The Hungry Dead Read Free Page B

Six ravenous adult zombies were hovering over the partially devoured remains of a human corpse, and as soon as they saw Jeff, they got to their feet and came at him. He fired his revolver twice, scoring two head shots and a wild miss. But when he pulled the trigger again he got only a click .
    Still clutching the empty revolver, he took off running.
    The zombies came after him.
    He ran toward a small pond and frantically splashed his way in, deeper and deeper. In chest-high water, his hat gone and the rest of his uniform totally soaked, he turned and faced the pursuing zombies. Crazed with fear, he yelled at them, “You damn things! You’re scared of fire—but how about water? I hope you’re scared of water too, you ugly bastards!”
    Two of the female zombies hung back, at least temporarily, which gave the lawman hope. But four others kept coming mindlessly forward as if the water made no impression on them. Two big males uncaringly, unfeelingly, slipped under the ripples, seemingly to drown—if zombies could drown. And maybe they could, because in short order there were bubbles gurgling around them, and then the dead things floated like driftwood on the pond’s surface.
    But two female zombies kept after Jeff and waded deeper into the water. He clubbed the first one in the head with the butt of his revolver, and then kept on clubbing her again and again till she stopped struggling and floated on the surface like the two others.
    When the last remaining zombie lunged at him, Jeff managed to seize her by the throat. Pushing her head under the water, he choked her as hard as he could, terror written all over his face as he yelled at the top of his lungs. “ Die, you bitch! Die! Die! Die! Die!”
    But her evil, twisted face rose up toward him, and with all his strength, he tried to push her back underwater. Then, even though she was being choked, she somehow started talking to him, and he thought he must be going crazy.
    â€œ Jeff . . . stop . . . you’re hurting me . . .”
    He choked her harder, trying to make her last rotten breath bubble out of her.
    â€œ Please . . . Jeff . . . you’re hurting me . . .”
    Suddenly, shimmering, he saw the face of his wife. It wavered like the ripples of the water, then it became clear.
    It was Amy, and he was choking her in their bed.
    Scared of what he had done, he let go of her, and she fell back, crying and holding her throat.
    He covered his own face with his hands, his fingers still tight and sore with the effort of the choking. “Oh, god,” he lamented. “Amy . . . I’m so sorry . . . I’m so sorry . . .”
    This was not the first time such a thing had happened. It was sixteen years now since the day that Dr. Melrose had been bitten in the cemetery. Jeff’s hair was gray now, his face lined and much older looking. He was only forty-one, but he was under the strain of posttraumatic stress disorder. He shook his head dolefully, his hands still covering his face in remorse.
    Amy’s voice was hoarse from the damage he had done to her with his fingers, and she was overcome with sadness, a sadness tinged with ruefulness because she still loved him. “You say you can’t help it, Jeff. But I’ve stuck with you all this time, through all the counseling, all the rehab and the expensive medication . . .”
    â€œI know . . . I know . . . and I’m sorry, Amy. I understand what you’ve been through. I understand that it’s my fault.”
    â€œBut you’re still flipping out on me, and I have no clue where or when it’s liable to happen. I have no idea what sets you off.”
    â€œI didn’t start having flashbacks until three years ago. And lately it’s been coming over me less often. I’ve been having fewer and fewer nightmares.”
    â€œYes, but it only takes one, like the one you just had, that might kill me. How do I know that next time, or the next, I