Night of the Living Dead

by Christopher Andrews

  Without thinking about it, Harry punched the woman in the face as hard as he could, with everything he had in him. The result was both sufficient and disturbing: It made her let go of Karen, which was what he had hoped for, but he felt a cold chill run down his spine as the woman otherwise ignored the blow — her nose was smashed flat, a bloody, pulpy mess that now matched the gore around her mouth ... but she didn’t cry out, didn’t even blink. Her head had rocked back, that was the only reason Helen had been able to pull Karen’s arm free, but the woman showed no pain at all as she tugged at Karen again, trying to pull her in for another bite.

  Helen screamed, "Let go! Let go of my baby!" She reached down, grab the woman’s fingers from where they encircled her daughter’s wrist, and bent them back until they broke with an audible snap — Harry might’ve been shocked by Helen’s brutality, but under the circumstances, he applauded it.

  The woman let go of Karen, but she still showed no pain, reaching out with her mangled hand as though nothing had happened.

  They had no time to deal with Karen’s injury — the others were so close they could almost touch the trunk of the car. Harry gathered Karen up into his arms, and the Coopers ran, ran as fast as they could.

  They cleared away from the car and outdistanced their insane attackers with relative ease. But Karen was like a dead weight in Harry’s arms, and in short order he was forced to slow down.

  "Where are we going, Harry?" Helen asked, as out of breath from fright as from running.

  "I ... don’t know ..." he panted.

  "Should we ... should we go back to that diner we passed?"

  He shook his head. "I’ll ... never make it ... that far ..."

  A keening sound escaped Helen’s lips, but before it could overwhelm her, she stopped and pointed. "There!"

  Harry stopped as well, grateful for the rest. "Where?"

  "There! Across the field!" She was pointing at an old farmhouse.

  "I don’t know ..." he said. "I wish we ... could get further away ..."

  Thunder rolled across the land. Helen looked at Harry.

  "Fine," he said. "We’ll check it out ... here, help me with her, damn it — she weighs a lot more than your purse!"

  After adjusting Karen (who was now silent and sucking her thumb like a girl half her age) in Harry’s arms, the Coopers cut across the field toward the old farmhouse ...

  NIGHT

  Barbra threw herself through the open back door of the farmhouse, her stockinged feet sliding on the linoleum as she seized the door and slammed it shut. She gasped in fear when it wouldn’t seem to close, then sobbed in relief as she finally locked it behind her. Her jellied muscles near collapse, she sagged against the door, trembling like a leaf. With the creature no longer in sight, behind the barriers of perceived safety, her mind was already seeking denial. She wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball and go to sleep and pretend that none of this had ever happened.

  But ... where was she, really?

  Turning around, she realized that denial was a luxury she could not yet indulge. This house, this strange farmhouse, was very dark now that the light of dusk had been cut off. She had no idea where the homeowners were, and was hesitant to call out. And what did it mean that the back door had been standing open?

  Still shaking and unsteady on her feet, Barbra forced herself to look around.

  Stepping through the nearest open doorway, she found herself in a large area that was probably a living room, with a sofa, chairs, an old piano, and a medium-sized dining table in one corner. The dim light coming through the windows revealed nothing helpful, save that she was alone for now.

  Or was she?

  A fresh chill sent her scurrying back into the kitchen. Biting her lip in an effort to remain silent, she cast about for something, anything she could use as a weapon to defend herself.

  Keeping a close eye on the as-yet-unscouted doorway, she scuttled forward to an open drawer and fished inside for what she wanted, shoving aside forks and spoons and butter knives until ...

  Yes! Her fingers finally closed on the wooden handle of a butcher’s knife. Pulling it free from the other silverware, she clutched it to her chest with both hands as she slumped against the refrigerator, feeling the slightest bit safer.

  But she couldn’t fully relax until she confirmed that she was, in fact, alone in the house. Or, God willing, maybe she could even find a phone! Her poor brother was still out there, helpless, depending on her to save him — she had to summon help!

  Forcing herself to keep moving, Barbra advanced toward the kitchen’s other open doorway.

  But upon entering the smaller room, Barbra hesitated. Laying on the floor was the remains of a broken lamp. Just that — a broken lamp, very mundane; under normal circumstances, she might’ve just Tsk’ed the lazy person who failed to clean up their mess. But this evening ...

  Clutching the knife tighter, she pressed onward. If only it weren’t so dark ... but she was too afraid to turn on any lights. They would set the windows aglow, and that thing outside would know immediately where she was. But how long could she continue to wander around in the ever-darkening house before—

  Sure enough, she sidled too close to one of the walls, and her hip knocked an open magazine off a piece of furniture. Its soft ka-thunk was terribly loud to her ears, but although she froze for a moment, no other sounds followed.

  Treading carefully around the remains of the lamp, she continued onward.

  Moving through a brighter hallway, Barbra peered around, then continued into the darkest room yet. Her eyes struggled to adjust back and forth, and still her ears detected nothing other than her own hushed footsteps. Maybe she was being too paranoid? The creature would surely have made noise if it had entered the house. If she hurried, if she found a phone, Johnny would have a much better—

  Teeth! Gaping, huge teeth, the lips curled back as the open mouth reached for her

  Barbra’s heart skipped a beat, but shame and embarrassment silenced her gasp before it escaped. She had stumbled upon the homeowner’s study, and what she had seen in the gloom was nothing more than the stuffed head of a warthog or some similar animal. Other heads, mostly bucks and does, were mounted on the walls — nothing more than a hunter’s trophy room.

  You’ve got to get a hold of yourself, Barbra.

  Easier said than done. She could feel herself slipping, and she didn’t like it. Not one bit.

  It didn’t help matters that even as she eased forward once more, she finally heard real movement. Blessedly, it was coming from outside, but any relief she felt evaporated when she peered through the nearest window to see that the creature had finally reached the house.

  The filthy thing was leaned up against the very post where she had seized a brief respite before finding her way into the house. The creature shoved away, shuffling and weaving back and forth in its bumbling manner. It was looking at and all around the house, once again behaving as though it didn’t quite understand, as if it didn’t remember what a house was. It just wanted its prey, that was all it seemed to think about, and as its gaze raked across the window—

  Barbra huddled against the wall, peeking out from around the curtain as she followed the creature’s movement.

  The creature stumbled around the side of the house and managed to tangle itself in the clothesline. It flailed about, yanking the lines free and ripping the support pole from the ground before throwing it against the house. It clasped at the remaining lines and tore at them, tore at them as it would surely tear at her throat!

  Barbra shoved the curtain across the window and turned away, her breath short and her eyes wild. She was slipping ... slipping ...

  Then her gaze fell upon the very thing she most wanted to see: A telephone!

  Nearly melting in relief, she threw herself across the study, seizing the handset and dialing for the operator with shaking hands. She glanced out the study’s other window, ducking down to make sure the creature didn’t spot her while she wa
s so close to rescue.

  Several seconds elapsed before she absorbed that she was hearing only a weird, electronic warble.

  No. Oh, no, no no no

  Tears of defeat welling up in her eyes, she slammed her fingers repeatedly against the cradle, then tried dialing the operator once more. Nothing.

  Slipping ... slipping ...

  Shaking the handset in pitiful frustration, she slammed it down and shoved herself away from the useless piece of junk to keep from screaming at it. She was nearly out of the room before a cold hand of realization tightened around her heart and sent her scurrying back to retrieve the butcher knife.

  Returning to the living room, Barbra caught a glimpse of movement through another of the many windows. She ducked, not trusting the gloom of the house to protect her from being spotted, and rushed forward until she slid onto her knees in front of the table beneath the window and, carefully, peeked over the windowsill.

  The creature was visible yet again, staggering about and ogling the house with that blank expression on its face. That, in a way, was almost worse than its look of animalistic hunger when it attacked her in the cemetery — that nothing in its eyes!

  But as disturbing as it was, Barbra soon spotted something far worse.

  Behind the creature, Barbra could barely make out two people wandering up to the house! For the briefest flicker of an instant, she was torn between relief that help had arrived and horror that the creature would set upon the newcomers before she could warn them ... but then the flicker passed. Something about their gait immediately set Barbra back on edge. Although not exactly the same as the creature’s, their movement was off in its own way, sluggish and ungainly.

  Oh, no ... oh, God, please no, no ...

  The creature turned around, saw the two people, took one step toward them ...

  No, no, please, God, this can’t be happening!

  ... then dismissed them, turning back to the house even as the newcomers ambled up behind it, as though joining its ranks.

  Barbra shoved herself away from the window so hard she stumbled, nearly knocking over one of the dining table chairs. She fumbled to right it before it could fall over, and her shaking hands nearly made it worse. When the chair thankfully settled, she ran, ran, away from the window, away from those things, away, away ...

  Back in the hallway, Barbra struggled to maintain some level of control. She would accomplish nothing, would be no closer to rescuing her poor brother if she collapsed, hyperventilating in the dark like a helpless child.

  They’re coming to get you, Barbra ...

  SHUT UP, JOHNNY! I’M TRYING TO FIND HELP FOR YOU!

  She stumbled yet again, this time catching herself on the bannister—

  A bannister! Yes, the farmhouse had a second floor, she had seen that from outside! Up, that’s where she needed to go, up and away from those things. From upstairs, she could peer down through the windows without their seeing her in return, maybe she would even find another phone, one that worked!

  Up, she would go up.

  But disappointment had been her constant companion since the attack in the cemetery, and this proved no different. She had barely climbed two of the stairs before catching a glimpse of something above her, something on the landing. She couldn’t make out what it was, but just as she had almost immediately labeled the newcomers outside as a threat, that same warning screamed in the back of her mind now.

  Stretching out her arms to either side, supporting herself between wall and bannister, she ascended the stairs at a very slow, very timid pace. Halfway up, she could finally see what waited for her ... and yet her mind couldn’t accept what she was seeing. She knew what it looked like, but no ... surely it wasn’t ...

  But it was. It was a body. A corpse. But that wasn’t what finally ripped a scream from her reluctant lips.

  The person — a man? a woman? she couldn’t tell — had been mutilated. The face had been ripped to shreds as though eaten by some savage animal. The teeth were exposed where an upper lip should have been, drawn into a sickening rictus like a perverted smile. Drying, nearly black blood had congealed in the hair, hiding whatever natural color it had once been and leaving an apparent gap through the left temple and down into the brain cavity itself. The right eye was missing, but the left eye gaped its wild view upon the world, the eyelid torn, ripped, chewed away, leaving it staring into space. Staring at Barbra.

  Something had eaten its face, and it was staring at her.

  Too much. She was no longer sliding out of control. Control was gone, evaporated, her mind snapped.

  Down the stairs, folding over the bannister to empty her belly, unable to find even that relief, running, running, the knife staying in her hand only by chance, through the hallway, through the dining room, to the foyer, to the front door, clawing at it, unlocking it, no thoughts of the creature or creatures outside, no thoughts at all save one faint echo, the mere glimmering of a true thought: Johnny’s the lucky one.

  The front door finally opening for her, she shoved the screen door aside as she burst into the night ...

  ... and into blinding light.

  Bedazzled, Barbra collided with the porch post, which was all that kept her from taking a face-dive into the front yard. She heard a metallic slam from beyond the twins beams which struck a familiar chord, but she was beyond making sense of things. She reeled back, throwing her arms before her eyes to block the glare that threatened to excecate her.

  Was she in Hell? Was that why she couldn’t get away from horror after horror?

  Then a shape stepped forward to block the headlights—

  (Headlights! That’s what they were — headlights!)

  —and she could see again. But would this prove any better?

  She and the man in the sweater stared at each other, appraising. Barbra took another step back, but just as she had instinctively withdrawn from the previous two newcomers, something told her that this man was not a threat. For one thing, he was studying her with a leery-but-thoughtful expression in his eyes — not at all like the empty hunger of the thing that had chased her from the cemetery.

  Speaking of ...

  The creature had found its way around to this side of the house, and the man heard it. He looked over his shoulder, tensing. Barbra noticed, in a distant manner, that he carried a tire iron, and was poised to use it. Then he looked at Barbra again, hesitated, and instead of facing off with the creature, he pushed her back into the house. She resisted a little — hadn’t there been something in the house from which she had been desperate to escape? She couldn’t remember anymore. She ... she couldn’t think anymore.

  Johnny ...

  Ben slammed the door shut and locked it, relaxing — just a little — for the first time since his flight from Beekman’s Diner. He didn’t know who this young blonde woman was, but all he cared about was that she was normal. A little stunned, maybe, but he could live with that — he would take whatever help he could get tonight.

  "It’s all right," he told the whimpering girl.

  She just stared at him, as though waiting for him to do something.

  Turning his back to the door, Ben looked around the dark house. He gripped the tire iron he had so thankfully found in the bed of the truck.

  "Don’t worry about him," he assured her as he stepped away, "I can handle him." He peeked through a few of the windows — all clear, for now. "Probably be a lot more of them as soon as they find out about us." He circled back around, past the girl, checking things out, collecting information about his surroundings. Now that he was over his initial shock from this appalling night, he was back on top of his game.

  Which brought him around to the next order of business. "The truck is out of gas," he explained, then gestured toward the side of the house with the tire iron. "This pump out here is locked. Is there a key?"

  Nothing from the blonde. Just that stricken, child-like gaze.

  Despite his initial relief at finding her, his frustration grew. "We ca
n try to get out of here if we can get some gas. Is there a key?"

  Still nothing.

  Great. He turned from her to hide and control his irritation — Lord only knew what she had already been through herself tonight! — and his eyes laid upon a telephone. He knelt before it and dialed the operator, but got nothing.

  Movement behind him, but it was just the blonde. "I suppose you’ve tried this," he commented, more to himself than to her. He hung up, collected the tire iron, and followed after her into the hallway.

  "Do you live here?" he asked. By now his guess was that she didn’t, but he was still hoping for some kind of useful information from her.