The Horror Megapack. Robert E. Howard

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СКАЧАТЬ by bit,” Madeline continued. “Maybe I can get you loose.”

      Connell’s cramped efforts moved the chair a scant fraction of an inch. At the rasp of wood, the heads of the zom­bies shifted. They had their orders. Not a chance.

      “Plato,” said Connell. “Loosen my hands, Plato, don’t you remember me?”

      Over and over, he repeated the name. The blank, sightless face seemed to change for an instant.

      “Maybe he’s not been this way long enough to forget everything,” whispered Madeline. “Try again—”

      The oft repeated name got unexpect­ed results, but not from the zombie. Pla­to’s wife, Amelia, came slinking from the hallway. Her black plump face be­came slate grey as she stared into the ruddy glow.

      “Where’s my Plato? Mr. Walt, was you talkin’ to him?”

      Then she saw the hulk that had been Connell’s servant.

      “Plato! Don’t you hear me talkin’ to you?”

      Not a sign of life. That blasted brain could not absorb a new impression.

      “Plato, honey, can’t you hear me?”

      Finally, grey and trembling, the woman turned to Connell.

      “Mr. Walt, I can’t do nuthin’. Plato’s dead.”

      Connell realized that Amelia’s persu­asion had made less impression than his own authoritative voice.

      “Untie us, Amelia,” he said.

      She had scarcely reached the chair when Plato’s ponderous hand lashed out, flinging her into a corner.

      “Mr. Walt,” said the woman, as she struggled to her feet, “I’m goin’ to the village to get help. That devil don’t know I’m here, and I’ll get some friends.”

      She stepped into the hall. Connell re­newed his struggles. Once or twice Madeline contrived to jerk her chair a fraction of an inch toward him, but a zombie leaped forward, bodily picked her up, and set her in a corner. They did nothing to thwart Connell’s struggles against his bonds. The orders had not covered that.

      Finally Connell contrived to spread the knotted strands of clothesline.

      “Hang on, darling,” he panted. “I’ll be clear in a second.”

      “But what good will it do?” moaned Madeline. “They’ll block you before—”

      “Maybe I can toss you out the win­dow, chair and all.”

      He knew that he had no chance against his grisly captors, but anything was bet­ter than waiting for that deadly brew to receive the missing ingredients that would make them living corpses. Con­nell heard footsteps and relaxed his des­perate efforts. His blood froze, and a stifled oath choked him.

      It was Amelia. She had a small par­cel wrapped in paper. Damn her, why hadn’t she run to the village like she’d said she would?

      “Plato, honey,” she pleaded, “I brought you somethin’ good.”

      “For God’s sake, go to the village!” shouted Connell.

      “That would be wasted effort,” said a sardonic voice.

      Ducoin crossed the threshold, accompanied by Aunt Célie and several zombies. His sinister pres­ence, and the living dead seemed to freeze Amelia with horror. She had lost her chance to make a break.

      “I guess we’ll have a number three zombie,” murmured Ducoin.

      The living dead now blocked the doorway. Aunt Célie lifted the lid of the kettle, and added a pinch of powder from a small packet. She stirred the villainous potion, and drew off a cupful and held it to Connell’s lips.

      “You might as well drink it,” said Ducoin. “If you don’t—” His gaze shifted to Madeline’s trembling bare body and he resumed, “These zombies will do any­thing I tell them. How would you like to see one of them—”

      His words trailed to a whisper, but Connell knew what would happen to Madeline, before his eyes.

      And then the last remnant of cord that bound his wrist yielded. His freed hand flashed out, striking the steaming beverage from Ducoin’s hand. As the Creole recoiled, Connell’s other hand jerked loose, gripping him by the throat. The sudden move caught Ducoin off guard. Since the master was present, the zombies did not interfere; and Du­coin, throttled by Connell’s savage grasp, could not articulate an order.

      Sock! Connell’s fist hammered home, driving Ducoin crashing into a corner, dazed and numb. Connell struggled with the bonds at his ankles, but only for a moment. Aunt Célie seized his elbows from the rear.

      Once Ducoin recovered his voice—!

      Amelia was free. But instead of run­ning, she approached Plato.

      “Jes’ yo’ taste one, honey,” she crooned, placing a salted cashew nut in the bluish, sagging mouth of her dead husband.

      There was a mumbling and a drooling, a sudden flash of perception as the salty tidbit mingled with the saliva; then an inarticulate, bestial howl.

      Ducoin and Aunt Célie flung themselves forward.

      “Stop her!” yelled Ducoin. “She’s giving them salt!”

      Too late. Burly, powerful Plato had become a raging maniac. Amelia thrust cashew nuts into the mouth of the other zombie. Another incredible transformation. Another slavering, howling brute.

      A pistol cracked, but only once. Ducoin’s weapon clattered into a corner. Plato and his companion closed in.

      The room became a red hell of slaughter. The insensate hulks were pound­ing and trampling and flinging Ducoin and Aunt Célie about like bean bags.

      They hungrily licked splashed blood from their hands, and renewed the assault. Other zombies came from the fields, tasted a salted nut, and joined the butchery. And presently there was only a shapeless, gory pulp that they were trampling and beating into the floor.…

      The zombies desisted for lack of fragments left to dismember. Then they clambered to their feet, utterly ignoring Amelia and the two prisoners. They shattered the window, cleared the sill, and dashed across the field. Against the moonglow, Connell saw them burrowing into the ground like dogs.

      Amelia, sobbing and laughing, was re­leasing him and Madeline.

      “Mr. Walt,” the woman explained, “when I saw my Plato, I remem­bered somethin’ my ole grandmammy told me years ago, about them zombies cuttin’ up that way when they ate salt. Then I remembered the cashew nuts I gave you. Now, praise de Lord, Plato is plumb dead, and all the other zombies are goin’ to their graves like Chris­tians. They always do that, when they get salt. But first they messes up the man what made them zombies.”

      “But how did he do it?” wondered Connell as he helped Madeline into the car.

      “I don’t know anything СКАЧАТЬ