Helen looked over at him. She thought about it for a moment, hugged herself tighter. "I don’t know ..." Then she sighed and stood straighter, peeking down the cellar stairs again, toward Karen. "We were ... just trying to get to a motel before dark."
Ben nodded. "You say those things turned your car over. You think we can get it back on its wheels and drive it?" Then the important question. "Where is it?"
Helen answered, her voice sounding more tired than ever, "Seems like it was pretty far away ... seems like we ran ..."
Then Cooper spoke up, sounding irritated and petulant. "Forgot it. It’s at least a mile."
"Johnny has the keys," Barbra sing-songed from the sofa.
Cooper tossed over his shoulder at his wife, "You gonna carry that child a mile? Through that army of things out there?"
Ben stated, "I can carry the kid."
Cooper’s eyes shot daggers at him from across the room, but the little man said nothing.
Ben ignored him, asking Helen, "What’s wrong with her? How’d she get hurt?"
"One of those things grabbed her—" she answered.
Cooper cut in, his eyes averted, "Bit her on the arm."
Shit, Ben thought. Tom had mentioned that the girl was hurt, but Ben had yet to see her with his own eyes, hadn’t thought to ask exactly how she had been injured.
Helen noticed his expression. "What’s wrong?"
"Who knows what kind of disease those things carry?"
Helen just stared at him — the same thought had been on her mind, of course, since the television stressed how important it was to get the wounded medical treatment.
"Is she conscious?" Ben asked.
"Barely."
Cooper piped up again. "She can’t walk, she’s too weak."
Ben looked away, fighting the urge to spring across the room and beat the rest of that obstinance out of the man. The frustrating thing was, if the girl was sick with something, Cooper was probably right — Ben had gotten back to the house by the skin of his teeth; he couldn’t imagine carrying a child through a mile of that.
But that didn’t mean he had to like it, so he yelled, "Well, one of us could try to get to the car!"
Cooper sneered, "You gonna turn it over by yourself?"
"You can’t start the car," Barbra scolded them, "Johnny has the keys."
That’s when Ben set aside his irritation with Cooper long enough to consider what Barbra was saying. Maybe she wasn’t just blabbering after all.
Crossing to her, he knelt down and asked, "You have a car?"
Even Cooper looked interested in the answer, but Barbra didn’t say anything, just looked at Ben with that same drunken expression.
"Where?" Ben stressed. "Where is it?"
Barbra shook her head and spoke in that same sing-song voice, as though she were addressing a silly child. "You won’t be able to start it."
Ben was losing his patience. "Yeah, yeah, I know, but where is it?"
But before she could answer, they were all startled by a sudden loud moan from outside the front door.
The dead had been quieter than usual while they were having their way with Tom and Judy’s remains. But now that the flesh was dwindling, they were no longer satisfied, but revitalized, aroused with the desire for more. They descended upon the house like sharks drawn to blood, vocalizing their need louder than before.
They wanted more ... more ... and what they wanted was inside that house.
Ben rushed to the window, saw them coming. He gripped one of the boards tight, grinding his teeth in fear and frustration. But what could he do? At a loss, he turned around and flipped on the television — maybe the next broadcast would provide something useful for a change.
Cooper had also hurried to the window, but unlike Ben, he remained ... and was christened with his own front-row presentation of what they faced. It was one thing to hear it on the television; it was something else to see it with his own eyes.
"Good Lord ..." he whispered.
The dead were not completely out of sustenance just yet. As a group, they had moved closer to the house, to the source of more ... but as individuals, they continued to feast upon the remnants of Tom and Judy. A hand here, a foot there, other parts which Cooper could not recognize, and was glad for that.
It was true. The dead were eating the living.
The anchorman was talking on the television now, and Cooper forced himself to back away from the window and try to pay attention. He strode over to sit near his wife, while Ben hunkered down almost directly in front of the television set.
"... being monitored closely by scientists and all the radiation detection stations," the anchorman was saying. "At this hour, they report the level of the mysterious radiation continues to increase steadily. So long as this situation remains, government spokesmen warn that dead bodies will continue to be transformed into the flesh-eating ghouls."
Cooper had just gotten settled when his agitation forced him back to his feet. The movement caught Ben’s attention — the high-and-mighty bastard glanced over his shoulder at him, gripping that rifle of his to send a message.
He wouldn’t be so goddamn tough, Cooper groused, without that gun. But he knew to keep that opinion to himself, so he said nothing. Instead, he crossed the room again, peered out through the window for a brief moment, then turned away once more in repulsion.
"All persons who die during this crisis," the anchorman continued, "from whatever cause, will come back to life — to seek human victims — unless their bodies are first disposed of by cremation."
The anchorman paused, then spoke with renewed energy.
"Our news cameras have just returned from covering such a search-and-destroy operation against the ghouls, this one conducted by Sheriff Conan McClelland in Butler County, Pennsylvania. So now let’s go to that film report..."
The image cut away to an exterior which could have been shot down the road, so far as Ben could tell — the trees and large, grassy lawns looked familiar enough. A rural house stood in the background, a police car waited in the foreground, and in the middle a crowd of men, all carrying guns.
"All law enforcement agencies," the anchorman narrated, "and the military have been organized to search out and destroy the marauding ghouls."
As the image switched to a closeup of even more men, mostly civilians but all still armed, something nagged at Ben, itching at the back of his mind that something wasn’t right. But he couldn’t place what it was at first, so he continued listening.
"Survival Command Center at the Pentagon has disclosed that a ghoul can be killed by a shot in the head, or a heavy blow to the skull."
For the first time in hours, Ben brightened, if only for a moment. He had been right!
"Officials are quoted as explaining that since the brain of a ghoul has been activated by the radiation, the plan is: Kill the brain, and you kill the ghoul."
The sound quality changed as they switched to the recording from the field. Police officers in uniform exchanged comments with others who were not, while a reporter waited for a moment to jump in with his questions.
Ben tuned that out for a moment — two things were bothering him now, but as if in compliment of each other, he figured out what they each were.
The first, the one that had bugged him from the moment they had switched to the film footage, was the time of day in which it was shot — broad daylight. When he had noticed the daylight during the earlier interview with the military officer and his two companions, Ben had presumed that it had been filmed somewhere on the west coast, where the sun might not have set yet. But this footage, which the anchorman claimed had "just" returned, looked like mid-afternoon, whereas it was now nighttime across the entire nation.
They’re misleading us, he thought. They’re trying to prevent further panic at best, or boldface-lying to us at worst. This has been going on longer than they’re willing to admit.
The second thing was this bit about mysterious radiation having "activate
d" the brains of the dead; the notion had made him skeptical earlier, and it did so again. He believed the part about destroying the brain — he’d come to that conclusion on his own, seen the evidence with his own eyes — but as for "mysterious radiation" being the cause, he just didn’t buy it. Again, he was no expert, but to his knowledge irradiating the brain would, if anything, be a possible solution to the problem; the accelerated particles would tear the awakened synapses apart, break down the cells ...
The real problem is, he realized, that they don’t have a clue why this is happening or what is causing it. But this must be their best working theory, so they’re presenting it as fact.
Damn. This situation wouldn’t be going away anytime soon.
On the television, the reporter finally got in close enough to try for an interview, "Chief? Chief McClelland, how’s everything going?"
The man turned around, and Ben was surprised to learn that he wasn’t a conscripted civilian — he seemed a little too rough around the edges to be a competent police officer. He carried a rifle on one shoulder and wore a large bandoleer across his girthy chest. He also wore a Fedora-style hat, and tucked into the hatband were what appeared to be three wrapped cigars, as if the man intended to pass them around to celebrate a newborn.
"Ah, things aren’t goin’ too bad," the Chief replied. "Men are takin’ it pretty good." He looked over the reporter’s shoulder and shouted, "You wanna get on the other side of the road over there!"
"Chief," the reporter asked, bringing his attention back around, "do you think we’ll be able to defeat these things?"
"Well we killed nineteen of ‘em today right in this area. Those last three we caught tryin’ ta claw their way into an abandoned shed, they musta thought somebody was in there. There wadn’t, though. We heard ‘em makin’ all kinda noise, we came over an’ beat ‘em off, blasted ‘em down."
From off camera, someone shouted something Ben couldn’t understand, and the Chief answered, "Yeah, okay!"
Desperate to hold onto this interview, the reporter jumped in, "Chief, uh ... if I were surrounded by six or eight of these things, would I stand a chance with them?"
"Well there’s no problem. If you had a gun, shoot ‘em in the head, that’s a sure way ta kill ‘em. If you don’t, get yourself a club or a torch — beat ‘em or burn ‘em, they go up pretty easy."
"Chief McClelland, how long do you think it will take you until you get the situation under control?"
"Well that’s pretty hard ta say, we don’t know how many of ‘em there are. We know when we find ‘em, we can kill ‘em."
"Are they slow-moving, Chief?"
"Yeah, they’re dead, they’re ..." the man paused, as if considering something profound, then delivered, "... all messed up."
Ben shook his head. "All messed up?" What a callous son of a bitch. How a backwards redneck like that made Chief of Police is just ludicrous, it’s ...
He stopped himself. Whether his evaluation of the chief were accurate or not, this attitude was unlike him ... as unlike him as those extra blows he had delivered onto Cooper.
Ben needed to watch himself. He didn’t like the effect Cooper was having on him — these ugly thoughts were brought on by dealing with Cooper as much as with the dead people, and the obnoxious little man wasn’t worth it.
"Well, uh," the reporter asked, "in time ... would you say you ought to be able to wrap this up in twenty-four hours?"
"Well ..." McClelland considered, "... we don’t really know. We know we’ll be into it mosta the night, probly into the early morning. We’re workin’ our way toward Willard, an we’ll team up with the National Guard over there, an then we’ll be able ta getta more definite view."
Ben noted the reference to Willard. So this was recorded in the local area, which meant from the sunlight that this was shot many hours ago, before the attack on Beekman’s had even occurred.
"Thank you very much, Chief McClelland."
The chief nodded and faded back.
The reporter addressed the camera directly, "This is Bill Cardille, WIC TV-11 news."
The view switched back to the studio, and the anchorman said, "Thank you, Bill, for that report."
Ben glanced over his shoulder at the others. Were they noticing the discontinuity between the report and the way it was being presented as though it were "current"? Should he point it out? What would that accomplish? Barbra was too out of it, Helen was too exhausted, and he couldn’t care less about Cooper.
Besides, it didn’t really change their situation, did it?
"Official spokesmen decline to speculate," the anchorman was saying, "just how long it may take to kill off all the flesh-eaters. So long as the heavy ra—"
And then their situation changed.
The television fell silent as the room plunged into darkness. The quartet tensed, looking up as if they might bring the lights back on by force of will.
Ben stood. Maybe — maybe — this was just a God-awful coincidence. "Is the fuse box in the cellar?"
"I don’t know ..." Cooper said, his voice uneven and tentative. "I ..."
Harry Cooper hated to show his fear, especially to the son of a bitch who’d had the nerve to lay hands on him. But the fact was that the sudden darkness disturbed him even more than seeing those things outside eating what was left of Tom and Judy. He felt so ... damned ... helpless!
Ben strode past him toward the cellar, then disappeared from what little light there was into total blackness as he descended the stairs, probably looking for the stupid fuse box.
But Harry knew better. He could feel it. "It ... it isn’t the fuse," he whispered. "The power lines are down."
Yes, that was it. Those things weren’t as stupid as they looked — they’d cut the power! And here he stood, helpless. If he couldn’t even defend himself against Ben ...
No, this was intolerable, and he had to do something about it.
Turning, he moved over to his wife where she sat on the arm of the sofa. Keeping his voice low, he said, "Helen ... I have to get that gun."
His eyes were adjusting to the gloom, picking up on what little light was leaking through the boarded windows, but Helen’s face was still a phantom before him. But even though he couldn’t see her, he heard her scoff. And when she answered, the ice, the disgust, in her voice was unmistakable. "Haven’t you had enough?"
"Wha—?" Harry stammered, flabbergasted by her attitude. She was his wife, goddamn it! "Two people are dead already on account of that guy. Take a look out that window. We can’t—"
Then Ben reappeared, and Harry shut his mouth in a hurry. He looked away, trembling as much in frustration as in fear, as Ben strode past him.
If only those things had gotten the bastard, he would be in charge!
Outside, one of the dead stared down at the ground. He was nearer to the house than some of the others, and he wasn’t looking at any of the small remaining fires or pieces of Tom or Judy or even a fieldmouse. He was looking at a rock, a large jagged stone bigger than his gashed hand.
Something about that rock was tickling at what little remained of the dead man’s mind. Some association, some use perhaps?
If Ben or Cooper had observed this behavior, they would likely have found it confusing, but Barbra might have been able to explain it to them — it was a reaction she had seen before, albeit at a much faster, more instinctive pace.
And then the dead man had it. Bending slowly, his stiff muscles and grinding bones creaking and popping, he reached down and picked up the rock. He hefted it once, twice, then moved toward the house, the rock held ready.
His example triggered an instant reaction in one of the others. He, too, bent over, in his case near the still-smoldering chair Ben had pushed outside hours earlier. He grabbed the end of Ben’s first makeshift torch and, dragging the discarded table leg behind him, he shambled up onto the front porch. As he approached the front door, moving more on instinct than actual thought, he heaved the table leg up so that he could cl
ose both bluish hands around it ...
... then swung it around and slammed it against the front door.
In the house, it all seemed to start happening at once. A loud, sharp thunk came from the front door, but before Ben could do much more than turn his head toward the sound, another bang came from further down the porch, and then another on the heels of that. Far too fast and too far apart to be coming from the same creature. Nothing had been happening a moment ago, and now it sounded as though a whole group of them had figured out how to use objects as tools, as weapons.
Ben’s assumption wasn’t far off. As if the first dead man’s picking up the rock had triggered an inexplicable burst of evolution — an insidious "Ah-ha!" moment — many of the dead grabbed rocks and branches and whatever they could find close at hand and began assaulting the house in earnest. They weren’t even sure why they were doing it, not exactly, but they knew that prey was inside, and this suddenly struck them as the right thing to do to get at what they wanted.
Night of the Living Dead Page 16