Lakewood Memorial

by Robert R. Best

  She pulled her face away and turned to the others. Park had his rifle pointed at Mr. Paulson. Kristen had her rifle pointed at Park. "Knock it the fuck off!" Angie said, stomping over to Kristen. She snatched the rifle away.

  "Back off, bitch!" said Kristen, tears in her eyes. "His stupid friend killed my husband!"

  "Shut the fuck up or I will shoot you myself," said Angie, stepping back over to the boy. The boy was still caught behind the dryer, but his head and arms were now visible over the top.

  Angie stared at the boy and allowed herself a few seconds to cry.

  "Who the fuck is that?" asked Park.

  "I dunno," said Angie. "Just some kid, I guess." She swallowed, leveled the rifle and fired.

  The boy's head rocked and a large hole appeared in his forehead. His glazed eyes closed and he slumped forward. Dark blood slowly pooled on the top of the dryer.

  She turned and gave the rifle back to Kristen. "This is only for those things." She looked at Park. "Same goes for you. Now come on, we've made enough noise."

  Groans came from both doorways.

  "Dammit!" said Park.

  Angie looked in both directions. Corpses were already stumbling in the way they had come. The groans from the way out were getting closer. She scanned the room quickly.

  "This is it!" yelled Park. "Just keep shooting until the ammo runs out."

  "Then what?" said Kristen as she looked around, panic on her face.

  "Then I finally get my wish," said Park, quietly. Angie was close enough to hear. She ignored it for the time being.

  Her eyes landed on a wheeled cart full of folded white linen. "Here," she said, running over to the cart. She opened the jug of alcohol and dumped all of it onto the linen.

  More corpses from the way they had come groaned and came through the doorway. Angie took out Park's lighter and lit the pile of linens. It burst instantly into flames.

  "Shit!" said Mr. Paulson.

  Angie screamed and pushed the cart into the corpses. The corpses moaned as the cart hit them. The corpses and most of the doorway burst into flame.

  "Crazy bitch!" yelled Mr. Paulson. "We're flammable too!"

  "Not if we run," said Angie, turning for the second door. "Go!"

  All four of them moved to the door. Three corpses came through the other way, blocking them.

  "Shit!" said Park, raising the rifle.

  Angie was out in front, inches from the closest corpse. The corpse, what was left of a dried rotted woman covered in a dirty burial dress, grabbed her. The woman's mouth opened, dry skin ripping and cracking, and she leaned in to bite. Angie fumbled in her smock, found the scalpel, and shoved it into the woman's eye socket. Angie grunted and pushed the scalpel in as hard as she could. The corpse shook, then dropped away from her.

  "Duck!" yelled Park.

  Angie did. Park's rifle went off, the shot flying over Angie's head and into the corpse standing closest to her.

  "Shoot the other one!" she yelled. The remaining corpse, a man covered in yellow and red sores, fell on her, groaning. She rolled over on to her back, trying to push him up. He was heavy and strong.

  "I can't get a shot!" yelled Park.

  "Leave her!" yelled Mr. Paulson.

  Fire was spreading on the far wall. Angie could feel the heat from it. She put her palm on the corpse's forehead. He snarled and bit at her, missing but close. Angie pushed upward with all her might. The corpse's head moved up an inch or two, but that was all.

  "You'll have to do better than that!" yelled Park.

  "Fuck the stupid bitch!" yelled Mr. Paulson. "We're going to burn to death if we stay!"

  Angie heard Mr. Paulson's wheelchair start to move. She heard it whir toward the door. From the corner of her vision, she saw one of his wheels move past her.

  "Get back here!" yelled Park.

  The wheel of Mr. Paulson's chair crunched over the leg of the corpse atop Angie. "Shit!" said Mr. Paulson, trying to swing the chair the other direction. He connected with the corpse's thigh, knocking it to the side and off of Angie.

  Park's gun rang out. The corpse flew back a few feet and landed on its back, head destroyed.

  Angie stood and glared at Mr. Paulson. She looked at the fire. It was spreading badly.

  "Okay, now let's go!" yelled Park.

  "Not yet," said Angie. She moved to a wall next to the washing machines. "I hate to admit it, but Mr. Paulson's right." She pulled a fire extinguisher from the wall and moved to the fire. She pulled the pin and emptied the extinguisher into the flames. In a few seconds the flames died down and stopped.

  "We don't want the place burning down before we get out," she said, moving to drop the extinguisher. The dried corpse of the woman, the one with the scalpel buried in her eye socket, stirred. She moaned and began to sit up.

  "Shit," said Angie. She stepped over to where the corpse was struggling to right itself. She hoisted the extinguisher over her shoulders and threw it down at the corpse's head. The head imploded, sending dried skin and dust flying. The corpse fell down again and stopped moving.

  Angie looked back at the others. She undid her belt and removed a jug of alcohol. She tied the belt back and took out Park's lighter.

  "Now we can go."

  Twenty-Four

  Maylee slammed on the brakes. The car jerked forward, then rocked back. Dalton yelped and tugged at the seat belt dug into his shoulder.

  "Damn it, your driving sucks, Maylee," he said.

  "Be quiet," said Maylee. She was gripping the steering wheel and looking out at the junction they'd just come to. She hated that she had to move the seat so close to reach the pedals. "Which way to the good bridge?" she said.

  "What?"

  "You remember. The bridge. The new one."

  Maylee looked both directions. There used to be one quick way to Mom's work from here. An old wooden bridge that tourists would come to look at in the summer. Then one year someone from the government pronounced it unsafe, put a landmark sign on it, and the state had to build a new one. The new bridge was built farther up the same road, crossing the river at a different point. Maylee had ridden to work with Mom dozens of times, first over one bridge, then the other. Now, in the dark and terror and the newness of driving herself, Maylee couldn't remember.

  She turned to Dalton. "The one we won't fall off of and die."

  Dalton looked up and down the road. "How should I know? Mom's the one who drives."

  Maylee sighed and looked again. She looked in the rearview mirror and saw a corpse stumbling up to the car, far away still but visible in the red of her taillights. Time was up. She'd have to choose.

  "Well damn it, I think it's this way," Maylee said, then turned right.

  For several minutes they drove in quiet. Trees went by in the dark, and every so often Maylee was sure she saw a corpse wandering among them. Then the bridge came into view. It was the new one. Maylee sighed with relief.

  Then they drew closer and she noticed the corpses wandering up and down the bridge. Easily a hundred of them. Maybe more. Where had they all come from?

  Maylee noticed their highly decomposed state and their tattered clothes. The old graveyard nearby. This town's full of old graveyards.

  Maylee stopped the car and cursed.

  "What?" said Dalton, then he looked out the window. "Oh."

  "Maybe we can just run over them," said Maylee. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, wondering. There were more of them than she had run over in the garage. Lots more.

  "You sure?" asked Dalton.

  "No of course I'm not sure," said Maylee. "But it's that, the old rickety bridge, or going all the way back and taking the long way around."

  "That would take forever," said Dalton.

  "That's why we're doing this," said Maylee. She gunned the engine and tore for the bridge.

  The nearest corpse turned just as Maylee smacked into it. It flew backward a few feet into the mass of corpses behind it. The car slowed to a stop. The corpses g
roaned and clawed at the car.

  "Crap!" said Dalton. "Try harder!"

  Maylee did. She floored the gas and the wheels spun as they had in the garage. The corpses hissed, their sheer mass keeping the car from moving more than a few feet at a time. One corpse, an old man in a rotted priest's collar, climbed up onto the hood. He scraped yellow fingernails across the windshield, trying to get at Maylee.

  "Screw this," said Maylee. "We'll back up and try again."

  She put the car in reverse and looked behind her. Her chest went tight. The corpses had surrounded the car.

  "Shit," she said, still looking.

  "What?" asked Dalton, turning to look. He gasped and was silent.

  The priest on the hood groaned and pawed at the windshield. Another corpse, a woman in a torn and dirty dress, climbed onto the trunk. She gurgled and tried to bite through the glass.

  "Go! Go!" yelled Dalton.

  Maylee kept the car in reverse and slammed down on the gas. The car lurched backward, moving a few feet. More corpses appeared in back of the car. Maylee cursed and slammed on the gas again. Something under the car went "crunch" and the car was free. It moved faster than Maylee had anticipated and she swerved backward into the guardrail. The corpse on the trunk flew off. The corpse on the hood slammed into the windshield, cracking it slightly.

  "Damn it!" yelled Maylee, wrenching the car into drive. She gave the car gas but it stayed in place. The guardrail creaked and groaned. The corpses began surrounding the car again. The priest on the hood ran his withered hands over the cracked windshield.

  "Maylee..." said Dalton, his voice shaking as he stared at the priest.

  "I'm working on it," said Maylee, pushing the gearshift into reverse and slamming the gas pedal. The car rocked backward. The guardrail creaked. The priest on the hood bit at the glass, his thick drool running down onto the hood.

  "Maylee.."

  "I said I'm working on it!" Maylee shifted into drive and gave the car gas. The engine roared but the car wouldn't move. She could hear the guardrail straining and groaning.

  "Oh crap, Maylee!" said Dalton, a new urgency in his voice.

  Maylee looked up. A new wave of corpses were stumbling onto the bridge. Nearly a hundred of them. They all looked torn and dirty. Some of them barely looked human, more like dried husks. Their skin cracked and split as they moved.

  "Where are they coming from?" said Dalton.

  The priest on the hood pounded on the windshield.

  Maylee nodded at a steeple among the trees on the far side of the bridge.

  "See that old church?"

  "The church?" said Dalton. "These things come from churches?"

  "No, Dalton," said Maylee, pulling the car into reverse and gunning the gas. The car stayed put. "The graveyard behind the church." She put the car into drive and tried again. Nothing. "Who knows how many more there are. We've got to get out of here."

  "No crap," said Dalton.

  The priest on the hood moaned and drooled. The corpses ahead of the car, now growing in numbers, pressed forward. Maylee looked in the rearview mirror. Another corpse, a man with a large portion of his face burnt and blackened, was pawing at the trunk.

  Maylee shifted into park and took her foot off the gas.

  "What the crap are you doing?" said Dalton.

  Maylee reached into the backseat and grabbed the bat. "Stay here."

  She opened the door. The smell of the corpses flooded in.

  "Maylee!" yelled Dalton.

  "Just stay here!" she said, undoing her seat belt and climbing from the car.

  She had little room to move. The car was up against the guardrail. She slid her way clear of the door and shut it. The corpses were everywhere, groaning and reaching at her. The car kept them at bay. For the moment.

  She gripped the bat and sidestepped to the back of the car. The burnt-face man groaned at her.

  "Fuck off," she said, slamming the bat across his head. His head rocked to one side and a chunk of burnt flesh flew off and onto the road behind the car. He fell onto his back, groaning and pawing at nothing.

  Maylee looked down where the car met the guardrail. The bumper had somehow hooked itself onto the metal of the rail. She frowned and whacked the bumper with the bat. The metal bent inward but was still hung on the rail.

  The burnt-face man stood up. His newly-exposed flesh was red and raw. He growled at her, reaching.

  "I said fuck off!" said Maylee, slamming his head again. He groaned and fell back down.

  Maylee whacked the bumper again. The metal crumpled and came free of the rail.

  "Damn right," she said to no one. She turned and looked around. The corpses from the graveyard were close to the car. The priest on the hood was doing his best to climb onto the car's roof. He was reaching for her desperately, clutching at air.

  She sidestepped, quickly as she could, back to the door. She opened the door and slid back in, tossing the bat into the backseat.

  "What the crap!" said Dalton.

  "Not now," said Maylee, closing the door. She pulled the car into reverse and turned the wheel hard to the right. She gunned the gas and the car lurched free of the guardrail and into the middle of the bridge. She heard crunching and squishing and knew they were corpses.

  The priest on the hood groaned and slid off the car, smacking his head on the windshield on his way down. The glass cracked a little more.

  "Go go go!" said Dalton.

  Maylee straightened the wheel and gunned the engine. The car sped backward, bouncing as it hit the road and was free of the bridge. For a panicked moment Maylee lost control of the car as it rocketed backward.

  "Shit!" she said, slamming on the brakes. The car spun in the road and they both screamed.

  The car came to a halt longways across the road. The back tires were very close to a ditch.

  "Dammit!" said Dalton. "Your driving sucks, Maylee!"

  Maylee ignored him and looked over at the bridge. It was now choked so thick with corpses there was no way they'd get across it.

  "Shut up," she finally said, pulling the shifter into drive and turning the car to face away from the bridge. She took one last look at the bridge, then sped away.

  "Looks like we have to try the old bridge," she said.

  Twenty-Five

  Angie walked down the hall as quietly as she could. Park was behind her doing the same. Kristen and Mr. Paulson were behind Park. Kristen looked up and down the hall, saying nothing. Mr. Paulson had his chair on the lowest setting, moving slowly and quietly.

  Angie slowed to a halt as they approached a doorway to their right. The doorway to the hospital chapel. It was open and Angie could hear groaning. She held up a hand and the others stopped.

  "Fuck," whispered Park. "More?"

  Angie leaned forward and looked into the chapel. A group of corpses knelt near the altar. They were facing to one side, chewing on something on the floor. Angie saw bare legs and the bottom of a hospital robe. The rest was hidden behind a pew. Blood covered the bare legs.

  "Yeah," whispered Angie. "More."

  "Shit on this," whispered Mr. Paulson. "Just shoot them and let's go."

  "We've been over this, dick-neck," whispered Park. "We don't have enough ammo for that."

  "They're looking the other way and they haven't heard us," whispered Angie. "Let's just get past them and go. The cafeteria's just up ahead."

  "Oh good," whispered Mr. Paulson. "I was hoping for some more of your fuck-awful food"

  "Now, Dad," whispered Kristen. Her voice, even in a whisper, sounded hollow.

  Angie said nothing, looking back into the chapel. The corpses still had not noticed them. She nodded to the others and they moved forward. They slowly and quietly crept past the doorway. The only sounds were the groaning of the feeding corpses and the soft whir of Mr. Paulson's chair.

  A few steps later and they were clear of the room. Angie relaxed a little but stayed slow and quiet. They all made their way farther down the hall.


  Eventually, the hallway opened into the cafeteria. Two rows of long tables ran along the center of the room, with several chairs at each one. At the far end of the room was another door, opening back into the hallway.

  "Okay," said Angie, stepping over to the nearest table. "We can take a second to regroup." She set down the half-empty alcohol jug and undid the belt holding the remaining full ones to her waist.

  She looked over at Park. He was taking his rifle off of his shoulder and looking around. She stepped over to him and spoke softly. "What did you mean earlier?"

  He frowned at her. "What?"

  "You said something about getting your wish if we ran out of ammo and died."

  He looked around and rubbed his stubble. "You heard that?"

  "Yeah," said Angie. "And we don't need that kind of..."

  "Look, I didn't really mean you. Or them. I meant me."

  Angie frowned.

  "Listen," said Park, quietly. "Before we came here, before I brought Moe to the hospital I mean, I was planning on killing myself."

  Angie blinked.

  Park nodded. "Probably would have used this very same fucking rifle to do it, too." He shook the rifle in his hand and set it down on a nearby table.

  "Why didn't you?"

  Park shrugged. "Got distracted."

  Angie looked down at the floor and chuckled. "You know, before tonight I would have asked you why anyone would want to do such a thing. Now I almost have a hard time understanding why someone wouldn't."

  Park smirked at her and she smirked back.

  "So why do you keep going?" she asked.

  "I honestly don't know."

  Park dug a box of ammo from his hunting jacket. He gave the box a little shake and cursed. "I'm damned near out."

  "Same here," said Kristen, following Mr. Paulson as he wheeled his chair over to where Angie had set the jugs of alcohol.

  "We'll just have to be smart," said Angie, stepping over to Mr. Paulson.

  "Can't be something you're not, honey," muttered Mr. Paulson.

  "Dad," said Kristen, quietly. "Hush."

  Mr. Paulson whirled the chair around to face Kristen. "Stop telling me to hush! Have you stopped for a second to consider how roundly fucked we all are? We've got the hillbilly, the maid, the cripple and you. And what the fuck have you ever been good for? You couldn't even put your goddamned husband out of his goddamned misery!"