A noise like a wrecking ball smashing into timbers interrupted her. Tremendous splintering cracks, loud as gunshots, sounded from the roof.

"All right!" shouted Constance. "Go and get *em!"

The sound resolved into the drumming of countless feet, as if a herd of horses were running across the planks. Dust poured from the ceiling, and Bill threw his hands over his head, waiting for one of the dead to crash through the roof and land in his lap.

Then the noise ceased.

A second of silence.

Then more screaming.

"Go!" shouted Constance. "Go go go!"

She was leaning forward, staring at the window. Her hands were pale claws, almost as white as the plastic of the table. Her ragged nails turned pink from the pressure on her fingers.

"What the hell?" demanded Bill.

"Look!"

Bill's head snapped around. It was painful, as if Constance had reached into his spine and wrenched it sideways.

He gulped.

"One of your horror movies," he said.

"Yes yes yes!" shouted Constance.

Outside, the armies of the dead collided.

Through the chaos of flesh and clothing and hair, he fixated on a sparkle of gold: Mary's necklaces. Fat old Mary, grabbing one of the bridesmaids by the hair. Mary's mouth moved, her voice lost in the babble of the other bodies.

Mary lifted one of her fists like a club, and brought it down on the bridesmaid's shoulder. Again and again she hammered, until the arm tore off in a shower of blood.

"No!" shouted Constance.

Mary then swung the severed limb into the girl's neck. The bridesmaid's head rolled off and spun into the air, its long hair pinwheeling and spraying gore through the melee.

"How...?" was all Bill could come up with.

"That BITCH!" shouted Constance.

The dead roared as the battle raged on. Bill saw the asian guy in the bathrobe jump onto a man in a tuxedo, digging his fingers into tuxedo guy's eyes. Then asian bathrobe guy dug out his eyeballs and, while standing on their owner's shoulders, popped them into his mouth. Then he did a backflip onto the head of one of the bridesmaids, crushing her head with the force of his fall.

The fat guy with the Darth Vader shirta*Bill remembered him lying in the campfire lighta*had pinned someone wearing Timberland boots and stonewashed jeans. The fat guy bashed his opponent's head against the ground, while simultaneously kneeing him in the groin.

And there were a hundred other scenes like this. Biting, gouging, screaming, kicking, dismembering, beheading. The noise became a howled symphony of the damned. The rising daylight revealed things that Bill never thought he'd see, and knew he would never forget.

He could only watch, his mouth open.

"Looks like I'm winning," said his wife. He felt her breath on his neck, a caress in the midst of chaos. "All those people I got."

"What?" said Bill.

"Those people I got. Look, those people in the dresses? The ones in the tuxedoes?"

Bill saw three heads flung into the air, followed by three rooster-tails of blood. The heads hung there for longer than was natural, turning like planets spinning in orbit. Then they tumbled out of sight. One of the heads had worn golden earrings, severely oversized. Bill wondered if it belonged to Mary.

"What are you talking about?" he asked.

"I think we should go somewhere else to talk, love," said Constance.

Then there came a thud, and a sound like mud splashing on the Jeep's windshield. "Oh, shit," said his wife. "Don't look at that, if you don't want to throw up, darling."

But Bill was already looking. Something had flown against the windowa*a limb or an organ or a head or mound of flesha*and cracked the glass in a spiderweb pattern. And now the window was covered in blood, turning it into a dark ruby slab.

"Shit," said Bill.

"You didn't finish all of your food," said Constance.

She had picked up her second hot dog. She ate it in three dainty bites, all the time staring at him.

The sounds of the revenant battle roared and raged outside. The red light tinted his wife's face, giving her a devilish aspect. Bill thought of the devil faces on the trees, with their crude horns and bulging eyes.

She finished her hot dog, and brushed her hands together.

"I must say," she said over the din, "this has been the best honeymoon ever. I think we should go somewhere else."

"Yeah, yeah. Great fuckin' idea, sweetie," said Bill. Another thud sounded against the side of the cabin. What had caused ita*a body part, or a whole body?

"You're not up for a big trip," Constance said. "We should stay."

"No! What the hell are you thinking?"

"Just tell them to shut up outside," she said.

She lowered her hands to the table, and fiddled with her plate, taking off a handful of potato chips.

With her free hand, she snapped her fingers.

And the cabin was silent.

Bill was still for a moment, wondering if he had gone deaf. But then his wife brought a potato chip to her mouth and ate it. He heard it rustling in her hand, and the overly-loud crunching as she chewed.

"Better?" she said, after she'd swallowed.

"What did you do?" Bill asked.

"Quieted things down." said Constance, wiping her fingers on the bloodstain that crossed her chest. "In case you haven't noticed, William, I can do pretty much whatever I want now."

She ate another potato chip.

Bill looked out of the window. One of the green-dressed bridesmaids was tearing out the hair of a woman who could have only been the bride. Her white dress was covered in blood and black soil. The bride opened her mouth and squinted her eyes as she screamed in unimaginable agony.

But there was no sound. Nothing. He might as well have been watching a movie with the volume off.

Constance grabbed his hand. She was smiling. Her lips were chapped, and had subtle flecks of blood. Her hand was cold, like the arms of Mary. He fought the urge to push her away.

"Don't be afraid," she said.

"What happened to you?" he asked for what felt like the hundredth time.

Constance sighed. Her lips, greasy from the potato chips, shone a bright pink.

"Same thing as you," she said. "Only better. I can do pretty much whatever I want now."

"How?"

"Want proof?" she asked.

"No," said Bill. Fighting his revulsion, he reached out and took her other hand. "No, darling, I don't. I just needa*"

"We'll have to go somewhere else. Bill. Somewhere...oh, yes!" She smiled, splitting her bottom lip. "One of the casino farther east. Would you like that?"

Bill shook his head.

"You were right, honey," said Constance. "This is just like one of my movies. Night of the Living Dead? Remember that one?"

"Who are you?" asked Bill. "And what did you do with my wife?"

Constance threw back her head and laughed her horrible laugh. Bill nearly covered his ears.

"Constance is safe."

She leaned forward.

"Safe," she repeated.

Then she was back in her seat.

"On second thought," she said. "Let's get a room."

She stood up and grabbed his chest. For a second Bill thought she was going to kiss him.

"I'll drive," she said.

She lay her free hand on his forehead.

Then blackness.

Then nothingness.

Twenty-One.

The next thing Bill was aware of was cold pressure on his face.

As his eyelids fluttered open, he realized he was pressed against the window of the Jeep.

Outside, rain.

They were on the highway.

"Wha..." he said, and turned to look at the driver's seat.

"Back to sleep," Constance said, shifting the Jeep deftly, even though she didn't know how to drive stick. "We've only got a couple of hours."

Bill stared at her. She had her pink hood raised.

"Muh," was all he could say.

"Back to sleep," she said. "Almost there."

And again he collapsed against the window.

"...and I got us the best room," said Constance. "At least for the next, oh, hour."

Bill blinked rapidly. His vision cleared.

He saw his wife in front of him. She was holding something red and white.

"This was in the refrigerator," she said.

Bill looked down. It was a can of Budweiser.

"Drink it," she said.

Bill took the can. It was ice-cold.

"Popped the top already."

He drank. The beer chilled his dry throat, and he coughed a couple of times.