After the Bite (17 page)

Then a shot rang out, echoing across the fields, louder than Chris could
’ve imagined, and the boy dropped down, no longer moving, the remains of his head on Chris’s chest as though it were his own child sleeping comfortably, off in another world, as Chris hoped whatever boy this thing used to be was now.

Andrew stood there, shotgun raised, afraid to lower it. When he finally realized that the boy was no more, he offered Chris his hand.

“I didn’t think you’d come back,” Chris said.

“Maybe that
’s the kind of person your family raises, but not the Whitakers,” Andrew replied.

Both looked, then, to the chest near the well. The van had missed it, and it was still in good condition, still intact.

“Well, what now?” Andrew said.

“We need to head into town and report this to the police,” Chris replied.

“What do you mean ‘we’?”

“I don
’t like it either,” Chris said, “But this is bigger than us. A kid is dead.”

Andrew nodded, and the two headed for Chris
’s car.

Even as they entered the town, the two could tell that something was very, very wrong.
The town was small, but there was a surprising amount of people out on the streets. Some of them wandered aimlessly, and some were attacking each other. The more conscious ones seemed to be running, many of them being caught and torn apart soon afterward. Cars were wrecked along the streets, windows had been smashed, and the town hall was on fire.

“What in God
’s name is going on?” Andrew asked as the car moved at a crawl along the street.

Someone slammed against the driver
’s side window, smearing blood on it, and tried feebly to enter, seeming not to understand what glass was or why it couldn’t get through it. Its mouth opened and closed against the window, and if it hadn’t been horrifying, it would’ve been humorous.

“I don
’t know,” Chris said, “but I don’t think the police are going to help us.”

Just ahead of them, a police officer was running across the street. He turned around and fired several shots at an oncoming group of people, while still running, and tripped to the ground when he reached the curb. Within seconds, several nearby people had surrounded him, leaving no sign of him beyond a blood-curdling scream, and when they dispersed a few moments later, there was little more than a pile of gore where he had been.

“Holmes?” Andrew said.

“Yeah, Whitaker?” Chris said.

“Can we go home?”

“Yeah
. Yeah, I think that’s a good idea.”

Chris searched for a good place to turn the car around, not wanting to run into anyone (honestly, he couldn
’t tell who was sane and who was… not) and he noticed that many people (or things) were now taking particular notice of the vehicle. A few headed toward them, not swiftly, but terrifying in number.

“Now isn
’t the time for courtesy,” Andrew said. A few of the things reached the car and began to pound their fists upon it. A group congregated in front of the vehicle.

“I can
’t get through!” Chris said.

“Floor the fucker!” Andrew replied. Chris hit the gas and ran right through a group of people. He found a street and turned
in, hitting another of the things, then pulled backward, running into two more. Then he shifted gears again and headed back the way they had come, running through several of the people he had knocked down earlier.

The city and the not-people grew more and more faint in the mirrors. The things weren
’t very fast, but Andrew could swear they were following the vehicle nonetheless.

“You don
’t think they’ll follow us all the way home, do you?” he asked.

“Well, it
’s a straight shot to our houses,” Chris said, “but it’s a damn long way.”

“You think they
’d give up? Get lost, maybe?”

“I think so
.”

Soon afterward, Chris
’s car stopped in front of Andrew’s house. He killed the engine, and the two looked around, both speechless, both hoping any movement they saw was just the wind. After all, they hadn’t seen any signs of the boy’s family, other than the leg he had been carrying.

“Well,” Andrew finally said after a silence that was made of both awkwardness and fear of what might be waiting, “thanks for the ride, I s
’pose.”

“What are you going to do?” Chris asked.

“I think I’ll board up my doors and windows and wait for this thing to blow over.”

“All right,” Chris said. “I guess I should probably do the same.”

“All right, then,” Andrew said. It wasn’t quite a “good luck” or a “goodbye,” but it was the best farewell a Whitaker had given a Holmes in a long time. He got out of the car and walked up the steps to his porch, shotgun in hand, and disappeared inside the house. Chris started his car, and began driving down the road toward his own home. He spied the box on the way, still chained to the ground near the wrecked minivan and the dead boy.

Chris parked on the road in front of his house and carefully made his way to the door. It was quiet out, save for the low breeze. There were clouds in the distance, and Chris wondered if it was going to rain. He reached the front door handle, and noticed that the door was open just a crack.

His heart began racing. Had he left it open? He must have; in his haste to get out and go to town, he must have carelessly forgotten to close the door all the way.

Chris carefully pushed the door open, and it creaked the whole way, destroying any element of secrecy he might
’ve had. The lights were all off inside, but from the dim light coming through the door, he could see the bottom of his stairs and down the main hall. He couldn’t see into either of the rooms to the sides, but the light from the day illuminated his desk, specifically an old family portrait from shortly after the house had been built, one featuring relatives he’d never known except by legend, from a time now long forgotten. The picture, however, was not standing up, but had fallen backward, along with many other things from the desk, as though someone had bumped into it.

“H-hello?” Chris called into the hopefully empty house. He listened, and didn
’t hear anything except for the gently swaying door.

Chris turned on the hallway light and saw a grim scene. Leading up the stairs was a trail of bloody footprints. Someone was definitely in his house.

Chris went to the desk and retrieved a revolver, loaded it, and then headed carefully up the stairs.

“Is someone up there?” he
said. Again, he heard nothing. He carefully went up the stairs, each step giving him a better view of the upstairs hall, dim as it was, and still he saw nothing out of the ordinary: a few closed doors, another desk near the top of the stairs, and not much else.

Chris reached the top of the stairs and turned on the light. The footprints led down the hall, fading more and more with each step, finally turning to nothing midway down
it.

“I know you
’re in here!” Chris said, ready to use his weapon at any second.

A very fat man suddenly broke through the door to Chris
’s side, reaching through the hole he had created, tearing at Chris, trying to pull him closer. As Chris turned to face the man, the man’s flailing hands knocked the revolver from his, discharging it in the process (though the bullet flew off into nothing). Chris grabbed the desk to the side of the door and slid it sideways, blocking the door and the bottom half of the hole the man was reaching through.

Chris reached for the revolver, but the man threw himself against the now considerably weaker door again, breaking it down and plowing into the desk, which slid forward and into Chris. The whole tangled mess of man, desk, and monster went rolling down the stairs.

The next thing Chris new, he was gathering himself at the bottom of the stairs. The desk was on top of him, broken yet heavy enough to pin him down. The revolver was nowhere to be seen. Chris was in an immense amount of pain, not sure if anything had been broken, but hardly able to move at all.

He was only a few feet from the door, the light of the day shining on him, throwing off his vision. Chris tried to move the desk, but couldn
’t.

T
he fat man’s head suddenly emerged from the top of the desk, snapping at Chris, who swiftly avoided by moving his head to the side as far as he could. He stretched his neck and remained just out of reach of the monster’s teeth.

Chris guessed that the thing had been even more wounded than he had, for it just hung there, half of its body over the desk, its arms dangling useless and
broken at its sides like old tree limbs, still able to move its head and neck but unable to get any closer to Chris.

“Help!” Chris screamed as loudly as he could, but it was in vain. The most he could do was to lay there, head cocked to the side as far as possible (letting up even slightly moved his head too close to the monster
’s), and try to call for help, though none would come.

A few hours passed, and Chris was
growing more sore, more tired. The thing seemed to be tired as well, and eventually it fell asleep. Chris, however, was afraid to. He did allow himself to relax his neck, causing nearly unbearable pain, but dared not fall asleep. If the thing stirred, he would quickly move his head back out of reach, which caused him great pain, but when all was clear, he’d once again relax.

It was early morning when the thing woke up again and did not fall back
asleep, and it had come all too soon for Chris. His neck hurt, and he felt like giving up.

Then he heard the moans. An endless sea of groaning and shuffling of feet, growing louder and louder. The things from the town had
followed them and had not gotten lost or given up. Chris prepared for the worst.

The sounds grew closer and closer, and the very presence of others seemed to reignite the fire in the one near Chris, as it gnashed and thrashed about even more. Chris hoped the things would pass by his house, unaware of his plight and how helpless he was, but there was a considerable amount of daylight
peeking into the house, revealing him trapped beneath the desk.

But then a new sound came, one that was familiar and yet rare, one that had marked his salvation once before: the sound of a gunshot ringing across the plains. Then another. And another.

Chris could see them now, the things moving about along the road, some ignoring the shots, others turning to look, spying something interesting, and turning to head toward it. The shots grew louder, and then he could see the crowd dispersing, falling to the ground, bleeding, dying. Then he saw Andrew, shotgun in hand, furiously firing and then reloading, thinning out the crowd.

“Help!” Chris shouted. Andrew turned and seemed to see him, and worked his way toward the door.

The first thing Andrew did was shoot the fat monstrosity atop the desk. It no longer moved for Chris, its dead eyes staring into his. Finally Chris allowed his neck muscles to rest.

Andrew closed the door and began to move the desk off of Chris. As soon as his arms were free Chris helped, and soon
he was able to crawl out from under the desk.

“Thank you,” Chris said, barely able to move his neck, his arms and legs sore but not broken.

“There’s a ton of ‘em out there!” Andrew said. “I’m running low on ammo. We should head for the barn. The thing’s old, but I bet it could withstand a tornado.”

“I agree,” Chris said. He searched for his revolver and found it on one of the stairs, retrieved all of the ammo he could find
, then the two made their way toward the Holmes barn. They passed within a few yards of the well and the chest on the way, and Chris instinctively looked to make sure it was still there, that Andrew hadn’t tapped into it, but then quickly returned his thoughts to the task at hand. He did it so quickly that he didn’t really register whether or not the chest remained untouched.

The two entered the field, the tall grass preventing them from being able to see much.

“Keep close together!” Chris said.

“Gotcha,” Andrew replied.

A hand reached out of the wheat toward Chris. He fired in its direction and saw the hand drop to the ground. A few figures moved alongside the two in the field, sometimes reaching out for them, usually missing or being shot before they could connect. At one point, Andrew ran into one of the things, unable to have seen it, and nearly fell to the ground. He dropped his shotgun, and the thing attacked. Chris was able to shoot it in the chest, stopping it. It lunged again, but Chris fired again, and the thing was no more.

Andrew retrieved his gun, and the two made their way to the barn, opened the doors, and entered. From the safety of the doorway, they killed any of the remaining monsters they could see, and then closed the doors.

It was dark in the barn, but it was safe. The two looked around for anything useful.

“How many shells you got left?” Chris asked. Andrew counted.

“Seven.”

“I have about sixteen rounds
. We can’t stay here forever.”