Dead Men (and Women) Walking

by Anthology

  Buster opened another beer and drank it down. He walked over to the well and dropped the can into the well. It clanked a hollow clank that echoed up from the bottom of the well when it hit.

  "Aww. . . I guess the well's all dried out," he said sarcastically. Buster spat into the well.

  I looked at him in disbelief, my excitement clearly gone now.

  "Legend tells us, Johnny, my boy, that this thing is a wishing well. Let's see if it's true." Buster had a wild-eyed look on his face. "They say Miss Catherine was tossed into this very well, way back in... umm. . . what year was that Mr. John-Miester?"

  Buster was starting to get a good buzz going by now. I didn't realize it until then that he had drank both six packs already. I think he had gone back for a couple of more beers sometime while we were cleaning away the brush from the well. Four of those beers were already gone.

  "1803, Buster," I said, solemnly.

  "Yeah. That's it. Way back in eighteen hundred zero and three. Some bitch got thrown into this well, right here two hundred years ago by her somewhat pissed off boyfriend. So, they decide to close this crap hole off to the public to keep people from disappearing, getting hurt or getting their asses killed. Well, that's fine and damn dandy. If all that crap is true, I wanna see the bitch for myself. I want to see Miss Catherine."

  I stood listening to his drunken tirade. I had had about all I wanted to hear when he started his wishing well chant.

  "Oh, wishing well, oh wishing well, please do kiss and tell. Bring sweet Miss Catherine back from Hell."

  "Buster!" I yelled.

  "What?" he yelled back.

  Visions of Butch and the Chihuahua popped into my head again.

  Ka-pow. Ka-thump.

  Hey, Buster, you're sauced, Buster. Do yah hear me, Buster?

  Shut-up.

  Ka-pow. Ka-thump.

  Yeah. . . yeah, sure, Buster. That's Buster. He's my hero. He ain't afraid of anything.

  "What?" Buster yelled again, snapping me away from the vision.

  "Buster," I started. "Bobby, you're drunk. Come on, let's go. Let's go home."

  "I'm not drunk," he said defensively. "I've just got a good buzz working. I'm fine."

  "Yeah, whatever," I said as I turned and began to walk back toward the truck.

  "Hey, Johnny, where yah going?"

  "To the truck, Bobby," I said. "It's after three and it's going to be getting dark in a couple of hours. You can stay here as long as you want, but I'm going back to the truck where I'll be waiting for you. And the damn doors will be locked."

  I walked off.

  Buster ran up behind me, grabbing me by the arm. He spun me around to face him. The smell of beer on his breath hit me hard. I stepped back to get some fresh air.

  "Johnny, I'm sorry."

  "No, you're not."

  "Johnny, I mean it, I'm sorry," he said again.

  "So," I said, trying not to let him get to me.

  "Can you just stick around a little longer?"

  "No, Bobby," I said quickly. "I'm tired of the way you've been acting all day. You go ahead and stay. I'm out of here."

  "Wait, Johnny," he said as he grabbed my arm again. "Let's just see the water. Can you do that for me? Let me see the water? Then we'll leave, I swear it."

  It was a rarity that Buster pleaded with me, which is what he was doing then. I knew he was being sincere in saying we would leave. He had sworn to it, and for Buster that was as good as gold.

  I stood looking at the ground. For the first time I realized there wasn't much light in the swamp. We cast no shadows anywhere. Neither did any of the trees.

  "Give me the keys to your truck," I said. "Then, we'll go see the water." I should have told him flatly, no.

  Buster frowned as he pulled the keys out of his pocket and put them in my hand.

  "Okay," he said and popped open another beer. He chugged it down and walked over to the well. He tossed it in and waited for the sound of it hitting bottom. There was no clank echoing up from the well this time. I don't know about Buster, but that sent chills down my spine and raised every hair on my head to standing at attention.

  The lake was only about thirty yards or so away from the well. Buster hacked at the dead plants and made us another path, this one leading to the water's edge. I stood back for a while and watched. Sometimes I had hated Buster. I felt like, at that moment, I hated him more than I ever would have. But, I knew it was the alcohol that was making him the way he was. It was as if I were a woman in an abusive relationship---always making excuses for why I let him treat me the way he did.

  Here we go again---babble, babble, babble.

  "John-boy," Buster called out. "Come on you've gotta see this." His words were becoming slurred---a great side effect of too much alcohol.

  I walked through the new path he had made with his maniacal machete swinging. Buster had reached the water's edge and was now standing next to the murky water. It had an almost sulfuric smell to it and no plants were growing out of it. The trees hung over it like a bride's veil does her face on her wedding day. One other thing stood out about the old Lake Coachi.

  "It's black," I said as I looked down at the water. The water was pitch black as if it were some sort of crude oil that had sprung a leak and formed a large pool.

  "It's. . . black," Buster echoed in a stunned voice.

  He leaned over the edge of the water, his hands on his knees. One hand held a beer and his hat, which he had pulled off of his head when he saw the water. The other hand held the machete in it.

  "It's black," he said again.

  That's when the bubbles came---green acid-like bubbles that rose to the top of the water and then burst. As the bubbles popped smoke came from them.

  "What the hell?" Buster said as he looked closer at the water. The bubbles began to increase in number as if someone were blowing air into the water causing it to bubble like it was.

  "Shii. . ." Buster started to yell. I don't remember if he finished the actual word he was going to say or not. I do remember his face, though. He was scared. His eyes bulged, his mouth froze. His hair, which was all of an inch in length, stood on end, and I swear, it looked like it changed from black to white in a matter of seconds.

  The bubbling water grew fierce until, finally, two bony hands reached out of the bubbles---out of the water. The hands were reaching for Buster. He had little time, if any, to react. His head snapped backwards as one of the bony hands slashed at his face, cutting him across it, sending blood into the air.

  Buster stumbled back and fell to the ground. He dropped his beer, hat and machete. Both of his hands went up to his face, grabbing and holding the side that was bleeding.

  "Johnny," he yelled. His voice was not slurred this time. Fear took its place.

  I was scared still as I watched a body surge from the lake's black water. The body was clad in the remnants of an early 1800's dress. I think at one time the dress had been blue and maybe even white. The body's hair was long and tangled, dangling from about middle of the skull back. It was tattered and worn, eaten away by time. The front of its skull had a gaping hole in it staring out like an all-seeing third eye. The body moved in herky-jerky movements at first, then quick and graceful. I guess it had to get its bearings straight or something like that, you know, shake out all the cobwebs.

  "Miss Catherine?" I whispered, or so I thought I had whispered it. I had really screamed it at the top of my lungs. I am convinced of this.

  "Miss Catherine?" Buster yelled back at me in disbelief. "Miss Catherine?"

  Miss Catherine was now out of the water. Her bodice was a grisly sight of bones and, believe it or not, flesh.

  "No," Buster yelled as Miss Catherine moved toward him. I ran to him and grabbed his arm. I pulled him up and tried to run. Buster started screaming hysterically. Another bony hand had reached up out of the ground next to Buster and grabbed his ankle. I looked at the lake and saw several more bodies rising from the depths of the murky black water. They were
all lurching, walking and crawling as they rose from the water.

  "No, no, no, no, no, no," I could hear myself screaming. The arm that had come out of the ground and grabbed Buster was now joined by its body as it rose from the ground, bringing with it the wet mud it had been lying in. The body began to pull Buster into the water. I wrapped both of my hands around Buster's forearm and began to pull with all I had in me.

  Miss Catherine was now right in front of us. I could smell the stench of her and the other dead people. My stomach began to roll as I felt the vomit trying to come up. I swallowed hard and looked at her. Through the hole in her skull I could see a snake, I guess a moccasin. I saw the snake shoot out of the hole and toward Buster. It struck him in the face, sinking its fangs into his flesh at just above the nose and between the eyes. Buster screamed louder this time as the snake sunk its sharp teeth deeper into his face. Buster began to shake his head violently, making the snake's body snap back and forth in the air.

  He screamed louder. And louder. And louder, still.

  I screamed with him, tears stinging my eyes. My arms were growing weak as I continued to pull on his arm.

  More bodies were crawling out of the water, clawing at Buster. I could only think that these were the bodies of the 67 people that had died here and waited patiently for someone like Buster to come along.

  The dead man that held Buster's leg was now half in the water and was biting down on Buster's calf. Blood spurted from his camouflage fatigues. Once again, he let out a pained howl.

  I continued to pull on his arm as the snake whip-snapped back and forth with the violent shaking of Buster's head. Blood sprayed from his face and his leg. Then the machete came from out of nowhere. It was Miss Catherine who had brought the machete down on Buster's arm at just above his elbow.

  I fell to the ground, Buster's arm still in my hands. Blood poured out from the severed arm. I watched it as it poured all over me.

  Buster screamed louder.

  I screamed louder.

  The dead made no noises, which goes to show that you can't believe everything you see in the movies. They did not moan and groan at all like the movie zombies do.

  They pulled Buster toward the water. He was kicking and flailing as they pulled him. The snake was still writhing on his face as he flung his head back and forth. There were a couple of them biting into Buster, eating him as he screamed.

  I ran.

  I ran, leaving my best friend to die (very much like that fellow, Abraham, had done to Miss Catherine). I could hear him screaming as he struggled to get away from the bony, water dwelling dead.

  "Johnny," he screamed.

  I ran.

  I ran through the dead trees and vines and briars. I ran, trying to stay on the path, unsuccessfully. I ran passed the well. It looked like blood was seeping through the cracks in its bricks. Blood poured from over the top of the well. I know. . . I know I saw a body hauling itself out of that damn well.

  I was scared.

  I was covered in blood.

  I was still holding Buster's severed arm.

  I screamed as I dropped his arm and kept running. I never looked back. By the time I reached the truck Buster's screams had stopped. The only real noise was my own breath that was coming out in the form of screams.

  Jumping in the truck I pulled the keys out of my pocket. I cranked it up, pulled it out and drove down the dirt road toward Sumter. Buster's screams still rang loudly in my ears. "Johnny," I could hear him yelling over and over. Tears streamed down from my eyes.

  "I'm sorry, Buster," I cried. "I'm sorry."

  I turned off the dirt road and onto the interstate toward Sumter. A hand came from my right, the passenger's side. I screamed. Buster's tattered, blood soaked body was in the seat beside me. A deep rustic voice came from its snake bitten face.

  "Why did you leave me, Johnny?" he yelled. White foam flew from his mouth and hit me in the face. I screamed a hoarse scream.

  Buster reached out with his left arm and grabbed my face. "Why did you leave me?" he asked again. "Where's my arm, Johnny?"

  The truck swerved, ran off the road, back on and then into on-coming traffic. Finally, the truck smashed into a tree on the other side of Interstate 378.

  That's all I remember about that day. I was told by the Sumter County Police that I had busted into the police station, blood drenched and screaming about Buster. I was screaming about him being torn from limb to limb, being eaten by dead people out at the swamp. I'm sure they weren't too happy about me doing that.

  Now, here I am, in this jail cell, convicted of killing my best friend, Bobby "Buster" Lennon. They never found his body. They never found his arm. They never found that machete or his Dale Earnhardt cap. They found all the beer cans, though. And a whole hell of a lot of blood.

  They searched the black, murky swamp waters for his body. The divers said they could only go down a few feet before they couldn't see their lamps in front of them. The only thing I could think when I heard divers had gone in there is that they were probably just feet away from being pulled under by all of those dead people.

  I guess I can live with being in this old, dusky jail cell. As long as they keep those bodies away from me. All those dead bodies. All of those rotted out dead bodies that are at the bottom of Coachi Swamp. Though, I wish they could do something about the nightmares I have. And those screams. Those horrible screams I hear at night.

  Buster's out there somewhere. He's out there calling out my name. He's at the bottom of that swamp just like the rest of them. And he's waiting for me. I can hear him at night. I can see him when I close my eyes at night. His torn asunder body, limping toward me as I run from him. His right arm is always missing, his left arm is reaching with bony fingers. The snake bites on his face drips blood and black swamp water.

  I can see him.

  Hey, Buster, why are yah scaring me, huh, Buster? I didn't mean to leave yah. I tried to warn yah, Buster. I tried to tell yah. . ."

  Ahh. . . shut-up.

  Ka-pow. Ka-thump.

  Yeah. . . sure, Buster. That's Buster. He's my hero. He's not afraid of anything. He's dead, and he's waiting for me.

  THE CONSEQUENCE OF CURIOUSITY

  By Shawn Westmoreland

  Part 1: Awkward Silence

  The door to the interrogation room at Scotland Yard shut, leaving Eric Hicks in a room with a detective and a legal aid. Hicks, an American with sandy blonde hair and a lean muscular 5'10'' build, had been arrested. Looking around, Eric could see this was the interrogation room they used for potentially violent individuals. The very chair he sat on was actually bolted to the floor. The metal grate over the glass in the door was nothing more than decoration really, as no regular-sized man could really get through the hole anyway. The walls were a pale charcoal color that matched the suit of the detective whom just sat in front of Hicks. The female legal aid was wearing a forest green-colored business suit. It wasn't quite up Hicks' street, but it was a damn site better than the rest of the room.

  At first, Hicks was hard pressed to see any fear in the legal aid's eyes, but after he paid her a bit of admiration, those big blue eyes looked away. She was about the only thing even worth savoring in the room. It was the color of her beautiful lips and fingernails that caught his attention. Both were the same luscious red that he'd come to know so well over the years. That color excited him and stirred his lascivious little mind. Then the detective had to ruin the moment by slamming a flesh-toned folder down, creating an audible slap on the metal table.

  Having been in such situations before, Hicks wasn't worried too much, though admittedly, this was the first time he had the pleasure of meeting the English police. The detective overseeing the investigation, Mr. Graham Wilson, just came back from the murder scene and he wasn't very happy. Mr. Wilson leaned forward and, putting his large hands on the table, made his presence known. Wilson was a black man with a presence about him that wasn't too far off the mark from most bouncers in professional clubs. E
ven when sitting down, his broad shoulders dwarfed the chair the detective was sitting in. A strong chin and a prominent brow bone made the face of the detective a hard one. Hicks was asked how his day had started. His sweet velvety voice almost single-handedly changed the atmosphere of the room, but since the detective already had everything stacked against Hicks, it wasn't worth putting it on too thick.

  "I rode the train again today. No, I rode the Underground again. If I'm going to live here in London, I'd better start talking like it, eh? I caught the District Line at Dagenham and switched at Mile End as usual. It was raining today as well, so the humidity brought up all the smells from the concrete that everyone would rather forget about at the stations. Piss, vomit, and blood --you name it. What's with people just pissing where they want anyway? Do they have any idea what they're doing to the rest of us?" "Just get on with it Hicks." The detective's voice was a rough deterrent to the almost sensual voice of the killer in front of him. "Yeah ...anyway, the walkway was packed with people. I couldn't swing a cat in there, truth told. ...Ok look, I didn't mean to start a fight down there. Yeah, I should've ignored those guys, but don't you people always teach others to not let bullies get away with their crimes?

  "I thought you only came over here a week ago Hicks? We have the plane ticket information. So you tell me, how do you know what we teach and don't teach?"

  Completely ignoring the detective, Hicks carried on talking. "I was on the platform. I had my earphones in to enjoy a little bit of music ...Dog eat Dog, ok? Suddenly, my ear popped. All the noise of the Underground station came flooding in my head. I turned to see who did it, and this big sporty prick was laughing with his mates, pointing their grubby little fingers at me. I asked them what their fucking problems were, and one of them spat on me." "Was being spat on what pushed you over the edge?" "Well, yeah, I mean, I was just minding my own business when they had to start something, so I figured I'd teach one of them a lesson." "Why did you believe you had to teach one of them a lesson?" Eric gave pause at that question. The police detective in front of him wanted to judge Eric's reaction, but the cop wasn't completely prepared for the answer he received. "Because justice had to be done -I think, anyway. When you think about it detective, none of those guys will ever laugh again. I think it was a fine lesson for them to learn. Ok, sure, what I did was somewhat harsh, but really, since they started the mess, I figured I'd show them what a real mess was so they wouldn't victimize someone else later on."