The Hungry Dead

by John Russo

  “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 p
rofit 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.

  CHAPTER 9

  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: CLOSED FOR EASTER. 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.

  CHAPTER 10

  Nancy awoke at four in the morning and could not sleep anymore. Gwen’s supposedly upcoming escape attempt both tormented and tantalized her. If it only worked! But it wouldn’t. Then, again, it might.

  Locked inside the wire cage, Nancy couldn’t picture herself free. The images had no tangibility. She had to fight against giving up. Her mind was mostly a blank. Her life wasn’t passing in front of her. Maybe that meant she wasn’t going to die.

  Gwen was going to try to seduce the brothers, Luke and Abraham. Would such a thing be a mortal sin? If so, it would be on Gwen’s soul, not Nancy’s. Yet Nancy would benefit from it. She hoped. It made her feel guilty when she contemplated some of the saints her catechism classes taught her to revere: the ones who had allowed themselves to be butchered rather than giving in to sexual intercourse.

  She had made a good confession, finally, after two years. She was in a state of grace, almost, providing stealing the groceries could be thought of as a venial sin. Maybe God had inspired her to get ready and purify her soul. But she was still scared to die, even knowing she would go to heaven.

  She tried to think positively, as Gwen had urged. But in the confines of the cage this was difficult. Wild, panicky thoughts kept tumbling through her mind. Either the situation was truly hopeless, or else the numbness of fear made it seem so. Not one idea conducive to escape occurred to her.

  Her ears perked up as she heard someone’s footsteps on the stairs. Cynthia came into the living room and stopped in front of Nancy’s cage, casually reaching out and resting her hand on the wire. Nancy’s eyes widened. Cynthia was wearing a pink satin robe and appeared fresh and well rested, as if nothing disturbing was going on. She even smiled and then said, “Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” Nancy replied, her voice breaking to a tiny croak as the automatic response issued from the depths of her conditioning, shaking her with a small shock wave of irony and dismay.

  “Breakfast will be ready soon,” said Cynthia quite pleasantly. With that, she strode through the dining room and into the kitchen and began banging pots and pans.

  Gwen’s sudden whisper startled Nancy. “Fucking bitch!” Gwen said under her breath.

  “I didn’t know you were awake,” Nancy whispered back.

  “In a little while you’ll smell eggs, toast, and coffee,” said Gwen. “But we won’t get any. Luke, Cyrus, and Abraham will come down and they’ll all have a nice hearty breakfast and a friendly chat. When they’re done they’ll give us some bread and cheese. Then they’ll let us out to do our business. That’s when our big chance will come. I was afraid to try it yesterday on my own. But now I have you to help. One of us might get away—or both of us, if we’re lucky.”

  “I’m still scared,” Nancy said. “I’m not sure what to do.”

  Gwen eyed her shrewdly, trying to instill confidence. “When the right moment comes, don’t hesitate—make your move. Grab a stick or a rock. If you could play up to one of the brothers beforehand, that would double our chances of getting hold of a gun.”

  “I don’t think I could stand to have them touch me,” Nancy said.

  “You’re going to wait till they do worse?” Gwen challenged.

  The three brothers clomped down the stairs. Luke and Abraham went directly into the dining room, but Cyrus lingered around the cages, leering and giggling and jabbing with his fingers—poking the girls from one side to another in their wire cells. Luckily, he didn’t have his knife.

  “Cyrus!” Cynthia called. “You come in and eat while it’s hot!”

  He gave a few final po
kes, gleefully waddling around the side of Nancy’s cage on his way into the dining room, where he dragged a chair across the carpet and sat down.

  “Hotcakes instead of eggs today,” Gwen said in a whisper. “How could anything that black-haired bitch touches smell so good?” Cursing was her way of boosting her courage.

  Nancy lay flat on her back, staring up through wire mesh, trying to get over the stomach-churning anxiety of the recent torment from Cyrus. Turning toward Gwen, she asked, “Do they ever let the dumb one have the keys?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. Why?”

  “I guess he’d be the easiest one to trick.”

  “You know it and they know it,” Gwen said.

  A lively conversation ensued around the breakfast table. Nancy and Gwen could hear everything but could not see the participants because of the placement of their cages. They had to peer through the dining room archway on a sharp angle, the view further obstructed by their lowness to the floor and the intervening aspects of large pieces of furniture. Cynthia was giving instructions. When she spoke the three brothers listened.

  “When you’re done with the two in there, Luke and Abraham, you go on out and fetch a third one to keep them company. Mama expects there to be three. Cyrus, you needn’t go along. You have your work to do, sweeping up the chapel and polishing the pews. Don’t dawdle about it. People will be coming in tomorrow and expecting the usual thorough preparations. Most of them will be checked into motels in town. A few will stay here at the house. We’ve got to be congenial and accommodating at all times, just like Mama said.”

  “She wasn’t mad at me last night,” Luke said. “What happened with that other girl wasn’t none of our fault.”

  “Be that as it may,” said Cynthia, “we have got to have three, come hell or high water, tomorrow.”

  There was a racket of chairs being pushed back from the table, and then Luke and Abraham came into the living room. Cyrus pushed in behind them but Cynthia yelled for him to go on out the back door with his broom and get to work sweeping the chapel. Luke and Abraham both had the pistols they had taken from the deputies. Taking a ring of keys out of his pocket, Luke said, “Goin’ to take you out in the field now to relieve yourselves. Don’t want you lettin’ go in here. Afterward, we’ll lock you up again with somethin’ to eat and drink. Behave yourselves now—or you don’t have nothin’ at all to eat.”