The Rising Page 26

  "He trusts you," Schow observed from the front passenger seat. "Almost like an adoptive son. That's good. You wouldn't want to betray that trust. You'll do well to remember that, Professor Baker."

  "I'm a man of my word, Colonel. I hope that you are as well."

  "Your insinuation wounds me, Professor." He turned to the driver.

  "Silva, what's our status?"

  "The first group left on point ten minutes ago sir," the driver reported. "And I've just received confirmation from Lieutenant Torres that the chopper is in the air and performing aerial surveillance as well. We are go."

  Schow nodded forward.

  "Proceed."

  The convoy began to roll.

  "How fast do you think we're going?" Martin whispered.

  Haringa grunted. "Hard to tell from inside here. Forty miles an hour maybe."

  It was cold inside the truck, and the dank, musty air stank of stale urine and sweat. The wound in Jim's shoulder, though healing, still throbbed.

  In the darkness, somebody farted. This was followed by nervous laughter and cries of faux dismay.

  "Anybody bring a flashlight?" someone called, followed by more laughter.

  "I've got a deck of cards," came the answer. "Not that they'll do us much good right now."

  "Somebody know what's going on? Where the hell are we going, anyway?"

  "They're gonna gas us," answered a voice near the front, "just like the Nazis did to the Jews. Gas us and feed us to them zombies."

  "Bullshit!"

  "We're relocating to a scientific research center in Hellertown." Jim's voice rang out in the darkness and all other talk ceased. "Schow wants to set up base there. Much of it is underground, and the location is better protected than Gettysburg was."

  "What are you, some kinda collaborator?" someone challenged him.

  "No, and if I could get up there and get my hands on you, I'd choke the living shit out of you for saying that."

  "I know that voice. You're that guy what thinks his son is still alive.

  I heard you last night."

  "Yeah, what of it?"

  "You're a stupid fucker, is all. Ain't no way that boy is still kicking.

  Better get used to the idea."

  Jim tensed and Martin reached out in the darkness, steadying him.

  During the night, Jim had begun to experiment with the idea that it was possible-perhaps even likely-that Danny was dead. But even if that were the case (and it was a reality that he wouldn't let himself accept-not yet), then he still needed to see, to know, or he would drive himself crazy.

  He thought of Danny: bright and cheerful. He tried to imagine him as one of them now. His mind refused.

  "My son is alive," he insisted quietly, "and if you say that again, you won't be."

  "Fuck you," the disembodied heckler retorted. The tension inside the musty trailer was building, almost palpable. Suddenly, Haringa spoke out.

  "Now is this anyway to act, guys? Here I throw this nice party for all of you, and all you do is bitch about the lights being out and that there's no room to move. And I didn't want to say anything, but which one of you forgot to put on his deodorant this morning?"

  The trailer exploded with laughter and the tension quickly dissipated.

  "Anybody want to sing 'Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall'?"

  The laughter turned to groans.

  Jim was silent, the rage within him building, refusing to subside.

  Frankie moaned with false passion as Lawson thrust into her. Wrapping her legs tightly around his back, she pulled him close. His breath, reeking of tobacco, blew against her neck.

  "Oh God," he murmured into her hair. "Oh shit, yeah baby. I'm gonna come."

  She ground her hips and urged him on, watching over his shoulder the entire time, studying how the vehicle was operated. It was pretty much like a car, she noted. She was confident that if and when the time came, she wouldn't have much trouble with it.

  She felt him spurt inside her, and the frenzied thrashing increased, then subsided. She faked her own orgasm, then went limp. Behind them, Blumenthal and Julie were finishing up as well.

  "That was fucking great," Lawson exclaimed, rolling off of her. He turned to the man up front. "Too bad you've got to drive, Williams."

  "Well shit man, give me a turn."

  Lawson shook his head and looked down at Frankie with a smile. "Noway.

  She's all mine. Aren't you baby?"

  Frankie winked at him, then reached out and wrapped her fingers around his softening penis.

  "Think you can shoot this gun off again?"

  "Yeah, if you help me."

  "I think I can do that," she purred. "Maybe later you can teach me how to shoot that gun up there?"

  "What, the fifty cal? Baby, you keep this up and I'll teach you anything you want!" They rolled on as dawn turned to daylight, and the impassive sun climbed higher into the sky, shining its light on the horrors below.

  Their progress attracted the unwelcome attention of the living dead, and the trip became a constant rolling battle. The sharp crack of single-shot pistols and the heavy staccato of the machine guns marked their passage as they swept by exit ramps and small towns and fields and forests.

  In Chambersburg, Baker experienced a surreal moment of astonishment when he spied a lone fawn, its soft brown coat still covered with white spots, poking its way through the broken window of a farmer's market and foraging on half-rotten fruits and vegetables. Even Schow and the other officers were silent and reflective as they passed it by. The fawn was not alarmed by their presence, and made no move to run.

  "Baybee," Worm cooed in momentary happiness, and Baker was glad for it.

  He'd convinced them to remove the boy's gag, and Worm had relaxed some.

  The deer was the only living creature they saw during the trek.

  Everything else was dead.

  Near Shippensburg, four zombies in a pickup truck waited until the point vehicle had passed and then tried ramming the first truck in the procession. Torres' watchful eye from the hovering helicopter alerted them, and a well placed tank shell turned both the vehicle and its undead inhabitants into shrapnel before it ever reached the convoy.

  Other creatures tried similar tactics and met with the same fate.

  Sharpshooters mowed down some, while others were simply run over to save bullets. All morning long, the civilians inside the trailers heard the intermittent but gruesome sounds of battle.

  The troops were not without their own casualties, however. Near York, a well-aimed shot from a zombie sniper atop a billboard took out a gunner on one of the Humvees. The undead sniper was using a .223 round, and the soldier was killed instantly.

  Half an hour past Harrisburg, a group of undead bats launched themselves at another HumVee, and the young recruit in the turret, panicking and frightened, rolled off his perch and into the road while trying to get away from them. He disappeared beneath the tires of his own HumVee before the driver could stop. He writhed in the road, legs crushed and bats gnawing at his exposed flesh, before a soldier in the next vehicle ended his misery for him by running over his top half.

  They left the interstate and were only ten miles from Hellertown when they lost their first point team.

  The Clegg Memorial Orphanage had, at the height of its operations, been revered as a perfect example of modern childcare. Overlooking a scenic and wooded portion of the highway near Havenbrook, the home provided mental and physical health care and support services to neglected, abused, homeless, and emotionally troubled children. The orphanage had a spotless record, and averaged more permanent adoptions than any of its kind nationwide.

  When the dead began returning to life, it had housed over two hundred children.

  Those two hundred children swarmed from the building as the HumVee and Jeep on point drove past it.

  The soldiers stared in shock at the tide of undead children pouring forth from the doors and running towards them.

&nbs
p; The shooting started a moment later.

  Then the screams ...

  "Say again, Lieutenant, everything after 'trouble'." Schow stared impatiently at the radio, waiting for a response, but none was forthcoming.

  "Silva, get them back on the air!" The driver busied himself with the radio, keeping the other hand on the wheel. The command vehicle began to swerve along the road.

  "God damn it, Silva, watch where you're going!"

  "Sorry sir!"

  Torres' terrified voice flooded the radio again. The whir of the helicopter's blades could be heard in the background.

  "I repeat, our point team is under attack! They are under attack! Two klicks away from your current position."

  "Can you see Havenbrook?"

  "Affirmative, sir. But-my God..."

  Schow seethed with anger, and both Baker and Worm cringed back into their seats.

  "What is your status?" he barked into the radio.

  If Torres heard him, he gave no indication. Instead, it sounded as if he was talking to the pilot. "What the hell is that?"

  Static, and something unintelligible; then "No it's not a fucking cloud!

  Lead them away from the rest of the convoy! That's an order!"

  "What the hell is going on up there?" McFarland wondered aloud.

  Nobody answered him.

  In the helicopter, Second Lieutenant Torres cowered in horror as death approached them.

  Birds. The sky was blotted out by a black storm cloud of undead birds.

  They soared toward the chopper as one, the sun vanishing in their wake.

  "They're everywhere," the pilot screamed. "I can't shake them sir!"

  "Keep going! The others can make it to Havenbrook

  from here! We've got to lead these things away from the convoy!"

  "Fuck that and fuck you, sir!"

  Torres didn't reply. Closing his eyes, he reached beneath his shirt and pulled forth his dogtags. He'd seen men do the same with their Catholic medallions, but he himself had never been a believer.

  He wondered if it was too late to change that.

  He placed the metal tags between his teeth and clamped down on them, trying not to scream as the first of the wave crashed against the cockpit. It was followed by another, then five more. Then a dozen. Their heads and beaks splatted against the glass, sounding like gunshots above the noise.

  The pilot was screaming, and Torres wished briefly that he would shut up. He bit down harder on the dogtags as the helicopter began to spin out of control. There was a sickening lurch, and Torres knew if he opened his eyes, he'd find himself upside down.

  There was a cacophony of sound now; the screech of the birds, the whine of the helicopter, the pilot's screams. And above them all, a roaring sound, as the ground came rushing up to meet them.

  It sounds like a freight train, he thought to himself, roaring through a tunnel.

  For the first time in his life, Torres wondered if there would be a light at the end of his tunnel.

  The glass windows shattered and dozens of rotting, feathery bodies swarmed them.

  He was thankful when the helicopter hit the ground, welcoming the explosion that took away all pain and knowledge. It looked very much like a light.

  "We've lost contact with them, sir."

  "Do you really think so, Private? Eyes left!"

  Schow pointed to the fireball blooming on the horizon, beyond the treeline.

  "Fuck," Gonzalez gasped, staring at the smoke and flames, "Let's just can this whole thing now, Colonel. Let's head back to Gettysburg!"

  Schow whipped around in his seat. A vein throbbed in his reddening forehead.

  "Captain, you will sit there and guard our prisoners or by God, I will shoot you myself. Is that understood?"

  "Yes sir." Gonzalez thrust the barrel of his pistol into Baker's side.

  Schow changed channels and addressed the convoy.

  "Now hear this! Be advised, we've got incoming. I repeat, we have incoming. I want all fifty-cal gunners to man their posts. I want snipers atop the rigs, and I want them now. Secure the non-combatants and lock them down. I want every available man ready. Let's move, gentlemen!"

  The line of vehicles halted abruptly, and the men began moving as one, carrying out their orders. Gunners swept the perimeter from atop their perches, searching for movement. Newly hardened veterans, whose only combat experience before the rising occurred had been drills and wargames, now sniffed the air knowingly, catching a telltale hint of the approaching force.

  They did not have long to wait.

  The children appeared as one atop the hill. They raised a horrible cry, and swarmed forward, running down the road toward them. The soldiers opened fire, unleashing a barrage that slammed into the horde, shredding their rotting flesh. Limbs were ripped from bodies and entrails were left lying on the road and still they advanced. The soldiers readjusted their fire, and heads began to disintegrate, but for each zombie that dropped, another one took its place.

  The dead children's laughter echoed above the gunfire. Blumenthal swiveled in the turret, shouting over the staccato roar of the fifty caliber.

  "Get the girls to the Meat Wagon!"

  Drawing his pistol, Lawson shoved Frankie and Julie forward.

  "You heard him! Let's go!"

  Julie planted her feet. "We want to stay with you!"

  "You'll be safer inside the truck," Lawson insisted, "and besides, if the Colonel sees you out here, he'll shoot us all."

  He led them forward through the chaos. Bursts of gunfire and the angry shrieks of the undead erupted all around them, and Frankie's nose wrinkled at the smell of cordite and zombies.

  Then she saw one of them. A girl, no more than six years old. She carried a battered stuffed bear. Her flower-print dress was stained and torn, and her skinny arms and legs were swollen and ulcerated. She grinned, revealing blackened gums, and skipped towards them.

  "Can I have a hug?"

  Lawson stepped between the women and the zombie and squeezed off a shot.

  A crimson flower bloomed in the girl's forehead, and she dropped to the ground, still clutching the stuffed animal.

  Shuddering, Frankie covered her ears, trying to drown out the noise.

  Above the din of battle she could suddenly hear her baby crying again.

  She found herself wishing for some heroin, and then forced the urge from her mind.

  "Move!"

  Lawson pushed them both forward again, running as more zombies made it into the perimeter. They were attacking from four sides now; the road, the hill, and the woods flanking the highway.

  He dropped four more of the creatures before they reached the truck.

  Quickly, he threw the bolt and swung the door open.

  "Get in!"

  "Let me have a gun," Frankie pleaded.

  "Trust me, baby, you'll be safer in here than you will outside. I'll come and get you when this is over."

  Julie and Frankie clambered aboard and he slammed the door behind them.

  Frankie heard the bolt slide into place with a dull click.

  The interior of the trailer was not what she'd expected. Plush red carpet cushioned the floor, and kerosene lamps gave off a soft, dim glow. Cubicle partitions looted from an office formed separate rooms, and each space had a cot. A few women slept fitfully, even with the pitched battle outside, but other than their snores, the Meat Wagon was quiet.

  Then Frankie heard the cries from the rear, and the unmistakable sound of flesh striking flesh.

  "Yeah, that's it. Take it you little bitch."

  Frankie recognized the snarling voice immediately. Julie placed a cautious hand on her shoulder, but Frankie shoved it off and crept forward.

  Another slap, and this time the girl's cry was louder, and followed by sobs of pain and shame.

  Aimee.

  Gritting her teeth, Frankie rushed into the last cubicle. Kramer thrashed on top of the girl; his pale, white ass gyrating in the air, his bulk crushing
her to the cot. One hand was around Aimee's throat, and the other was curled into a fist. As Frankie burst forward, the fist came crashing down again. The sickening sound of the blow resonated in Frankie's stomach.

  Aimee was gasping for air, her dilated pupils far away and unseeing. Her eyes rolled back into her head, showing only whites, and her back arched so much that Frankie thought her spine would snap.

  "Hey, fat boy!"

  Kramer turned, still on top of the girl, and grinned.