Undead

by John Russo

  George gave a snort, which was intended to pass as a laugh, and stepped aside, disappointed that he could not think of a wisecrack to hurl back at McClellan. Instead, he said, “I checked the guards. Five of the bastards were asleep.”

  “You’re kidding,” McClellan said, shoving himself away from his map table as though he would stomp out and crucify the five men.

  “Yep,” George said.

  He meant, yep, he was kidding. He chuckled, and this time McClellan was the one who merely snorted.

  “All the guards are posted,” George said. “I made them take black coffee to stay awake.”

  “If any of those things get into this camp with these men in sleeping bags—”

  “A lot of them are keeping pistols in their sleeping bags with them. And the ones that don’t have pistols are keeping their rifles or machetes close by.”

  “We ought to keep the fires going,” McClellan said. “Tell the next change of guards to keep feeding the fires all night.”

  “Okay,” George said. “But I already thought of it. I was going to tell them anyway.”

  McClellan snorted, as though George couldn’t possibly think of such a concept on his own.

  “You’re just pissed off because you didn’t think of it first,” George said, and he pulled up a field chair and sat down a few feet from the table. “Am I sitting in your light?” he asked, with a tone of mock sarcasm.

  “Why don’t you go get yourself a cup of coffee?” was McClellan’s only reply—as though he was suggesting it merely to get rid of George.

  “Did you get any?” George asked.

  “Nope. I don’t want it to keep me awake.”

  “You’re gonna be snoozing like a big panda bear, while these men are standing watch and I’m out half the night checking the guards.”

  “If you were capable of the brain work, I’d hand it over to you,” McClellan said, kidding. “Then you’d be the one to sleep. As it is, I’ve got to keep my mind fresh so this organization doesn’t fall to pieces.”

  “Hah! That’s a good one!” George exclaimed. “If it wasn’t for me doin’ the shit-work, these men would all be playin’ cards or shootin’ marbles—”

  “I want everybody out of their sacks at four-thirty,” McClellan broke in, in a serious tone.

  “What?”

  “Four-thirty. We’ve got to break camp and be on the move soon as we can see to navigate. Any time we spend screwin’ around could mean somebody else dead.”

  “How much you figure on doin’ tomorrow?”

  “I got ten farmhouses I’d like to cover before noon. You can take a look at the map and see which ones. If we get that far, we’ll break for lunch. We can radio ahead and let them know where we’re gonna be.”

  George bent over the map and peered at it. The farmhouses that the sheriff intended to cover, marked in red, were back off a road shown on the map as a two-lane blacktop. The field where the posse was presently camped lay about two or three miles south of the blacktop road, and they had been marching in its direction all the previous day, advancing generally toward it with digressions as squads of men branched out in flanking movements to cover scattered dwellings before returning to the main body of the posse.

  McClellan lit a cigarette and dragged on it, while George scrutinized their previous route and sized up the one that lay ahead.

  The last house in their anticipated line of march was the old Miller farm, where Mrs. Miller—if she was still alive—lived with her grandson, Jimmy, a boy eleven years old.

  “We ought to send out a separate patrol to get to this place,” George said, pointing to the red X that marked the Miller farm on McClellan’s map. “I know Mrs. Miller. She’d be pretty helpless. She and her grandson are all alone out there.”

  “We should be there before noon,” McClellan said. “If they ain’t dead already, they should be all right.”

  “I’m going to get me some coffee,” George said. “Then I’m gonna rustle the second round of guards out of their sacks.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Surprisingly, considering the violence of the explosion, the truck stopped burning rather quickly. It had not had much gasoline in it, and when that was gone there was very little about the truck that was combustible. Just the seats and the upholstery. And the human bodies inside.

  The metal, with its paint charred and blistered, cooled rapidly in the night air.

  And the ghouls came forward, slowly at first, and clustered around the truck. The smell of burning flesh drew them closer. But the hot metal at first prevented them from attaining what enticed them and was so near to their grasp.

  When the metal was cold as death and smoke no longer curled from the ruins of the truck, the flesh-eaters moved in like vultures.

  Tom and Judy could not feel their limbs being torn from their dead bodies. They could not hear bones and cartilage being twisted and broken and separated at the joints. They could not cry out when the ravenous ghouls ripped out their hearts and lungs and kidneys and intestines.

  The ghouls fought among themselves, clawed and struggled with each other for possession of the once living organs; then, when possession was asserted, they went off—each to hover alone in near-privacy, except for other hungry ghouls looking on—to devour whatever organ or piece of a human body the lucky ones had managed to claim. They were like dogs, dragging their bones off to a corner to chew and gnaw, while other dogs looked on.

  Several of the ghouls, in search of a comfortable place to eat where they would not have to defend their meals from one another, found refuge in the darkened front lawn of the old farmhouse, under the big silent trees.

  There they waited patiently and watched the house—and ate, while the sound of teeth biting and ripping into dead human flesh and bone filled the night air. And, constantly, there was the rasp of crickets and the rasp of the heavy breathing of dead lungs mingling with the other night sounds.

  CHAPTER 12

  Inside the house, the mood was one of hopelessness and despair. Barbara was once again sitting on the sofa, her vacant eyes staring into space. Harry was sulking in a corner, his head slung back in a rocking chair that creaked every time he moved, which was not very often; his face was swollen; he was holding an ice-pack against his eye. His other eye, like a wandering sentinel, followed Ben who was pacing about the room; when Ben’s pacing took him to the kitchen, or to some area out of Harry’s sight, the good eye nervously relaxed a little. Ben’s movements made virtually the only sound in the room, other than the occasional creaking of Harry’s rocking chair.

  Ben was checking the defenses, by force of habit rather than hope, while his rifle remained slung on his back. With the failure of the escape attempt, he had allowed himself to become almost totally dejected; he felt as powerless as the others who were imprisoned in the house with him. He could not think of what to try next in order to escape, yet he knew that in time they would all be doomed if they stayed put. Harry continued to watch with his good eye, while Ben paced from door to kitchen to window; he started to go upstairs, stopped, checked himself, went to the door again.

  Suddenly, there was a noise on the cellar stairs and Helen entered the living room. “It’s ten minutes to three,” she said, to no one in particular. “There’ll be another broadcast in ten more minutes.”

  Nobody said anything.

  “Maybe the situation has improved somehow,” Helen said, without feeling much of a basis for it.

  “You or Harry had better get downstairs and maintain a watch over your kid,” Ben said.

  “In a little while,” Helen said, after a long pause. “I want to watch the broadcast first.”

  Ben looked at her, as though to give her an argument, but he held his tongue; he was too tired and depressed to haggle with anybody. He only hoped the little girl didn’t die while they were all watching the television.

  Turning his back on the people in the room, he peeled back the curtain and peered through the window of the barricaded fr
ont door. Suddenly his eyes widened with fear and revulsion, but he continued to watch for a long time. There were many ghouls lurking in the shadows of the trees. Some of the things were out in the open, much nearer the house than they had dared come before. The remains of the charred bodies of several ghouls felled during the escape attempt were dimly apparent on various parts of the lawn; for some as yet unaccountable reason, the flesh-eaters never bothered to devour one of their own; they preferred fresh human meat.

  And some of the ghouls had what they wanted, for Ben’s eyes were fastened on a truly grisly scene; at the edge of the lawn, in the moonlight, several ghouls were devouring what had once been Tom…and Judy. They were ripping and tearing into pieces of human bodies…ghoulish teeth…biting into human arms and hands and fingers…sucking and chewing on human hearts and lungs. Ben stared…fascinated…and repulsed…

  With a convulsive movement, his fingers released the curtain as he spun around, badly shaken, and faced the others, beads of perspiration on his forehead.

  “Don’t…don’t…none of you look out there,” Ben said, holding his stomach to keep from gagging. “You won’t like what you see.”

  Harry’s good eye fastened on Ben and watched him, satisfied and contemptuous to see the big man weaken. Ben moved for the television and clicked it on.

  Barbara’s scream pierced the room. Ben jumped back from the television. She was on her feet, screaming uncontrollably.

  “We’ll never get out of here…None of us! We’ll never get out of here alive Johneeee! Johneee!…Oh! Oh…GOD…None of us…None of us…Help…Oh God…God…!”

  Before anyone could move to her, she choked up as suddenly as she had begun and slumped, sobbing violently, to the couch, her face buried in her hands. Helen tried to soothe her, but great sobs came wracking from deep within. As she grew gradually quiet, the sobs diminished and stopped, but she remained slumped on the couch, her face covered with her hands. Helen pulled the overcoat over her, but the action seemed so futile—Barbara made no reaction whatsoever.

  Ben allowed himself to sink very slowly into a chair in front of the TV. Harry’s good eye went from Barbara to Ben; his eye fastened on the gun, which Ben lowered butt first to the floor and leaned across his legs. His arm through the fringed sling. Ben maintained his grip on the forepiece. Harry watched.

  Helen bent over and placed her hand tenderly on Barbara. “Come on, honey…come and talk to me. It’ll make you feel better.”

  But Barbara made no response. Helen sat down on the other end of the sofa.

  Ben remained transfixed before the TV; he was lost in thought, his mind trying to come up with a solution to their dilemma—there was no more kerosene, no vehicle to escape in, and very little ammunition for the rifle. There was nothing on the TV screen; just a dull glow and low hiss of scanning lines and static—he had turned the set on too early.

  Harry’s good eye was fastened on the gun, the sling wound around Ben’s arm.

  “Where’s your car?” Ben asked, the sound of his voice startling, breaking the virtual silence.

  Harry shifted his eye, trying to make it look as though he had not been looking in Ben’s direction.

  “We were trying to get to a motel before dark,” Helen said. “We pulled off the road to look at a map, and those…things…attacked us. We ran…and ran…”

  “It has to be at least a mile and a half away,” Harry said bitterly, as though it satisfied him to see one of Ben’s ideas thwarted, even at the cost of his own survival.

  “It was all we could do to save Karen,” Helen added.

  “Do you think we could get to the car?” Ben said. “Is there any chance it would be in the clear, if we could break away from this house?”

  “Not a chance,” Harry said, flatly.

  Ben shouted, angrily, “You give up too easy, man! You want to die in this house?”

  “I told you those things turned over our car!” Harry spat.

  “It’s lying in a gully with its wheels up in the air,” Helen said.

  “Well…if we could get to it, maybe we could do something…” Ben conjectured.

  “You gonna turn it over by yourself?” Harry said.

  “Johnny has the keys…keys…” Barbara mumbled under her breath.

  But nobody heard her—because suddenly there was a loud crackle from the television and the picture and sound faded in.

  “GOOD MORNING, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. THIS IS YOUR CIVIL DEFENSE EMERGENCY NETWORK. EASTERN STANDARD TIME IS NOW THREE A.M.

  “IN MOST AREAS AFFLICTED BY THIS…TRAGIC PHENOMENON…WE ARE SEEING THE FIRST SIGNS THAT IT WILL BE POSSIBLE TO BRING THINGS UNDER CONTROL. CIVILIAN AUTHORITIES WORKING HAND IN HAND WITH THE NATIONAL GUARD HAVE ESTABLISHED ORDER IN MOST OF THE AFFECTED COMMUNITIES, AND WHILE CURFEWS ARE STILL IN EFFECT, THE INTENSITY OF THE ONSLAUGHT DOES SEEM TO BE RELENTING, AND LAW ENFORCEMENT AGENCIES ARE PREDICTING A RETURN TO NORMALITY WITHIN THE NEAR FUTURE—PERHAPS—WITHIN THE NEXT WEEK.

  “DESPITE THIS WORD OF ENCOURAGEMENT, HOWEVER, THE AUTHORITIES WARN THAT A STATE OF VIGILANCE MUST BE MAINTAINED. NO ONE IS CERTAIN HOW LONG THE DEAD WILL CONTINUE TO RISE, OR WHAT WERE THE EXACT REASONS FOR THIS PHENOMENON. ANYONE KILLED OR WOUNDED BY ONE OF THE…AGGRESSORS…IS A POTENTIAL ENEMY OF LIVE HUMAN BEINGS. WE MUST CONTINUE TO BURN OR DECAPITATE ALL CORPSES. GRISLY AS THIS ADVICE SOUNDS, IT IS AN ABSOLUTE NECESSITY. DOCTOR LEWIS STANFORD, OF THE COUNTY HEALTH DEPARTMENT, REPEATEDLY EMPHASIZED THIS POINT IN AN INTERVIEW TAPED EARLIER TODAY IN THIS TELEVISION STUDIO…”

  The narrator faded out, as the taped interview faded in Doctor Lewis Stanford, seated behind his desk, was being interviewed by a reporter holding a microphone and wearing a headset.

  “DOCTOR, CAN YOU OR YOUR COLLEAGUES SHED ANY LIGHT ON THE CAUSES OF THIS PHENOMENON?”

  (The doctor fidgeted in his chair and shook his head.)

  “WELL…NO…IT’S NOTHING THAT WE CAN READILY EXPLAIN. I’M NOT GOING TO SAY THAT WE WON’T HAVE AN ANSWER FOR YOU IN THE NEAR FUTURE, BUT SO FAR OUR RESEARCH HAS YIELDED NO CONCLUSIVE ANSWERS…”

  “WHAT ABOUT THE VENUS PROBE?”

  “THE VENUS PROBE?”

  “YES, SIR.”

  “UH…I’M…NOT QUALIFIED TO COMMENT ON THAT.”

  “BUT THAT IS WHERE MOST OF THE SPECULATION HAS BEEN DIRECTED, SIR.”

  “STILL AND ALL, I AM NOT AN AEROSPACE EXPERT. I AM UNACQUAINTED WITH THAT PARTICULAR EXPLORATION ATTEMPT. I AM A MEDICAL PATHOLOGIST—”

  “WHAT LIGHT CAN YOU SHED ON THIS, DOCTOR?”

  “WELL…I FEEL THAT OUR EFFORTS HAVE BEEN DIRECTED PROPERLY. WE’RE DOING WHAT WE’VE BEEN TRAINED TO DO…THAT IS, WE ARE TRYING TO DISCOVER A MEDICAL OR PATHOLOGICAL REASON FOR A PHENOMENON THAT IS WITHOUT PRECEDENT IN OUR MEDICAL HISTORY. WE ARE TREATING WHAT HAPPENED TO THESE…DEAD…PEOPLE AS A DISEASE WHICH VERY PROBABLY HAS A BIOLOGICAL EXPLANATION FOR IT; IN OTHER WORDS, IT IS MOST LIKELY CAUSED BY MICROBES OR VIRUSES PREVIOUSLY UNKNOWN TO US OR PREVIOUSLY NOT A THREAT TO US, UNTIL SOMETHING HAPPENED TO ACTIVATE THEM. WHETHER OR NOT THE VENUS PROBE HAD ANYTHING TO DO WITH THIS IS SOMETHING WE COULDN’T DETERMINE FOR CERTAIN UNTIL WE ISOLATE THE VIRUS OR MICROBE AND GO TO VENUS AND FIND THAT THEY ACTUALLY EXIST THERE.”

  “IS THERE A CHANCE THAT WHATEVER IS CAUSING THIS WILL SPREAD—WILL BE WITH US PERMANENTLY NOW? WILL WE HAVE TO GO ON BURNING OUR CORPSES?”

  “I DON’T KNOW…I DON’T KNOW. IT IS POSSIBLE, HOWEVER, THAT THE DISEASED ORGANISMS WHICH ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS PHENOMENON ARE SHORT-LIVED—THAT IS, THEY MAY ALL DIE OFF IN A SHORT TIME; THEY MAY BE A MUTANT BREED THAT IS NOT CAPABLE OF REPRODUCTION. WE ARE VERY HOPEFUL THAT THIS WILL TURN OUT TO BE THE CASE.”

  “WHAT CLUES HAVE YOU DISCOVERED SO FAR, DOCTOR STANFORD?”

  “OUR RESEARCH IS JUST BEGINNING. EARLIER TODAY, IN THE COLD ROOM AT THE UNIVERSITY, WE HAD A CADAVER—A CADAVER FROM WHICH ALL FOUR LIMBS HAD BEEN AMPUTATED. IN A SHORT TIME AFTER BEING REMOVED FROM THE COLD ROOM, IT OPENED ITS EYES. IT WAS DEAD, BUT IT OPENED ITS EYES AND BEGAN TO MOVE. OUR PROBLE
M NOW IS TO OBTAIN MORE SUCH CADAVERS FOR EXAMINATION AND EXPERIMENTATION—WE HAVE TO ASK THE MILITARY PERSONNEL AND THE CIVILIAN PATROLS THAT ARE OUT IN THE FIELD TO STOP BURNING ALL OF THESE THINGS—TO DEACTIVATE SOME AND BRING THEM TO US STILL ALIVE, SO WE CAN STUDY THEM. SO FAR, WE HAVE NOT BEEN SUCCESSFUL IN OBTAINING MANY OF SUCH CADAVERS…”

  “THEN HOW DOES THIS FIT IN WITH YOUR TELLING PEOPLE THEY SHOULD BURN OR DECAPITATE ANYBODY, EVEN RELATIVES OR NEXT OF KIN, WHO DIES DURING THIS EMERGENCY?”

  “THAT ADVICE STILL HOLDS TRUE FOR THE GENERAL PUBLIC. IF WE ARE TO OBTAIN CADAVERS FOR EXAMINATION, WE WANT TO DO IT IN AN ORGANIZED WAY SO THEY CAN BE HANDLED UNDER STERILE CONDITIONS AND WITH AS LITTLE RISK AS POSSIBLE—BOTH AS TO THE PARTIES INVOLVED AND AS TO THE DANGER OF PROLONGING THIS EMERGENCY. THE PUBLIC IN GENERAL SHOULD CONTINUE TO BURN ALL CORPSES. JUST DRAG THEM OUTSIDE AND BURN THEM. THEY’RE JUST DEAD FLESH, AND DANGEROUS—”

  With this final word from Doctor Stanford, the TV report faded back to the live announcer.

  “THAT REPORT, WHICH YOU JUST SAW, WAS TAPED EARLIER TODAY IN OUR STUDIO. RECAPPING DOCTOR STANFORD’S ADVICE IT IS STILL MANDATORY FOR CIVILIANS TO BURN OR DECAPITATE ANYONE WHO DIES DURING THIS EMERGENCY. IT IS A DIFFICULT THING TO DO, BUT THE AUTHORITIES ADVISE THAT YOU MUST DO IT. IF YOU CANNOT BRING YOURSELF TO DO IT, YOU MUST CONTACT YOUR LOCAL POLICE OR PROTECTION AGENCY, AND THEY WILL DO IT FOR YOU.

  “NOW OUR TV CAMERAS TAKE YOU TO WASHINGTON, WHERE LATE EVENING REPORTERS SUCCEEDED IN INTERVIEWING GENERAL OSGOOD AND HIS STAFF, AS HE WAS RETURNING FROM A HIGH-LEVEL CONFERENCE AT THE PENTAGON…”

  Again the commentator faded out and newsreel footage faded in—

  But, suddenly there was a crash from outside and the lights went out. The screen went blank. The house was submerged in darkness.

  Ben’s voice rang out:

  “Is there a fuse box in the cellar?”