lady.”

Telling the rest of it was almost easy, compared with the magnitude of what Nancy had just been through. She finally said, “That is all, Father.”

The priest replied, “Now make a good act of contrition. And for your penance say ten rosaries. Ask Jesus to help you avoid temptation. And come to mass and make
good
confessions and take communion more often.”

“I will, Father.” Nancy could hear the priest praying in Latin behind the screen while she said her act of contrition in English. “Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell, but most of all because I have offended Thee, my God, Who art all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to confess my sins, to do penance, and to amend my life. Amen.”

She waited for Father Flaherty's Latin to come to an end so she could receive her final blessing. “In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. May God bless you.”

“Thank you, Father.”

Still smarting from embarrassment, Nancy stepped out of the church into gusting spring air that soon evaporated the perspiration on her brow. She began to feel greatly relieved, and she raised her arms over her head to let the breeze dry and cool her underarms. Across the street from the church, she cut through a grassy field on her way home. The sunlight felt good and she enjoyed the blue sky and the freshness all around her, and she knew it had been a long time since she had felt so happy and clean.

She looked at her watch: ten minutes to one. Her stepfather ought to be home by the time she got there, and he had promised to let her use his car to go shopping. A local policeman, Bert Johnson was off duty at noon on Saturdays, but he usually would stop for a few drinks after work. Nancy decided that if he wasn't home yet she'd take a shower, wash and dry her hair, and call up her girl friend Patty. Maybe Patty would want to go to the mall, too.

As she walked, her stride unusually light and carefree, Nancy began saying her rosaries.