Ash Wednesday (21 page)

So they sat and stood and crouched, heads together, some whispering, an occasional out-of-place laugh breaking the silence along with the cries of babies and the whining of children. Photographers took pictures, reporters scribbled on pads, a few looking nervously over their shoulders as if expecting the makeshift boxes to split apart or the hollow-eyed
living
people to suddenly erupt into madness. The CBS crew moved into the square warily for all their experience. They had seen the ethereal shapes on their way in, and so were prepared for the expressions on the faces of the townspeople. "They look like refugees," muttered a cameraman as they walked in front of Zeller's Hardware. "Look dead themselves." None of his colleagues disagreed.

While one reporter talked to the mayor, another walked through the crowd, which looked at him sullenly, until he spotted a face with just the right combination of tension, fear, and aggression. "Sir?" he said. "Would you mind if we talked to you for a while and taped it?"

The man was overweight, somewhat shabby, and in his early sixties. His crew-cut head was hatless, and a black-gray beard ran from ear to chin to ear without detouring for a moustache, as though it had been hurriedly painted on rather than grown. He gestured at the cameraman with a stubby finger. "We on TV now?"

"Not yet. We'll tape it now, air it later. With your permission. "

The man nodded gruffly. " '
S'okay
."

"
Gimme
a sound check."

"What's your name, sir?" the reporter asked.

"Uh . . . Fred
Hibbs
."

"And do you live here in Merridale?"

The man nodded.

"All right, Mr.
Hibbs
, you can look at the camera if you like, or at me if that's more comfortable. Ready, Kevin? Okay." The reporter's casual air dropped away and his face grew stern and tight as the red eye of the camera winked on.

"I'm talking with Mr. Fred
Hibbs
, a Merridale resident, just one of thousands who have been stunned by the overnight phenomenon that's taken place in this quiet Pennsylvania town. Mr.
Hibbs
, as we can see, the town square is just packed with people. Could you tell me why
you're
here right now?"

Hibbs
licked his lips almost guiltily, glancing up and down at the camera. "Don't
wanta
be alone is all."

"You live alone, sir?"

"Yeah. Got me a little house by myself."

"What was your first reaction to this phenomenon, Mr.
Hibbs
?"

Hibbs's
head wagged and a crooked smile split his features. "I . . . uh . . . I was pretty scared. I mean, I, uh . . . I seen my momma and daddy." His voice bubbled, cracked a bit. "Just went into the kitchen, and I seen 'em sitting there at the table plain as day, lookin' just like they did the day they died. Only
they's
naked."
Hibbs
bit his lip. "I never seen 'em naked."

"And what did you do then?"

"I got
out
. I . . . I just ran out of the house. And I seen more of 'em outside. But then Chris
Spickler
come by in his pickup and seen me and told me to hop in, and I did real quick and we come up here to the square."

"When was this?"

" 'Bout ten or so."

"I understand the . . . occurrences took place much earlier.”

“Guess so. I'm a pretty sound sleeper."

"Have you considered leaving Merridale?"

Hibbs
shrugged. "I got no place to go."

"But would you like to?"

"Yeah. Yes, sir, I would."

"Do you have any thoughts as to what these things might be?"

"You
betcha
I do." He paused, gathering strength. "Ghosts. That's what they are. It's that simple."

The reporter nodded sagely. "Do you have any thoughts as to the motive behind their appearance?"
Hibbs
looked puzzled. "The
reason
they're here," the reporter clarified.

" 'Cause we fucked up!"

It wasn't Fred
Hibbs
that answered. When the reporter turned, he saw an elderly man with a crisply lined face.
Hibbs
, who had jumped at the words, now frowned, his face turning red with anger and embarrassment. The reporter slashed a finger across his throat, the camera's red light winked out, and Eddie Karl laughed in a high-pitched cackle.

"
Goddammit
, Eddie,"
Hibbs
said through gritted teeth. "We're on TV here!"

"Whoop-de-shit." Eddie Karl turned to the reporter. "What are you
talkin
' to Loafer for? He don't know
nothin
'."

“You mean Mr.
Hibbs
?" the reporter inquired with a sickly smile.

"Mr.
Hibbs
, hell. Loafer's the name. '
Swhat
everybody else calls him, right, Loafer?"

"You old—"

"Now, you want to know what this is all about, you just ask
me
."

"You know?" the reporter asked.

"Damn right. They just don't like what the hell's
goin
' on here. They think we're
fulla
shit, and this is their way of
tellin
' us."

"Full of shit," the reporter repeated.

"You heard it here first, buddy."

The reporter ignored Eddie Karl, thanked Fred
Hibbs
, and moved away, closer to the tight group of men in the center of the square that seemed to form the command core. He stopped and listened to his colleague, who was still interviewing the mayor. "So you really have no idea of the cause?" The reporter was in her late twenties, tall, slim, attractive, her tailored wool suit in cosmopolitan counterpoint to Mayor Markley's somewhat garish double-knit blazer and wide polyester tie.

"Well, no. No. It could be due to any number of things, and I'm
certain
there's some logical explanation. Certainly no need to panic or leave town."

"But in 1980," the reporter reminded him, "a good many people left immediately after a minor incident at the Thorn Hill Nuclear Station, isn't that correct?"

Markley grimaced. "Yes, that's right. But there was no danger then, no danger at all. And there's no danger now either."

"Some people are already blaming the plant for the occurrence. Any comment on that?"

The mayor's face soured again. "No, no, that remains to be proven. Of course, if it turns out to be true, we will certainly demand a reckoning."

"As you did in 1980?"

"Well, that's still tied up in litigation, but we expect . . ."

~*~

Kim Bailey hurled an armful of clothes into her suitcase, a frown wrinkling her pretty face. She thought of Dave again, picking up his picture and laying it carefully between two pairs of jeans, cushioning the glass. Damn. Where was he anyway? She'd tried to call his house as soon as her father had dropped the bombshell that they were leaving Merridale, but Dave had not answered. She knew he wasn't at school—the whole district had been closed. But where then?

Just as she was sitting on her suitcase to force it shut, the phone rang, and she leaped up like some giant jack-in-the-box, her clothes spilling out over the handmade quilt. She jerked the phone from the receiver before the first ring had been completed and said hello breathlessly.

"Kim?"

"Dave, I tried to call, but you weren't there."

"My folks and I were in the square for a while. I've been trying to get you all morning, but the phones are all screwed up.”

“Listen," Kim said, "we're leaving."

"
Leaving?
Leaving Merridale?"

"Daddy's freaked out. Nobody knows what's happening. We're going to Lansford, Mike Davison, a guy Daddy knows. We're staying at his place. They have two kids in college, so they've got the room."

"How
long?
"

"I don't know. Till somebody knows something or these things disappear. You seen them?"

"Yeah. My grandma lived with us when she died. I was just a kid. Mom didn't want me to look, but I did. Just once though. I don't want to again."

“
Kimmy
!
" her father called sharply from downstairs. "You ready?"

"I've
gotta
go, Dave."

"When will I see you?"

"I'll call you. Or call me. Mike Davison in Lansford. I love you."

"I love you. It'll be all right. Don't be scared."

"I won't."

~*~

Everyone was scared.

It was not the fear of the outward appearances of the dead returned so much as the fear of what had brought them back. It was the fear of the
unseen
rather than of those poor, shabby things, ethereal and real at once, that terrified.

Where did they come from?

Why are they here?

What do they mean?

They asked themselves the questions over and over, then talked of theories, possibilities. What if, suggested Hen
Ebersole
, the nuclear plant had put something into the air that made these things visible? What if they'd been there all the time, only invisible, and what if some nuclear dust settled on them so everyone could see them? Howard Flory held out for the ozone layer. The spray cans, he said, breaking down the ozone. You can't see them when there's ozone, but now all the ozone's going away. Jerry Earhart held that they were ghosts, just ghosts pure and simple. As to why they showed up when they did, Jerry couldn't say.

Pastor Robert Craven, moving from group to group in the square, calming, cheering, had his own explanation. "All we can know is," he said, "that the hand of God is behind it. We can't see His purpose, but He's allowed it to happen. All we can do is wait and try to do His will."

"You think it's a sign of the Revelation, Pastor?" asked Josie Betz. "The dead rising and all?"

"Only God knows that, Josie. And He's told you as much as me."

The pastor moved on to the next cluster. At most he was welcomed; at a few, only kindly tolerated. Craven was not the kind of minister who inspired faith. If his sermons and his manner had had the theatrical majesty of his physical appearance, there might have been those who would have followed him into hellfire. He was tall, cadaverous, prophetic-looking. Though only in his early fifties, his hair was nearly pure white, combed straight back without grease so that he always appeared to be striding directly into a gale.

Yet, in spite of his prepossessing looks, his manner had far more in common with the Gentle Shepherd of the New Testament than the zealous warriors of the Old, whom he more closely resembled. His sermons were flat and unexciting, offending no one and captivating few. Still, he was liked by his congregation, who attended services out of habit and appreciation. If a church member found himself in the hospital, he also found Bob Craven at his side no later than the following morning. At funerals and viewings he would be there for just as long as the family wanted him, knowing unerringly what they wanted most to hear.