The Dead

from finger to finger, trying to hold on, dropping one by one into the fire, into perdition…

The hand of God, he thought.

“No,” he breathed, refusing to believe it.

He’s just dangling you above the fire, playing with you, dragging it out till it bores him, just like Dennis said…

The people on the flat howled and cursed, the puddles were lapping at them now. Water soaked up through tattered clothes, darkening fabric, gluing it to shivering limbs. Mangled faces lifted from the shell-littered mud, spitting, mouths working, calling out in a yapping babel of voices.

And there will be a wailing and a gnashing of teeth…

But another multitude of voices arose; shrilling cries of triumph and sadistic delight, the dead drowned out the living. Max trained his glasses on Legion. The giant had risen on his throne, and had both arms raised, joining in the exultation.

The hideous clamor went on and on as the tide washed in. Small waves were already splashing the victims, who were trying desperately to keep their mouths, then their noses, above the surface; bit by bit the waters smothered them, swallowed them. Drowning heads whipped frantically back and forth, then went still. Trickling bubbles and masses of floating hair marked the places where captives had succumbed.

Finally the struggles ceased. And with that the dead fell silent, standing rigidly on the shore, staring westward.

Legion lowered his arms and sank back onto his throne, jaw hanging open, dark bursts of what Max thought might be flies puffing like smoke from his mouth. Scalp creeping, Max remembered, for perhaps the hundredth time, the demon’s words:

Next time, you’re mine.

Chapter 22: Out of Sight

Throughout the morning and much of the afternoon the dead maintained their silent vigil, staring westward, Legion presiding from his throne. The tide almost submerged the island. Wavelets slapped the cabin cruiser’s stern.

A sickly-looking sea gull entered the hole in the hull. It showed no fear of people, and the group took pity on it. Shortly, though, it began to vomit up a horrible-smelling orange fluid, all the while whipping its neck spastically about; Gary pushed it back out of the cabin with his foot. Listing to one side as though it was filling up with water, it drifted away.

The tide receded, revealing the drowned bodies on the flat. With that the living dead, having received another group of victims, began leading them out, forcing them down and binding their legs. By the time the tide began to rise once more, the shell flat was almost completely covered with bodies. Max guessed that at least three thousand had already been drowned, with as many again awaiting their turn.

“We’re going to be here a good long while,” he said.

“Just what I was thinking,” Gary said. “That’s if they’re going to stick around until all of them wake up. Which should be about a day and a half, even if they don’t bring out any more victims.”

“You know,” Steve said, “it’ll be dark by the time the tide goes out again. Why don’t we cross to the flats, skirt round the ones onshore, and get back onto the peninsula? They wouldn’t see us.”

“I don’t know about that,” Max answered. “Not with them lined up that way. The flats drop off north and south. We’d have to come pretty damn close to those bastards. Unless we wanted to do some swimming. And that’s out.”

“This sucks,” Steve said.

“You just noticed?” Max asked, and set about making his black-powder bombs.

The sun sank toward the horizon, the eastern sky darkening to a brownish bruise-purple even before the ravaged disc set. When at last the sun disappeared, night came down like a blow, the sunset blackening like old blood. The living dead kindled their torches once more.

With Gary and Steve on watch, the others ate a cheerless meal. Gas flames from the stove lit their faces a chill faint blue. No one spoke.

After he finished, Max felt a touch on his sleeve, and turned. It was Father Chuck. Always thin, the priest now looked quite haggard, cheeks sunken, eyes dark-rimmed. Yet there was a strange light in those eyes, which had been dull and vacant for the last two days.

“Father?” Max asked.

“You were right all along,” Father Chuck said softly. “But I suppose you know that.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Satisfied?”

“Because I was right? God, I wish I wasn’t. I wish it was all a bad dream, that justice was an empty word. I used to gloat about the idea of Hell, Father. I used to think of everyone I hated roasting in the pit. All the monsters I read about in the history books. I never thought I might have to keep them company.” Max smiled grimly. “What’s that Billy Joel line?- ‘I’d rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints?’ I can just see me and Billy Joel and Stalin, laughing like hyenas. Forever.”

The priest laughed weakly.” The wrath of God,” he said. “Dies irae, dies illa…”

“Solvet Saeclum in Favilla,” Max continued. “I wouldn’t have thought you were the type for medieval plainsong.”

“I’m not. But that one always stuck in my head. They used it in Becket, remember? The part where Burton excommunicates the baron?”

“Great scene,” Max said.

“It always terrified me. I always hated that whole aspect of the Church. The fear, the superstition. I loved the beatitudes, Jesus battling to perfect society. There was so much I didn’t want to see. That I didn’t want to believe.” Father Chuck paused. “You’re quite a scholar, aren’t you, Max?”

“Doesn’t seem to have carried much weight with God, Father.”

“But you do know your theology, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me then. Can a wicked man still administer the sacraments?”

“According to the Church, yes.”

“That’s what I thought. But it doesn’t seem just somehow…”

“Never did to me either.”

Father Chuck seemed to withdraw back into himself. Max thought perhaps he’d offended him. Then the priest asked: “Do you know what I’m supposed to say during confession? It’s been so long since I’ve done one.”

“I can walk you through it.”

“Will you let me confess you?”

“Oh yes, Father,” Max answered.

“Can you forgive me, Max?”

Max nodded, brushing away a tear.

“Very touching,” Steve said, up by the window. He’d been listening all along. “I love the thought of you two forgiving each other. Especially you, Max. As much as I hate your point of view, I never thought you’d get all teary at the idea of being absolved by that wimp.”

Max looked at him. “Did someone ask for your opinion?”

“You really can’t complain. You’re always telling people how they should think.”

“Trying to convert me?” Max asked.

“Convert you, rattle your cage, what’s the difference?”

“Do you actually have something to convert me to?”

“Sure I do. I’ve got my own philosophy. Maybe it’s not as systematic as yours, but I actually live it. Which is more than you can say for most people.”