Night of the Living Dead Page 3

  "Help him!" the waitress demanded, addressing either Ben or the janitor, someone, anyone. "Help him!"

  Yes. Help him.

  Ben finally moved. He slid out of the booth and looked around before finally deciding that his jacket might be the most useful tool at hand (he later cursed himself for not thinking to grab his suitcase). He seized the jacket from the seat and rushed out the front door.

  The nurse, Liza, was still tearing into her victim, but the old man was barely fighting her now — his arms wrapped around her in a mockery of intimacy as her teeth sank into the side of his neck. Blood sprayed outward in a sickening arc, but the old man was past expressing his pain.

  Swallowing his gorge, Ben edged around her, avoiding her line of sight and treading with a gentle step as he circled around a parked Chevy pickup truck. He could see that it was far too late to save the old man who’d had the misfortune to try and speak with a raving lunatic, but if Ben pulled this off, he could prevent her from harming anyone else.

  When he was behind her hunched back, he loosened his grip on his jacket to let the torso fall free, then coiled the ends of the sleeves around his hands. With sweat dampening his forehead, Ben crept forward ... slowly ... slowly ...

  At the last moment, Liza reacted as though she heard him. She cocked her head, then straightened and twisted to the side, but her movements were stiff and clumsy, which bought Ben the critical extra second he needed.

  God, please don’t let me miss!

  Lunging forward, Ben threw his jacket over her head and wrapped it around her face. He twisted his forearms, coiling the sleeves even tighter around his wrists, and with a final cinch, closed his impromptu trap. Perfect! The crazy bitch was now blinded, half-deaf, and most important, could not bite him.

  That didn’t mean she wasn’t still dangerous, though. She flailed about in apparent confusion at first, but as soon as she touched his hands and arms, she went wild. She bucked and thrashed, tugging at the sleeve of his sweater, trying to get free and latch onto him at the same time.

  Fortunately, Ben outweighed her by forty, maybe fifty pounds. He pulled her halfway to her feet, then shoved forward with his knee in her lower back. She collapsed back to the ground, lying nearly prone this time, allowing Ben to slip a shaky arm around her throat ...

  It’s okay, she can’t bite you through the jacket, do it!

  ... after which he applied considerable force into choking her.

  It was over. In another few seconds, Ms. Liza Connelly would black out, which would allow Ben to hogtie her with his ruined jacket. They could call the local police for her, and an ambulance for the old-timer (for what good it would do), and then maybe someone could tell him just what in the hell was ...

  The woman was not blacking out.

  It made no sense. Not only was the jacket smothering her face, but Ben was putting so much pressure on her windpipe, he feared he might crush something if he didn’t let up soon. She couldn’t be able to breathe through all this; despite her exertions, she wasn’t making so much as a peep.

  That’s when Ben realized that she had made very little noise through the whole affair. Some wheezing, a little moaning ... but otherwise she had made none of the racket one would expect from someone who was so clearly out of her mind.

  He squeezed her throat harder than ever, as hard as he could, and now he did feel something crumpling in there ... and yet she still continued to struggle.

  I don’t understand—

  "She still goin’?"

  Startled, Ben looked up to see the janitor emerging from Beekman’s. The man had unscrewed a broom or mop handle and brandished it now before him. He approached the mauled old man, who by now had stopped moving altogether.

  "Yeah," Ben answered after a moment. "I’m trying to knock her out."

  The janitor squatted next to the old man. He started to touch his throat, then jerked his hand away from the bloody mess; he settled for touching his wrist instead. After a moment, he announced, "Joe here’s dead."

  Liza, rather than getting weaker from Ben’s efforts, suddenly surged in her twisting and turning. She started thrashing about in the direction of the janitor’s voice, evidently riled by the proximity of new prey.

  "I can’t knock her out," Ben said, hoping that, somehow, the janitor might offer an explanation. "She can’t be breathing, I’m cutting off the blood supply to her—"

  "Knock her in the head," the janitor said, releasing the old man’s wrist and standing. His voice shook with anger.

  "I don’t want t—"

  "I said knock her in the fuckin’ head!"

  The janitor caught Ben off guard as he rushed forward and kicked Liza, hard, right where her face would be. His boot struck closer to Ben’s choking arm than he cared for, but it more than got the job done — he heard, and felt, a loud crunch as the nurse bucked once, then collapsed.

  Ben dropped her, then stood and backed away. His right arm was aching and trembling from the exertion. "I think you just killed her, man."

  "Like I give a fuck," the janitor seethed before spitting on her unmoving body. "She fuckin’ killed Joe! Fuckin’ bit his face and throat and killed him!"

  "Okay, okay!" Ben said, holding up his hands and gesturing for the man to calm down. "I’m not passing judgement here, I’m just ... saying ..."

  From around the corner of Beekman’s appeared another woman. She was wearing a hospital gown, and even in the dying daylight, Ben could see that she, too, was a dirty mess.

  First a nurse, now a patient, Ben thought. How fitting.

  The janitor’s jaw dropped a little when he set eyes on the new woman, but the instant she started walking in their direction, the anger returned. "Another one."

  "Wait, now, we don’t know ..." The patient’s face contorted when she saw them, and she reached out with fingers hooked into claws. "Okay, it’s another one."

  "What the fuck is goin’ on here?"

  "I don’t have a clue."

  The patient shared some of the nurse’s unsure footing, but she was moving a bit faster. She would be on them in seconds if they remained where they were.

  With a gentle but firm hand, Ben touched the janitor’s shoulder and pushed him back toward Beekman’s door. "Let’s get inside."

  "To hell with that." The janitor shook free, moved forward to meet the patient halfway, then hauled back with his broomstick like a batter at the plate before swinging it around with all his might.

  In his hurry and vehemence, his aim faltered. Rather than slamming the broomstick across the side of her head, it skipped off the knuckles of one of her outstretched hands. He still struck her in the face hard enough to break the broomstick in half — and to send a number of broken teeth flying through the air — but it didn’t even knock her unconscious, let alone kill her.

  The patient stumbled back, her jaw askew. But she made no sound, never took her eyes off the janitor. Ben was also surprised by how little blood flowed from her ruined mouth.

  When a raspy moan did float through the air, it did not come from the patient. Another person — a man this time — had appeared from around the same corner. He was dressed as neither a nurse nor a patient, just plain street clothes, and he was not dirty. But it took all of two seconds for his gait, expression, and the dark circles under his eyes to reveal that he was just like the others.

  "Come on," Ben urged again, "we need to get inside."

  The janitor threw down his broken weapon. His failure with the patient had rattled him, and when he repeated, "To hell with that," he said it with less bluster and more dread. He backed away from the two while fishing into the pockets of his overalls. "I’m gettin’ out of here." He produced a set of keys and turned toward the Chevy pickup truck parked in front of the diner.

  "Wait," Ben said. "I’ll get everyone else. We’ll leave together."

  "Fuck off. I’m goin’ now."

  "Just wait a second, they can climb into the back of—"

  "I said fuck off! I’m n
ot wait—Ah!"

  The janitor had almost reached his truck, was stepping over the old man, Joe, in his rush to the driver’s door. He cried out because old Joe had grab his ankle.

  "Jesus Christ, Joe! I thought you were dead! You scared the ..."

  Joe sat up, looked around ... then down at the ankle he was holding, and the leg attached to it.

  "Joe?"

  The old man leaned forward, just as casual as you please, and sank his teeth into the janitor’s calf. Blood soaked through the pants and gushed into his mouth, some of it squirting out through the gaping hole in his cheek.

  Ben’s chest tightened, and he tried to reject everything that was happening, reject the whole mess. None of this made sense, so none of this could be happening — none of it!

  The janitor was screaming and trying to pull away, but old Joe had his teeth sunk in deep. The janitor punched at the old man, but he did not let go.

  The terrible yet engrossing scene vied for Ben’s full attention, but he became conscious of a thumping to his right. He glanced over to see Clara the waitress and the male bus traveler through the front window of Beekman’s, each of them pounding on the glass with one hand while pointing with the other. His wits were intact enough for him to follow the direction they indicated, but by then it was too late.

  The patient with the ruined mouth and the normal-looking man both seized the janitor from behind. The patient could do little more than gnaw her ragged lips against him — she lacked her front teeth, and her jaw was no longer in alignment — but the man bit the janitor’s right ear off.

  All four of them — one of them struggling; three of them feeding, feeding! — tumbled to the ground and rolled into an atrocious jumble. The afflicted three focused all of their attention on their latest quarry.

  Ben, for the moment, was forgotten.

  He crept away, back toward the diner. He hated to leave the janitor to such a fate, but the actions of old Joe told him one indisputable fact.

  Whatever was happening, it was contagious.

  Ben was mere steps from the front door when he spotted the janitor’s dropped keys. All in an instant, he knew what he had to do.

  The woman who had traveled on the bus with him opened the door to greet him, to let him back inside as quickly and quietly as possible, but he shook his head.

  "No," he whispered.

  "What?" she gasped, then covered her own mouth with a frightened look at the three feeders. For now, they remained focused on the janitor.

  "Get the waitress or the cook to lock this door, then shut off all the lights. Try to keep quiet."

  "What about you?"

  Ben swallowed. "I’m going for help."

  The woman opened her mouth to say something, then hesitated. She stole one more peek at the three lunatics, then nodded. "Good luck," she said, and closed the door without trying to change his mind. A second later, without any help from the staff, she locked it.

  He was committed now. Turning around, Ben took just a moment to build his nerve.

  Would it be better do this slow or quick?

  He opted for quick. Rushing straight through the hellish chaos, he stooped long enough to snatch the janitor’s keys, then jumped away before his arm or leg could be seized.

  He needn’t have worried. They remained focused on ... on what was left of the janitor. My God, they were actually eating him!

  don’t think about that, don’t stop, just keep moving, keep moving before they notice you, damn it

  In seconds, Ben was behind the steering wheel, the door re-locked behind him. Adrenaline demanded that he get the hell out of there now, but he wasn’t entirely sure where to go. In his rush, he had forgotten to ask for directions — which would have required entering the diner to talk to the waitress, anyway.

  Think, damn it!

  Okay ... okay ... he knew that the two other people who has disembarked with him had started walking up the road to his right, north, away from the old gas station. When Joe’s cowardly friend had taken off running, he, too, had gone in that direction. If he had to bet money on it, he would go with the direction the three locals had taken.

  All right. That’s it then.

  But now that he was sitting inside a locked vehicle and the three sick people, or whatever they were, remained oblivious to him, he felt secure in slowing down, if just for a moment.

  The biggest problem was that he had no idea what was happening. He needed information.

  Pushing the key into the ignition, he turned it only halfway, just enough to engage the truck’s battery. Ready to turn down the volume at a moment’s notice, he switched on the radio.

  For the first several seconds, he heard nothing but static ...

  Great, just great!

  ... but then the instant before he twisted the knob back to Off, a male voice broke through.

  "... back on ...?" it asked. The signal continued to whistle and scratch, but then the man continued, "Oh ... uh, ladies and gentlemen ... we’re coming back on the air after an interruption due to technical problems—"

  Thump!

  Ben jerked in surprise, switching off the radio on reflex as he turned to the driver’s side window.

  The patient, her wretched mouth a ghastly sight up close, had left the janitor ...

  Maybe because she can’t eat him very well with broken teeth and jaw?

  ... and was now outside the door, staring in at him with milky, dead-looking eyes. She drew back her fist and pounded on the glass again.

  Okay, enough was enough. Ben started the truck and threw it into Reverse. The truck swayed a bit as the front tires rolled back over the woman’s feet, but she gave no reaction of any kind — she just staggered after him.

  Ben shifted into Drive, turning around to his left. He would have to swing around into a U-turn if he wanted to head north ...

  Coming from the cross-street, a large gasoline truck rounded the bend, heading straight for him. Well, not straight for him — the driver was weaving all over the road! Drunk, asleep, or in some kind of distress, the gas truck screamed right across the road without heeding the stop sign.

  Ben slammed on his breaks to keep from hitting it broadside.

  As the gasoline truck continued forward, tearing through the guardrail, Ben finally understood why the poor driver was behaving so. Ten, maybe fifteen people — men, women, even one child — were trailing after him, some of them dragging behind the truck, but most of them chasing after it in the awkward gait which Ben now recognized all too well.

  The truck barreled toward the gas station, smashing through a low billboard, shattering the wooden sign into a million pieces and throwing the hanger-ons through the air. Seconds later, the truck ripped over one of the gas pumps.

  Sparks flew and flames erupted, turning the gas truck into a rolling bonfire.

  It didn’t stop moving until it slammed headlong into the side of the gas station’s front wall.

  Instincts which had failed him earlier (and thereby saved him from the nurse) kicked into high gear, and Ben was out of the truck before he could contemplate the risk, the danger of such action. All he could think about was helping the driver.

  He could hear an agonized scream coming from the gas truck. He did not know if it was the fire or those things which had gotten the man, but either way, it chilled Ben to the bone.

  He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know whether or not the truck was going to explode. He didn’t know if he could save the man even if it didn’t explode.

  He did not know what to do.

  The things which had been following after the truck had stopped now. They backed away, staring into the flames as though they were hypnotized, some of them holding up their arms as if to protect themselves even though the flames were a safe distance away.

  They’re afraid of fire, Ben realized.

  Maybe he could use this to his advantage, to rescue the driver while they were held at bay. If the man from the bus could help him—

&nbs
p; Ben turned back toward the diner, and his thoughts of seeking help stopped dead. Both the patient and the other sick man had emerged from behind the diner. He had not considered what that meant, but now he knew.

  From his new vantage point further away from the building, he could see that the field behind the diner was full of those things, the majority wearing hospital gowns like the first patient. They had surrounded the place, and because the customers or staff had never gotten around to his suggestion of turning off the lights, he could also see that the things had somehow gotten inside — even with the tinted glass, he could see the shapes moving around through the windows.