He’d promised her to take care of her forever and she damned well intended to hold him to that promise.

Beulah placed the old Glock on the pitted surface of the table and took a seat. A bulb hung from the low ceiling by two thin wires, casting sporadic light almost as far as the cinder block walls that framed the room around her. The growl of the generator in the distance sputtered and she had just enough time to pick out the incessant drone from the dead outside the fence before the machine’s engine caught and drowned them out once more.

Tough times just get tougher, she thought. Just the way the world works now.

Other noises filtered into the room. Through the heavy door before her she heard people shuffling about and a brief but heated exchange between a man and a woman. Sonny’s voice, too, although his was a soothing monotone just like she’d taught him.

She looked around the room, hating for the thousandth time the show she had to put on. Everyone paid a price to go on living in this world and continuing Brother Divine’s work was hers. The room was empty, except for the table. Busted up and reassembled here to provide a meeting place with customers before the show. Beulah had hung bolts of cloth onto the cinder block years ago, but most had fallen, not that the measly light from the bulb was strong enough to show the bare spots in the huge room. Sounds echoed off the walls, though, and waiting always made her impatient.

The door creaked open and Sonny peeked in, sunlight outside glinting off his AK. “They’re here, sister. The Boyles.”

“You checked their offering, then?”

“No, sister, ‘fraid not,” said Sonny, his pimply face full of concern. “They got a box and all and it looks right heavy, but they said they ain’t showing what’s in it to nobody but you. Mrs. Boyle said she don’t want word getting around what they got.”

Must be good then. Beulah nodded and folded her hands on the table. “Then by all means, let’s not keep our nice callers waiting.”

Sonny stepped in and held the door wide, motioning with the barrel of his weapon for the Boyles to come forward.

The visitors entered quickly. Mrs. Boyle was short and thin, dressed in a faded black dress. Her eyes flitted about the room for a second, her lips twisting in disapproval. Beulah recognized her immediately. She came to all the community meetings. She was always the first to give her opinion and often the loudest, but Beulah was positive she’d never seen her set foot this close to the perimeter fence before. She must be grieving something fierce. Her boy, easily six-foot-two, Beulah didn’t know, but he could be any of the endless stream of guards marching along the fence twenty-four hours a day. He couldn’t be more than sixteen-probably just a toddler when the Judgment struck and the dead started rising. By the looks of him, he’d turn out to be one tough son of bitch in a few years. Maybe as tough as the bitch herself.

Of course, it didn’t really matter who you were. If you were alive and still walking the earth these days, you were already a tough son of bitch. Either that or you’d found some other way to get by.

“Mama, this is just stupid,” said Mrs. Boyle’s son, kneeling before her and cutting an icy blue stare at Beulah as he spoke. For a moment, Beulah recalled the bright blue eyes of her own fallen husband. The boy continued, “Gene is gone. You put him down yourself and there ain’t nothing to all this mumbo-jumbo. You said so yourself. Let’s just keep look-”

“Hush up, boy,” Mrs. Boyle snapped, pointing her finger at the box in his arms and then at the table. With a sigh, he placed the offering on the table and stepped clear. Mrs. Boyle straightened her blouse and forced a smile at Beulah. “Sister…can you really…?”

“Oh, not I,” said Beulah waving her hand over her shoulder at the curtained doorway behind. “I am but a humble servant. Brother Divine is the messenger.”

The clink of chains came through the curtain, followed by a long, low moan.

Mrs. Boyle took a step away from the table, her face growing pale in the wan light. “It’s just that my other son…he was on patrol and…”

“No need to explain.”

“…he was on patrol…”

Beulah nodded and sighed. “Yes, we heard. Tragic story.”

Tears welled in Mrs. Boyle’s hard, emotionless eyes, and Beulah was impressed.

“So, what have you brought to support our work today?” asked Beulah quickly before she felt obligated to feign comforting the old woman.

Mrs. Boyle sniffled a couple of times, stepped forward and opened the box. As if pulling the beating heart from her own chest, she removed the items and placed them on the table before Beulah.

Six bottles of water, still connected by their original plastic caddy. A tube of Crest. A jug of isopropyl alcohol-not that foul-tasting denatured crap-and two packs of Virginia Slims.

Where on earth? Beulah held her expression perfectly neutral and she touched each item, her fingers lingering on the cigarettes. She shrugged, hoping to convey the idea that she was doing her callers a tremendous favor. “For such a good cause, and to ease your suffering, we will accept these meager offerings…but only just this once.”

“Oh, thank you, sister.”

With a wave, Beulah directed Sonny to re-box the items. She stood and stepped toward the curtained doorway. As if on cue, a gurgling groan filtered through the heavy fabric.

Mrs. Boyle and her son moved around the table, but Beulah held up a hand to the boy. “Only one visitor in the sanctuary.”

“Now just a minute,” said her son, before going silent under his mother’s withering glare.

“You go outside with Sonny here and guard the place,” said Mrs. Boyle. “I’ll be just fine. Won’t I, sister?”

“Oh, yes. Perfectly.” Beulah watched as the two boys turned toward the far door. The Boyle kid looked as if he thought by approaching the door, he would somehow summon a horde down upon them all. Truth was the hordes didn’t need summoning. They were always ready only a few yards away.

The only real summoning taking place these days was on the other side of the curtain.

Beulah stepped through, holding the curtain aside for the old woman. The room inside was small and round, in contrast the meeting room. The walls hung thick with tapestries of various colors and designs, although black and purple dominated, as did patterns suggesting Asian, Celtic and astrological influences. The folds of fabric muffled sound and stifled air flow, making the room seem to close in from all sides.

The old woman’s shoulders drew in and she seemed to shrink another inch or two. Beulah repressed her smile at Mrs. Boyle’s reaction.

All part of the show.

A man, his back to the door, squirmed in a chair. Before him spread a round table covered in a thick velvet cloth of red with a dingy black circle in the middle where a crystal ball had once sat when such things were needed to complete the effect. Two other chairs were placed at equidistant angles on the far side.

The table creaked as he pulled against his restraints, his neck craning over his shoulder to watch their approach. His face was a carpet of decay. Mold clung to yellowed bone where his gray skin had fallen from one cheek. Dark hair clung to his cracked scalp in clumps and had bunched up on one side of his head where an ear should have been. He growled and snapped his teeth together, milky white eyes darting between them.

Mrs. Boyle gagged.

“This…is Brother Divine,” said Beulah, her voice a carefully practiced, if somewhat bored, monotone. “You have nothing to fear, I assure you. You are safe here with me.”

Mrs. Boyle edged along the room, lead by Beulah until they were on the far side of the table.

“Have a seat.”

Mrs. Boyle glanced at her as she continued to move toward one of the empty chairs, bumping into the only other furnishing in the room-a tall panel, covered in a black satiny cloth.

Stumbling in the low light, Mrs. Boyle looked uncertain but sat in the chair indicated. She leaned to one side, her weight shifted and ready to bolt for the doorway if needed.

Brother Percival Divine still wore the same suit he’d put on the day he died. The same suit he’d worn for every reading he’d done after the Judgment and since. Truth was, Beulah wouldn’t change his clothes even if she were brave enough to try. In death, as in life. There was a symmetry at work and she found that comforting.

A chain across his waist dropped on both sides and fastened to eyebolts driven into the floor, securing him firmly to the chair. Metal links clinked and rattled as he struggled to stand and his fingers clawed at the gouges in the table where they were bolted to the thick wooden surface.

Beulah sat in the remaining chair and placed her hands, palm down, on the table, indicating that Mrs. Boyle should do the same. “Close your eyes, dear.”

The old woman held her stare for long seconds before she complied.

Her own eyes closed, Beulah began to speak, voice rising and falling with Brother Divine’s animal-like grunts and moans. “Brother Divine, hear me, thy humble servant. A sister amongst the living seeks communion with her fallen son. As in life, we come together to ask thee to use thy blessing-thy gift from grand and powerful universal forces far beyond the understanding of we simple mortals-to grant this woman one last visit with her dear…”

Beulah continued the practiced phrases, occasionally chanting nonsensical words from the scripts written by Percy during his heyday on stage. People loved the thees and thous when invoking the dead, but even more so, they loved the mysterious. Percy had realized early in his career that nothing worked so well as the use of magical-sounding words. Not the abracadabra sort of nonsense, but truly singsong words, more sung than spoken.

As the minutes passed, the air in the room grew chill, the moaning softer and the scratching slowed, finally stopping altogether as did the rattling of Brother Divine’s chain.

Beulah opened her eyes and looked into the still face of her husband. The eyes of the reanimated dead were, without fail, a milky white. Sometimes streaked with black or pulsing with dark vein-like patterns, but never like those of the living. Now, eyes so brown they were almost black stared from Percy’s rancid sockets, trained on Mrs. Boyle.

The old woman was frozen in mid-gasp, her hand raised to cover her mouth. Beulah reached across the table and touched her shoulder. The old woman jumped in her seat. Her face was ashen, her eyes wide, but Beulah’s smile seemed to calm her.

“His eyes…” said the woman. “Just like m-my dead boy’s…brown like when he was…”

Beulah nodded. It was an odd effect, she had to admit. A sign of the communion Percy had never exhibited when he was alive. But now, with each connection, his eyes changed to resemble those of the dead soul being contacted, as they had appeared in life. Rumor had it once, during a communion, as Brother Divine had connected with one of the damned, the undead husk of the man beating against the fence outside the walled city had stopped and stared blankly into space for the entire séance. When the visitation finished and the connection had been broken, the dead man had resumed his brainless assault. Beulah had no idea if this was true, but it sure did wonders for business, and she made sure to keep the story alive whenever possible. “Ask your questions, dear. Communion is difficult and painful for the deceased. They yearn to speak and wander amongst us once more but can only endure our celestial light for so long. You may only have a few moments.”

The woman leaned toward Brother Divine, peering into his eyes. “Cletus, is that you?”

Brother Divine shifted in his seat as much as the restraints would allow, his lips quivering. His expression softened as much as a half-decayed mat of flesh stretched across bone could. A whimper of recognition rattled in his throat.

Mrs. Boyle shifted in her seat and licked her lips. Her voice was hardly more than a whisper when she spoke. “Where is it?”

The brown eyes lost focus and began to gaze around the room.

Half-standing and waving her hand in front of Brother Divine’s face, Mrs. Boyle snapped, “Look at me, boy. I asked you where it is.”

His jaw worked and he tugged against the bolts in his hands, agitated, his whimper building into a groan.

“Perhaps you should start by telling him you miss him,” offered Beulah.

Ignoring her prompt, Mrs. Boyle continued. “Where’s the rest of the stash, Eugene?” Suddenly she winced as if struck in the face. “You stop that sass, boy, and answer me.”

Brother Divine’s eyes widened and he snarled through chipped yellow teeth.

Mrs. Boyle shivered and her face grew pale. She wavered and flopped back down into her chair as if she were about to pass out before shaking her head sharply side to side. She looked at Brother Divine and nodded like a fool. Just like they always did. Beulah always wanted to ask the callers what the silent dialogue with the spirits of the dead-the souls of the walking dead outside the fence, in some cases-was really like. Was it a voice in your head? Pictures? Or just a feeling-a knowingness? Of course, if she did ask, she’d be admitting she didn’t already know and that would be bad for business. Folks might even get the notion, they could use Brother Divine themselves and where would that leave her? Whatever curse or blessing her departed husband possessed in life-and now in walking death-was hers to use now.

Til death do us part, she thought looking at the twisted face of Brother Divine. That’s what the preacher said. And this don’t count.

Hell, maybe the supernatural crap was in his blood, tainted or not, living or dead.

Mrs. Boyle’s chair scraped against the concrete floor and she pushed back from the table. The confusion and fear mingling on her face was beginning to fade. She glanced at Beulah, the same expression of disapproval from the other room returning, and rushed from the room.

“Not even a thank you?” Beulah called after her. Ain’t that something? People were so ungrateful. She hurried over to the curtain and peeked out to see Mrs. Boyle standing outside the entrance door pointing excitedly back into the city. “You come back anytime you need to know something else. Remember, though, repeat communions are harder so you’ll need to bring more of an offering.”

The old woman gave her an uneasy smile and a curt wave as she rushed off after her boys.

Beulah walked around the table, careful to avoid looking into the dark brown eyes of the dead Boyle child staring out of her Percy’s skull. She couldn’t take another of the sad, sad expressions. Why didn’t the dead know they were dead without help. She stopped before the draped black cloth and whipped it free stepping clear as she did so.

Candle light reflected from the revealed mirror and she watched as Brother Divine’s gaze took in the reflection. A low moan rose from his throat and she looked up just in time to see the glimmer of rational thought die once more and the dark, earthy brown begin to fade.

With a sigh, Beulah dropped into the empty chair used by the callers. She thought of the Boyles and the endless parade of families and friends who entered this stuffy, foul-smelling room. No amount of bleach or scented candles covered the underlying stench. His eyes were almost back to their normal filmy white and he’d begun to moan again. Softly now, but it would grow louder and louder as the seconds wore on.

Sometimes, on those rare occasions when she allowed herself a moment of weakness, she reminisced about the days before the Rising. Of her time with a vibrant, breathing Percival Divine. Then the Judgment had come upon them all.

Percy moaned and snapped his teeth together, finger nails scraping into the table top.

What was more sad? The living mourning the dead or the dead mourning the living?

She felt a twinge of sadness in her gut. He’d been a good man. Attentive and kind. A bit mechanical in the sack but there were those times he’d taken her like a man possessed.

A tear formed in her eye and she placed her head in her hands. “Oh, Percy.”

The constant groans from her dead husband wavered and she looked up. He sat perfectly still, no longer struggling against the chain at his waist or the bolts in his hands. His eyes were the unearthly electric blue she’d first been attracted to at his stage show so long ago.

His brow furrowed a moment and he opened his mouth, not to bite or growl, but as if trying to speak. A piece of loose flesh from above one of his eyes dropped to the table top. He looked down at his hands, bolted straight through the back and into the wood like some hillbilly Christ. His eyes widened and he began to pull his arms, harder and harder, all the time trying to stand. The chain he wore as a belt holding him to the chair clinked with each attempt.

A groan gurgled from deep in his chest and he fixed her with a stare she couldn’t immediately interpret. Then a feeling washed over her like icy water, chilling her spine and sending shudders through her body. Primal waves of emotion and confusion. She felt like a tiny child again tossed giggling and trusting into the air by a parent…but allowed to fall.

Betrayal.

“It’s-it’s not like that, P-percy,” she stammered, getting to her feet and rushing to his side. “I only meant-”

He twisted in the chair, wrenching his arms with ever increasing fury. With a sound like twisting cornstalks, one of his hands came free, swiping outward, striking Beulah across the face.

She lurched backwards, off balance, and fell. Her head struck the floor with a crack and the world collapsed into darkness.

#

Light flickered. Beulah leapt to consciousness, arms and legs lashing out as she took in her surroundings. She was still in the séance room. She pushed herself to her feet, assessing all the tiny aches and pains. Nothing out of the ordinary except a killer headache.

She gasped. Percy’s chair was empty, bits of rotten flesh hung in strips around the bolts on the table top. They should have used manacles. Bad planning that was. Of course any flesh was going to grow weak eventually. She swore at herself and turned to leave. He was probably off biting somebody’s kid or something-she’d have a hell of a time convincing anyone but Sonny not to place a bullet in his skull if they caught him first.

A wet sound like the handling of fresh-cut meat caught her attention and she squinted into the gloom.

Percy stood before the full length mirror, the black cloth pulled free. The reflection of his face shifted as he swayed, further mangled by fractures in the glass. His electric eyes looked, at once, both terrified and sad. His right hand, fingers broken and twisted from years of clawing at the table top, brushed against his cheek, lingering at each hole where his teeth showed through. A moan like every heart breaking sound in the world distilled into a single sigh filled the small room. If he’d been able, she was sure he would have cried.

He turned, blue eyes catching the candlelight, glowing as if lit from within. The strips of flesh framing his once perfect teeth quivered and he lurched forward, slamming against the table, sending it skidding to one side.

“Wait r-right there, Percy,” stammered Beulah. “I had to.”

The luster in Percy’s eyes was gone now, the blue fading. Clawed hands reached, snagging and ripping her blouse as Beulah bolted through the curtain, screaming, “Sonny!”

She ran into the table, rolling across its splintery surface, her hand scrabbling at the Glock and her legs sending the light bulb swinging wildly side to side. Percy clambered across the table top, a split second behind her, teeth clacking. The smell of rot, set free from his flesh by unaccustomed motion, spilled from his body as he landed atop her.

He was nowhere near his living weight, but knocked the breath from her just the same. Kicking and swinging her arms, she managed to free herself from beneath the withered husk of her husband and scrabble across the floor to the glistening metal of the Glock by the table leg.

“Sonny!”

Percival hunched over, feet flat and hands touching the floor like a sprinter ready to tear away from the starting line. Milky white eyes locked with hers. His lips pulled back in a snarl and he lunged.

She fired. The .45 caliber slug struck him in the shoulder, whipping him around and sending him smashing into the floor. She scrambled to her feet, moving toward the heavy wooden door, firing low hoping to strike him in the legs. If she could incapacitate him enough he couldn’t chase her, she and Sonny could get him back in the chair. He didn’t need his legs anyway.

Her haphazard aim connected. He toppled forward, hands raking down her back, finding purchase at her waist as he brought her to the floor beneath him once again.

Beulah flipped over as Percy pulled himself up her body. She pointed the pistol at his forehead by reflex, then re-aimed and fired into his other shoulder, sending him rolling to one side. One leg and one arm flailing uselessly, her dead husband righted himself enough to clasp onto her ankle. His teeth gnashed together with pops and clacks and she brought the Glock around again, mind racing for the right angle to-

A shot rang out and Percy’s head exploded, brains and bone erupting in a spray that coated the table legs and the floor.

What the hell? Beulah looked at the Glock, mouth agape and ears ringing.

“S-sister?” Sonny stood in the doorway, his rifle still aimed at Percy.

“Damn it, Sonny,” she said. Her throat stung with each word, dry from exertion. “What were you thinking?’

“It was gonna-”

“He, damn it. He!” She tried to pushed herself to her feet but swayed, unexpectedly dizzy, and dropped back to the floor.

Sonny was beside her in a flash. He reached down to take her arm, then drew back, uncertainty flashing across his face.

“What is it?” Beulah asked.

“You…you’re hurt.”

Beulah looked at the scratches along her arms. The flesh along each tiny gash was red and swollen. Yellow pus streaked with black oozed from the larger wounds. “N-no.” Her voice was a ragged whisper. This couldn’t be. Her vision became fuzzy around the edges.

“Sister,” said Sonny. “Here, let me help you.”

Her assistant’s voice sounded garbled and his face looked unfocused, as if overlaid with other images. She forced herself to smile and he supported her staggering gait.

“Wait right here,” he said, easing her into a chair. He returned a moment later with a wet washcloth and placed it across her face. Rivulets of water ran down the neck of her blouse.

He was a good kid. She’d trained him well. He would go get the doctor. Sure, they’d have to amputate the arm, but-

Light flashed in her eyes. Even with her head covered with the cloth she could see the city in the distance with a barrier of concrete and metal between. A horde of the walking dead tore at the barricades. The view lurched from side to side as the scene grew closer and closer. As if she were outside the wall.

She opened her mouth to speak but winced in pain, her gut aching. With a rattle of metal on metal, she felt the chain cinch tight around her waist.

—–

BIO: William R.D. Wood lives in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley in an old farmhouse turned backwards to the road. His profound love of horror and science fiction routinely leads him to destroy the world, whether by alien artifact, zombie apocalypse or teddy bear. writebrane.blogspot.com.