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  THE RISING:

  SELECTED SCENES FROM THE END OF THE WORLD

  BRIAN KEENE

  First Digital Edition

  Published by:

  Delirium Books

  P.O. Box 338

  North Webster, IN 46555

  [email protected]

  www.deliriumbooks.com

  The Rising: Selected Scenes From The End Of The World

  © 2008, 2009 by Brian Keene

  Cover Artwork © 2008, 2009 by Alan M. Clark All Rights Reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For Shane Ryan Staley, who knows a good thing when he sees it. Lets ride the wave of mutilation.

  Special Thanks to:

  Trygve V. Botnen, Mark Beauchamp,

  Shannon and Allison Wuller, Roman P. Wuller, Tony and Kim at Camelot Books, Terry Tidwell, Chris Hansen, Brian Lee, Michael Nolan, Jade Rumsey, Robert T. Shea, Jamie La Chance, William A. King, Eddie Coulter, Penny Khaw, Leigh Haig, Larry Roberts, Paul Goblirsch, Michael and Karen Templin, Mike Goffee, Terry Schue, Stephen Griglak, Edward Etkin, H Michael Casper, Donald Koish, Michael Bland, Paul Legerski, Robert Lewis, Christopher Lee Shackelford, Jason Houghton, Bob Ford, and Paul Puglisi.

  ALSO BY BRIAN KEENE

  NOVELS:

  The Rising

  City of the Dead

  Terminal

  Ghoul

  Dead Sea

  Kill Whitey

  The Conqueror Worms (also published as Earthworm Gods)

  Dark Hollow (also published as The Rutting Season)

  Clickers II: The Next Wave (with J.F. Gonzalez)

  COLLECTIONS:

  Fear of Gravity

  No Rest for the Wicked

  No Rest at All

  Sympathy for the Devil: The Best of Hail Saten Vol. 1

  Running with the Devil: The Best of Hail Saten Vol. 2

  The New Fear: The Best of Hail Saten Vol. 3

  NOVELLAS & CHAPBOOKS:

  Take the Long Way Home

  The Resurrection and the Life

  Shades ( with Geoff Cooper)

  The Rise & Fall of Babylon (with John Urbancik)

  The Rising: Necrophobia (with Brett McBean, Michael Oliveri, and John Urbancik)

  MISCELLANY:

  Talking Smack

  The Rising: Death in Four Colors (with Zac Atkinson)

  AS EDITOR:

  In Delirium

  The Best of Horrorfind

  The Best of Horrorfind II

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Introduction

  Don’s Last Mosh

  Family Reunion

  As Above (Sisters, Part One)

  So Below (Sisters, Part Two)

  Last Chance For La Chance

  Watching The World End

  The Fall Of Rome

  Walkabout (Part One)

  Hellhounds On My Trail

  Spoilers

  The Man Comes Around

  The Summoning

  Pocket Apocalypse

  The Viking Plays Patty Cake

  If You Can See The Mountain…

  You Only Live Twice

  And Hell Followed With Him

  The High Point

  Where The Down Boys Go

  Walkabout (Part Two)

  1 Corinthians 15:51

  All Fall Down

  Through The Glass Darkly

  A Man’s Home Is His Casket

  Zombie Worm

  The Night The Dead Died

  The Morning After

  March Of The Elilum

  Best Seat In The House

  American Pie

  Two Suns In The Sunset

  Other Worlds Than These

  Afterword

  INTRODUCTION

  This is a book about the end of the Earth, specifically, the end of the Earth at the hands of the Siqqusim, Elilum, and Teraphim, led by Ob, Ab, and Api.It does not have a happy ending.

  (Can’t say I didn’t warn you this time, fuckers.) I can’t imagine this holds true for any of you, but I guess I’d better say it anyway. If you haven’t read The Rising or City of the Dead, you might want to do so before going any further. Like The Rising: Necrophobia (which it also wouldn’t hurt to re-read), The Rising: Selected Scenes From The End Of The World chronicles what was happening across the rest of the world during my entire zombie mythos; from the appearance of the very first zombie (“Don’s Last Mosh”) to civilization’s breakdown (“Last Chance For La Chance”) to the finale; the planet’s fiery, post City of the Dead destruction (“Two Suns In The Sunset”). There’s even a glimpse of what lays beyond that—a peek into the Labyrinth. I don’t recap the previous books, and I’m assuming that readers will understand what the hell is going on. So if you aren’t familiar with the series, and refuse to do your homework, hang on tight and try to figure it the fuck out as we go along. The rest of you know very well what’s in store (insert evil laughter here). These stories coincide with events from the previous three books. Although you won’t see any of the main characters, you’ll catch glimpses of how Jim, Martin, and Frankie’s actions affect these tales. You’ll find references to events from the books, including The Rising: Necrophobia. You’ll even run into a few minor characters from The Rising. And, if you look carefully, you’ll find these stories overlapping with each other, as well. When Shane Staley of Delirium Books originally pitched this idea, I was less than enthusiastic. He offered money. I waved it away. Prestige. I just laughed. He sent over a Swedish Women’s Volleyball team, but even then, I had my doubts. To be honest, I didn’t want to write this book. I’d said all I had to say about zombies, and figured I was burned out. But Shane, being the two-fisted editor (read: slave-driver) that he is, twisted my arm until I relented. (As I write this, he’s trying to convince me to do the same thing with the Earthworm Gods mythos, and the fact that he’s still alive to publish this book is a testimony to our relationship because I would have shot anybody else by now.) In all seriousness, I’m glad Shane convinced me to do this, because halfway through the first story, I remembered why I love zombies, and why I enjoy writing about them so much. It was very easy to become “The Zombie Guy” again, and I was glad for the opportunity. You’ll find some more new twists, things that I wish I could go back and add to the other books (and make sure you read the Afterword for a nice bit involving undead opossums from New Zealand).

  This was a lot of fun. I had a good time with it. I hope you do, too.

  Our first stop is Escanaba, Michigan, and the show is about to start…

  Brian Keene

  Journey’s End, Pennsylvania

  November 2005

  * * *

  * * *

  DON’S LAST MOSH

  The Rising

  Day One

  Escanaba, Michigan

  Don Koish shuffled forward with the rest of the sheep. In front of him, a bleached-blonde girl with an ass that was barely concealed by her low cut jeans, giggled in excitement. Behind him, a surly Goth, decked out in black and smoking a clove cigarette, sneered at nobody in particular and bumped into Don again.

  Don preferred the blonde. She looked nicer. Smelled nicer, too.

  He studied the other fans in line. It was a mixed crowd. Thirty-something metal heads and twentysomething backwards baseball hat-wearing homeboys and skate punks in tattered Ramones T-shirts (paying homage to a band that some of their parents listened to). With its hip-hop rhythms and v
ocals and its mind-searing, Slayer-like guitar riffs, Necessary Evil’s music appealed to a wide cross spectrum, and they were out in force tonight. The Delft Theatre used to be a movie house, before the multi-screen complex opened up across town. It was nothing special, but bands, on their way up or their way down, played there from time to time. It could hold a thousand people, and Necessary Evil looked like it would fill that bill.

  The blonde giggled again and backed up, pressing her ass right against his groin. She gasped, and turned around.

  “Sorry,” Don said, grinning. His ears turned red. The blonde snapped her gum at him and resumed her conversation with her friend. He didn’t blame her. Don knew all-too well what an imposing figure he cut. He was built like a refrigerator and his shaved head made him look like a club bouncer or mob muscle. He dug the look. It worked for him. Especially in the pit…

  Necessary Evil’s mosh pits were legendary, and Don had been waiting six months to try it out for himself, ever since the concert was first announced. He watched some of the younger concert-goers, cocky, arrogant little fuckers that would get in the pit and try to break noses, arms, head—stomp, punch, hit—and call it moshing. He couldn’t stand that shit, and if any of them pulled it on him, they’d be sorry. Stupid fucks. It was that kind of a mentality that led to what happened at that Suicide Run concert in Pennsylvania a few years back. Or even Dimebag Darrel’s death—no respect for the artists. Don wasn’t sure when, but sometime between Anthrax’s Among the Living and Hatebreed’s latest release, it had all become about the violence. The music was forgotten. Same thing happened with hip-hop. From Run DMC’s “Adidas” to Dr. Dre capping motherfuckers’ left and right. The whole world seemed to have gone insane lately. Everybody was angry. Everybody wanted to break things.

  Eventually, the doors opened, and the line rushed forward. Don was swept up with them, and managed to cop one more glance at the blonde’s ass before she vanished into the crowd.

  He got his hand stamped so that he wouldn’t be sequestered with the under-21 crowd, and then made his way to the bar. He sipped a cold beer and watched the women. None of them had anything on his wife, Debbie. Don missed her. He wished she could have come along, but she wasn’t into Necessary Evil’s music, and had stayed home with the kids. He’d kissed her goodbye before he left. She’d been watching the evening news, something about an accident at a government research facility on the east coast.

  A local disc jockey came out on stage and tried to warm up the crowd. He was met with boos and jeers. When he was done promoting the station’s lame, Howard Stern rip-off morning show, the opening band, Your Kid’s On Fire, took the stage. Don had never heard them, but it was clear that the younger kids in the club had. A mosh pit erupted in front of the stage as the band launched into their first song.

  The music was typical Nordic black-metal; growly metal is what Don called it. He watched in amused disgust as one kid leaped into the air and landed on another’s back. The unlucky individual crashed to the floor and disappeared beneath a wave of swarming bodies.

  Don spied the blonde from the line outside. She was standing at the edge of the circle, laughing with her friends and watching with excited interest. Suddenly, a guy with an eight ball tattooed on his forehead lunged forward, grabbed her arm, and pulled her into the pit. A fist crashed into her jaw, and the gum flew from her mouth.

  “Hey,” Don shouted, rising from his seat at the bar. “That’s fucked up!”

  He slammed his beer down on the bar and waded into the fray. Blood streamed from the girls head, and then she vanished from sight, bobbing helplessly in the frantic sea of moshers. When Don spied her again, her nose was a swollen, spurting, crimson bulb.

  He shoved people out of the way and entered the eye of the storm.

  The girl collapsed to the floor, and somebody landed a solid kick to her head with their steel-toed boot. Don slammed into the attacker and knocked him sprawling.

  The band stopped playing in mid-song, and the lights came up. Groans of dismay and angry shouts gave way to silence, and a hush fell over the crowd Don knelt beside the girl, cradling her head in his lap. “Call an ambulance!” he yelled.

  * * *

  He checked for a pulse, and found none. Her skin was pale, and Don was shocked at the amount of blood. It was everywhere—on her clothes, her face, the floor. He put his ear to her mouth, but she wasn’t breathing.

  “Yo,” a concert-goer behind him asked. “She okay, dog?”

  “No,” Don said. “She—I think she’s dead.”

  “That’s fucked up.”

  Don checked her wrist again, but there was no pulse. The warmth was leaving the girl’s body. He laid her down on the mosh pit floor, just as two beefy security guards pushed their way through the crowd to him.

  “Clear a hole,” one of them shouted, eyeing Don with suspicion. “What happened?”

  “Somebody kicked her,” Don said. He looked around for the guy with the eight ball tattoo, but the attacker had melted into the crowd.

  “Hey,” one of the bouncers suddenly shouted.

  “She’s alive. She’s moving!”

  The blonde sat up, her blood bright and garish against her alabaster skin. She grinned, and then sank her teeth into Don’s crotch.

  Surprisingly, there was no pain, just a dull, cold sensation. He looked down and saw her burrowing into the streaming wound, like a dog burying a bone.

  His last thought was one of quiet dismay. He’d never get to see Necessary Evil’s mosh pit for himself.

  * * *

  FAMILY REUNION

  The Rising

  Day Two

  Ghost Island, Minnesota

  Terry Schue yawned and said, “Where are they?”

  “Maybe they got delayed,” Chip suggested.

  “Traffic could have been bad.”

  “No.” Terry shook his head. “They would have called.”

  “This is your family we’re talking about,” Chip grunted. “Do you really expect your mom or stepfather to pick up the phone and let you know they’re running late? That would indicate common courtesy on their parts.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I mean your mom was mentally abusive to you all these years, and your stepfather used to beat the shit out of you both. Why would they feel the need to call and let us know they’re late?”

  “Okay,” Terry replied. “But they’re still my family, and I do love them, despite everything. My step-dad has been trying to make up for all of that ever since he got diagnosed with prostate cancer. And Mom has mellowed with age.”

  “They’ll have to prove it to me. We’ve been together eighteen years, Terry, and I’ve seen just what your family is capable of. I hate the way they treat you sometimes. Just because Bob has suddenly been humbled by his own mortality, doesn’t excuse the fact that he’s a bully.”

  Terry watched the pier through the rain, looking for his mother and stepfather’s car, or his sister’s van. “Besides,” Chip continued, “if your mom is as psychic as she claims, wouldn’t she have seen whatever delayed them in advance?”

  “Chantal would call at least. She’s got Dad with her.”Terry’s real father, Mike, had his leg amputated the year before, and now spent his time in a wheelchair, popping pain pills and drinking himself into oblivion. He was coming to the reunion with Terry’s sister, Chantal.

  The raindrops whispered against the boat’s deck, and plunked into the waters of Lake Vermilion. In the distance, they could see the town of Virginia. Terry’s family was supposed to arrive around dawn, after driving all night, for the annual family reunion. The gathering was held each year at Terry and Chip’s place on Ghost Island. The lakeside dwelling was accessible from the mainland only by boat. Chip reached out and squeezed his hand. “The weather probably slowed them down. That’s all. Everything will be fine.”

  Terry smiled at him, and tried to relax. That was easy to do with Chip at his side. They’d met when Terry was nineteen and Chip was
thirty-two, and Terry still thanked God every day for putting Chip in his life.

  The boat rocked slightly as Chip walked over to the radio and turned it on. Terry watched him as he moved past—the Richard Gere type, with thick, gray hair and a solid, healthy build. The past eighteen years together had been wonderful, and Terry looked forward to many, many more. Chip had helped him get over so much from his past. Were it not for Chip, he’d never be able to host these annual reunions. Some things never stayed buried.

  His past—his family—was one of those things. Chip turned the dial, searching the airwaves. Curiously, there was no music, no traffic reports, no zany morning show antics. Each station featured announcers talking in the same grim, somber tones. Federal authorities were not commenting on why a government research center in Hellertown, Pennsylvania had been shut down overnight. The Director of Homeland Security assured the reporters that the situation was under control, and that there was no danger to the public, but due to national security concerns, they couldn’t say more at this time. Terrorism was not suspected.

  In Escanaba, Michigan, over twenty people had been killed, and dozens more injured, when an apparent riot erupted during a rock concert.

  Stranger still, some form of mass hysteria seemed to be springing up at random across the country, and according to some reports, throughout the world. The reports didn’t make a whole lot of sense, and it was apparent that some of the newscasters were skeptical as they read them. Stories were told of the dead coming back to life—in morgues and at funerals and in the back of ambulances and on the battlefield.

  “Sounds like those movies you always watch,”

  Chip laughed. “Where the corpses run around and eat people?”

  “Yeah,” Terry replied, shivering. “Weird, huh?”

  Headlights pierced the early morning gloom, and a moment later, his sister’s van pulled up, followed by his mother’s car.