Worthe's Village

by Ron Ripley

  And they can’t be unlit remotely, he thought morosely, because the damned things run on gas.

  He rolled his eyes at the idiosyncrasies of his employer, but he didn’t roll them too much.

  The Boss paid a lot of money to keep the Village protected, and there was a contractual bonus for anyone who worked there for a year.

  A sharp whistle snapped Billy’s eyes to the right where a long, low garrison style house stood back a little further than the others. The windows on the home seemed darker than the other buildings, but Billy knew it was only his imagination.

  I hope it is, he thought.

  “We’re almost there,” Denise said.

  “Copy,” Billy replied, eyes flicking back to the problem lamp. He had drawn the proverbial short straw. When they reached the streetlamp, he would have to sling his weapon, find the cut off valve at the base and stop the gas flow.

  Which would mean only Denise would have her weapon at the ready.

  Relax, Billy told himself, she’s a dead shot with that thing.

  “You know the drill, Billy,” Denise said. “We’ve done it a hundred times before.”

  And they had.

  Outside of the Village.

  “Go,” she said.

  Billy slung his weapon, sank to his knees and spotted the cut-off valve.

  Sighing with relief, he twisted it to the left and then Denise said, “Contact.”

  A split second later the roar of the shotgun filled the air.

  Billy was up, weapon ready, searching for a target.

  There were plenty.

  He counted at least twenty of the dead, all moving in front of their homes, drifting into the street and circling them. Billy shrugged his shoulders, an unconscious habit he had picked up in Afghanistan. The body armor, designed to protect them from the dead, shifted into a slightly better position, and he picked a target.

  A tall man in a stovepipe hat who reminded Billy of Abraham Lincoln, whistled as he strode towards them.

  Billy pulled the trigger, and the ghost vanished.

  “Slow is smooth, and smooth is fast,” Denise said, reciting the old firing maxim. She fired a second time, and then Billy did as well.

  Together, they walked cautiously back to back in a slowly revolving circle, constantly moving toward the gate. The guards there had their weapons at the ready, waiting to cover the two when they were close enough.

  A rock came hurtling out of an alley between two buildings and struck Billy’s visor, shattering it.

  He let out a string of curses and felt pieces of the broken glass embedded in his skin. There was no sight in his left eye, and when he moved it, Billy could feel something grind against his orbital socket.

  “Billy!” Denise snapped. “You good?”

  “Copasetic,” he hissed through clenched teeth. He fired off three quick shots and longed to hear the clang of the gate opening.

  But he knew he wouldn’t. Not until the situation was under control.

  Opening the gate would break the link of the iron fence, the only barrier keeping the stronger members of the Boss’s collection of ghosts in the Village.

  Another rock came out, slammed into the side of his helmet and forced him to stagger.

  Then the dead were there, around them.

  Several attempted to grab hold of Billy, but the fibers in his uniform and body armor sent them back to their homes.

  He and Denise fired their weapons, the gate less than 50 feet away. Billy could see the headlights of vehicles racing up the road while the guards at the gate used their shotguns on the dead.

  The dead man in the stovepipe hat reappeared, and in his arms, the ghost carried a little boy, no more than five or six.

  And then the dead man threw the child at Billy Horn.

  ***

  The dead child seemed to vanish into the opening of the guard’s helmet.

  Marcus winced at the shriek that exploded out of the man, the guard dropping his shotgun and reaching up to his face. The man clawed at his helmet, fell to the cobblestones and writhed there. His partner fired several more times, grabbed the man by the drag handle attached to the back of his body armor and worked backward toward the gate, firing at any of the dead who got too close.

  When they were close enough to the gate, the guards on the other side increased their rate of fire, and the downed man’s partner dropped to one knee.

  Marcus watched as something was taken out of a pocket, opened, and shaken out over the wounded man’s face.

  The injured man went limp instantly, and moments later, the dead boy who had vanished into the man’s body, reappeared near the dead man in the stovepipe hat.

  And then the dead were gone.

  The firing stopped immediately, the gate swung open part way, and both guards were removed.

  Marcus watched as they were loaded into a Humvee, and the vehicle raced off before the gate had finished closing. In the sudden stillness, he could hear the changing of magazines and the sound of boots on the steps of the towers.

  Soon, it seemed as though nothing had happened at all.

  ***

  “This is unprecedented, David,” Abel said, standing next to the man. They were in the small antechamber before the operating room of their medical center. The injured guard, a young veteran named Billy Horn, was unconscious on the table.

  “It was a coordinated attack,” David replied, rubbing absently at his jaw. “Or it seemed to be, at least. Will that affect your experiment, sir?”

  Abel considered the question for a moment.

  “It might,” he finally admitted. “If I see that it has, then we will have to take steps to secure them in their homes and only release them on a rotating basis.”

  David nodded.

  Abel watched as the last of the injured man’s clothing was cut away. The medical staff had already put him under and were preparing to remove the multiple pieces of glass in his face.

  “I am hoping there is no permanent damage to his brain,” Abel said after several minutes of silence.

  “So am I, sir,” David agreed.

  “Did you see the extent of the exterior damage?” Abel asked.

  “He’ll lose the eye, sir. Possibly both,” David answered. “He had a significant amount of glass in his face, which doesn’t help, but it seems as though he clawed at the previously uninjured eye when the dead boy was in him. They’ll try to save his cheeks as well. I think he succeeded in swallowing several of his own teeth, however, and he bit off and swallowed the tip of his tongue.”

  Abel winced. “Terrible.”

  David nodded beside him.

  “Yes,” Abel said, “we will watch them tomorrow. Please, work up a rotating schedule on what we know of their lethality.”

  “I will,” David replied. “Would you like me to drive you back to your residence, sir?”

  “No,” Abel said. “Thank you, though, David. I am going to stay here. I’d like to see how the young man fares, and I want to make certain someone is here when he awakens.”

  “Sir,” David began.

  Abel shook his head. “No. Go and debrief his partner. If she wants, she is welcome to come and take my place, but only after she has eaten and rested. Or whatever she needs to do before coming here.”

  “Yes, sir,” David said.

  Abel listened to the man leave, then focused his attention on the work the doctors beyond the glass were doing. As he watched, Abel recalled that he had seen Subject B watching the events unfold, and he wondered what effects if any, the scenario had upon him.

  I would imagine, Abel thought with a small smile, they had no effect at all.

  Chapter 42: A Discussion About the Future

  When Marcus returned to the chapel, Maggie was awake, and Alex was sitting beside her.

  As he sat down in a pew across from them, Marcus caught a glimpse of the young woman’s eyes.

  They were haunted, frightened orbs, and they darted about, searching the shadows and then flic
king back to the door.

  An endless loop of paranoid observation.

  “What happened?” she asked in a high, tight voice.

  “Two of the guards entered the village, went to a lamp that had gone out, and then had to fight for their lives to escape.” Marcus shook his head. “It was a terrible sight.”

  “Did the ghosts kill them?” Maggie asked, and Marcus heard the highly volatile mixture of rage and terror in her voice.

  “No,” he answered, attempting to speak calmly. “Both survived, or so I assume. The one attacked by the child, he was transported from the scene. As for the other, I suppose there will be some sort of counseling. It was traumatic to watch such an attack. I doubt it was any better being an actual participant in it.”

  Maggie shrugged, wrapped herself in her sleeping bag and laid down. She rolled over, presenting her back to them, and said nothing else.

  “Alex,” Marcus said, addressing the boy.

  “Yes?” Alex asked with a small, shy smile.

  “I wanted to teach you a little about the ghosts, if you would like to hear it,” Marcus said.

  Alex nodded.

  “First,” Marcus began, “is the significance of two items. Iron and salt. If you strike a ghost with either one, several events can occur. The main one is that the ghost must return to their home, if you will. Although home doesn’t quite cover the situation. You see, for some ghosts, home is where their bones are buried. For others, it is a thing or a place they have bound themselves to.”

  At this, Alex frowned. “Bound, like tied?”

  “Exactly like tied,” Marcus said, grinning. “Now, the houses behind us, they are all haunted houses. The more powerful of the ghosts will have bound themselves to small items. Weaker ones will have themselves bound to a particular house. For our purposes here, we will assume that the majority are attached to small items hidden within the walls of the house. Or the floorboards.”

  Alex’s brow furrowed in concentration.

  “Alright,” the boy said after a minute. “So, is there a way to destroy a ghost?”

  “There are ways,” Marcus acknowledged. “But I don’t believe that we have those at our disposal. We’re lucky in the fact that a fair number of ghosts can be burnt out, if necessary. With someone as strong as the Reverend, we’re going to have to capture and imprison.”

  “How do we do that?” Alex pushed himself into a corner of the pew and looked at Marcus with intense and curious eyes.

  “With certain items, such as lead and salt,” Marcus said.

  The boy’s eyes widened, and a grin spread across his face. “The lead box! Does lead keep the dead trapped?”

  Marcus nodded.

  “And the salt,” Alex continued, then, with a laugh, he said, “It keeps them out, or in! That’s why there are lines over each threshold.”

  “That, young man,” Marcus said happily, “is absolutely correct.”

  “Why are you making a box? Is it for one ghost, is it for many?” Alex asked.

  “It is for the Reverend,” Marcus answered, his voice taking a darker tone. “I don’t want to live in this chapel the entire time we are here, Alex. And, on a more, impractical note, I hate the man and what he did to his wife. For that, I will imprison him.”

  “How do you know so much about ghosts?” Alex asked.

  Marcus smiled at him. “I read a lot as a young man, and when I was a bit older, to tell the truth. And I had some rather unfortunate interactions with ghosts.”

  The boy’s eyes widened. “What happened?”

  “Another time, Alex,” Marcus answered. “I promise.”

  They were quiet for several moments, and then Alex asked another question.

  “What if it doesn’t work?”

  “I don’t know,” Marcus confessed. “I’ve never tried to capture a ghost. I’ve only ever read about it.”

  A heavy silence fell over them as Marcus realized the situation they were in.

  Chapter 43: The Expiration of Time

  Her entire body ached, and the only comparison she could draw was the memory of a car accident from 2012.

  Maggie lay on her back, listening to the soft snores of Alex and the rhythmic breathing of Marcus. She glanced at the dark door which separated them from the ghosts. The nightmares that prowled between the houses and sought to destroy them.

  But they’re not the worst, she thought numbly. The guards are. They wouldn’t save me. But they have to.

  From the center of the little village came two sharp rings.

  The new clock announcing to her that it was two in the morning.

  She had heard it strike one, and she knew she would hear it when it was time for three.

  Maggie wouldn’t sleep another night, not in this experiment. Not in a chapel in the middle of a graveyard.

  She sat up, put her sneakers on and walked to the door on light feet. Easing it open inch by inch, she divided her attention between the graveyard and her companions.

  Marcus and Alex remained asleep as she opened the door wide enough to slip out.

  Goodbye, she thought, gently closing the door behind her. I’m sorry. I can’t stay.

  Over her hours of contemplation, Maggie had realized her mistake.

  I should have gone right to the gate, she thought, and it was what she planned on doing. They would let her out if she was by herself. She knew it deep within, and that realization put a lightness in her step.

  At first, she crept among the headstones, but when she reached the last marker, she sprinted towards the gate.

  The guards weren’t in their towers. Instead, they stood at the gate, and as soon as she stepped off the cobblestones, they trained their shotguns on her.

  “Subject C,” one of them said in a commanding tone, bringing her to a sharp stop, “you will turn around, and remain within the experiment. Do you understand?”

  Recalling the painful non-lethal rounds that had been fired at her, she nodded, swallowed dryly and took a step back onto the street. The guards lowered their weapons, but they didn’t walk away from the gate.

  Forcing a smile, Maggie said, “It’s okay. I know you have to keep the boys in, but you can let me out.”

  “Subject C,” the first said again, his voice slightly distorted, “you are not to leave the Village. I would advise you to return to your place of safety and await the daylight.”

  “It’s not safe out here,” the second said, the voice coming through more feminine than masculine. “They’ve been out all day. You need to get under cover.”

  The first hesitated, then nodded.

  “No,” Maggie said, smiling, “it’s okay. It really is. I know you can let me out. That only one of us can leave. I know! So, come on, let me out!”

  The female guard seemed ready to add something, but her male counterpart cut her off.

  “Subject C, you need to run. Run now,” the man said, bringing his shotgun up and aiming at an object behind her. The woman did the same.

  “Please,” Maggie whispered.

  “Run!” the woman commanded.

  Maggie almost did so, but she turned around and looked instead.

  A man dressed in the clothes of a preacher or minister smiled at her, the starlight glowing dimly through him.

  “Your friend has stolen my wife,” the man said, giving her a short bow. As he straightened back up, the dead man grinned and whispered, “Run.”

  Maggie ran.

  Her lungs filled with oxygen and her stomach recoiled at the effort, but she pushed through it. She could see the small graveyard and the isolated chapel.

  Marcus and Alex were asleep, and she doubted if she had the strength to call out to them.

  I have to run, she thought, desperation pumping through her. If I get there, I’ll be safe.

  She made it to the cemetery, reached the first headstone and felt a swarm of relief that it was over.

  And then a cold hand closed around her shoulder, jerking her off her feet.

&nbs
p; Maggie screamed a loud, brutal sound that caused night birds to take flight beyond the protective ring of the fence.

  “Yes,” the dead man chuckled, dragging her backward, away from the cemetery. “Scream for me. They’ll be here soon enough to help, will they not? Oh aye, I believe they will at that.”

  Maggie’s scream transformed into a shriek of agony as a bitingly cold pain pierced the fabric of her sweatshirt. It felt as though a thousand barbed hooks were being sunk into her flesh, each one catching a nerve ending before pulling up and out.

  She tried to twist out of his grasp, to punch at the fingers or the arm.

  There was simply no way to free herself.

  With that realization, she sagged and went limp as they approached a house.

  “None of that,” the man said with a dry chuckle. “But no worries. I will have you singing soon enough. I hope you believe me because you should. I had years of practice, and so many to work upon. I was, as they say, truly blessed.”

  “Please,” she sobbed.

  “Begging is good,” the dead man said. “Ever so good. To be humble before the Almighty shows great wisdom. But I am His left hand, and never in my life have I been merciful.”

  Maggie let out another scream, and then her voice cracked in the stillness of the night.

  ***

  The hardline phone on his bed table rang sharply and snapped Abel out of a pleasant dream of lectures and book tours on the release of his definitive work on fear.

  Sitting up groggily, he reached out and picked up the receiver.

  “Yes?” Abel asked. His mouth was dry, and he took a drink of water from the glass beside the phone.

  “Sir,” David said, “we have an event occurring.”

  Excitement drove the last bit of sleep from him.

  “Who is it?” he asked.

  “Subject C and the Reverend, sir,” David said. “She made an attempt to leave the compound, and he seized her.”

  “Where are they now?” Abel asked, sitting up and casting off his sheets and blankets.

  “In 114 Broad,” David answered. “He has taken her to the attic.”