Undead by John Russo Page B

behind Helen as she concentrated on caring for the girl, pulling the coat more securely around her. Without bothering to look up at Harry, she said, “Karen has a bad fever now.”
    Harry sighed, with concern for his daughter. Then he said, “There’s two more people upstairs.”
    “Two?”
    “Yeah,” Harry acknowledged. Then, half-defensively: “I wasn’t about to take any unnecessary chances.”
    Helen remained silent, while Harry awaited some sign that she approved of his decision. “How did we know what was going on up there?” he said finally, flinging his arms into the air with a shrug. Then he reached nervously to his breast pocket for a cigarette, produced a pack that turned out to be empty, and crumpled it in his hand and pitched it to the floor. He stepped over to the worktable where there was another pack, snatched it up, and it, too, was empty—and with the same crumpling action Harry discarded the pack, violently this time, the action spinning him into a position facing his wife and daughter. Helen continued to quietly swab the girl’s forehead, while Harry stared at them for a moment.
    “Does she seem to be all right?” Harry asked, anxiously.
    Helen was silent. The daughter, Karen, motionless.
    Harry was sweating to the point where beads of sweat had formed all over his face. He waited and, seeing no answer forthcoming, changed the subject.
    “They’re all staying upstairs…idiots! We should stick together. It’s the safest down here.”
    He went to his wife’s purse and rummaged through the contents long enough to find a pack of cigarettes. He tore the pack open, yanked a cigarette out, lit it, and dragged in the first puff deeply; it made him cough slightly.
    “They don’t stand a chance up there. They can’t hold those things off forever. There’s too many ways they can get into the house up there.”
    Helen remained silent, as if her respect and tolerance of her husband’s ideas had long ago been dissipated.
    On the floor, next to the workbench, was a small transistor radio. Harry’s glance fell on it and he stabbed at it, scooped it up, and clicked it on.
    “They had a radio on upstairs. Must’ve been Civil Defense or…I think it’s not just us, this thing is happening all over.”
    The tiny radio would pick up nothing but static, try as Harry might. He spun the tuning dial back and forth, listening anxiously, but across the receiving band the transistor just continued to hiss. Harry held it up and turned it into various positions, trying for reception, spinning the tuner constantly. Still, nothing but hissing. He began pacing the room, holding the radio up and down and sideways, with no results.
    “This damned thing—”
    Still just static.
    Helen stopped wiping her daughter’s forehead, neatly folded the cloth, and draped it over the prostrate girl’s brow. Gently placing her hand on her daughter’s chest, she looked over toward her husband, who was still pacing around the cellar, his cigarette dangling from his lip, waving the little radio around in the air.
    The radio continued to emit nothing but static at varying volumes.
    “Harry—”
    He continued his fidgeting with the radio, as though it had become an obsession. He moved near the wall at the foot of the stairs, holding it high and still spinning the dial. He was breathing and perspiring heavily.
    “Harry—that thing can’t pick up anything in this stinking dungeon!”
    Her rising tone of voice stopped him; he turned and looked at her; about to cry, she brought her hands up to her face. Then, shaking her head, she bit her lip and just stared at the floor.
    Looking at her, Harry’s anger rose and swept over him, putting him momentarily at a loss for words; his face began twitching, his emotion searching for some vehicle of expression, until he pivoted violently and flung the radio across the room, smashing it against the wall, and launched into an orgy of shouting.
    “I hate you—right? I hate the kid? I