part0012

The alarm jolted Brent from his restless sleep. He slapped the button to shut off the annoying klaxon, and dropped back onto his mattress with a groan. What idiot suggested leaving at eight? Oh yeah. Me.

A shower, two donuts, and half a pot of coffee later, Brent felt barely sentient. He couldn’t even blame his fuzzy head and lousy sleep on booze or pain pills. No, his dreams had been troubled by memories and images of what might have been. He relived the day he went to football camp, and the way Danny’s expression mingled real excitement with disappointment. Not for the first time, Brent wished he had stayed home and died with them.

Is there something tainted about me that drew the demon to them? That keeps attracting demons wherever I go? Maybe I can get Travis to tell me, but I doubt I can talk him into a mercy killing. God, I’m tired of this shit.

Brent grabbed the rest of the box of donuts, poured most of the remaining coffee into a travel mug, and headed out. He had stayed up late, handling as much on his investigation cases as he could, reminding himself that demon-hunting soothed the conscience but didn’t pay the rent. Still, he managed to make enough progress on his cases—and respond to several inquiries for new projects—that he could take the day out of the office with minimal guilt.

When he pulled into the St. Dismas parking lot, Brent took a moment to get a good look at the place, since his prior visits had not afforded the opportunity. He managed a wry smile at the idea that even the halfway house appeared to be resurrected, and guessed it had been an apartment building or hotel in its previous life. The structure looked tired and worn, but clean and adequately maintained. Nothing fancy, a hand-me-down haven for folks who desperately needed a second chance. It did not escape Brent that had a few twists of fate gone differently, he might have been among its residents.

Brent took in the sketchy surroundings, wondering whether his truck would still be there when he returned. He was glad for his alarm system and wondered if any of Travis’s friends-with-psychic-benefits had bothered to put a safety spell on the lot.

Pushing his doubts aside, Brent grabbed his coffee and the box of donuts and headed over to where Travis waited, leaning on the Crown Vic.

“That’s a gunboat,” Brent observed. He held out the donuts like a peace offering.

“I prefer ‘land cruiser,’ and it’s fast,” Travis replied, but he took the box, surveyed the remaining contents, and picked a chocolate iced donut. “Thanks.”

Brent shrugged. “Figured it’s a long drive.”

The three-hour drive to Snowshoe, a small town just off Interstate 80, passed less awkwardly than Brent had feared. The Crown Vic rode smoothly, with a suspension that had obviously been tightened up for better handling. The purr of the big engine reminded Brent of his grandfather’s car, and a ‘classic vinyl’ playlist boomed through the car’s speakers.

“Cake or yeast?” Brent asked, after a period of silence.

“Donuts. This is important. Keep up. Cake or yeast.”

Travis couldn’t help smiling. “Yeast. With icing. And sprinkles.”

“Filled or unfilled?”

“Hmm. That’s a hard one. Both—and I won’t turn down lemon filled if I have a chance.”

“Coffee. Flavored or unflavored?”

Travis made a face. “I’ll drink pretty much anything that hasn’t been on the burner all night.”

“Yeah, me too. But now and again, vanilla is a nice splurge,” Brent confided.

“Hamburger or hot dog?” Travis lobbed back.

“It depends on the toppings,” Brent replied, pretending to think about it. “I want bacon and cheddar with onions and pickle on the burger, or blue cheese and onion straws. Otherwise, a footlong with chili and onions.”

“Now I’m hungry,” Travis said. “But at least you’ve established we can stand to eat in the same places.”

Brent grinned. “Hey, I was a cop. We think with our stomachs.”

Brent had plenty of questions he wanted to ask about demons and the priesthood, but since he didn’t feel like reciprocating the scrutiny just now, he kept them to himself. Instead, they chatted about the music and the weather, quibbled over pizza toppings and brands of beer and agreed that the only real football teams were the Steelers and the Nittany Lions. Brent had gotten off to worse starts with partners back in his police days, so he counted the unlikely camaraderie as a win.

The conversation gave him a chance to take Travis’s measure when they weren’t fighting for their lives. Growing up in the South, Brent had known plenty of clergy—although, admittedly not priests—but Travis didn’t remind him of any of them. Despite the Latin and the liturgies, Travis seemed more like a soldier than he did the Army chaplains or small town pastors Brent remembered. Travis had dropped some of the defensiveness Brent had picked up on in their first encounter and seemed genuinely interested in partnering to bring down whatever big bad was causing the problem. For as much as Brent really hadn’t been looking for someone to ride shotgun, he couldn’t argue that this union made sense, and he’d already seen proof that Travis could watch his back.

I’m sure we’ll find ways to irritate the fuck out of each other eventually, Brent thought, sipping his now-cold coffee from the travel mug. His own record with partners in the military and with the police hadn’t been sterling. Then again from their encounters so far, Travis already had seen enough to know that Brent was quick-tempered, impulsive, and unpredictable—and suggested teaming up anyhow. And he can talk to Danny. If Brent needed any additional reason to agree to work together, that was it.

“Let’s hit that place after we do the interview,” Travis said, jostling Brent out of his thoughts. He looked up in time to spot a small mom-and-pop dairy isle. “I bet they serve killer pizza burgers and onion rings—and soft serve.”

Brent grinned. “You’re on.”

Travis pulled up in front of an unassuming yellow house along a quiet side street in Snowshoe. The small flower garden, neat picket fence, and trimmed lawn were the epitome of Americana.

“This is it,” he said, double checking the GPS on his phone. “Aisha Anderson vanished from a convenience store at the highway exit two weeks ago. She was eighteen. People saw her step out for a smoke break, but she never came back in. The security camera showed her getting into a black truck, but didn’t get the plates.”

“So what do you think the family can tell us that we don’t already know?” Brent asked as he got out of the car.

“We won’t know until we hear it,” Travis replied. “But there’s got to be a connection to everything else that’s going on.”

Brent let Travis take the lead heading up the walk. They stood on the porch, waiting for someone to answer the doorbell. “Mrs. Anderson?” Travis asked in what Brent had come to think of as his “priest voice.”

The woman in the doorway was probably in her late thirties, but worry and loss made her look at least a decade older. Her brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and the rumpled sweats and lack of makeup told Brent the woman was too consumed by grief to care about anything as trivial as appearance.

“You’re the one who called. I recognize your voice.” She eyed Brent as if wondering how he factored into whatever story Travis had given to win them access. “You’re not a reporter, are you?” she asked.

Brent shook his head. “No ma’am,” he replied, with a little more drawl than usual. “I’m a private investigator.”

“Come on in.” Shelby Anderson led the way into a cluttered living room. The couch and end tables were covered with newspaper clippings and printed-out screenshots from TV news, all of them about the black truck disappearances. She cleared room for them to sit and took the recliner opposite the couch.

“I don’t know what I can tell you that I haven’t already told the police,” she said, tucking a strand of stray hair behind one ear. “Aisha liked working at the QuickMart. Her co-workers were nice, and she said there wasn’t as much drama as there had been at the last place she worked.”

“Which was?” Brent prompted.

“Aisha wanted to go to college when she graduated,” Shelby said. “She’d been working since she was fifteen to save money. And none of that money has been touched, so I know she didn’t run off with some boy like the police suggested.” She took a deep breath. “She waited tables, flipped burgers, cleaned houses, and babysat. My Aisha’s a good worker,” she added, slipping into using the present tense.

“So she hadn’t fought with anyone recently? A boyfriend, a girlfriend, someone from a former job?” Travis asked.

Shelby shook her head. “People like Aisha. She’s the one who brings everyone together. The whole town’s been upset.” Shelby sniffed back tears and pulled a tissue from a pocket to dab her eyes. “It’s got everyone up in arms,” she went on. “There’ve been search parties and roadblocks looking for that truck, and people chipped in on a reward. Aisha was everyone’s friend. It’s been hard.”

Travis frowned like he picked up something Brent hadn’t. “I’m sure it’s been awful for everyone,” he murmured. “I know you’ve had your mind on other things, but have you noticed anything else unusual going on lately? People reacting strangely?”

Shelby blew her nose, then wiped away tears. “It just seems like the whole world’s gone crazy, if you want to know the truth,” she confessed. “Mr. Van Patten hanged himself last Tuesday, and no one had a clue things weren’t good with him. Then my neighbor’s uncle fell inside a silo on his farm, and the methane gas killed him before they could get him out. Ted O’Connell got mad at his boss and shot up the hardware store, and the church youth group got into a bad bus accident.” She looked overwhelmed. “And my Aisha is gone. I don’t know what this world is coming to.”

From the glint in Travis’s eyes, Brent figured his new partner had a theory to tie all the horrible events together. That much bad luck couldn’t possibly be a coincidence. More like a big city-sized package of awful crammed into a teeny-tiny town. Something’s wrong, Brent thought.

“Would you mind if we took a look at her room?” he asked.

Shelby sniffled, then nodded. “Go ahead. The police already went through her things. It was…intrusive. But if it brings her back—”

“I promise we’ll be respectful.” Brent led the way, with Travis a few steps behind. He opened drawers, looked through her closet, checked under the bed, the way he had been trained by the cops. Nothing looked even slightly suspicious. He glanced at Travis and shook his head.

“We’ve taken enough of your time,” Travis said, in the well-rehearsed tone Brent associated with pastors. It didn’t mean the clergy were insincere, it just meant they had a lot of practice soothing people on the verge of freaking out. Yet another reason to work together. I suck at those kinds of conversations.

Shelby walked them to the door, and Travis assured her that they would continue to explore every lead on the black truck abductions. Brent held his tongue until they were back in the Crown Vic.

“Spill. You’ve figured something out.”

Before Travis could answer, his phone rang. He raised his eyebrows when he saw the name “Derek” on the screen and thumbed the call to put it on speakerphone. “I’ve got you on speaker so my partner, Brent, can hear you. What’s up?”

“Zombies,” a man’s voice replied. “I heard from Erin, over in Milesburg. She’s been getting calls about people who should be dead showing up along Route 150. Several sightings called in, but when the cops show up, the zombies are gone.”

“Shit,” Travis muttered. “Is Erin picking up anything on her own?” he asked, and Brent wondered what necessitated the code.

“Yeah, but you know how it is with her,” Derek replied, “she gets the message, but not the address. She’s sure this isn’t a hoax.”

“No, I’m sure it’s not. Okay,” Travis said, pinning the phone between his chin and shoulder as he started the car. “I’m about forty minutes away from Milesburg. Any idea of where on Route 150 I should be looking?”

“Cemeteries, for starters,” Derek replied. “Churchyards, family plots. Where else would zombies come from?”

“Not mine, and I think it would be on the news already if people were popping up at the County Hospital morgue.”

“You’ve got a point.” Travis put the phone down as he pulled away from the curb and headed for I-80. “Any idea why those particular zombies are on the move?”

“Nope. But Benjamin might.”

“Fuck. I hadn’t thought about that,” Travis said. “We’ll swing by on the way and see if he knows something. Thanks for the tip.”

“I’ve asked off for the rest of the day,” Derek replied. “I’m leaving now, so I’ll meet you at the abandoned convenience store on 150. I figure maybe I can help. And I need to know what’s going on, in case any of my corpses decide to go walkabout.”

Travis ended the call, and they rode in silence for a few minutes until they merged into highway traffic. “You want to decode any of that?” Brent asked. It was clear that Travis had a relationship with the caller, one that included knowing exactly what sort of “side gig” kept Travis busy. “Was that part of your Night Vigil?”

Travis blew out a breath. “Yeah. Derek is the Jefferson County head coroner. He’s also got some extra abilities that come in handy, like being able to talk to the dead.”

“Not sure that’s a good thing, in his line of work.” Brent frowned. “How is that different from what you can do?”

Travis shrugged. “I’m a medium. I can hear and speak to ghosts, but I can’t compel them. Derek is a necromancer. So if someone’s raising the dead, he’s going to take that personally. As for the rest, if he can get tips that help the cops catch the killer, he passes them along. It doesn’t always succeed, but he tries to make the best of what he’s got to work with.”

“And the Night Vigil?”

“They’re people like you and me…and others with a variety of psychic and magical abilities…who have made mistakes and want to do better,” he answered quietly, keeping his eyes on the highway as if glancing at Brent would reveal too much. “Sometimes, pretty spectacular mistakes, since they’ve got power but no training, and human beings can make very bad choices.”

“Pretty sure I have a gold medal in fuck-ups,” Brent replied. “And other than being a demon magnet, I don’t even know if I have any abilities.”

“So the Night Vigil are the people I’ve gotten to know, all across the area, who have talents they can’t admit, but they want to do some good with them, maybe make amends. One way or another, they found me, and I introduced them to each other, and they’re sort of a first-responder network for the supernatural,” Travis said. “A lot of them work nights because they’d rather sleep when it’s light out.”

“I totally understand,” Brent answered, having his own dread of the dark. He felt an odd pang of jealousy. All the years he had struggled with what he learned the hard way about fighting off demons and talking to ghosts in his dreams, and there had been no one to confide in who wouldn’t think he was crazy. Maybe Danny was onto something when he pushed him together with Travis.

“I figured you would,” Travis said with a rueful smile. “Anyhow, when they see or sense something weird, they let me know. Erin is a 911 operator, but she’s also a clairaudio—she can hear cries for help from a distance.”

“That must come in handy.”

“Not when she has no idea where the person is or why they are calling,” Travis responded.

“That’s the problem with a lot of ‘gifts.’ They don’t come with instruction manuals, most people can’t get anyone to believe them or don’t dare ask until they’re an adult and have lived with these abilities they can’t control for years. If it doesn’t destroy them—or they don’t fuck up fantastically—they try to figure out how to make the best of it.”

Brent had the very clear impression Travis included himself in that description.

Travis was silent as he maneuvered around a slow car, shifted into the passing lane, and accelerated. “Benjamin’s brother, Tom, was dying. Rare disease. He researched every doctor, every treatment, no matter how unproven. When science didn’t help, he turned to magic. Then Tom died, and Benjamin couldn’t deal with that, so he found a way to raise Tom from the dead—as a zombie. Kept him alive for years on the brains of two-bit pimps and low-level drug dealers, until Tom finally put a bullet through his own brain to end it all.”

Brent’s throat tightened, and he turned to look out the window. He could understand and identify with Benjamin’s obsession all too well.

“Back at the house, with Shelby Anderson, you looked like you figured something out,” Brent said after a long silence.

“I’m not sure,” Travis admitted. “But when she said that everyone in town took Aisha’s disappearance hard, it made me think about the people you and I have already run across who’ve been affected. They’ve all been grieving.”

Brent thought about the suicides in the ruins of the mining town, and the stories he and Travis had shared about the spike in demonic activity. “Yeah. Maybe that has something to do with it,” he mused. “Grief makes people vulnerable. Willing to do anything to fix what went wrong or stop the pain.”

Travis nodded. “I don’t think that’s all of it. But I think the grief is involved with what’s happening. And the shootings and suicides and accidents create more people who have lost someone, generating more grief.”

Brent felt a spike of anger that went right to his gut at the idea of someone—human or demonic—using grief as a weapon. Despite the years that had passed, his own losses burned brightly in his dreams, wounds that might scar but would never completely heal. He remembered just how raw he had been in the days after his family’s deaths, and in the weeks after his squad’s encounter with Mavet. If he hadn’t already vowed to hunt down whatever was causing the violence near Cooper City, Brent was fully on board now.

“Can Derek stop the zombies?” Brent asked. “I’ve run into demons and vengeful ghosts and shifters, plus a few ghouls, but I haven’t fought zombies.”

“We can stop the zombies, even without Derek,” Travis replied. “Regular bullet to the head, or decapitation. Burn the bodies. I can send their souls on with Last Rites. But,” he said, weaving through traffic to avoid a slow semi, “Derek can figure out what magic raised them. And if he can withdraw that magic, we might not have to fight at all.”

Brent cleared his throat. “So…are they like on TV?”

Travis took his eyes off the road long enough to meet his gaze. “No. They’re worse.”

They drove into Milesburg, a tiny town kept alive by Social Security and the visitors to the nearby state game lands. A budget hotel sat near the highway exit, along with a gas station and a couple of fast food chain restaurants. Not far away, the State Store occupied one storefront in a seventies’ era plaza. Travis angled the Crown Vic into a parking space.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s talk to Benjamin.”

Brent looked around the state-run liquor store when they entered, and figured it told him a lot about the area. Unlike the Pittsburgh stores, this one had no wall of flavored vodkas and high-end scotch. The small store carried the basics—rum, vodka, and whiskey—without the trendy specialty items or expensive upscale brands. All someone would need to numb the pain, no frills required.

“Can I help you?” A man called from behind the counter. Brent guessed that the clerk was in his late forties, but he had the look about him of someone who’d had a rough life, and the reddened flush and sallow skin of a hard drinker. His face fell as he recognized Travis. “Oh. It’s you. What’s going on?”

Travis looked around as if to assure they were alone in the store with the clerk Brent guessed was Benjamin. Brent took up a spot near the door where he could hear their conversation while watching for incoming customers.

“I was hoping you could tell me.” Travis picked up a bottle of Jack Daniels and walked to the register. “I got a call about zombies out on route 150.”

Benjamin’s eyes widened. “Oh, shit!” He reddened. “Sorry.” Travis shrugged to excuse the language. “I don’t know anything about it. I didn’t do anything, I swear.”

Travis took out a credit card to pay for the whiskey. “I didn’t think you did. But I wondered if you’ve heard anything…sensed anything…that might be connected.”

Benjamin paused, staring off into space as he thought. “Been busier this month than I ever remember, and I’ve worked here for close to ten years,” he said. Brent had the feeling that Benjamin might be one of the store’s best customers, a radar that came from shared abuse. “People just seem down on their luck, you know? Like they can’t catch a break. Couple of house fires, some hikers got killed out in the state park, and from what people say at the diner, a slew of unfortunate diagnoses. People have a bad turn, they stop by here to get comfortably numb,” he said with a shrug. “And there’s been some crazy talk, about seeing dead people who’ve come back, but so far, no one’s hauled one into town to show everybody.”

“The zombies have been showing up on Route 150, going toward Mount Eagle.”

“Fuck. You mean those stories are real?”

Travis nodded. “Afraid so. Can you think of anything out that way that might be where the zombies are coming from?”

Benjamin pondered the question while he rang up Travis’s purchase. “There are a few churches that have graveyards,” he said. “Used to be a funeral home on that road, too, but it closed down a while ago.”

“Any local legends? Scary stories about that stretch of road that kids tell around the campfire?” Travis fished.

“About zombies?” Benjamin shook his head. “No. That’s one of the things I liked about this town.”

“Keep an ear open, okay?” Travis asked as he took his bottle and stuck his credit card back in his wallet. “I have the feeling we’re going to see a lot more weirdness before everything’s said and done.”

The sour look on Benjamin’s face suggested that he really didn’t want to know, but he nodded. Travis headed out the door, with Brent a few steps behind him, and put the bottle in the trunk.

“You think he was telling the truth?” Brent asked as he slid into the front seat.

“Yeah. Benjamin was a one-shot problem,” Travis replied. “He did what he did because he couldn’t stand losing his brother. And that went so horrifically wrong that I don’t think he’s going to be tempted to go into business raising other people’s dead relatives.”

Brent repressed a shudder. “Good to know.” As much as he missed Danny—and sometimes his absence felt like an amputated limb—he’d been content with memories and dreams. Raising him from the dead had never crossed Brent’s mind, and it made him nauseous that he now apparently knew two people who could have made that happen.

“Derek should be waiting for us,” Travis said, and if he noted Brent’s reaction, he was tactful enough not to mention it. “Let’s see if we can stop this party.”

Derek sat in his gray Audi sedan in the gravel parking lot of a tumbledown empty convenience store. Travis pulled up beside him, and Derek got out, locked up, and slid into the back seat of the Crown Vic. “I figure the car’ll be safer here than anywhere we’re going,” he said.

“You bring any weapons?” Brent asked, aware of the gun in his shoulder rig, and the weapons bag in the trunk.

“Don’t need them.” Derek tapped his temple. “It’s all up here.”

“Benjamin doesn’t know anything about the incidents,” Travis reported.

“Don’t you think that’s a little suspicious?” Derek questioned.

Travis shrugged, then eased the Crown Vic out of the gravel lot. “Not really. I get the feeling he keeps to himself. I doubt he goes looking for that kind of news.” He glanced into the rearview mirror to make eye contact with Derek. “Can you sense anything?”

Brent caught a glimpse of Derek in the side mirror. The coroner took a deep breath, then closed his eyes. He remained still, eyes shut, for so long that Brent thought the man might have fallen asleep. As Travis neared a side road, Derek’s eyes flew open.

“I feel the power,” he said. “It’s…all wrong. Not like it usually is. The power feels twisted, tainted.”

“Is it natural?” Travis asked, splitting his attention between the GPS on his phone and the road ahead as he turned the car down a side road that led between forest and empty fields. A small white clapboard church sat on the left, and Brent saw a brick fence around a graveyard beside it. Travis pulled into the parking lot and turned the car, so it was ready for a quick escape.

They got out, and Brent drew his gun. Travis tossed him a sheathed Ka-Bar, which Brent caught one-handed and strapped to his belt. Travis withdrew a shotgun and a machete. Derek shook his head when Travis offered another shotgun and turned his hands palms up.

“I’ve got what I need right here,” Derek replied. “How about I wander around in the graveyard, and you guys have my back? I get a little distracted when I go with the flow.”

Brent and Travis fanned out, one on each side, trailing behind Derek as he strode toward the cemetery. Up close, Brent could see that both the church and its surroundings looked untended. The wooden siding was chalky, long past the need for fresh paint, and rot claimed some of the moldings around the doorway. In several places loose bricks tumbled down from the graveyard wall, leaving gaps and crumbling mortar. Tall grass around the headstones hadn’t been cut in a while, and some of the markers were broken or vandalized.

“Off-hand, I’d say the congregation hasn’t been paying much attention,” Brent murmured.

“Probably down to a handful of retirees, mostly women,” Travis replied. “Happens a lot.”

The wind rattled through the branches of the woods just beyond and sent a chill down Brent’s back. Derek walked forward slowly, eyes open but glassy as if he had tuned into a different reality.

“Picking up any chatter on the Dead Channel?” Brent asked.

Travis grimaced at the nickname. “Chatter? No. But uneasiness? Yeah. I’m sure all these folks had lovely funerals, but that doesn’t mean people go gently to wherever they’re headed next.”

Derek climbed through a broken place in the low brick wall rather than fumbling with the wrought iron gate. Brent and Derek followed at a cautious distance, weapons ready.

“Either they’ve got grave robbers, or some of their dead parishioners woke up from their dirt nap,” Brent remarked, noting the messy excavations in front of several markers.

“But not everyone,” Travis mused. Both Brent and Travis had their guns raised, scanning for trouble, either living or undead. “So what made some of them special?”

Brent stared out across the small churchyard. Unlike the big Pittsburgh cemeteries filled with obelisks and angel statues, the headstones were modest and unremarkable. Brent had visited famous graveyards elsewhere that boasted gardens and beautiful landscaping, but this small plot felt desolate and forlorn, without even shade trees to soften the rows of tombstones.

Some of the markers were limestone, badly weathered with the years, nearly illegible. Most of the others were gray granite, probably the least expensive available. Several looked newer than the rest, and it was in front of those that fresh dirt formed mounds where the zombies had clawed themselves free.

“It’s the recent dead,” Brent said quietly.

“Yeah. I noticed that. Maybe because they still have people to mourn them?” Travis suggested.

Derek stopped abruptly and shook himself out of his trance.

“Well?” Brent asked, hearing an edge in his voice from the tension. He didn’t care for role-playing The Walking Dead , waiting to be surprised either by the local cops or hungry shamblers.

“The energy that raised them isn’t anything like my magic,” Derek replied. “I think the bodies were reanimated against their will. The power feels sullied. No, I’ll go farther than that. Not just dirty…evil.” He met Travis’s gaze. “At the risk of sounding Biblical, I’d even say infernal.”

“Demons again,” Brent groaned.

Travis didn’t look surprised. “The ghosts are afraid,” he said. “Especially those outside the wall.”

“What the fuck?” Brent felt his temper rise. “I thought that kind of thing only happened in movies.” Burying non-believers, criminals, and stigmatized others outside the churchyard walls, beyond “sanctified ground,” used to be common. Some thought it doomed the souls to wander, denying them eternal rest. Brent had always thought it sounded like petty bullshit.

“I don’t think that’s been done for quite some time, generations maybe, but Milesburg is an old town, and ghosts have long memories,” Travis said. “They don’t know what raised the dead, but they saw them rise, and they were afraid whatever power commanded the corpses could take them as well.”

“They were right to be afraid,” Derek replied. “I don’t think anything human channeled that energy. So the question becomes—why them, and why here?”

“Benjamin said there were other churches on this stretch. Let’s see whether they have the same problem,” Travis suggested.

Two other small churches stood in lonely isolation along the highway between Milesburg and the state game lands. One appeared to be abandoned. None of its dead rose. The other, a small brick building that seemed slightly better cared for than the first church, had even more missing bodies. They made the same sweep, and Derek reported feeling similar dark power in the cemetery with the risen dead, but not in the undisturbed burying ground.

“No one might have noticed the dead rising during the week,” Derek said, “but come Sunday, I’m betting it will be a topic of conversation.”

“No one rose in the third churchyard,” Brent pointed out. “Why?”

“And in the first cemetery, all of the newly buried people rose, while the ones who had been dead longer didn’t,” Derek mused. “But here, there are a couple of new headstones with recent deaths who didn’t rise.”

Brent bent down to examine one of those undisturbed graves. “The man who was buried here was ninety-six.” He walked a few paces over to another new marker whose “resident” remained below. “And a lady who was ninety-two.”

Trent seemed to catch his drift. “So maybe there was no one left to grieve them.”

Brent nodded. “It would make sense if you’re right about the Silverado abductions. Whatever’s behind this is picking its targets to make the biggest emotional impact. A child goes missing. A teenager everyone liked. A young woman who didn’t seem to have an enemy in the world.” He swept one hand in a gesture to indicate the cemeteries. “And now, zombies where the loss is recent and the grief is fresh for families who are going to be out of their minds about the graves being desecrated.”

“If they think the graves are bad, wait until they meet up with their loved ones looking a little worse for the wear,” Derek muttered.

“So there were five from the first cemetery, none from the second, and six here,” Brent said. “And from the dates on the headstones, seven of those were older adults, and four were between sixteen and thirty.”

“Which holds with the theory about wanting to upset the surviving family members,” Derek added.

“Do you think we’ve found all of them?” Brent asked.

Travis frowned. “Benjamin said something about a mortuary that went out of business.”

“Oh, shit,” Derek said, looking pale. “I totally forgot about that. Randall Funeral Home was in the news a month ago when it shut down without warning. Turns out that their crematory stopped working, and they didn’t tell anyone. Some bodies only got partially cremated, others just got stored in freezers, and the families got a box of sand instead of ashes. Then the power went out.”

“Fuck. What happened?” Brent asked.

“Families had started to get suspicious. The cops got a warrant, and found bodies in shallow graves, or stacked in a walk-in freezer. The owner committed suicide, the employees went to jail, and every forensic lab in six counties got called in to match dental records to badly decomposed remains.” Derek grimaced as he recalled the horror.

“Let’s go have a look at the funeral home,” Travis said. Derek got into the car first. Travis stowed his gun under the front seat, and Brent covered them until Travis was settled and the car was running before he got in, too.

Randall’s still showed up on the GPS, a short drive from the last church. The sprawling old home had been grand once before it was converted to a mortuary and fell into disgrace. The police tape was gone, but orange temporary construction fencing had been staked out along the perimeter of the grounds.

Travis got out of the car, and stumbled, catching himself against the chassis.

“You okay?” Brent asked.

Travis nodded. “Yeah. It’s just, the impressions are pretty strong.” A sudden gust of wind whipped by them, bending the tall grass and rustling the dry leaves in the trees. Brent felt gooseflesh prickle along his arms and at the back of his neck.

“I’m not sensing any of the undead,” Derek said. “Just some restless, angry ghosts.”

“Dangerous?” Brent had his gun in hand, but he knew an iron rod would do him more good if they were going to deal with vengeful spirits.

Travis and Derek shook their heads. “Angry for being mistreated, and for the heartache it caused their families,” Travis relayed.

“Grief again,” Brent noted. “Finding out that the funeral director stole your money and botched your loved one’s send-off would be like losing them all over again.”

Derek nodded. “I think you’re onto something there. If the police confiscated the remains, there wouldn’t be any bodies left here to turn into zombies, but I can feel the same energy imprint as I did at the graveyards. This isn’t a dark witch, messing around. It’s something old and powerful—and evil.”

Brent could see where backhoes and excavating equipment had torn up the lawn behind the building. The air felt heavy, like a storm was brewing. Pressure behind his eyes gave him a pounding headache, and it felt difficult to breathe. The nearby woods were too silent, as if even the birds and forest animals had fled. Every primal instinct told him to run.

“I want to say Last Rites, and send the spirits here on to their rest,” Travis said. “That leaves less unsettled energy for anything bad to draw on, and it’s the decent thing to do.”

Travis moved up to the fence and began the litany, while Brent and Derek remained at a respectful distance, watching for danger. Gradually, the air around them felt less oppressive, and Brent’s headache eased, as did the sense of disquiet. Perhaps it was his imagination, but the sky seemed to brighten, and by the time Travis finished his prayers, Brent heard birdsong and the rustle of small animals in the brush.

“Whatever raised the zombies didn’t exactly conjure up an army,” Derek noted. “So what’s the point?”

Travis led the way back to the Crown Vic. “Terror and grief. They aren’t supposed to attack the town. They’re supposed to get spotted and vanish, keeping everyone keyed up, not letting their loved ones let go and move on.” He started the car as they got in. “Let’s go back to where the drivers thought they saw the zombies. Maybe we’ll find something there.”

They drove in silence, each man lost in thought. Brent couldn’t help reliving the awful memories of the viewing and funerals for his parents and Danny. None of them had been open casket, not with what the demon left behind. He’d identified the bodies, to spare his grandfather who had a weak heart. No amount of alcohol would ever wash the images from Brent’s memories. The cops claimed it was a serial killer, but years later, after he’d encountered Mavet, Brent had figured out the truth.

Don’t make it personal, Brent warned himself. He knew it was already too late. While he’d managed to keep his objectivity on regular cases as a cop or a Fed, demon hunting bordered on being a vigilante obsession. Every monster he killed was a hollow victory, and while it protected someone else’s family, it would never return his own.

A glance at Derek yielded no insights; his expression was shuttered and unreadable, though the tense way he sat, leaning forward, suggested he was ready for a fight. Travis radiated anger in the white-knuckled clench of his fingers around the steering wheel and the set of his shoulders. Perhaps he felt the sacrilege even more strongly since he did not seem to have left as much of the priesthood behind as he claimed.

Travis pulled off on the shoulder. “There’ve been five sightings, all in this half-mile stretch. Seems like a good place to start.”

Brent got out first, with a gun in one hand and his Ka-Bar in the other. Travis came around to stand on the same side of the car, holding his shotgun. Derek stood between them, unarmed except for his magic.

Travis turned to take in their surroundings, making a slow circle with his shotgun held at the ready. “They’re out there,” he said quietly. “In the forest.”

Derek nodded. “I sense them, too. It’s almost like they’ve been…deactivated. I’m not sure they can move on their own. I think they’re being controlled.”

Travis racked his shells, ready for a fight. “Can you locate them? If they aren’t going to come to us, maybe we can take the battle to them and put a stop to this.”

Derek’s eyes widened, just as the sound rose of something crashing through the underbrush. “Shit. They’re awake, and they’re headed this way.”

Seconds later, the smell of rotting flesh filled the air. Shadowy forms careened toward them, moving quickly but with the coordination of a drunkard.

“Great. Fast zombies,” Brent muttered.

“Can you stop them with magic?” Travis glanced at Derek, gripping his machete as tightly as his gun.

“Gonna try,” Derek assured them. “Cover me.” He stretched out one arm, hand open and palm out, then closed his eyes, and while his lips moved, he did not speak aloud.

The two zombies in the lead were close enough for Brent to see their bloated, discolored faces. Two old men, still wearing their Sunday best suits, stumbling forward like they were running downhill, unable to stop. Brent had no idea what the zombies intended to do when they reached the road, but he did not want to find out. He raised his Glock, but Travis put a hand on his arm.

“Give Derek a moment.”

Brent held his fire but did not lower his arm.

Derek gave a shout and clenched his fist. The front two zombies fell to their knees, and the closest of their companions fell over them. It might have been funny, if the zombies hadn’t gotten back up again, fixed on their objective.

“The power that raised them isn’t magic,” Derek cried out, eyes wide with panic. “I can’t stop them.”

“Then blowing them to bits won’t stop them, either, but it might slow them down,” Travis said, handing off his shotgun to Derek. “Start shooting, and I’ll try the exorcism.”

Brent and Derek opened fire. The zombies might be moving at a medium jog instead of a slow shamble, but not so fast that it made targeting a problem. There were more of the undead than they had figured from the cemeteries, but not by many. Brent kept count as he shot, and his aim was true, striking in the head or center mass. Travis was right—the bullets sent the zombies reeling and forced them back a few steps, but within seconds they reoriented and started moving forward again with shattered skulls and gaping chest wounds.

“Exorcizamos te ….” Travis began.

Almost with the first words of the litany, the wind shifted, and a clinging cold descended. The feeling that they were in the presence of evil, like back at the mortuary, grew stronger, reminding Brent of that night his squadron survived Mavet. Something wicked and powerful made its presence known. He fought the triggering memories to keep focused on the moment, aiming and firing to buy Travis time.

In the next instant, the zombies collapsed like puppets with cut strings. The oppressive tension in the air vanished, and with it the dark entity that animated the wretched corpses.

“Someone had to have heard that,” Derek said, his voice unsteady.

“Get in the car,” Brent ordered. “Start it up. I’ll be there in a minute or less.” He ran toward the stinking heaps of rotting bodies, drizzling each with a bottle of lighter fluid he pulled from his jacket pocket, then tossing a match to light them like a pyre.

“Are you crazy? You could set the forest on fire!” Derek yelped as Brent threw himself into the front seat and Travis peeled rubber to put distance between themselves and the flames.

“We’ve had plenty of rain, and the cops are going to be here soon,” Brent replied, breathing hard. “But if whatever raised those bodies could drop them by leaving, it could start them up again if it came back. Gonna be harder now that they’re fried to a crackly crunch.”

They dropped Derek off at his car, getting back on the road seconds before police cars and fire engines zoomed past them, lights flashing and sirens blaring. Brent did not let out the breath he was holding until they and Derek were on I-80.

“That was—” Brent began.

“Horrific,” Travis finished. He visibly loosened his grip on the wheel and rolled his shoulders to release tension. A glance to the rear view mirror told Brent that the other man expected to see squad cars in pursuit.

“I’m going to talk to more of my Night Vigil, and then we head back to Cooper City and see if we can figure out how to pull the plug,” Travis said with grim determination. “Because if this is a cycle of some kind, then it’s building to a climax and I really don’t want to see what happens next.”