by Brant, Jason
"Bring some tables over here, now!" Ellis said from the doorway.
"Impossible," Randy said from the floor. "That's impossible."
Rob and John jumped from the chairs, knocking them over behind them. Each grabbed an edge of their square table and tipped it sideways, sending its bottle and glasses crashing to the floor.
"Hurry!" Ellis said. "More of them are headed this way!"
Zed's sons dropped the table on its side at the base of the door and pushed it flush against the frame.
"We need another table and more weight," Rob said.
Karen grabbed Lauren by the elbow, pulling her from her chair. "Grab the other end of this table."
"I don't underst−"
"Just do it," Karen said.
Lauren seemed like she wanted to continue to protest, but a quick glance at Karen's face took the fight out of her.
As they lifted the table to put it on top of the other one, Karen could see Mrs. Armstrong on the other side of the door. Blood and pus ran down her cheek from the empty socket where her right eye had once been. The eye swayed back and forth with every step, smacking against her nose and cheekbone with a watery softness. A groan escaped her throat when she saw Karen and Lauren.
Known as the finest seamstress in Gehenna, Mrs. Armstrong had personally made several of Karen's favorite dresses. She specialized in working with fine stitching due to her dexterous hands and sharp eyesight.
When Lauren spotted Mrs. Armstrong, she dropped her end of the table and ran to the stairs, taking them two at a time, screeching the entire way. The weight of the falling table dragged Karen forward, pulling her within reaching distance of Mrs. Armstrong.
Karen could feel bony, jagged fingers snagging her hair and tugging at her scalp. Strong hands grabbed her shoulders and ripped her back through the doorway, sending her pinwheeling into the bar. Ellis punched the elderly woman in the face, mashing her dangling eyeball and knocking her out of the door.
As she fell backward from the force of the blow, Ellis took hold of both sides of the table and jammed it on top of the first, closing off the door.
Anthony came up behind him with several chairs under each arm.
"Those ain't heavy enough; we need−"
The tables pitched forward, falling against Ellis' back. Planting his feet against the floor, Ellis pushed back against the tables. Strands bulged from his neck as he struggled to block the door again.
On the other side of the table, Mrs. Armstrong and the burned man fought against his momentum, trying to force their way inside the saloon.
"Help me, damn it!"
John came up beside them and put his considerable weight against the tables, giving the extra push needed to put them flush with the door.
"Anthony, take my place. I've got a hammer and nails behind the bar," Ellis said.
The tables budged a few inches as they changed positions. Though Anthony wasn't a small man, he weighed much less than the rotund Ellis, and he struggled to hold the barricade in place.
Barbara stood by one of the windows, peering through a dirty pane.
"What's going on? Is everyone sick?"
In the distance, more screams could be heard above the faint moans and groans.
"We'll figure that out later. Get some tables against those windows!" Ellis said to Rob.
Squeezing his plump body around the bar, he started rooting around the shelving under the counter.
The thunder of gunshots filled the streets.
"That must have come from the sheriff's office," Karen said.
Dave lifted his head from the bar and looked at Anthony. "You think Sheriff Stanley is having trouble with those guys that bit us?"
"If I wasn't busy right now, I'd smack the hell out of you," Anthony said as he struggled against the table.
Zed watched the growing throng of people in the street as he worked at barricading the other window. "More of them are coming every second... "
Rob and Barbara were busy placing tables by the windows while Ellis came back to the front door with a hammer and canning jar filled with nails. He had to step over the doctor who was sprawled on the floor, watching the action with hysteria in his eyes.
"Hold it steady," Ellis said.
As he started on the first nail, Zed started teetering on his feet as if he'd lost his balance.
Karen slid a chair over and placed it behind his knees. "What's gotten into you?"
His skin seemed to have thinned, like it had been stretched too far, and his eyes looked like they were bugging out of his head.
"I don't know. I feel sick as a−" he said, before vomiting on the floor.
Standing with his hands on his knees, he tried to straighten his back before crumpling down. His body landed in a disturbing seated position with his head hanging down.
"Pa?" John asked. "Pa!" He stepped away from the table, intent on seeing to his ailing father. The moment he did, the table buckled in before John threw his back into it again.
Another shot barked from down the street.
Chapter 8
McCall watched in disbelief as the sheriff tried to sit up. Most of his midsection was gone, strewn around the room in every direction.
Sheriff Stanley struggled for several moments to get to a seated position, as he didn't have any abdominal muscles. Eventually he rolled to his side and pushed himself to his feet.
His torso wobbled as he walked to the front of McCall's cell. With every step it seemed like his body might break in half. A trail of intestines dragged behind him, cutting a bloody swath through the dust on the floor.
Everything McCall had witnessed so far today seemed impossible, but watching a dead man rise and walk was more than he could take. It felt as if the very foundation of his sanity was being eroded away by one event after another.
Looking at the massive hole in the middle of the sheriff's body, McCall could see the man's ribs and the column of his spine. As he watched, a chunk of one of his organs fell from the cavity and landed at his feet with a sickening plop.
He needed to escape before it was too late. Marshals or no, he couldn't stay in here, surrounded by walking corpses.
Picking up the deputy’s pistol from the floor, he stood and faced the sheriff. Fanning the hammer with his left hand, he put two rapid-fire shots into Stanley's chest, aiming for his heart.
The impacts sent the sheriff back a half step, his upper body bobbing precariously at its tipping point. But he pressed against the cage moments later, resuming his unsuccessful attempts at reaching McCall. Wisps of smoke emerged from the two holes in his chest, just above the gaping chasm that used to be his stomach.
McCall knew that these weren't men anymore, and at that moment he didn't care to know what exactly they had become either. The only information he wanted now was how to kill them.
He knew, from the two men to his right, that arrows and axes to the heart didn't do anything. The deputy's nearly severed arm told him that they didn't feel any pain. And the three holes in the sheriff's body told him that bullets and disembowelment had no effect.
Picking up the tomahawk, he looked at the dull, gore covered blade. If they couldn't be killed, perhaps he could dismember them, disabling their ability to attack him.
Too messy and tiring.
He'd be exhausted before he could finish the job. And he didn't know how many more of these things roamed the streets.
Then he thought of hunting. What do you do with a wounded animal? You cut its throat if you have a sharp knife, which he didn't. Or you shoot in the head if you could afford using the extra bullet.
Dropping the axe, he switched the pistol to his right hand and cocked the hammer back with his thumb. Lifting the gun, he aimed at the sheriff's forehead and fired.
The back of Stanley's head exploded, showering his desk and the window beside it with skull fragments and brain tissue. His limbs stiffened as he fell back, crashing into the desk and crumpling to the floor.
McCall watched t
he corpse closely, looking for any signs of movement. There were none. Content with the result, he turned to the woman, pointed the pistol at her head, and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.
After opening the cylinder, McCall tipped the bullets into his palm. Only casings remained, all of the rounds spent. McCall tried to remember how many shots he heard the deputy shoot in the street, and the number he used on the sheriff just now.
Throwing the pistol to the ground in frustration, he grabbed the tomahawk and stood in front of the woman and the deputy. Knowing what he had to do didn't make it any easier. Shooting someone was one thing, but hacking at them with an axe seemed more personal.
Drawing a deep breath, he grasped at reassurance by telling himself they weren't people anymore. They were no more than mindless beasts. If the boy could eat his uncle alive, then there couldn't have been any part of who he used to be inside the shell of his body.
Using his left forearm, he battered the woman’s outstretched arms down, giving him a clear path to her head. With all his strength, he brought the tomahawk down in a shallow arc, embedding it in her skull. Strands of long blond hair, sliced by the axe, drifted to the floor, catching rays of light along the way.
The woman slumped down, landing on her ass and pulling the axe with her. McCall kept a tight grip on the handle, afraid of losing his last weapon. The weight of the body drifted away from the cell, pulling McCall shoulder deep between the bars. Realizing how exposed his outstretched arm was, he heaved on the tomahawk, trying to wrench it free.
What used to be Deputy Aaron looked down at the tantalizing limb and dropped his chomping mouth for it without pulling his arms free of the bars first. McCall gave one last tug on the axe, felt it give slightly, before releasing it as the deputy's teeth snagged his sleeve.
A shred of his clothing tore away as he retracted his arm, flapping loosely from Aaron's bloody teeth.
The woman's body fell over, landing on its back. The axe sat two feet past McCall's reach.
"Shit."
McCall slumped against the wall, cursing himself for not anticipating the turn of events. His eyes darted over the room again, searching for anything that could help him. Nothing sat within his reach.
Looking at the two men to his right, McCall remembered the broken arrows sticking from their backs. His movement was a blur as he grabbed the nearest man's extended arm and pulled him tight against the bars. Moving to his right, he reached his arm into the other cell. Careful of the man's gnashing jaw; he grabbed one of the arrows and tore it free. Fortunately, it wasn't buried deep in the muscle, making it possible to liberate without much force.
Releasing the man's arm, McCall jumped back to the middle of his cell. He flipped the shaft in his hand, angling the spade shaped arrowhead out of the bottom of his fist.
Aaron had resumed his mindless reaching by the door. McCall threw his body into the deputy’s arms, driving the arrow into his eye. The puncture produced a distinct pop as the shaft drove forward until McCall's hand rested against Aaron's cheek.
The deputy's hands, which had encircled Mad Dog's neck, clenched tighter before slumping to his sides. McCall let the arrow slip from his hand as Deputy Aaron's body collapsed on top of the woman in the flowered dress.
Crashing into his cot, he closed his eyes and tried to ignore the sounds coming from the cell next to him. He was beginning to question what was more important to him; escaping the damned moaning, or saving his own life.
Dropping to his hands and knees, he reached through the bars, trying to grab a hold of the pant leg of the sheriff. The key sitting in his front pocket was McCall's only hope. Extending his shoulder as far into the gap as possible allowed him to just reach the bottom cuff.
Wrapping his fingers around it, he pulled gently, fearful of tearing the fabric. If Sheriff Stanley's body had been intact, it would have been impossible to slide him across the floor using the cuff of his pants. But because his nephew had an early lunch, he weighed significantly less.
Even at its new, smaller size, McCall's muscles strained under the weight of the corpse. The process proved slow and agonizing as the body inched closer. McCall paused several times, switching arms due to cramps in his hands.
After what seemed an eternity, the leg was close enough to get both of his hands around it. Sliding the legs through until the crotch jammed against the bars allowed McCall to reach into the pocket and fetch his salvation.
The click as the lock opened was the greatest sound he'd ever heard. Not even the sight of the bodies blocking the door could take away his elation. Throwing his shoulder against it, he pushed with all of his strength.
The men in the other cell continued their never ending groans as the door gradually eked open. After snagging his hat, he slid through the small opening and stuffed it on his head. Straightening his legs, he took the first steps of his renewed freedom.
Standing in the center of the jailhouse, in a pool of the sheriff's blood, McCall looked at the guns strewn around the room and smiled.
Chapter 9
By the time Ellis had finished nailing the table to the door frame his clothes were drenched with sweat. Now he was working on the windows with Anthony, but his pace had slowed considerably.
Rob and John were tending to their collapsed father, stretching him out on the floor.
"He ain't breathing!" Rob said with a panic strewn voice. He kept caressing the old man's head, petting the bald area like someone might do to their pet.
The doctor had partially regained his wits, what was left of them, and switched to his reverend manner.
"What kind of devilry is this?" he asked over and over again.
Thumps surrounded them, as the people outside beat against the walls, windows, and tables. Their intensity increased with every passing second, forcing everyone to question the safety provided by their makeshift fortifications.
Karen tried her best to keep calm as she stacked bags of flour and barrels of beer against the tables securing the door. Anything that had weight to it was thrown on the pile.
She'd been attempting to analyze the situation for the past few minutes, but couldn't make any sense of what was happening. Her friends and neighbors were walking the streets with missing limbs and bite marks on their skin, oblivious to their wounds.
Only they weren't her friends anymore; they attacked anyone they encountered that didn't suffer the same ailment. What could turn common people into such ruthless murderers?
"Don't start preaching, Doc. We need to figure out what's going on, not get a sermon," she said.
"This is Satan's work, I'm sure of it!"
Karen ignored him and looked at Ellis. "Could it be some kind of disease?"
Ellis stopped hammering the nails for a moment and considered her. "You're the one who reads all the books. You ever hear of a disease that makes people eat each other?"
"No," she said, her shoulders slumping.
"That's because there's only one book that explains evil," Randy said.
"They had arrows sticking out of their backs. Maybe they're Injuns," Anthony said, ignoring the doctor.
"They were white men, not red. Maybe it's an Injun curse?" Ellis asked.
"It's a curse, but it's not Injun," Doc Randy said.
"Curses aren't real," Karen said. "But those arrows do point to them coming from the reservation. Maybe the Sioux are suffering from the same thing."
Everyone stood in silence, contemplating the situation.
"Rabies!" Karen shouted.
"What the hell do babies have to do with anything?" Anthony asked.
"Not babies, rabies. With an r. Have you ever seen a dog go mad? Frothing at the mouth and biting anything in its way? That's rabies. Maybe this is some kind of variation."
She could see that nobody was following her.
"Did anyone recognize the woman they were eating? Was she a local or did she come with them?" Karen asked.
No one spoke up.
"Dave, where did you
put her?" Karen asked. The woman had slipped her mind during the chaos.
Dave's head lolled to the side. He looked worse with each passing minute.
"I carried her upstairs and put her in one of the girls’ rooms. She was so eaten up; I couldn't bear having her down here where I'd have to see her. Hurt my leg getting her up there too."
"We should take a look at her. Maybe there's some kind of−"
A scream from the second floor cut Karen off.
"That was Lauren!" Ellis said. He dropped his jar of nails, scattering its contents, and started across the room to the stairs.
"He's getting up," John said from behind Karen. "I knew he was going to be okay."
Zed sat up with a groan, as if the movement took a great effort. He pivoted his head in a slow, fitful manner and looked at Karen. His appearance resembled the people outside trying to force their way into the saloon; black, dead eyes and translucent skin.
"Get away from him!" Karen looked around for a weapon and saw nothing. "Ellis, wait! We need you over here!"
"What are you talking about? He's my father," Rob said. "Come on, Pa. Let's get you a drink."
Swaying around, Zed turned his lifeless gaze at his son.
In that instant, recognition spread across Rob's face. He was struck by the realization that his father wasn't right, but that moment of clarity came too late.
Zed pounced on his son, sinking his rotting teeth into the unshaven tissue of Rob's neck. Blood arced through the air, spurting out of the wound as Zed pulled his head back, shaking the flesh hanging from his teeth like a dog with a toy.
John grabbed his father by the shoulders and pulled him away from his marred brother. When Zed bit at his hand, John shoved him away, sending him to the ground, and turned back to his sibling.
"Robbie?" he asked. He had an odd confusion in his mannerisms, as if he didn't understand what was happening.
Rob had managed to crawl a few feet away, but was now lying motionless on the floor as blood squirted rhythmically from his gashed throat.
Karen sidestepped across the room, standing between Zed and Barbara, protective instinct guiding her.