Mark Rogers - The Dead

Facing north once more, he paused. “Five of ‘em coming out from behind the Williamson house. Don’t see Dad though.”

“What are we going to do?” Father Chuck asked. “Will the doors hold down here?”

“Not if those bastards make an issue of it,” Max answered.

“Then we’ll all die,” Uncle Buddy said, almost smugly.

Max stood back from the scope, motioned Uncle Dennis to take his place. He looked briefly at Buddy, as if slightly disturbed that his threats that morning hadn’t completely cowed him. Then he went to the storage-room and emerged with containers of buckshot and smokeless reload powder, as well as a roll of plastic package-sealing tape.

“We’ll have to make a run for it,” he announced, putting them on a desk. Then he got an oversized Foster’s can he’d emptied the night before out of a wastebasket.

“What’s all that for?” Steve asked.

“Grenade,” Max answered. Producing a Swiss army knife, he sawed the top off the beer can.

“Are we going to be able to blast our way out of this?” Father Chuck asked.

“Have to try,” Max said. “I’m assuming of course that we’ll meet some opposition when we slip out the back way-through the tunnel to the storm sewer. Dad’s probably told his pals about it. A bunch might even be there now. Steve, take a squint through the peephole in the back door.”

Steve looked out, clicking the light-switch. “Can’t see a thing. Light’s not working.”

“Hmmm,” Max said, drying the inside of the can with a paper towel.

“Could’ve gone on its own,” Steve said. “Everything else is breaking down.”

“On the other hand,” Max answered, “They could’ve broken the bulb. We’d never have heard.”

“But if they’re out there already,” Aunt Lucy cried, “Why aren’t they trying to get in?”

“Might want to save their energy. That door’s mighty damn thick. They might think we’ll open it by ourselves-when we run for it. Uncle Dennis, have you spotted my father yet?”

“Nope,” Dennis replied. “If he’s out there, he’s lying low.”

“Figures. Probably thinks we didn’t see him. And if he thinks that, he probably also thinks we’ll just go blundering out into the tunnel, not expecting anything, when his friends come pawing at the front door.” He gave an ugly laugh. “Dear old Dad.”

“Don’t call it that,” Gary said. “That thing isn’t our father.”

“Well, for lack of a better term…”

“Christ, Max,” Dennis said, “There must be a hundred of them out there.”

“Any off south?” Max asked.

Dennis shifted the scope. “No.”

“That’s the way they want us to go. What are they all doing?”

“Just standing. Some of ‘em hardly twenty yards from the scope.”

“Still no sign of my father?”

“No.”

Max worked feverishly, making a fuse by rolling powder up in a long piece of tape, which he then twisted. When that was done, he jabbed a hole in the cap of the powder can, wrapped one end of the fuse in paper so it would fit snugly in the opening, and inserted the fuse in the cap. After shoving the fuse deep into the powder, he screwed the cap back on tightly.

“All right everyone,” he said. “There are packs in the storage room. Fill ‘em with food-the dried stuff. And fill those canteens. Steve, Gary, each of you take one of those Heckler and Koch guns, and as much ammo as you think you can carry. The semi-jacketed slugs-Dad notched the tips. They’ll break up on impact, do hellacious damage. Me and Dennis’ll take the shotguns. Buddy, Mr. MacAleer, take the pistols.

“There are spare clothes in there too. Put on every piece you can. Keeping warm’s going to be a bitch.”

“Max!” Dennis cried. “Some of ‘em are coming! Making for the cellar-steps!”

“Won’t take ‘em too long to clear the debris from the front door,” Max said, busily reinforcing the powder can with tape. Then he poured a layer of buckshot in the bottom of the beer can, nested the powder container in the shot, then poured more pellets over it, filling the Foster’s can to the brim. Taking the beer can’s top, he carefully sealed the church-key holes, then punched a hole in the center and ran the fuse through that.

He’d run out of tape; he got another roll, using all of it to strap the top back on and reinforce the grenade’s bottom and sides.

“There,” he said, rising.

“Think it’ll have much effect?” Gary asked.

“About equivalent to two sticks of dynamite,” Max answered, attaching a sheathed machete to his belt. “It’ll give ‘em a big surprise, at least.”

They went to take their turns with the others in the storeroom. By the time they came out, Dennis had left the periscope and was looking through the peephole in the front door.

“Can’t see much,” he said. “Soot on the lens. But they’re out there. I can see shadows between the cracks in the debris. They’re moving the planks aside.”

“Get yourself outfitted,” Gary told him, taking his place at the peephole.

As Dennis had said, the lens was partially obscured, but the signs of movement outside were unmistakable. Nervously Gary ran his hand over the barrel of his H and K. The weapon was almost supernaturally reliable, he knew, the best assault rifle in the world. Specimens had been fired forty-eight hours on end without malfunction, and deliberate attempts to jam the gun usually failed. If there was a single piece of machinery that would be likely to survive the technological breakdown, it was the nasty old H and K…

Outside, the last plank fell away. Dark and blurry through the soot, a hand wiped the lens clear, and a desiccated face thrust itself forward, its mouth twisted far to one side, the corner of its grin ratcheted well up toward its ear; its eyes were like black knife-points, switching crazily from side to side, up and down; the head quivered and twitched. The thing’s hideousness was rendered still more grotesque by the distortion of the fisheye lens; Gary recoiled as if he had been struck, feeling the corpse’s hatred even through the thick steel of the door. He glanced down at the thick bolt, reassuring himself that it was still set.

There was a distant-sounding impact from the other side. His father had taken a minute or two to pound his way out of the coffin. How long before this barrier gave way?

“They’ve started on the door,” Gary said tonelessly, turning. Max was looking past him, taking shotgun shells from a box and sliding them into the loops of a bandolier.

“I heard,” Max said.

Soon other fists were at work on the steel, drumming in a steady tattoo.

“All right,” Max said, slinging the bandolier over his chest, then shouldering a pack. “Listen to me, all of you. Father Chuck, I want you to open the door when I light the grenade. You with the guns, stay up front, help him close it after I toss the bomb through. While we’re waiting for the blast, we’ll get into firing position. Me and Uncle Dennis’ll kneel in front. Gary, you and Steve stand behind us. Mr. MacAleer, Uncle Buddy, fire between Steve and Gary. When Father Chuck opens the door again, aim for knees and eyes.”

Gary kept looking back at the front door, battling the panic mounting inside him. Even if they did manage to blast their way clear, where would they run? He doubted they’d get a hundred yards above ground. It wasn’t as if they could just jump in a car, hotwire it and take off. Probably there wasn’t a working car in the whole town…

“Speed’s the most important thing,” Max was saying, taping a flashlight to the barrel of his shotgun, Dennis following his example. “Don’t hesitate. Move. Watch for them squirming on the floor after we cut ‘ em down. Don ’t let ‘em grab you.”