The Rising Page 12

  "Bullshit!"

  "No, it's not bullshit! Think about Danny, Jim!"

  "I'm not leaving you here."

  "God will protect me."

  "Well he's done a bang-up job of it so far, Martin!" Jim stomped away, eyes searching the ground. He picked

  up a tree limb; heavy, solid and about three inches thick, and swung it like a bat.

  "These redneck sons-of-bitches are holding us up and jeopardizing my son's life. Every moment we spend out here leaves us open to attack by a zombie squirrel or bird or what-have-you!"

  He stalked away.

  "What are you going to do?" Martin called softly.

  "Call them," Jim told him. "I'll be close by."

  Martin closed his eyes and fought to get his breathing under control.

  His chest ached, his limbs were cold, and his back was in agony. He opened his eyes and looked around, hoping for some reassurance from Jim, but Jim was gone. He was alone now. Alone in the forest.

  Then he heard footsteps rustling toward him through the leaves.

  "Oh Lord," he wailed. "Help me Jesus. I can't take no more of this!"

  The footsteps rushed toward him, and both hunters emerged from the thicket of brambles.

  "Howdy nigger," Luke grinned. "Looks like your friend got away. That's a shame. I suspect gnawing on you would be like gnawing on a chicken wing."

  Tom shot his companion a stern look, then carefully approached Martin till he was within ten feet of the preacher.

  "Where's your friend, old man?"

  "He-he ran off and left me."

  The big man glanced around warily, then raised the shotgun.

  "Oh well. I reckon you'll have to do."

  He set the shotgun in the crook of his shoulder and arm, and wrapped his finger around the trigger.

  Jim lunged out from behind the tree and swung his makeshift club. The branch connected with Luke's mouth. The hunter let out a muffled scream, then dropped his rifle and fell to his knees, cupping his ruined lips and teeth with his hands.

  Snarling, Jim brought the limb down on his head. Luke's scalp split open, and he went limp.

  "Drop it you fucker!" Jim warned Tom.

  The shotgun bucked in Tom's hands. Jim felt a moment of pain, as if dozens of bees had just stung his shoulder, and then he grew cold. His legs betrayed him, and he collapsed, squirming amidst the dead leaves.

  Tom ejected the spent shell, and jacked another one in place.

  Squinting, he drew a bead on Jim. "I'll come back to you in a second, Blackie."

  There was a second blast, and a crimson flower bloomed on Tom's chest.

  Still clutching the shotgun, he looked down in surprise. He turned in a semi-circle, and Martin could see a gaping exit wound, about the size of a coffee cup, in his back.

  "Well fuck me..." he gasped, and toppled over.

  Martin stared in astonishment as a man stepped out of the brush, followed by a young boy. Like everyone else they had encountered, the newcomers carried rifles.

  "It's alright. We ain't gonna hurt you." He stuck out his hand and helped Martin to his feet.

  "Thank you," Martin stammered. "But my friend-"

  "We'd best take a look," the man said.

  Jim rolled around on the ground, balling his fists against his head.

  "Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK," he repeated through tightly gritted teeth. "It hurts! It hurts bad!"

  They crouched next to him. Blood was seeping from his shoulder.

  The man pulled out a large hunting knife, and Martin grabbed his wrist.

  "It's alright," the man reassured him. "I just want to cut this shirt off him."

  He sliced the fabric away, talking as he did.

  "I'm Lloyd Clendenan. This here's my boy, Jason. Say hi, Jason."

  "Howdy," the boy said shyly. "Pleased to meet you."

  "I'm Reverend Thomas Martin, from White Sulphur Springs. This man is Jim Thurmond, a construction worker from Lewisburg."

  Jim moaned, his eyes clenched shut.

  "Been fixin' to do something about Tom and Luke. Planned on doing it today in fact. Didn't figure we'd end up saving two folks in the process."

  "We're very much obliged," Martin thanked him. "They wanted to..." He swallowed, unable to finish the sentence.

  "Yeah, I know. They started with Ernie Whitt last week, and moved on to some other folks. That's why I intended to put them in the ground, before they could set their sights on me and my boy."

  He appraised Jim's wound and nodded to himself.

  "Your friend here will be alright. Looks like it just went through the meat, is all. Hell, I got worse than this in Viet Nam. Need to get this bleeding stopped though." He turned to the boy. "Jason, give me your belt."

  The boy stood over them, removing his belt. Jim opened his eyes and stared up at him.

  "Danny?"

  "Shhh. Lay still Jim. Danny's okay."

  Jim shut his eyes again.

  "Why'd he call me Danny, Pop?" the boy asked.

  Lloyd looked at Martin.

  "Danny is his son's name," Martin explained to them. "He's about your age. We were on our way to New Jersey to rescue him when we ran into some trouble."

  "New Jersey?" Lloyd whistled. "Pastor, what makes you think he's alive to rescue?"

  Martin didn't answer. He was starting to wonder that himself.

  Faith, it seemed, was beginning to be in short supply.

  "I don't like this." Skip said.

  "You don't have to like it," Miccelli sneered. "All we've got to do is keep our mouths shut and do what we're told."

  A trio of zombies emerged from an alleyway and rushed at them. Skip raised his Baretta, but the other soldier beat him to it.

  "Mine!" Miccelli shouted and unloaded his M16 on the creatures. All three dropped to the street.

  "Fuck that, man," Skip continued. "I can't live like this anymore, man.

  It's just not right!"

  A German Shepherd, its fur matted with gore and its back legs missing, dragged itself down the sidewalk toward them. It was followed by a girl of no more than nine or ten. Her intestines trailed along behind her, and the remains of several other organs had dried and shriveled on her dress.

  "Mine!" Skip called. Carefully, he picked them off, putting a single 9mm round through each of their heads.

  The sounds of battle echoed through the streets around them.

  "What ain't right? Shooting zombies? Man, you're fucked up."

  "Not shooting zombies, you douche-bag," Skip snapped. "I'm talking about that." He cocked his thumb

  back to the tractor-trailers following slowly along in formation behind the Humvees, Bradleys, and the tank.

  "That's what Colonel Schow wants, so that's what-"

  An explosion cut him off, as Warner used his M203 grenade launcher to blow out the hardware store's display window.

  "Shopping spree!" he called' out to them, and then ducked into the building, weapon at the ready. Blumenthal followed him. Skip heard them laughing inside as they ransacked the displays.

  There was a lull in the combat on their street, and Skip checked his rounds in both the M16 and the pistol.

  "You better watch saying shit like that," Miccelli hissed in his ear.

  "Remember what happened to Hopkins and Gurand?"

  Skip nodded. Hopkins and Gurand had questioned the Colonel's orders one too many times. Captain McFarland caught them trying to desert, and they'd been dealt with swiftly; without the benefit of a hearing or a military tribunal. Colonel Schow ordered both men crucified, after which the entire unit had been forced to watch as a flock of undead birds tore them to pieces.

  They'd gotten off lucky, as far as Skip was concerned. What happened to Falker had been much worse.

  Private First Class Falker had fallen in love with one of the whores at the encampment. She didn't reciprocate, and when she became Schow's personal property, he made a failed attempt to assassinate the Colonel.

  When he w
as caught, Colonel Schow ordered a hole drilled into the wall of a small utility shed. Falker was stripped naked and nailed crucifixion style to the side of the building, so that his penis protruded through the hole, while the rest of him hung from the outside wall. Then, they rounded up some zombies and imprisoned them inside the shed.

  It took about two minutes for the creatures to discover the dangling morsel, and Falker shrieked and writhed as it was consumed. The zombies then tried in

  vain to reach more of him through the hole, but only succeeded in tearing away some dangling flaps of skin from his mutilated groin.

  Falker hung there until he bled to death, and then Staff Sergeant Miller put a bullet in his head, before he could reanimate.

  Satisfied that he wouldn't run out of ammunition, Skip surveyed the perimeter. The sounds of battle were dying down now; replaced by the crackling of fires and the moans of the injured and dying. The staccato beat of the 50 caliber punctuated these as Lawson picked off a few straggling zombies from his perch on the Humvee.

  Sergeant Ford and Privates' First Class Kramer and Anderson strolled towards them, leading two handcuffed women at gunpoint. They made a wide berth around a mangled corpse lying in the middle of the road. Its lower section had been crushed by the treads on one of the Bradleys, and one arm was badly maimed. Refusing to surrender, it still clawed at them with its one remaining arm.

  Terrified, the women sobbed, hunching against each other. An extended burst from Kramer's M16 destroyed what was left of the wriggling corpse.

  "Nice," Miccelli leered at the captives. "Where'd you find them, Sergeant Ford?"

  "Hiding in the bathroom of a little coffee shop four blocks down. We've already got first dibs on them, so don't even think about it!"

  "What's the status?" Anderson asked them.

  "Warner and Blumenthal are in there," Miccelli pointed to the hardware store, "and Wilson and Robertson both bought it. They went down an alley and the zombies ambushed them. They tore Wilson to shreds, man. Didn't even leave enough for him to get back up and walk around like they usually do. Robertson was still alive when they opened his stomach up, and he swallowed his Baretta. We couldn't get to him. There were too many."

  Ford kicked the sidewalk curb and shook his head. "Roman's dead too.

  He and Thompson were running point and they walked into an ambush. It amazes me how these fucking things can calculate."

  "Is Thompson okay, Sergeant?" Miccelli asked.

  The big man shook his head.

  "He'll lose a leg, at the very least. When we left, he was begging the doc to shoot him. I'm guessing if he don't, Thompson will do it himself, first chance he gets."

  Kramer spotted a lone crow, watching them from a telephone pole. Moving in one fluid moment, he shot it. Black feathers floated to the ground.

  "That one was alive, I think." Anderson mused.

  "Not anymore, it's not."

  "You're awfully quiet, Skip." Ford observed.

  Skip stirred, carefully meeting the Sergeant's eyes. They were all looking at him, and Miccelli scowled a silent warning.

  "Sorry, Sarge," he lied. "I was just thinking about poor Thompson. We went through boot camp together."

  In truth, he'd been watching the two captive women. They were obviously mother and daughter, and although recent events had taken a toll on them, they were both still very attractive. This first night in the meat wagon would be hard on them. It would be even worse when they got back to Gettysburg.

  Deep inside, Skip felt his rage growing. He imagined himself gunning down his fellow Guardsmen, and escaping with the women. But that was no good. They'd be dead within minutes, and even if they did manage to escape, they'd be caught and would suffer a fate like Hopkins, Gurand, and Falker.

  Even if they managed to elude capture, what would they do? Reluctantly, he resigned himself to the same conclusion he always came to. There was safety in numbers, and those numbers were right here in his unit. He was trapped.

  "Get them on the truck," Ford ordered Kramer.

  "Make sure they get washed down good. Partridge has the hose hooked up to the town's water tank. Don't know how much pressure it's got, but make sure you don't bruise them any worse than they are now."

  Kramer led the cringing women toward the rigs.

  Miccelli pointed down the street.

  "Here comes Capriano. Looks like he's hurt!"

  The wounded man limped towards them, dragging his right leg. As he drew closer, Skip noticed that his right foot was turned completely around, his toes pointing back the way he had come. He made no sound as he approached them.

  "Don't move, Capriano!" Anderson ran towards him. "We'll get you some-"

  The injured guardsman raised his M16 and squeezed the trigger. The rounds punched through Anderson's chest and out the other side. Ford, Miccelli, and Skip instinctively ducked and returned fire. Capriano shook violently under the bombardment. Then he toppled backward and, after a final wild burst, spraying stray shots into the air, he lay still.

  "He damn sure didn't look dead!" Miccelli cried.

  "If he wasn't before, he is now." Ford said through gritted teeth. His burst had caught the shooter in the mouth, virtually erasing everything from the jaw and up.

  Skip rushed to Anderson's side, shouting hoarsely for a medic, but immediately saw that it was too late. The man's chest was a wet ruin, and his glazed eyes stared sightlessly.

  Ford joined him. Calmly, the Sergeant pulled out his pistol and shot the dead man in the head.

  "Let's round em up," he ordered. "Warner! Blumenthal! Let's go!"

  Gravel crunched under his feet as he walked away.

  Miccelli unbuckled Anderson's belt and began gathering up his gear. "Yo, Skip. You want his boots?"

  "No, you can have them."

  "How about these extra clips? You can have those if

  you want them."

  He pulled a switchblade from Anderson's pants pocket and whistled in appreciation. "Nice."

  Skip turned away.

  He didn't want Miccelli to see him crying, or to notice the anger that burned in his red-rimmed eyes.

  They had once been a Pennsylvania National Guard Infantry unit, stationed out of Harrisburg. They'd been proud-heroes.

  Skip didn't know what they were now, but they sure as shit weren't heroes.

  When the collapse hit and the dead started coming back to life, they'd been sent to Gettysburg. Like the other Guard units deployed to various towns and cities across the state, they were supposed to safeguard the citizens; keep them secure and stop the creatures from spreading until the government could figure out how to fix the situation.

  They'd failed, and it wasn't long before they figured out that the government wouldn't be fixing the problem, because the government no longer existed. That had been confirmed by the news footage (most of the networks were still broadcasting at that point) of the dead President making a meal of the Secretary of State during an interrupted press briefing. The President darted out from somewhere off camera, spewing obscenities and grappling with the victim. The camera zoomed in on the grisly scene as his teeth clamped down on the man's arm, biting through the sleeve of his tailored suit and into the flesh beneath. One Secret Service agent drew his weapon on the undead Commander-In-Chief, and a second agent immediately shot the first. Pandemonium ensued, as more agents exchanged gunfire and reporters scrambled.

  The Vice-President, it was reported, suffered a fatal heart attack following the press conference. There was no confirmation on whether steps had been taken to ensure that he didn't rise again.

  Hours later, someone in power (speculation varied as to whom; some said it was the Secretary of Defense, while others said it was a renegade General) had ordered the House and Senate buildings bombed from the air, ostensibly because it had been overrun by zombies. That had sparked isolated skirmishes between the various armed forces units in and around Washington, and after the loss of the Pentagon a day later, the inter-bran
ch fighting spread like wildfire.

  Skip had heard horror stories, like the Captain of the U.S.S. Austin, a troop carrier with over four-hundred sailors and two-hundred marines assigned to it, who had ordered the execution of the entire 24th Marine Amphibious Unit-who were onboard his ship in the North Atlantic at the time. He'd accused the marines of mutiny, and the squids and jarheads fought each other from bow to stern. Skip had heard that the sailors made the surviving marines walk the plank.