The Ultimate Undead Read online

  Mr. Deakin said nothing; Clancy didn’t seem to want him to.

  The sun began to rise in a pool of molten orange. Mr. Deakin dutifully went back to Clancy Tucker, who had slept up against a wagon wheel. Mr. Deakin’s head throbbed, but he had not gotten himself so drunk in the saloon that he forgot his obligations, bizarre though they might be.

  He and Clancy set to work on the dewy grass with their shovels, digging out the loosened earth they had piled into graves only the night before.

  Mr. Deakin looked toward town, sensing rather than hearing the group of people moving toward them. Clancy didn’t notice, but Mr. Deakin halted, propped the shovel into the dirt where it rested against the coffin lid. Clancy unearthed the top of the second coffin, and then stopped as the group approached. He went over to stand by the wagon.

  The people carried sticks and farm implements, marching along with their faces screwed up and squinting as they stared into the rising sun. They swaggered as if they had just been talked into a fit of righteous anger.

  At the front of the group strode a tall man dressed in a black frock coat and a stiff-brimmed black hat. Mr. Deakin realized that this must be the Presbyterian circuit rider, just in time to stir up trouble.

  “We come to take action against two blasphemers!” the circuit rider said.

  “Amen!” the people answered.

  The preacher had a deep-throated voice, as if every word he uttered was too heavy with import to be spoken in a normal voice. He stepped close, and the sunlight shone full on his face. His weathered features were stretched over a frame of bone, as if he had seen too many cycles of abundance and famine.

  The bushy-browed storekeeper stood beside him. “We ain’t letting you dig up graves in our town.”

  “Grave robbers!” the circuit rider spat. “How dare you disturb those buried here? You’ll roast in Hell.”

  “Amen!” the chorus said again.

  Mr. Deakin made no move with his shovel, looking at the group and feeling cold. He had already lost everything he had, and he didn’t care about Clancy Tucker’s craziness—not enough to get lynched for it.

  Clancy stood beside the wagon, holding Mr. Deakin’s shotgun in his hands and pointing it toward the mob. “This here gun is loaded with bird-shot. It’s bound to hit most everybody with flying lead pellets. Might even kill someone. Whoever wants to keep me from my own parents, just take a step forward. I’ve got my finger right on the trigger.” He paused for just a moment. “Mr. Deakin, would you kindly finish the last bit of digging?”

  Mr. Deakin took the shovel and went to work, moving slowly, and watched Clancy Tucker’s bulging eyes. Sweat streamed down Clancy’s forehead, and his hands shook as he pointed the shotgun.

  “I’m done, Clancy,” Mr. Deakin said, just loud enough for the other man to hear him.

  Clancy tilted the shotgun up and discharged the first barrel with a sound like a cannon. Morning birds in the outlying fields burst into the air, squawking. Clancy lowered the gun toward the mob again. “Git!”

  The circuit rider looked as if he wanted to bluster some more, but the townspeople of Compromise turned to run. Not wanting to be left behind, the circuit rider turned around, his black frock coat flapping. His hat flew off as he ran, drifted in the air, then fell to the muck.

  Clancy Tucker shivered on the seat of the wagon, pulling a blanket around himself. He had cradled the empty shotgun for a long time as Mr. Deakin led the wagon around the town of Compromise, bumping over rough fields.

  “I would’ve shot him,” Clancy said. His teeth chattered together. “I really meant it. I was going to kill them! Thou shalt not kill!’ I’ve never had thoughts like that before!”

  Mr. Deakin made Clancy take a nap for a few hours, but the other man seemed just as disturbed after he awoke. “How am I going to live with this? I meant to kill another man! I had the gun in my hand. If I had tilted the barrel down just a bit I could have popped that circuit rider’s head like a muskmelon.”

  “It was only bird-shot, Clancy,” Mr. Deakin said, but Clancy didn’t hear.

  As the horses followed the dirt path, Mr. Deakin reached behind to the bed of the wagon where they kept their supplies. He rummaged under the tarpaulin and pulled out a two-gallon jug of whiskey. “Here, drink some of this. It’ll smooth out your nerves.”

  Clancy looked at him, wide-eyed, but Mr. Deakin kept his face free of any expression. “I traded my little silver mirror for it last night in the saloon. You could use some right now, Clancy. I’ve never seen anybody this bad.”

  Clancy pulled out the cork and took a deep whiff of the contents. Startled, stinging tears came to his eyes. “I won’t, Mr. Deakin! It says right in Leviticus, ‘Do not drink wine nor strong drink.’”

  “Oh, don’t go giving me that,” Mr. Deakin said, pursing his lips. “Isn’t there another verse that says to give wine to those with heavy hearts so they remember their misery no more?”

  Clancy blinked, as if he had never considered the idea. “That’s in Proverbs, I think.”

  “Well, you look like you could forget some of your misery.”

  Clancy took out a metal cup and, with tense movements as if someone were about to catch him at what he was doing, he poured half a cupful of the brown liquid. He screwed up his face and looked down into the cup. Mr. Deakin watched him, knowing that Clancy’s lips had probably never been sullied by so much as a curse word, not to mention whiskey.

  As if realizing that he had reached his point of greatest courage, Clancy lifted the cup and gulped from it. His eyes seemed to pop even farther from his head, and he bit back a loud cough. Before he could recover his voice to gasp, Mr. Deakin, hiding a smile, spoke from the corner of his mouth. “My gosh, Clancy, just pretend you’re drinking hot coffee! Sip it.”

  Looking alarmed but determined, Clancy brought the cup back to his lips, then squeezed his eyes shut and took a smaller sip. He didn’t speak again, and Mr. Deakin ignored him. Morning shadows stretched out to the left as the wagon headed north toward Wisconsin.

  Mr. Deakin made no comment when Clancy refilled the metal cup and settled back down to a regular routine of long, slow sips.

  By noon the sky had begun to thicken up with thunderheads, and the air held the muggy, oppressive scent of a lumbering storm. The flies went away, but mosquitoes came out. The coffins in back of the wagon stank worse than ever.

  Clancy hummed “Bringing in the Sheaves” over and over, growing louder with each verse. He turned to look at the coffins in the back of the wagon, and giggled. He spoke for the first time in hours. “Can you keep a secret, Mr. Deakin?”

  Mr. Deakin wasn’t sure he wanted to, and avoided answering.

  “I don’t think I know your Christian name, Mr. Deakin.”

  “How do you know I even have one?” he muttered. He had lived alone and made few friends in Illinois, working too hard to socialize much. The neighbors and townsfolk called him Mr. Deakin, and it had been a long time since he’d heard anyone refer to him as anything else. Clancy found that very funny.

  “Yes, I can keep a secret,” Mr. Deakin finally said.

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  Clancy dropped his voice to a stage whisper. “Jerome lied!” He paused, as if this revelation were horrifying enough.

  “And when did he do that?” Mr. Deakin asked, not really interested.

  “When he came out of my parents’ room and said that their souls had flown off to Heaven—that wasn’t true at all. And he knew it! When he went into that room, after Ma and Dad were sick for so long, after he wanted to go found the new town so bad, Jerome smothered them both with their pillows!”

  Mr. Deakin intentionally kept his gaze pointed straight ahead. “Clancy, you’ve had too much of that whiskey.”

  “He did Dad first, who still had some strength to struggle. But Ma didn’t fight. She just laid back and closed her eyes. She knew we had promised to take them both to Tucker’s Grove, and she knew we would keep
our word. You always have to keep your word.

  “But when Jerome said their souls had flown off to Heaven, well, that just wasn’t true—because by smothering them with the pillow, he trapped their souls inside!”

  Clancy opened his eyes. Mr. Deakin saw bloodshot lines around the irises. “What makes you say that, Clancy?” Mr. Deakin asked. He wasn’t sure if he could believe any of this.

  “Maggie said so.” Clancy stared off into the gathering storm. “Right after they died, our Negro Maggie sacrificed one of our chickens, danced around mumbling spells. Jerome and I came back from the coffin makers and found her inside by the bodies. He tried to whack her on the head with a shovel, then he chased her out of our house and said he’d burn her as a witch if she ever came back.”

  “And so Jerome left while you packed everything up and made ready to move?” Mr. Deakin asked. He had no idea what to make of killing chickens and chanting spells.

  “I’m the only one who didn’t see the vision. But Ma and Dad wanted to come so bad. Maggie said she was just trying to help, and it worked. That’s why we have to keep burying the coffins—so the bodies stay down!” Clancy glanced at Mr. Deakin, expectant, but then his own expression changed. With a comical look of astonishment at himself, he covered his mouth with one hand, still grimy from digging out the graves at dawn.

  “I promised Jerome I wouldn’t tell anybody. and now I broke my promise. Something bad’s bound to happen for sure now!” He closed his eyes and began to groan in the back of his throat.

  In exasperation, Mr. Deakin reached over and yanked on the floppy brim of Clancy’s hat, pulling it over his face. “Clancy, you just take another nap. Get some rest.” He lowered his voice and mumbled under his breath, “And give me some peace, too.”

  Clancy slept most of the afternoon, lying in an awkward position against the backboard. Mr. Deakin urged the horses onward, racing the oncoming storm. He hadn’t seen another town since Compromise, and the wild prairie sprawled as far as he could see, dotted with clumps of trees. The wagon track was only a faint impression, showing the way to go. A damp breeze licked across Mr. Deakin’s face.

  The first droplets of water sprinkled his cheeks, and Mr. Deakin pulled his own hat tight onto his head. As the storm picked up, the breeze and the raindrops made a rushing sound in the grasses.

  Clancy grunted and woke up. He looked disoriented, saw the darkened sky, and sat up sharply. “What time is it? How long did I sleep?” He whirled to look at the coffins in the back. The patter of raindrops sounded like drumbeats against the wood.

  Mr. Deakin knew what Clancy was going to say, but maintained a nonchalant expression. “Hard to tell what time it is with these clouds and the storm. Probably late afternoon …” He looked at Clancy. “Sunset maybe.” A boom of thunder made a drawn-out, tearing sound across the sky.

  “You’ve got to stop! We have to bury the—”

  “Clancy, we’ll never get them dug in time, and I’m not going to be shoveling a grave in the middle of a storm. Just cover them up with the tarp and they’ll be all right.”

  Clancy turned to him with an expresssion filled with outrage and alarm. Before he could say anything, a thump came from the back of the wagon. Mr. Deakin looked around, wondering if he had rolled over a boulder on the path, but then the thump came again.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of the coffins move aside just a little.

  “Oh no!” Clancy wailed. “I told you!”

  An echoing thump came from the second coffin. Another burst of thunder rolled across the sky, and the horses picked up their pace, frightened by the wind and the storm.

  Clancy leaned into the back of the wagon. He took a mallet from the pack of tools and, just as the first coffin bounced again, Clancy whacked the edge of the lid, striking the coffin nails to keep the top closed. The rusted and mud-specked nailheads gleamed bright with scraped metal.

  Mr. Deakin had his mouth half-open, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. He kept trying to convince himself that this was some kind of joke Clancy was playing, or perhaps even the townspeople of Compromise.

  Just as he turned, the first coffin lid lurched, despite Clancy’s hammering. The pine boards split, and the lid bent up just enough that a gnarled gray hand pushed its way out. Wet and rotting skin scraped off the edge of the wood as the claw-fingers scrabbled to find purchase and push the lid open farther. Tendons stuck out along yellowed bones. A burst of stench wafted out, and Mr. Deakin gagged but could not tear his eyes away.

  The second coffin lid cracked open. He thought he saw a shadow moving inside it.

  Clancy leaped into the back of the wagon and straddled one of the coffins. He banged again with the mallet, trying to keep the lid closed; but he hesitated, worried about injuring the hands and fingers groping through the cracks. “Help me, Mr. Deakin!”

  A flash of lightning split across the darkness. Rain poured down, and the horses began to run. Mr. Deakin let the reins drop onto the seat and swung over the backboard into the wagon bed.

  Clancy knelt beside his mother’s coffin. “Please stay put! Just stay put! I’ll get you there,” he was saying, but his words were lost in the wind and the thunder and the rumble of wagon wheels.

  One of the pine boards snapped on the father’s coffin. An arm, clothed in the mildewed black of a Sunday suit, thrust out. The fingers had long, curved nails.

  “Don’t!” Clancy said.

  Mr. Deakin was much bigger than Clancy. In the back of the wagon he planted his feet flat against the side of the first coffin. He pushed with his legs.

  The single rotting arm flailed and tried to grab at his boot, but Mr. Deakin shoved. He closed his eyes and lay his head backward—and the coffin slid off the wagon bed, tottering for an instant. As the horses continued to gallop over the bumpy path, the coffin tilted over the edge onto the track.

  “No!” Clancy screamed and grabbed at him, but Mr. Deakin slapped him away. He pushed the second coffin, a lighter one this time. The lid on this coffin began to give way as well. Thin fingers crept out.

  Clancy yanked at Mr. Deakin’s jacket, clawing at the throat and cutting off his air, but Mr. Deakin gave a last push to knock the second coffin over the edge.

  “We’ve got to turn around!” Clancy cried.

  The second coffin crashed to the ground, tilted over, and the wooden sides splintered. Just then a sheet of lightning illuminated the sky from horizon to horizon, like an enormous concussion of flash powder used by a daguerreotype photographer.

  In that instant, Mr. Deakin saw the thin, twisted body rising from the shards of the broken coffin. Lumbering behind, already free of the first coffin, stood a taller corpse, shambling toward his wife. Then all fell black again as the lightning faded.

  Mr. Deakin wanted to collapse and squeeze his eyes shut, but the horses continued to gallop wildly. He scrambled back to the seat and snatched up the reins.

  “This weather is going to ruin them!” Clancy moaned. “You have to go back, Mr. Deakin!”

  Mr. Deakin knew full well that he was abandoning a farm of his own in Tucker’s Grove; but the consequences of breaking his agreement with Clancy seemed more sane to him than staying here any longer. He snapped the reins and shouted at the horses for greater speed.

  Lightning sent him another picture of the two scarecrow corpses—but they had their backs to the wagon. Walking side by side, Clancy Tucker’s dead parents struck off in the other direction. Back the way they had come.

  With a sudden, resigned look on his face, Clancy Tucker swung both of his legs over the side of the wagon.

  “Clancy, wait!” Mr. Deakin shouted. “They’re going the other way! They don’t want to come after all, can’t you see?”

  But Clancy’s voice remained determined. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve got to take them anyway.” He ducked his head down and made ready to jump. “A promise is a promise,” he said.

  “Sometimes breaking a promise is better than keeping it,” Mr. De
akin shouted.

  But Clancy let go of the wagon, tucking and rolling onto the wet grass. He clambered to his feet and ran back toward where he had last seen his parents.

  Mr. Deakin did not look back, but kept the horses running into the night.

  As he listened to the majestic storm overhead, as he felt the wet, fresh air with each breath he took, Mr. Deakin realized that he still had more, much more, that he did not want to lose.

  RESTORATION COMEDY

  CHELSEA QUINN YARBRO

  THEY were nearing the end of the first act of Tannhäuser, the lush Venusberg music warring with the chorus of pilgrims: Melchior had never sung more passionately and Traubel was in superb voice. The two handsome singers showed to real advantage in their roles, and their highly controversial graphic lovemaking looked better and more erotic than the director had dared to hope it would. As the curtain fell and the thunderous applause erupted, the director turned to the tall, distinguished man beside him and said, “Okay, Leo; you were right. I admit it works.”

  The tall man smiled confidently. “Gene grafting does work. It works here as well as on the athletic fields. We’re proving it every day.”

  “Yes. I saw Babe Ruth last week,” the director said, lowering his eyes. “What does he think, being brought back this way?”

  “So far as anyone can tell, he’s very pleased to keep playing, and in a much better body than he had to work with originally. This time he’s in great shape: the host is six-one and one-eighty-eight, with great running strength as well as real playing skills. And fewer bad habits, at least so far.”

  “I noticed how strong he is,” said the director, moving back to permit the chorus members to file past him. He heard one of them mutter about ersatz singers and he pursed his lips with displeasure. “There are people who don’t accept the gene grafts yet.”

  “They will, in time, when they see what we can do,” said the tall man, Dr. Leo Holdstrom, who had received his Nobel Prize four weeks ago, as he looked out at the two handsome singers in front of the golden curtain, taking their bows to the enthusiastic audience reception.