Night of the Living Dead (31 page)

And then, as always, his reason won out. Always and forever the pragmatist, Ben calmed down and considered his next step.

The dead had overrun the house. If they
did
break through the barricade, he would need another line of defense.

As much as he wanted to, Ben could not give up. That just wasn’t the way he was made, that wasn’t ...
Ben
.

He turned around in a slow circle, considering his options. He tried lifting the door he had knocked to the floor, then switched to one of the sawhorses. One was too cumbersome, the other too flimsy on its own; neither would prove useful without the hammer and nails, and both of those were somewhere upstairs.

In the end, Ben settled for recollecting the rifle and crouching down in the far corner of the cellar, the gun aimed at the bottom of the stairwell. He wiped sweat from his face and blinked away the urge to close his eyes, to sleep.

He would never give up, never. But there was nothing more he could do at the moment, not until the dead settled down, maybe forgot about him and wandered back out of the house. All he could do for now was wait.

Wait for the dawn.

In the house above, the dead pounded and ambled and explored. A few remained focused on the cellar door and adjoining wall, but most had forgotten about that. They spread through the house, some going from room to room, others drudging along in small circles. Different items caught different interests, from the furniture to the curtains to the fireplace — the bathroom mirror proved quite popular.

They had forgotten the flesh for the time being; the house itself was their fascination now. And it was theirs, here and across the country, as the faintest echoes of their former lives tugged at their failed minds. Here and everywhere. Homes, cars, shopping malls ... any of it, all of it.

Whatever struck them, flesh or fixtures, they wanted. And what they wanted, they took.

They were the living dead, and this was their night.

DAWN

Sunrise stretched over the land, chasing the night into retreat. Birds broke into song while crickets closed their shift. A very gentle breeze sighed through the fields, washing away the scent of death. Peace reigned, and anyone who had not personally lived through the night would have found it difficult to believe the things that had happened, that had risen.

Then the chirping of birds was joined by another sound, a manmade sound — a helicopter, running patrol over and ahead of the roving groups of armed men ... and just like that, the illusion of peace ended.

Rifles, pistols, guns aplenty. The squads pushed on, driven by duty for some, motivated by an unspoken glee for others. Order would soon be restored, of that they were confident, but for now, anarchy ruled.

Taking advantage of an open field, the helicopter circled around for a landing, and the patrol lines came together for a meeting-of-the-minds, so to speak. Police vehicles, including several K-9 units, joined the party, and those on foot took the opportunity to take a load off, to plop down on the grass for a welcome rest.

Chief Mc
Clelland strode through the ranks, wiping sweat from his brow with a handkerchief and heading toward his right-hand man, Vince, his deputized "lieutenant" for the day’s festivities. McClelland called out to the man, who regarded him without rising to his feet; Vince just craned his head back to listen, chewing on a stalk of grass.

"We’re gonna get about four or five men," the Chief told him, "and a couple a dogs ta the house over here behind those trees, we wanna go check it out."

Vince nodded and climbed to his feet.

McClelland then realized that the reporter, Cardille, and his cameraman had resurfaced and joined him — they sipped coffee from small white cups and looked far more rested than the Chief himself felt. "You still here, Bill?"

"Yeah, Chief," the reporter said, "we’re gonna stay with it ‘til we meet up with the National Guard."

McClelland nodded, but his eyes were on their hands. "Where’d you get the coffee?"

"One of the volunteers," Cardille answered, then pushed the cup forward. "You’re doing all the work, you take it."

"Thank you," McClelland said, accepting the cup with sincere appreciation.

The reporter nodded, then replaced the caffeine with another vice — he took a drag from a cigarette.

"We should be wrapped up here ‘bout three or four more hours," McClelland said. "We’ll probly get inta Willard then. I guess you can go over there an’ meet the National Guard." He leaned over and raised his voice, "Nick, you an’ the rest of these men wanna come with me?"

Adjusting his rifle’s shoulder strap, McClelland headed off, leaving the news crew alone.

"Well, Bill," the cameraman said, "I’m gonna check with the office, see what’s happening."

"All right, Steve," Cardille replied, "tell ‘em we’re going to stay with it and, uh ..." He thought for a moment, then decided, "... everything appears to be under control."

As if to dispute his proclamation, some of the dogs from McClelland’s group started barking. But then, that had been happening all night. There were many dead wandering the area, and the dogs loathed their unnatural scent.

Cardille wasn’t worried. After all, the dogs were with McClelland, and however unrefined the Police Chief came across at times, he had proven he knew what he was doing.

They were in good hands.

In the basement, Ben’s head sunk lower, and lower ... until, for the one thousandth time, he stirred back to awareness. Partial awareness, anyway. His mind was so fuzzy, his thoughts so sluggish, there were times when he wasn’t entirely sure that he
was
awake, considered that maybe he was only
dreaming
that he was awake, that the dead had broken through the barricade and were creeping up on him even now.

Funny, that
that
 was what he should consider the dream at this point. No more delusions that the entire event was the nightmare, that he would wake up on the bus to discover a world where the dead had never risen ...

No, this was his reality now. All he could hope for was ... was ...

Was that barking?

Ben stirred for real now. He hadn’t heard anything resembling
life
for hours now, and even before he had retreated into the cellar, there had been only crickets or other insects — no dogs, no cats, no livestock in spite of this being an old farmhouse. There had been just himself, Barbra, and the rest of the group.

So what did it mean that he could hear dogs barking?

The dogs’ lead proved true. They zeroed in on some dead wandering the field behind the house the Chief had spotted earlier. A man and a woman ... or rather, a male and female — as far as the Chief was concerned, they weren’t human enough to be called "man" or "woman," not anymore.

T
wo uniformed police officers drew their sidearms and started firing.

Gunshots! Those were gunshots!

Ben’s hopes soared, but with some reservations.
The sound of gunfire definitely meant there were people up there, but it did not guarantee that the cavalry had arrived. It could be other refugees like himself, who had seen the house and were seeking shelter, only to be taken by surprise as the dead burst outward to greet them.

His heart pounded. He wanted to believe that he had been rescued. But he had been through so much,
done
so much this night that his usual optimism was depleted almost to nothing.

What should he do?

A station wagon from the Willard Department of Public Heath rolled up the drive toward the group near the old farmhouse. As soon as they heard the shots, the driver and his partner had known it was back to work. Of course, these days their work was a hell of a lot more interesting than before this shit hit the fan.

They slowed down by Chief McClelland, who was standing near a burned out pickup truck. But he waved them on. "They need you down there by the barn," he told them.

"Okay," the driver acknowledged, then rolled on.

McClelland turned back to his group. "A couple of you guys just follow the wagon down, I wanna get a few men ta check out the house."

As they dispersed, McClelland returned his attention to the destroyed truck, and the stray human remains therein. He said to his lieutenant, "Somebody had a cookout here, Vince."

Vince agreed, "Yeah, sure looks like it,
Conan
."

Shaking their collective heads, the group moved on toward the house.

Ben was fully awake, or the closest he could come to it. A siren! Police car, ambulance, fire truck? It didn’t really matter. A siren meant a vehicle, and that suggested a vast improvement on the situation out there in the real world.

And yet, still he held his spirits in check. He had to be smart about this, he had to be sure.

Slowly, one step at a time, Ben climbed the stairs toward the still-intact cellar door, straining his ears for every sound, every clue.