Night of the Living Dead (16 page)

She would help him, she would. She just needed a moment to get her bearings ...

In the other room, Ben finished covering one of the larger windows. Satisfied, he turned to step down from the couch he had used as a stepladder ... and he stumbled. His head seemed to keep turning even after his neck had stopped, and he had to lean back against the wall to avoid falling over.

Okay, that’s it. Time for a break, tough guy.

Yes, it was.

Flopping down onto the couch, he let the hammer fall free and drew a deep breath. He hadn’t taken a moment to truly rest since everything went to hell at Beekman’s, and he wasn’t going to do himself or Barbra any good if he passed out from exhaustion.

Exhaling, he glanced over to the left breast pocket of his shirt and barely hesitated before fishing for his pack of cigarettes. He had been trying to quit or at least cut back, to serve as a better role-model for his impressionable students, and his efforts must have been working because he had not even thought about having a smoke since all of this started.

Which was kind of funny, because in that moment of quietus, he had never needed a cigarette more in his whole life.

Lighting up, he sucked the nicotine deep into his lungs, luxuriating in the familiar burn. Now that he was still, he could make out a few snippets from the radio, but it didn’t amount to much more than he already knew — telling people to get off the streets, to go home and lock their doors, et cetera, et cetera.

Glancing around the room, he noticed yet another door he could unhinge and use — one thing was for sure, this house was providing no shortage of improvised lumber. This door didn’t connect room-to-room, but appeared to be another closet. He sat a second longer, determined to take his much-needed break and enjoy his first cigarette since Friday ... but in the next moment he was climbing to his feet.

Opening the closet, he perused it for anything useful. It was filled with coats, jackets, and other winter gear, and God knew it was hot enough in the house as it was. Maybe he could tear some of them into strips, in case he needed another torch?

Then he glanced down to the floor and noticed several pairs of women’s shoes.

Kneeling down, he thought about Barbra in the other room, thought about her stockinged feet. Reaching into the closet, he bypassed the high-heels for a pair of sensible flats — with any luck, they might fit her well enough.

Standing, he took one last look in the closet for anything else of value ... and a moment later, he thanked God Almighty that he had made the extra effort.

A rifle!

Excited, he seized the weapon — a
real
weapon! — and pulled it out. It was an older hunting rifle, but it felt like salvation in his hands.

Setting his cigarette aside, he dug through the closet in earnest, knocking aside shoes, then feeling around the top shelf, searching, searching ...

He laid his hand upon a shoebox tucked out of sight at the back of the shelf, a shoebox with the weight he was hoping for — too heavy for shoes.

A satisfied grin flickered across his face as he pulled the shoebox down. Placing it on the floor, he tossed the lid aside.

Ammunition. And lots of it.

Yes!

Replacing the lid and tucking the box under his arm, feeling a sense of confidence for the first time in hours, Ben kicked the closet door shut and headed back into the living room.

He was mildly surprised to find Barbra sitting upright; she was shrugging out of her coat, but she stopped when he entered the room. He knelt down in front of her, but she just stared off into space — he had no idea if she remembered their tussle, or if she was even fully aware of his presence; if the droning of danger from the radio had affected her either way, it did not show.

"I found a gun and some bullets out there," he told her. "Oh, and these."

He held the shoes up for her inspection, but she didn’t so much as glance at them, just kept staring straight ahead. Shrugging to himself, he proceeded to put the shoes on her feet for her.

"This place is boarded up pretty solid now," he told her as he slipped them on. "We ought to be all right here for a while. We have the gun and bullets, food and radio. Sooner or later, someone is bound to come and get us out."

Who you trying to reassure, Ben? Her, or yourself?

He picked up the rifle and began loading it.

In the background, the radio kept going on and on. "
...we join with law-enforcement agencies, urging you to seek shelter in a building, lock the doors and windows ...
"

"Hey, that’s
us
," he said, half in jest, half in encouragement. "We’re doing all right."

Barbra just sat there. Saying nothing, looking at nothing.

"
... any suspicious strangers, and keep tuned to your radio and television for survival instructions, and further details of this continuing story ...
"

At last, the gun was loaded and Ben turned to her once more. He had to keep trying, didn’t he?

"Look ... I don’t know if you’re hearing me. But I’m going upstairs now."

No reaction.

"If anything should try to break in here, I can hear it from up there. I’ll be down to take care of it."

Still nothing. It was as though she were still asleep, had never sat up.

"Everything is all right for now." He gestured around the room. "I’ll be back to reinforce the windows and doors later. But you’ll be all right for now. Okay?"

She still didn’t say anything, but there was
some
kind of reaction this time — she blinked, her head trembled a bit. Her hair moved, and he could see the bruise he had left on her cheek.

Feeling a bit guilty for that, he reached out and touched her knee. "Okay?"

She said nothing, but he suspected she
was
hearing him after all.

Sighing, Ben stood and left the room, heading for the stairs.

As soon as he was gone, Barbra finished pulling her left hand out of her coat sleeve. She wasn’t certain why she was ignoring him. Part of it was ire over his having slapped her, sure, but it was more than that. It was ... well, if she let on that she was doing better (a little better, anyway), he would expect her to start helping him again. And she wanted to, she really did, but she just couldn’t take that pounding right now.

"
... civil defense officials in Cumberland have told newsmen that murder victims show evidence of having been ... partially
devoured
by their murderers ...
"

But then ... did she really want to be downstairs, alone?

At the top of the stairs, nearing the body with the chewed-off face, Ben had to stop and look away for a moment, fighting the urge to bend over and empty his guts. A blood-streaked pattern on the wall, looking almost like warped kanji, told him where the person had leaned before falling to die
on the landing
— whichever thing had attacked, and partially eaten, the previous owner of this house, Ben was just glad that it had wandered off.

The thought of getting any closer to the corpse, of touching it, was almost too much. But it had to be done.

Damn it, if he could drive a tire iron through a man’s forehead, he could do this.

Leaning the rifle against the wall, he stepped over the woman — he could see now that it was a woman, could tell from the clothing once he looked past the remains of her face, the hole in her temple — and, with precise, delicate movements, shifted her legs onto the rug with the rest of her. He then hefted one end of the rug, folding it so that he no longer had to look at her mutilated face, and dragged her down the hall toward the furthest possible room ...

"
... consistent reports from witnesses to the effect that people who acted as though they were in a kind of trance were killing — and
eating
— their victims, prompted authorities to examine the bodies of some of the victims.
"

Barbra sat in her daze (a state which was becoming both frustrating and strangely comforting) and listened to the radio announcer. She could hear her companion moving around upstairs, but most of her attention, such as it was, focused on the radio.

"
Medical authorities in Cumberland have concluded that in all cases, the killers
are
... eating the flesh ... of the people they murder.
"

For the first time, Barbra considered that maybe this whole surreal night was nothing more than an elaborate nightmare (it was similar to Ben’s earlier reckoning, but Barbra was less inclined to release the denial once she grabbed hold of it). That couldn’t explain away the ache in her jaw where the man had slapped her, but it made more sense than any of the rest of it.

"
... from Cumberland, Maryland, civil defense authorities have told newsmen that murder victims show evidence of having been partially
devoured
by their murderers ...
"

Why, just listen to that. Think about it. People killing other people for no reason, and then
eating
them? It was ridiculous, absurd! Such things didn’t happen,
couldn’t
happen in the real world.

"
... shows conclusively that the killers
are
eating the flesh of the people they kill ...
"

She couldn’t have been attacked in the cemetery, Johnny couldn’t have
died
defending her. That in itself was preposterous — Johnny was far too selfish to have sacrificed himself in such a way. It was a funny notion, really.

Any moment now, she would wake up. Probably in the car with Johnny, having dozed off as they drove out to their father’s grave — oh, Johnny would be so irritated. And for such a silly dream!

"
... this incredible story becomes more ghastly with each report,
" the radio announcer said, then went on to agree with her sentiments (which only made sense, since it was
her
dream), "
it’s ... difficult to imagine such a thing actually happening ...
"

She heard some more knocking around, and wondered what in the world the man was doing up there. She should go tell him that he needn’t bother, it was all just a dream.