The Rising Page 21

  "I didn't hear about that," Jim said. "News was spotty in West Virginia.

  What happened?"

  "Well, he died in mid-flight, somewhere over Arizona. I guess they have a procedure for that, but they couldn't revive him. The co-pilot took over, then the dead Captain came back to life and attacked him. The plane crashed, taking out a swath of downtown Phoenix. They reconstructed the events from their calls to the controllers and from the black boxes. Of course, by the time they figured everything out, things were snowballing worldwide. How about you guys? Where are you heading?"

  "New Jersey."

  "Jersey?" Klinger scoffed. "That's suicide, friend. You'd be better off letting them get to you now. Anything close to New York City is pretty much wall-to-wall zombies."

  "You've been there?"

  "No, but we've heard. We drove down from Buffalo, picking up survivors along the way. It doesn't sound good. New York, Philly, Washington D.C., parts of Pittsburgh and Baltimore-really bad. Lot's of people lived in those cities, and they're staying there after they die. And it's not just the zombies either."

  "What do you mean?" Martin quizzed him.

  "There's a lot of crazy stuff going on. Gangs, skinheads, militias-all kinds of paramilitary survivalist nutcases on the loose. Hell, we even heard that the Army or somebody was trying to take over south-central Pennsylvania. There's no government anymore, man. No leaders. It's everyone for themselves. You guys would be better off heading back the way you came. Or come with us, if you'd like! We could use the extra help. At least in a group like this you've got a chance."

  "Thanks for the offer," Jim said, "but there's somebody in New Jersey who only has one chance-us. We've got to be moving on now. Thanks for the food."

  "It's your funeral."

  "Is it?" Jim asked.

  They drove in silence, hungrily sharing a watermelon on the seat between them and spitting the seeds out the window. At one point a bird darted downward, and Jim assumed it was going after a seed-until he noticed that it had no legs and was flying towards his open window. He sped up and they quickly passed it by.

  "That's one bright point about all of this," Martin said.

  "What's that?"

  "Less roadkill. The carcasses along the side of the road get up and walk away now."

  Jim laughed and the sound of it filled Martin with relief. Perhaps it was a signal that his friend was starting to come out of the fugue that Jason's suicide had induced.

  But Martin noticed that the laughter, while genuine, never reached Jim's eyes.

  An hour later, crossing the border into Maryland, Jim spotted a cluster of motorcycles ahead of them.

  "Friendly?" Martin asked.

  "We're about to find out," Jim answered, and floored it.

  The van accelerated toward the six figures. The biker bringing up the rear turned as they approached. He wore no helmet, and was naked from the waist up. Most of the flesh on his chest and back were gone, exposing ribs and raw muscle. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of mirrored sunglasses hanging crookedly from his face.

  "They look dead to me."

  "Unfriendly then."

  The motorcycles filled both northbound lanes, and Jim roared directly toward them, straddling the dotted line.

  Hefting the shotgun, Martin leaned out the window. He fired, hitting the zombie's exposed chest.

  "The head, Martin! Shoot for the head!"

  "I'm aiming for the head! It's hard to do in a moving vehicle!"

  A second zombie reached into his leather vest and pulled out a small caliber pistol-a Ruger. There was a sharp crack and the bullet pinged against the passenger side of the van.

  "They're shooting at us!" Martin ducked back inside. Ejecting his spent shell, he leaned out of the speeding van

  and fired again. This time the zombie's sunglasses disappeared, along with its head. The bike collapsed, sliding into a second creature and sending them both careening towards the breakdown lane.

  The zombie with the pistol squeezed off another shot, and a small hole appeared in the windshield.

  "Jesus!" Jim exclaimed. "Hold on!"

  He swerved into the right lane, bearing down on the shooter. The other three were slowing now, letting the van pull ahead of them. The zombie pointed the pistol over his shoulder, his outstretched arm aiming at the windshield again.

  "Get ready!" Jim called and then zoomed the van into the breakdown lane.

  The zombie turned in confusion, swinging the pistol towards Jim.

  "Now!"

  Jim leaned back into his seat as far as he could go, and Martin leaned past him, pointing the shotgun out the driver's side window. The blast ripped the creature from the bike, and Jim swung around the wreckage and back onto the highway.

  The rear window exploded, spraying glass all over the interior of the van.

  "Get down!" Jim ordered, and Martin flung himself beneath the seat. Jim slouched down as far as he could and pressed the gas pedal to the floor.

  "Fucking four-cylinder! Why couldn't we steal a good old V-8?"

  Another volley of shots peppered the rear of the van. Martin cringed, waiting for it to stop, then popped up over the seat and returned fire.

  The zombies wheeled out of the way, and the van sped ahead of them.

  "I'm empty," Martin informed him. "Can you buy me a minute?"

  "Take the wheel."

  "I don't think so."

  "Then reload fast!"

  Jim raced ahead with the zombies in pursuit and then, at the last minute, bounced over the grass median strip and into the southbound lanes toward an exit ramp. The motorcycles shot past him, firing wildly. The van veered down the nearest exit ramp and then screeched away.

  "Did we lose them?"

  "I think so," Martin panted, watching for signs of pursuit. "There's no sign of them, anyway."

  "We'll stay off Eighty-One for a while, just in case."

  "Where are we?"

  Jim searched his memory for the trips he'd used to take to see Danny.

  "If I remember correctly, this runs over the Pennsylvania border and right into Gettysburg on Route Thirty. We can get back on Eighty-One there, by either doubling back to Chambersburg or going through York and taking Eighty-Three to Harrisburg. Either way, in Harrisburg we'll want to jump over to Seventy-Eight and that will run us into New Jersey."

  "How long, do you think?"

  "Six or seven hours," Jim answered. "A little more if we stop to piss or screw around with more of these things. If not, we'll be there by nightfall."

  Baker cried out in horror when he saw the bodies.

  They were suspended on X-shaped crosses, lining both sides of the road.

  Most of them were dead. Some of the dead were still moving, struggling uselessly against their bonds and the heavy railroad spikes that had been used to secure them.

  The stench was overwhelming, and Baker pulled away from the small hole in the truck's side that he'd been peering through. He'd recognized the landscape and monuments as they drove by them as being Gettysburg, and he guessed correctly that the downtown district was their destination.

  He briefly checked on Worm, and found the boy still curled up and sleeping soundly in the corner. What little light the holes in the truck allowed to filter through, made him look pale and drawn. Baker reached out with bound hands and gently brushed the boy's brow with his fingertips. Worm stirred in his sleep, and the worried creases in his forehead smoothed and vanished.

  Holding his breath, Baker returned to the hole and peeked outside again.

  The truck was passing through some type of checkpoint, built from sandbags and barbed wire. Armed guards were posted every few feet, watching the direction they'd come from.

  The truck rolled to a halt, and Baker heard muffled voices and laughter.

  Then they started forward again, into the group's stronghold.

  Baker was reminded of footage he'd seen of the Warsaw ghetto during World War Two. Pitiful, filthy civilians slaved
over their labors as the truck passed by; filling and piling sandbags, stretching thin but sturdy survival netting between the rooftops in an attempt to keep the birds and other airborne zombies out, hauling heavy furnishings from abandoned buildings, repairing the buildings that were still being used, pulling burned-out cars with harnesses strapped to their backs, cleaning the gutters along the streets-all done with a uniform look of hopelessness on their grimy faces. He noted the puzzling absence of women among the laborers; save for a few elderly crones here and there.

  Bodies, not living dead but just plain old dead, dangled from the traffic lights, the poles having been turned into makeshift gallows.

  Baker wondered if they were there to serve as a warning to the workers, but then he noticed that a few of the hanging corpses wore military uniforms.

  The truck halted again and Baker heard the motor cough, then cease. He moved away from the hole, kneeling on the floor next to Worm. The deaf-mute woke with a start and struggled in the darkness. Baker motioned for him to remain still.

  Booted footsteps crunched along the side of the truck and then the back door rolled open, flooding the compartment with light. They blinked, momentarily blinded, and the soldiers pulled them out, forcing them to stand. Baker bent his knees, trying to work out the kinks in his legs.

  An unkempt man in a soiled uniform strode toward them. His hair hung well past his collar and several days' growth of beard clung to his face. Baker noticed two silver vertical bars on his shoulder.

  "Second Lieutenant Torres," Staff Sergeant Michaels saluted, "we completed our reconnaissance and have a full report. We lost Warner, I'm afraid, but we also captured two prisoners of remarkable interest."

  Torres brusquely returned the salute and eyed Baker and Worm.

  "They don't look that remarkable to me, Sergeant."

  Michaels handed him Baker's credentials, and the officer studied them with interest.

  "Hellertown, huh? Havenbrook-that was a weapons lab, wasn't it?" He clapped Michaels on the shoulder. "Well done, all of you. Colonel Schow will be very interested in talking to these gentlemen."

  He turned to Baker.

  "Welcome to Gettysburg, Professor Baker. I'm afraid your accommodations will be more rustic than you're used to, but perhaps if you cooperate, something better can be arranged."

  "Cooperate how?" Baker asked.

  "Well, we'll let the Colonel decide that."

  He turned, addressing the rest of them. "Good job, men. Shame about Warner. Still, I think twenty-four hours leave is warranted for each of you. Staff Sergeant Miller's squad is on their way back as well, Michaels, and once they return we'll expect a full report from both of you. Their ETA is about another hour. You have time to grab a shower, if you'd like."

  "Thank you, sir!" He snapped off another salute and Torres walked away.

  "Oh hell yeah," Blumenthal cheered, "I'm heading for the bowling alley and then the Meat Wagon!"

  "No you're not," Ford told him, "first you and Lawson are going to transfer the prisoners to the containment center. Make sure you tell Lapine to separate them from the rest of the scabs. I don't want anything happening to them until after the Colonel has interrogated them."

  Lawson leered, grinding his pelvis against Worm's backside. "They'll make you squeal like a pig, boy!"

  Worm hooted in indignation and Baker leapt forward.

  "Leave him alone, god damn you!"

  "Shit, you'll wish we'd kept him with us once the Colonel's done with you!"

  Baker's fists clenched in anger, his nails digging into the skin of his palms. Blumenthal shoved him forward. He stared at Lawson as Blumenthal led him away, and he did not back down until the other man looked away, busying himself with Worm's bonds.

  The containment center was an old movie theatre, one of the single-screen kind that had gone out of fashion with the arrival of the multiplex. Heavily armed guards patrolled the sidewalks surrounding the building, and stood watch from the roof. More loitered in the lobby, eyeing the new arrivals indifferently.

  Blumenthal approached the ticket booth and addressed the guardsman inside.

  "Two newbies for you, Lapine. Sergeant Ford wants you to keep them apart from the others."

  "How the fuck am I supposed to do that?" the man complained. "We ain't got room for the townies we have now, and now you want me to find separate room for these two fucks?"

  "I'm just doing what I'm told. You figure it out."

  "There's a balcony we can put them in, I guess." He pointed at Baker.

  "What'd you do before the rising started, dickhead?"

  "I'm a scientist," Baker told him, and bit his tongue to keep from saying and I'm the one of the guy's who brought you this.

  "Scientist, huh," Lapine scoffed. "Well, I guess you can pick up trash or toss sandbags like everybody else."

  "Not these two," Lawson informed him. "At least, not yet. Colonel wants to see 'em."

  "Ooooo," Lapine mocked, "visiting dignitaries are they? Well then, let's get them stowed away safe and sound."

  He stepped out from behind the glass window and motioned for two guards to relieve Blumenthal and Lawson. Then he marched them through the double

  doors and up a winding flight of stairs, stopping in front of a chained and padlocked door.

  One of the burly guards pointed his M-16 at them while Lapine produced a key ring from his pocket and unlocked the chains. Then they escorted them inside.

  "Most of the townies sleep below," he motioned, as if he were a tour guide, "but you two will be up here in the penthouse."

  They stood in a balcony, overlooking the movie theater. The alcove had four reclining red velvet seats that were covered in mildew, and not much else. Below them, most of the chairs had been ripped out and thrown into corners. Moldy mattresses and heaps of straw littered the floor in their stead. The movie screen itself still stood, but was covered with scrawled graffiti and gouged in places.

  Baker noticed a fifty-caliber machine gun protruding from the window of the projection booth. He also noted that steel plates had been welded over the two fire doors at the rear of the theatre, on each side of the screen.

  The center aisle was filled with glittering shards of glass, visible even in the dim light. Baker looked upward and saw a brass chain dangling from the ceiling.

  "Chandelier," Lapine said conversationally. "It was a beautiful thing-all crystal. The townies knocked it down and used the glass to try and cut up a bunch of our guys. Didn't make it far, but we lost some good men. Rounded up the ringleaders and crucified them out along the highway. You probably saw the crosses on the way in."

  Reluctantly, Baker nodded.

  "That's one way of dealing with them." His braying laughter echoed off the high-domed ceiling and dirty alabaster walls. "Of course, the funny part is when they die after they've been crucified. We really nail them down; restrict their muscles and everything.. They come back as the living dead and they're stuck! Ever see a zombie starve to death? Well, neither have I. So they just hang there, day in and day out. A couple of them

  eventually got to the point where their hands or feet rotted enough that they could tear free, so now we use 'em for target practice."

  "Sounds very economical," Baker muttered sarcastically. "I'm sure Uncle Sam's accountants would be proud."

  "Oh, that's not the only way Colonel Schow has for dealing with troublemakers," Lapine assured him. "Hangings are pretty effective.

  Firing squads. My favorite is the helicopter rides."

  "And what are those, exactly?"

  "Piss the Colonel off, and maybe you'll find out."

  They left, shutting the doors behind them. Baker heard the chains rattle and the lock snap into place.

  "Moovee," Worm said, pointing to the screen. "Moovee, Baykher."

  "Yes indeed," he sighed to himself, collapsing into a damp seat.

  "Perhaps it's a double feature. Night of the Living Dead and Apocalypse Now. All we need is popcorn."

&n
bsp; Because the interior of the HumVee was crowded with people, booty, and weaponry, they forced Frankie to sit in Skip's lap. The seating arrangements changed quickly when Miccelli discovered her working the ropes around her wrists against the Private's belt buckle, trying to saw through them. This earned them both a beating, and Frankie was thrown to the floor, where she was used as a footstool for Miccelli and Kramer.