Mark Rogers - The Dead

And the way Jack had been behaving.

I’m telling you, too many fucking hor-

The sound again.

Jeff straightened, leaving the last key stuck in the lock, the other keys jingling as the ring swayed back and forth.

“There is nothing going on in there,” he said. Determined to prove it to himself, he turned and crossed resolutely to the gym doors, looking in through one of the little square windows.

The gym lights were off; the only illumination came through the door windows on the far side, flecks of it gleaming off the black plastic shrouding the bodies. The foreground was completely dark.

He thought of going in and turning on the overheads; the situation would be much less unnerving if he could see very clearly how those two hundred and fifty corpses were doing just what corpses should. His hand drifted to the handle of one of the doors-

And drifted back again. He simply couldn’t muster the will.

But hell, what did that matter? Why make such a concession to his fears?

The lights steadied. He returned to his chair and sat down, determined now to try and submerge himself in his book. So what if it called itself a horror novel? There hadn’t been too much evidence of that. Certainly nothing to put him more on edge.

If they come after me, he thought, I’ll just think about the Tooth Fairy.

Yet he hadn’t read much farther when the lights went dead. A silvery moonglow came in through the lobby doors, startlingly bright, though not enough to read by. If only he’d brought his flashlight; that too was out in the car.

He recalled that he’d left the keys in the door. Now was as good a time as any to work through them again-

Before the shit hits the fan, Jeff? Before those soggy ole wops come clawing out of those bags and pay you a little visit?

“I must be cracking up,” he laughed nervously.

And then remembered Jack saying exactly the same thing.

Laying the book down, he walked back to the door, pulled out the key in the slot, and started trying the rest. He was almost through the bunch when one of the wrong ones snapped off in his trembling hand, leaving the business end jammed in the lock.

Cursing, he took out his Swiss Army knife. Using the tweezers, he tried to pull the end of the key out. His hands were shaking so hard that he succeeded only in dropping the tiny pincers. They chimed softly as they struck the floor.

He bent and searched. Finding them, he straightened and set to work again, but had no luck. He went through most of the pointed implements on the army knife, trying to pry the key-end out. Nothing worked.

“Shit,” he said.

At least there haven’t been any more noises.

He ran his hand over the back of his neck, thinking. There were other doors. But he’d just have to go through the keyring again-Jack had told him they were all chained too.

Whoever they send to relieve me is going to laugh his ass off , he thought.

There was a saw on his knife. Would it be possible to cut through the chain? Not too likely, he decided-

Faint crackling from the gym.

Icewater spurted into his veins. He heard a low sound like a throat being cleared, then a quiet splash.

Just trying to get the seawater out of his lungs, that’s all…

He reached for his pistol and unsnapped the strap, suddenly wishing he was a lot better with a gun. He’d always liked the fact that standards for summer cops were pretty lax. Now he thought that everyone had been way too easy on him.

A popping sound reached him.

Plastic ripping, he thought. Then came whispering, like wind across leaves.

He stood perfectly still by the lobby doors, hand on holster, breath tight in his throat. The whispering faded. And after a time, to his immeasurable relief, the lights flashed back to life.

He looked toward the gym doors, noticed there was a lock. He crossed the lobby swiftly, twisted the knob, heard the bar slide into place with a dull clunk .

He went to make one last stab at getting the lock unjammed, accomplished nothing. At length he decided he’d have to try and get one of the other doors open. Then he’d take up his post there, or come round front to meet whoever relieved him. Remembering which key he’d used, of course…

But wouldn’t he be acting like a frightened kid? How would he explain why he wasn’t at his assigned station? Would Bingham have been talking? Would they decide Bingham had given him the willies? Would a man who was scared of ghosts be a likely candidate for a job next summer?

He decided on a compromise. He’d go back to the gym-door windows, listen hard, stare into the gym till he couldn’t take it anymore. If he heard anything, he’d find himself that other post.

And if he saw anything, he’d shoot the lock off the lobby doors, fuck waiting for his replacement.

Slowly he strode across the lobby. He expected at any moment to hear whispers or crackling, almost caught himself hoping to hear something, anything that would justify a full retreat.

The dead didn’t oblige. Maybe they were just playing with him, lying inside those bags with big goddamn grins on their faces, waiting till he was looking right in at them, so he could see them all sit up at once, all two hundred and fifty of them…

So why are you doing this, asshole? he thought, halting.

But he was already at the doors.

Because I’m not going to let myself slip over the edge. Not till I’ve taken one last look.

He unholstered his pistol, a Smith and Wesson.357 Mag. He eased forward, looking through the glass. The same scene met his eye the second time around… Or did it? Were those ragged edges showing on those bundles at the far side? Had the bags been opened? From inside?

He squinted. Reflections on the window partly obscured his view; slipping the pistol into his belt, he put his hands up on either side of his face, trying to block the light out. Still he couldn’t tell.

He slid the pistol free again, keeping his face up against the glass. He stared for a long time, growing steadily calmer. He caught no hint of movement. No sounds either. Then-

Laughter.

Wet bubbling laughter.

Over on the far side of the gym, one of the bodies sat up, still wrapped in trailing rags of plastic. Two more sat up beside it in quick succession. The laughter grew louder, accompanied by coughing and spitting.

Jeff grimaced with terror. Wondering how he’d been stupid enough to stand there so long, he started to turn.

Glass splintered. A talonlike hand thrust through the window, seized his arm. He had a glimpse of a shadowy face on the other side of the broken pane before he snapped off four quick shots through the door. The hand on his arm jerked away, nails raking furrows in his flesh.

He whirled and raced for the lobby doors. Behind, he could hear the gym echoing with a series of deafening shrieks, its doors booming under a pounding assault.

He aimed his gun at the padlock, fired the last two shots in the cylinder; but he was up against a Yale lock, and the damn thing insisted on doing its duty, blissfully impervious to the slugs. It occurred to him he’d do better trying to shoot the chain away, aimed his pistol accordingly-and felt his heart skip a beat as the hammer clicked on an empty chamber.

Wood squealed and splintered behind him. He turned and ran into the adjoining hall. His footbeats echoed like hammerblows in the corridor, but the noise was almost drowned out by the sounds from the gym; he heard the doors bang flat against the floor, and the screams, unmuffled now, swelled horribly in volume.

As Jeff ran, he tried to reload, but his arm had been ripped so deeply that he could hardly control his hand, and his fingers were slippery with blood; he dropped three bullets before deciding it was useless.