They came for our dead Read online

  “They’ve come for our dead, sonny boy, for all our dead. I figure they’ll probably bring back the most recently dead first, through them portals. Others will follow. They’ll eventually work their way through all our tombs and graves, go back centuries and get ‘em all, every last one. They won’t leave anybody out, not from now or then or way back when or…” His voice trailed off, and then the car was quiet again.

  Left alone, with my only companions snoring in the dark, I could only stare at the heavens. If I didn’t allow myself to cast my eyes downward at the infernos on the horizon, all those cities crumbling in the distance, the sky full of stars seemed beautiful and serene. For a moment, it even seemed normal, as if it was all just some horrible dream that I might actually wake up from.

  Unfortunately, I felt the pinch I gave myself, and I was reminded that I had to do something. Out there, the world as I knew it was in chaos. I needed to find my wife and family, but death seemed to lurk in every corner, in every direction I turned.

  I restarted the engine and moved up the road slowly, keeping all the windows down so I could hear if anything approached us. My SUV crunched the gravel beneath its tires, and the running lights only gave me visibility of a few feet, and the air that wafted into the window was heavy with the smells of autumn: earth, harvested hay, and decomposing leaves. I knew creeping along slowly was a waste of precious gasoline, but I felt exposed on that small country road and was eager to get back to the expressway, preferably in one piece.

  I needed to do something to take my mind off the day’s terrible events, but it took much effort to do that while driving slowly down that dirt path in almost total darkness. Why do the dead attack the living? Can’t they see we’re their kin? Aren’t they supposed to be angels or something now, gentle souls heading to their final reward? Are they angry because they were pulled away from resting in peace? Do they fear they’ll be trapped here, or do they just despise the living? Regardless of all that, how do we even stop them? I mean, how can we kill something that is already dead? Maybe being pulled back here makes them insane…or maybe I’m the one losing my mind and none of this is real at all, I thought, wondering if I should have borrowed some of Mr. Wilson’s psychotropics.

  Slowly, the empty fields on either side of the road gave way to unharvested corn. Tall, dark, green stalks cloaked us as they formed a canopy over the road, surrounding my vehicle. I hoped I could find a bend in the road ahead, for the corn would provide us with some form of solace, so we could rest safely for a while, hidden from view in all directions, at least until morning. I was sure we would see no more vehicles there, and by daylight, I could fashion some sort of covering for the space where my door used to be.

  As I pondered what was left of my SUV and mused about how to even claim such a thing on my insurance, I was jolted back to the horrible reality again by the shadow of a dark figure darting across the road twenty or thirty feet ahead of us. I braked to a stop, my heart threatening to pound right out of my chest. If it was one of the dead, I would have to flee, to turn on my full headlights and drive as far as fast as I could, on only an eighth of a tank of gas.

  The figure stopped just beyond the reach of my lights, and I waited with one hand on the wheel and the other on the light switch. I had no idea what enhanced senses the things had, whether they were gifted with superhuman smelling or sight upon their return from the hereafter, but I decided that if the thing charged, I had to gun the engine and try to hit it while blinding it, at least temporarily, with my high-beams. I was sure that plan would work, because the one I hit before was at least stunned for a time. Instead, though, this figure just slinked away to one side and melded with the other shadows, disappearing into the cornfield on my left side.

  Wonderful, I thought. The side without a door. Now what I am supposed to do?

  I waited for a few more minutes, then eased my vehicle to the area where I’d last seen the thing. From what I recalled, the dead had no hands, only claws and bare feet. I held my breath and kept my foot on the brake, but I was ready to take off at the slightest sign of danger.

  A minute or two later, I cracked the door about an inch, until the dome light came on. I hurriedly glanced at the gravel and dirt and saw prints there. Wait, I thought with a grin. Is that… “Boots!” I cried in the next second. Whoever made those tracks was alive. And hopefully friendly.

  I eased the door closed and made sure it locked, but a voice crawled in through the missing door hole, an old, worried voice carried on the wind from somewhere within the whispering stalks. “Mister, you go on and head up another quarter-mile or so, and you’ll reach my farm. If you don’t aim to cause any harm, you’re welcome there.”

  “We sure don’t mean anybody any harm,” I said.

  “Good. Do you know what’s going on? Have you seen anything?”

  “We know a little, but I can tell you that everything’s a big mess. It’s been a bad day.” I gestured my hand to my right in the darkness. “This is my dad,” I said. I then pointed to the back seat. “I’ve got his roommate too. They were both at the VA hospital in Grand Rapids, but I took them out of there when the place was attacked. I was trying to get back home to Ann Arbor, but I’m low on gas, and… Well, the highways are not exactly a smart place to be right now.”

  “Okay,” the voice said. “Hold on.”

  Soon, the dark figure emerged from the corn, and I felt his weight as he climbed in and sat on the back seat beside Mr. Wilson. I reached up to turn on the interior light, so I could see who I was talking to, but I felt the touch of his hand on mine to stop me.

  “It’s better to keep the lights out,” he said. “I know this place like the back of my hand. I’ll guide you. Just move ahead slowly,” the voice said.

  I inched forward, doing my best to stay in the middle of the road while the walls of corn closed in around us on both sides. In a series of small moves that seemed to take forever, the labyrinth of corn eventually fell away, and we pulled into an open area and stopped.

  “Now, tell me what you saw,” he said.

  Trying my best to remain calm and quiet, I told him about all we’d seen and experienced, down to the last gory detail.

  Rather than asking questions or offering any input, the stranger remained perfectly still and silent.

  “Look, mister, do you have a gun trained on me or something?” I asked in frustration. “Like I told you, we’re almost out of gas, and we just need a place to stay overnight. We’ll move on as soon as daylight hits. The last thing I want is more trouble today. These two,” I said, again motioning to my father and Brian, “are hurt, tired, and hungry. I just don’t want to run into another of those things at night.”

  “No, I understand,” the voice behind me quickly replied. “I’m sorry. I’m just tryin’ to sort this all out in my head. It’s a lot to take in.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  “Well, to be perfectly honest, I am armed with a pistol, but it’s holstered, with the safety on. The missus and I are terrified. We saw that alien invasion on TV, and then we lost power, internet, and our phones. Our old landline works, but it only makes local calls, and there’s nobody around to pick up. We’ve tried a few friends and neighbors, but either they’ve already evacuated or they don’t know what’s going on.”

  Landline? I thought, shocked. The only person I knew who still used one of those was my neighbor, an ancient man who should have retired long ago but still cleaned the Post Office at night. One day the previous summer, I cut his lawn for him because his riding mower was in the shop. We talked afterward, and he thanked me, but during that conversation, he openly sneered at a couple of teenagers who walked by with their smartphones glued to their ears. “You’ll never see me with one of them dumbphones,” he told me. “Them things are a curse on mankind!” I learned from him that some people were just trapped in the past but comfortable with it, unwilling to move forward with the rest of the world. Now, I realized that stubborn old man might be my saving grace,
and I hoped his landline would pick up my cellphone call so he could get a message to my wife to meet me someplace.

  “Park your car in that barn,” the voice behind me said. “There’s plenty of room in there. Our house is right across the street, and my wife’s waiting for us, hopefully with some strong coffee.”

  “Waiting for us?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I know she waited up for me. She scolded me for going out, begged me to stay with her. I planned to walk to the freeway, but was going to walk to the freeway, didn’t want to drive it. Can you believe that woman followed me, with her rifle and night-vision scope?”

  “Uh…her rifle?” I asked, more than a bit concerned.

  “Yeah, we use it to kill coyotes around here so they don’t prey on our pets or animals. She’s a damn good shot too.” He smiled in the dark, so widely that I saw his white teeth. “Wait here just a minute. I’ll be right back.”

  Wonderful, I thought. If the dead and the aliens didn’t get us, Ma and Pa Kettle are gonna gun us down..

  As he came into view of my running lights, I finally got a good look at my would-be rescuer or killer. Although his back was to me, I could see he was a man of small stature, with gray hair jutting out from his baseball cap. He was dressed in worn, dirty blue jeans, boots, and a heavy, insulated coat. He walked up a ram that led to a set of wooden double-doors, then fumbled in the pocket of his coat and pulled out a key. He pulled on the doors, and they creaked open on their rusty hinges. “Bring ‘er on in!” he shouted in my direction.

  I eased my SUV up the ramp until he stopped me just inches from an old tractor. I killed the engine, climbed out, and stretched my weary legs and arms. I had been understandably tense for most of the day, and it was finally catching up to me, leaving me stiff and tired from head to toe. Not only that, but my lips were parched for lack of water, and I had missed lunch as well as dinner.

  “She oughtta be fine here,” the old farmer said. “We best get indoors, ‘fore my old lady decides to use that rifle on me for bein’ gone too long. She hightailed it back here when I got in your car, so I figure she’s been pacing the floor inside for a bit now.”

  The man had a kindly face with a long nose, and he hobbled along uneasily, as if he’d put a few too many miles on those old boots of his. Nevertheless, he made me feel protected and safe for the first time since we left the veterans’ facility, and something about the scent of wood, straw, and empty stalls gave me a little sense of normalcy.

  The old man took out a flashlight. “Dennis,” he said, sticking out his hand for me to shake.

  I grabbed his callused hand and was surprised to find that even as a smaller, older man, he had a strong grip. “I’m Peter, and I’ve already mentioned that he’s my father. The man in the back seat is Brian Wilson. Again, I’m sorry to trouble you and your wife, but if we can just stay in this barn tonight, we’ll leave at first light and…” I stopped speaking when I saw Dennis hold open the door to the barn with one hand and wave us forward with his flashlight in the other.

  “I won’t hear of you sleepin’ out here like cows. You seem like good people, and I know the missus would wanna hear all you told me, as well as anything else you mighta seen today.”

  “Okay, if you insist,” I said.

  “I do,” Dennis said with a smile.

  I woke Brian and my father up, turned off the running lights, and pocketed my keys. My dad was a bit confused about his new surroundings, and when I walked him over to Dennis, he gurgled something unintelligible but stayed as I went back to fetch Mr. Wilson. He had to lean on me for support, and he still had the Army blanket draped over him like a superhero’s cape.

  “Our place is about 100 feet back of the road,” Dennis said, pointing his flashlight and helping my father along while I steadied Brian.

  We followed them up a circular, gravel driveway, passing many pine trees along the way, their silent limbs fading into the darker skies as the flashlight forged ahead. It was hard labor to escort the pudgy Brian, so the light emanating from the windows, just beneath drawn shades, was a welcome sight. From what I could see of the house, it was an old, two-story farmhouse, with a wraparound porch. We walked up the wide front steps, toward the front door that was left slightly ajar, and Dennis and my father entered first, spilling bright light into the night. I instantly panicked, certain that it would draw the dead to us like a beacon, beckoning all the terrible, nightmarish things we’d seen. With that in mind, I hurried up the stairs with Brian, lugging his dead weight along as he breathed heavily, as if he was the one putting forth the effort to move his massive frame. I noticed a splotch of blood on the floorboards of the porch just before we stepped inside, a telltale sign that his wounds had reopened during our walk.

  The first room we entered was the kitchen. The centerpiece of it was a large, black stove, surrounded by countertops brimming with bags, boxes, and mounds of fresh vegetables. Two older yellow labs immediately ran to Dennis and my father and proceeded to sniff and move around our feet. The walls of the kitchen were festooned with old flour, sugar, and soap signs, tin and aluminum advertisements from years ago. The place felt warm and inviting, especially with candlelight glowing in several spots. Not only that, but the aroma of fresh-baked pies invaded my nostrils.

  Dennis’s wife was standing near the kitchen table. Her hair was just as gray as his, and she was a bespectacled woman in a sweater that covered her large torso. I assumed it was a homemade garment, because it was decorated with crafty Christmas trees and embellished with an embroidered name, Isabella, which I assumed to be hers. She immediately went about tending to my father, giving him water, holding his hand, and reassuring him, “You’ll be okay now, sir. We’ll take care of you.”

  A few minutes later, my father was sitting at their kitchen table, filling his mouth with a thick stew she heated up for him. Whatever it was, it smelled delicious, and my stomach growled, demanding a bowl of my own. I lost my appetite a bit, though, when I noticed a large-caliber gun lying on the countertop, equipped with an unusually enormous scope.

  Isabella formally introduced herself to us, then inspected Brian’s leg and foot, gently unwrapping his crude and bloody bandage. As she looked after him, I quietly closed every door in the room and pulled down every shade, certain that we could not afford one sliver of light to give us away to the things outside those walls. I turned around to see Brian happily devouring large mouthfuls of stew without even bothering to chew, washing them down with gallons of sweet tea, and Dennis informed me that my father was already fast asleep again, in a sleeping bag in the living room.

  I sat down in one of the eight chairs at the long, oak table while Dennis and Isabella worked together to properly bandage Mr. Wilson’s dilapidated foot. The day was catching up to me, and even as I ate the generous helping of succulent stew that Isabella laid before me, fatigue seeped into me with every bite. In the flickering candlelight, I looked around at the homey room, admiring the silverware, plates, and glasses that were really just pint jars with handles, the ordinariness of it all.

  I began to nod off, and my eyes grew heavy, but I fought the urge to lay my hands on the table. The two old dogs were sleeping on top of my feet, and the sporadic yawns of my hosts let me know they were tired as well. I knew farmers typically get up at the crack of dawn, but it had been a long day for everyone, and it was well past their normal bedtime. They were stiff and slow, careful with every step, like all elderly people, grabbing things to steady themselves as they moved about their house. They both sat down at the table with me and ate a small meal, then washed it down with some juice.

  “Tell her what you told me,” Dennis said.

  I nodded. “I’d be happy to, but can I use your landline first” I asked, thumbing through my phone to try to locate my neighbor’s number. “I’d like to call a guy who lives near my wife in Ann Arbor, see if I can get a message through to her.”

  Isabella smiled. “Of course,” she said, then pointed to a phone across the room,
hiding under some newspapers and unopened mail.

  When I stood to fetch the phone, one of the labs got up with me and padded alongside me, placing her snout in my hand so I had to play or pet her. I looked into her old eyes and patted her head with one hand while I picked up the receiver with the other. For the first time since the invasion off the saucers, I felt calm and happy, from the warmth of the dog’s unconditional love and the soothing sound of a normal dial tone in my ear. Now, if I can just hear my wife’s voice or at least know that she’s still alive and well, I can rest and stop worrying about her.

  After I dialed the number, the phone rang and rang and rang some more, but no one answered it. I left a message on the old-fashioned answering machine with Dennis and Isabella’s number, which I spied on the handset in faded blue ink: “Please check on my wife and call me back at this number to let me know she’s okay,” I begged.

  Feeling a bit defeated and even more worried than before, I walked back to the table and sat down. The dog curled up at my feet, as if to console me, moving her golden body close as if to share her heat with me.

  “No answer, huh?” Dennis asked.

  “Nope, but thank you for letting me try. At least it rang. I left a message for someone to call me back here. If I remember right, landline phones are on a different power system, so maybe it’ll work.”

  “What do you think is going on? Dennis said one of them flying saucers practically landed on top of you,” Isabella said, her face etched with concern and fatigue, her eyes full of fear behind the small, round glasses, a wrinkled face framed by gray curls.