Mark Rogers - The Dead

“Jesus,” MacAleer croaked.

“Do it, Bob. Curse Him and die!”

Something in MacAleer seemed to snap; his head and burning heels arched up off the pavement.

“CURSE HIM AND DIE!”

MacAleer screamed like a chainsaw on steel: “Christ, you pig !”

“What, Bob?” Legion asked. “Say what?”

“You fucking hog !”

“Who, Bob, who?”

“Jesus!” MacAleer answered.

“That’s it,” Legion gloated. “What did I tell you? Feel better already, don’t you?”

Lips twitching, MacAleer’s face sagged to the asphalt. His charred legs settled with a cindery crunching sound. Max guessed he was still alive, but not for long.

“How’d you like that, Max?” Legion asked, signaling. The corpses holding Max’s head let go of him.

“Fuck you,” Max said.

“Tough guy, huh?” Legion asked. “Are you asking me to believe you’re not afraid? Well, we both know better than that, don’t we?” He clicked his teeth together. “I’ve eaten guys tougher than you. By the tens of thousands. Every single one of them was afraid. And you know what? They still are.”

He motioned Max Sr. over. “Douse him, Dad. Splash his whole body down.”

Max’s Father reached to reopen the gas can. His fingers locked on the cap, twisted once-

And froze.

Max was astonished. He’d never seen the slightest hint that the dead could restrain their malevolence, even for a moment. Was his father’s volition still alive, if just barely?

Legion turned his head toward him. The demon did nothing more, said nothing, yet Max had never seen a gesture more pregnant with menace, the ultimate torments of Hades, held as yet in reserve, threatened in a single look.

Still Max Sr. hesitated. How he managed even for a moment to withstand the force of Legion’s glance, Max didn’t know. It was excruciating watching him. In spite of his own plight, Max was actually relieved when his father’s fingers began to move once more on the cap.

Max suddenly found another song running through his mind: “Under My Thumb.” He noticed that Legion was staring at him now, gloating.

“You going to go out like MacAleer, Max?” the demon asked. “Will you curse the Old Boy and die, too?”

Gas splattered over Max. He started to pray under his breath, even though a voice in his head insisted it was useless, that he was going to die, that God had deserted him, that he’d deserted God, that it didn’t matter which… Max knew with horrible certainty that the voice must be right, but kept praying anyway, mechanically, stubbornly, insanely…

Forget it, Max, the voice went on. You don’t trust God. If you trusted Him, you would’ve gone back for MacAleer. Your faith’s just as much of a sham as MacAleer’s or Father Chuck’s. All you ever had was arrogance and self-righteousness, and now you’re going to burn, so why don’t you admit it to yourself?

Gout after gout of gasoline soaked into him, icy against his skin, filling his nostrils with its smell. Flinching with each splash, he kept praying.

At last the drenching was complete. Legion came near.

“We’re going to cremate you, Max,” he said. “We’re going to burn you worse than you burnt my flunky. But the real punishment won’t start until the burning’s over. You’re going to be amazed at just how vicious it is. All this you see around you, this rotting world, this place of fear and torture, this is nothing. Just an image. But you’re going to take a little trip to the real world now. The world of spirit. My world, where you can experience me face-to-face. If only your flesh wouldn’t grow back…But that takes a damn long time when it’s been burnt…and then we can just light you up again, can’t we?”

Max prayed.

“Now here we go,” said Legion.

And handed the matches to Max’s father.

“Dad,” Max said.

Max Sr. lowered his head, took out a match.

“Don’t do it, Dad,” Max said.

His father looked up at him, grinning. There was no trace of compassion in that expression, no sign of inner turmoil. Max Sr. pressed the match against the striking board.

But once again his hand rebelled. It moved no further.

“Now, “ said Legion. “ Now , or we’ll burn you too.”

Max Sr. struck the match.

It didn’t ignite.

Again he rasped it across the board. This time it flared.

His arm whipped out toward his son.

Max saw the burning stick tumbling toward him in surreal slow motion. The vapor around him went blue for an instant, then burst into an orange hell- glare. He felt heat ripple over him, and all at once the gas seemed to turn to acid…

But it was only a trick of the mind. Legion snapped the match from midair, crushed it out between two fingers.

Instantly other corpses began to rip through the wires binding Max. Within moments he was free.

“Get up,” Legion said.

Max stood up trembling, mind racing. Why had he been-?

“Spared?” Legion asked.

Max nodded.

“Because you’re not quite over the edge,” Legion said. “There are rules, you know, even here. I can’t do as I please with you till you’ve damned yourself. But the next time we meet…” His horrific grin spread. “There’ll be hell to pay. I have it on the Highest Authority.”

Max just stared at him, blinking stupidly.

“Go on,” Legion said, pointing off south. “Run.”

Max turned, staggered away, Legion’s followers moving out of his path. He broke into a sprint, plunging out across a vacant lot.

“Next time,” Legion called after him, “you’re mine!”

South of Bayside Shores, in Matahawking, Gary’s group found there had been little burning. The lavish summer homes and the downtown were almost completely intact. Gary hazarded a guess that the population had had enough time to escape the dead advancing from the head of the peninsula-and that the corpses, finding so few victims, had given up torching the buildings. The predominant southerly winds would have fanned the scattered blazes northward into already devastated areas.

Whatever the reason, the lack of destruction made stealing from place to place much easier. The peninsula had narrowed, giving the group less space to avoid the patrols, but there was cover at every turn, not only among the houses, but in the scrub pines and thick dune brush that filled many front yards.

There was also Richardson’s Pharmacy, which came in handy after the group blundered into a lone corpse two hours after sunset.

They’d been making for the J and D Diving Store, still intent on finding drysuits, but by the time they finished with the cadaver, Sally, Steve and Gary were injured. They staggered off to the pharmacy as fast as they were able, breaking in through a rear door. The diving store was across the street from Richardson’s in any case, and the drysuits could wait until the bleeding from the stump of Sally’s bitten-off right thumb was stanched, the gashes in Gary’s leg and chest were disinfected and dressed, and Steve’s dislocated shoulder was popped back into place.

Linda had some nursing experience, and did the honors. Searching with a flashlight she’d found in the electrical section, she’d collected bandages, gauze and antibiotics, then set to work with a vengeance, pausing only once as a troop of corpses, apparently drawn by the gunfire, rushed past in the street outside.

There’d been a blood trail for them to follow, but either they hadn’t noticed, or had lost it during one of the intervals of darkness when the streetlamps were out. In any event, they never investigated the pharmacy, and didn’t reappear.