Mark Rogers - The Dead

Off to the south stood three sedans and a black Cadillac hearse. Two bodies sprawled from an open Buick. Others lay scattered over the grass nearby.

“What do you think?” Gary asked.

“Haven’t been as active this side of the boneyard,” Max said. “I think we should work our way south along the edge of the trees, try to get one of those cars. We need some wheels.”

“What about the ones that were after us?” Linda asked. “They headed south. What if they’re still in the woods looking for us?”

“You’d rather cross the cemetery?” Max asked. “Must be a half-mile to that development over there, open ground all the way. I’d hate to be out there if the locals surface.”

“Where we going to go when we get the car?” Gary asked.

“Back to the Point,” Max said. “Dad’s shelter. Good place to think things through. Hell, we could hole up there for months.”

“But there are graveyards in Bayside Point,” Linda said.

“Four or five small ones. Two emergency morgues. And a hospital morgue. But there’s no place in the state where we’ll get too far from some collection of stiffs. Jersey’s been planting ‘em for three hundred years. On the other hand, we know where we can lock ourselves up in our own private fortress.”

They headed south, trying to keep one or two trees back from the greensward. Off in the development, columns of black smoke billowed up; there was a crackle of gunfire.

“Some of ‘em are over in there,” Max said. “If folks weren’t on guard, a few of those things could cut one hell of a swath.”

They drew nearer the cars. The vehicles sat on a strip of roadway running parallel to the edge of the trees. Between road and wood was a fifty-foot-wide band of grass studded with headstones. A single black-stone mausoleum stood not far from the cars. The burial the slaughtered mourners had been attending was on the near side of the road; a closed grey-metal casket, gleaming in the pale sunlight, still lay on its bier. Surrounded by dirt and ripped turf, six graves gaped like mine craters in the middle distance.

Max, Gary and Linda moved cautiously out of the pines, making for the cars. Two of the corpses on the grass before them were unmutilated, though huge clods of earth had been thrust into their mouths. The rest had eyelids or lips stripped away, fingernails pulled or bitten off, nostrils ripped from their faces; but if the discolorations on their necks were any indication, they’d been killed by strangulation.

Gary went up to the hearse, looked at the ignition. No keys.

“Bet he’s got ‘em,” Max said, indicating a clean-cut corpse wearing shades and a dark suit. “Definite hearse-jockey.”

He started to go through the fellow’s pockets, then stopped, tensing. Gary and Linda recoiled from the body.

“Is he-?” Gary began.

“No,” Max said. “Something’s moving in the woods.”

He searched a second pocket, then swore and said, “Better take cover.”

“Where?” Gary asked.

Max pointed to the mausoleum. Gary and Linda followed apprehensively but swiftly as the thrashing in the pines drew closer. The tomb stood open; Max vanished inside.

Nearing the threshold, Gary saw the gate’s lock had been torn off, the bars next to it bent apart, as though a clutching hand had pushed through from the inside, forcing its way toward the lock. He and Linda joined Max in the cool damp darkness.

“Are you crazy?” Gary asked Max. “Hiding in a mausoleum? ”

“The active inmates have already left.” Max jerked his head back toward two open coffins that had fallen from their niches.

The thrashing sounds stopped; there came a rush of hurrying feet.

“Back from the door,” Max said.

Linda and Gary obeyed. But as the footbeats hurried near, Gary saw his brother looking out through the opening.

“Holy shit,” Max said. “It’s Steve and Sally.”

He went outside, Gary following.

“Hey!” Max cried.

Steve and Sally turned, motioning him to be quiet they came toward the mausoleum.

“We were attacked as we drove out,” Steve panted.

“Any after you?”

“Gave them the slip. At least I think so. But the woods are full of them back there. Hundreds, all coming this way.”

“Should we run for it?” Gary asked.

“No way,” Max answered. “Let me see if I can find the keys on that driver.”

Gary retreated to the mausoleum to watch. He kept expecting the corpse to sit up, to rush to greet his brother with open arms and shining teeth. He wondered if he would ever be able to think of anything as truly dead, as harmless, anymore. What would it be next? Was the whole inanimate world about to turn on them?

Max whirled. Gary gasped, but the driver hadn’t stirred; once again, the corpse had fooled him.

Playing it cool, Gary thought.

Max dashed through the arch.

“They were getting too close,” he said. “I could hear ‘em. A few seconds more, and-”

“Steve,” Sally said, “There are coffins in here…”

“That’s right, honey,” her husband affirmed. “This is a mausoleum.”

“But what if-?”

“They wake up?” Max broke in. “Then it’s going to get real intense around here. But maybe they won’t, so why don’t you just keep quiet?”

She nodded, wide eyes glimmering in the semi-darkness. Gary studied her face, then looked past her at the unopened coffins.

Eight of them.

And outside, the dead rustled nearer through the woods.

Everyone moved clear of the doorway. Long thin shadows began to cross the rectangle of light on the floor inside the threshold, as though a forest of winter trees were marching past. Perhaps giving some thought to rousing the sleepers within, a few corpses stopped briefly by the entrance before moving on. Gary bit deep into his upper lip. Linda’s hand slipped into his, trembling.

At last the shadows vanished. Gary and Max chanced a look outside.

A hundred yards or so beyond, the dead had gathered at the base of a small hill. They stood motionless, staring up at its crown, on which stood a huge stone cross.

“We could try to get back into the woods,” Gary suggested. “They’re not looking.”

“I could try for the keys again, too,” Max said. “Keep the car between them and me.”

“You’re nuts.”

“Yeah,” Max said, slipping back out. Before long he had the keys. He looked smugly at Gary, pointing to the glinting metal in his hand.

Suddenly his head cocked to one side, and he flung himself down on the grass. Gary knew more must be approaching through the trees. Soon he could hear them himself. He watched Max till the last moment; then they came too close, and he stepped away from the door.

Horrible possibilities raced through Gary’s head. Would they notice his brother breathing, or did they have some preternatural sense for telling the living from the dead? Would they stuff turf down Max’s throat and leave it at that, or rip into him in the process?

As Gary steadily drove himself up the wall, the thumping began outside, the pounding under the earth. All over the graveyard the buried ones had awakened, were hammering their way out of their coffins…

He chanced a look outside. The corpses from the woods, fifteen or so, were going to join the throng at the base of the hill; and all across the green lawn, toppling headstones and bulging earth and thrusting arms confirmed that other reinforcements were on the way. Hundreds. Thousands. In front of the mausoleum a half-dozen at least were thrashing from the earth. Dirt spattered over the mausoleum’s threshold, rained onto Max.

Gary was completely caught up in terror for his brother; it took a hollow thud from behind to remind him that he was also in danger. He spun to stare at the coffins on the niches.