Mark Rogers - The Dead

“Yes, but…”

“Yes, but what? What then do they tell us? That God’s a tame lion? Or that he’s got two big jaws full of fangs, and He’s not above snapping them shut? Remember those great white sharks, Father? Even they are reflections of Him.”

“You’re worshipping a devil and calling him God.”

“What the hell do you know about devils?” Max asked.

“That they’re figments of a devilish human imagination,” Father Chuck said. “Like the God you’ve been describing.”

“So God’s a figment of the imagination?” Mr. MacAleer cried.

“I didn’t say that,” the priest replied.

“Didn’t you?” Max asked. “Maybe then you’d better show us how the great I AM can fit into that procrustean bed of yours.”

“I was simply trying to point out that He’s not some draconian monster,” Father Chuck said.

“I don’t believe that either,” Max said. “I bet even old Bob MacAleer there doesn’t believe that. But I do believe, in accordance with the scriptures and the doctrines of the Church, that God’s mercy sometimes takes the form of ferocity. And you’d deny even that.”

“Emphatically.”

“Well, you’d just better hope you’re right.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because otherwise you might just find yourself in the company of those devils you don’t believe in.”

“That’s it, resort to fear,” Father Chuck said. “Threaten me with fire and brimstone when your arguments don’t work.”

“With all due respect, Father,” Max said, “I’ve been using you for a punching-bag.”

“Well, so what,” Gary broke in. “That jugular instinct of yours doesn’t make you right. It just means you’re a souped-up version of Mr. MacAleer.”

MacAleer’s mouth snapped open, but before he could reply, Max said: “Comparing me to him doesn’t bother me too much. Yeah, he’s a redneck and he doesn’t argue too well. I don’t necessarily agree with him in any case. But if you could show me one place where his theory’s inconsistent with the facts, I wish you would. I mean, I really wish you would. Here we have the whole world crashing down around our ears, the sun rotting in the sky, people vanishing into thin air, and oh yes, the Resurrection of the Dead… if you’re asking me if that sounds like some wacked-out scenario from Revelation or Ezekiel, I’d have to say yeah, it does. And I don’t think the fact that the dead are rising from their graves necessarily imputes evil to God. So what if we’re up against a horde of zombies? If they’re the damned, then maybe their free will is the reason they’re after us-not God’s. Maybe they just want everyone to share their misery. Maybe they’re just nuts. Who knows? In my book, it really doesn’t make so much difference if they are zombies. If they were Khmer Rouge, would that make God’s actions any more palatable? The fact that we’ve seen those damn things up and around just makes God’s miracles, and therefore God Himself, less implausible. On that level it could be seen as grace, yes. Saving grace. A last strand of rope tossed to some stupid souls halfway down a cliff at nightfall.”

“You are as crazy as MacAleer!” Gary insisted.

“Dammit, Gary, just listen to what I said. I didn’t say I believed his line of argument. I don’t. Not yet, at any rate. But ask me again tomorrow if the sun doesn’t come up.”

“Tell him to shut up, please Buddy,” Aunt Lucy said.

“No need,” Max said. “I’ve said my piece. For now.”

“Good thing, too,” Buddy said threateningly.

“Yeah,” Max answered. “I sure wouldn’t want to tangle with you. Not after I had to save your bacon from that guy at Richie’s.”

“I was drunk,” Buddy said, rising slowly.

“So was he. I’m not. And it would take me about two seconds to settle you once and for all.”

“And you call yourself a Christian,” Father Chuck said.

Max laughed at him. “Hey look,” he told Buddy, “I’ll tie one hand behind my back, and you and Father Chuck here can jump me together.”

“Sit down, Buddy,” Aunt Lucy said.

Buddy puffed, eyes burning at Max, plainly hoping to see some fear, some sign Max was bluffing.

“Yeah, Uncle Buddy,” Max said. “Sit down.”

Buddy sat down.

Immediately Gary took Max aside.

“What’s gotten into you?” he whispered. “What if he’d gone after you?”

“I knew he wouldn’t,” Max answered. “Now he knows it too. I can’t afford to have him challenging me all the time.”

“ You can’t afford it? What are you, our dictator?”

“I’m the only one who can lead this group, and you know it.”

“Oh really?”

“And if that means getting tough with Uncle Buddy,” Max went on, “that’s the way it has to be.”

Gary winced, thinking he’d never seen an uglier expression on Max’s face.

Midway through the afternoon Gary, looking out the periscope, spotted several figures striding among the smoking ruins to the west.

“Corpses,” he said. “Three, heading this way.”

“So where’s the National Guard, Max?” Uncle Buddy needled.

“You were listening to the radio last night,” Max answered, unfazed.

“So there probably isn’t anyone to rescue us, huh?”

“Maybe not. But that’s no argument for being outside. If those things did the army in, they wouldn’t have too much trouble with us.”

“You were wrong, why don’t you admit it?” Steve asked.

“About the Guard? Yeah. Not about the rest.”

Half-listening to their conversation, Gary turned the periscope slowly, then sucked in a sharp breath. Indistinct through the smoke and lazily-falling snow, which had yet to stick, were at least a dozen bone-thin sentinels, standing motionless inside the shell of a house whose west wall had collapsed.

“More of them,” Gary said. “A dozen, off to the east.”

“What are they doing?” Max asked.

“Just standing there. But if you ask me, they’re staring straight at this scope.”

“How far away?”

“Fifty yards, maybe.”

“You couldn’t possibly tell what they’re looking at.”

“Maybe not.”

“Got it on high mag?”

“No.”

“Give it a try. Put your fears to rest.”

Gary clicked the magnification up. He could see them much more clearly now; they looked like refugees from a concentration camp, clothes filthy and hanging in tatters. But it was still impossible to tell just where their gaze was fixed- their eyes were invisible in the darkness between their sunken lids. Yet he couldn’t shake the impression that they were looking at him.

“Well?” Max asked.

“Can’t say,” Gary answered.

“Anything to the south?”

“Just looking now-no.”

“North?”

Gary swiveled the scope round.

Across the street, the Williamson house had been reduced to its brick cellar walls. There were windows in the brick close to the blackened lawn; through the one on the left, a face was peering.

“God,” Gary breathed.

It ducked from sight.

Gary stepped back from the eyepiece.

“What’s the matter?” Steve asked.

“My father’s out there,” Gary said, face ashen.

“What?” Max cried, and rushed to the scope.

“It was him .”

“Do you think he knows we’re in here?” Aunt Camille cried.

“Well,” Max said, “Buddy’s car’s out front. And the hearse is a dead giveaway, if you ask me. I’d be willing to bet him and his friends are going to check.” He walked the scope round. “Jesus. Scores of ‘em. And they’re heading this way.”