The Rising Page 28

  "Fuck," Sharpes cursed. "I missed him."

  The driver shook his head in disgust.

  "Sergeant Ford can't see right now. That tanker truck's in the way. Want to go after him?"

  "Screw that. We'll tell him we nailed him. Besides, with all these zombies around, the fucker'll be dead in minutes anyway."

  Schow's voice crackled over the radio.

  "Be advised. We have reached the location. Standby." The lead vehicles slowed as the convoy turned down the private lane leading to Havenbrook. The sign at the entrance had once read:

  HAVENBROOK NATIONAL LABORATORIES

  TOMORROW'S FUTURE TODAY

  IELLERTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA

  AUTHORIZED VEHICLES ONLY Baker remembered passing by it when he'd escaped from Ob and fled south. Since then, somebody had vandalized the sign. Some of the words had been blacked out and the garish, spray painted letters now read:

  HELL

  TOMORROWS PEAJ>

  HELL, PENNSYLVANIA

  AUTHORIZED VEHICLES ONLY

  ENTER. MEAT

  They stopped at the entrance. The security fence stretched away on both sides, and the guard post was unmanned.

  Schow's smile was tight-lipped. "Welcome to our new home, gentlemen."

  "Looks deserted." Gonzalez observed.

  "Not according to our friend here." Schow patted Baker on the head, and the scientist pulled away from him.

  The rest of the convoy rolled up behind them. During the attack, they'd lost two Humvees and three civilian trucks. Schow had not yet been given exact figures on how many men hadn't survived, but he considered the probable estimates acceptable losses. The only thing that angered him was the irreplaceable loss of the helicopter.

  At his order, the tanks crept forward, turrets leveled at the entrance.

  Nothing moved.

  "We've stopped," Frankie said. "Get ready. As soon as they open those doors, we make a break for it."

  "They'll have guns-" Julie argued.

  "We've got one too," Frankie interrupted her, "and besides. I'd rather swallow a bullet than another one of these pig's dicks." She turned to face the other two women.

  "I heard that," a Puerto Rican woman named Maria nodded. "I've got your back."

  "Me too," agreed the other. "I'm ready."

  "What's your name again?"

  "Meghan."

  "Alright," Frankie turned back to Julie. "Maria and Meghan are with me on this. Are you? Because if not, Julie, then you're nothing more than the whore they want you to be."

  Anger flashed across Julie's face, then slowly subsided.

  "I'm no whore."

  "Then be a warrior, god damn it. Survive. Live!"

  Frankie aimed the pistol at the door, and they waited.

  "So," McFarland asked, "do we just drive through the front door?"

  Schow's laughter was short and clipped.

  "What do you think, Professor?" He grabbed a fistful of Baker's hair and jerked his head upward. "Look at me when I address you! What do you suggest? Is there anything we should know about before we proceed?"

  "I'm not telling you anything!" Baker snorted, then spit on him.

  His eyebrows arched, Schow calmly wiped the spittle from the silver eagle on his shoulder.

  "Then we have no further use for you."

  He yanked the pistol from his holster.

  "Colonel Schow, this is Charlie-Two-Seven."

  Silva picked up the handset and looked at the officers questioningly.

  McFarland grabbed it from him.

  "Go ahead, Sergeant Michaels."

  "Sir, we've got the remnants from that orphanage coming up on our rear flank. We thinned their numbers during the last skirmish, but I suspect that some of our men are now with them."

  "How far back?"

  "A couple miles. They're coming on foot. Sir, there's enough of them that we probably don't want to be caught out here in the open."

  Still clutching both Baker's hair and the pistol, Schow nodded his head to McFarland.

  "Have one of the tanks go through the gate first. Tell them not to knock down that fence. It sounds like we'll need it in a while. After the tank has gone through, send a unit along behind it. If the entrance and the grounds are secure, then the rest of us will follow."

  "Yes sir." McFarland began relaying the orders over the radio.

  Schow twisted Baker's hair savagely, and despite his efforts not to do so, the scientist groaned in pain.

  "The United States Government thanks you for your assistance, Professor."

  Baker grimaced. "Burn in hell, you twisted piece of garbage."

  Schow raised the pistol to his head and then paused, thinking.

  "Captain, delay that order. Have the tank crew stand down."

  "Sir?"

  "We're going to have the Professor Baker here go in before the tank."

  "What?"

  "You heard me. Point detail."

  Laughing, McFarland gave the orders. Pulling him by his hair, Schow opened the door and gestured for Baker to get out.

  "It's easy, Professor. Just walk up and ring the doorbell."

  The soldiers had shut the door again as soon as the convoy stopped.

  Martin and the others huddled in the darkness, peering through the bullet holes and listening to what was going on outside.

  Martin ignored the shocked and frightened mutterings of his companions, and turned his thoughts to Jim. He knew that the Lord had protected his friend from harm, at least as far as the leap from the truck was concerned. Jim had been up and moving even as they'd passed from sight.

  But what had his friend escaped into? How many zombies had been involved in the initial attack, and how many still lingered in the area? How many guardsmen had died at their hands, and now joined their ranks?

  Jim was on foot, weaponless, and alone amidst the living dead. The only thing in his favor was that single-minded determination and love for his son.

  Martin bowed his head and began to pray harder than he ever had in his life.

  Baker considered his options. If he refused Schow, they would shoot him where he stood. On the other hand, if he re-entered Havenbrook, there was a chance he could run past the gate and hide in one of the buildings. If his theory regarding Ob was correct, however, the complex would offer an even worse fate-death at the hands of the undead.

  With both Schow and Gonzalez pointing their weapons at him, he turned toward the gatehouse. His feet felt light, as if he were standing on a conveyer rather than walking toward it. His senses were hyper-aware. The sun was hot on the back of his neck. His scalp ached where Schow had pulled his hair. It was quiet, as if the land was holding its breath. No birds or insects-living or otherwise. From behind him, he heard the squawk of a radio set. Somebody sneezed and someone else jacked a fresh clip into their weapon.

  Now he was in front of the guardhouse. He'd driven through this entrance twice a day for many years. When he'd fled from Havenbrook, only days before, he'd never expected to see it again. He'd known the guards by name; asked about their children and wives and gave them a bonus at Christmas. Where were they now? Perhaps inside the shack, lurking in the shadows and waiting for him to pass by?

  No, that was ridiculous. If they'd returned to their posts after being reanimated, they would have been there when he escaped. Then again, who had vandalized the sign out front? That had been recent-extremely recent.

  There was a burst of static as a nearby radio squawked again. He heard gears turning as the tank turret tracked his progress.

  "Let's go, Professor!" Schow yelled. "We don't have all day. We've got incoming to our rear! Five seconds and I start shooting. Pretend you're selling Girl Scout cookies!"

  Raucous laughter from the troops greeted this.

  Baker took a deep breath, held it, and thought of Worm.

  "I'm sorry." He whispered it over and over, like a mantra.

  Then he walked through the open gate.

  The wind was blowi
ng in the opposite direction, and Jim heard them coming before he smelled them. Their slurred grunts and curses echoed through the forest. Leaves rustled beneath their shambling feet as they advanced toward his location, trailing after the convoy. A live bird took flight, startled from its hiding place in the branches overhead.

  Seconds later, it screeched as one of its undead brethren seized it in midair.

  Pulse hammering, Jim glanced around, his senses hyper-aware. The road would be quickest, but it was too open. He'd be a sitting target out there. The woods offered protection, but the thick undergrowth that hid him would also slow him down.

  Something rustled toward him, and he froze, holding his breath. He caught a rancid whiff as it passed by and his eyes began to water. The zombie was close enough that he could hear the flies buzzing beneath its skin.

  It passed him by, slogging toward the road. Jim quietly exhaled, and waited for it to pass from earshot. When he thought it had passed, he broke cover and ran.

  Immediately, a hoarse cry sprang up behind him. He'd been spotted.

  "Here piggy piggy piggy!"

  Running parallel to the road, Jim dashed through the foliage. Branches whipped at his face and jutting roots threatened to trip him with every step. The dead leaves crunched under his pounding feet, attracting further attention.

  Something dead erupted from the bushes in front of him and he veered to the right, farther from the road. The zombie hobbled along in pursuit, dragging one useless leg behind it. Armed with a fiberglass compound bow, it launched an arrow at him. The missile whistled over his head, embedding itself in the trunk of an old oak tree.

  Another zombie burst forward, and though Jim didn't know it, the corpse had once been Worm.

  "Guhnnuh git ewww."

  It shambled toward him, its tongue flopping around in its mouth like a dead fish.

  Jim shouldered his way through a jumble of raspberry bushes and continued on. His shirt caught on the thorns and he shrugged his way free, leaving the garment dangling like a flag.

  Scrambling up a brush-covered hill, he reached down and grabbed a fallen limb. It was about the length of his arm and it felt solid as he hefted it.

  A groundhog, entrails protruding from a hole in its side, chittered angrily and snapped at his ankles. Jim swung, bringing the makeshift club down across its head. The creature backed away and he brought the limb down again with a mightier blow. The thing's head collapsed, one eye bulging out of its socket.

  Worm was right behind him now. Gaining higher ground, Jim turned to face him.

  More zombies were pouring from the woods toward his position. Six, then a dozen. Then two dozen. He could hear more of the creatures crashing through the undergrowth, and plodding down the highway to his left.

  Worm clawed at him and he shoved him backward, sending the zombie tumbling down the hill. It crashed into three more, and they sprawled in a heap on the forest floor. He swung the club again, connecting with another zombie's jaw. There was a sharp crack, and Jim cheered, until he realized that it was his weapon, and not the zombie, that had broken.

  The jagged limb looked like a spear now, and using it like one, he thrust it forward, jabbing it into the creature's jaundiced eye. He pushed with all his weight and heard a pop as the broken stick penetrated the membrane and sunk into the soft tissue of the brain. Jim tugged on the stick but it wouldn't budge, embedded in the zombie's skull. Dropping it, he turned and ran again.

  He headed back towards the road again, searching desperately for an abandoned vehicle, or at least a weapon, dropped during the battle. He'd gone about five hundred yards when he almost tripped over the injured soldier.

  The man lay with his back against an oak tree. One arm dangled uselessly at his side, and both legs were broken and covered with bite marks.

  Remarkably, despite the damage, the man was alive.

  After a moment, Jim recognized him.

  "Hey man," the guardsman pleaded, "help me out. I need to get back to the unit. Need to find a medic."

  "You're Private Miccelli, aren't you?"

  The man's eyes narrowed in a mixture of suspicion and surprise.

  "Yeah," he panted, "and you are?"

  "Jim Thurmond. I remember you from this morning. Let me help you."

  He knelt down, prodding at Miccelli's legs. A jagged splinter of bone had poked through his calf, and Jim touched it with his fingertip.

  Miccelli shrieked, clawing at the dirt and leaves.

  "Shhh," Jim warned him. "You'll let them know where we are. Those things are all around us."

  "For fuck's sake, man, help me! What the fuck is wrong with you?"

  With his foot, Jim casually pushed Miccelli's rifle out of the soldier's reach.

  "They'll be on us in a minute or so. I'll have to protect us both. How the hell do you work this thing?"

  Between grunts of pain, Miccelli explained the weapon, and how to change the clip. Satisfied, Jim stood up and pointed it at him.

  "What are you doing man?"

  "This morning, when you took Professor Baker away before we were put on the truck, you asked me something. Do you remember what it was? Do you?"

  Miccelli shook his head in frustration.

  "You asked me if I would like to be gut shot and left behind. Remember that?"

  His eyes widened in comprehension.

  "Hey man, don't!" He held his palms out in surrender. "Please? Don't fucking do that man! If you're gonna shoot me, shoot me in my fucking head! Don't shoot me in the stomach! Why would you do that?"

  "I wanted to get to my son, and you got in my way."

  He gave the trigger a short, quick squeeze and Miccelli's screams were lost beneath the report.

  Blood gushed from the hole in his abdomen, and he grappled with his intestines, fighting to keep them inside. The tendons in his neck and face stood out, taught with pain. He began to shake, his teeth clattering together.

  "You asshole," he whined. "You fucking asshole."

  "So tell me Miccelli, how does it feel to be gut shot and left behind?"

  Jim took off quickly, as the zombies, attracted by the gunshot and Miccelli's cries, began to draw towards them.

  He burst through the foliage and onto the road, then turned. He was well ahead of the zombies, but they were still within sight, plodding steadily toward Havenbrook.

  This can't all be for me.

  From the woods, Miccelli began to scream louder. His cries were punctuated with the horrible laughter of the zombies. But there were also the sounds of further pursuit. More were coming his way. Only a few of the creatures had stopped to take advantage of the dying man. The others were moving forward. Why? Where were they going? He thought about it and decided that they must be pursuing the convoy. Only a small handful of the creatures were armed, but apparently, they planned to continue the fight.

  Almost as if they were following orders from someone...

  The knowledge chilled him. Slinging the rifle, he ran on. Jim had always laughed at horror movies where the victim ran down the middle of the road, rather than hiding in the woods, but now he found himself doing the same.

  Miccelli's screams followed him, then turned to squeals, and finally faded.

  He found a hollow oak stump, a long-ago victim of a lightning strike, and he hid inside the dry-rotted, musty confines. He waited there, along the edge of the road, hidden in the tree, until the shambling, rotting forces had passed by him.

  The zombies were representative of all walks of life. The majority were children and teenagers from the orphanage, but the residents of Hellertown, and even a few dozen soldiers from Schow's rag-tag group also marched toward their destination. Black, white, Hispanic, and Asian-death did not discriminate. Some carried weapons while others carried nothing but their hunger, hanging over them in an almost palpable cloud of menace. Some moved along at a quick pace while others lagged behind, slowed by mangled or missing limbs. One in particularly bad shape paraded by, and the flesh sloughed off its le
g as it passed his hiding place, landing on the road like a discarded banana peel.

  They were all around him now, and Jim slouched down inside the tree as far as he could go. If they found him now it would all have been for nothing. The confines of his hiding place offered no escape.