"... civil defense officials in Cumberland have told newsmen that murder victims show evidence of having been ... partially devoured by their murderers ..."
But then ... did she really want to be downstairs, alone?
At the top of the stairs, nearing the body with the chewed-off face, Ben had to stop and look away for a moment, fighting the urge to bend over and empty his guts. A blood-streaked pattern on the wall, looking almost like warped kanji, told him where the person had leaned before falling to die on the landing — whichever thing had attacked, and partially eaten, the previous owner of this house, Ben was just glad that it had wandered off.
The thought of getting any closer to the corpse, of touching it, was almost too much. But it had to be done.
Damn it, if he could drive a tire iron through a man’s forehead, he could do this.
Leaning the rifle against the wall, he stepped over the woman — he could see now that it was a woman, could tell from the clothing once he looked past the remains of her face, the hole in her temple — and, with precise, delicate movements, shifted her legs onto the rug with the rest of her. He then hefted one end of the rug, folding it so that he no longer had to look at her mutilated face, and dragged her down the hall toward the furthest possible room ...
"... consistent reports from witnesses to the effect that people who acted as though they were in a kind of trance were killing — and eating — their victims, prompted authorities to examine the bodies of some of the victims."
Barbra sat in her daze (a state which was becoming both frustrating and strangely comforting) and listened to the radio announcer. She could hear her companion moving around upstairs, but most of her attention, such as it was, focused on the radio.
"Medical authorities in Cumberland have concluded that in all cases, the killers are ... eating the flesh ... of the people they murder."
For the first time, Barbra considered that maybe this whole surreal night was nothing more than an elaborate nightmare (it was similar to Ben’s earlier reckoning, but Barbra was less inclined to release the denial once she grabbed hold of it). That couldn’t explain away the ache in her jaw where the man had slapped her, but it made more sense than any of the rest of it.
"... from Cumberland, Maryland, civil defense authorities have told newsmen that murder victims show evidence of having been partially devoured by their murderers ..."
Why, just listen to that. Think about it. People killing other people for no reason, and then eating them? It was ridiculous, absurd! Such things didn’t happen, couldn’t happen in the real world.
"... shows conclusively that the killers are eating the flesh of the people they kill ..."
She couldn’t have been attacked in the cemetery, Johnny couldn’t have died defending her. That in itself was preposterous — Johnny was far too selfish to have sacrificed himself in such a way. It was a funny notion, really.
Any moment now, she would wake up. Probably in the car with Johnny, having dozed off as they drove out to their father’s grave — oh, Johnny would be so irritated. And for such a silly dream!
"... this incredible story becomes more ghastly with each report," the radio announcer said, then went on to agree with her sentiments (which only made sense, since it was her dream), "it’s ... difficult to imagine such a thing actually happening ..."
She heard some more knocking around, and wondered what in the world the man was doing up there. She should go tell him that he needn’t bother, it was all just a dream.
Except ... this last knocking sound hadn’t come from upstairs. It was much closer than that. Almost in the same room with her. From over near the old piano? Behind it? No, not there ...
Barbra turned in her seat, looking toward the dark door leading out into the hallway.
"... but these are the reports we have been receiving and passing on to you, reports which have been verified..."
The banging, which now sounded almost like footsteps, drifted from behind the door. But the door was open, resting almost flush to the wall. So ... what was making that noise?
Her breath came faster.
The radio told her, "It is happening ..."
Barbra recoiled. A hand appeared around the edge of the door.
The radio mocked her, "No one is safe ..."
The hand pushed the door forward. A young man in a short-sleeved shirt stepped from behind it, stepped right out of the wall.
Barbra screamed.
Ben heard her cry just as he emerged from the bedroom where he’d laid the dead woman. Hers, and what sounded like men’s voices. So far as he knew, those things didn’t talk, but that didn’t slow him in the slightest as he grabbed the rifle and raced down the stairs, his heart pumping faster than his legs.
Ben burst into the room, and almost started firing away: Two men — a younger one holding Barbra by the arms; an older one wielding a broken slat from a bedframe like a cheap sword. They turned, saw Ben brandishing the rifle, and the younger one released Barbra and held up his hands.
"Hold it! Don’t shoot!" the younger one cried, his eyes wide. Then, as though it explained everything, he added, "We’re from town!"
The older one, a balding man with a bruise on one side of his shiny forehead, turned away from Ben, looking around. He blurted, "A radio!" and raced through the study doorway to kneel before it.
As Ben calmed down, his initial fear was replaced by anger. A sweep of the room revealed the small, nondescript open door that led into the wall near the corner by the piano and downward — he realized in an instant that these people had not breached his defenses, but had been here all along. He clenched his jaw, could practically feel the steam coming out of his ears. These bastards were lucky he didn’t use the gun after all.
Looking at the younger one in disgust, he demanded, "How long you guys been down there? I could have used some help up here."
"That’s the cellar," the older one answered as he fiddled with the radio. "It’s the safest place."
"You mean you didn’t hear the racket I was making up here?"
"How were we supposed to know what was going on?" the older man snapped back. "Could’ve been those things for all we knew."
Ben gestured at Barbra, who had withdrawn to the sofa once more. "That girl was screaming," he said, his disgust kicking up another notch. "Surely you must know what a girl screaming sounds like. Those things don’t make any noise. Anybody would know that somebody had needed help!"
The younger man, his shirt stuck to his chest with sweat, finally spoke up. "Look, it’s kinda hard to hear what’s goin’ on from down there."
"We thought we could hear screams," said the older one, still hunched before the radio, "but ... for all we knew that could’ve meant those things were in the house after her."
Ben sneered. "And you wouldn’t come up and help."
The younger man was a lot more sensitive to Ben’s derision than his comrade. "Well, if there were more of them—"
The older man cut him off, turning more of his stern attention to Ben. "The racket sounded like the place was being ripped apart. How were we supposed to know what was going on?"
"Now wait a minute," Ben returned. "You just got finished saying you couldn’t hear from down there. Now you say it sounded like the place was being ripped apart." He shook his head. "It would be nice if you’d get your story straight, man."
"All right," the older man said, his anger growing. "Now you tell me ..." He stood, gripping his own weapon and storming back toward Ben like a short, contentious bulldog — he was so hunched forward at the shoulders, his tie bulged out from where it was clipped to the front of his business shirt. "I’m not gonna take that kind of a chance when we’ve got a safe place. We luck into a safe place, and you’re tellin’ us we gotta risk our lives just because somebody might need help! Huh?!"
The man paced away from Ben, and suddenly Ben’s ire deflated. In the face of selfishness at its bitter finest, what could he say? If a person viewed altruism as a
detriment, would probably sneer at the notion of someone wanting to become, say, a teacher so that he could craft young minds and make the world a better place ... well, there was certainly nothing Ben could say that would change his mind. It made Ben more repelled by the man but less appalled, now that he could see what type of person he was dealing with.
"Yeah," he said at last in a low, tired voice. "Somethin’ like that."
Again, the younger man proved more sensitive to Ben’s tone. He stepped forward, saying, "All right, why don’t we settle this—"
"Look, mister!" the older one cut him off again, reminding Ben more of a bulldog than ever. "We came up, okay? We’re here! Now I suggest we all go back downstairs, before any of those things find out we’re in here."
Ben dismissed him. "They can’t get in here."
The younger man perked up. "You got the whole place boarded up?"
"Yeah, most of it. All but a few spots upstairs. They won’t be hard to fix."
"You’re insane!" the bulldog snapped. "The cellar is the safest place."
Ben felt his heat returning. "I’m telling you, they can’t - get - in - here."
"And I’m telling you those things turned over our car! We were damned lucky to get away at all! Now you tell me those— those things can’t get through this," he gestured around the room with his weapon, at all the boarded-up windows, "lousy pile of wood?!"
"His wife and kid’s downstairs," the younger man said to Ben in a softer voice. "Kid’s hurt."
Ben considered that; it made the bulldog’s decisions a little more understandable, if not acceptable. He glanced at the bulldog, then turned away. "Well, I still think we’re better off up here."
The younger man approached the bulldog, and indirectly gave Ben the bulldog’s name. "We could strengthen everything up, Mister Cooper."
From across the room, Ben threw in, "With all of us working, we could fix this place up in no time! We have everything we need up here."
But the bulldog — Cooper — returned with, "We can take all that stuff downstairs with us." He shook his head. "Man, you’re really crazy, you know that? You got a million windows up here! All these windows you’re gonna— you’re gonna make ’em strong enough to keep these things out, huh?"
"I told you, those things don’t have any strength. I smashed three of them, and pushed another one out the door."
Cooper strode forward, gesturing at Ben with his weapon. "Did you hear me when I told you they turned over our car?"
"Oh, hell!" Ben snapped. "Any good five men could do that!"
"That’s my point! Only there’s not going to be five, or even ten ... there’s gonna be twenty, thirty, maybe a hundred of those things. And as soon as they know we’re here, this place is gonna be crawling with them."
Ben shrugged and strolled past him. "Well, if there’re that many, they’ll probably get us wherever we are."
Cooper sighed, then made what, for him, probably counted as an attempt to be civil. "Look ..." he glanced between Ben and the younger man, "... the cellar. The cellar, there’s only one door, right? Just one door. That’s all we have to protect. Tom and I fixed it so that it locks and boards from the inside. But up here, all these windows? Why, we’d never know where they were going to hit us next!"
Speaking of windows, Ben bent to peek outside between two of the boards he’d nailed up. He made a point of not looking at Cooper.
The younger man — Tom, Ben presumed — said, "You’ve got a point, Mister Cooper. But down in the cellar, there’s no place to run to. I mean, if they did get in, there’d be no back exit. We’d be done for!"
Cooper grumbled and waved him off in classic curmudgeon fashion, stomping over to stand nearer the cellar door.
But Tom wasn’t ready to give up yet. "We can get out of here, if we have to. And we got windows to see what’s going on outside. But down there, with no windows, if a rescue party did come, we wouldn’t even know it."
"But the cellar is the strongest place!" Cooper insisted.
Ben commented from where he bent at the window, "The cellar is a deathtrap."
"I don’t know, Mister Cooper," Tom said, "I think he’s right." When Cooper didn’t reply, he joined Ben near the window. "You know how many’s out there?"
"I don’t know," Ben answered, standing straight. "I figure, maybe six or seven."
"Look," Cooper said, getting their attention back, "you two can do whatever you like. I’m going back down to the cellar, and you better decide. ‘Cause I’m gonna board up that door, and I’m not gonna unlock it again no matter what happens!"
Tom help up a mollifying hand. "Now wait a minute, Mister Cooper—"
"No, I’m not gonna wait! I’ve made my decision, now you make yours!"
"Now wait a minute!" Tom snapped, showing more guts than Ben had yet seen from him — Ben kept his own counsel for the moment, letting the young man have his say. "Let’s think about this! We can make it the cellar, if we have to. And if we do decide to stay down there, we’ll need some things from up here." Cooper didn’t like that; he looked to the floor rather than face Tom’s irrefutable logic. "So let’s at least consider this a while!"
Cooper shuffled and fidgeted, and did not reply right away.
Calming back down, Tom took Ben’s place at the window, bending to peek outside.
Ben stepped forward, taking his own crack at Cooper again while the man was actually being silent for more than two seconds. "You box yourself in the cellar and those things get in the house, you’ve had it. At least up here you have a fighting chance."
Tom heard this, and noted that Cooper didn’t have a ready comeback this time — in the hours he’d spent stuck with Cooper, he’d really started to dislike the man; he was just too polite to show it — but most of his attention was focused outside.
Those people were clustered around the truck outside. They weren’t even doing anything, just ... wandering around, like idiots or something. They were dressed in all different clothing — some dirty, some bloody, and some in perfect condition — but they all had that same, hollow expression on their faces. They were calm now, but he knew from what he’d seen at the lake how easily that could change. Those things gave him the creeps, and it chilled him to see so many so close.
Standing, he said, "There looks like about eight or ten of them now."
"That’s more than there were," Ben said, taking another quick peek himself. "There are a lot out back, too." He turned and headed toward the kitchen, toward the back door — maybe it was time to light another fire.
But he didn’t make it that far.
As Ben passed by the first kitchen window, filthy hands burst through the gaps in the boards he had nailed up, grabbing and clutching at his shirt, his pants, his exposed arms.
Through the gaps, Ben could see a pale face, the man’s empty stare replaced by a burning desire for flesh — his flesh.
As Ben struggled to pull himself free and bring the rifle around to bear, Tom came running. Sliding to a halt, his feet almost went out from under him on the slick linoleum as he looked around for something he could use — it took him only a moment to spot the knife Barbra had left on top of the refrigerator, and he seized it with grateful hands.
Circling around Ben, who was mostly free now but still trying to get a clear shot, Tom saw that there were at least two of those things clambering at the window, their hands grasping, dirty fingernails clawing at his face even though he was too far back for them to possibly reach him.
Revulsion giving him strength, Tom hacked at one of them with the knife. He lashed out again and again, first cleaving into the back of the hand and then chopping whole fingers away — he didn’t know if it made it better or worse that there was hardly any blood. By the time the thing finally withdrew its hand, it was little more than a butchered stump ...
... and yet the thing made no sound. Not a cry, not a moan, not even a grunt.
Even in the heat of the moment, with the things still grabbing at Be
n and his rifle, that brought Tom up short. It didn’t make sense! No matter what had happened to drive these people mad, no matter what had twisted and perverted them into actually eating their fellow human beings, how could any person — no matter how deranged — allow their own hand to be hacked, literally, to pieces?!
Even if they somehow felt no pain ... by God, the man’s fingers were lying in a pile on the floor!
He glanced up at Ben, to see if he’d witnessed this impossible thing, but Ben had problems of his own to worry about.
Ben could not get a clear shot. Even when he pulled free, they were tugging at the barrel of the rifle — not as though they were trying to disarm him, but like they wanted him so much, they would grab any "part" of him and could not tell the difference. He would step back, dragging the weapon free, and then when he leaned in to take a shot, they would start grabbing at the barrel all over again.
Night of the Living Dead Page 10