The Hungry Dead (26 page)

But Gwen went on, as if she had to get it all out of her system. She was thinking it out as she talked, trying to get it all straight in her mind, reciting details that refused to yield to reason or understanding. “The two deputies stopped here. I could hear them talking out on the front porch. They said they had been chasing a white van that had gone speeding away from a grocery store in town. But Luke must've been afraid and suspicious. The deputies said they had wrecked their car in the chase. Luke offered them some hot coffee, and he brought a fresh potful out onto the porch. I wanted to scream . . . but Abraham had a gun on me. The coffee must've been drugged, because in a little while the deputies were dragged in here, tied up with rope . . . unconscious. They were tortured and stabbed to death . . . and I had to watch. But most of the time I shut my eyes. I guess I babbled and raved and pounded my bare fists on the cage. . . .” Gwen held up her hands, which were bruised and swollen and scraped raw.

“Oh, God!” Nancy moaned.
“Why
? Why is all this happening?”

“There's no reason for it,” Gwen said soberly. “I keep remembering my grandfather telling me to never forget man is capable of the worst imaginable acts of cruelty. He was in a Nazi concentration camp during World War Two. But at least that was wartime. What excuse is there for what's happening to us now?”

Nancy was silent, coming face to face with a guilt she had just realized—she and Hank and Tom were partially to blame for the deputies' deaths, because the chase never would have happened were it not for the theft of the groceries from the store. Oh, what a lark it had seemed to be! And getting away had been the best part. They had thought themselves so terribly clever, never suspecting that the deputies weren't able to give pursuit anymore because they had wrecked their squad car. As these realizations struck home, silent, remorseful tears rolled down Nancy's cheeks.
“Damn
my stepfather,” she said suddenly.

Gwen hunched forward, peering through the wire cages, her eyes bright with desperation. “We have to try to escape! We have to try to get out of here. They'll kill us. The whole family is crazy. They think they're vampires or witches or something.”

“Shh!” Nancy whispered, afraid Gwen was talking so loudly that she'd be overheard.

But Gwen went on, barely lowering her volume. “I've been locked up in this cage for two days . . . I've heard them talking . . . planning . . . diabolical things that would send chills up your spine. Their mother is in charge of whatever they're going to do . . . only I've never seen her. She lives upstairs. She's a witch, or they think she is. They're preparing for a Black Mass . . . an insane ritual of some sort. And you and I and some other poor girl are intended to be human sacrifices.”

Nancy didn't want to hear what Gwen was saying. It didn't make sense. It couldn't be happening. It overwhelmed the senses, numbing a person's intellect, a person's physical and emotional resources, till the ability to struggle for survival was lost in a nightmarish vortex of futility and despair. Nancy had sunk back against the rear of her cage; the fight had gone, out of her; she was hopelessly disconsolate and almost ready to die. She even felt she probably deserved it, because of her guilt over the way the two deputies had died.

“May the Lord have mercy on them,” she mumbled under her breath. “And on Hank and Tom.”

Pressing her face against the wire mesh of her cage, Gwen whispered insistently, “I tell you, Nancy, we have got to try to get out of here. Don't give up on me—
please.
If you and I lose hope, we'll be done for. We've got to think our way out of this somehow.”

Nancy spoke through her tears. “But what can we do, Gwen? It's useless . . . useless . . . in these cages. At least if we were locked up in a room—but this way we don't have a chance of trying to escape.” She continued sobbing.

“Look, you've got to pull yourself together,” Gwen said. “It's not as hopeless as you think. In the morning Luke and Abraham will unlock the cages to give us food and march us out into the field to go to the toilet. If I get a chance, I'm going to try something.”

“You're not going to make a run for it?” Nancy asked, panic-stricken, remembering how Hank and Tom had been gunned down.

“No. Something else. I'll seduce one of the brothers if I can . . . or both of them, if I have to. And I'll kill them if they let me get my hands on a gun.”

Nancy mulled it over, terrified of the risks. “What can I do?” she asked timidly.

“You'll have to create a diversion and do your part. Be ready to use a club or a rock—whatever you can grab.”

“I'm scared, Gwen,” Nancy whispered weakly.

“I am, too,” said the older girl. “But what else can we do? If you have a better suggestion, I'm willing to listen.”

“Maybe somebody will come for us.”

“Who?”

“Somebody looking for the two deputies.”

“We can't count on it. How would they know to look here? Look, Nancy—try to get some sleep. Be strong tomorrow, and be brave. They'll try not to kill us if they can help it. We have a value to them. They want us for their crazy rituals. And somehow I don't figure we ought to stick around.”

Nancy and Gwen wrapped themselves up in the ragged, dirty quilts on the bottoms of their cages. Silently, saying each word with slow, careful enunciation in the privacy of her mind, Nancy prayed till exhaustion overcame her and she dozed, tossing fitfully and crying out once or twice in her sleep.

Gwen lay wide awake, staring up at the white ceiling through wire mesh. The room was brightly lit. Their captors didn't trust leaving them alone in the dark. Gwen tried not to think about her sister Sally . . . not to dwell on the horrors she had already been through. By an effort of will, she concentrated on her own survival, and in this her aged grandfather was an inspiration. She recalled much of what he had told her of the Nazi death factories; these experiences, once so terrifying but remote, now had a meaning for her that she never suspected would come to pass. She wanted to be as strong as her grandfather. He had not been saved by prayers, he always maintained, but by his own ingenuity and a hefty measure of good luck; those who remembered how to pray and nothing else, died. Gwen did not pray. She concentrated on summoning energy and determination within herself for the escape attempt which must be made.

It helped to remember how much she had to live for, which was something she had only recently come to realize. And that made it all the more ironic, if she should die, a victim of someone's homicidal whim.

It had taken her a year to begin to get over her divorce. Her ex-husband, Warren, was a metallurgical engineer for Wheeling Steel Corporation. On the job he was capable and effective, plunging headlong and obsessively into challenges and finding solutions that were often cleverly innovative, bordering on genius. He had the respect of his peers, both socially and professionally. This filled him with pride and a deep sense of accomplishment that carried over into his marriage; he felt that his role as husband was totally fulfilled by his being such an outstanding breadwinner. He expected Gwen to cater to him, as he had been catered to and pampered by his mother and his doting spinster aunt through all his growing-up years.

Gwen had married Warren Davis while they were both undergraduates at West Virginia University in Morgantown. She was studying to be an elementary school teacher, and he, of course, was enrolled in the College of Engineering. They both got some monetary support from their parents and both had small academic scholarships, but to make ends meet they had to take out student loans and find summer employment. Gwen looked upon all this as part of the marriage partnership; her contribution was no less important than Warren's. But almost from the beginning he seemed to assume certain prerogatives, as if his studying, his education, and his eventual career took automatic precedence over hers. In the early days of love and togetherness she didn't bother to argue, telling herself she would stand up for her rights later if it became necessary. In the meantime she did most of the dishes, laundry, and other household chores and worked in her studying around these necessities, while Warren didn't have to contend with them. His grades were better than hers, and everyone knew that engineers made more money than teachers, so she stifled any nagging doubts she may have had and didn't question his assumed dominance.

She got pregnant not long after graduation and that put an end to her attempts to find a teaching position. Her daughter, Amy, was born the following spring. Warren was already working for Wheeling Steel, his drive in that area giving early evidence of becoming obsessive, if Gwen had only noticed the signs. But she was caught up in trying to be a wife and mother, even though, had she been able to admit the truth to herself, she would probably have preferred not to have her first child at this time. It was Warren who had wanted the pregnancy, and Gwen relinquished whatever ideas she may have entertained about going to work, earning a salary, and living the relatively care-free life-style of a young married woman unencumbered by children.

She loved Amy. That was not the problem. But more and more she began to see Warren as selfish, demanding, and overbearing. His pride in his work and his ability to earn recognition, praise, and advancements in her eyes began to take on the unattractive taint of smugness. The more he accomplished, the less he treated her as an equal. When these realizations first dawned on her, she fought against them . . . tried to submerge them in the rituals of shopping, housekeeping, entertaining friends, and taking care of Amy. Warren was an adequate father, giving his daughter much of his attention when he was home from work, but even this possible virtue became a fault when Gwen started to think her husband's attention to Amy could be his way of avoiding
her.
Or was she imagining it all? Was this the way married life inevitably turned out? Had she been too immature to take on the burden in the first place?

These self-doubts and dissatisfactions, never discussed openly between Gwen and Warren, festered insidiously and continued to poison their relationship. They said good night more often without making love or even holding each other tenderly. Warmth and cordiality degenerated to politeness. They talked a lot about Amy and the stages of her growing up, to avoid talking about themselves. When the divorce finally came, it shocked most of their friends, because outwardly the buildup had made barely a ripple. Inwardly, Gwen was devastated. They had been married six years. Amy was four. After all this time spent in inner turmoil—questioning herself, her motives, her worthiness as a wife, mother, and even as a person—Gwen's self-confidence was totally shattered. Yet, she had to go on being a mother to Amy, and had to make a career and a new life for herself.

About a year ago, after being divorced for seven months, she finally landed a job teaching fifth grade in a small West Virginia town not far from Wheeling. She had been called in to substitute when the regular teacher became sick, had gone on to finish out the term, and because of her excellent work had been rehired in the fall when another vacancy opened up. She had gone into her first day of teaching desperately trying to conceal from the class how scared she was. The first months had continued to be an enormously challenging struggle, till she saw that she could do the job, and, moreover, that she was good at it. The children, resentful at first because she had replaced their original teacher, eventually settled down, did what she told them, and even liked her. A milestone of her comeback from her divorce was the day Johnny Adams, one of the toughest kids in the class, came in to her privately during recess and said he wanted to pass fifth grade, but if he failed it would be okay because he'd get to be with her another year, rather than with the meany in the next grade. “You mustn't call Mrs. Wilkes a meany, she's an excellent teacher,” Gwen had said, but she couldn't help smiling over the compliment.

Warren had taken Amy over the Easter vacation so Gwen could spend some time with Sally, her younger sister, who was still in college. They had started out yesterday morning on a pleasant drive and picnic. Because of the new energy and self-confidence she had found, Gwen was able to discuss her marital problems and the divorce openly, even cheerfully, with Sally, and had hoped her sister might profit by her mistakes.

Now Sally was dead. And Gwen knew she had to try to stay alive and get back to Amy. She hoped that some of her grandfather's instincts for survival would have a resurgence in her as powerful as her love for her daughter.

Her eyes shut, but even in sleep she continued to sense the presence of the wire cage enveloping her like a coffin.

Morgan Drey, the young anthropologist who had written
The Appeal of Witchcraft,
concluded his final lecture before Easter vacation to an evening class at New York City College:

“The thing that distinguishes man from the other animals, more than any other thing, is his ability to sublimate. His highly developed intellect can and does override his instincts. This has produced some of his noblest achievements and basest perversions.

“The animal called man can be noble or petty, comic, cowardly, pathetic, or brave. He has aspirations which are admirable, and some which are despicable. He can be taught, or misguided, to substitute the penetration of a dagger for the penetration of sex, the mindless unison of a Nazi goosestep for the subtler rhythms of poetry, the fleeting pleasure of orgasm for the deeper joy of sex in love. He is capable of perpetrating the worst cruelties and barbarities imaginable in the name of holy science, holy religion, or holy truth.”

Morgan stopped and gazed at the class piercingly, to give his last sentence time to sink in. Then he said, “That's it for today, folks. Class dismissed ten minutes early, as I promised. Happy Easter.” He started gathering up his books and papers.

A few class members lingered to ask a question or two, or to wish him a nice holiday. He was the last one to leave the room, and by that time he was crushingly lonely. No one was in the corridor, and all the classrooms were dark. His solitary footsteps reverberated in the hall.

Coming down the gray stone steps outside the building, he put his hand up and hailed a cab. He meant to tell the driver to take him home. But instead he said, “Washington Square.” This was in Greenwich Village, near Cynthia's shop. He paid the cabbie and got out and walked . . . thinking about the intensely zealous, attractive young girl who had told him she never wanted to see him again. He had been unable to get her out of his mind. He remembered her lovely black hair and the vibrant glow of her black eyes.

The shop was closed, its panes of glass caged in and locked. A sign said: C
LOSED FOR
E
ASTER.
But Morgan Drey lingered, trying to see if there might be someone inside taking inventory or something. Finally, he went into the bar next door and ordered a beer. Sipping it, he thought about Cynthia. He knew it was foolish of him to be so attracted to her, because on a rational level he had come to the conclusion that she was quite possibly mentally disturbed. But there was something about her that drew him like a magnet.

For the first time, ruefully, he admitted that he was infatuated; otherwise, he would heed the warning signs and back off. But he lacked the necessary good sense. His instincts were overriding his intellect. He wanted this girl even though she had all the earmarks of bad trouble.

Still, he might be able to help her. Her mind had been warped when she was younger, and he was the right fellow to unwarp it. Even if she got nothing else out of their relationship, that much would put her a bit ahead, wouldn't it?

He tossed down the remainder of his draft beer and gave the bartender his order for another.

Those services Cynthia had spoken of were supposed to take place over Easter. Morgan knew so little about her that he remembered just about every scrap of information she had let drop. He recalled the name of a town she lived near: Cherry Hill. Rather than moping around over the long weekend, he could get himself a roadmap and drive there with his camera, telling her he had come to ask her to let him photograph the services. If she became enraged and turned him away, well, that would be the end of it; he'd turn around and drive home, swallowing his mortification. But if she accepted him and let him stay . . .

What in the world had come over him, for God's sake? He was coming on like a love-sick adolescent, hanging around the schoolyard for a glimpse of his secret heartthrob. He was certainly not comporting himself like a dignified twenty-eight-year-old anthropologist.

Tonight he'd get drunk. And in the morning the hangover might discourage him from going to Cherry Hill and making a fool of himself. In a wry frame of mind, he ordered a double shot of whisky to go with his third draft.