Praise the Dead

by Gina Ranalli

  “I don’t know if you’re supposed to,” he admitted, “but . . . I’m not sure. Feels kinda like I should tell you, at least a little.”

  “No.” Her voice, despite belonging to a young girl, was firm and somewhat authoritative. “Your dreams scare me.”

  “They scare me, too. Even more lately.”

  She looked up at his face and saw that he meant it. He was even more disheveled than usual. Dark rings circled his eyes and he hadn’t shaved in days. Quickly, she looked away. “I don’t want to hear about it.”

  “Okay. I won’t tell you.”

  Lindy shifted the bag. “I don’t believe you.”

  He let out a chuckle that held no real humor. “You’re a smart girl. You always have been.”

  She frowned, but said nothing.

  “I have to tell you some of it,” he said. When she still made no reply, he went on. “He’s learning now. Learning . . . control.”

  A gust of wind sent her long dark hair flapping out behind her; she shivered. Why had she put on shorts after school? It was colder outside than it had any right to be.

  Jackson touched her shoulder lightly. “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  She didn’t have to be told who he was. But the word “control” gave her goose pimples in a way no chilly wind could ever do. Swallowing what felt like a golf ball in her throat, she asked, “Do you know how long?”

  “No.” He seemed taken aback by the question. “Don’t you?”

  “No.” Despite the absence of birds, she was beginning to feel sick to her stomach. “They never tell me exactly.”

  Nodding, Jackson said, “Me neither. But I think it’s because nothing is set in stone. There are any number of things that could happen that could change things, set things on a different course.”

  “Not enough things,” she said solemnly. She began to walk faster, anxious to get home and be with her mother and forget about all this scary stuff. She was only eleven. It wasn’t fair.

  “Probably not,” he said. “But it could happen. Something could happen to change everything and then . . .” He trailed off and Lindy knew he couldn’t convince himself of the lie he was trying to sell her.

  Oh, yes, it was true something could happen to alter things slightly, but not enough to prevent what was coming. Nothing could prevent it entirely.

  Jackson walked her to within a block of her house then said goodbye. He stood there on the sidewalk, just watching her go, and Lindy didn’t care anymore if he saw where she lived. She was aware of the fact he already knew that anyway.

  She entered the house, her errand complete, and tried to return the smile her mom gave her, but it was difficult. She felt exhausted all of a sudden. Like an old woman who had lived a hard life and knew it wasn’t going to get any easier.

  How, she thought. How am I supposed to do this? It hasn’t even started yet—not really—and I’m already so tired.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Walter sat up.

  Andrew could hear his mother weeping in the kitchen as she prepared herself a cup of coffee. He stepped back from the bed, eyeing Walter with satisfaction. His stepfather was easily the best-looking corpse he’d ever seen. Not mangled or gross at all. He wondered why he’d never thought of just poisoning the animals instead of bashing their brains in. It would have been so much better.

  “Live and learn,” he whispered then giggled. It was a statement that could easily—and appropriately—been directed at Walter as well.

  The sound of his voice caused Walter to turn his head and look at him. He worked his jaw, perhaps in an attempt to speak, but Andrew didn’t think so. He knew from experience that his undead couldn’t speak. At least not yet. He still harbored hope he could teach them eventually, though.

  In the kitchen, something crashed. A mug shattering, most likely, and Andrew’s mother let out a long string of curse words.

  Andrew watched as Walter struggled off the bed. His coordination was bad; he was clumsy, pulling the bedding along with him in his pale fists as if that would make standing easier somehow. His dull eyes never left Andrew and the boy did his best to stand his ground, his back to the closed closet door.

  Concentrate, he told himself, directing all of his mental energy towards the undead man. You can control him. All it takes is a little practice.

  He knew that if he could raise the dead, he could certainly control them as well. After all, raising them should have been the hard part, and for anyone else—anyone else—it would have been impossible.

  But not for him.

  Tripping forward, Walter reached for him even though they were still about six feet apart. Andrew lifted his chin in defiance, raised his own small hand, and made eye contact with the thing.

  “No,” he said firmly. “You will do as I say.”

  Much to his surprise, Walter stopped, tottering drunkenly, but remained standing.

  From the hallway, his mother spoke. “Come out of there now, Andy.” And then she was in the doorway.

  She gasped before bursting into tears.

  “Mom, no!” he yelled, but it was already too late.

  She crossed the room quickly, going straight to Walter, wrapping her arms around his neck from behind. “You scared us to death, baby!” she wailed. “I thought I lost you!”

  “MOM!”

  Walter twisted in her arms, but she didn’t release him, just hugged him tighter, thanking Jesus and all the Saints in Heaven for making her husband okay after all. She was in mid-prayer when the thing that had been her husband bent his head forward and bit into her tear-stained cheek, ripping away a chunk of flesh that left her teeth exposed on the left side of her face.

  Mother and son screamed.

  Blood coursed down her face and neck, her eyes so wide and wet Andrew thought for sure they would pop out of her skull, bounce to the floor and roll away.

  The strength went out of her legs as she tried to reach up with her hand to feel the gaping wound, but Walter had a firm grip on both her arms, holding her upright as he chewed the meat off her face while grunting with satisfaction, blood dribbling down his chin and falling onto his bare chest.

  “Let her go!” Andrew shouted, stepping forward to grapple with the monster. He grasped the thing’s right arm and pulled, but Walter struck out with an elbow, nailing him squarely on the bridge of his nose.

  The boy released his grip and crumbled to the floor, hands over his face, blood streaming out from between his fingers.

  The bright white stars he saw were only momentary and then his vision filled up with red. Rage unlike anything he had ever known boiled over and he looked up to see Walter biting deeply into his mother’s throat. A cascade of dark arterial blood splashed down over his head, his face, his entire body. The boy roared, his fury the fury of an ancient god kept caged for centuries and suddenly finding himself able to smash free and take vengeance upon all who had imprisoned him.

  “STOPPPPP!”

  And like a plug being pulled, the monster froze. Andrew’s mother slipped from its gory hands and landed with a splash and a crunch of bones beside him on the floor. He stared into her dead eyes from over his cupped hands and felt nothing.

  He looked up at the monster he’d created, watched as the thing stood unmoving, droplets of blood falling from its fingertips.

  I did it, Andrew thought. I really did it.

  A twinge of pride arose in his heart and he almost shouted with joy, but the surge of agony from his broken nose prevented him from celebrating just yet.

  He licked his lips, tasting his mother’s blood and was pleasantly surprised.

  It didn’t taste so bad, really.

  Not bad at all.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Lindy and Amelia were eating dinner when something smashed into the window over the sink, cracking the glass and caused both of them to cry out in surprise.

  “What the . . .” Amelia rose from the table, went to the window and pushed the curtain aside. S
he shook her head, frowning. “I don’t see any—”

  THUD!

  Something hit the side of the house. Hard. Amelia flinched and Lindy dropped her fork. It clinked noisily against her plate, startling them both even further.

  Another thud. And then another and another until it sounded as though a barrage of softballs were being thrown at the house.

  Lindy stared at her mother, dinner forgotten. “Mom, what is it?” But she had a dreadful feeling that she already knew exactly what was pummeling her house, trying to get her attention in the only way they knew how.

  She got up and went to her mom, who had gone back to looking out the window. Amelia’s eyes were wide with disbelief. Somewhere in another part of the house, glass shattered.

  “Get away from the window, Lindy,” Amelia ordered, gently pushing her daughter aside.

  “It’s birds, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Amelia took her own advice and moved away from the kitchen window as even more birds thumped against the roof and outer walls. “I don’t know what’s going on, honey. Some freak-of-nature-type thing I guess. But it will be over soon, I promise. Something must be messing with their sonar or whatever it is that birds have.”

  “They’re not bats.”

  “Whatever.” She grabbed Lindy’s arm and they hurried to the front hallway, away from any windows, and crouched down together.

  “It’s not a freak of nature, Mom,” Lindy said. She was terrified, but doing her best to sound brave. “They want me.”

  Amelia studied the ceiling and gave no indication of having heard the girl. “It sounds like they’re falling right out of the sky and landing on the roof. Oh, I hope they aren’t hurting themselves.” She looked as though she might cry at any moment, her concern for the welfare of the animals overtaking her. “When I looked out, they seemed to be flying into the house and then flying off again, but this doesn’t sound good at all. They’re hitting us so hard.” She hugged Lindy tight against her. Lindy felt her mother shivering.

  “They want me, Mom,” Lindy repeated. “I don’t know if they’ll stop until I go out there and listen to them.”

  Another window—in Lindy’s bedroom by the sound of it—exploded as surely as if it had been hit by rifle fire. They heard glass tinkling to the hardwood floor almost like some kind of song. The sound of franticly flapping wings quickly followed.

  “They’re getting inside!” Amelia cried.

  Angry caws and squawks rushed towards them from upstairs and Lindy pulled away from her mom. “I have to go out!” she insisted. She started towards the front door, heart hammering in her chest. From what she could hear through the ruckus, she didn’t have long now. It was time to grow up, take responsibility and play her part to the best of her ability.

  It was time to become the warrior.

  “What are you doing?” Amelia shouted, apparently understanding Lindy’s intention for the first time. “You can’t go out there now!”

  The woman stood and hurried after her daughter, trying to get a grip on the girl.

  Lindy fought to keep herself free as a small dark bird soared into the hallway, followed by another and then a third. Like three tiny missiles, they dove as a single unit, aiming for her mother’s head, shrieking furiously.

  Amelia swatted at the birds, trying to keep them away from her hair, but the creatures were always just out of reach, swooping to and fro until it became obvious to Lindy they were only meant to be a distraction—one she had to take advantage of now.

  Racing for the front door, she ignored her mother’s screeching, ignored the constant hammering on the outside of the house and, most of all, ignored the fear clutching her heart with sharp, black talons.

  She wrenched open the front door and gasped in surprise.

  Jackson stood on the stoop, covering his head with a blue Spring jacket. “It’s time,” he shouted over the din of enraged flocks.

  Behind him, the sky was dark with circling birds. Her mother had been right. Some of them were simply falling out of the sky, allowing themselves to crash into the house, the earth, the car in the driveway.

  Dead birds lay everywhere, while the injured helplessly flopped around.

  “Take my hand,” Jackson yelled.

  Lindy regarded the offered hand and then disregarded it just as quickly. She pushed past him, emerging from the house without so much as raising an arm protectively over her head.

  “They won’t hurt me,” she said. There was a resigned calmness in her voice that she’d never heard before and it took her a moment to realize what it was.

  She still sounded young; she still sounded frightened.

  But nevertheless, it was the voice of a soldier.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Andrew was having fun.

  His parents were marionettes and he was finally getting the hang of being the puppet master.

  When his mother had risen, he’d felt a twinge of anger, a pinch of guilt, but more than anything, he’d been fascinated. He hadn’t known whether to punish Walter or reward him. Not that either course of action would have mattered. The guy was a zombie. A dead, rotting, stinking zombie. And right now he was shambling down the sidewalk beside his former wife while Andrew walked behind them, a stick in one hand, which he waved back and forth like a conducting baton. He didn’t need the stick, but he enjoyed it. It was part of the game.

  “Onward!” he commanded in a loud, playful voice. “Forward . . . MARCH!”

  The morning was sunny and bright; cars passed by on the street, their passengers barely glancing at the odd trio of pedestrians, too anxious to get to wherever it was they were going.

  It was Sunday and if even only a small number of the people passing by in the cars were heading to where Andrew and his puppets were going, it would still be dozens more than Andrew had even thought was possible.

  The day looked promising indeed.

  “Hut two, hut two!”

  He briefly considered making the zombies actually march, but decided against it. He wanted to save his energy for when they got there.

  Up ahead, the tall white steeple stood proud and pristine against the blue sky. Although Andrew and his family had seldom gone to church, he knew this one—Saint John’s—had a small cemetery behind it. He was curious about whether or not he could raise the dead there, make the corpses claw their way out of their rotted wooden coffins, up through the dirt and out into the streets to do his bidding. They would either dance a bone-jangle jig in the middle of the street or terrorize the residents of the neighborhood. Regardless, it would be fun.

  It had been just a fantasy, though. Andrew knew from his experiments with the animals he could only control the brains of the dead and the people buried in the church graveyard had been there so long they most definitely had no brains to speak of. If they ever did, he thought, amused. Compared to me, everyone is a dolt! Why else have they not figured out how to do what I can do?

  Still, it had been an entertaining fantasy for a while. Andrew liked skeletons and they would be so much neater than these messy corpses which were already starting to deteriorate and stink from the sun.

  No matter.

  There were plenty more where they came from.

  Or, at least, there would be.

  He halted the zombies across the street from the church and stood there, examining his surroundings. Behind them stood a retirement home, which was a bit distressing. For certain it would mean lots of old people in the church right now. He wished he’d remembered the existence of the old folks place before, but he’d just have to make do now.

  The traffic was slow and leisurely, only a few cars passing by. Andrew waited for a lull just the same. When he’d looked both ways and saw no vehicles in either direction, he cleared his throat and began to shout, “Hey, you people! Listen up!”

  Apparently, there were a lot of non-religious elderly people because they drifted out of their residence long before the people inside the church emerged.

  And
rew paid most of them no mind. They were still alive and already rotting anyway, their skin creased and wrinkled. What good would that do him? No, he had to pay attention to the younger, healthier folks.

  A few other people stood around the old fogies. Nurses and doctors, maybe?

  Pointing at these people with his makeshift baton, Andrew told them, “I am your savior! Bow down to me or suffer for your sins!”

  Having never read the Bible, Andrew could only call upon the things he’d heard in movies and those he could barely remember. He was making it up as he went along, but that part didn’t matter. The words themselves didn’t matter. It was the message that mattered, and the message was getting across loud and clear.

  “Join me and suffer not!” he continued, raising his voice. Beside him, the zombies stood still, drool dribbling down their chins. What appeared to be a single nurse finally noticed the woman with the bite marks and dried blood caking the front of her nightgown.

  She hurried forward. “What happened?” she asked the dead woman. “Are you okay?”

  Across the street, the large church doors swung open and people flowed forward from within like ants pouring from an anthill.

  Ignoring the nurse, Andrew turned his attention to the throng. “Praise me!” he shouted at the top of his voice, arms spread out from his sides. “I am the resurrection and the life! He who doesn’t believe in me shall suffer eternal damnation!”

  Several churchgoers paused on their way to the parking lot, shielding their eyes from the sun to see the young boy shouting across the street. They pointed and began to nudge one another.

  Behind him, the nurse—if she was a nurse—began to cause a commotion, shouting for someone to call 911. Andrew scowled, wishing she would stop distracting him. To the churchgoers, he yelled, “Bear witness to the miracle that is I!”