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!'
More people appeared behind Rhine, They came out of alleys, out of buildings and houses. It was a small army of stumblers.
The Reverend put one hand on his revolver, pushed David up the street before both ends were closed off. They had gone only a few steps, when out of the alley by the Doc's office, came a buggy. Doc was driving, popping a whip, and Abby was sitting beside him, holding a shotgun.
The crowd of dead in front of the buggy were knocked aside by the horses, and the buggy charged into the street.
'Doc ' the Reverend yelled.
Doc saw the Reverend and David. He hesitated for an instant, perhaps trying to determine if the two were alive or dead, then he pulled the buggy hard right—raced toward them.
A man grabbed at the buggy wheel then fell beneath it. The wheel went over his neck, breaking it. But when the buggy passed, the man rose—chin dropping on his chest— neck bone sticking jagged out of his nape—and walked.
Doc slowed enough for David and the Reverend to swing in back, then he whipped hard left and started down the street toward the church at a gallop.
A crowd of dead citizens had gathered in their way. As the Reverend pulled his revolver, Doc yelled, 'Hit them in the head, only way to stop them.'
Abby raised her shotgun and fired. One of the zombies, missing the top of his head, fell to the ground.
The Reverend's revolver barked four times, and in the wink of an eye, four of the zombies were wearing holes in their heads. They fell permanently lifeless to the ground. Doc pulled the small revolver from his belt with his free hand and blew out the eye of a woman as she clutched at the side of the buggy.
A big man (Matthews who owned the general store) leaped astride one of the horses as the buggy rumbled through the crowd, clamped his teeth into the back of the animal's neck. A gusher of blood streamed from the horse, it stumbled, the other horses tangled their feet and went down.
The buggy tumbled over and pitched its occupants. The Reverend came up rolling. The fallen horses kept most of the zombies occupied, the guts of the animals were stretched across the street as the dead battled and tugged for the edibles.
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
