Mark Rogers - The Dead

He signaled the others inside, then closed the door behind them. The MacAleers promptly collapsed upon the floor. Aunt Camille and Father Chuck sagged against a wall. Max smirked at the priest, perversely pleased that he hadn’t cast his lot with the other group; seeing Max looking at him, Father Chuck dropped his gaze floorward.

“We’ll hole up here for a while,” Max announced. “Wait until nightfall. If we ca-” He broke off as a raw cry of agony reached them, louder and more heart-wrenching than any they’d yet heard.

He swallowed, pressed on: “Those folks should distract them for a while. Maybe the corpses’ll think they got us.” He stationed himself at a window, watching the drive.

“But what if your father’s back there?” Dennis asked. “They’ll know we got away. They’ll probably comb every house in the neighborhood. We’d better keep moving.”

“Please, no,” Mrs. MacAleer groaned. “My heart won’t take it. At least give us time to catch our breath…”

“That may be all the time they’ll need to find us,” Dennis said.

Max shook his head. “We should stay put. My father might not be with that group.”

“But what if he is ?”

“Then he’ll probably figure we kept moving. He must know we spotted him by the shelter, because we expected the trap.”

“God, I hope you’re right.”

“Do you really think we’ll be safe here?” Aunt Camille asked.

“We’re not safe anywhere,” Max answered. “But they must think they pretty much flushed the neighborhood out when they torched it.”

“What about those people we passed?” Dennis asked.

“As I said, the corpses might think that was us. If that doesn’t fool them, they’ll probably realize what they actually were. Stragglers on the run. No reason to comb the neighborhood again.”

“You always sound so sure of yourself,” Camille said.

“Sorry,” Max answered.

“You got young Dave killed, you know that?” Camille asked.

“Yeah. I took a calculated risk. I thought Gary had gotten a little trigger-happy. He thought so too at first. Is there anything I can do to bring Dave back to life? Please tell me.”

Camille looked away.

“I bet he’ll be dying in my dreams for the rest of my life,” Max said. “Does that satisfy you?”

“That might not be very long,” Dennis answered.

“Well, I’m damn sorry about that too,” Max said.

“Don’t listen to us, Max,” Camille said suddenly. “You’ve been doing your best for us, I know.”

Glad you think so , Max thought. Stubborn reflex had caused him to ignore his brother back in the culvert, and it had cost Dave his life. Max had carefully cultivated that reflex over the years, because he usually was right; the odds had never really caught up with him. Now they’d more than made up for lost time.

Just about murdered him yourself , he thought.

But worst of all was the possibility that he hadn’t merely gotten Dave killed. If MacAleer was right-and the fundamentalist’s theory seemed more horribly plausible all the time -Dave was in Hell now. Another mistake might consign the whole group to damnation. Max felt as though he were bent beneath a vast flat stone. And after Dave’s death, he didn’t know if he was the man to bear that terrible weight.

Yet what other choice did he have? He might collapse under the burden-but could any of the others take his place? He doubted it. He was right most of the time. Half the world had been slaughtered, but his group was still alive. If they’d listened to Buddy, they would’ve been killed, Max was certain. He was just as sure they should stay put now. There was no comfort to be taken in any of that. It simply meant he had to continue beneath the stone.

The day wore on. For whatever reason, the dead never investigated the house-though a huge troop of them, by the sound of it, pushed by to the south.

Dusk gathered, deepened into night. The group readied to leave.

“We’ll head south till morning,” Max said.

“What about sleep?” Mrs. MacAleer asked.

“It’ll have to wait till we find another hiding-place,” Max said. “We’ll sleep during the day, travel at night.”

When everyone was set, Max opened the door and stepped out. The streetlights were on, though they blinked from time to time. Passing through the burned hollies, the glow from the lamps threw a skein of shadows across the front yard.

“Why do you think they’re keeping the lights on?” Jamie MacAleer asked behind Max.

“The better to see us with,” Max answered.

“I’m surprised the power’s on at all,” Dennis said.

“Because of the fires?” Max asked as they went down the steps. “The lines here on the peninsula run underground. And most of the lamp poles are aluminum.”

Rounding the house, they headed south through the backyard. Climbing over the fence proved easy enough; crossing another yard, they found themselves at Hirsch St. There was no sign of danger, and they crossed, entering the wreckage on the far side.

But as they neared the next street, they heard an engine laboring, and took cover. Max peered through a broken window-pane. Belching blue smoke, a huge Cadillac hearse with mirrored windows rolled by, something dragging behind it. With a shock Max suddenly realized what the object roped to the bumper was: one of the large crucifixes from St. Paul’s, a dead German shepherd spread-eagled over the body of Christ. Max swore softly and crossed himself. He had always loved that crucifix, the most beautiful he’d ever seen in a parish church.

Well , he thought, shaking his head, smiling in cold rage, at least they’re not Catholics .

Once the hearse was out of sight, the group continued on its way, soon approaching Beichmann Avenue. Directly ahead, over hogbacks of dark debris, they could see the tall yellowish lights that surrounded a huge boardwalk parking lot, and could hear vehicles coughing and rattling off in that direction.

They moved closer and closer to the lot. Beyond the charred ridges, human screams tore the night; corpses shrieked in mocking answer.

“One party we want to pass up,” Max said, leading westward, thinking to round the parking-lot and cross Beichmann Avenue closer to the heart of town. But Dennis soon noticed five motionless sentries atop a mound of rubble a hundred yards or so distant, outlined against the glare of a battery of blue-white lights off by the train tracks.

“Think they’ve spotted us?” Dennis asked.

“Doubt it,” Max said.

“We could circle ‘em to the North.”

“Then we’d just have to cross Beichmann further west, right in the middle of town. Looks too damn well lit over that way. I think we’d better try to slip by the parking lot on the boardwalk side. The boardwalk lights were out.”

They headed east again through the desolation, back the way they’d come. Paralleling the parking lot two blocks north, they forged steadily toward the boardwalk.

The cough of engines had faded from the parking lot. The vehicles seemed to have moved west, back along Beichmann perhaps.

Yet now they came closer again. Headlights flashed over the ruins, shining on broken glass. Shadows from leaning spars swept crazily across the ashes.

Max could see a small fleet, cars and vans. He crouched, motioning the others down.

The vehicles juddered to a halt one street north, then vanished inside a drifting pall of smoke, headlights filling it with a cold amber glow. Doors thumped hollowly. When the smoke rolled past, fifteen or so silhouettes were moving inorganically over the no-man’s-land toward Max’s group.

Staying as low as possible, trying to keep as much wreckage between themselves and the corpses as they could, the fugitives hastened south, then east, coming very close to the fringe of the garishly lit parking lot.