Anathema (23 page)

"It knows we're here,” Timothy said. There was a purple bruise on his cheek where he was grazed by a falling rock.

"Then let's not disappoint it,” Jim said.

The four men joined hands, formed a single line, and walked into the eerie light of the tunnel.

Chapter 33

It looked like a great big mouth that was ready to devour them all like snacks at a picnic. Stalactites hung like fangs from the ceiling. Equally dangerous looking stalagmites rose from the floor. Behind these formations was a cavernous cavity that pulsed with a sick green light.

"It was nothing like this last time,” Jarvis whispered, remembering the first time. Then, it was just a small hole in the floor. He still suspected the hole was somehow part of this thing, but the entity had built an entire fortress around it.

"You're right, Jarvis,” Timothy said. “Like everything else, this has also grown."

Cal dropped the burlap sack, leaned against one of the smaller rock formations, and took a handkerchief from his pocket. He dabbed at his forehead, wiping away the sweat that stung his eyes.

"Are you okay,” Jim asked.

"I'm fine, Jim,” Cal responded. “I just need a minute to rest."

"We haven't time to rest,” Timothy said. “We must continue. We must go—"

Suddenly, the earth shook again, catching them all off guard. A chunk of rock broke from the ceiling. Jim reached out and grabbed Cal just before the stone would've crushed his skull.

When it cracked open on impact, thick black goo bled from the stone.

Another stalactite fell, narrowly missing Jim's left foot and smashing into an oozing mess next to him.

Still another of the monoliths fell. And another. And another.

"The evil is playing with us. Trying to frighten us to turn back,” Timothy said.

"Well, it's doing a damn good job of it,” Jim shouted. Stalactites exploded all around them, spraying black goo into the air.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the hail of rocks stopped.

"Quickly,” Timothy said, “It must be done now."

The troupe joined hands and walked into the mouth of the beast.

Sheriff Ebert and Officer Andy barely had time to finish one phone call before another one came in. People from all over town were reporting strange occurrences that were happening.

Faucets producing rusty, bloody water. Thick, black sludge seeping into basements. Windows exploding. These were just some of the calls that threatened to overload the phone lines.

Then the lights had gone out, and they were hit with a second wave of calls.

"Yes, we're aware the lights are out all over town,” Ebert told one irate caller. “County Electric has been notified. We'll have them working as soon as possible ... I understand your concern ... No, I wouldn't advise that. We have no room here. It's best just to stay in your house."

Ebert glanced at Andy. There were dark sweat circles under the arms of his blue uniform. His hair was plastered to his forehead in reddish-brown ringlets. A sheen of perspiration coated his face and arms.

When the lights failed, so did the air-conditioning, and the boxy building heated up like a brick oven.

Andy hung up the phone, took a deep breath, and answered another call.

This was the reason Ebert hadn't accompanied Jarvis and the others. He was needed here.

"You take care of things below,” he told Jarvis. “I'll stay topside and make sure everything stays shipshape."

After their meeting at Jim's that morning, Ebert told Andy everything, and surprisingly enough, Andy believed every word.

"I've always heard rumors of such a thing.” Andy sipped on a Diet Coke. “My daddy used to threaten to take me there and feed me to it when I was bad. And I always believed my daddy."

Ebert told Andy what to expect and coached him on how to handle the situations, but he hadn't imagined a power outage. That special attraction made things a little more difficult. There were emergency lights mounted on the walls, but the illumination they provided was limited.

An explosion shook the station, and bright orange fire lit up the sky across town.

"Jesus!” Andy jumped from his chair, banging the back of his head on the shelf behind him. “That sounded like it came from Cal's place."

Andy dropped back into his chair, picked up the phone, and dialed the fire department. He stopped talking in mid-sentence, and the phone slipped from his grip. His jaw dropped opened like a hinge. As he pushed himself away from the desk, the back of his knees hit the edge of the chair and rolled backward.

Ebert's phone rang again, but he stopped short of answering it. He stood from his chair and walked around the desk. The ringing phone meant nothing anymore. It was just an annoying buzz hovering around his ears like an agitated mosquito.

Andy and Ebert stared out the window.

Ebert had seen a lot in his twenty-seven years as sheriff. Even in a town as small as Prairie Rest, something new always seemed to crop up, but never had he seen anything like this.

Passing the police station was a parade of dead people. Dark tar-like substance leaked from empty eye sockets. Putrid flesh hung from blackened bones like yellow dough. Worms wiggled in toothless mouths. Ears were plugged with mud. Many had fingernails eight or ten inches long. Faces and arms were covered with puss-oozing ulcers. They moved in hurky-jerky motions that were reminiscent of toy robots whose batteries were running down.

Then came the stink. Even through the building's cinderblock walls, the ripe smell of graveyard dirt and decay seeped into the room. The heavy smell clung to their clothing and hair. It coated the back of their throats, making their mouths taste like rancid meat.

"Oh, bite me,” Andy whispered as he watched hell lumber down Main Street. Marching with the dead was old lady Hapcord. Her broken neck tilted her head to one side until it lolled on her left shoulder. A purple-black tongue poked from between cold, blue lips, and a string of dark spittle hung from its tip. Milky eyeballs stared at nothing. Like moss on a stone, the first traces of decay appeared on her cheeks. And between her legs, a bloodstained, gore-encrusted baseball bat protruded from her like a deformed penis.

Andy, as did Ebert, felt the world pull away. The ringing phones went unnoticed, as their shrill chirps were swallowed in a haze of disbelief. They felt the bile rise in their throats, and although Ebert was able to control his urge to vomit, Andy could not.

He turned and blew the bacon and eggs he had for breakfast into the trash can. The stink of the digested food and the ripe odor of the dead caused him to vomit a second time. This time, he spewed a nasty tasting yellowish liquid.

Another explosion shook the station's foundation. Plaster dust fell from the ceiling like fine snow. The vomit-filled trashcan tipped over and spilled its warm contents onto the black and gray tiled floor. The windows blew out, showering the men with shards of broken glass.

With the station window gone, the dead smelled the living, and the scent of warm, fresh blood awoke a hunger inside the cold, decaying bodies. They changed direction and shuffled toward the building.

"Come on.” Ebert tugged on the arm of a shocked Andy. “We've gotta get out of here."

Knowing if they left through the front door, they'd walk into hordes of the living dead, they hustled to the rear exit. But the explosion had sprung the frame, and the gray steel door was wedged closed. There was no way out.

"Dammit!” Ebert kicked the door, and the vibration caused more plaster dust to fall from the ceiling.

Andy was on the fringe of insanity. His vision had narrowed to pinpoints. His mouth had dried up, and his tongue was a swollen balloon in the back of his throat. The ringing phones had mutated into shrill, crazy laughter. A single memory kept repeating itself in whatever was left of his mind.

He was a kid watching a grainy black and white movie his parents had forbade him to see. How he managed to sneak into the theater without their knowledge wasn't clear, but that didn't matter. The important part of the memory was crystal.

In the movie, the living dead had trapped a group of people in a deserted farmhouse. Someone in the group, Andy thought it was a black man, had found a working television set in one of the upstairs bedrooms. They tuned it to a news station that was still broadcasting, and a town sheriff with a shotgun slung over his shoulder was telling everyone who saw one of the reanimated to: “shoot ‘em in the head."

(Shoot ‘em in the head.)

Yes! Of course!

Andy came out of his encroaching madness and darted back to his desk.

"Andy? What are you doing?"

He opened the middle desk drawer and took out his weapon. “In the head,” Andy said. He checked the clip. It was full. Good. “We need to shoot ‘em in the head. That'll stop them."

"How do you know that'll work?” Ebert withdrew his gun.

"I don't.” Andy rejoined the sheriff in the corner. “But I saw it in a movie, once."

"A movie?"

"Yeah."

The men got into position.

Led by Edna Hapcord, the army of the dead crawled through the broken windows. Void of physical pain, they paid no attention to the glass shards that cut into their mummified flesh as they moved across the glass-covered floor.

Ebert sighted his weapon.

(Shoot ‘em in the head.)

Yeah. Right. Like that'll do anything.

The sheriff pulled the trigger.

Edna grunted like a pig when the bullet hit her between the eyes. She tipped and split open like a dropped pumpkin when she hit the floor.

Ebert raised his eyebrows. “I'll be damned. It works."

Andy shot and downed the fat man that was behind Edna.

Ebert pulled the trigger three more times and a trio of dead plopped to the floor.

Andy shot again. A wounded corpse staggered to the side of the room and grabbed the bookcase. The creature collapsed, pulling the heavy bookcase down with him. Its head popped like a balloon as one of the shelves sliced into its skull.

Both men were firing now. More and more corpses crumpled to the floor. But they couldn't pull the triggers fast enough. There were too many dead things.

Panicked, Andy threw his weapon into the mass. By coincidence, the gun butt impaled the forehead of one of the creatures. With a grunt, the thing collapsed, and a crazed giggle came from Andy's lips.

Frantic now, he reached in front of Ebert and pulled the baseball bat from Edna. It made a wet, sucking sound as it left her body. He swung the wood from side to side, even managing to hit a few of the creatures and cracking their skulls like melons. But the room filled too fast.

The dead overpowered him, fell upon him, and tore him to pieces.

Andy's screams and the moist sound of his ripping body mortified the sheriff, but it also gave him an idea. He knew it sounded cold and callused, and was like leaving your wounded comrade on the battlefield to die, but he couldn't help Andy now. His partner was already dead.

While the dead were momentarily occupied, he could push his way through the mob and walk out the front door. There were a lot of the creatures milling about, but none seemed very strong. They'd probably topple like dominoes.

The screaming stopped, and the only thing Ebert heard coming from Andy was the wet smacks of the dead feasting on his remains.

"I'm so sorry, Andy.” Ebert dropped his weapon to the floor and moved toward the door.

The sheriff pushed his way through the sea of living dead. He was right about their lack of strength. They tipped over as easily as a one-legged drunk.

Twice, two of the braver creatures tried to take a bite out of his arm. Ebert slapped both of them hard enough to knock their heads from their shoulders. Not only were they slow and stupid, but they fell apart like wet paper hats.

At the front door, the sheriff stole a quick glance behind him. Most of the dead were congregated around Andy. There was blood everywhere. Red commas of gore decorated the walls. A bloody rope was coiled on the slicked floor. The rope, Ebert believed, was Andy's intestine. Three of the monsters whooped and hooted over the same piece of meat. It was Andy's liver. Others tore flesh from the limbs and poked it greedily into their twisted mouths. Still others lapped gore off the floor like starving dogs.

Ebert closed his eyes and turned away. He could handle no more of this horror. He had to get out.

Now.

He opened the front door and was greeted by his brother-in-law.

Dead less than four months, Earl was a haven for slimy, wiggling things. His eye sockets were filled with maggots that fell down his face like cooked rice. Dull brown centipedes and glossy black worms slithered in and around his ears. Reddish beetles peeked from holes in his emancipated, rotting chest. A thick, fruity stench surrounded him.

"Oh Christ, no!” Ebert whispered.

"Hello, brother,” the thing rasped. Its mouth sounded full of graveyard dirt. He gave Ebert a grin, exposing blackened stubs where teeth once were.

Ebert's knees collapsed and he fell to the floor. Earl was on him in an instant and plunged his fist into Ebert's meaty chest.

Pastor Timothy fell against an outcropping of rocks. They all felt the sheriff's death, but Timothy felt the impact more than the rest of them. Timothy felt Ebert's emotional terror when he opened the door and saw Earl. He experienced the physical pain as Earl ripped Ebert's heart from his chest. Through Ebert's eyes, Timothy saw the beating heart as it slowed in the hands of the creature. He saw the hole in his chest and the bubbling black blood that filled the cavity where the heart had been.

The pastor's body grew cold as Ebert's life ebbed from him. Pain was gone now, replaced by a kind of odd peacefulness. Colors faded to grays; the grays turned black.

Timothy took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the icy sweat from his brow.

"Are you all right?” Jim asked.

"Yes, I'll be all right. Just give me a minute."

Jim looked at Jarvis. Jarvis looked at Cal. Cal looked at Timothy. And Timothy looked at them all. Each man wanted to say something, but all were wordless. Even though Ebert hadn't been here with them, there was a void in the group now, a broken cog in the gear. Now they were weaker, more vulnerable. And they wondered if the entity had planned Ebert's tragic and horrible death.