by John Russo
Mercifully, Billy did not feel any pain as the first ghoul to reach him stumbled and lunged, falling upon the boy and sinking dead teeth into the soft flesh of his throat. The blood began to flow. Lured by the smell of blood, the rest of the dead things came to satisfy their hunger. Billy was soon dead and being ripped apart.
The truck and the patrol car sped away safely. In the back of the car, Ann and Sue Ellen cried and cried, terrified and helpless in the anguish of grief for which there was no comfort. They did not care if they lived or died, and they knew they would probably not live.
When they reached the highway, both vehicles stopped. Wade took strips of cloth from the trunk of the car and gagged the two sobbing girls. Flack hopped off the bed of the truck, raised the tailgate and secured it, then climbed into the cab next to John Carter.
“The Kingsley estate,” Carter said, and made a right turn onto the highway.
Flack grinned, showing his approval.
The truck ground through its gear-changes and hit a cruising speed. The patrol car followed.
CHAPTER 15
In the living room of the Miller farmhouse, two State Troopers lay on the floor, one tied and gagged, the other wounded in the upper right side of his abdomen, just below the rib cage. The wounded one lay very still, as blood continued to trickle from the hole in his side. Officers Carl Martinelli and Dave Benton had been overpowered and captured by John Carter and his gang of looters after being lured to an ambush by the girl, Angel. She had put on a good act, pretending that her brother had been attacked and badly wounded by several of the humanoid creatures. Fearing that the brother would die and the girl would need assistance in disposing of the body, Troopers Benton and Martinelli had driven with Angel in their patrol car to an isolated farmhouse where Carter, Flack and Wade Connely took them by surprise and captured them. They were forced to exchange clothes with Connely and Carter, and were tied and gagged while two of the outlaws disguised themselves as State Troopers. The gang had killed the occupants of the farmhouse and robbed whatever was of value.
Without taking his eyes off his partner’s inert body, Dave Benton was struggling to free himself. His efforts took the form of trying to stretch and loosen the ropes which bound his wrists, in hopes that he could slip his hands through, but the ropes were so tight that his wrists hurt, and trying to free himself in that way seemed impossible. He ceased his struggles abruptly and, forcing himself to be calm and rational, moved his eyes appraisingly about the room in search of something which could be of help.
The living room door was shut, but not barred. John Carter had wanted the door closed in hopes of delaying the creatures outside and saving the victims inside for a more ironic fate. Through cracks between the planks of the boarded-up windows, Dave Benton could see that fire still blazed in the front yard; he supposed that because of the fire the flesh-eaters had so far not mounted a concerted attack against the house. Dave knew the attack would come; it was merely a matter of time—time for the dead things to get hungry enough, for the fire to die down, for the things to lose their fear. Dave did not know that some of the creatures had temporarily satisfied themselves on the flesh of the boy, Billy, who had been tossed from the bed of the truck to appease the ghouls while Carter’s gang made good their escape.
Dave had to free himself somehow so he could replace the beams in the brackets on the door and tend to his partner’s wound before the worst happened. He had hope that his partner would not die. He’d had experience with gunshot wounds and the loss of blood did not seem too great and he knew if no vital organs were damaged, first aid could accomplish a lot and Carl could be gotten to a hospital. A shudder went through Dave when he thought of what would happen if he could not get free and Carl did die and came back as one of the flesh-hungry ghouls. Dave did not know of the danger upstairs, in what had been Bert Miller’s bedroom; he knew something had happened to Angel but he didn’t know what.
There did not seem to be anything in the living room sharp enough to cut rope. There was a mirror over the fireplace, and Dave tried to think of a way to break it. Maybe he could get to his feet and manage to hit the mirror with something heavy. No, this did not seem workable; the mirror was too high, and Dave’s movements were very limited because of the way he was tied. He figured he could crawl to the kitchen and try to get a knife out of a drawer.
At that moment, Carl Martinelli moaned and raised his head off the floor.
Dave stared at his partner, wishing he could say something to his friend.
Carl moaned again, clutched at his wound, and allowed his head to fall back onto the floor.
Dave was very relieved that his partner was still alive and had regained consciousness. Carl’s eyes were open, and he was breathing heavily, obviously in pain. Dave could do nothing but watch; he could not talk because his gag was too tight; but he knew that if Carl did not die yet and if he kept his wits about him there was hope.
After lying still for a few seconds, Carl pulled his hand away from his wound and looked at the hand stained with blood, staring as if it could somehow tell him how bad his wound was. Dave squirmed around and made sounds in his throat, trying to gain Carl’s attention and help him reorient himself. Carl got an elbow under himself and sat up painfully, staring with glazed eyes at Dave as he rolled around on the floor.
Dave jerked his head a couple of times, and made still more sounds, indicating the unboarded door. Carl looked, understood, and struggled to his feet. He took a few tentative steps, found he could move without keeling over, and slowly went to the door and, after what seemed to be an eternity to Dave, boarded it. Dave watched, assessing his partner’s movements, and feeling a large measure of relief.
Carl turned from the door and felt his wound, unbuttoning his shirt to look. Dave made his deep, throaty sounds again, and Carl realized he had to get his partner untied. The wounded man felt as if he were working in slow motion.
“Slug’s still rattling around inside there,” Carl said. “Hurts like hell. I think it nicked a rib.” His voice sounded weak and unsure at first but got better as he knelt carefully and began to untie Dave and kept on talking. “My head hurts. I fell pretty hard I guess. I think I’ll be okay.” His talking seemed to reassure him that he really was alive.
Carl got Dave’s hands untied and waited while Dave unfastened his own gag and untied his ankles. Dave stood up and rubbed his numbed wrists.
“Sit down,” Dave said. “Lie down, on the couch. We’ve got to find something to get you bandaged up. Boy, am I glad you’re here.”
Carl did as he was told, with Dave helping him to lie down. Carl moaned, his forehead beaded with sweat. “Rotten bastards,” he said. “Heavier slugs would’ve finished me for sure. I’ll get the sons-of-bitches if it’s the last thing I do.”
“I think he shot you with a .32,” Dave said, and his voice trailed off as he rounded the corner and disappeared into the kitchen. He was uneasy about the upper floor and his idea was to arm himself before going upstairs. He rummaged through a drawer in the kitchen cabinet, and found a heavy cleaver and a couple of long knives. He took them out and put them on the kitchen table. Then, under the cabinet, he spotted a tool box and a burlap sack. The sack was filled with heavy iron spikes. Dave opened the tool box and took out a large claw hammer which he felt would make a handy weapon.
Carl propped himself up on his elbow when Dave entered the living room. Dave handed Carl one of the knives so he would not be without protection. Then, holding the cleaver in one hand and the claw hammer in the other, Dave started for the upstairs. He ascended the steps slowly and quietly, not sure of what he would encounter.
At the top of the stairs, standing in the glare of a naked lightbulb, Dave paused. The door to a darkened bedroom was half open. Dave pushed open the door further with his foot, his weapons ready, as light from the hallway spilled into the room. Dave’s heart jumped to his throat. He caught a glimpse of Angel’s remains as the dead thing which had devoured her turned, its face s
meared with blood, and started for the door. Dave held his ground, swung as hard as he could with his claw hammer, hitting the ghoul in the forehead and knocking it back. Dave came at the thing, swinging at it with the hammer and slashing with the cleaver too. The cleaver opened a gash in the dead thing’s throat, the hammer hit its chest, then its head again, and the creature went down. It did not move. But Dave bent over it and smashed its head again and again until it was a bloody pulp.
Dave flicked the light on in the room, and ran downstairs for the bag of spikes.
Once back in the room, he drove a spike into the ghoul’s shattered skull. Then he looked at Angel, wondering if there was enough left of her to rise again. Not daring to take a chance, he bent over her and hammered a spike into her skull. Then he backed out of the room, turned the light off and shut the door. In the hallway, he shuddered, leaning against the wall.
From downstairs came Carl Martinelli’s voice, pained but surprisingly strong. “Dave! Dave! What’s going on up there?”
Shaken and breathing heavily, Dave walked to the top of the stairs to reply. “It’s okay!” he yelled. “One of those things was up here! I finished it off!” He lowered his voice. “It’s what got Angel.”
Carl heard. He stared speechlessly at the stairway, sitting up on the couch. The horror of what their fate could have been swept over him. He clenched his knife, finding that his hand was strong enough to hold it and make it useful for defense. He had not lost so much blood that he was helpless. He could defend himself and survive.
Upstairs, Dave had heard the steady moaning of the girl, Karen. He entered her bedroom which was at the end of the hall. Bathed in perspiration, she was lying flat on her back on the drenched sheets. She seemed delirious, but she looked at Dave. He saw the tears running down her cheeks. “The pains are coming every few minutes,” she said. “My baby is going to be born. Help me, please, whoever you are. Please!” Her voice had a weak, futile sound. Dave let his breath out slowly, pitying her, despairing of his ability to handle the situation. All he knew about the delivery of babies had been learned in a handful of brief childbirth classes he and his wife had attended in preparation for the birth of their son. The son was now two years old. Dave had had a few years to forget the little that he had ever known. “I’m a policeman. A real one—don’t worry. I’ll help you,” he said, trying to sound reassuring. “Can you help, too?” Karen nodded her head and looked at Dave hopefully before he ran down the stairs.
In the kitchen he rummaged in a closet where he found clean white towels and washcloths and a stack of clean sheets. He also found a bottle of antiseptic solution. And a revolver. And a box of ammunition. Excitedly, he snatched the gun into his hand, checked to see that it was loaded, found that it was, and tucked it under his belt. He spotted a denim jacket hanging on a hook, tried it on and found that it fit, kept it on and spilled the ammunition into the jacket pockets. Then he began tearing one of the bed sheets into strips for bandages. This done, he brought the cloth strips and the bottle of antiseptic solution into the living room and looked at Carl Martinelli, who struggled to sit up and began removing his torn and bloody shirt. “I’m going to get you cleaned up and bandaged,” Dave said. “Then you’re going to help me deliver a baby.”
“You’re kidding,” Carl said, wincing as Dave poured the antiseptic onto his wound.
“No, I’m not. The girl’s in labor up there. And her baby’s going to be born.”
Outside, the flames rising from the pile of dead bodies were beginning to die down.
CHAPTER 16
The once-human bodies continued to burn in front of the farmhouse. In the eerie firelit darkness, the ghouls began to converge on the house, approaching by way of the side porch. The humanoids tried to stay as far as possible from the bonfire and concentrated their assault on the boarded-up door and window on that side of the kitchen. Every so often, one of the creatures squinted at the light from the upstairs bedroom. Karen’s screams floated out over the lawn above the grotesque faces of the living dead.
Some of the ghouls had rocks, and held pieces of tree branches which they used awkwardly as clubs. Very quickly the porch light was bashed out and the window pane was shattered. Dead hands reached through shards of glass, beating and pounding on the wooden barricades which had been nailed in place by Bert Miller. When the glass cut into the dead flesh of the attackers, they did not bleed and did not seem to mind their new wounds, though nerves and blood vessels were slashed and severed. Under the onslaught, the barricades were beginning to give.
As frightened as the girl, Carl and Dave worked feverishly trying to assist in a totally unfamiliar task. They mopped her face with cool cloths, let her dig her fingers into their arms as hard as she wanted to in her agony, and sincerely hoped Mother Nature wouldn’t throw them any curves and that it would happen just the way it was supposed to happen. Every few moments, the men’s eyes would leave her face and they would look at each other, both hearing the sounds of the kitchen being ripped apart, yet not daring to leave the bedroom. When it seemed as though the writhing body could stand the pain no longer, Karen gave one mighty cry and her son entered a world of nightmares.
Dave, in a trance, it seemed to Carl, cut the umbilical cord, wiped the tiny crying boy with a clean towel, and the men wrapped the baby gently in another. From what they could tell, the child was healthy. But when they looked over at the bed to attend to Karen, who had been breathing heavily but steadily after the delivery, her eyes stared at the ceiling, her mouth slightly open as if surprised.
Placing the baby on the foot of the bed, Dave passed his palm over her face, and her expression became one of sleep. “Poor kid, I really thought she was going to make it,” he whispered.
“We did our best,” Carl said. “Now what’re we gonna do?” He looked at the baby and looked at Karen. She seemed rather peaceful in death, as though the giving of life made the passing sweeter.
The pounding of the ghouls at the kitchen door downstairs seemed more frenzied, and more frightening. The moans and hammering of the creatures could be heard throughout the house.
“We’ve gotta get out of here!” Dave said. “Those things are breaking in!”
Carl looked at Karen. “Don’t we have to take care of her?”
Dave handed Carl the baby. “I’ll do it,” he said. “But take the baby downstairs.”
Carl left the room, and Dave stood over the dead mother with the hammer and a spike. Resignedly, he lifted the hammer; then, his face tight with emotion, he heavily swung the hammer. The sounds of metal striking metal filled the room. The spike cracked its way into Karen’s skull and was hammered in deeper. The hammer dropped from Dave’s hand and he sagged against the wall, sickened and weak-kneed. When he gathered himself together, he ran from the room.
He half-stumbled down the stairs, caught himself and turned the corner at the landing. He stopped in his tracks. With a splintering sound, the kitchen door broke down and ghouls stepped into the house.
Dave fired once, twice, with the revolver. Loud reports echoed in the room. One ghoul went down. The second one reeled, hit in the chest, then stumbled and fell over the first one’s body. The acrid smell of gunpowder mingled with the foul smell of rotting flesh, as the wounded ghoul thrashed and struggled to get up. Dave dived for the tool box and came up with a flashlight.
Carl had unboarded the living room door and was poised there with a cleaver—and the baby. Dave took the baby and handed Carl the flashlight. “Can you make it?” Dave asked, as the two men steeled themselves to make a break from the besieged house, despite the burden of the newborn baby and the uncertain condition of Carl’s wound. Carl gritted his teeth and nodded his head to show Dave he was ready to give it a good try.
They opened the door cautiously and saw that the front yard was relatively clear. Dave and Carl burst through the doorway and out onto the lawn. Shining the flashlight, they crossed the lawn with its debris of burned and fallen bodies and reached the dirt road. They c
hose a direction and kept running, finding the road clear for the moment since the ghouls had massed themselves for the attack on the house.
Carl moved the beam of the flashlight in the road and spotted a tangle of machinery and wires. He ran, flashing his light on his discovery, then halted in his tracks, breathing heavily and painfully because of his wound. “The generator!” Dave yelled. “It must’ve fallen from the truck!”
“I think I can carry one end of it,” Carl said. “Those trees—near the top of the hill. Let’s try and get it up there!”
They began dragging the generator and its cables, at the same time hanging onto the baby and their weapons. Carl found the going difficult; his wound hurt terribly, but he summoned the strength to go on, and his fear of what might happen if they stopped made him stronger.
Two ghouls appeared suddenly in the bouncing beam of the flashlight. Dave dropped his end of the generator and moved toward the ghouls while Carl kept the flashlight trained on them. The ghouls started to approach, but the light served to blind and confuse them while their heads made easy targets, trapped in the beam of light. Dave blasted each of them down with well-placed shots and watched them crumple to the earth and roll, clutching their faces.