Banshee Screams Read online

  Peck asked, "So, Glenda Womble killed all these people?"

  "No," Debbi said in exasperation. "I'm not sure you're grasping the essential fact here." She took a step toward the two Councilmen. "Mr. Womble, Reverend Galloway and all the others were killed by assailants who were already dead. Animated corpses who came from the town cemeteries. Zombies."

  Atkinson crossed his legs and studiously rested his chin in his hand. Peck nodded without comprehension. Their eyes flicked to the curtain in response to another low, guttural rattle.

  Throwing up her hands, Debbi told Ross, "I don't think they're getting it."

  "Doc!" Ross called out.

  Doc Dazy gathered himself from a chair in the far corner of the room. He wore a surgical gown that had been white once, but was now streaked with greasy, gray stains and flecks of matter. He possessed the same smile he had held since they arrived. He grabbed the curtain with just a tad too much relish.

  "Gentlemen!" he announced like a circus ringmaster. "I'd like to show you the strangest patient I have ever had!"

  He walked the curtain noisily aside to reveal the operating table. A naked man lay upon it, restrained at the wrists and ankles. The figure writhed and clenched its limbs, straining against the thick, leather straps. It made wet, gurgling sounds as it fought.

  "Dear Lord!" Atkinson exclaimed, half rising from his seat in horror. "What is wrong with that man?"

  The man on the table raised its head. Most of the skin was gone from its face, revealing partially decayed musculature beneath. The tendons of its neck were visible, stretched taut with effort. Its eyes were white, round orbs twisting in their sockets. It gnashed its broken teeth.

  "This man is dead." Doc Dazy leaned casually on the operating table.

  Both Debbi and Ross placed their hands on their firearms.

  "What do you mean?" Atkinson asked. "He's not dead! He's in agony! Can't you help him, Doctor?"

  Dazy gave a solemn nod. He held up a finger, signaling for Atkinson to wait a moment. Then he reached for a scalpel in a steel tray that rested on a nearby stool. He studied the dead man's torso, tapping it with his fingers. He then plunged the scalpel into the man's chest and deftly slid it down through the abdomen to the groin as if he were slicing a pie for Sunday supper. Thin, colorless liquid dribbled out of the long gash. The zombie increased its thrashing and gurgling.

  Atkinson gasped and jumped to his feet. Even Peck flinched.

  "Good God!" Atkinson shouted. "What are you doing? Stop it!"

  The Doctor removed the blade from the incision and held it up. He smiled again. Then he sliced the body across the stomach. Then, while humming, he proceeded to poke the scalpel randomly and repeatedly into the wriggling body.

  Atkinson pointed at the Doctor. "Ranger! Stop him! He's killing that man!"

  "Relax, Mr. Atkinson," Debbi said. She hoped she didn't look pale, but she felt as if she was about to faint. "That man is already dead. He was dead before the Doctor touched him."

  "He's still moving!"

  "Lester! Listen to me!" Doc Dazy said in a loud, firm voice. He placed his hand flat against the writhing zombie's chest. "This man died, I would say, eight months ago. The Rangers captured him outside the cemetery earlier today and brought him here at my request. Do you understand?"

  Atkinson's face clouded with confusion. Peck's eyes swept thoughtfully to the floor.

  Dazy grinned maliciously. "Lester, if you or Randolph have weak stomachs, you might want to look away."

  He took the scalpel and set to work in earnest on the patient. He cut deeply into the chest and sternum. He peeled away the flesh and muscle and clamped it back. As the thing continued to thrash, the Doctor took a bone saw and began to cut through the ribs. He muttered to himself, as a man would while working on uncooperative plumbing or some household fixture.

  Debbi looked at the floor, trying not to hear the grinding sound. Ross stood watching impassively. Atkinson turned in his chair, refusing to watch. Peck was blank again.

  After a few minutes, the Doctor tossed the bone saw into the metal tray with a loud clang. His hands were not bloody; they were caked with a dark sludge. He wrapped his fingers around something inside the patient's chest and tugged hard. He came away with sections of two ribs. He threw them clattering to the floor.

  He retrieved the scalpel and buried his hands in the open chest cavity.

  Soon he pulled out a misshapen glob of flesh.

  "Gentlemen, this is the patient's heart." The Doctor held up the gray blob in his left hand. "And, you will note, despite the fact he is without it, he seems quite fine."

  The man still struggled against the bindings. Dark liquid splashed out of its open chest as it thrashed from side to side.

  "For this, I have no explanation," Doc Dazy said, more to Ross. He tossed the heart up and down in his hand like a baseball. "I don't see any physiological reason for it. I've studied the fluids from the bodies and I haven't isolated any unique or peculiar microorganisms. Yet, here it is. It could be the result of a Skinny, but there's no evidence of such a being in the area."

  Ross flexed his hand that now sported a clean, plastiskin bandage replacing the bloody, white gauze. "It's no Skinny. We'd have been attacked shortly after the dead rose if it was. So it's gotta be some kinda...virus or something."

  The Doctor thought for a second. "I see no evidence of it. A number of people have suffered bites or cuts from these things. But, as of yet, they haven't contracted anything other than the odd staph infection. But time will tell. After all, these are dead bodies and, as such, they are germ factories. We really should be wearing masks."

  Ross shot an irate glare at the Doctor. Debbi took an unconscious step back. Atkinson covered his mouth with his hand. Peck stared straight ahead practically stuporous.

  "But it's too late for that, I guess." Doc Dazy laughed and dropped the heart back into the dead man's chest. "I have the bodies of the people killed by these things in isolation to see if they, you know ." He placed his two folded hands next to his head as if asleep, then widened his eyes comically. "Wake up! But like I said, I haven't been able to isolate any bacteria or virus in the undead that might be responsible for their condition. So I can't see how it could be infectious; in the traditional sense of the word, anyway." He wiped his hands on his filthy gown.

  Ross said to the Councilmen, "The good news is that the town is safe. Relatively speaking. We've disposed of all the zombies inside the walls and we're working on getting a cordon around the main cemetery. A day or two and you won't know there are any walking dead around here."

  "That is good news," Atkinson muttered. He was now doubled over, his head in his hands. Peck stared into the darkness. Behind them, the door burst open and Donald Fairchild strode in.

  "All right! I'm here!" he boomed. "Now, let's get this straight! The law says Ross has emergency powers for forty-eight hours before the Council has to vote on it. I don't see any reason why we should ." His eyes flew wide and he came to an abrupt halt in the room. "What in the hell is going on in here?" His hand went to the gun on his hip.

  Instinctively, Debbi drew her weapon.

  Fairchild froze and glared at Debbi. "What is this? What are you up to?"

  Ross moved out of the shadows. Debbi lowered her gun, but kept it in hand.

  "Relax, Fairchild." Ross's jaw was set tight in anger.

  "What's this all about?" Fairchild narrowed his gaze at Ross and flexed the fingers of his gun hand.

  "Sit down and you'll find out."

  Debbi watched the two men separate like fierce animals treading the edge of a rival's territory. She took a quiet breath and put her gun away.

  Doc Dazy waited, tapping the blade of the scalpel idly on the undead patient's arm. "Anyway, I'm through. I just don't know what to tell you, Ross. Except maybe, see you in church this Sunday."

  Fairchild craned his neck to look at the thing on the table. "It looks like he's a zombie."

  Debbi and Ross exchanged
looks before staring at the mine owner.

  "What do you know about it?" Ross asked.

  Fairchild flashed a superior smile. "Hell, I've seen one of those things. Couple of years ago at one of my mines. Guy was killed in a cave-in. We dragged him out and my medic examined him. He was dead as a doornail. That night, though, he got up and killed a couple of my people before my guards got him. That's what this emergency was all about? Just kill him again. You might have to shoot him twenty or thirty times, but you can do it. I'm going to bed."

  "Hold up," Ross said. "How many of these things have you seen?"

  "Just the one," Fairchild replied. "I've been around, Ross. Seen a lot of strange things that most men can't even conceive of. So I guess I can understand why you Rangers are so panicked by it." He hooked a thumb in his gun belt, not bothering to hide his sardonic smile, and pointed at the thrashing patient. "He probably got some ghost rock fumes in him when he died. That's what my medic figured happened at my mine. Queer stuff that ghost rock. You want me to kill that thing for you?"

  "C'mere." Ross snarled and crooked a finger at Fairchild.

  Debbi accompanied the mine owner as he followed Ross across the operating room. Ross stopped at the far wall, which was curtained. He held an oil lamp in one hand. When Fairchild gave Ross a sarcastic glance, Ross pulled back the curtain and held up the lamp.

  In the dark featureless room beyond a pane of heavy glass were five cadavers. Two men and three women in various stages of deterioration stalked from one side of the room to the other. Some of them were relatively well-preserved, only discolored or swollen, their skin slipping. Others were badly decayed, with bones showing through their rancid, torn flesh.

  They all turned when the curtain was drawn back and approached the light in the window. The sounds of their open hands slamming against the window were accompanied by soft squishing noises and the clicking of white bone on glass.

  Ross said, "Here, have at it."

  He was many miles away from the cemetery by now. He had been walking for more than two days at a grueling pace, night and day. He needed no sleep and no food. He pushed across the rolling desert sand and into the darker, rockier soil of the mountain foothills to the north. He wasn't sure where he was going yet, but he knew how to get there.

  He encountered few people as he trudged across the countryside. Bands of anouks rode past, warring and herding. He avoided them. A human caravan passed, but he hid until it was out of sight. Voices in his head urged him to attack and kill. But there were too many of them. Enemies were numerous.

  Friends were few. A different voice urged him to keep walking. It told him there was a place he could go to set things right.

  Finally after four days of constant walking, he saw the house. It was large and sprawling, like old mansions he remembered on Earth. It sat on top of a hill. A high fence topped with razor wire surrounded the spacious, but dismal grounds.

  He stopped at the main gate. It was locked with heavy chains. He straightened his uniform. At least they'd had the decency to bury him with honors, even if they hadn't treated him that way.

  He reached up and seized a long rope that hung outside the gate. When he pulled it, a heavy bell rang with a deep, throaty peel. He remembered the sound from when he was brought here years before. They had thought he was medicated beyond his senses, but he remembered the helplessness of his arms bound about his waist. His eyes had been covered and his mouth had been tied shut.

  A few inmates responded to the sound of the bell. They appeared around the corners of the mansion, heads bobbing as they peered at the gate. Some hesitantly wandered toward him, curious about any visitor.

  The front door opened and a familiar figure appeared. He was tall and gaunt, pale and dark-eyed. He was dressed in black and white and red. His long legs were clad in black pants, but his shirt was white, as was his heavy apron stained with red. He removed the apron and handed it to a nearby inmate. Then he took a crisp, white lab coat from another inmate and slid it on. He brushed the sleeves of the coat as he came down the front steps and began walking to the gate. The inmates crowded him, seeking attention, or cowering behind him as he swept through them with his easy, lanky stride.

  Soon his smiling face appeared through the gate. For an instant, the smiling visage seemed to change. He was still tall and gaunt, but suddenly bald with long desert robes covering a familiar uniform.

  "Ah, General Quantrill," the man said as he was suddenly the image of a kindly doctor again. "What a delight to see you again. I was hoping you would come back." He pulled a large ring of keys from his belt and began to unlock the gate.

  The General closed his eyes. He felt as if he was home.

  Chapter 13

  Debbi entered Miss Etta's dining room. She was exhausted from another long day patrolling for the undead. The zombies were still stalking around outside town and were particularly bold in their attacks on the Depot. Many caravaneers had responded to the unnatural threat by packing up and moving out. The word was already spreading that Temptation was a dangerous place to stop.

  Debbi hoped to grab some food and catch a few hours of sleep before returning to duty. Sleep had become a precious commodity recently due to the burdens of the job, but also because of recurrent bad dreams and prodding cat paws.

  Debbi entered the dining room with her gun belt draped over her shoulder. She smiled to see a plate of bread and a bowl of soup laid out on the candlelit table.

  And Hickok was eating it.

  Debbi stopped and stared. Hickok had a mouthful of bread and was hunched hungrily over the soup. She looked up and waved her spoon-filled hand.

  Debbi's hand flashed to her weapon. "What the hell are you doing here?"

  "Language!" Miss Etta reprimanded as she trundled into the dining room from the kitchen. "This isn't a whorehouse." She carried a tray with more bread and soup, which she set on the table for Debbi across from Hickok. "Your friend stopped by to see you."

  "Would you like more soup, dear?" Miss Etta patted Hickok's shoulder, raising a small cloud from the pilot's jacket. The older woman noted the dust with silent dismay.

  Hickok picked up the bowl, drained it, and held it out. "Yeah. If you got any more."

  Debbi looked from Hickok to Miss Etta as the landlady gave a wan smile and departed. She slammed her heavy gun belt on the table. Scraping back a chair, she sat down. She glared at Hickok who peeled crust off a piece of bread and popped it in her mouth.

  Debbi asked, "What are you doing here?"

  "Came to see you." Hickok looked around at the flowered wallpaper and polished silver tea set on the sideboard. "This is sweet. You really lucked into it."

  "What do you want?" Debbi tapped her fingers on her pistol butt.

  Miss Etta returned with a soup refill. Hickok plunged bread into it and ate. Then she looked up at Miss Etta and mumbled, "This is great. Thanks."

  "Glad you're enjoying it. And you could use it; you're a rail. How about a glass of milk?"

  "Milk? You don't mean real milk?"

  "Real milk."

  "From a cow milk?"

  "Yes, dear." Miss Etta laughed. Then she eyed Debbi and her smile disappeared. "No guns on the table, please."

  Debbi said, "Oh, I'm just showing my friend here something."

  Miss Etta pursed her lips disapprovingly, not fooled for a second, and returned to the kitchen.

  Debbi whispered, "I'm warning you, Hickok. Don't bring her into anything between us. Or else."

  Hickok looked genuinely surprised. "What are you, crazy? I'd like to marry her!" She gestured at Debbi's food with a piece of bread. "Eat. It's gonna get cold. And it's great."

  Debbi continued to stare at the pilot.

  "Look," Hickok said, not bothering to cover her exasperated sigh. She reluctantly lowered her spoon. "I don't blame you for busting my chops the other day."

  "Thanks," Debbi replied sarcastically.

  Hickok took a nervous breath and looked uncomfortable. She quickly
recovered her surface composure when Miss Etta returned with the milk. She gave the landlady a quick grin, grabbed the glass, and took a giant swallow. Her eyes widened with disbelief; it was real milk. She pulled the glass away from her mouth with a satisfied breath and a white moustache.

  Hickok ate like a starving child. Debbi actually felt a pang of sympathy. It didn't last long, but it was enough to bring her attention to her own food. She took a spoonful of soup with her free hand and glanced away as the pilot greedily drained the glass.

  Hickok dragged her sleeve across her mouth. "I didn't sell you out to the Reapers. I got caught in a trick and had to deal some information to get out alive. I know the Reapers are interested in those black guns.

  They don't like weird new weapons showing up; makes 'em nervous. I knew you have some and I jumped the only way I could. You don't have to believe me, but that's how it was. Anyhow, I've got information to deal you. In return for which, you lay off my ship."

  Debbi was taken aback. She hadn't even thought of trying to seize Hickok's ship.

  Hickok saw it in the Ranger's face. "You weren't going after my ship?"

  "No. I said what I had to say to you. And next time you crossed me I was going to drop you." Debbi saw the confusion in Hickok. The pilot lived in a world where you took every advantage you had. Failure to do so was a sign of weakness. And weakness was death in Hickok's world.

  Debbi felt the smooth grip of her sidearm under her right hand and the pattern of the silverware spoon between the fingers of her left. Her world and Hickok's were not so different.

  "Why didn't you come see me instead of leaving a note?"

  Hickok shrugged. She ran a nervous hand through her straight black hair.

  Debbi asked, "Were you hoping the Reapers would kill me?"

  "No," Hickok said quickly. "I told you, I didn't do it for profit. I was protecting my ship from that Reaper scum. I'm sure that doesn't sound like a good enough reason to you, but it's all I have. It's all I have. When I got back here, I thought a note would do it. I figured you could handle a scav like Borneo here on your own turf. Is that stinking blackliner dead?"