Army of the Undead Read online

  Chapter 1

  NO OTHER MEMORY

  "Is this David Vincent?" Her voice stabbed through the earpiece, tense, slightly husky, pitched low, as if fearful of being overheard.

  Vincent switched on the tape. It sounded like one of those. He never knew for certain when they'd come, these semihysterical calls from—well, most anyplace.

  "Say again," he said, calmly soft-toned.

  "Is this David Vincent?" she repeated with emphasis.

  "It is. Can I help you?" So much better than "Who's that? What d'you want?" He used to speak that way when the pressure was new and it seemed that every nut and crank in the universe was parked on the end of his phone.

  It worked this time. Her voice warmed, eased to a pleading note. "Oh, yes—yes please! I'm not unhinged."

  He laughed softly. "Of course not. You're not a door, are you?"

  The feeble crack made the silence he wanted her to use. Those voices—disembodied, throbbing with all life's fears, their owners wound tight after maybe a long time screwing up courage to phone him, then finding infuriating delays in getting through. So then they babbled and cracked in a rising flood of undammed thoughts.

  "Different," she said after the little pause. "You're so different from what I expected. Are you clever, or was that an accident? It made me stop. I didn't want to stop. I wanted to pour out my story to you—so urgently, so desperately. They say I am, you know. Unhinged, I mean."

  "They say that about me, too. Nice to meet a fellow feeler. Why urgent?"

  "So that you'll believe me. It won't sound urgent unless I make it sound that way. That's what I thought."

  "Not so. Not always. Do I know you?"

  "No—no, you don't, and you won't—I mean, I can't. You see—I'm afraid. So very afraid. Perhaps you're not him after all? And if you're not, then I'm in terrible danger."

  "I'll not press you. Who am I then?"

  "David Vincent. You were an architect, but you became involved in that ghastly aliens business—I saw you on television. I laughed then. You and your UFOs and your story of invisible invaders—big joke, huh? But not now. Oh, my God, not now! So it would be fair if you laughed at me. Oh, dear! This isn't going the way I expected. Help me, Mr. Vincent, help me. I may be upset—perhaps a little neurotic—but I'm not crazy."

  "You have seen an unidentified flying object?"

  "My husband claimed he did. He told me, but I laughed. He wouldn't tell anyone else. He was convinced—so convinced that he was going to phone you. Then he—he died."

  "I'm so sorry. An accident?"

  "So they said, but no one has found the cause. He drove cars, fast cars. He died in one of them." Words became strangled. "I'd rather not say more about him. Not now." After a pause, her voice was more clear. "The authorities still don't believe you, do they?"

  "No. Do you?"

  "I believe you enough to be afraid of almost everyone except my daughter and her fiance. You said they could be anywhere—these aliens—that they might have mutations, but I'm not sure what that means. Are they crippled?"

  "No, not crippled. Just little things, like a crooked finger, a strangely dead-looking face. Their hair may have the appearance of being a cleverly made wig or toupee. There are other signs, but too difficult to explain, and many quite ordinary people have similar peculiarities so it's better not to disclose them yet. You say you are afraid of everyone except these two people. Why?"

  "I don't know, Mr. Vincent. But that doesn't make me less afraid."

  "I have never said we should be afraid of everyone," he spoke sharply. "I have said only that we all must be forever watchful. In fact, I have emphasized that fear is a means of communication for the aliens because it releases power from the human body—a power the aliens need for themselves. A person filled with fear is, for the period in which the fear lasts, denying the power of the human spirit that is the force of life."

  "I do not refer to it in any religious sense at all. This human spirit is a functional and scientific fact. Fear is its only neutralizer. It cannot be destroyed. But it can be transferred. It is your strength. Surrender it and accept only fear, and the aliens can absorb it—much as a bully can physically dominate you by instilling fear into you. Cast out your fear, and you resist and possibly defeat him. Dictators draw power from the mass fear of the people. You understand? So I cannot sympathize with your fear. I tell you to fight it, deny it, and in doing that you will reassert your own spirit. In that reasserting you will automatically deny power to the aliens if—I repeat if—you imagine they are anywhere near you."

  He waited, hearing only the sounds of an open circuit.

  "Are you still there, Mrs. Mystery Lady?"

  "Yes," she said, strong-voiced. "Yes, I'm still here. And a different person from the one who first picked up this phone. Oh, why can't the authorities—the officials, the upper-echelon servicemen—talk as strong, straight sense as that? They make you feel so helpless—faced with an utterly incomprehensible situation like 'things' landing from UFOs and not being even visible! But you've shown how they can be fought! And as you spoke, I could feel my own spirits rise." She laughed. "By golly, I said it, didn't I? Felt my own spirits rise."

  "Sure." He chuckled. "Happens all the time if you let it. Are you still too afraid to tell me your name?"

  "Yes, but for a different reason. I wanted desperately to phone you. To unburden myself of these beliefs, these fears that are becoming intolerable for me to bear alone. I thought if I told you, urgently, hysterically, that you'd come rushing to investigate." She giggled. "I think I had a mental picture of you just sitting waiting for someone like me to supply you with more evidence to investigate. But it's not like that, is it?"

  "No, not like that. Sometimes the utmost speed is necessary, but there must be assessment—calm and cool. Because, you see, Mrs. X, I believe also that part of the aliens' plan is to cause hysteria and senseless rushing from place to place. So now, you tell me, huh? Tell me calmly and quietly and we'll decide what can be done."

  "Okay, Mr. Vincent. But I'll not disclose my name because I don't want you to be biased. You'll understand that later—much later, perhaps. I'm not speaking from my home town. I covered my tracks: I'm using a different name, so if this phone is bugged, they won't be able to check back on me."

  "You are in a pay booth?"

  "No, a room in a motel."

  "The call is through the motel switchboard?"

  "Yes, and that is manned by a young girl who's more interested in her boy friend. I can see them through my window. She isn't even near the switchboard."

  "The motel is on a highway?"

  "Quite a distance off a highway. It serves a mountain road."

  "It sounds an excellent choice. I doubt if it's bugged and I cannot detect any sounds that the circuit is being listened in to."

  "I'll mention the name of my town last—just before we ring off." She drew breath, then continued: "The town is an industrial one, relying on one main industry. My husband believed the UFO landing was connected with that industry."

  "Did he tell you why?"

  "He was basing his belief upon your own theories, Mr. Vincent, and his ideas were so fantastic that he dared not mention them to anyone but me. The industry in my town has its own security force. It is, in fact, more powerful than the police."

  "That sometimes happens in company towns. But your police still operate?"

  "Oh, yes. And we have a strong district attorney and a very good police chief, but the most powerful man is Thias Rumbold, chief of security. His son, Gineas Rumbold, is also a security official."

  "Nepotism or talent?"

  She laughed softly. "A little of both, I think. Gin wouldn't have risen in rank so fast, but he'd still have b
een a good man for the job, even if his father weren't the chief. The point is that my husband believed Gineas Rumbold died in a car crash, and that it happened at the exact time he saw the UFO landing. He reported the landing—gave the fullest details of what he saw. The UFO sighting took only a few moments. My husband was an ex-paratrooper who finished his service in special intelligence work. I don't even know what he did, but I'm mentioning it so you'll know he was a highly stable and intelligent man. Also very experienced in dealing with the effects of violent death."

  "In other words—he would have remained cool and objective under stress."

  "Definitely. There is no doubt about it. He was like—like tempered steel, supple and strong. A wonderful person in an emergency. He said he made absolutely certain Gin Rumbold was dead—his neck was broken, although he wasn't marked except for a lump on his forehead. My husband left the crash and tried to flag down a car and ask the driver to call the police. The first two cars wouldn't stop. The third was the patrol car. As they stopped, my husband went back to the wreck." She paused. "Gin Rumbold was climbing out of his car. In fact he met my husband halfway. He complained of a stiff neck, but otherwise was unhurt."

  "And you are convinced your husband could not have mistaken unconsciousness for death?"

  "Absolutely. And there was something else. As Gineas Rumbold climbed out of the wrecked car, my husband saw a sort of halo of light around his body."

  "Ah!" David Vincent expelled breath sharply. "Go on."

  "He said that later he wondered if it was a trick of the light, or even static electricity from the car, but he swore it wasn't either of these. It was a definite cloudy-white light, growing less even as he looked, and by the time Gin was clear of his wrecked car the light had disappeared."

  "Did your husband say how it disappeared?"

  "Into Gin Rumbold. He said it didn't fade. It merged into Gin's body. From that moment everything around us seemed to change. Gin Rumbold—who also must have seen the UFO landing at the same time as my husband—was emphatic that there was no such thing. He belittled my husband's story, poured scorn on it. Yet before the crash they were the best of friends who'd known each other since school, seen service together. Then suddenly Gin became like an enemy. From around this time we began to have a number of terrible accidents on the highway outside of town."

  "Does it normally have a high accident rate?"

  "No, it's one of the safest highways. And the areas where our industry's products are tested also started having bad accidents. Then came a great deal of unrest in certain factories. Labor relations are usually very good; now they're almost chaotic. Now, Mr. Vincent, all these troubles—the terrible death toll on the highway, the test accidents, the works, and some violent disagreements between security, police and the district attorney's office—none of them are mentioned in our local press, or on the air."

  "That is very unusual."

  "My husband, and several others, tried to find out why. He died. So did two of the others. My city is now a city of fear. I think my husband knew why all this was happening. He tried to tell me, but it was all so nebulous, so hard to prove, and there were many technical details I didn't understand."

  "And this situation is continuing in your city?"

  "Yes, but I don't have much direct contact with Gin Rumbold since my husband died. I loved my husband, Mr. Vincent, but until he can be proved right I have no other memory to support my future than those last hellish days before"—she paused—"before he was murdered. Come to my city—quietly. Tell no one who you are. Can you fix yourself so you cannot be recognized?"

  "I'm becoming quite an expert at doing that very thing. Tell me, have you personally been threatened?"

  "Once. After the funeral. The phone rang. A voice said, 'Now it is over. All is over. Be sure you do not lose anyone else.'"

  "You didn't recognize the voice?"

  "Yes, it was Gineas Rumbold's voice. Later, I discovered that at that very moment he was riding in a taxi with the district attorney. There was no radiophone in the cab. Well, Mr. Vincent—am I just a neurotic, unhinged woman?"

  "No, my dear, you are a brave and lonely one."

  "So you will come?"

  "I will come. Unheralded and unsung. We will fight your fear together. Where is your city of fear?"

  "Auto City."

  He whistled, flutingly soft.

  "Yes," she said. "It's hard to believe, isn't it? Goodbye, David Vincent."

  Chapter 2

  HITCH ME A STAR, BROTHER!

  So you learn your lessons hard. You see and feel a thing—clear, strong, real. So you believe and, believing, tell—and in the telling, learn. You learn how complete strangers can hate your guts because you tell what you believe. They have many reasons for not believing what you tell, but they don't tell you. No, sir, they do not. They stick you up there and crucify you for what you have told them.

  So first you learn not to tell. Not anyone. That's how you know how the woman on the phone felt. That's how you know what had happened to her. She scarcely needed to tell you, but what if you'd told her that, said, "Look, lady, it's all happened to me. I know every goddam twist of it, so skip the build-up and give me the facts." What then? You learn not to do that. When it happens to them—well, they just have to tell someone, see? Just as you did. Until they learn the hard, cruel way. Learn that a whole lot of people, far more than you'd ever imagine, need to be hit over the head with a hammer before they believe in the existence of a hammer. You learn that many of them just don't like hammers, or make out they don't exist. Crazy? You bet! But that's people—just people.

  He hired a German car. This wasn't exactly tactful considering he was aiming for Auto City, which didn't like many things not of itself. Especially German cars. He came from the north onto the great cloverleaf of overpasses and underpasses linking the complex of highways.

  At the start of Highway 640 he pulled in to fill the tank and himself. He'd been driving since dawn on coffee and vitamin tablets. He sat near a young man with crew-cut hair, blue eyes and a pug-dog face—all squashed up, button nosed.

  "Hi!" said the young fellow, obviously bursting to talk. "Come far?"

  "Upstate. You?" He ordered his breakfast in between question and answer.

  "Sixty miles down the highway. Been up all night." He said it proudly. Big deal. "Around the nightspots. Man, such crazy places!"

  David Vincent smiled. "Guess they are. Not much of a nightspot man, myself. Getting old, maybe." He surveyed his companion's bronzed face, clear skin. "You don't live that way? If so, you thrive on it. More than I would."

  "Once in a while. Special occasions."

  "Like now?"

  "Sure. Like now. Twenty-one at midnight. Tom's the name. Tom Claus."

  "David," he hesitated. "David Trome."

  "I've seen you someplace. No, that's not a feed line. I really have. That possible?"

  David shrugged. "Could be. I get around. Congratulations. Happy birthday."

  "Thanks. Know why I stayed around the city all night?"

  "Celebration?"

  "Yeah, but not all." He pointed through the window. "That's my baby! Waited all night to pick her up the minute they opened."

  David swung on the stool to sight the sleek, white convertible parked outside. He glanced back. "Yours?"

  "Yup. The very first on the road."

  "Some car! I've never seen one like it before. What is it?"

  "The pride of Auto City, Mister, that's what that baby is. Carasel Motors' latest genius product—the Carasel Windflight. And, brother, she has everything! She's in standard form now. But an hour's easy work and she's stripped down to stock-car trim. She is the ultimate dual-purpose car. You know somep'n? I bet Carasel will scoop the world with this one."

  "Too rich for my blood." David laughed. "But I know just how you feel. You're a lucky guy."

  "Lucky to have a first model, but I sure enough worked hard for it."

  Breakfasts arrived, they bega
n eating.

  "You work in the city?" David asked casually.

  "Not now. I'm a programmer. I specialize. Big brain stuff. Got a small place way out on the mountain. Do all my work at home. I need the quiet and no interruptions, see?"

  David nodded. "The new aristocracy—that's you. The specialist programmer in a computer world. It sure scares an oldie like me. Pardon me, but you're kind of young to be so expert, at anything."

  Tom laughed, seeming more pleased than offended.

  "Start to train young and learn it right—that's what Dad used to say. Gosh, he was a wonderful guy! Maybe I had the I.Q. built in, but he sure trained it. Y'know, I was playing chess when I was four? When I was eight they had to skip me in school so I could take advanced math and a couple of other subjects. Dad lived to see me lick 'em all, then he died."

  "Sorry—that sounds tough. Your mother…?"

  "She ran off while I was little. Took all of Dad's money. He always wanted to live on the mountain. We never made it, though. He spent his earnings on getting me trained. Two years after I'd got every goddam degree they could offer, I'd made enough to buy the land. Then I built the house. Not big, but I'll be adding to it."

  David finished his meal, called for more coffee, lit a cigarette and surveyed the young man. On a hunch he'd aimed first for Highway 640, before checking into Auto City. In many of his investigations he began by following a hunch. Easy enough to follow the obvious. The trick was to follow both. Letting each lead him to what he called his "breakaway point." This point came when hunches and facts formed a viable pattern. Facts were things to see, to check up on. Hunches were played out through people.

  Sometimes the earlier contacts offered him nothing more than aimless gossiping conversation, but usually, and generally unknowingly, they gave him background evidence. That was why he talked to as many strangers as possible. Talked some, but listened more. He'd always possessed this knack of making people at ease in his company, but since he had given up all other work to concentrate upon this fearsome and fiercely contested belief, he'd cultivated an even easier and more receptive approach. Obviously, young Tom Claus was bursting to talk about his big day, but even so, he wouldn't have done it with just any chance-met stranger. And a weird warning sensation was feathering itself into David's mind right now. He recognized the signs. They'd happened too many times before to be coincidence, or a chance disturbance. He wanted, strongly, to warn this young man—yet how, and about what?