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.
The woman inside did not look like a woman. She did not look human. Caleb and his mob had hacked away her features and skinned her, so there was nothing left of her former beauty. Membranes covering her stomach had broken open, and a strand of intestine poked out like a shy snake.
Matt, who was loading a Winchester, found his eyes locked on the creature in the box, and he knew immediately who it was, though he had not witnessed her torture.
He looked at Caleb. 'You bastard!'
'That's what my old Ma called me too,' Caleb said.
The Indian went away from the window.
There was a loud thump at the door.
The wooden bar cracked.
The thump turned to a boom and it was repeated.
One of the Indian's big fists broke through the wood, grappled for the doorbrace.
Caleb leveled his revolver and fired three times into the arm. The bullets struck, went through, plopped into the thick wooden door. The arm still weaved about like a tentacle.
'Toss me that Winchester!' Caleb yelled.
Matt, almost in a daze, did so.
Caleb stuck the revolver in his belt, caught the rifle, cocked it, and fired three quick shots through the door.
The arm stopped.
Momentarily. Now it clasped its palm against the door and pulled. The hinges creaked, groaned, screamed.
The door came off and the Indian tossed it into the street. For a moment he stood framed in the doorway, his dead servants crowding around him for a peek.
Matt loaded a shotgun (after spilling half the box of shells on the floor) and he began to back up toward the open cell.
Caleb had not moved. He fired the Winchester three times. All three shots dusted harmlessly against the Indian's chest.
The Indian smiled.
Caleb fired again. The shot hit the Indian in the left cheek and made a small neat hole but had no effect.
'You shiteater,' Caleb said. 'Come and get me.' Caleb grabbed the barrel of the rifle, swung it over his shoulder, and the Indian—fast as a bullet—moved.
The Winchester came around, and the Indian's big hand grabbed it by the stock and jerked it free of Caleb's grasp. With a wrench of both hands, the Indian twisted the rifle in two.
Caleb went for his revolver.
The Indian caught his hand.
'Not nice' the Indian said.' Not nice at all.' The Indian squeezed.
Caleb screamed as his hand and the butt of the revolver became one, human flesh and bone welding with iron and ivory.
With a backhand slap, the Indian knocked Caleb down.
Dazed, Caleb looked up. The Indian reached down, took hold of the strand with the ears on it, snapped it free of Caleb's neck.
Turning his head, the Indian looked at his servants waiting impatiently in the doorway.
He smiled. 'Feed,' he said, and the dead rushed in.
