Undead (23 page)

Overcome by mental and physical exhaustion, Ann and Sue Ellen fell asleep in the patrol car driven by Wade Connely. He was still following behind the truck. Both truck and car were traveling at about fifty miles an hour, with less than three car lengths separating the two vehicles. Wade wanted to stay close. He felt the truck could knock anything out of its way without going out of control, but he didn’t trust the car to do the same. If one of the dead creatures appeared in the road, Wade wanted the truck to hit it first.

John Carter glanced in his rear-view mirror, and didn’t like the way he was being tail-gated. He made a move for his blinker-lights to warn Wade off. Flack yelled, “Look out!” and ducked, covering his eyes, and Carter saw three humanoid creatures standing in the beam of his headlights in the middle of the road. Carter hit his brakes, which was a bad move. The truck squealed and swerved, hitting two of the dead things and knocking them aside. Wade had to hit his brakes hard to avoid crashing into the truck, and with a loud screech of burning rubber the car careened to one side of the truck to get more braking distance and hit the third humanoid, up-ending it, causing its flailing body to flip up over the hood of the patrol car and through the windshield. Wade screamed and the car went out of control. It crashed through a guard rail and smashed into a tree.

All this happened in split-seconds, and Carter and Flack had a partial view of the accident through rear-view mirrors. Carter brought the truck to a halt on the edge of the road. Drawing their revolvers and grabbing a couple of flashlights, Carter and Flack ran back to the scene of the wrecked car.

The ghoul that had been flipped against the windshield had, on impact, been hurled against the tree. It lay broken like a rag doll, its breath rasping weakly and painfully while it moved one arm feebly, like an insect half-crushed but refusing to die. Flack walked over, shining his light on the ghoul, and fired a carefully placed shot between its eyes. Its movements ceased, part of its skull having been blown away.

Wade Connely was dead, his cracked head and lacerated face protruding through the windshield, his neck practically severed clean through. Though the engine was not running, having been totaled on impact, the headlights were still on, running on battery power, and one of the rear doors had sprung open, lighting the interior. The girls in back were still alive and appeared to be in good condition. They were sitting close together, tied and gagged and unable to move, their eyes wide with fright and their faces frozen in shock. Carter and Flack helped Ann and Sue Ellen out of the car and herded them toward the truck. Before doing so, Carter yanked loose the battery cable of the car, so the lights would go off and not attract attention. Then, knowing what would happen if he didn’t do it, he shined his light in Wade’s face and fired a shot into his skull.

Flack lowered the tailgate and forced the girls to climb onto the bed of the truck. He made them lie on their sides so he could tie them that way, using lengths of rope to secure them to the heavy generator. He did not want them to be able to get up and signal to passersby. When this work was done and the tailgate raised again and locked in place, Flack climbed into the cab with Carter and they nosed out onto the highway, heading for the Kingsley estate. There was less than an hour remaining of darkness, and they wanted to be in position to attack the estate at dawn. The loss of the patrol car was going to be a handicap; it had been an immense aid to their disguise as State Troopers. Carter would have to pull it off somehow, using just the uniform. He and Flack discussed the matter as they rode, and figured out a way to take the Kingsleys by surprise.

In the bed of the truck, Ann and Sue Ellen lay on their sides, getting another bumpy and frightening ride. Their minds were a jumble of fearful, disjointed thoughts. Ann had a bruise on her head, which hurt—not badly enough to make her think it was serious, but just badly enough to add to the pain and discomfort and panic that were coursing through her system. Her gag was soaked with saliva and tasted sour and rotten. She felt nauseous, on the verge of vomiting—and had to fight to keep it down lest it cause her to suffocate. Sue Ellen simply lay as still as possible, her mind too tired for tears, her cheek vibrating against the roughened metal bed of the truck. She had no idea of where she was being taken, and for the moment she didn’t care. In the back of her mind she felt both she and Ann would soon be dead. If they had not been asleep in the back seat, their bodies completely relaxed, perhaps they would not have survived the car accident. And perhaps that would have been the best thing—to go out suddenly, unaware it was happening, oblivious to fear. Doubtless, Flack and Carter would have fired bullets into their dead brains, completing their deaths and making their rest peaceful and permanent.

Dave drove as fast as he could in Mr. Dorsey’s car, keeping a sharp lookout for danger in the road. The car was a 1956 Chevy, rusty and filthy dirty, hard to start and still harder to navigate, with loose steering and almost nonexistent brakes. It rattled and vibrated on the dirt and gravel road, never making a speed over forty.

The road was surprisingly clear of ghouls. In one place Dave spotted some, way back in a field on the left side of the road. They appeared to be just standing very still, not engaging in any activity for the moment, as if they did not know what to do. Dave speculated that maybe the dead things experienced a certain inertia that they had to overcome with the beginning of each new day—as if each dawn was a surprise to them, rousing them from death. Or maybe they had simply done all the ravaging they could do in this particular rural area of few farms, and were going to move on toward other areas with a more plentiful supply of human flesh.

Dave shuddered.

He did not want to think the humanoids could reason and would have been more terrified of them if he thought they could.

He thought of his wife and son, who did not know if he was alive or dead. He maintained a hope of getting back to them. They were probably relatively safe, in the protection of the high-rise apartment building where they lived in the center of the city. The cities had been well-protected ten years earlier during the first emergency of this type, with their centralized police forces and their ability to maintain communications. It was the rural areas that had suffered heavily then, as they were suffering now. Dave and his wife had plans of moving out of the city as soon as they could afford to buy a place. Dave realized ruefully that it was probably a good thing they had not been able to afford it before now.

Carl Martinelli had not been married. When Dave got back to the city, he would have to tell Carl’s aged Italian parents about their son’s death. He would stress that Carl had died trying to save a baby’s life. At least he had not been killed by the humanoids, and it was still possible that his body might be brought home for a church burial, the kind of thing his parents would wish.

Dave reached down and switched on the car radio, at the same time glancing at the rifle beside him in the front seat. He had not tried the radio earlier, as if the decrepit condition of the car had satisfied his assumption that the radio could not possibly be still working while the rest of the vehicle had fallen to junk. But the radio
was
working, and an announcer’s voice came on.

“…return to life and become carnal monsters, creatures that crave the flesh of the living in order to survive? Scientists have been examining the bodies of the living dead that have been immobilized by brain destruction. One theory at the moment seems to be this, and I quote: The dead cells of recent corpses seem to have been revitalized by some unknown type of malignancy. In other words, an unknown cancer, perhaps a virus, brings dead cells back to life. This is not a normal ‘life,’ but a malignant life-form that turns the human into a creature that is dead in most usual respects. Most scientists do claim it is something in the air, a virus born of pollution, an odd mixture of carcinogenic chemicals which attack cells that have recently died, causing them to be activated, bringing the dead back to a living death where nothing remains but an activated corpse driven by a craving for living flesh. It is as if cancer itself were destroying the species in the process. It has been discovered that ‘death’ or let’s say ‘immobilization’ of the corpses can be achieved by destroying the brain. Once the brain has stopped functioning, all glandular and circulatory functions cease; at least the creature can be rendered immobile…”

Dave pulled the car into the gravel lot of the Log Cabin Gas Station, braked the car to a halt and turned the ignition off. The place had been looted. Locks were broken off two of the pumps, windows were smashed, the front entrance door was hanging open. Nobody was in sight. No attendant made his appearance and Dave expected none, though he had driven the car over an air-hose, causing the signal bell to ring twice.

After surveying the place from the car, Mr. Dorsey’s rifle in hand, Dave got out and approached the building. He flattened himself against the wall and worked his way over to the front door. Not a thing stirred. The place had the feel of desolation. Dave nudged the door the rest of the way open with his foot and cautiously stepped inside. His eyes adjusted to the dim light; the only light inside the station building was the natural light from outside. The few shelves were overturned and half-empty, the cash register drawer open and containing only a few pennies. Most of whatever had been of value in the store was gone.

A click and a hum startled Dave. It was the hum of a refrigerator, just as he had been about to assume that there was no electric power in the place and if there was any milk it would be spoiled.

Dave looked around and found the refrigerator against a wall at the far end of a row of shelves. The shelves contained a few canned goods; other cans were strewn on the floor and Dave tripped over some of them. He opened the refrigerator, its light came on, and to his surprise he found it contained cartons of milk, orange juice, eggs and cheese, all labeled and priced for sale. Like many country stores catering to the emergency needs of out-of-the-way people, this place did not bother having a fancy display-type refrigeration case and made do with a used refrigerator instead. Dave thought himself very lucky. Whoever had raided the place had not emptied the refrigerator, probably not wanting to take items which would easily spoil.

Dave found shopping bags and loaded them with all the foodstuffs he could find, figuring to take the whole works to Mr. and Mrs. Dorsey. Then he began loading the bags into the car, working quickly and keeping a lookout for danger.

“Looks like he ain’t going to make it, poor little fellow.”

The baby was wrapped in a blanket and lying on the seat of an armchair, while Mr. and Mrs. Dorsey bent over it. Mrs. Dorsey gave up trying to get the infant to take just a bit of warm tea. She had the tea in a rippled bottle, the nipple wet with saliva from being refused again and again. She reached out with the hand which did not hold the bottle and pressed a palm gently against the baby’s chest.

“He’s still breathin’—I can feel it,” Mrs. Dorsey said in a low whisper heard only by herself.

Mr. Dorsey called out to his son, who was standing hunch-shouldered so his eyes would be low enough to peer through a crack between two window boards. “Any sign of ’em?”

The boy shook his head in a perplexed sort of way, as though the question had stunned him into trying to think of an answer he could not possibly possess. He had a rifle in his hand, gripped by the barrel so that the butt dragged on the floor. “Nope,” he said finally, after a length of time that almost took all the immediacy out of whatever the question had been.

Henry Dorsey took three quick steps toward his son and snatched the rifle out of the boy’s hand before the boy was quick enough to realize what was happening. “On second thought,” Dorsey said, “maybe ya better just sit down a while and give yer old man the gun before ya shoot somethin’ else that ain’t supposed to be shot.”

“
Henry!
He stopped breathing!” Mrs. Dorsey had spun from the baby and had a shocked look on her face.

Mr. Dorsey stared at his wife and the baby from the center of the room. From outside came the sound of a car turning into the driveway.

Dorsey’s son had his eyes to the crack between two of the window boards. “A car,” he announced triumphantly, as though he had supplied important information.

“Whose
car?” Dorsey said angrily, as he shoved his son away from the window. He peered out, his hands clenched on the rifle. It was Dave, opening the car door and pulling out some shopping bags full of groceries. Dorsey looked inquiringly at his wife, who had the baby in her arms. “I can’t tell if he’s breathin’ a little bit or not. I don’t think he is,” she said in a tight, frightened voice, and began making rocking movements with her body, cradling the infant as if treating it normally would cause it to
be
normal.

Dave was pounding on the front door.

“Lay him down on the chair—maybe he’s sleepin’,” Mr. Dorsey said, implying that they could at least make it seem that way for Dave’s benefit, and he looked his wife in the eyes until she got the point. She did as she was told. She pulled the baby’s blanket up around his ears and sat on the edge of the chair to watch over him. In the semi-dark room, the scene did not seem alarming.

Dorsey undid the bolts on the door to let Dave in. The feeble-minded son had moved to the rocking chair in the corner of the room and was rocking squeakily back and forth, watching everybody.

“How’s the baby?” Dave asked, setting down bags of groceries and rummaging for a carton of milk.

“Fine,” Mrs. Dorsey said in a low voice. “I made some weak tea for him, like I said. He’s asleep now.”

“Think we should wake him to feed him?”

“Sure—bring the milk on in here and you can help me get it ready.”

Carton in hand, Dave followed Mrs. Dorsey into the kitchen.

Henry Dorsey secured the door, then came over to where the baby lay and looked down at it. He bit his lip. His face was taut and his eyes had a faraway look. He was thinking that if the baby died, coupled with the accidental slaying of the State Trooper earlier, it might become necessary to kill Dave also. Dorsey was committed to the survival of himself and his family; if they were able to make it through okay, he did not want to stand trial later for manslaughter.

The baby stirred, letting out a tiny whimper. Dorsey looked at it, not knowing whether to be relieved or more frightened. It was clearly breathing now, though its breathing seemed labored. He was alarmed that the baby’s breathing seemed to have stopped earlier. His wife was genuinely frightened that it was dead. Perhaps it was merely very sick and extremely weak from hunger; maybe now, with some warm milk and attention, it would make it through the crisis stage.

Dave and Mrs. Dorsey appeared with a bottle of warm milk. Dorsey turned away, presumably to check out the window while Dave and his wife tended to the baby. “He’s breathin’ weakly,” Dorsey said, letting his wife know. Her eyes lit up.

Mrs. Dorsey held out the bottle. The baby took the nipple and began to suck hungrily. Dave smiled. The baby continued to suck greedily at the nipple. “We can’t let him have too much at first,” Mrs. Dorsey said, “or he’ll get sick—poor little rascal.” She did not look at Dave nor at her husband, but kept her eyes riveted on the bottle and its disappearing contents.

A gunshot rang out, shattering the stillness of the room.

Dorsey had fired from his post by the window. Dave ran to the other window and looked out. Outside in the lawn, three ghouls were standing under the overhanging branches of large maple trees. “I missed,” Dorsey announced, and fired again after taking careful aim. One of the ghouls, hit in the shoulder, spun around and fell, then struggled to get up.

“Aim for the head—it’s the only way to stop them,” Dave said, wishing he himself had the rifle because Dorsey was obviously a lousy shot.

“Don’t you think I
know
that?” Dorsey said, and fired again. The ghouls had advanced to within twenty feet of the porch steps, and at such close range Dorsey scored a hit, blasting brains and blood from the side of a ghoul’s head.

Carrying another gun, Dorsey’s son ran to the window where Dave stood looking out and Dave took it from him before he could protest. Dave poked the barrel through a hole in the glass, took aim and fired. His shot hit the second ghoul between the eyes, and the dead thing went down heavily, knocked back by the force of impact.

Dorsey kept firing at the third ghoul, but it retreated behind a tree, whether by accident or design the men didn’t know. “Dammit!” Dorsey muttered, and in the absence of firing the two men had time to notice the acrid smell of burnt powder filling the room.

Deprived of the rifle which Dave had seized, Dorsey’s son had gone to his rocking chair to sulk, and the chair was squeaking again as he rocked back and forth.

Dave kept his rifle poised, aiming at approximately the spot where the head of the third ghoul would appear if the creature stepped out from behind the tree. The head appeared, and Dave fired, scoring a hit. The thing made an odd groaning noise and keeled over head first, its legs supported grotesquely in midair by a low bush through which it had fallen.

“Hot damn!” Henry Dorsey said in his enthusiasm over the three kills.

Mrs. Dorsey had stopped feeding the baby and was cradling it in her arms. The noise had not caused it to start crying, and it seemed to be asleep. “Poor thing’s too weak to be scared,” she said to no one in particular.

“I hope there are no more of those things out there,” Dave commented. He had retreated from the window after scanning the lawn and its environs carefully, and he still had his rifle in his hands.

“We got ’em all,” Mr. Dorsey said, showing more exuberance than Dave felt the occasion called for, and Dave settled his eyes on the man in an attempt to calm him down.

Dorsey cleared his throat and looked at his wife.

The sound of the rocking chair kept up.

“You said the Kingsley estate is over the hill to the north,” Dave said.

Dorsey sat in a chair, took the clip out of his rifle and began reloading it. “Can’t miss it. Four miles beyond the golf course and the clubhouse. Just keep going straight. Say…ya don’t figure on usin’ my car, do ya?”

“I was hoping you’d lend it to me again,” Dave said. “You’ve been so kind this far. The Kingsleys are in a lot of trouble. The gang of looters I mentioned is headed there, and they’ve got the two Miller girls with them. And Billy, Sue Ellen’s boyfriend.”

Mrs. Dorsey gasped. Henry let his breath out in a long, thoughtful sigh. “I guess I can let ya take the car,” he said. “But gimme the rifle back. I only got two rifles—one for me and one for my son. I’ll let ya have an ax and a knife.”