The Dead

end jammed in the lock.

Cursing, he took out his Swiss Army knife. Using the tweezers, he tried to pull the end of the key out. His hands were shaking so hard that he succeeded only in dropping the tiny pincers. They chimed softly as they struck the floor.

He bent and searched. Finding them, he straightened and set to work again, but had no luck. He went through most of the pointed implements on the army knife, trying to pry the key-end out. Nothing worked.

“Shit,” he said.

At least there haven’t been any more noises.

He ran his hand over the back of his neck, thinking. There were other doors. But he’d just have to go through the keyring again-Jack had told him they were all chained too.

Whoever they send to relieve me is going to laugh his ass off, he thought.

There was a saw on his knife. Would it be possible to cut through the chain? Not too likely, he decided-

Faint crackling from the gym.

Icewater spurted into his veins. He heard a low sound like a throat being cleared, then a quiet splash.

Just trying to get the seawater out of his lungs, that’s all…

He reached for his pistol and unsnapped the strap, suddenly wishing he was a lot better with a gun. He’d always liked the fact that standards for summer cops were pretty lax. Now he thought that everyone had been way too easy on him.

A popping sound reached him.

Plastic ripping, he thought. Then came whispering, like wind across leaves.

He stood perfectly still by the lobby doors, hand on holster, breath tight in his throat. The whispering faded. And after a time, to his immeasurable relief, the lights flashed back to life.

He looked toward the gym doors, noticed there was a lock. He crossed the lobby swiftly, twisted the knob, heard the bar slide into place with a dull clunk.

He went to make one last stab at getting the lock unjammed, accomplished nothing. At length he decided he’d have to try and get one of the other doors open. Then he’d take up his post there, or come round front to meet whoever relieved him. Remembering which key he’d used, of course…

But wouldn’t he be acting like a frightened kid? How would he explain why he wasn’t at his assigned station? Would Bingham have been talking? Would they decide Bingham had given him the willies? Would a man who was scared of ghosts be a likely candidate for a job next summer?

He decided on a compromise. He’d go back to the gym-door windows, listen hard, stare into the gym till he couldn’t take it anymore. If he heard anything, he’d find himself that other post.

And if he saw anything, he’d shoot the lock off the lobby doors, fuck waiting for his replacement.

Slowly he strode across the lobby. He expected at any moment to hear whispers or crackling, almost caught himself hoping to hear something, anything that would justify a full retreat.

The dead didn’t oblige. Maybe they were just playing with him, lying inside those bags with big goddamn grins on their faces, waiting till he was looking right in at them, so he could see them all sit up at once, all two hundred and fifty of them…

So why are you doing this, asshole? he thought, halting.

But he was already at the doors.

Because I’m not going to let myself slip over the edge. Not till I’ve taken one last look.

He unholstered his pistol, a Smith and Wesson.357 Mag. He eased forward, looking through the glass. The same scene met his eye the second time around… Or did it? Were those ragged edges showing on those bundles at the far side? Had the bags been opened? From inside?

He squinted. Reflections on the window partly obscured his view; slipping the pistol into his belt, he put his hands up on either side of his face, trying to block the light out. Still he couldn’t tell.

He slid the pistol free again, keeping his face up against the glass. He stared for a long time, growing steadily calmer. He caught no hint of movement. No sounds either. Then-

Laughter.

Wet bubbling laughter.

Over on the far side of the gym, one of the bodies sat up, still wrapped in trailing rags of plastic. Two more sat up beside it in quick succession. The laughter grew louder, accompanied by coughing and spitting.

Jeff grimaced with terror. Wondering how he’d been stupid enough to stand there so long, he started to turn.

Glass splintered. A talonlike hand thrust through the window, seized his arm. He had a glimpse of a shadowy face on the other side of the broken pane before he snapped off four quick shots through the door. The hand on his arm jerked away, nails raking furrows in his flesh.

He whirled and raced for the lobby doors. Behind, he could hear the gym echoing with a series of deafening shrieks, its doors booming under a pounding assault.

He aimed his gun at the padlock, fired the last two shots in the cylinder; but he was up against a Yale lock, and the damn thing insisted on doing its duty, blissfully impervious to the slugs. It occurred to him he’d do better trying to shoot the chain away, aimed his pistol accordingly-and felt his heart skip a beat as the hammer clicked on an empty chamber.

Wood squealed and splintered behind him. He turned and ran into the adjoining hall. His footbeats echoed like hammerblows in the corridor, but the noise was almost drowned out by the sounds from the gym; he heard the doors bang flat against the floor, and the screams, unmuffled now, swelled horribly in volume.

As Jeff ran, he tried to reload, but his arm had been ripped so deeply that he could hardly control his hand, and his fingers were slippery with blood; he dropped three bullets before deciding it was useless.

He reached a bend in the corridor, raced round it. A doorway appeared up ahead, a moonlit rectangle. He just might reach it in time.

Let it be unlocked. Oh God, let it be unlocked…

He began to grow dizzy from pain and blood loss. Warm fluid cascaded down his arm, spattering his trouser legs, tapping his Frye-boots like rain.

He neared the doors. The sound of pursuit grew suddenly louder; the shriekers had rounded the bend. It wouldn’t be long before they were on him.

He skidded to a halt near the exit, almost falling over.

The doors were chained.

Making one last desperate effort to reload the gun, he fished out a bullet, felt it squirt from between his bloodied fingers, knew he was finished-then realized the bullet had gone into the cylinder. Snapping the wheel closed, he fired at the chain.

The slug passed into the center of a link, bulged its sides without breaking it. Glass shattered in a moonlit spiderweb beneath the release-bar.

He cursed, dropped to his knees, and slammed the pistol-butt into the bullet hole. The glass broke, but it was latticed with tiny steel wires, shatterproof; as the shrieks and footbeats came closer, he struck out again and again, enlarging the hole. When it seemed wide enough, he launched himself headfirst at the opening, felt a brief moment of elation as it allowed him through-

All except his right foot. His trouser cuff had caught on a tooth of glass.

He jerked his leg. Glass snapped, and his foot came forward. He stood up, panting.

A hand clamped onto his ankle, yanking with terrific force. He flailed down on his belly, the hand pulling him back toward the hole in the glass.

He was lying on the landing of a concrete stair. He threw his hands out, tossing the pistol away, fingers locking over the lip of the top step. The gun clattered down toward the parking-lot.

The yanking on his leg grew stronger. Three brutal tugs, and his knee and hip were savagely dislocated. He gasped as his good hand and his all-but limp one gave way, and he was dragged back toward the door on his chin, screaming, struggling. He managed to flop over onto his side, almost onto his back, and before he could be pulled inside, set his free foot against the doorway’s central post, delaying the inevitable for an instant. Then a hand locked onto that foot, dislodged it, and he was wrenched into the screaming darkness.

He swung his fists wildly, striking out at the shadows clustering round him. They grabbed his arms, pressed him