Mark Rogers - The Dead

“Max,” Aunt Camille whispered, “Don’t let him volunteer like that again.”

“You mean if it’s him or me, then it’s always me?”

“Do it for your Auntie Camille.”

“I’ll keep it under considerat-”

Dennis came bolting back around the corner.

“What did you see?” Max asked.

“Three of ‘em,” Dennis answered, panting as he slipped past. “Coming this way.”

“Did they see you?” Max asked.

“No. But they’ll spot us for sure if we head out.”

“Okay,” Max said. “Everyone back into the office.”

They hurried back behind the partition.

“Get down, below the windows,” Max said. “If they look in, we blast ‘em. Okay?”

Moments later he heard the customer door open, and a shuffle of footsteps. But the steps quickly moved away from the partition, toward the middle of the garage. There was a row of framed photographs on the window ledge above Max, pictures of bowling teams; he lifted his head slowly, looking out between two of them.

The corpses were over by the Oldsmobile. Gloom had thickened in the garage, but Max could still see that two were black males, one with an Afro that looked half burned away. Holding a Jerri can, the third was white, a gorilla-like figure in a state trooper’s uniform.

Max’s mind flashed back to the parking lot, the two troopers there. Was this the giant’s lieutenant?

The Trooper motioned to one of the men, who went immediately behind the wheel, trying to start the car.

Good Luck , Max thought.

The trooper bent, looking at the pool of liquid under the front end. Then it straightened, pointing to the hood.

The second black man stepped forward, releasing the catch.

The hood sprang open, cracking back against the windshield; a great dark mass lifted glistening from the engine compartment. It was on the black before the cadaver could retreat-a huge grub-like thing with a face like a human skull, twin pincers springing out from between its jaws, drove powerfully into the corpse’s neck.

The trooper jumped back. The grub creature reared up yet farther, lifting its struggling prey off his feet.

Suddenly it jolted downward, dropping deeper into the engine compartment-Max could only guess that the eaten remains of the engine block, or the engine mount, had given way beneath it. Yet still it hung onto the black corpse, whipping it back and forth by the throat.

The cadaver that had gone behind the wheel rushed out. Beside it, the trooper unscrewed the cap on the Jerri can.

The grub’s victim stiffened, ballooning as though it had been injected with some kind of fluid. Then it shrank again, withered, went completely boneless.

Digestive fluid , Max thought.

The monster tossed its head to the right, sending the drained sac flying in a whirl of flopping limbs, the corpse’s shoes dropped from its shriveled feet and tumbled behind it in the air.

The trooper got the cap off the Jerri can and splashed the grub with gas. The creature writhed at the touch of the fuel, struck out at the trooper.

But the corpse was out of reach, and as it splashed more and more fuel on the grub, the thing curled up and dropped down behind the grille. Handing the gas-can to his remaining follower, the trooper produced a pack of matches and struck one, tossing it onto the creature.

Flame blossomed. The grub reared up once more, thrashing wildly, a tower of fire. Small burning globules whirled out from it. One struck the gas-can in the black corpse’s hand.

An orange spout of burning vapor leaped from the nozzle, into the corpse’s face. Still holding the can, the cadaver rocked to the floor on its back, blazing gas sloshing out over its torso. When it leaped back to his feet, it was alight from waist to crown.

Two down , Max thought.

The trooper made no move to help its burning underling, but stood watching it run this way and that. Behind them, the grub had fallen in upon itself, the engine compartment and the floor beneath it were a mass of flames.

Max wondered how the monster was connected to the maggots. Had one devoured all the rest, growing huge in the process? Or had they merged somehow to form the giant?

He realized that the burning corpse was staggering toward the windows. He couldn’t allow it to crash through. He swung his gun up to fire.

Turn, you bastard , he thought, hoping desperately that he wouldn’t have to shoot. Even if he downed the corpse, the blast would only bring the trooper.

Turn…

At the last instant, the cadaver swerved aside.

Max ducked back down again.

“Jamie, look-” came Mrs. MacAleer’s voice from behind him, followed by a loud crash.

Max looked round. Jamie had knocked over a chair.

Max looked back out the window. The trooper was making for the partition.

“Dennis!” Max cried.

He lifted his gun again. The trooper charged.

Max smashed the glass with the Remington’s muzzle, firing for the corpse’s legs. The corpse clutched at its thighs, fell, then scrambled toward the burning cadaver, which was on its hands and knees now. Dennis came up beside Max, blasting.

The trooper flopped down behind the other corpse just as the fiery shape collapsed on its belly. Max and Dennis rose, pouring pellets through the flames.

The burning corpse rose too. For an instant Max thought it was moving of its own power.

It started across the floor. He saw its feet hanging, dragging. The trooper was behind its blazing underling, using it for a shield.

And Max and Dennis were out of ammunition.

The burning corpse jerked higher, off the floor. They glimpsed the trooper hoisting it over its head. Then the flaming mass came hurtling toward the office.

Max and Dennis dodged out of its way. Smashing through the remains of the window in an explosion of flying glass, the cadaver landed atop the desk, filling the office with light. The trooper came hard behind, hurdling the partition.

Jamie MacAleer rose, hoisting a chair, trying to protect himself with it. A stroke of the trooper’s arm bashed the seat into kindling, and the corpse thrust its fingers into Jamie’s throat and wrenched his Adam’s apple out.

Mr. MacAleer howled and started in with his Beretta. The corpse absorbed five slugs, picked up another chair, and hurled it at him. MacAleer twisted aside, lost his balance, and fell.

Max slid a cartridge into his shotgun. One blast would’ve beheaded the thing.

But the pump was frozen. Max slung the gun over his shoulder, pulled out his machete, and…

Mrs. MacAleer rushed past him toward the trooper.

“Fucker!” she screamed, arms outstretched, hair flying behind her. “You killed my Jam-”

The trooper raked its hand around. Mrs. MacAleer spun drunkenly, looking blankly at Max, her throat gone. Blood spewed up against the bottom of her chin, rebounding over her breast in a glistening fan. She looked more puzzled than anything else, as if she’d never quite realized that an enraged mother could be killed as easily as anyone. She passed a hand through the space where her flesh had been, touched nothing but the fountaining blood, which flew all over her shoulders from under her palm.

“Stupid bitch,” Max growled, “ Out of the way! ”

She obliged almost instantly, crumpling sideways, giving him no time to regret the words. He went for the trooper, slashing into its face.

One eye destroyed by the stroke, the corpse whirled, crashing into the partition, the wall shattered under the impact. The trooper staggered back out into the garage, Max pursuing, hacking at it repeatedly, trying to sever its arms.

But the corpse’s rocklike bones stubbornly refused to come apart, and before long it stood its ground, snatching at him. Max feinted with his blade, then kicked the corpse mid-chest, knocking it over; by the time it came up again, Max had dropped the machete and unslung his shotgun once more. Clubbing the corpse with the buttstock, slamming kicks into its torso, Max drove it back toward the burning Olds. Finally the trooper was up against the grille.