The Dead

Object lesson, he thought. The revolution defending itself.

“That one on the throne,” Max said, lowering his binoculars, “That’s Legion.”

Gary looked at Max. There were now so many torches assembled on shore that a faint ruddy glow was playing over his brother’s face; Max’s eyes were wide and dispirited, almost hopeless.

“Maybe he was lying,” Gary said.

“When he let me go?” Max asked.

“You said he’s a demon.”

Max nodded.

“Why should you believe him?”

“If you’d heard him,” Max said, “you would’ve.”

“So what are you going to do? Curl up in a ball and die? Or spit in God’s face like me and Steve?”

Max shook his head. “I’m going to pray. And see if I can’t get Father Chuck to confess me.”

“He hasn’t said a word in a day and a half,” Gary answered. “He’s gone off the deep end, if you ask me. But if you’re sure Legion’s going to get you, why bother?”

“Maybe I’m not sure. Maybe I don’t know what I think about anything anymore. But I’m scared, Gary. And I’ll grasp at any straw. Even if it’s old Father Chuck there. He’s got the power. I don’t. I don’t have the will. I don’t have the faith.” He paused. “I should’ve gone back for MacAleer. I should’ve forced myself. But if I could do it all over again, it would be harder now. Now that I’ve talked to Legion. I’m so scared, Gary.”

“I hate to interrupt all this soul-searching,” Steve said, coming through the weeds. “But what exactly do you think they’re doing over there?”

“I don’t know,” Max answered.

“Maybe they’ll just finish their ceremony or whatever it is and leave,” Gary said.

“Maybe,” Max said.

The night wore on. The tide crawled farther out, revealing the clamshell flats. The corpses never stirred.

A hint of dawn appeared above the bungalow roofs in the east, spread across the sky. Still the dead, several thousand at least, didn’t move. The wind died, and their torch flames licked straight upward in the chill calm.

Gary and Max and the rest crawled over to the cabin cruiser. There was a large gash in the hull; the boat had struck something, a piling perhaps, as it surged from the water. They entered through the opening, coming up in the main sleeping-compartment.

As the light grew, they could see dark stains and spatters everywhere, bullet holes in the bulkheads, slash- marks in the cushions.

“Must’ve been some massacre in here,” Max said. “Looks like the victims put up one stiff fight, though.”

In any case, the boat was a good vantage from which to watch the army across the flats; blankets and a gas stove in the galley provided welcome warmth.

Looking out on the bay side, Gary noticed that the flats extended at least a quarter-mile, where a line of exposed pilings marked the border of the main channel. Not knowing how deep the water was beyond the markers, he asked:

“You think we might be able to walk across?”

“Not in the daylight,” Max said.

“Also,” Steve said. “Those flats drop straight off. The channel’s deep, and it’s a mile across. Goes all the way to the other shore. Sometimes you get sandbars forming up against the flats, but even then you could only walk along them a few hundred yards or so. At best.”

“So then we swim,” Gary said.

“I don’t know how,” Camille answered.

“I couldn’t hack it either,” Steve said. “Not with my shoulder like this.”

“We could pull you,” Gary suggested. “Use life-vests.”

The idea seemed worth a try, but a quick search of the cabin, and a look onto the rear deck, revealed no life jackets.

“Fucking assholes,” Max said. “Going out without preservers.”

Steve laughed. “Coast Guard should’ve thrown the book at ‘em.”

The sun rose, wan and diseased. The sky was a weird yellow-brown, with clouds twisted into tortured shapes scudding across.

Gary stationed himself at a window on the port side, looking out through the curtains. The dead had extinguished their torches; now a great gap opened in their ranks, and a mass of captives was herded out onto the flats.

“Something’s happening,” he said. “They’re driving prisoners out there…”

Max looked out beside him, adjusting his binoculars.

As the glasses focused, he saw that the captives, hundreds of them, were living people, being prodded forward by corpses with long sharpened poles. Bent nearly double, the people staggered under the weight of flat concrete blocks wired to their backs. Faces bloodied, some were missing eyes or noses, and their clothes were stained and tattered as if they’d been sliced repeatedly with knives. Many fell as they were driven out, but were prodded immediately to their feet. Those unable to rise had their legs tied together with barbed wire, and were left where they dropped.

“Max,” Gary said, “We’d better get moving.”

“Where?”

“Out across the mudflat, try and swim for it.”

“And leave Steve and Aunt Camille? If the corpses are headed here, they’ll spot us anyway. But I don’t think they’ll come this far.”

“That’s what you said back in the boatshop.”

“Just look.”

One after another, the prisoners were being forced down, their legs tied. None of the dead drew closer to the island than fifty yards, where a channel ran between the shell-flat and the weedy bank.

“Tide’ll return in about an hour,” Max said.

“They’re going to drown them?”

“Good slow way to kill a lot of people at once. Guess they were tired of just torturing them. Or maybe they need more recruits.”

More captives were herded out. A steadily rising chorus of moans and shrieks reached the cruiser.

The process was repeated again and again. Before long there were several thousand prisoners lying on the flat, pinned down by the weight of the cinderblocks, unable to move their limbs.

And then the tide began to creep back in.

The water rose in the channel between the island and the flats, soon lapping over the bank. It crawled in rivulets among the bone-white shells. It formed small puddles, then pools, then shallow lakes, spreading inexorably toward the doomed wretches screaming and groaning and pleading on the shell-encrusted mud… Driving their spears into a hand here, a leg there, the corpses retreated slowly toward the beach.

“I’m not going to watch,” Gary said, sinking back from the window.

That leaves you, Max told himself. Someone had to watch, he knew. There was always the chance that the dead might take an interest in the island, stride over their victims and investigate the boat. It might come down to trying to swim for it after all-in the daylight.

But where would that leave Camille and Steve? Would they have to be left behind, to fend for themselves? Like MacAleer?

Max flinched at the thought. He’d learned his lesson back in the sewer, even if there was no way of knowing whether he’d learned it soon enough. Would he have the nerve to stay behind this time? Would the grace be there?

He imagined a giant hand, turning over and over above a sea of flames, small figures clambering desperately