Best New Zombie Tales: Vol. 1 Part 15

"All right, help me out here then."

I took a hose to the mess in front of his house, was.h.i.+ng all the blood and junk down the street and into the drain at the corner. Once I was satisfied all traces of the dog were gone I rolled up the hose and walked into their house. G.o.d, my finger was aching. Susie was laying on the kitchen table in her underoos and a Doodlebops t-s.h.i.+rt, her b.l.o.o.d.y clothes in a pile beneath a chair. Janet was pressing a towel to the open wound across her shoulder. She was swearing quietly into the phone and her fingers were trembling. "David, it's still busy."

"What the h.e.l.l? They have multiple lines for this kind of s.h.i.+t!"

Susie started to cry. "Mommy, it hurts. It hurts so bad... "

Janet's lip trembled. "I know, honey. I know. Just try to hold on for a little bit longer while we get you to a hospital, okay?" She was trying to sound rea.s.suring but I could see she was holding back tears of her own.

David took the phone from her. "I'll keep trying them. Get some good clothes on her and lay her down or something." He looked at me. "Can you help her out? Thanks."

I held Susie while Janet ran to get some clothes for her. I was cradling her, her eyes barely even open, when I noticed a strange feeling in my arm. Something was poking me. I turned her over slightly and noticed a strange b.u.mp on the back of her underpants. It was like something was growing out of her tailbone. "What the h.e.l.l are you doing?" David hollered at me.

"Uh, nothing really." His eyes were accusatory, burning holes into me as he glared. "I just"

Janet came running down the hallway. "What's going on?"

"Nothing, nothing. s.h.i.+t! It's still busy! It's been busy for fifteen minutes straight. Honey, get her dressed and ready, we're driving to the hospital."

I left their house and went running down the street, my legs moving faster than they'd ever moved in my entire life. I slammed my front door behind me and locked it, then dead bolted it. I locked and secured every other door and window I had. I peeked out the window to the porch and saw a half-decomposed b.u.t.terfly perched atop the coffee cup I'd left outside. It was missing an antenna and its wings were thin and transparent as tissue in places, nothing more than fragile colorless framework in others.

Scampering up my trees were a half dozen nearly skeletal squirrels, their bushy tails connected to bleached hipbones. Most of them didn't have eyes left and I stood there, shocked, wondering how in the h.e.l.l they could even make it up and around the boughs in the condition they were in. The worst part of all was the howling noise that came from the road up above my house. It was like a pack of wild dogs starving to death, prowling for food.

No, that's exactly what it was. Little dogs, big dogs, the newly dead, the long-since-buriedthey all came walking down my street. The pet cemetery had yielded up its charges and they were heading my way.

I watched the Stevensons' car go flying out onto the highway and wondered if they'd seen the dogs that would no doubt be rounding my corner any moment now. I peeked through the window on my heavy front door and saw them, twenty or so, stop and look up at my house. I kept stock still, not even blinking, until they started walking again. Then I grabbed my little portable TV, my cell phone, and my laptop, and headed for my Panic Room.

It's not really a Panic Room, to be honest. It's just one of those attics accessible by yanking a cord in the ceiling of my walk-in closet, but I can remove the cord and lock it from the inside and n.o.body can get to me. It's air-conditioned up there and I have a couch and some power outlets if I need them.

I've been holed up here for two days now. This is where I turned on the little TV and found that it wasn't just the pet cemetery that had expelled its residents. It was every cemetery, every morgue. I saw footage of a half-burnt body walking from a crematorium on some late night show. People who haven't evacuated to somewhere else (wherever that may be) have all been barricading themselves inside their homes, hoping to avoid contact with the dead.

They brought in a scientist on one of those shows, a molecular biologist I think they called her. She had some long-winded theory about viruses and saliva and mutating DNA and some other stuff. It seems a lot of people who came into contact with the dead have been changing, usually people who came into contact with non-human dead. Apparently whatever is causing the dead to move might also be causing bitten people's DNA to change its structure to match the original host body. That would mean that little Susie, if she's even still alive, probably has a tail by now. We're all f.u.c.ked.

I'm turning off the TV and I'm going to try to sleep now. I've been up for over forty-eight straight hours, living off ramen noodles, caffeine, and fear. I need to lie down. I don't know if I'll be able to sleep, though. My finger's throbbing and my body is a ma.s.s of aches. I think I might have some sort of fever, and my shoulder blades hurt like h.e.l.l.

The Man Who Breaks the Bad News.

KEALAN PATRICK BURKE.

"Samuel! Answer the door!" Linda shrieks and Sam levers himself out of the easy chair with a moan. The simplest of movements are beginning to feel too much like hard work these days and he longs for some peace, or at least a place where he can get some.

He opens the door and gives the well-dressed stranger on the stoop a suspicious glance. In this neighborhood, and with Sam's increasing financial concerns, a man in a suit can only be the bearer of bad tidings.

"What is it?" he asks the stranger, his suspicion exacerbated by the omnipresent toothy smile on the man's long ashen face.

"Good morning, Mr. Bradley. My name is Thomas Wilder. I wondered if I might have a word?"

Sam's knuckles whiten on the door. "What about?"

"About last Friday."

Sam raises an eyebrow and flips through a mental index. Friday? What happened three days ago to warrant the interest of this dapper visitor? Nothing, he decides, unless it was some meager traffic violation-perhaps changing lanes where he shouldn't or clipping a curb. But wouldn't that have summoned the police? The man on the porch doesn't look much like a cop. In fact, if anything he looks more like a mortician, dressed in a black three-piece suit and blue silk tie. His silver hair is pasted down on both sides of his gaunt skull, enhancing the impression of things funereal. Coral blue eyes glimmer with intelligence.

Definitely not a cop.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Thomas," Sam says indignantly, hoping that his use of the man's first name will be enough to offend him.

Wilder's smile broadens. "I understand completely. Perhaps if I could come in we could discuss this further."

"I don't think that's such a great idea. My wife is in there."

Wilder raises an eyebrow.

"She's not feeling well," Sam splutters. "Besides, who are you anyway?"

Wilder fishes a black leather wallet from his inside pocket and Sam has the terrible feeling he's dealing with someone far more important than a cop.

F.B.I? C.I.A? I.R.S? Uh-oh.

Wilder flips open the wallet, exposing his identification. Sam's squints at the miniature rendition of the man's face, a grim smile beneath a stern black acronym. "U.S.S.R.D? What the h.e.l.l is that? You a Russian?"

The other man gives a patient sigh. "Mr. Bradley, let me put your mind at ease. I'm not here to arrest you or to issue any papers. You're not in trouble, but it is important that we speak immediately and iron out a few... um... details."

"What kind of details?"

Wilder's eyes narrow as if he has to summon great concentration to deliver his words. "About your death, sir."

"My death? What, like life insurance? If that's what you're here for"

"No," Wilder interrupts. "About your death last Friday on Route 32."

Sam slams the door.

Sam opens the door. He isn't surprised to see Wilder still standing there.

"What does U.S.S.R.D stand for? And before you get c.o.c.ky, I'm only asking so I know what to tell the cops when they ask for specifics."

"United States Special Retrieval Division. And calling the police wouldn't do you any good. They are well aware of our operation and support it one hundred per cent."

Sam sneers. "I'm sure, well if it's all the same I think I'll try them anyway."

Wilder doesn't respond. Once again, Sam shuts him outside and hurries to the phone.

"Samuel? Who's at the door?" Linda roars from the kitchen, startling him.

"Some nut," he calls back and picks up the phone. He dials and waits patiently to be put through to the Harperville Police. Eventually a bored voice answers: "Sergeant Stapler speaking. How can I help you?"

"Sergeant Stapler. Hi, this is Sam Bradley on Oak Street."

"Right," Stapler says, sounding as if he has no idea who Sam is and doesn't much care. "How can I help you, Sam?"

"Well, there's a guy at my door hara.s.sing me. He's an old guy, dressed in black. Says he's from something called the United States Recuperation Department or something."

"Yes?"

Sam frowns. "He says I'm dead!"

There is a long pause, sufficient time to bring beads of perspiration to Sam's brow and then Stapler causally replies: "Are you dead?"

"Well, I... what?"

Stapler clears his throat. "If someone from the U.S.S.R.D is at your door then I suspect you might have expired, Sam. Sorry."

Sam feels his brain itch. "Has the whole b.l.o.o.d.y world gone nuts?"

"My advice is to cooperate fully with them. There'll be less ha.s.sle that way."

"But I... "

"Be sure to give my condolences to your wife."

"What?"

"You have a wife, right?"

"I... yes! But you don't understand! I"

"Tough break, buddy."

"Hey, wait!" Sam says but finds himself pleading with a dead line.

"Is there somewhere we can go to talk?"

Sam stares at Wilder, envious of his unfettered patience. "What kind of scam is this?"

Wilder sighs. "Please, just come with me for a chat and I'll explain everything. It shouldn't take too long."

Sam steps outside, closes the door behind him. "It better not. My wife is making steak."

Wilder nods and turns away, Sam plodding unsteadily along behind him.

Back in the seventies, Greta's Diner was a hot spot for local teens-the place to hang out in Harperville. The pa.s.sing of time and modern technology however have stolen the appeal and now it caters only to those who don't care about its crumbling facade, peeling paint or ever-present smell of old shoes.

The raucous laughter of youth has long been driven from the air by the ghostly smoke from the pipes of old men, who sit and grumble to themselves while watching the world outside their haven move much too fast for their liking.

Wilder takes a seat by the grimy window and looks out at the cracked concrete parking lot, deserted but for a rusted peagreen Volkswagen with a flat tire. With a grimace, Sam lowers himself into the seat on the opposite side of the Formica table and glances at Wilder. "So?"

Wilder raises a hand. "Would you like something to eat?"

"No, I told you Linda's making dinner."

"Right. Coffee?"

"Water."

Wilder seems content to wait on a waitress that isn't coming.

Meanwhile Sam's impatience is burning holes in the back of his eyes. "So?" he repeats, "what's the deal?"

"The deal is, Sam, you're dead. You died Friday at around midday-or eleven fifty-one if you want specifics-while stuck in traffic on Route 32. Do you remember anything about that?"

Sam doesn't want to think about it but feels an obligation to prove this madman wrong. When he casts his mind back, he sees himself sitting in his Oldsmobile, smoking a cigarette and swearing loudly at the driver of the Taurus who has cut him off. The heat is fierce and he is suddenly finding it difficult to breathe. The cigarette of course, isn't helping but it's the only thing keeping him relatively calm. He remembers honking his horn and...

"Hmm."

Wilder leans forward on his elbows. "Yes?"

"I had a pain in my chest. Nothing special, I get them all the time."

"Do you get them now?"

Sam hasn't realized it until now but... he hasn't suffered chest pains in a while.

"Do you even smoke now?"

Sam shrugs. "The chest pains were particularly bad that day. I thought it might be a heart attack and vowed to quit smoking if it turned out to be nothing. It was nothing so I didn't smoke again."

Wilder gives a slight sad shake of his head. "I'm afraid it wasn't nothing, Sam. It was a heart attack. A fatal one. The reason you don't smoke anymore is because the dead rarely feel the need."

Sam slams a hand down on the table. "Will you stop saying that! I'm not d-"

They both watch the small fingernail skid across the table between them. Sam's eyes widen, his gaze dropping to the little finger on his right hand.

The nail has come off, leaving a mottled indentation in its wake.

He stares at it a moment longer, mouth open, a moan sounding from somewhere deep in his throat. "That's not right," he says eventually and looks at Wilder, who doesn't seem at all surprised.