Dead in the West Page 9

  Kids playing tricks he thought.

  But then he caught a glimpse of Nolan sitting up on the slab behind him.

  He let go of the boot and turned completely around.

  And Nolan grabbed him.

  XII

  Abby was standing in the doorway of the lab, framed there in her nightgown by the light flowing down the hall from Doc's study. She was holding Doc's shotgun.

  "I heard shots—My God, what was that?" Doc looked up from where he was leaning on the table. "The living dead. Just like I told you. Now do you believe me?"

  Abby merely nodded. "I—I saw it walking. I couldn't shoot. Not with this—too close—

  My God. It fell apart."

  "Yeah. Now, I've got to get you out of here. Come on get dressed."

  XIII

  The Reverend smelled rain. He thought perhaps that was what had awakened him.

  Whatever, he was restless and could not sleep. He went to the window and looked out.

  The rain was starting to come down in big drops. The wind had picked up and it looked as if it might storm.

  The Reverend looked at his pocket watch. Late.

  He lit the lantern, sat down on his bed, and read from his pocket Bible.

  XVI

  Once it began, it happened fast. The dead were hungry. They went to the houses of friends, relatives, and enemies. Those of the living who were not completely devoured soon joined in the hungry ranks.

  XV

  The Reverend decided on a walk. He could neither sleep nor concentrate on his reading.

  He dressed, dropped the pocket Bible into his pocket, and went downstairs.

  III

  THE FINAL SHOWDOW

  I SAW THEIR STARVED LIPS IN THE GLOAM,

  WLTH HORRID WARNING GAPED WIDE...

  —KEATS

  When the Reverend passed Montclaire, the fat man was sleeping, as usual. On the desk were four greasy plates and the sad remains of a chicken that Montclaire had ravaged.

  The Reverend stepped out into the street, and at that moment, as if it were waiting for him, all hell broke loose.

  Down the street came David, running at full speed. When he saw the Reverend he began to call out. "Help me, Reverend. Help!"

  At a considerable distance behind the boy, the Reverend could see Joe Bob Rhine. He was coming at a quick sort of stumble in pursuit of David.

  David practically ran into the Reverend's arms.

  "Whoa!" the Reverend said. "You and your father have a fight?"

  The boy's face was wet with tears and marked by panic. "He's going to kill me, Reverend.

  Make me like him. For the love of God, Reverend, help me!"

  The idea of slapping a fist into the side of Joe Bob Rhine's head greatly appealed to the Reverend. He didn't like the big bully. But on the other hand, he didn't want to meddle in personal affairs which were none of his business, and violent activity this late at night (or early in the morning, depending on one's outlook) offended his sense of decorum.

  But he would see the boy didn't take a beating.

  "Maybe I can talk to him." the Reverend said.

  "No, no," David said looking back over his shoulder. "He's dead."

  "What? Why there he is, boy," and the Reverend pointed at Rhine who was lurching up the street as if his feet were tied together by a short rope.

  "He's dead I tell you!"

  The Reverend looked at Rhine again, and as he neared, he saw there was blood all over his face and neck. He looked to have suffered a terrible wound. In fact, there were large chunks out of his face and bare chest. The Reverend thought perhaps David had done it in self-defense. An axe maybe. And Rhine, injured (but certainly not dead) was coming for revenge.

  "Look!" David said.

  The Reverend turned. Out of the alleyway that led to Doc and Abby's house, a horde of people appeared.

  "They're dead, Reverend. I don't know how, but they are. And they can walk—and—they tore my mother apart." The boy broke into a sob. "Broke into our house. Got Ma— tore the guts out of her. And Pa, he—I got out of a window. For Christsakes, Reverend, run!"

  More people appeared behind Rhine, They came out of alleys, out of buildings and houses. It was a small army of stumblers.

  The Reverend put one hand on his revolver, pushed David up the street before both ends were closed off. They had gone only a few steps, when out of the alley by the Doc's office, came a buggy. Doc was driving, popping a whip, and Abby was sitting beside him, holding a shotgun.

  The crowd of dead in front of the buggy were knocked aside by the horses, and the buggy charged into the street.

  "Doc " the Reverend yelled.

  Doc saw the Reverend and David. He hesitated for an instant, perhaps trying to determine if the two were alive or dead, then he pulled the buggy hard right—raced toward them.

  A man grabbed at the buggy wheel then fell beneath it. The wheel went over his neck, breaking it. But when the buggy passed, the man rose—chin dropping on his chest— neck bone sticking jagged out of his nape—and walked.

  Doc slowed enough for David and the Reverend to swing in back, then he whipped hard left and started down the street toward the church at a gallop.

  A crowd of dead citizens had gathered in their way. As the Reverend pulled his revolver, Doc yelled, "Hit them in the head, only way to stop them."

  Abby raised her shotgun and fired. One of the zombies, missing the top of his head, fell to the ground.

  The Reverend's revolver barked four times, and in the wink of an eye, four of the zombies were wearing holes in their heads. They fell permanently lifeless to the ground. Doc pulled the small revolver from his belt with his free hand and blew out the eye of a woman as she clutched at the side of the buggy.

  A big man (Matthews who owned the general store) leaped astride one of the horses as the buggy rumbled through the crowd, clamped his teeth into the back of the animal's neck. A gusher of blood streamed from the horse, it stumbled, the other horses tangled their feet and went down.

  The buggy tumbled over and pitched its occupants. The Reverend came up rolling. The fallen horses kept most of the zombies occupied, the guts of the animals were stretched across the street as the dead battled and tugged for the edibles.

  The Reverend jerked around to David's yell, and there was Montclaire, looking far more active than he ever had in life. The Reverend slammed the barrel of his pistol into Montclaire's head, and David jumped behind the man, hitting him in the back of the knees bringing him down.

  David scuttled to the Reverend's side as Montclaire lumbered to his feet.

  Abby had lost her shotgun, and Doc, standing beside her with his pistol, was firing steadily, dropping the creatures. His gun would soon be empty.

  David darted for the shotgun Abby had lost, grabbed it. The Reverend raced behind him.

  A little girl David's age charged at them. David, hesitating only a moment, raised the shotgun and fired. The shot hit the girl in the neck and her head flew up. The body whirled in a circle, pumping blood, and finally fell. The head landed in the street, teeth snapping.

  David froze, looking at it. The head was trying to bite the ground with its teeth and pull itself along.

  The Reverend snatched the shotgun from David, and using the empty weapon like a club, smashed the head.

  Now Montclaire and the others were closing in, pushing the Reverend and the others into a tight circle.

  "Run for the church," the Reverend said. "It's holy ground."

  "You?" David asked.

  "Do as I say, boy."

  David wheeled, darted between Montclaire's legs, then turned hard left, dropped, and rolled between two others, and he was in the clear. He broke for the church.

  The Reverend, swinging the shotgun, was driving them back—like Jesus scattering the money changers.

  He worked his way to Abby's side. "Go," he said. "Go for the church." And he swung the shotgun—the stock striking skulls and arms—making a cracking sound
against flesh and bone.

  The crowd grew thicker, but the Reverend kept swinging and the sea of dead parted, and Abby, Doc, followed by the Reverend (running backwards for a ways, knocking them back) scampered for the church.

  They darted up the church steps, clutched at the door latch.

  It was locked.

  "Calhoun!" the Reverend bellowed. "Let us in." Doc kicked at the door and yelled, "Open up! Now! Calhoun!"

  The dead were closing now. The Reverend saw Montclaire in the lead. Greenish drool strung from his lips and almost touched the ground. The Reverend thought grimly: "Even in death, Montclaire is in the forefront when it conies to food."

  As the dead neared, all four of the living kicked, hammered, and yelled at the door.

  The door did not open. The zombies were at the church steps. The Reverend handed his revolver to David, cocked the shotgun over his shoulder, ready to crush skulls.

  But the zombies had stopped at the bottom of the steps. They swayed back and forth like snakes before a charmer, moaning hungrily.

  "What's happening," David screeched, holding the revolver stiff-armed before him.

  "Holy ground," the Reverend said. "The power of God almighty."

  "Don't praise too much," Doc said. "I can guarantee you this. It's going to get worse before it gets better."

  The door opened. It was Calhoun, shaking, holding a poker in his hand. His face was white and he looked stupefied.

  "I—I heard you," Calhoun said.

  They pushed past him, closed the door, and threw the large wooden bar.

  Calhoun lowered the poker. "I thought you were— them. They've come twice already, but they stop at the steps—I saw them catch poor Miss Mcfee. She came here for sanctuary, but she didn't reach it—I heard her screams. I opened the door and looked, and she was looking at me, reaching out. But they had her, biting, biting—for the love of Jesus I couldn't go out there. There was nothing I could do—they ripped her apart—ate her."

  "You did the right thing," the Reverend said. "They'd have killed you."

  "If you were lucky," Doc said.

  They went to the barred windows and looked out. The dead were starting to string around the church.

  "Are we safe here?" Abby asked.

  "Only for a little while," Doc said. "Until their master comes."

  "Master?" Calhoun said.

  "The Indian—the curse he put on the town. That's what it's all about, Calhoun."

  "I didn't touch that man, or his woman."

  "Doesn't matter," Doc said. "From his point of view, we're all guilty. The entire town.

  And that includes you too, Jeb."

  "The Lord brought me here for a showdown, and I'm here," the Reverend said.

  "You don't think I'm imagining things anymore?" Doc said.

  The Reverend managed a grim smile. "Only if we all are, Doc."

  Caleb was hammering on the sheriff's door.

  "Matt, let me in. Do you hear? Let me in."

  Matt (who had been sleeping on a bunk in the open cell) had heard the commotion outside earlier, seen the Reverend and the others battling up the street, understood what was happening, but he had laid low. He figured if he could hold out until daylight, he might have a chance. And now that asshole Caleb—the bastard responsible for all this—

  was beating on his door, bringing them right to him. He could see the horde of the dead clutched in the street, moving toward the sound of Caleb's voice.

  "Open up, you sonofabitch," Caleb yelled. "I know you're there. Open up! They're gonna eat my ass."

  And choke, I hope, thought Matt.

  Matt went to the window, looked out. And Caleb was looking in.

  "Open up, for Pete's sake," Caleb said.

  Behind Caleb, the dead were gathering into a thick wad, moving toward their meal. Matt had a sudden flash that they reminded him of the mob that had been here the night the Indian was hung, and in another way, they reminded him of how the townspeople looked when they gathered in the street for the annual potluck dinner.

  "The hell with you," Caleb said. His face disappeared from the window.

  Matt hesitated, then ran to the door, threw back the plank, and opened it.

  Caleb had his back to him, a revolver in each fist. He bobbed his head to look at Matt, stepped inside. They closed the door and threw the plank in place. "You asshole," Caleb said. Matt didn't answer. "I fought my way clear across town—they're eating people, Matt. And the dead get up and walk."

  "I know," Matt said.

  Without warning, Matt leaped toward Caleb, grabbed him by the shirt front, flung him over the desk—against the wall. He jerked Caleb to his feet and yelled in his face. "This is your fault, you bastard. You're the one that got the Indian hung. You're the one really done it. You're...."

  One of Caleb's revolvers came up through Matt's arms and the barrel touched Matt's top lip.

  "Let go. What say?" Caleb said.

  Trembling, Matt let go.

  And then he caught something out of the corner of his eye. A dead face at the window.

  And another.

  Then something worse.

  Between the two at the window he saw someone crossing the street carrying a large crate.

  The Indian.

  "Holy Mother of God," Matt said.

  Caleb looked.

  "Jesus Christ with a wooden dick and shit and fall back, that's the big bastard himself. He looks mighty spry for a hung and lightning-struck fella."

  Caleb put one of his revolvers on the desk, opened the other, and began to reload from his gunbelt. "Let's see that bastard eat lead. Now unlimber some of them Winchesters over there or we're dead meat— walking dead meat." Caleb lit the lamp on the desk to provide shooting light.

  The Indian had moved to the window. He bent down and looked in. His face was the worse for wear. It looked to be slowly rotting. He set the crate down before the window, and pulled off the lid, leaned it forward.

  The woman inside did not look like a woman. She did not look human. Caleb and his mob had hacked away her features and skinned her, so there was nothing left of her former beauty. Membranes covering her stomach had broken open, and a strand of intestine poked out like a shy snake.

  Matt, who was loading a Winchester, found his eyes locked on the creature in the box, and he knew immediately who it was, though he had not witnessed her torture.

  He looked at Caleb. "You bastard!"

  "That's what my old Ma called me too," Caleb said.

  The Indian went away from the window.

  There was a loud thump at the door.

  The wooden bar cracked.

  The thump turned to a boom and it was repeated.

  One of the Indian's big fists broke through the wood, grappled for the doorbrace.

  Caleb leveled his revolver and fired three times into the arm. The bullets struck, went through, plopped into the thick wooden door. The arm still weaved about like a tentacle.

  "Toss me that Winchester!" Caleb yelled.

  Matt, almost in a daze, did so.

  Caleb stuck the revolver in his belt, caught the rifle, cocked it, and fired three quick shots through the door.

  The arm stopped.

  Momentarily. Now it clasped its palm against the door and pulled. The hinges creaked, groaned, screamed.

  The door came off and the Indian tossed it into the street. For a moment he stood framed in the doorway, his dead servants crowding around him for a peek.

  Matt loaded a shotgun (after spilling half the box of shells on the floor) and he began to back up toward the open cell.

  Caleb had not moved. He fired the Winchester three times. All three shots dusted harmlessly against the Indian's chest.

  The Indian smiled.

  Caleb fired again. The shot hit the Indian in the left cheek and made a small neat hole but had no effect.

  "You shiteater," Caleb said. "Come and get me." Caleb grabbed the barrel of the rifle, swung it over his shoulder, and the
Indian—fast as a bullet—moved.

  The Winchester came around, and the Indian's big hand grabbed it by the stock and jerked it free of Caleb's grasp. With a wrench of both hands, the Indian twisted the rifle in two.

  Caleb went for his revolver.

  The Indian caught his hand.

  "Not nice" the Indian said." Not nice at all." The Indian squeezed.

  Caleb screamed as his hand and the butt of the revolver became one, human flesh and bone welding with iron and ivory.

  With a backhand slap, the Indian knocked Caleb down.

  Dazed, Caleb looked up. The Indian reached down, took hold of the strand with the ears on it, snapped it free of Caleb's neck.

  Turning his head, the Indian looked at his servants waiting impatiently in the doorway.

  He smiled. "Feed," he said, and the dead rushed in.

  Caleb screamed as they descended on him. Teeth snapping at his clothes, throat, and stomach.

  He tried to back crawl, but they held him down. He bellowed as an old man's jagged handful of teeth snapped into his arm.

  A woman's head struck at the soft part of his stomach, ripped through his shirt, and tore his flesh—deep. An intestine jumped out of the wound in a short gray coil, and then it was in the woman's teeth, and she rose, stretching it, trying to rip it free. Another woman dove at the extended gut, and it snapped in half—the two of them tumbling over the desk in their frenzy to pull it from one another—like two ravenous blue jays squawking over a large, juicy worm.

  Hands dipped into the wound, more guts were uncoiled, faces met Caleb's face, and chunks came out of his face and neck. After a moment, bathed in gore, his innards stretched all over the sheriffs office, Caleb finally ceased to scream.

  Frozen with fear, Matt had backed into the cell and pulled the door shut. The Indian tied the strand with the ears on it around his neck, walked over, and put his face against the bars.

  Matt let go with both barrels of the shotgun. The Indian's head jerked back a foot, then returned to stare through the bars. The shotgun pellets hit him just beneath the nose and down his chest. The little balls of lead dripped out of his flesh and rang on the floor. The Indian's laugh wasn't quite as loud as the slurping and sucking and chewing that was going on behind him.