The Reverend jerked around to David's yell, and there was Montclaire, looking far more active than he ever had in life. The Reverend slammed the barrel of his pistol into Montclaire's head, and David jumped behind the man, hitting him in the back of the knees bringing him down.
David scuttled to the Reverend's side as Montclaire lumbered to his feet.
Abby had lost her shotgun, and Doc, standing beside her with his pistol, was firing steadily, dropping the creatures. His gun would soon be empty.
David darted for the shotgun Abby had lost, grabbed it. The Reverend raced behind him.
A little girl David's age charged at them. David, hesitating only a moment, raised the shotgun and fired. The shot hit the girl in the neck and her head flew up. The body whirled in a circle, pumping blood, and finally fell. The head landed in the street, teeth snapping.
David froze, looking at it. The head was trying to bite the ground with its teeth and pull itself along.
The Reverend snatched the shotgun from David, and using the empty weapon like a club, smashed the head.
Now Montclaire and the others were closing in, pushing the Reverend and the others into a tight circle.
"Run for the church," the Reverend said. "It's holy ground."
"You?" David asked.
"Do as I say, boy."
David wheeled, darted between Montclaire's legs, then turned hard left, dropped, and rolled between two others, and he was in the clear. He broke for the church.
The Reverend, swinging the shotgun, was driving them back—like Jesus scattering the money changers.
He worked his way to Abby's side. "Go," he said. "Go for the church." And he swung the shotgun—the stock striking skulls and arms—making a cracking sound against flesh and bone.
The crowd grew thicker, but the Reverend kept swinging and the sea of dead parted, and Abby, Doc, followed by the Reverend (running backwards for a ways, knocking them back) scampered for the church.
They darted up the church steps, clutched at the door latch.
It was locked.
"Calhoun!" the Reverend bellowed. "Let us in." Doc kicked at the door and yelled, "Open up! Now! Calhoun!"
The dead were closing now. The Reverend saw Montclaire in the lead. Greenish drool strung from his lips and almost touched the ground. The Reverend thought grimly: "Even in death, Montclaire is in the forefront when it conies to food."
As the dead neared, all four of the living kicked, hammered, and yelled at the door.
The door did not open. The zombies were at the church steps. The Reverend handed his revolver to David, cocked the shotgun over his shoulder, ready to crush skulls.
But the zombies had stopped at the bottom of the steps. They swayed back and forth like snakes before a charmer, moaning hungrily.
"What's happening," David screeched, holding the revolver stiff-armed before him.
"Holy ground," the Reverend said. "The power of God almighty."
"Don't praise too much," Doc said. "I can guarantee you this. It's going to get worse before it gets better."
The door opened. It was Calhoun, shaking, holding a poker in his hand. His face was white and he looked stupefied.
"I—I heard you," Calhoun said.
They pushed past him, closed the door, and threw the large wooden bar.
Calhoun lowered the poker. "I thought you were— them. They've come twice already, but they stop at the steps—I saw them catch poor Miss Mcfee. She came here for sanctuary, but she didn't reach it—I heard her screams. I opened the door and looked, and she was looking at me, reaching out. But they had her, biting, biting—for the love of Jesus I couldn't go out there. There was nothing I could do—they ripped her apart—ate her."
"You did the right thing," the Reverend said. "They'd have killed you."
"If you were lucky," Doc said.
They went to the barred windows and looked out. The dead were starting to string around the church.
"Are we safe here?" Abby asked.
"Only for a little while," Doc said. "Until their master comes."
"Master?" Calhoun said.
"The Indian—the curse he put on the town. That's what it's all about, Calhoun."
"I didn't touch that man, or his woman."
"Doesn't matter," Doc said. "From his point of view, we're all guilty. The entire town.
And that includes you too, Jeb."
"The Lord brought me here for a showdown, and I'm here," the Reverend said.
"You don't think I'm imagining things anymore?" Doc said.
The Reverend managed a grim smile. "Only if we all are, Doc."
Caleb was hammering on the sheriff's door.
"Matt, let me in. Do you hear? Let me in."
Matt (who had been sleeping on a bunk in the open cell) had heard the commotion outside earlier, seen the Reverend and the others battling up the street, understood what was happening, but he had laid low. He figured if he could hold out until daylight, he might have a chance. And now that asshole Caleb—the bastard responsible for all this—
was beating on his door, bringing them right to him. He could see the horde of the dead clutched in the street, moving toward the sound of Caleb's voice.
"Open up, you sonofabitch," Caleb yelled. "I know you're there. Open up! They're gonna eat my ass."
And choke, I hope, thought Matt.
Matt went to the window, looked out. And Caleb was looking in.
"Open up, for Pete's sake," Caleb said.
Behind Caleb, the dead were gathering into a thick wad, moving toward their meal. Matt had a sudden flash that they reminded him of the mob that had been here the night the Indian was hung, and in another way, they reminded him of how the townspeople looked when they gathered in the street for the annual potluck dinner.
"The hell with you," Caleb said. His face disappeared from the window.
Matt hesitated, then ran to the door, threw back the plank, and opened it.
Caleb had his back to him, a revolver in each fist. He bobbed his head to look at Matt, stepped inside. They closed the door and threw the plank in place. "You asshole," Caleb said. Matt didn't answer. "I fought my way clear across town—they're eating people, Matt. And the dead get up and walk."
"I know," Matt said.
Without warning, Matt leaped toward Caleb, grabbed him by the shirt front, flung him over the desk—against the wall. He jerked Caleb to his feet and yelled in his face. "This is your fault, you bastard. You're the one that got the Indian hung. You're the one really done it. You're...."
One of Caleb's revolvers came up through Matt's arms and the barrel touched Matt's top lip.
"Let go. What say?" Caleb said.
Trembling, Matt let go.
And then he caught something out of the corner of his eye. A dead face at the window.
And another.
Then something worse.
Between the two at the window he saw someone crossing the street carrying a large crate.
The Indian.
"Holy Mother of God," Matt said.
Caleb looked.
"Jesus Christ with a wooden dick and shit and fall back, that's the big bastard himself. He looks mighty spry for a hung and lightning-struck fella."
Caleb put one of his revolvers on the desk, opened the other, and began to reload from his gunbelt. "Let's see that bastard eat lead. Now unlimber some of them Winchesters over there or we're dead meat— walking dead meat." Caleb lit the lamp on the desk to provide shooting light.
The Indian had moved to the window. He bent down and looked in. His face was the worse for wear. It looked to be slowly rotting. He set the crate down before the window, and pulled off the lid, leaned it forward.