Tim Curran - Resurrection

Listen to yourself! You’re acting like those…those people were the walking dead! You can’t honestly believe something like…can you? Well,

But he wasn’t sure. Not sure of anything. He walked over to the severed arm, stared down at it. It looked just like a dead arm. It was almost phosphorescent it was so terribly, unnaturally white. He could see the fine black hairs curled on the forearm, the matting of lines on the palm. He kicked it and it flopped over with a slapping sound.

“Be careful,” Hot Tamale said. “It might be alive still.”

Mitch jabbed it with the handle of his axe. The flesh gave like normal flesh. He jabbed it a couple more times and it did not move. Then he prodded the palm and the entire arm flexed obscenely and the hand grabbed the axe handle. Not just grabbed, but held on tightly. He could see the tendons straining at the wrist. He was horrified, yet fascinated. It could not be alive, not really. This was some grotesque reflexive action and nothing more. He tried to shake it loose, but it held. At least for a moment or two, then it relaxed and thudded to the floor.

Mitch just stared at it.

Maybe he needed this, needed to see that this dead arm still had life in it when it couldn’t possibly. Maybe the idea of that unlocked something in him and let him accept the idea that, yes, the rain was falling and the dead were rising. Sure, and the dish ran away with the fucking spoon. Disgusted as he was, he could not look away. He felt like Alice peering through the looking glass and seeing a distorted, impossible world on the other side.

“Fuck this shit,” Tommy said.

He came over with his axe and started swinging it and pretty soon Mitch was joining him. They chopped the arm to white fragments, sweating and grunting, but feeling that it had to be done. The arm was just an arm, just so much meat they had chopped up. It had muscles inside and bone.

When they had finished, all those scattered bits of meat began to move, they trembled and squirmed and the bone thudded against the floor. It was like it wanted to put itself back together again.

Mindy saw the whole thing and just kept shaking her head. “No, no, no, this can’t happen,” she said, her eyes wide and filled with tears. “This can’t happen! This isn’t possible! No, no, no, no, no-”

She went down to her knees, wailing a thin and strident scream. Hot Tamale went to her, pulled her to her feet and shook her roughly, turning her away from the remains.

“Get a hold of yourself!” she shouted in her face. “This is going to get a lot worse before it gets better!”

Hubb had had his fill. He came over with a can of Coleman lantern fluid and liberally drenched the remains. He struck a stick match and tossed it at the mess. There was an eruption of flame and the flesh bubbled and blackened, issued plumes of greasy smoke. The stink of burned meat was nauseating. When the flames died out, there was just a lot of black and crusty remains.

“Somebody get me a cocksucking shovel and a pail,” he said.

Outside the rain had subsided now to a drizzle. Mitch went over to the flap and wrenched it open further. Nothing out there now but the fading light of day and puddles spread over the street several inches deep.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Tommy said.

A car came rolling down the street then and they saw it was a police cruiser with the emblem of the Witcham force on the doors. It passed right by the store, then braked and backed-up.

“Well, it’s about fucking time,” Hubb said.

The cruiser stopped in the middle of the street and two cops got out wearing blue rain slickers and plastic bonnets over their caps. They just stood there in the flooded street looking at each other and the car jutting from the front of Sadler Brother’s Army/Navy Surplus.

“Well, how are we going to explain this mess?” Jason Kramer said. His face was red from where he’d been struck by the black goo, but his wife had swabbed it with burn cream from the first aid kit. He looked like he’d be all right.

“In here,” Mitch called out through the wide-open flap.

The cops started over and that’s when Mitch noticed that the sky was looking funny. Strange. Something. That peculiar ochre haze was hanging above the town just as it had after that explosion out at the Army base. And at that moment, the rain started coming down again.

“Oh shit,” Tommy said.

The rain that was falling now was not normal rain. It was yellowish and sparkling and as it struck the two cops out in the street, they began to dance around like they were standing on a hot plate. They jerked about like marionettes, trying to cover their faces as if a swarm of hornets had descended on them. One of them cried out and fell right in the street. The other tried to make it to the cruiser and fell against it.

Mitch saw his face.

He clearly saw it.

That rain was no ordinary rain, it was more like some kind of toxic acid rain. For as it struck the cop’s face, it actually burned holes in it and the flesh went almost liquid like hot wax. The cop’s outstretched fingers were…were melting, the skin hanging off in strings.

He slid down into the puddles and stopped moving.

And as quickly as it had come, that bizarre yellow rain stopped. You could see it sparkling in the puddles for a moment or two and then it dissipated. Just the drizzle falling now. It had come with a sharp, acrid stench and now that was gone, too. Nothing else.

“Don’t go out there!” Hot Tamale said.

But Mitch did and Tommy followed him. The drizzle falling was just a drizzle, chill water and nothing else. They went over to the cops and they were both dead. Their faces were pitted from the rain, contorted and misshapen like they’d spent the night in a tent full of hungry mosquitoes.

“Hell is going on in this town?” Mitch said.

But Tommy just shook his head. “I don’t know, but I’m thinking were in some very deep shit.”

There was no sense in rationalizing what they had been through as they drove away in Tommy’s Dodge Ram. Rational thinking seemed to have no place in Witcham now. In the past few days, it seemed, the city had suffered some sort of cataclysmic nervous breakdown and there really was nothing left to do but cross your fingers and hope it regained its sanity.

And with what Mitch and Tommy had just witnessed, it didn’t seem like that was going to come to pass. Insane things had happened and they both had the nasty, unsettling feeling that they were going to continue happening.

On the drive over to Mitch’s house, Witcham bore no signs of the abnormal psychology it had so freely exhibited at Sadler Brothers. And maybe “exhibited” wasn’t the right word here, maybe flaunted was more like it. Sure, the streets were steadily flooding and the sewers were backing up and the rain continued to fall, but it had not been reduced to a graveyard. Bodies were not bobbing in puddles nor corpses splayed wetly on the walks. There seemed to be many more abandoned cars then there had been when Mitch set out from home earlier that day, some left deserted right in the lanes with their doors open, but that did not necessarily mean anything. People-living people-were in the streets, walking around, viewing the rising water.

But they did not seem panicked.

“I don’t get it,” Mitch finally said. “If that yellow rain fell all over town, there should be some evidence of it…am I right?”

“Maybe it wasn’t all over town. Maybe it was spotty.” Tommy suggested, seeming to like the idea. “You know how it is, you’re in the middle of a downpour and three streets over its bone-dry.”

That had to be it. Because if that rain had hit the entire town, there should have been bodies. And the people in the streets would not be strolling about in rainboots, with kids in tow. They would have been hiding or driving out of town to beat hell.