by Steve Wands
Davis helped pull Angus to his feet. He was as white as a ghost, and with good reason. He clutched at his arm and handed Davis the gun he had lent him.
"Here's your fucking gun," he said grimly.
Davis took the weapon and looked it over quickly. "You left the safety on," he said defeated, upset knowing the man was as good as dead.
"Figures," Angus replied bitterly.
Keith and Jones made quick work of the last few deaders. The small area was thick with gun smoke, cordite and rot. It followed them as they made their way back out of the building. Once they reached the loading dock Topher began searching through the receiving desk. After a brief moment he found a ring of keys and held them up triumphantly.
"What's that?" Davis asked.
"Keys to one of the repair trucks, I hope."
Davis nodded. With all the gunplay he'd nearly forgotten what he had set out to do. He had only wanted to get out of the building and stop the ringing in his ears.
Frankie led them out of the building. He was startled by the darkening evening sky and cool breeze. They'd been in that room most of the day, leaving them tired, hungry, and feeling like they had just been robbed.
Topher tried the keys in several of the repair trucks before one of them roared to life. He laughed with excitement and slapped the steering wheel hard. Davis smiled.
***
They followed Topher around the outskirts of town, looking for what could be the cause of the power outage. They drove slowly down the desolate streets. It was getting dark and they didn't want to pass by whatever it was that was preventing New Haven from having electricity. As they drove past a deer carcass lying by the side of the road Topher expected it to get back up and try to eat him. Fortunately it didn't.
By luck, or the grace of God they came across a telephone pole. It leaned slightly toward the opposite side of the road on a splintered base. Half in the road and wrapped around the base of the pole was a midsize sedan. Its windshield looked like a massive glass spiderweb. Tiny bits of cubed glass sprinkled the hood and pavement. Inside the sedan something moved.
Topher pulled close to the pole, looking for a downed wire but saw none. The impact could have knocked it loose or blown a fuse in the power line. The only way he could be certain was to go to the top and find out. The pole looked like it would stay up long enough for him to check. If they ever got around to it, and wanted to keep the power on, it would need to be repaired. Topher nervously, got out of the truck with Davis and the others close behind him. They slowly approached the car.
Standing at the driver's side door of the sedan, Bruce Davis looked in. It was a sorry sight for sure but Davis just looked at the dead thing in disgust.
"Look at this thing," he said, almost to himself.
"How long has he been like that," Jon-Jon asked.
"Power's been out for days, Five I think..." Davis said. "But that's not the sad part. Here this thing is, this dead fucker, and he can't get himself out of his seatbelt. And yet he and his kind are killing off the world as we know it."
"Doesn't make any damn sense," Jones said from behind Davis.
"No, it don't," Angus said, still clutching his throbbing arm.
The creature writhed in its seat, the seatbelt held him firmly in place. The blood-caked steering wheel was close to his chest, probably the reason the man died. His legs looked cramped, his face swollen and his teeth lay scattered on top of his body and seat. Thick syrupy blood decorated the interior. The thing's hands reached crookedly out of the window, grasping at the air in hopes of snagging a morsel of flesh from Davis or one of the others. Davis raised his weapon and fired, illuminating the night with gunfire.
"We'd better move quickly," Jones said. "If there're any more of these things around they'll have heard the shot and come looking for dinner." He was eager to be done.
"I'll need one of you to operate the crane for me so I can get to the top and have a look at the transformer," Topher said.
"Sign me up," Frankie volunteered.
Topher showed him everything he needed to do and was slowly, but surely, making his ascent. He double-checked his tool belt, making sure he hadn't left anything in the truck. He hadn't. He shone his flashlight to the top of the pole. Most of the daylight had disappeared and they were left with the blueish-purple haze of early evening. The light illuminated the pole-mounted transformer---from Topher's vantage point it seemed fine. As he reached the top however he could see burn marks on the transformer.
Once he opened the unit, he noticed the circuit breaker had opened. He was surprised a fuse hadn't blown, but was relieved that the job would be even easier than he had anticipated. He simply closed the circuit breaker allowing the electricity to be distributed again. He monitored it momentarily, making sure it didn't open again and when it didn't he closed the unit and signaled Frankie down below to bring the crane back down.
On his descent he shone his flashlight around. He looked at the surrounding area and noticed nothing beside the streetlights flickering back to life.
"Looks like you did it," Jon-Jon called up to him.
"Easy as pie," he replied, and after saying it realized how hungry he was. "Now, how about getting me some food, huh? And maybe a toothbrush? Then we can go around some more and see if there's any other downed lines."
"You got it. A bar of soap wouldn't kill you either," Davis smiled, looking at the lights from town.
Angus' skin grew pale in the darkening evening. His arm burned and he couldn't bring himself to look at the wound. He knew what it meant, people died quicker from a bite---he didn't know why, no one did. What he did know, or thought he knew, was that it wasn't the bite that turned you into one of the dead things. No matter who died and how, they came back---bite or no bite. Some took longer than others, and the bitten could last a day or more before dying and returning. He'd seen it happen too many times over too few of days. He didn't want to wait for it to overtake him. He wanted to die on his own terms---it was all he had left, and he was lucky to have that much.
"I used to have a drug problem," Angus said.
"What's that?" Keith said, having had one as well.
"I started out smoking marijuana---everyone was doing it---till they started cracking down on it. Then I was doing coke, though that was harder to get and eventually I got hooked on heroin---thank you very much Miss Morphine." Angus looked at the stars. "Once I got home from 'Nam I was hooked. It took a good woman, my wife Betty, to get me unhooked. But I was never really unhooked, I'd think about it at least once a day, not all day mind you, but in passing---quickly, you know."
"Okay," Frankie said, taken back by how much Angus was sharing with them and at such a time.
"Sorry to ramble...I guess what I'm trying to say is that...I want...I want you to...to kill me. I want one of you to ram as much heroin into my veins as it takes to kill me," he stared at Davis.
"Are you serious?" Davis asked.
"Yes, sir, I can feel myself dying. I can feel this little darkness beating in my heart, gnawing at my mind. I can feel it in my gut, like I felt back in Cambodia, only this time there is no hope." Angus began to cry. "Please, give a dying man a blindfold and one last smoke," he pleaded. "Death has her cold fingers wrapped around my throat."
"If that's what you want," Davis said, holding back tears for a man he'd only know in the last few hours. A man by all accounts he should care less for. Regardless he empathized with the man, and hoped to hell he would never be in his place. If death is what he wanted, then death is what he'd get.
CHAPTER 17: One more time to kill the pain
Under the grassy surface of Mourningside Cemetery the long dead clawed their way upward. Some of them moved slower than others, but some, very few, moved faster. Moving through the dirt was no easy task, hundreds of pounds of dirt lie on top of each dead individual. But they didn't have to worry about pain or breathing. Without the woes of the living to keep them down they continued their deliberate rise toward the surface.
Below the heavy grey block of concrete we all get when we reach the end of our lives clawed the hand of the man whose name was etched in stone, to forever remain at peace under the ground. It would seem he was not at peace, however, as something stirred him back to life. He clawed and fingered his way through the dirt pulling himself upward. His mouth and throat filled with dirt. His finger tips would have started bleeding days ago had he any blood left in his body. The make-up that sat heavy on his face during his viewing rubbed off long ago. He was persistent, as were all the dead underground, the long dead, and he won the unannounced race to the top.
The ground swelled and pulsed as his fingers flicked through the damp blades of grass that lie over him. A moment later his entire hand and part of his wrist burst through the ground and grasped at the air, as if choking some invisible throat. Eventually he pulled his entire body from the blanket of dirt. What skin could be seen through the sheen of dirt and rot was as pale as the maggots and worms that clung to his rotting corpse. He was buried, as most men, in a simple suit slit down the back. His shoes and socks didn't make it to the top, not that he cared. As his body slumped to the ground some of the dirt knocked off. His gaping maw full of dirt emptied to the ground as well, though much of it was left dangling from the top of his mouth and stuck at the back of his throat. Other hands began to find their way to the surface as well.
***
Behind the cemetery, in the shadow of the woods sitting on top of a large rock were best friends Brian and Chris (whom everyone called Teets). They were almost old enough to drive, though they both knew how to already. They snuck away most nights in one of their parents' cars to find a place to smoke up. They dared not do it too close to home. Getting busted would surely be a buzz kill, and neither wanted that. As high as the sky would allow was their preference and Mary Jane was their pilot. The ship of choice for the evening was a dutchie.
Teets unwrapped the vanilla flavored Dutchmaster cigar and began to lick the entire thing. Getting it wet enough so it wouldn't crack. Then he bit off the end of it and spat it out. Then he carefully picked at the outer leaf and unrolled gently, hoping it was wet enough to come off in good shape. Then he removed the cancer papers and gutted the tobacco.
Teets sat cross legged at the top of the rock. He had an issue of Batman that was bagged and boarded in his lap. Inside the comic he had rolling papers and a razor, in case he needed them: they were always there and his parents would never think to look in a comic book for such things. He emptied the bag of sticky-sweet-smelling buds onto the board and broke it apart, digging out the seeds and stems. He liked to chew on the stems as he rolled, so when he found them he popped them into his mouth.
Brian was watching Teets work his magic. Brian preferred the ease of a bowl or the soothing sounds of a bong but there was something about a dutchie that he just couldn't resist. Rolling wasn't his strong suit, so he studied Teets' technique. He could roll a good joint, wasn't too bad with a blunt, but when it came to a dutchie he just couldn't pull it off.
With the world being the way it was they had been rationing what little they had left of the Lady Jane. Be it boredom, or a loss of appetite the two couldn't wait to get out and partake in the old ritual. Most of the time they would smoke in the back room of the gas station where they worked at the edge of town, but it had been closed for a few weeks now.
Teets rolled the unwrapped blunt around the hefty helping of buds, smoothing it out as he did so. He wrapped it tight, but not too tight, then licked it around a few times and ran the lighter around it to dry it up. Teets dusted off his comic and tossed it to Brian who threw it in his backpack. The work was done, and now it was time to set the lady on fire and watch her burn. Mary Jane, how the boys love you!
Laying on the giant rock with their eyes to the sky, the two youngsters passed the dutchie back and forth: puff, puff, give. As the orange tip of burning bud and browned leaf continued to slowly disappear the two grew increasingly stoned. Stoned stupid was what they were, giggling like it was their second or third time, which was years ago. They both swore neither got high their first time, but they did, which is why there was a second and a third and so on.
Unsure if they could even finish, they began to hear noises---paranoia was beginning to set in. Every rustling of the leaves was an FBI agent. They've been watching them for years. They finished Mary off, pinching their fingers together in a desperate attempt at one more hit. Brian, trying to get one last kiss from the lady, burnt his finger and dropped the tail end of the blunt into the leafy bottom of the woods. Teets slapped his arm.
"Fucker, there was another hit left in that."
"Dude, it was kicked." Replied Brian with a dry tongue.
"Whatever...let's get something to drink. I got some Dr. Pepper at my place."
"Awesome."
They slid down the rock with backpacks in hand. Their eyes were red and their mouths dry. They tried to play it cool, but they were too damn high to do so. They giggled all the way back to the hole in the fence at the back of the cemetery. Once they got there, they froze in mid step.
"Dude, are you fucking seeing this?" Brian asked.
"I don't want to be, Bri," Teets mumbled.
"It's like Night of the Living Dead out there."
"No, way, it's more like Return of the Living Dead." Teets replied.
"Fucking zombies, man, that shit ain't right," Brian said as his mouth got dryer. "We need to tell everybody---I can't believe they're coming out of the ground!"
"Yeah, I guess whatever's been happening isn't terrorists, or rabies---well, I guess it still could be--"
"Shhh," Brian cut him off. "Do you hear that?"
"Hear what?"
From behind them staggered one of the long dead that must have found its way through the hole in the fence. Most of its clothing was now gone and its skin looked like dirt covered bark. The thing looked more like a mummy than any living dead thing the two of them had ever seen in the movies. It didn't have any eyes, just holes filled with dirt. It raised its hands to grasp at the back of Teets' neck but Brian pulled him forward and began to run.
"Fuck, come on man, RUN!"
"Shit, shit, shit! Stoner's always die in the movies, dude," Teets cried.
"This ain't the damn movies, just run," Brian hollered as his baggy jeans almost tripped him up.
They ran like hell was hot on their heels. The dead thing followed, slowly, very slowly.
CHAPTER 18: Situation degenerates
Sal was running on two hours of very unfulfilling sleep. He drank coffee after coffee as he fought to keep his eyes open. Now he was riding around town on patrol, looking for any signs of dead invaders. He hadn't found any and hoped that meant there weren't any to be found. He blinked so often and at such lengths it was possible that he drove past one and hadn't noticed.
So, when Brian and Teets came running up to the car he was surprised because they appeared to come out of nowhere. His eyes were probably shut for a good minute and only opened at the noise of their hands slapping on the window, which caused his heart to a cartwheel. Sal braked, and threw the car in park. He looked pissed off, not at the two of them but at being awake when he really didn't want to be.
He stepped out of the car and made a shut-the-fuck-up kind of motion with his hands and face as Brian and Teets rambled incoherently.
"What the fuck are you two idiots saying?"
"Dead people at the cemetery," Teets said, out of breath and breathing hard.
"That's usually where dead people go---hey, you fuckers been smoking up? You reek to all hell! God damnit!"
"No, just a cigar--"
Sal cut Brian off mid-sentence. "Can it, don't really give a shit right now. You kids ain't doing any coke or speed, are you?" Sal asked, wanting it for himself.
"No sir, definitely not!" Brian began to worry.
"Uh-uh," Teets said as he shook his head.
"Hmm, all right. Now, what the hell is going on? Spit it out!" Sal bark
ed.
"Dead people at the cemetery...are coming up out of the ground," Teets told him.
"No shit?"
"No shit," they both replied.
"Get in the back," Sal said, opening the door.
Brian and Teets looked at each other. They were stoned stupid, reeking of weed and carrying some, along with rolling papers and blunts and getting into the back of a police car. After a moment of hesitation they got in. Once inside their high began to come down.
Sal drove up to Mourningside Cemetery and could see from inside the car that a number of things had dug their way to the surface, and still more were in the process. He couldn't believe it. They had searched the area days ago, and had kept an eye on it in passing while patrolling the town. Now, there were dozens of dead people walking around after digging themselves up and out of their eternal resting plots.
It was just like in the movies, dirt covered hands reaching up from out of the ground. Insanity! Sal thought, but they were all seeing it. This was not sitting well with Sal. This had to be something more than a virus, or a disease, he thought. It had to be God...or the Devil. It had to mean the beginning of the end. It had to, he thought.
Sal stepped out of the car and walked over to the tall iron gates that served as the entrance to the cemetery. After their initial search of the grounds weeks ago the police had locked the gate with a chain which still held. The dead things clawed at it and as Sal approached the gate, they reached for him too, their skin ripping as they did so. He stood staring at them for a moment, half expecting to see his parents, both of which were buried there, and was slightly relieved when he didn't. He unclipped his walkie-talkie.