Hellboy, Vol. 2: The All-Seeing Eye Read Online Free

see. He just seems to want to ... go for a little walk.”
    “As does the late Mr. Hayes,” said Mr. Saxilby, indicating a door on the opposite side of the corridor, from behind which could clearly be heard the blundering thump of movement.
    “What’s making them do it, do you think?” Flo asked, but Mr. Saxilby shook his head.
    “I’ve no idea, Mrs. Jackson.”
    His attempt at a reassuring smile emerged as a ghastly grimace, and in that instant Flo knew exactly what the undertaker was thinking.
    He was wondering, as she was, what would happen if all the dead people in the world had suddenly come alive and started walking about. The police or the army would have to go out and round them all up, she supposed. But where would they put them? In prison? In hospitals?
    Her mind boggled at the prospect of it. It was terrifying to consider what a world where the dead refused to lie down would be like.
    “What — “ she began, and then Arthur collapsed, simply fell to the floor like a dead weight. Flo cried out as he landed on his face, his head hitting the floorboards with a crack. In the room across the corridor she heard a thump as Mr. Hayes presumably hit the deck, too.
    For several seconds she, Mr. Saxilby senior, and Nigel simply stood, looking down at Arthur, half expecting him to twitch back into life.
    But he didn’t. He just lay there, looking as dead as could be, his limbs floppy as a rag doll’s, his face flat against the floorboards.
    “Is he ...” Flo began, and then found she couldn’t choke the rest of the sentence past the obstruction in her throat.
    “I hope so,” Mr. Saxilby murmured, then realized what he had said and hastily added, “Beg your pardon, Mrs. Jackson. No offense intended.”
    Flo cleared her throat. “None taken,” she said firmly. “What just happened ... well, it wasn’t right, was it? The dead should stay dead.”
    “Amen to that,” Nigel said fervently.
    ———
    Bartle Road, Notting Hill,
London, England
Monday, October 22nd, 11:20 a.m.
     
    “That’s it, son. Get it all up. Better out than in.”
    Sergeant Wormley stepped back smartly as PC Firth’s retching finally resulted in an almighty fountain of vomit. He glanced around to make sure he and the rookie weren’t being observed by the knot of curious onlookers gathered outside the unassuming semidetached house on Bartle Road. Wormley was an old-school copper, and had always had great faith and pride in the integrity and professionalism of the London bobby. In his opinion it wouldn’t do to have the city’s finest looking anything other than calm and capable.
    Not that he blamed the lad. First time he’d seen a bad ‘un to match this he’d chucked his guts up too. Dead junkie his had been, whose remains had lain undiscovered in his filthy flat for nearly a week. The body had been bloated, the flesh black and slimy like old banana skins. Worse, though, had been the stench and the teeming maggots. Wormley had thrown up so violently he’d thought his stomach was about to turn inside out. He’d barely been able to sleep for the next week. Every time he’d closed his eyes he’d seen maggots writhing in the dead man’s empty eye sockets and in the gaping cavity of his mouth.
    He patted the back of the young lad, who was bent over double beside him. Having puked into the bushes which screened them, Firth was now spitting out the remainder of his regurgitated breakfast. Finally he straightened up, sniffing, his face pale and sweaty.
    “Sorry about that, sarge,” he said. “I feel a right numpty.”
    “Nothing to apologize for, son. Happens to the best of us.”
    “Bet it’s never happened to you,” Firth said ruefully.
    “Oh yes it has. Man who doesn’t react like you did the first time ... well, there’s something wrong with him, I reckon. Human nature, isn’t it? Shows you care. You might think it’s a sign of weakness, but I think it’s the sign of a good copper.”
    “The lads’ll still take