Mark Rogers - The Dead

But even if they had, that did not explain why her mouth began to open and shut, teeth snicking.

Bastard’s under the sheet, was his first thought, but he instantly dismissed it: Jackie’s figure was unmistakable even under the cloth.

What in-

A cold hard hand flashed up from under the sheet and locked on his throat, pulling him down toward the mouth working under the cloth. He gave a choking cry and fired the.38 again and again into the body on the table, the gunshots agonizingly loud so close to his ear. Fluid splattered him; the reek of formaldehyde filled his nostrils.

The clip emptied. He was still being pulled downward. He tried to throw himself back, but it was useless; a second hand shot up, slapped onto the nape of his neck and clamped tight. The first shifted to the back of his head, leaving his throat wide open for the clicking jaws. He fought to pull the hands away, brought his free fist and the butt of the automatic down on the shrouded face. The hands jerked powerfully in response, forcing his head and neck all the way down. His Adam’s apple was right over the mouth now. He felt the jaws stretch wide to receive his throat. The hands shoved, and the cloth-shrouded teeth locked his Adam’s apple between them, gripping it with agonizing, but not yet crushing force. He winced, closing his eyes.

Cloth flapped in other parts of the room, sheets being tossed aside. He opened his eyes again. Peripheral vision told him the elder DeWitts’ nearby tables were empty. Two voices whispered and laughed behind him. Footsteps hurried close.

This is impossible, his mind shrieked. This is a night-

Pain blotted his thoughts out for a moment as two more sets of jaws clamped onto him, one on either shoulder. His whole body shook as his attackers worried his flesh, snarling. Fabric tore; teeth dug through skin. Fingers scrabbled, ripping the arms of his jacket to shreds, baring more hide. With a sound like tape being peeled from a roll, a raw stripe of pain tore its way down to his left hand.

A moment later something warm and wet slapped across his face. It struck him again, then dangled before his eyes, a long curling ribbon, tan on one side, red on the other. He clearly recognized his LIBERTY OR DEATH tattoo on it.

The jaws on his throat began to close. Cartilage crunched. His breath whistled as more and more of his air was pinched off.

He died praying for a heart attack.

The bar was called Richie’s, a dark smoky joint down by the fisheries, and Uncle Buddy’s topic was shopping malls.

“Best I ever saw was the Court at King of Prussia,” he said, and took a swig of his beer. “ Better’n anything out near Pittsburgh, even the one they filmed that stupid horror picture at…” He let out a thunderous belch.

“ Dawn of the Dead, ” said Gary beside him.

“Anyway, this King of Prussia place, it’s really incredible. Me and Dennis and the wives spent one Saturday afternoon there. The whole Goddamn afternoon!”

“It really is something,” Dennis told Max earnestly.

Max nodded.

Buddy continued: “There was this store. It was called Ceramics Unlimited, I think. They had these statues, oh, about yay high-” he held his hand about two feet above the bar, “-Of all these celebrities and movie stars. John Wayne, Laurel and Hardy, W.C. Fields, everyone. And the faces really looked like ‘em too, right down to the last detail.

“But the wildest thing was the size of their heads. Real big heads, almost life-size. Great detail. Hell, you could practically see the pores in their skin.”

“Always wanted to see John Wayne’s pores,” Max said.

“This would’ve been the place for you,” Buddy said, apparently missing Max’s sarcasm. “My favorite was a big head Louie Armstrong. Just incredible. Him wiping his face off with a handkerchief, just like in real life-lots of little trickles of sweat.

“Now when I laid eyes on that thing, it was love at first sight, let me tell you. I said to Lucy, ‘Honey, I’ve just gotta have that, no matter how much it costs,’ and I shut her up good when she complained; plunked down the forty five bucks, and walked out of there with my very own Louie Armstrong tucked under my arm. It’s on my mantelpiece back home, place of honor. Wouldn’t be parted from it for the world. Ain’t it amazing, Dennis?”

“That’s the word, all right,” Dennis said, less than enthusiastically. “But what I remember most about the store was the religious stuff. All those statues of the Virgin Mary and everything.”

Gary glanced over at him. Was that how Dennis was going to drag God into the conversation? It seemed wonderfully unsubtle, but then again, Buddy had no idea he was being set up.

“Didn’t make an impression on me,” Buddy said.

“Well, it wouldn’t,” Dennis said. “Seeing what you think of religion.”

“Don’t get me started on that,” Buddy said. “I could talk all night. But seeing as how we’ve got a couple of Pope Celia’s boys here, I’ll lay off.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” Gary said. “I stopped being a Catholic a long time ago.”

“I didn’t,” Max said. “But don’t let that stop you either, Uncle Buddy.”

“Sure you can take it?” Buddy laughed.

“Try me,” Max said.

“Don’t want to hurt your feelings.”

“I don’t bruise easily.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re not sensitive about it. Religious people get really touchy, you know?”

“No,” Max said. “Explain it to me.”

“Well, most of ‘em are kind of fanatics. Falwell, Khomeini… people like that.”

“I see,” Max said. “Let me see if I understand you correctly. Do you think there’s something intrinsic to religion that encourages people to be fanatics?”

“Well, seeing how religious folks act… yeah.”

“So you think there’s something in the teachings of let’s say, Jesus, that turns people rabid? The Sermon on the Mount, for example?”

“Never met a Christian that paid the slightest attention to it,” Buddy declared.

“Make up your mind, Buddy. Are Christian fanatics acting on Jesus’s teachings? Or ignoring them?”

“What difference does it make?”

“The difference between Mother Theresa and Torquemada.”

“Torquemada?” Buddy asked.

“Spanish grand inquisitor,” Max answered. “You wouldn’t have liked him. Exactly the sort of guy you’re talking about… You do know who Mother Theresa is, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Buddy said, sounding nettled.

“Well then. Since there’s so much difference in the conduct of various ostensibly religious people, why do you assume it’s the religion that corrupts the people, and not vice-versa?”

“Because when religious people go bad, they’re so much worse than anyone else.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. You mentioned that Torquemada guy. Look at the Spanish Inquisition.”

Gary groaned inwardly. Worst move yet, Buddy, he thought. He’d heard Max unload on this topic too many times in the past; Max was a dedicated historian of atrocities. Buddy had a double-barreled shotgun pointed straight at his face, and didn’t even realize it.

Max flashed Buddy a sharklike smile. “Okay, let’s. Its peak activity was during the final years of the Reconquista , and just afterward-”

“ Reconquista? ” Buddy asked.

“The reconquest of Spain from the Moors. The Inquisition wound up with a lot of Moslems and Jews to liquidate. Between 1481 and 1540, the Holy Office killed about twenty thousand people. Sound bad?”

“Are you going to tell me it’s not?”

“Hell no. But why don’t we put its achievements in perspective? When it comes to murder, atheists have got the religious folks beat all hollow…The bloodiest killers in history, the worst of the worst , were twentieth-century freethinkers. Squarely on your side of the fence.”