Buela hiked up her skirts and rushed toward the root cellar.
"I'll feed you, darling. Just you hang on. I'll feed you."
Buela jerked back the door on the root cellar.
There was no voice or singing now. Just blackness. Lizards of fear scuttled up her body.
"Millie?"
She held the lantern down into the root cellar.
And there was Millie's face, a dirty moon in which worms squirmed. Slime dripped out of her hair.
"My God" Buela said.
Millie's hand shot forward and grabbed the arm with the lantern and yanked.
Buela screamed, but only briefly. She went under the water, and the lantern went out.
But true to Buela's word, she did feed Millie.
XI
The undertaker, Mertz, was at work. He had Nate Foster fixed up and dressed in a suit the sheriff had brought over from the banker's house, and Mertz was of the opinion that Nate had never looked better. He hoped the worms appreciated all this work.
On the other hand, the amount of work he'd put in on Nate had tired him. And considering Nate had about as many friends as a ground rattler, he should have just stuck him in the box and got him buried before he bloated.
Looking at Nolan lying there on his slab, he decided that was exactly what he was going to do with this one. Neither were exactly the sort that drew mourners—though Nate would have some paid-for mourners. They were more the sort that drew flies.
Mertz thought the best move with Nolan would be to strip him of his clothes, wrap him in an old sheet, and put morning early—before he stunk so bad and swole out the sides of his pine box. That had happened to Mertz once at a cheap funeral. He'd stuffed old man Crider in a box without embalming him and kept him overnight. Next day at the funeral—out in the hot, July sun—the bastard bloated like a whale. Luck had been with Mertz, however, and the body didn't cause the sides of the coffin to break open until after the family left. And stink—it was worse than a week-old rotted string of fish. Mertz and his gravediggers pushed Crider in the hole and got him covered pronto.
Course, Nolan already stunk. And something awful.
Mertz went over and looked down at the body. He was an ugly hombre. Maybe Mertz should at least clean the dirt out of his eye socket.
Nah. In for a penny, in for a pound. He'd just strip him, put him on ice, and get him planted early tomorrow morning. He already had a couple of gravediggers lined up. When that was over, he had Nate's funeral, and he would make some money off that. Even if no one cared about Nate. There might even be a few people come by to gloat.
Mertz turned up the lantern hanging over Nolan's slab, walked around to Nolan's feet, turned his back on the corpse, took hold of one of the stage driver's boots, and tugged it off.
He held the boot down to one of his feet to measure. Nope, not a fit.
He took hold of the other boot and pulled. It wouldn't come.
"Come on, you sonofabitch!"
Nolan sat up on the slab. Dirt dribbled from his eye socket and dropped from his hair.
Mertz quit tugging.
The back of his neck was crawling.
He heard a noise over on the other slab where Nate was dressed out. Glancing that way—
in the shadowy light cast from his lantern—he saw Nate swing off the slab.
Kids playing tricks he thought.
But then he caught a glimpse of Nolan sitting up on the slab behind him.
He let go of the boot and turned completely around.
And Nolan grabbed him.
XII
Abby was standing in the doorway of the lab, framed there in her nightgown by the light flowing down the hall from Doc's study. She was holding Doc's shotgun.
"I heard shots—My God, what was that?" Doc looked up from where he was leaning on the table. "The living dead. Just like I told you. Now do you believe me?"
Abby merely nodded. "I—I saw it walking. I couldn't shoot. Not with this—too close—
My God. It fell apart."
"Yeah. Now, I've got to get you out of here. Come on get dressed."
XIII
The Reverend smelled rain. He thought perhaps that was what had awakened him.
Whatever, he was restless and could not sleep. He went to the window and looked out.
The rain was starting to come down in big drops. The wind had picked up and it looked as if it might storm.
The Reverend looked at his pocket watch. Late.
He lit the lantern, sat down on his bed, and read from his pocket Bible.
XVI
Once it began, it happened fast. The dead were hungry. They went to the houses of friends, relatives, and enemies. Those of the living who were not completely devoured soon joined in the hungry ranks.
XV
The Reverend decided on a walk. He could neither sleep nor concentrate on his reading.
He dressed, dropped the pocket Bible into his pocket, and went downstairs.
III
THE FINAL SHOWDOW
I SAW THEIR STARVED LIPS IN THE GLOAM,
WLTH HORRID WARNING GAPED WIDE...
—KEATS
When the Reverend passed Montclaire, the fat man was sleeping, as usual. On the desk were four greasy plates and the sad remains of a chicken that Montclaire had ravaged.
The Reverend stepped out into the street, and at that moment, as if it were waiting for him, all hell broke loose.
Down the street came David, running at full speed. When he saw the Reverend he began to call out. "Help me, Reverend. Help!"
At a considerable distance behind the boy, the Reverend could see Joe Bob Rhine. He was coming at a quick sort of stumble in pursuit of David.
David practically ran into the Reverend's arms.
"Whoa!" the Reverend said. "You and your father have a fight?"
The boy's face was wet with tears and marked by panic. "He's going to kill me, Reverend.
Make me like him. For the love of God, Reverend, help me!"
The idea of slapping a fist into the side of Joe Bob Rhine's head greatly appealed to the Reverend. He didn't like the big bully. But on the other hand, he didn't want to meddle in personal affairs which were none of his business, and violent activity this late at night (or early in the morning, depending on one's outlook) offended his sense of decorum.
But he would see the boy didn't take a beating.
"Maybe I can talk to him." the Reverend said.
"No, no," David said looking back over his shoulder. "He's dead."
"What? Why there he is, boy," and the Reverend pointed at Rhine who was lurching up the street as if his feet were tied together by a short rope.
"He's dead I tell you!"
The Reverend looked at Rhine again, and as he neared, he saw there was blood all over his face and neck. He looked to have suffered a terrible wound. In fact, there were large chunks out of his face and bare chest. The Reverend thought perhaps David had done it in self-defense. An axe maybe. And Rhine, injured (but certainly not dead) was coming for revenge.
"Look!" David said.
The Reverend turned. Out of the alleyway that led to Doc and Abby's house, a horde of people appeared.
"They're dead, Reverend. I don't know how, but they are. And they can walk—and—they tore my mother apart." The boy broke into a sob. "Broke into our house. Got Ma— tore the guts out of her. And Pa, he—I got out of a window. For Christsakes, Reverend, run!"