by John Russo
“Somebody dragged the people out of here,” McClellan said. “Look for trampled-down places through the woods. We can probably figure out which way they went.”
Greene stared, dumbfounded. Both he and McClellan had stepped down out of the bus, and Greene was glad to be out of there. He had really hoped they would be heading back up the hill toward the patrol car.
“Get moving!” McClellan snapped at his rookie. “You can’t quit a job in the middle of it. Those people didn’t sprout wings and fly into heaven, like angels. If they’re all dead, sombody moved them. We have to find out where—in case some of them ain’t dead and need help.”
“Looters?” Greene suggested, anxious to show he was thinking, though he was embarrassed by McClellan’s bawling-out.
“Possibly,” the Sheriff conceded. “But if they was scavengers, why didn’t they take all the luggage?” He let his question hang in the air as his eyes searched out a place where it looked as though the woods had been penetrated.
Greene stepped up beside McClellan, and they both drew their pistols. If there was a chance they might actually surprise a gang of looters, they wanted to be ready. They proceeded cautiously, not wishing to be surprised. If there were looters, they might have a look-out lying in ambush.
The two men made their way through some crushed-down weeds toward the surrounding woods. Greene, the young deputy, was alert and strong-looking, if a little unnerved. He was twenty-three years old, tall and handsome in his patrolman’s uniform. McClellan was older by twenty-five years, paunchy but barrel-chested—a little slow and short-winded maybe, but a hard man to knock down. And if he stayed on his feet and got a chance to deliver a punch or two, whoever he hit would be the one to go down. McClellan was wise and slow, like an old bear. Greene, the younger man, had the fine reflexes of youth but was still untried and undisciplined. The knocks and bruises and experiences of years of hard, patient work would come.
The woods had the feel of silence not tempered by man’s presence. When man is nearby, certain animals behave and sound differently, or make no sound at all. McClellan noticed the change in the sounds as he and Greene made their way in amongst the trees; it caused him to sense that if there had been a group of people busy somewhere back in the woods they had probably all fled. Without explaining to Greene, he began to move faster and to worry less about looters or a possible ambush.
It was not hard for the men to track down where the injured—or dead bodies—had been taken. A plainly legible trail of blood, torn clothing, footprints and smashed-down weeds led to the clearing in the woods. McClellan and Greene approached the clearing with caution, pistols ready. Concealing themselves behind trees, they saw that nobody was stirring, and they moved into the clearing. They saw irregular rows of mangled bodies lying flat on their backs, some with spikes driven into their skulls. For a long moment, neither McClellan nor Greene moved or spoke. Then, wordlessly, they moved to the edges of the clearing and skirted it rapidly, sweeping the surrounding trees and bushes with their pistols and their eyes. They saw no signs of the presence of other people, so they put their pistols away and stood silently among the torn and mutilated bodies.
“Check and see if any are alive,” McClellan said finally, and he and Greene went from one bloodied body to another only to find no signs of life.
“Not the work of scavengers,” McClellan said, breaking the grim silence.
“The s-spikes—” Greene managed to stammer.
“Somebody thinks it’s happening again. We must’ve scared them off before they could finish.”
Greene looked questioningly at the Sheriff. “You’re not from here, Greene,” McClellan said. “This area was one of the hardest hit, ten years ago. Remember? The dead had to be burned or decapitated. The brain had to be destroyed. I don’t know if those creatures were really dead or not—not in the usual sense. Nobody knows. But somebody is afraid it’s going to happen again. That’s why there are spikes in the heads.”
Greene blanched. “It can’t happen again,” he said. “It was brought under control. I remember. I was only thirteen years old. We read about it, saw it on TV, and still didn’t want to believe it. There was very little of the disease in my town. But there was some…enough to convince us that it was real.”
“It was real enough,” McClellan said. “Something I try to forget. Want to forget. But it was real, all right.”
“It can’t happen again,” Greene repeated, as though saying it again could make it true because he wanted to believe it.
“I don’t know,” McClellan said. “I hope so. But they never did find out for sure what caused it. Maybe it can come back, like a plague of tentworms or Japanese beetles.” He tried to chuckle, having intended this last comment as an attempt to lighten the moment, but no chuckle came—and the comment just hung in the air.
Greene was still staring at the rows of bodies. He had drawn his pistol again, almost involuntarily, but it stayed at his side, useless.
“Come on,” McClellan said. “You and me have got to snap out of it. There’ll be people here soon—ambulance attendants and probably reporters. Nosy sons-of-bitches. I’ll stand guard here. You go on back to the bus and show the ambulance people where to come.”
It did not escape Greene that the Sheriff had said they must both snap out of it. McClellan was being kind, showing Greene that he was just as rattled as he was and that there was no shame in it. Greene experienced a flicker of closeness and respect for the Sheriff. As he made his way back toward the wrecked bus he called to mind something he had read once which had impressed him upon reading it: the brave man and the coward are both afraid, but the coward runs and the brave man does not.
When Greene got back to the bus, seven or eight ambulance attendants and a doctor had arrived on the scene and had probably been there several minutes. They were milling around, shocked and uncomprehending, asking each other questions none of them could answer. Like the patrolmen, they were more thrown by the absence of bodies than they would have been by a score of mangled and mutilated people. They could deal with corpses or wounded; it was what they had been trained to do. But the absence of dead and wounded in a situation where they had been anticipated stumped the ambulance people and made them feel somehow disoriented and uneasy. The situation made no sense to them and they felt vaguely uncomfortable.
As Greene approached, they looked at him hopefully, expecting that he would tell them what to do.
“This way!” Greene said, pointing back in the woods. “The bus passengers are back there!” Then, lowering his voice, he added, “You won’t need anything but stretchers. No medical supplies. They’re all dead.”
In the distance, scrambling down over the hill from where the bus had broken through the guard rail, Greene spotted an approaching crowd. They were carrying equipment which, when they got closer, he realized were cameras and tripods. News reporters, television and newspaper people were suddenly everywhere and Greene debated for an instant whether or not he should remain by the bus to try to keep the reporters and cameramen corralled there. But he knew they wouldn’t listen. When they found the bus empty, they would follow the ambulance people into the woods. When more police arrived they could cordon off the area surrounding the clearing. But by then it would be too late. The bodies would be on their way up the hill, on stretchers. The reporters would see everything and get the full story. It would make a big splash, frighten people out of their wits and recall the plague that had happened ten years ago.
Greene shrugged resignedly. He knew there was no way to keep the grisly event out of the news. Turning his back on the advancing scene, he started walking toward that terrible scene hidden in the woods.
CHAPTER 5
Excerpt from a Civil Defense broadcast, ten years earlier:
“GOOD EVENING, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. IT IS NOW MIDNIGHT, EASTERN STANDARD TIME. THIS IS YOUR CIVIL DEFENSE EMERGENCY NETWORK, WITH REPORTS EVERY HOUR ON THE HOUR FOR THE DURATION OF THIS EMERGENCY. STAY TUNED TO THIS W
AVELENGTH FOR SURVIVAL INFORMATION.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, INCREDIBLE AS IT MAY SEEM, THE LATEST REPORT FROM THE PENTAGON AND THE PRESIDENT’S RESEARCH TEAM AT WALTER READE HOSPITAL CONFIRMS WHAT MANY OF US ALREADY BELIEVE. THE ARMY OF AGGRESSORS WHICH HAS BESIEGED MANY OF THE EASTERN AND MIDWESTERN STATES OF OUR COUNTRY IS MADE UP OF DEAD HUMAN BEINGS.
“THE RECENTLY DEAD HAVE BEEN RETURNING TO LIFE BY SOME UNKNOWN FORCE AND FEASTING ON HUMAN FLESH. THE DEAD FROM MORGUES, HOSPITALS, FUNERAL PARLORS, AS WELL AS MANY OF THOSE KILLED DURING OR AS A RESULT OF THE CHAOS CREATED DURING THIS EMERGENCY, HAVE BEEN RETURNED TO LIFE IN A DEPRAVED, INCOMPLETE FORM AND THEY HAVE COME BACK AMONG US WITH AN URGE TO KILL OTHER HUMANS AND DEVOUR THEIR FLESH.
“EXPLANATIONS FOR THE CAUSES OF THIS INCREDIBLE PHENOMENON ARE NOT FORTHCOMING FROM THE WALTER READE TEAM, THE WHITE HOUSE OR FROM ANY GOVERNMENTAL AUTHORITY AT THIS MOMENT, BUT SPECULATION CENTERS ON THE RECENT VENUS MISSION, WHICH WAS UNSUCCESSFUL. THAT SPACE PROBE STARTED FOR VENUS MORE THAN A WEEK AGO, BUT THE SHIP SWERVED OFF COURSE AND NEVER ENTERED THE PLANET’S ATMOSPHERE. INSTEAD, IT RETURNED TO EARTH, CRASHING INTO THE ATLANTIC OCEAN. IT CARRIED A MYSTERIOUS HIGH-LEVEL RADIATION WITH IT, THE ORIGINS OF WHICH ARE STILL—WE ARE LED TO BELIEVE—UNKNOWN. COULD THAT RADIATION HAVE BEEN RESPONSIBLE FOR THE EPIDEMIC OF DEATH AND HORROR WE ARE NOW WITNESSING? SPECULATION ON THE ANSWER OR ANSWERS TO THAT QUESTION HAS RUN RAMPANT HERE IN WASHINGTON AND ELSEWHERE, WHILE THE WHITE HOUSE HAS MAINTAINED A CURTAIN OF SILENCE ON SCIENTIFIC THEORIES AND IS ATTEMPTING TO DEAL WITH THIS EMERGENCY ON A RETALIATORY BASIS. THE GOVERNMENT IS ORGANIZING RESISTANCE TEAMS IN THE FORM OF SEARCH AND DESTROY SQUADRONS AGAINST THE AGGRESSORS. THE DETAILS OF THESE MISSIONS ARE NOT KNOWN AT PRESENT. MEETINGS AT THE PENTAGON AND THE WHITE HOUSE HAVE REMAINED CLOSED TO REPORTERS, AND MEMBERS OF THE MILITARY AND CIVILIAN ADVISORS HAVE REFUSED TO CONDUCT INTERVIEWS OR TO ANSWER QUESTIONS POSED BY REPORTERS ON THEIR WAY TO OR FROM SUCH MEETINGS.
I REPEAT: THE LATEST OFFICIAL COMMUNIQUE FROM THE PENTAGON HAS CONFIRMED THAT THE AGGRESSORS ARE DEAD. THEY ARE NOT INVADERS FROM ANOTHER PLANET. THEY ARE THE RECENTLY DEAD FROM RIGHT HERE ON EARTH. NOT ALL OF THE RECENTLY DEAD HAVE RETURNED TO LIFE, BUT IN CERTAIN AREAS OF THE COUNTRY, THE EASTERN SEABORD AND THE MIDWEST IN PARTICULAR, THE PHENOMENON IS MORE WIDESPREAD THAN ELSEWHERE. WHY THE MIDWEST SHOULD BE AN AREA SO GREATLY AFFLICTED CANNOT BE EXPLAINED, EVEN BY THE WILDEST SPECULATION. PERHAPS THE NEARNESS TO OUR COASTLINE OF THE VENUS PROBE’S RE-ENTRY IS A FACTOR. AT THIS MOMENT, WE HAVE NO ANSWERS. PERHAPS WE SHALL NEVER KNOW THE EXACT REASONS FOR THE TERRIBLE PHENOMENON WE ARE NOW WITNESSING.
“THERE IS SOME HOPE, HOWEVER, THAT THE MENACE WILL BE BROUGHT UNDER CONTROL, PERHAPS IN A MATTER OF SEVERAL DAYS OR WEEKS. IT HAS BEEN DISCOVERED THAT THE AGGRESSORS CAN BE KILLED—OR IS IT KILLED AGAIN?—BY A GUNSHOT OR A HEAVY BLOW TO THE HEAD. THEY ARE AFRAID OF FIRE, AND THEY BURN EASILY. THESE BEINGS HAVE ALL THE CHARACTERISTICS OF DEAD PEOPLE—EXCEPT THEY ARE NOT DEAD—AND FOR REASONS WE DO NOT AS YET UNDERSTAND, THEIR BRAINS HAVE BEEN ACTIVATED AND THEY ARE CANNIBALS.
“I HAVE JUST BEEN HANDED A NEW BULLETIN WHICH STATES THAT IT HAS BEEN LEARNED THAT ANYONE WHO DIES FROM A WOUND INFLICTED BY THE FLESH-EATERS MAY HIMSELF COME BACK TO LIFE IN THE SAME FORM AS THE AGGRESSORS THEMSELVES. THE DISEASE, OR WHATEVER IT IS, THAT THESE THINGS CARRY IS COMMUNICABLE THROUGH OPEN FLESH WOUNDS OR SCRATCHES, AND TAKES EFFECT MINUTES AFTER THE APPARENT DEATH OF THE WOUNDED PERSON. ANYONE WHO DIES DURING THIS EMERGENCY SHOULD BE DECAPITATED OR CREMATED IMMEDIATELY. SURVIVORS WILL FIND THESE MEASURES EMOTIONALLY DIFFICULT TO UNDERTAKE, BUT THEY MUST BE UNDERTAKEN ANYWAY, OR ELSE THE AUTHORITIES MUST BE ALERTED TO UNDERTAKE THEM FOR YOU. THOSE WHO DIE DURING THIS EMERGENCY ARE NOT CORPSES IN THE USUAL SENSE. THEY ARE DEAD FLESH—BUT HIGHLY DANGEROUS AND A THREAT TO ALL LIFE ON OUR PLANET. I REPEAT, BODIES OF THOSE WHO DIE DURING THIS EMERGENCY MUST BE BURNED OR DECAPITATED…”
CHAPTER 6
On the screen of the television above the bar, there was coverage of the bus wreck and of the bizarre events which followed. The commentary had been long and sensationaI, the news cameras dwelling unnecessarily, McClellan thought, on the mangled bodies being transported on stretchers from the bloody clearing in the woods. Most of the stretchers were covered and the condition of the corpses could not be seen clearly, but the commentator’s voice filled in the gory details the video was mercifully lacking.
McClellan purposely averted his eyes from the screen. He and Greene had stopped off for a drink, to try and blur some of the day’s images. Both men were completely drained, both physically and emotionally, and needed a quiet place to sit and try and sort out what they had seen. They had chosen this particular place because it was seldom crowded and when they entered the barroom, it was empty of customers as they had hoped. The Sheriff had ordered a shot and a beer, and Greene had followed suit. They downed their shots without a word, neither of them feeling like talking though they were glad for each other’s company and had just picked up their beers when the door to the place banged open and a man entered the dim room. He staggered a little, sizing up the place and its potential for suitable diversion, then walked over to the bar and sat down on the stool next to McClellan.
McClellan tried not to look directly at the man. He did not know him and did not wish to make his acquaintance. He particularly did not wish to be drawn into an inane conversation with a drunk after all he had recently been through. And having the day’s events played back on the television put him even more on edge.
The man was dressed in blue coveralls and was carrying a metal lunchbucket which he slammed down onto the bar while yelling at the bartender to serve him a double-header of Seagram’s 7 and a bottle of Budweiser. Once served, the man quickly downed his whisky and ordered another, then turned his bloodshot eyes to the flickering screen above the bar. While the newscast was in progress, he would belch or snort at passages he found wryly amusing—or would look directly at McClellan as if he expected the Sheriff to belch or snort in agreement. When the belches and snorts got no response, the drunk began to mutter; and when the muttering got still no response, he began to throw in loud comments.
The two policemen were sitting in silence. McClellan tried to keep his head turned toward Greene, in hopes that the drunk would take the hint and keep quiet. But the Sheriff’s eyes darted toward the screen when he heard his own voice, recorded earlier that day during an interview at the scene of the bus accident.
“You tell ’em, Sheriff,” the drunk said, spinning around in time to catch McClellan’s eyes as he glanced at the TV.
“Yeah, yeah,” McClellan sighed under his breath.
Greene looked over and smiled at his partner in an attempt to be sympathetic. He knew the last thing McClellan wanted to do was talk about the afternoon’s events.
The drunk went on talking, slurring his words. “Sheriff, I think them people are right. Let ’em pound the goddamn nails in. Just to make sure, know what I mean?”
McClellan slid off his stool, pulled out his wallet and slapped some bills down on the bar. “Greene, let’s get out of here.”
The bartender came over and counted the money, the drunk shouting after the two lawmen as they went out the door, “It happened before, it can happen again! You seen it, Sheriff. You seen it with your own eyes!”
McClellan and Greene stepped out into the night air and kept walking, both wishing to put some distance between themselves and the saloon. The night air seemed very clear, the black sky illuminated by countless stars. A sparse but steady stream of automobile traffic moved along the street where the two lawmen were walking, the street forming one of the outer boundaries of a small park.
“Let’s get out of here,” said McClellan, walking swiftly. “Will you drop me off at home? My wife has the car.”
They picked their way through traffic and headed toward their patrol car, parked on the outer edge of the park. As they approached the car, Greene suddenly stopped and flung out his arm to stop McClellan. “You hear that?” he asked, staring toward a clump of trees
twenty-five yards away. His voice was barely above a whisper.
They both stood perfectly still, listening. They heard rustling leaves and what sounded like a scuffle—then a muffled female scream. Pulling out their service revolvers, they began to run. They raced into the darkened park and saw three struggling figures, two of which were silhouetted against the star-studded sky as, noticing the men running toward them, they got up to flee. Two men had been grappling with a woman; the interruption had enabled her to get to her feet, but one of the men knocked her down as he tried to make his escape.
“Halt! Police!” Greene yelled.
McClellan fired a warning shot into the air.
Greene, looking down and trying not to trip over the ivy ground cover as they ran deeper into the park, did not see one of the shadowy figures dive into a clump of bushes just as McClellan fired his gun. Greene blinked his eyes, trying to get used to the darkness. He continued to move forward, his revolver drawn.
The woman, still down on the ground, hurt and exhausted, had managed to grab the ankle of her assailant as he tried to escape from the scene and, with the energy that often comes to those during an emergency, she was doggedly holding on. The man was balancing himself on one leg, shaking and kicking his other leg, hoping he could get the woman to loosen her grip. He finally lashed out with a solid kick, his heavy boot heel smashing into the woman’s jaw and, with a loud snapping sound, she went limp, her neck broken.
Greene reached the man at just that moment, leaped at him with a flying tackle, and they both went down heavily, rolling on the ground. The man untangled himself from Greene’s hold and got to his feet, with Greene after him. Suddenly a shot exploded from the bush and Greene reeled, staggered momentarily, and fell.
McClellan immediately fired and hit the man behind the bush, a square shot right in the chest, slamming the man over backwards like a duck in a shooting gallery.