The Dead

metal being torn. Had the man forced his way into the garage or the service entrance? Van Nuys had had his hearse stolen, and his workshop attracted morbid teenager prowlers. There was also the safe upstairs…

He decided to call the police, but couldn’t get a dial-tone. Cursing, he slammed the phone back in the cradle.

As if to compensate, the lights came back on.

He looked at the Elk’s Hall, wondering if there was indeed a cop over there. It was still dark on the main floor; the place looked dead.

He heard a thump downstairs, in his workshop.

Service entrance, he thought.

Opening his desk, he took out the.38 Colt Super automatic he had gotten as a Navy pilot back in World War II. He went quietly to the door leading to the stairs and opened it, passing along a short corridor and stopping at the stair head.

The light was on below. He could hear whispering and a rustle of cloth.

“I’m telling you right now,” he said, “you get the hell out of here. I’ve got a gun.” To emphasize his point, he pulled back the action on the automatic, clack!

The whispering stopped, though the rustling went on for a few more seconds…then came footsteps, a squeal of hinges, and the ringing slam of a metal door.

Van Nuys looked out the window beside him, saw that spidery guy, illuminated by streetlight now, speed across the parking lot and slip with an indescribable movement back into the window he’d come out of. The window slid down behind.

Easing the hammer forward on the pistol, Van Nuys started down the steps, wondering what the intruder had been up to. When he came out from under the basement ceiling, he saw that Mr. Bullerton, whom he’d worked on that afternoon, had his sheet pulled down to his knees. Several of Van Nuys’s tools, a pair of long scissors, a probe, and a large detached embalming needle, were embedded in Bullerton’s chest, all of them gleaming wickedly. Bullerton’s genitalia had been cut off. They were sitting in his upturned right palm.

“Psycho bastard,” Van Nuys said…reaching the bottom of the steps, he went to take a closer look at the corpse’s face. The tiny threads holding the lips together had been sliced, and the mouth had sagged open a bit, revealing a smiling row of dry grayish teeth; the threads holding one of the eyes closed had been cut as well, and the cotton stuffing the eyesocket had been partially pulled out.

But worst of all was the forehead. In bold bloodless strokes the words YOU’RE DEAD had been carved into it.

Mr. Van Nuys was so outraged that it was a moment or two before he asked himself: how could the prowler have done so much damage in such a short time?

It occurred to Van Nuys that the man might’ve gotten in before. The undertaker went up the ramp to the service entrance. The double doors were closed, but in the middle, both were twisted and ripped. Going outside, he examined their outer faces. The lock, latch and all, had been wrenched out. Surely that had been the squealing- metal sound he’d heard. The prowler must’ve entered then, for the first time.

Van Nuys closed the doors and went back down the ramp, pausing to take a last look round the workroom. The DeWitts, a middle-aged couple and their thirtyish daughter, were still on their tables, sheets pulled over them, no sign of mischief. They’d died in a car accident Sunday night, and his struggle to restore their faces had been herculean. He’d been bitterly disappointed when the viewings were cancelled, due to the disappearance of several other family members; he’d wanted very much for everyone to marvel over the wonders he’d performed.

Suddenly it occurred to him that the DeWitts might’ve been mutilated too, then covered again. He went over and checked them. As far as he could tell, they were undamaged.

He started back to the stairs, headed to the top. Would the phone be working now, perhaps? He came to the stairhead, walked up the corridor-

And heard faint laughter.

From behind.

He stopped and turned, cursing softly. The.38’s hammer clicked as he cocked it again.

He returned to the steps and went slowly back down. He looked around cautiously at the bottom, but saw no one. The service doors were still closed. He hadn’t caught the slightest squeak of hinges; the prowler couldn’t have returned.

Then where in hell did that laugh come from? He asked himself-just before it came again, dry and toneless.

He spun. There was only the table with Jackie DeWitt on it. Could someone be hiding underneath?

“I’m a crack shot,” he warned. Going to Jackie’s table, he crouched, licking his lips. They were dust dry. He considered firing a couple of rounds through the sheet, but decided against it. Gathering his courage, he jerked the sheet up and thrust the pistol forward.

Nothing.

Breathing rapidly, he straightened, scratching his head, staring down at Jackie DeWitt. The sheet had sagged over her mouth, which was apparently wide open. Had the threads in her lips been cut after all?

But even if they had, that did not explain why her mouth began to open and shut, teeth snicking.

Bastard’s under the sheet, was his first thought, but he instantly dismissed it: Jackie’s figure was unmistakable even under the cloth.

What in-

A cold hard hand flashed up from under the sheet and locked on his throat, pulling him down toward the mouth working under the cloth. He gave a choking cry and fired the.38 again and again into the body on the table, the gunshots agonizingly loud so close to his ear. Fluid splattered him; the reek of formaldehyde filled his nostrils.

The clip emptied. He was still being pulled downward. He tried to throw himself back, but it was useless; a second hand shot up, slapped onto the nape of his neck and clamped tight. The first shifted to the back of his head, leaving his throat wide open for the clicking jaws. He fought to pull the hands away, brought his free fist and the butt of the automatic down on the shrouded face. The hands jerked powerfully in response, forcing his head and neck all the way down. His Adam’s apple was right over the mouth now. He felt the jaws stretch wide to receive his throat. The hands shoved, and the cloth-shrouded teeth locked his Adam’s apple between them, gripping it with agonizing, but not yet crushing force. He winced, closing his eyes.

Cloth flapped in other parts of the room, sheets being tossed aside. He opened his eyes again. Peripheral vision told him the elder DeWitts’ nearby tables were empty. Two voices whispered and laughed behind him. Footsteps hurried close.

This is impossible, his mind shrieked. This is a night-

Pain blotted his thoughts out for a moment as two more sets of jaws clamped onto him, one on either shoulder. His whole body shook as his attackers worried his flesh, snarling. Fabric tore; teeth dug through skin. Fingers scrabbled, ripping the arms of his jacket to shreds, baring more hide. With a sound like tape being peeled from a roll, a raw stripe of pain tore its way down to his left hand.

A moment later something warm and wet slapped across his face. It struck him again, then dangled before his eyes, a long curling ribbon, tan on one side, red on the other. He clearly recognized his LIBERTY OR DEATH tattoo on it.

The jaws on his throat began to close. Cartilage crunched. His breath whistled as more and more of his air was pinched off.

He died praying for a heart attack.

Chapter 8: Phys Ed

The bar was called Richie’s, a dark smoky joint down by the fisheries, and Uncle Buddy’s topic was shopping malls.

“Best I ever saw was the Court at King of Prussia,” he said, and took a swig of his beer. “ Better’n anything out near Pittsburgh, even the one they filmed that stupid horror picture at…” He let out a thunderous belch.

“Dawn of the Dead,” said Gary beside him.