Free Ash Wednesday by Chet Williamson, Neil Jackson Page B

though pulled back inside by an unseen hand. He began to cross the street, thinking as he did that everyone was really very foolish to be screaming and yelling, to be afraid. After all, what could the dead do? They weren't moving, were not even speaking, and as he thought this, he heard, above the cries of dogs and humans, a laugh that stopped him halfway across the street, and he wondered if it had all been a trap designed to bring a victim out among them, and if now they would begin to move, to gravitate toward him with outstretched hands and hungry, grinning mouths.
    The laugh faded and became words. "They all thought I was nuts! " Brad turned and saw Eddie Karl standing ten yards away. Eddie laughed again. "They said I was cuckoo, but they'll know now, won't they, Bradley boy?" He shuffled over to Brad and clapped him on the shoulder. " You know, don'tcha? That's why you're out here , and them other chickenshits are scootered under their beds like rats in a hole. Hell, these folks can't hurt 'em! Buncha dummies—they gotta come out sooner or later." Somewhere a woman screamed. "Jesus H.," Eddie said, scowling. " ' Nuff to wake the dead." When he realized what he'd said, his lined face cracked in a smile. "I knew they was here," he said, nodding his head. "I seen 'em all the time," and he moved on down the street, looking with satisfied eyes at each glowing figure as he passed it.
    Brad finished crossing the street. He stood next to the green bench by Western Auto, and spoke to what was half sitting, half lying there. "Hey, Rorrie." he said. "Mind if I sit down?"
    He sat.

Jim
     

". . . I wondered how far I should turn out faithful to that ideal conception of one's own personality every man sets up for himself secretly."
—Joseph Conrad, "The Secret Sharer"

CHAPTER 6
     

    When the sirens woke Jim Callendar, his first concern was for Terry. The boy hated sirens, especially in the middle of the night. "Bat- shees !" he'd called them when they went off a few nights after they'd seen Darby O'Gill on cable, and it had taken Jim a few minutes to realize that he was saying "banshees."
    Jim was sitting up in bed before he remembered that he did not have to worry about Terry crying in the night. He had not had to worry about that for a long time now. What was it, four years? Five? But still, whenever the sirens wailed he thought of going into Terry's room to stay with him until silence returned.
    He fell back in the bed and felt Beth stir beside him. "Bastards," she moaned, covering her head with the pillow. He snorted a half laugh in the dark and rolled onto his side, hoping the keening sound would soon stop and the dogs stop quickly after.
    But the sirens screamed on and the dogs kept barking. Melba, their Persian cat, began to growl from somewhere under the bed, and Beth took the pillow away from her ears.
    "Melba," she called softly. " ' S'okay , girl. Just sirens." The cat meowed shrilly and spat. "What's wrong with her?" Beth said. "Sirens don't bother her. . . . C'mon, girl." She reached down and put her hand under the dust ruffle. There was another hiss, and Beth gasped and pulled her hand up. "She scratched me!" she said in surprise. "Why, that little bitch ."
    "I'll turn the light on. Close your eyes." Jim flicked a switch and the bedside light exploded into life. He had to blink several times before opening his eyes wide enough to see the thin red parallel lines slashed across the heel of Beth's right hand. "Christ," he said. "She really let you have it. I'll get something for it."
    "It's all right, I'll go." She got up and left the room. Jim lay in the bed, wondering why the sirens didn't stop. One blast signified a fire in Merridale proper, and two a fire in Randallsville , a village three miles away. But he couldn't remember ever hearing those shrill ululations repeat over and over again as they did now.
    Beth came back into the room, holding a wet washcloth against her hand, a bottle of Bactine between her