Where the Dead Talk (19 page)

"Of course not," she said, "and it’s not – I mean – it’s not an issue of being fond of anyone. Or not."

He gave her a benevolent smile.

"Delicately put," he said. "You’re very kind."

"I’m not trying to spare your feelings, Major. It’s just that you’re suggestion implies - "

"No need to get defensive."

"I’m not getting defensive," she said, her voice louder.

"You’re cheeks are flushing."

She straightened up.

"Standing four feet away from a fire will do that, Major," she said.

What a marvelous chest she had. Up until now, he’d not really taken a good look. The way her hair sort of tumbled down over the curve of her –

"Major," she said, folding her arms in front of her.

"Sorry," he said, looking up. "Trying to suss those things out."

"What things?" she said. She glared at him.

"You know," he said, "the bodies. The animated corpses."

"Perhaps you’d better –"

"Come on, Jude. Hurry."

It was the woman’s voice. She was peering out the front window of the tavern. The Major arched his eyebrows, sneaking another peak at Carolyn’s figure as she turned to the window. He lowered his voice.

"Dear, dear," he said, "I do believe someone’s in love."

"Whatever makes you think –"

"Oh, come on Carolyn," he said, "even I’ve noticed the little looks of longing that she was giving him, and the smitten eyes that he was giving back to her. And I was bound and about to be hung."

"But –"

"But nothing. Didn’t it strike you as just a little bit odd right from the start that they were just sort of, you know, together here, and apparently quite good at it. Or used to it, at least."

"But she’s married to the Reverend."

He took another sip from the bottle, enjoying the warmth that slid down his throat and went up into his head. He played with the cork, spinning it between thumb and forefinger.

"Oh, please. I saw the Reverend, and he looked to be about one-hundred and twenty-six, all white hair and wrinkles."

"But the tavernkeep is a Negro," she said, lowering her voice almost to a whisper.

"Oooh, how scandalous, how unthinkable –"

She was a bit naïve, but the look on her face was priceless. A tumble of laughter trampled over his words.

"Oh, that’s right," she said, "my coddled existence of luxury. Sheltered from all but the most proper of scandals."

He shifted his wounded leg – still propped up on the chair opposite him – and grimaced.

"Your words, not mine," he said.

"I was just surprised that –"

"Hardly a thing to be surprised at," he cut in. "She’s married to an ancient preacher – and if I’ve ever smelled an unpleasantly arranged marriage, I smell one there – but lives right across the common from the tavern, the proprietor of which is a decent, handsome fellow. She’s in her prime, quite a handsome woman herself."

He waved a hand through the air towards the front of the tavern.

"One day, they pass a word. Then a smile. Then she brings him some cooked goods on the sly – or maybe he brought it to her, since the man clearly knows how to cook – and she grows all thoughtful, thinking of a future far more attractive than her present."

"Then," he went on, dragging the word out for effect, "one day they arrange to meet somewhere else, secretly. A meadow or by a little stream. They talk and talk and talk and the hours just fly by – but before they part, they kiss. Ah, the forbidden kiss. It leaves them both a-tingle for days and they can think of nothing else. And when they do see each other again, the conversation lasts for all of seven seconds until they’re at each other, ripping each other’s clothes off –"

"Yes, Major, I see. You paint quite a picture," she said, cutting him off. She still had her arms folded over her bosom – which was a perfect shame – but he was pleased to see that the lovely flush of her cheeks had, if anything, grown deeper.

"And more power to them, I say," Pomeroy said.

She turned towards the woman standing by the window, her fingers drumming on her elbows.

"I’m sure people will be scandalized," she said, keeping her voice low. "And that’s not just my sheltered naiveté showing."

"To hell with people, then," he said. "Always ready to dash everyone else’s passion and enjoyment for whatever fool’s reason they can muster, all to make sure that everyone around them stays as miserable as they are."

He raised the bottle towards the woman in salute.

"Here, here to Squire Brewster and Mrs. Reverend for embracing what really matters to them," he said.

He took a swig of whiskey.

"And everyone else in this backwoods little village can go rot," he finished, less able now to keep the inebriation out of his speech. He turned to her.

"Although it rather looks as though they have, haven’t they?"

There were three hard raps at the back door. The woman by the window closed her hands around a pistol that she’d placed on the table.

Bang bang. Two more.

"Elizabeth, it’s us. Unbar the door," a voice came, faint from outside the kitchen.

"It’s them," she said. She ran through the common room, through to the back door in the kitchen, just visible from where Pomeroy sat. She knocked out the wooden bars. The door opened in with a gust of chill wind, sending the flames on the candles dancing. Ben MacGuire hurried in, followed by Morrill, his boys, and finally by the tavernkeep.

"Shut it," he said.

MacGuire slammed the door shut and fumbled with the crossbars, finally getting them to slip in straight. All the men were huffing, their cheeks flushed with cold, their eyes jumping around to the windows. The tavernkeep bent over, his hands on his knees, trying to catch a deep breath.

"Jude –" Elizabeth said.

"Is the front locked?"

"Yes, but –"

The tavernkeep hurried through the door leading to the common room.

"Good," he said, "because they’re coming."

"No more chit-chat by the fire," Pomeroy said.

The rest of the men came into the room. Their eyes went to the front windows. The tavernkeep looked at Pomeroy’s bandaged leg and came over.

"Are you alright? What happened to your leg?" he said.

"Just a little scratch," Pomeroy said, "from when Miss Bucknell here shot me."

Carolyn quickly told them the story. Whatever they’d seen outside, none of them seemed surprised. The tavernkeep and the rest of the men gathered by the front door. Elizabeth followed. Jude checked the lock on the door. He stopped at the window and pressed close to the glass.

"What did you see?" Pomeroy said.

"The bodies," Jude said.

One of the men sat at a table, eyes boring a hole through the floor.

"You was right," he said, "and I ain’t never seen nothin’ so terrible. It was little Hannah Perry, and I had to shoot her, Lord, help me. And it didn’t even stop her."

Jude turned around from the window.

"Major, there are dozens of them coming down the streets, all through the center of the village. Bodies are crawling all over the outside of the church."

"The hell we gonna do?" MacGuire said.

"We need to shut these doors and seal the windows," Jude said, pointing all around the front of the tavern. “There’s boards and nails in the cellar.”

"Don’t forget the second story," Pomeroy said, shifting in his chair so that he could better face the room. "We’ve already had one little problem up there."

Jude nodded and ran a hand across his cheek.

"We should block off the second floor, right at the top of the stairs," he said.

"And once we’re nice and sealed in, then what?" Pomeroy said.

"You’ve a better idea?" MacGuire said.

"Simple question."

"Then we wait."

"Until?"

"Until sunrise," Jude said.

Soon, everyone was busy. The tavernkeep closed the inside shutters, getting ready to nail up boards they’d pulled from a crate of candles. Morrill looked at the staircase; the young boys dragged a heavy table in from the kitchen. Carrier sobbed in the middle of the room, his muttering ignored by the others.

"Major Pomeroy," Jude said, "how mobile you can be?"

"If you give me my pistols, I can shoot. If I need to, I can run."

Jude nodded and one of the men brought the Major his guns. The tavernkeep wiped rivulets of sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. He saw the two young boys struggling with the table and helped them wedge it into the stairwell. Then he grabbed a hammer and went back to the windows.

Thud.

Pomeroy looked quickly around. No one else appeared to have heard it. He looked towards the kitchen door, where a hint of motion took his eye.

"Brewster," he called out, "MacGuire."

They turned to look at him. Elizabeth screamed from the kitchen, and there was the crashing of glass. The tavernkeep dropped his hammer and ran to the kitchen. With a grunt, Pomeroy got his good leg beneath him and stood up, hands finding holds among the stones of the hearth to support him. His right leg screamed at him, the torn muscle burning and cramping. The fire had dimmed, low yellow flames like waves lapping across the embers of the logs, so the light in the room had faded. A shadow slinked across the timbers and beams of the ceiling, out from the stairwell.

He pulled back the hammer and shot at the shadow. The recoil was strong enough – and his leg weak enough – that he struggled to keep his feet. The shadow crashed down onto one of the tables.

"Brewster," Pomeroy yelled, "in here!"

The fallen body writhed and slid off to the floor, then stood again. A bloody hole gaped on the side of its head, yet it still moved. The shuttered windows started to rattle under blows from the outside, and the front door shook. One of the front windows blew inwards in a smash of glass and broken boards. A dark blur landed on the floor with the ruins of the panes and trim. Candles on the front table went out with the wind while other flames jumped around.

"There’s another –" Pomeroy said.

The shadow unfolded, rising up into a thin and ragged figure with cold silver points for eyes. Eldridge Carrier – still sitting up in the middle of the floor – let loose a high, thin scream. The figure leapt forward, landing on him, crouched down. Carrier’s legs thrashed a frantic beat on the floor, then stopped. The figure looked up, and Pomeroy caught a flash of the Carrier's face, wide-eyed and smeared with black liquid. Another crash of glass came from the kitchen eve as the front door smashed open, splinters and pieces of broken latches tumbling across the floor. Two shadowed figures tumbled in after it, one tall, one much shorter – a child, perhaps. Brewster ran over and pointed his pistol straight at the pale, filthy head of the thing that stood over Carrier. The shot nearly took its head clean off.

From the second floor, heavy footsteps. Pomeroy looked up. If they were getting in from up there as well, they were in a very tight spot. Carolyn yelled, pointing at the broken window. Another figure climbed in, a big man with a tangled beard. His skin shone white, flesh drained of blood. Pomeroy looked around and counted five pairs of the shimmering eyes.

"Everyone back," he yelled, "against the back wall."

Another pair of eyes suddenly shone from the kitchen. Pomeroy hobbled a few steps away from the fireplace, toward the back wall. A shot went off behind him, deafening.

"Tip them over," he heard Jude say, "that’s right."

The two boys knocked several of the tables onto their sides, in a barricade of sorts. Pomeroy slid down against the wall. He pulled his powder horn from the large pocket of his jacket, then the leather sack with balls. Twisting the leather strand that held it closed, he reached in and fumbled out another ball. His hands – whether from the whiskey or from the pain – refused to move with any precision. He dropped the ball, then fumbled with the horn. Powder tumbled out in a puff onto his shirt.

"Christ," he said.

With some effort, he got the edge up to the barrel and managed to pour most of the fine black powder into it. He was about to tamp it down when someone tripped over his bad leg. All he could do was tilt his head back until it hit the wall behind him and squeeze his eyes tight in agony. It was Carolyn. She huddled down next to him.

"Did I? I didn’t see –"

He forced his eyes open. It was really unbelievable, like lightning running up and down his leg, into his waist, up his side.

"Can you finish loading this?" he said. He held the pistol out to her.

"Are you –"

"Yes, but you need to load this. Quickly."

She took the pistol. Another musket shot exploded. A body took a blow to the spot between the shoulder and the neck, sending it spinning down to the ground. The body was up in a heartbeat, coming at them again.

"They’re not staying down," Pomeroy yelled, "go for the heads."

Decapitation seemed the only way to stop them – and that realization brought with it a very bad feeling about their chances. Pomeroy tried to track the rest of them. One slipped in from the stairwell, clinging to the beams of the ceiling.

"There’s one," he said, pointing to the rafters. Carolyn pressed beside him and held out the pistol. He took it. He pulled back the hammer and aimed at the shadow creeping across the ceiling. Pomeroy squeezed the trigger, then began reloading his other pistol. The shadow dropped onto one of the far tables. In a moment, it stood in the shadows next to the hearth, pale face barely catching the firelight.

"He understands our cause a little better now, I think," the figure said. A fluttering giggle rolled out his mouth. "And I waited and waited and supper grew cold, but you ran away. But don’t worry, I tucked them both in. After tonight, we can all be together."

Carolyn leaned forward and started to say something when all of the windows along the front side of the tavern blew in with a scream of nails and the brittle shatter of glass. Everyone shielded themselves. Pomeroy looked up, and the figure in the shadows rushed at them.

"No you don’t," Pomeroy said. He aimed his pistol at its head, using the shining eyes as a target. Carolyn screamed and yanked his arm down. He struggled to free it.