“He’s right,” I said, then went on to repeat our awful experiences since the lights descended from the sky. There at that old wooden table, in the glow of candles, I told them about my father, about Brian Wilson, and about our nasty encounter with the thing that emerged from the opening in the air, as well as all I’d seen on the highway.
They both nodded, and they clearly realized it was a serious situation, but I didn’t think they truly grasped how widespread and dire it was. They were a bit sheltered in the midst of their corn, in world of their own, but the horror was happening all over the world. If all the dead were coming back as Mr. Wilson believed, there would soon be more of them walking Planet Earth than there were living souls, and I felt as if no one but me understood that.
Isabella got up and shook her head. “Well, I’m sure things’ll be better tomorrow,” she said naïvely. “I’m gonna turn in now. This is the kinda day ya just need to sleep off.” Then, with noticeable effort, she headed up the creaky stairs to go to her bedroom.
“I hope this’ll do for ya,” Dennis said, offering me the sofa bed that they’d already made up for me with several hand-sewn quilts and old pillows to welcome my tired, aching body. “I’m sure we’ll be okay through the night,” he whispered. “I put a gate on the stairs. We usually use it for the dogs, but it oughtta deter your father or Brian from wanderin’ up there if they wake up and get confused. Isabella’s sister had Alzheimer’s, so she understands how they get lost and so forth, ‘specially when they find themselves in unfamiliar surroundings after sundown,” he said, nodding in the direction of my father.
“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate all you’re doing. We didn’t want to be any trouble.”
“You ain’t troublin’ us, or we’d tell ya so!” the old farmer teased. He went on to reassure me, “In the morning, don’t go takin’ off straightaway. I want to go investigate the surrounding area and neighboring farms, maybe even head back to Grand Rapids to see this rift thing for myself.”
“I really can’t take my SUV unless I find some gas somewhere close,” I reminded him.
“Don’t you worry ‘bout that. I’ve got a 500-gallon above-ground tank in another shed, along with five vehicles of my own, Fords mainly. Now, I noticed you took a fright when I mentioned my wife’s gun. Do you know how to shoot?”
“I do,” I said.
“Good. There’s a loaded shotgun under this couch, in case anything busts in here in the night,” he said, then went upstairs, leaving a lone small candle to serve as a night light.
It was as quiet as it was dark, save for the rhythmic breathing of my father and Brian sleeping in other rooms and the creaking of the old farmhouse as it settled, the soft popping noise of the cold stiffening the home’s old, wooden bones. There was some slight movement upstairs, presumably Dennis settling in for the night.
As I lay there, I thought of the day I’d been through, my mind whirling through the horrific images one by one. To calm myself, I reached under the couch and felt the cold, hard metal of the shotgun. Reassured by that, I could finally doze off myself.
Suddenly, hands gripped me, but I was so weary that I had trouble opening my heavy eyelids.
“Peter! Something is out there. The dogs…” Dennis said, trailing off in a panic.
Dogs? Where the hell am I?
Dawn had come an hour ago, and the whole house seemed illuminated, with light pouring in through the blinds just outside my room, half-pulled. I rolled over and sat up on the couch. From my vantage point there, I could see the two Labradors in the kitchen, just staring at the door. The dogs were on high alert, not barking as usual but emitting low growls and baring their teeth. I also noted that I was the last to get up, as all the others were already dressed and standing around. Brian, leaning on a table, was dressed in on an old shirt Dennis must have loaned him, and his blanket was wrapped around his waist. My father seemed bewildered, with no clue where he was, just standing there gawking. Isabella busied herself making breakfast, filling my nostrils with the welcoming sent of sizzling bacon and eggs and fresh-baked bread and making me grateful that they had a propane-powered stove.
“I shoulda done something with our few remaining calls. I heard ‘em crying and bleating earlier, but it’s all quiet out there now,” Dennis said.
The cows too? I wondered, shaking my head. Is that dead hate out to kill all living things or just us?
“Our dogs are barkers. They’ve never acted like that before,” Isabella said, looking at the animals as their fur stood up along their spines.
I looked at the golden labs, the family pets who’d been a part of normal, everyday American life, now tucking their tails between their legs and backing away from the door, seeking safety deeper in the house they would usually defend tooth and nail.
“Whatever’s out there, it’s sure got them spooked,” Dennis whispered ominously.
Right on cue, the whatever-it-was knocked against the solid wooden door, rattling it in its frame. No one moved to look out any of the windows; we all simply froze, staring helplessly at the opening to the house as the doorknob turned one way and then the other.
I finally found the sense and courage to race into the room where I’d slept and grab the old break-action shotgun from under the couch. I made sure the safety was off and that the barrels were occupied by two good shells. I lifted the weapon and heard the clicking sound when I closed the breach. Ready, I thought as I moved quickly back into the kitchen. In his coherent days, our father had made sure all his children were skilled with weapons, and while it had been a while since I’d held a gun, let alone fired one, the training came back quite quickly.
Dennis was of like mind, because he already had a heavy pistol trained on the door, some sort of old .45 that I assumed was left over from his time in the service.
As the food continued simmering and frying on the stove, entirely unattended, I could think of nothing but what was beyond that rattling door. Everyone else felt the same, because no one seemed to care that the bacon was singed, black, and burning.
Smash!
The door opened in a crash of iron and wood, to reveal a small, young woman, standing on the porch. Her black hair was matted to her head, and she was naked from head to toe, her pale skin shimmering in the glow of the rising sun. For a second, I thought things would be okay, that she was just someone who was lost, afraid, and in need of help, but then I saw the blood dripping from her hands, and her eyes gave it away. They were wild, moving from side to side, taking us all in. They were dead eyes, the eyes of a creature that sucked in all the light of Earth but gave nothing back.
With a deep sigh, I leveled the shotgun at her, but something pushed by me and knocked the barrel off aim.
“Mary? Is that you?” my father asked as he rushed past and hurried toward the woman.
Suddenly, the female was no longer human but a dark thing, just as dead as the one that had attacked us in Grand Rapids and the two that had tried to peel open the trucker’s cab.
Blam! Blam! Blam!
The thunderclap of Dennis’s handgun was followed by several bullets hitting the dead things solidly in its grotesque, human form, but rather than collapsing, it simply absorbed the energy of the blows, as if the shots were nothing more than a trivial matter. It lunged to meet my father while the acrid smoke of gunpowder began to overtake the burnt-egg stench in the small kitchen, and chaos and shouting quickly ensued.
“No!” I hollered. “Dad, get out of the way!”
The thing outstretched its arms, and those cruel claws descended. Everything else was a blur: my father dropping in front of me, only to be torn to shreds just a few feet away. Right in front of my eyes, the dead intruder ripped his body apart, sending blood everywhere, coating the walls and counters and even splattering the ruined breakfast in the skillet.
“Damn!” Dennis cursed, penetrated the creature with more bullets, till he had to stop firing to reload. “How many shots is it gonna take?”
I he
ard yelling behind me, but all I could do was stand there, paralyzed, staring at the lifeless heap that used to be my father. The dead thing was on its haunches beside him, making sure its prey was dead. It did not want the blood or flesh; no, it was not hungry for that. It wanted his life, our lives, and it had the audacity to smile up at me as it took my fathers.
Furious, terrified, and heartbroken, I leveled the shotgun and fired at the thing, almost point blank. I felt the hard kick of the butt against my shoulder. The discharge boomed in those tight quarters, and the billowing smoke from the gun and the stovetop made it difficult to see. I let the other barrel go, blasting the thing in the face and upper body.
Finally, the body shattered, and a flurry of black dust and particles was sent in a million directions, blasting out the door, around the room, and all over the floor. I took in great gasps and attempted to steady myself, but it was all too much. Unable to remain in that cursed room for even a moment longer, I stumbled outside, into the morning, tripping and hobbling onto the dewy grass. The thing I had just shot was splashed everywhere, but I had to get out of the house, away from the carnage inside, away from the bloody mass of flesh and bone that I knew as my dear old dad.
I stopped under an old pine tree, about thirty or forty feet from the house. Its lower branches had been neatly trimmed away years earlier, and grass had grown underneath it. It was cool there, and there was no blood, no gunpowder, and no smoke in the air. It was a quiet place, a world all its own, and even as I held the shotgun in my hand, I was finally able to catch my breath. I leaned back against the tree trunk and propped up the gun. I scrambled to think of anything normal and pleasant, anything that would take my mind off what had happened inside that farmhouse: my family, my work, and how I was going to repair my banged-up SUV. I gazed out at the horizon, and things seemed deceptively calm and peaceful. A slow, chilly draft murmured through the branches above me, but there was no other sound. The birds had not yet flown off for the winter, yet I heard no chirping, sensed no moving of any kind, animal or otherwise. Out there, it was as if I was the last man in the world.
The tears came then, and with them great, wracking sobs. I wept and wept, then wept some more. How could I just let my father die? I tortured myself. I should have let him stay with us, in our house, and then none of us would be here. I recalled, with great regret, the comedy of errors that led me there. I should have taken Dad straight home when the alien ships descended, but no. I had to tarry, to watch the news, to listen to Brian’s hare-brained theories. I knew it only delayed our departure by twenty or thirty minutes, but that precious bit of time might have saved my father’s life.
The sun came up strong and heated the day and the air. I stopped crying when I realized my body had no more energy to give to it. I stood and started to slowly walk back to the house, constantly checking for any movement in the nearby fields or on the dirt road. I scanned left and right, on the lookout for dark figures moving quickly. Seeing none, I kept the shotgun pointed at the ground, as my father had taught me to do so long ago.
Then I heard it: the phone ringing in the house, a sound so clear in the quiet of the morning. Shocked, I paused as it rang once, then twice. I bolted into the house through the broken door, averting my eyes from the floor, and picked up the receiver. “Yes? Hello?” I blurted hopefully.
“Wh-Who is this?” asked a quavering voice on the other end.
“Dave, this is Peter. Thank God you called back.”
“Peter, you say? Is that really you?” asked the distant, grainy voice.
“Yes, yes. Thank you for calling us back. How are things there? Does the government have things under control there?”
“Peter, don’t come back here,” he answered in a monotone, very quiet voice. “They’re everywhere, hundreds of them, running the streets and killing everything in sight. I’ve been pretty lucky, hiding in my attic, but… Well, when I heard the phone ring and things quieted down a bit, I rushed to get it and saw your number on my caller ID. I took a big risk to do that.”
“I know. Thank you, Dave. Have you seen Sue?”
“Your house is just… It’s gone, Peter. It’s all gone,” he said, then sniffled. “There’s fire everywhere. I’m sorry, but it’s the end. Don’t come back and don’t call here again. It’s too risky to answer the phone.”
Click.
The horrible silence was followed by an even more horrible dial tone. I dropped the phone, sent the plastic thing crashing into the wooden floor, then hung my head. “It’s all gone… It’s the end,” Dave’s words rang in my head. My wife and our way of living was over. Not only that, but if hundreds of those things were running rampant, I knew we were all doomed. It made no sense to even think of going home, where I would meet certain death. I knew Sue would not want that for me, and if things were reversed, I certainly wouldn’t want her to risk her life to find me either.
In the dining room, Dennis, Isabella, and Brian were sitting at the table, eating the burned breakfast, the few scrambled eggs that were not tainted with my father’s blood spatter. The kitchen had been cleaned up, my father’s body removed and the dead thing’s black residue swept out into the driveway. A large quilt was spread over the blood-stained area that would require more attention.
“Wh-Where did you put him, the body?” I hesitantly asked.
Dennis got up and wiped his mouth with a white napkin. “Out back, buddy. He’ll be safe there, and I’ll help ya bury your daddy when you’re ready.”
“Thank you,” I numbly said.
“Hey, was that your friend?” he said, pointing at the phone on the floor. “Are things okay?” he asked.
I looked at him and his wife, two good, gentle people who had taken us in, fed us, and sheltered us. There, in the secluded, corn-flanked farm, they had no clue how bad it was. They were oblivious and naïve, with no idea that countless more dead were walking the Earth, being called back in droves, easily ten to twenty of them for every living person. They had no idea that it was only a matter of time before they found us and killed us, just like the black-haired one killed my father. Soon, everything on the planet would be dead.
Brian had some idea what was out there, but he was happily chewing overcooked bacon, with a steady river of grease dripping down his face. He smacked his lips loudly as he ate, then reached for some buttered toast. He had been off his medication for over twelve hours, and I had no idea how he would react if we were ambushed by those things again. I didn’t know if we could count on him to help or if he’d only cause more problems.
“Yeah, Ann Arbor is fine,” I lied. “My neighbor saw my wife get in her car and speed off, probably to her sister’s place. Dave said the place is crawling with troops. I only dropped the phone because I was shocked he even called,” I said, then bent over to pick up the receiver and set it back in its cradle.
“Well, that’s a little good news,” Isabella said with a smile.
“Hey, Dennis, do you have any more shotgun shells? Seems to be the only thing that stops them, if we run into any more of them, that is.” I asked. “I guess it takes extremely violent force, like running over them or big guns at close range.”
“Sure. I’ve got hundreds in my gun safe.”
Isabella got up. “I’m so sorry about your father, Peter, but you sit now and let me get you something to eat,” she firmly instructed.
I plopped heavily down next to Brian, and he looked at me and gave me a faux salute.
“She makes a good breakfast. I mean, I could do a bit better, but it’s not bad, not bad at all,” he said. “I don’t like the tomato slices with the eggs. That’s a bit too pulpy, but it’s all good stuff, ‘specially in the middle of a battle like that.”
When Isabella delivered my place, I picked it up and returned to the sofa bed, then ate in silence.
Later, Dennis gave me a box of shotgun shells, and I reloaded the gun. I placed several shells in the range bag that came with the box, then clipped the bag onto my belt. “I’m ready
,” I said, motioning for Dennis to join me outside. “Let’s get Dad in the ground and say a few prayers, shall we?”
I followed Dennis out back and could see from there just how far his property stretched. There were a few small fields, and the crops had already been harvested. The plants in a nearby garden were dying, the cold seeping into them, and a few outbuildings were scattered about. All in all, Dennis and Isabella were the proud owners of a hundred or so acres.
“Here,” Dennis said, motioning to a grassy hill. “This is a good spot, overlooks most of the property.”
We moved to the hill, me with the shotgun and Dennis with two shovels. He had tried to get the labs to come with us, but the dogs wanted no part of leaving the house. We labored for an hour, creating the deepest grave we could. Although Dennis was a smaller, much older man, he didn’t seem to tire at all and just kept diligently working, silently heaving shovelful after shovelful of dirt.
About four feet down, he stopped so we could catch our breath. “Well, how bad is it really?” he asked, his green eyes twinkling in the sunlight, his worn face showing concern. His lips drew into a tight line as he sank his shovel upright in the dirt.
“I feel all right,” I said.
“No, that ain’t what I mean. You know what I’m talkin’ about. How bad is it…out there?” he said, pointing in the direction of what I presumed to be the highway. “I saw that look on your face when you dropped the phone. All the color left ya. We live on a flightpath here, Peter, with jets flyin’ over all the time. Since all this happened, I ain’t seen or heard one of ‘em. Not only that, but the freeway’s just over yonder, and I haven’t heard or seen hide nor hair of any traffic, none of them big trucks that usually go by.”
I put my shovel down next to his, and the damp earth fell off its blade. Above me, the sky was blue, speckled with white, cottony clouds, and the air was warmer. I sat down, making sure to keep the shotgun within an arm’s reach. “Dennis, I’m sorry. It’s…catastrophic, the end of the world. Ann Arbor isn’t all right like I said. It’s lost, gone, and the dead are all over it. My house is gone, too, and I guess the same thing is happening everywhere. The dead are being pulled back by the aliens through the portals. There are so many of them, and I-I just don’t know what to do.”
They came for our dead Page 5