Living Dead- Psych's Tackle

  A dark shape shot past Father Bill and collided with the sailors. It was a man, stocky and strong, the sinew of his back and arms clear from a short-sleeved black workout shirt. It was, of course, the priest’s nemesis, the Psych. Some time back, Father Bill had concluded that while the smug nonbeliever nodded respectfully at everything the boat’s religious leaders said, privately he believed them all fools. He had his holy books and the Psych, his prescription pad. Guess which one sailors preferred?

  Each of the Psych’s linebacker shoulders struck one of the sailors in the gut, sending all three tangling into folding chairs. Father Bill searched for My Sweet, thinking they might finish what they’d started, but she was gone.

  “Father—Bill—”

  The Psych’s double-tackle, though impressive, hadn’t knocked the wind out of the sailors. They did not look the least bit distracted. They tore at the Psych with what looked like great interest, which suggested the priest hadn’t been singled out as a target. Father Bill mused on this while the Psych held back the Black sailor’s head by his scruff and used a forearm to deflect the white sailor.

  “Help me—Father Bill—pull one of Them—”

  The Psych screamed, a wild, womanly sound that flooded Father Bill with righteous feeling. It was the perfect sound for the Psych, the dying yowl of a quack profession that held no weight against customs of old. The white sailor’s jaws were embedded in the Psych’s forearm, teeth squealing atop the ulna. The sailor jerked his head, tearing away a hunk of the Psych’s arm, white as blubber and trailing red tissue. The Psych stared at the hole in disbelief until it gushed blood.

- The Living Dead, chapter: The Full Armor of God