The Rising Read online

  I'm on my way, Danny, and I need you to hang in there. I need you to be strong and I need you to be brave just a little longer. Daddy is coming

  I know that you know that. I know you're sitting in that attic right now, waiting for me.

  Danny, I'm sorry that I couldn't always be there for you. I wanted to be, but I couldn't. I never bad-mouthed your mother to you, and I'm not about to start now, but I hope that you understand why I wasn't there, and that you'll still love me. It might be hard for you now, but I know that one day when you're older, you'll figure things out for yourself. You'll understand why I couldn't be there.

  But Danny, I swear to you, I will never leave again. No more courts and no more lawyers, I am your father and I love you, I will never leave your side again.

  I'll be there soon, I promise. It used to be a full day's drive from West Virginia to New Jersey, but it's taking me a little longer. We've run into trouble and some bad things happened. I told you about Carrie and the baby, and that almost destroyed me. If I didn't have you, Danny, I think it would have. I would have given up there. But I didn't, because I DO have you, and I will not fail you again. I've made a new friend, a preacher named Reverend

  Martin. I think you'll like him. He's a nice man. He says he can't wait to meet you. But there are some bad things happening, and it's slowed us down.

  We made two other friends, a man named Delmas and his son, Jason. But they won't be coming with us now.

  We're getting ready to leave here soon. Martin is sleeping and after I finish this, I'm going to grab a little sleep too. Or at least I'll try.

  I don't want to sleep, not even for an hour, because that's one extra hour I'll have to be away from you. But I'm tired, Danny, and I can't help it. I'm very tired.

  But after I wake up, that's it. No more. Nothing else will delay us or slow us down. I'm coming, Danny. Daddy's coming and you've got to hang in there. You've got to stay strong. I'll be there soon, I promise. And when I get there, I'm going to wrap my arms around you and hug you so tight. And

  I'll never let you go.

  I love you son. I love you more than infinity.

  Daddy

  Before moving on, they buried Delmas and Jason next to Bernice. Martin said a prayer over their graves, and Jim fashioned two makeshift tombstones using scavenged wood from the barn and a can of paint.

  Leaving the Clendenan household and the solemn graves behind, they hiked through the woods, retracing their steps back to the Interstate. Along the way, they encountered several zombies, but had little trouble with them.

  Both the preacher and the construction worker were becoming expert marksmen.

  "Practice makes perfect," Martin joked.

  Jim said nothing. Since Jason's suicide, Martin had noticed a change in his companion's behavior. He was silent, taciturn. Driven.

  They were forced to walk from Interstate 64 to the spot where it merged with Interstate 81 before they finally found transportation. That added another full day to their progress and Jim grew even more withdrawn.

  When they finally found a vehicle that still had the keys (an old, gray-primer Buick), they drove in darkness. Jim elected to not turn on the headlights, saying they would act as a beacon to anything lurking in the night. Reluctantly, Martin agreed with him. Luckily, the lanes on the Interstate were wide and mostly clear of debris, and they encountered no traffic. Jim refused to stop and rest for the night, and Martin dozed in the seat next to him after receiving Jim's assurances that he would wake the Reverend up when he grew tired.

  The air inside the car was stifling, and Jim rolled the window down, letting the cool breeze blow through his hair. The night was quiet. No tractor-trailers or cars passing in the southbound lane. No truck stops or restaurants lit up off the highway. No insects or horns or radios or airplanes.

  It was a dead silence.

  Martin stirred next to him.

  "Go on back to sleep," Jim said softly. "You need your rest."

  "No, I'm okay." He stretched, stifling a yawn. "Why don't you let me drive for a while? Get some rest yourself?"

  "I'm alright, Martin. To be honest, I'd prefer to drive right now. Keeps my mind off things."

  "Jim, I know that things look bleak. But you've got to trust in the Lord."

  Jim snorted. "Martin, you're my friend and I respect you, but after everything we've seen, I'm not even sure that I believe in God anymore."

  Martin didn't blink. "That's okay. You don't have to believe in God, Jim. Just know that He believes in you."

  Jim shook his head and the old man pressed on, chuckling softly as he did.

  "We've made it this far, right? I don't know about you, but I'd say we beat the odds. We should be dead by now, Jim, but we're not. Seems to me like He's been helping us along our way."

  "Seems to me like He's throwing up roadblocks."

  "No, that isn't His doing. 'God helps those who help themselves', remember? He's been helping us out of those scrapes."

  "like He helped Delmas and Jason? Like He helped my wife and our baby?

  If this is God's way of helping us, Martin, then no offense, but He can fuck off!"

  Martin was silent for a moment.

  "You know," he said, "I used to hear young people joke about Hell, without any concept of what they were saying. 'I don't care if I go to Hell. All the cool people are there. It'll be a big party.' And when I heard them say that, part of me wanted to laugh and part of me wanted to cry. Jesus described Hell as an eternal fire, filled with the gnashing of teeth. It's a very real place, and it's anything but a party."

  "And?"

  "My point is, when it comes to the Lord, you can't make off-the-cuff comments like that, Jim. God is a god of love, but he's also the God of vengeance from the Old Testament."

  "Sounds like he's got a split personality then."

  Martin gave up, knowing that further discussion would be useless. There was too much bitterness in his companion's heart. It was hard to speak of faith to those who had none.

  Martin closed his eyes, pretending to sleep again, and silently prayed for Jim's faith-and for his own as well.

  Exhaustion finally forced Jim to let Martin drive. Just before dawn, the Buick's gas gauge dipped to empty and Martin woke him.

  "We'll need to find another car soon."

  "I can siphon, if we need to," Jim said. "I used to do it in high school."

  They pulled off near Verona, spying an abandoned dairy farm just off the Interstate. They took the exit and then backtracked down a dusty, one-lane dirt road.

  They heard the cries before they reached the end of the lane; a horrible, braying cacophony. It was coming from the barn.

  "Cows?" Martin asked, dumfounded.

  "I think so," Jim nodded, "but they don't sound alive."

  A John Deere tractor, a huge combine, a mini-van with handicapped tags, and an old, rusting farm truck sat nearby.

  "We should be able to get enough gas from those."

  Exiting the Buick, they checked their surroundings for any signs of the living dead. Satisfied that it was clear, they listened to the wailing.

  Siren-like, it called to them, and they walked towards the barn.

  The smell hit them before they opened the door, and Martin gagged. Guns at the ready, Jim gave the door a shove and let it swing open. The hinges creaked loudly as it opened.

  The cows stood lined up in their stalls in neat rows. The cause of death was clearly apparent-for some, lacking a farmer to milk them, their engorged udders had finally exploded. Others had died of starvation. Now they stood imprisoned and rotting inside their pens. Insects crawled over their hides and into their flesh, and the droning buzz of flies almost drowned out the incessant mooing.

  Martin coughed, and quickly covered his nose with the back of his hand.

  Grimacing, he backed out of the barn, and threw up in the tall weeds along the side.

  Jim slowly walked down the aisle, methodically shooting each of the cows and stopping o
nly to reload. When he was finished, he walked back outside. His ears were ringing and the gun smoke had irritated his eyes, making them bloodshot.

  "Let's check the house. See if there's some keys for that truck or van."

  "Maybe we should just siphon the gas and go." Martin wiped the bile from his lips, but Jim had already walked away.

  They approached the front door, their boots clomping up the wooden steps. A wheelchair ramp had been built onto the side of the porch.

  Martin remembered the handicapped tags he'd noticed on the mini-van. Jim tried the knob and found it unlocked. The door creaked open and they stepped inside. Jim flicked the light switch uselessly.

  "Power's out here, too."

  They found themselves in a neat and orderly living room. A layer of dust covered the furniture and knickknacks, but the house seemed undisturbed.

  There was a hallway to the right that led to the kitchen, and an open doorway to their left that was concealed in a layer of white lace curtains. A stairway led up to the second floor, and the banister had a motorized lift attached to it. The lift sat halfway up the flight of stairs, and Martin assumed that it had gotten stuck there when the power went out.

  "Yoo-hoo," Jim called, "anybody home?"

  "Stop it," Martin hissed. "What's gotten into you?"

  Jim ignored his whispered protests. "Come on out! We've got something for you!"

  Silence was the only answer. Jim began scouring the shelves and tables for a set of keys.

  "See if there's any keys for that mini-van in the kitchen and that side room. I'll look upstairs. Be careful."

  Swallowing, Martin nodded and crept down the hall, his rifle thrust out in front of him, arthritic finger on the trigger.

  The kitchen was also covered in dust. White cupboards displayed porcelain dishes and silverware. The sickly-sweet smell of rotting food drifted from the refrigerator, and Martin noticed thin strands of white, fuzz-like mold growing around the seam of the door. He had no desire to peek inside. A coat rack stood next to the back door, and a rain slicker and flannel jacket hung from the pegs. He checked the pockets of both, but they were empty.

  Jim's footsteps pounded over his head, searching the rooms above, and Martin jumped. He walked back down the hall, crossed the living room, and parted the lace curtains with the barrel of his gun, The bedroom was dark. The shades were drawn over the windows and Martin stopped to let his eyes adjust. After a moment, he began to make out the objects in the room; a bed, dresser, and a nightstand. A door in the rear stood slightly open, revealing a toilet. Parked next to it was the partial outline of a wheelchair.

  "Nothing up here!" Jim shouted from upstairs.

  Holding the rifle in the crook of his arm, Martin felt along the nightstand, knocking bottles and pocket change to the floor. Then his fingers closed upon a key-chain.

  "Found them, I think!"

  He sniffed the air. The stink from the kitchen was worse than he had first realized. He could smell it all the way in here.

  He heard Jim's footsteps heading back to the stairs. Martin turned to leave, and from the bathroom came an electronic hum. The bathroom door swung open.

  Martin turned, swinging the rifle up, just as the motorized wheelchair flew out of the bathroom and buzzed towards him. The occupant grinned toothlessly, revealing shriveled, blackened gums, and waved a disposable razor at him.

  "Ain't got my teeth and you look pretty chewy," it slobbered. "Nothing on you but gristle."

  Martin squeezed the trigger and the rifle cracked, punching a hole through the zombie's breast. The wheelchair continued to speed towards him. He fired again and ripped out the side of the creature's neck. As he was ejecting the empty shells, the zombie rammed him, knocking him backward. His teeth slammed together as he banged his head against the floor, and he tasted blood.

  The force of the collision threw the zombie from the chair. It landed on top of him and cackled. Its fetid breath was in his face and Martin screamed.

  He heard Jim hollering, and struggled to push the thing off of him. It coiled in his grasp like a snake, and licked his cheek with its scabrous tongue. Balling his fist, he struck the creature in the face. The rank, toothless maw snapped at his knuckles, gumming them. Then the creature swiped at his face with the razor, sliding it across his cheek and savagely pressing down. He felt the dull blade bite into his skin, and Martin screamed again.

  Wrapping a slimy hand around his throat, the creature drew the razor away and licked it.

  "Mmmmm. Tasty. Not much on there, though. This might take awhile."

  It sliced at him again, and suddenly, the crushing weight was gone from his chest and the fingers were ripped away from his throat.

  Grabbing the zombie by its stringy hair, Jim flung it into the wall.

  Before it could move, he turned his gun around, holding it by the barrel, and smashed the stock against its face. The nose flattened, driving the bone into the brain, and Jim swung again. He brought the rifle down a third time and there was a wet, cracking sound as the zombie's head split open.

  Flinging the rifle onto the bed, Jim grabbed the wheelchair, struggled to lift it off the ground, and then brought it down on the pulped remains as well. He hefted it a second time, then a third.

  "Jim, it's dead!" Martin dabbed at his bleeding cheek with a corner of the bedspread.

  Jim stood over the thing, breathing heavily.

  "Thank you," Martin offered, then picked himself up off the floor with a groan.

  "You okay?"

  "Yes, I think so." He felt the knot on the back of his head, but his fingers came away bloodless. "Lucky I didn't break a hip."

  "You found the keys to the van?"

  "Yes, but I dropped them when that thing rushed me." He felt around on the floor. "Here they are."

  "Let's go."

  Shortly after dawn, they encountered a southbound caravan of survivors. The rag-tag group was traveling in a camper, several cars, and what appeared to be a modified dump truck. Both groups stopped, eyeing each other warily from across the wide, shrub-covered median strip.

  Finally, a man exited the lead vehicle, an AR-15, the civilian version of the M-16, slung over his shoulder. He held his hands palm up in a cautious greeting. Jim and Martin got out of the van and did the same.

  "He looks familiar," Martin whispered as they walked closer. "Is he somebody famous?"

  Jim had been wondering the same thing. The stranger had an athletic build, recognizable even though it was hidden beneath layers of ragged clothing. His face was what Carrie would have called 'ruggedly handsome'- the same thing she had referred to Jim as being.

  "Hi," the man greeted them. "You guys looking to trade, maybe?"

  "Maybe," Jim agreed. "What have you got?"

  "We've got fresh vegetables," the man said proudly. "We came across a greenhouse yesterday."

  Their mouths watered at the thought. They hadn't eaten since leaving the Clendenan house.

  "We can trade some guns and ammunition," Jim offered, "and maybe exchange some information."

  The man laughed. "Well then gentlemen, allow me to invite you to lunch."

  They walked around to the back of the dump truck, and Jim started when he caught sight of the two figures that had been lurking atop it: a boy and a woman, both pointing rifles at them. The two relaxed and lowered their weapons, and then Jim did the same.

  The dump truck had been modified. A sheet metal roof was built over the open top, forming a camper of sorts. The man ushered them inside, and they found

  themselves staring at a group of people, comprising all ages and races.

  "I'm Glen Klinger," the man offered.

  "Jim Thurmond." They shook hands. This is the Reverend George Martin."

  "Pleased to meet you both." Klinger then introduced the other nine people in the back of the truck.

  "Say," Martin mused, "aren't you that surfer fellow who was on Extreme Sports?"

  Klinger grinned sheepishly. "That I am. I'm afra
id you've got me."

  Incredulous, Jim turned to Martin. "You watched Extreme Sports?"

  "Used to love it," the preacher laughed. "This guy here was famous!"

  They traded weapons and ammunition for vine-ripe tomatoes, as well as cucumbers and watermelons.

  "Where you heading?" Jim asked him.

  "Anywhere, I guess," the man shrugged uneasily. "We don't really have a plan. Someplace better than what we've seen so far. Somewhere alive. I was in Buffalo, doing some charity work when things started happening. I would have flown back to California, but by the time I made my decision to go, the NTSB had grounded all flights because of that pilot that had the heart attack while in the air."