Those Lazy Sundays: A Novel of the Undead (20 page)

Just as they started to allow themselves a sliver of hope, there was another bang, this one harder and more powerful than the first. They came in succession now, and the flimsy wooden office door shook and bowed under the blows.

"Deliver me from evil, Lord. Deliver me from evil, Lord. Deliver me from evil, Lord." Eric was nearly shouting it now as the pounding on the door continued, the volume and speed of his recitations rising in cadence with the blows.

The sound of splintering wood shut him up. The eyes of each of the three men immediately went to the door jam, where small splinters of wood were now visible around the metal.

"Deliver me from..." Eric whispered, but stopped halfway through the phrase.

With one final, climactic crack, the door broke open, and Bob Bartolo's climb up the career ladder ended in a splash of blood.

H
E REMEMBERED LEANING back against the wall. It was hard, cold, and uncomfortable. The moaning and pounding of the people was unabated, and the rain continued to percuss on the roof. Yet, eventually he slipped into a deep sleep as the weariness took over, something a few minutes earlier he hadn’t thought was possible. He didn’t dream. At least, he couldn’t remember any. He awoke to someone roughly shaking his shoulder and whispering his name. His eyes opened groggily and he saw the blurry image of Mary in front of him.

"Hi hon," he whispered, and smiled.

It was his turn. Kyle looked at his watch. Just after three in the morning. Slowly stretching and pulling himself to his feet, he looked around the police station. Not much had changed. It was still raining hard outside, and the people hadn’t quit. Mike Williamson was still lying on the cot in the cell – it didn’t look like he had moved at all since he fell asleep – and Brent was leaning against the wall. Sarah was sprawled out on the floor a few feet from Kyle.

Mary smiled and handed him the shotgun. He’d never fired one before. Brent had given them all a ten-minute tutorial and safety class, but it didn’t make the weapon feel any less intimidating. He held it in his hands for a moment. It was heavier than it looked.

“Goodnight,” he whispered.

“Night,” Mary whispered back softly. They kissed, and he watched her sit down in the corner of the room. She drew her knees to her chest and leaned her head down, closing her eyes. Kyle smiled to himself and walked to the center of the room, sitting in the chair, facing the door. If he had to ride out Armageddon or whatever it was that was happening, at least he knew Mary was there with him, safe and healthy.

He couldn’t imagine what Sarah had to be going through. Sure, Andy was just down the road, but he wasn’t there, with them, and he hadn't contacted them in hours. It had to be agonizing, though she was doing a great job of dealing with it. If it was Mary who was stuck alone away from them, he’d have probably gone out of his mind with worry. But if all went well, they would be reunited with all of their friends soon enough.

As his mind drifted, his eyes went to the two desks stacked at the front of the room, and the front door. The wood splinters were still evident around the lock, but the door was intact. The desks seemed to be doing a good job of reinforcing it.

His shift dragged on, and his stomach rumbled, so he grabbed a snack of crackers and peanut butter from the garbage bag, which was already getting light. He wished he could just stroll down to an all-night mini-mart and grab a real snack.

When he started feeling tired, he did a lap around the police station, being careful not to disturb anyone, and then sat back down. In spite of the noise, his eyelids felt heavy after just a few more minutes, and he struggled to stay awake, occasionally shining the flashlight into his own eyes to try to wake himself. He glanced at his watch. 3:50. He had forty minutes before Brent would relieve him, and he could get another few hours of sleep.

On the verge of sleep again, he forced himself to stand up and do another lap, this time stopping at the front door and peering between the desks. The door shuddered violently every couple of seconds. He was amazed it hadn’t burst open yet. The desks were heavy, but once the door came open completely, he figured it wouldn’t take very long for the mob of people to push them out of the way. Thank god they were working right now, he thought.

He returned to his seat and looked at his watch. 4:13. His eyes became heavy yet again, and despite his best efforts, he nodded off. He fell into that half-sleep world that people enter when they refuse to fall asleep, but can't stay awake. His head felt like it was on a spring, rolling in slow circles around on his shoulders, his eyes fluttering, struggling to stay open. He dozed for a few moments, then snapped his eyelids open, then dozed again.

Through the haze of exhaustion, he thought he heard the floor creak behind him.

K
ATE HAD BEEN pacing up and down the hallway for the past few hours. She wasn't having trouble staying awake ˗ the constant noise from outside the door was enough for her ˗ but it beat just sitting idly in a chair and staring into the darkness. She'd tried a few different things to pass the time: she started writing a poem on a pad of paper from the bedroom, but she only got three lines in before she realized she was terrible at it. A poet she was not.

Next she tried reading through the two-month-old Time magazine that she picked up from Phil's nightstand. She'd stopped that after a few minutes, because reading had started to make her sleepy. She also had a hard time getting into the articles. With what was going on just outside the door, reading an article about Middle East politics or a cute write-up about an up-and-coming author with a quirky view on life didn't do much for her.

Instead, she started pacing. She wasn't just walking back and forth. She'd done some jumping jacks, a couple of skips, even a bad attempt at a pirouette, just for the hell of it. Time moved awfully slow in a house with no power, no one to talk to, and nothing to do. She'd eaten another sandwich, and drank one more soda. They were down to one Coke now out of the twelve-pack, and she decided to leave it for Jack.

It was just past four in the morning when she heard the noises from Phil's bedroom. She was walking by the closed door when she heard what at first sounded like little more than Phil stirring in his sleep, shifting his blankets or changing positions. But then she heard the creak of the wooden plywood beneath the carpet, and the springs in his mattress.

She stopped and listened, then knocked on the door.

"Phil?" she asked.

She listened. What she heard wasn't a response, at least not a coherent word. It sounded more like a gasp, or a cry.

"Phil, I'm going to come in, okay?" Kate said. She grasped the door knob, and then stopped. She pulled the pistol from her belt.

She heard movement just as she turned the knob, a rapid set of footsteps coming towards the door.

She opened it and shined the flashlight in. It wasn't even a second before Phil appeared in the light, his ghastly face gaunt and pail, his eyes hollow, his mouth peeled back into a grimace. Shocked, Kate backpedaled away from the bedroom.

Phil opened his mouth wider and bolted through the doorway, reaching his cold fingers towards her, his sunken eyes fixated on her neck.

I
N HER DREAM, Mary was standing at the edge of a large field filled with people. The sky was bright blue and clear, though the blades of grass were glistening with raindrops, as if the sky had cleared only minutes before. The people were staggering around stupidly like they were drunk or high, bumping into each other, tripping, and falling onto the damp ground. Aside from how they were acting there was something else off about them, though she couldn't place it. It was something in how they looked, the details just indiscernible from where she was. They looked blurry, discolored, like a picture out of focus.

Her brain told her to turn around and run. But in defiance of what her brain was telling her, she put one foot forward, and then another. It was like her body was running on its own, propelling her forward. She could hear the grass swishing under her feet, feel the dew or raindrops seeping through her shoes.

She got closer to the people in the field, and although her body seemed to be operating on its own, her stomach still churned when she saw them. They were no longer blurry or out of focus. They were clear as the sky above, and almost the same color. Their blue-gray skin hung limply off of their faces like melted ice cream running down an ice cream cone, revealing gray-white bone beneath. Exposed eye sockets and jaw bones flashed under the morning sun.

It was obvious what they were, but it took her mind a few moments to understand, to get past the simple rationality to which it was accustomed and accept what her eyes were saying.

Dead. They were dead. But they were moving. Walking.

But they were dead.

A sound drew her away from the walking dead scattered around the field. It was a clapping noise from somewhere nearby. She spotted it on the other side of the field. The source of the noise was a landing pad and a military helicopter, one of the big ones with two propellers, its engines running, the loud, rapid put-put-put of the rotor blades dominating the pathetic cries of the dead people.

She knew that was where she needed to get to. It looked like she would be able to easily sprint across the field, weave around the clumsy, rotting corpses.  But right when she took another involuntary step forward, the people suddenly formed a wall in front of her, standing shoulder to shoulder, baring their teeth and growling. A warning. She tried to take another step, and this time the growling turned into a snarl, and the wall of rotting people came forward at her. Now she just stood, feeling paralyzed, her body not moving at all, just waiting for the people to come.

She concentrated, tried to force herself to move. She felt a finger twitch under her power. Then she brought a whole hand up, and then another.

Only they weren't her hands. These hands were big, powerful, with hair on the knuckles and rough skin. She forced her neck to move and looked down her body. She was tall, much taller than she really was, and dressed in a pair of jeans, a leather jacket, and boots. It all looked familiar, yet she couldn't place it. She was in someone else's clothes, moving in someone else's skin. It was her, but it definitely wasn't her.

Finally, she forced her body ˗ or whoever's body it was ˗ to run. She sprinted full speed at the wall of the undead. Crashing into them, she could feel their icy hands clawing at her flesh, grabbing her short hair, lunging for her throat. The helicopter seemed distant now. She continued pushing forward through the crowd. The people growled and snarled, and she growled and snarled back, throwing her powerful fists and lowering her broad shoulder with all of the strength she could take from this borrowed body, sending the beasts crashing to the ground, tumbling out of her way.

And then, daylight! With one final burst of strength she busted through the mob and into the open field…

Only to find it empty. She looked up and saw the helicopter hundreds of feet above, already flying over the trees, headed to God knew where. She fell to her knees and cried out, punching at the soggy ground with her fists.

She woke up with her arms involuntarily punching at the air in front of her. It was dark, and her eyes readjusted to the interior of the police station. The moaning, the banging, the rain, everything was as it had been, for better or worse.

She looked up, and blinked.  She could see the dark side silhouette of Kyle, seated in a chair in the middle of the room, facing the door. His head was slumped down on his chest. He was asleep.

For a moment, she thought her eyes were playing tricks on her. Behind Kyle there appeared to be another figure ˗ a silhouette that was big, impossibly big, and seemed to be standing just behind him, unmoving. She squinted, wondering if she was still dreaming. It didn’t make sense. The figure was just standing there, not moving, not doing anything, just towering over her boyfriend like some kind of weird bodyguard.

In a flash, a black tendril shot out of the figure, and her mind registered that it was, in fact, two arms stretching out in front of it. Before she could open her mouth, the figure grabbed her boyfriend by the head and neck and jerked him backwards in his chair.

Kyle shrieked as the mammoth man lifted him into the air. He desperately felt for the shotgun, only to realize that it had tumbled off of his lap and was now lying on the floor, well out of his reach.  He screamed a second time when he felt the sharp incisors tear into his shoulder and neck, the warm blood,
his
warm blood, spurting out over his face and chest.

Mary was standing now, but stuck in place, frozen just like in her dream, as if her feet were weighted down with cement, the surreal scene unfolding in front of her in slow motion. There was a third, shrill scream, almost like a siren that seemed to continue forever, a sound of terror at its purest, most biting, most primitive. After several seconds, Mary realized the screaming was coming from her own open mouth, but couldn’t seem to stop it.

Awakened by the commotion, Brent sprung off the bed, ran out of the cell, and stopped in his tracks, reeling at what was unfolding in front of him. His brother was kneeling in the middle of the room, the college boy draped on his back over the cop’s knee. Mike’s face was buried in the kid’s neck, his mouth slurping and ripping obscenely at the blood and flesh, the noise accompanied by an ear-piercing scream from somewhere else in the station. Brent looked around and saw Mary standing at the side of the room, her eyes locked on the two figures, her mouth open in an expression of horror. Her scream died away, and she cupped her hands over her mouth and stood in place, unmoving.

Brent stared at his brother, who was tearing Kyle’s throat out. The shotgun lay on the floor less than a foot away from the creature that had been Mike Williamson. Brent also saw that the only other firearm was Mike’s own revolver – and it was still in the holster around his waist. Sarah stood near Mary on the opposite side of the building, looking like she was about to dash across the room. Brent looked at her, and back at his brother. Mike hadn’t noticed any of them yet, even with Mary’s scream. He was completely focused on chomping away at Kyle a la Carte.

Brent waved at her. She had already taken one step, but stopped. He gave her the “stop” signal like a third base coach. He pointed at the gun, and then at himself. He was the only one with a clear line to the weapon. She nodded and stepped back again. Brent eyed the shotgun.  If he tried to sneak up on his brother, he would probably be noticed before he got anywhere near the weapon. If he made one quick sprint for it, he would definitely be noticed, but might get just close enough to get his hands around the shotgun.

He looked at Sarah again. Their eyes met, and he could tell she was contemplating the same thing he was. She pointed at herself, then made a couple of dancing motions, then pointed at Mike, then at Brent, and then the shotgun. He looked at her for a moment, perplexed. Then it hit him. She was going to make a distraction so he could get the gun.

It was risky. If his brother got to her before he got to the gun, she’d be dead. Even if he got to the gun first, he’d have to fire right away, and Sarah wouldn’t have much time to get down, and out of the path of the bullet. If he missed, or if the bullet went through a less meaty part of Mike’s body, she could get hit.

Still, it was probably their best chance. Their eyes met again, and he nodded.

Sarah opened her mouth and began to yell.

“Hey Officer Williamson! Mike! Over here!” she yelled. He ignored her and continued eating. He was now deep into Kyle’s chest and ribs, his hands sticky with blood and bile.

Sarah kept at it, hurling taunts and random insults at the creature. She walked forward, deliberately stomping her feet to make noise.

That got his attention.

 He looked up for the first time, casting his gaze at her. She froze. His skin was pallid, his eyes sunken and cold. Blood was smeared around his mouth, just below his cheeks, and even on his nose. A long bloody strand hung out of the corner of his mouth, down his face, and dangled a couple of inches below his chin. He opened his mouth, the blood dripping from his teeth, and let out a loud, deep growl that seemed to echo off the station walls, overwhelming even the pounding of the people outside, and the weather.

Mike stood up, the mutilated corpse sliding off his knee and falling in a heap on the floor. His imposing figure appeared to get bigger and bigger as he stood erect, his dead eyes fixated on Sarah. Her mouth went dry and she stepped backwards, continuing until her back bumped the wall of the police station. She looked back, startled that she had nowhere else to run to. Mary stood a few feet away. Her eyes were wide, and she looked almost to be in a trance, her hands at her mouth, her body shaking. The shock of seeing her boyfriend torn to pieces had shut down her brain.

Mike Williamson growled again menacingly and moved forward. He came with a surprising speed, faster than the people they’d seen outside, his movements almost graceful. The sheer size of his stride meant it wouldn’t take him long to traverse the tiny police station.

Brent watched and waited. When he thought his brother was far enough away from the shotgun, he made a dash for it. He moved as fast as he could, the gun just a couple of arm lengths away. He was almost there. He just needed to grab it, turn, and get off a solid shot.

It was then that the Mike abruptly stopped and turned around. He paused for a second, as if seeing his brother had caused a single neuron of recognition to fire in his brain, and Brent froze as well, and knew that he had made his move too soon. If he had waited for his brother to take a few more steps, he would have had enough time to grab the shotgun and ready a shot before the creature would be on him. But there wasn’t enough distance between them now. He could still get the gun, but he’d be within the reach of Mike's long, club-like arms.

Seeing what was happening, Sarah began yelling again, hoping to get Mike to turn. But he had made his decision. He was going for the closer target. Brent locked eyes with his brother. The recognition that appeared earlier was gone. The eyes were cold and dead – not his brother’s, but something else entirely.

Brent’s mouth tightened determinedly into a thin line, and he made one desperate lunge for the shotgun. His hands closed around the butt stock of the weapon, and he hugged it to his chest and rolled. A split second later, a heavy fist crashed into his lower back, knocking the wind out of him. He rolled over and looked up. Mike towered over him like a skyscraper, his thick legs and muscular torso seemingly stretching all the way to the ceiling, his blood-stained mouth peeled back in a hideous grin.

Mike reached down stiffly. Brent fumbled with the shotgun. His finger brushed the trigger, but his brother swatted the gun away before he could take the shot. The shotgun discharged, blasting a small hole in the ceiling, and it slid across the floor. Mike grabbed his brother by the neck, his thick hand gripping Brent's throat tightly. Brent gasped and choked, struggling to force air through his closed windpipe. With his other hand, the creature that had once been Mike Williamson grabbed a handful of Brent’s hair, and began lifting him by the neck and scalp.

Brent was starting to black out when a loud crash snapped him back into consciousness, his windpipe suddenly open again. He had barely taken a breath when his brother dropped him. He fell hard on his back, his head smacking onto the wood floor, pieces of the police station's computer scattered around him. Through blurry vision, he saw his brother stumble forward, almost tripping over him. He fought to stay conscious, the pain in his head sending flashes across his eyesight. The world was a blur, sending a barrage of barely coherent shapes and sounds at him, his distressed brain struggling to keep pace.

Mike turned to face Sarah for a second time. She stood defiantly a few feet away. He lurched forward, and she turned to run. She managed to take one step before Mike snagged the back of her shirt with his long arm and yanked her towards him. She stumbled backwards and fell into the barrel chest of the Allentown cop, her face resting against the rough fabric of his uniform shirt. He wrapped his arms around her like a lover pulling her into an embrace, his powerful arms squeezing her ribs until she thought they would shatter.

Looking hungrily at the top of her head, he leaned forward, grabbed her face with one hand, and forced her chin to her chest. Sarah struggled against his grip, kicking her legs, swinging her arms, and scratching at his face. His teeth were just a few inches from the back of her neck now, his icy breath chilling her skin. Sarah continued to struggle, but knew the situation was hopeless. She closed her eyes, anticipating the pain of sharp teeth slicing through her flesh, only hoping it would be quick.