The Rising Read online

  Martin twisted his head toward the arm clutching the knife and bit down.

  His teeth sank into the zombie's forearm and he ripped away, taking a chunk of rancid flesh with him. Something wriggled inside his mouth, and Martin spit it out, gagging.

  "See, you're getting the hang of it already-"

  The gunshot was deafening in the confines of the trailer. Martin was sprayed with blood and tissue as the zombie's head exploded inches away from his own.

  "I've got to tell you Preacher, I've seen some sick fucking stuff since this whole thing started, but I ain't never seen somebody take a bite out of a zombie. How'd it taste?"

  Gasping, Martin wiped the gore from his eyes. He retched, picking the strands of dead flesh from between his teeth. Then sat up on his haunches.

  "Thank you, Sergeant...?"

  "Miller. Staff Sergeant Miller. Not that three chevrons with two loops at the bottom means fuck-all anymore. And don't thank me Preacher-man.

  I'm going to kill you in a little bit too."

  "Why? You just saved me."

  "Yep, saved you for cannon fodder. We're safe in here for a second, and I can hold off any zombies that try to crawl up inside with us, but we can't sit around here all day. Those fucks've got rocket launchers and grenades and all kinds of shit. Sooner or later, they'll take this trailer out, which means I've got to go back into that mess out there.

  Only I'm gonna send you out first, so you can draw their fire."

  "That's-that's evil! You're no better than the zombies!"

  "Yep. But don't sweat it. You've got a few minutes to live still. I need a smoke first."

  Miller fumbled for his lighter and cigarettes. Finding both, he sat his M-16 out of Martin's reach and lit up. The flame cast shadows on his haggard face, and for a second, Martin thought it looked like a skull, gleaming and fleshless.

  "Ahhhh," Miller inhaled, a look of bliss crossing his features. "I always thought these things would be what killed me. Don't know what the fuck I'm gonna do when we run out of smokes."

  "You could let me go. There's no reason to kill me. I can help you fight them."

  Miller snorted and took another drag. "Help me? Some team we'd make huh? An old fart like you teamed up with a hardcore motherfucker like me? No, I think I'll just let them use you for target practice-make my getaway while they do."

  Another muffled explosion shook the trailer, and Miller turned to catch his M-16 before it clattered to the floor.

  In one fluid motion, Martin grasped the knife and thrust it upward. The blade slid into the man's skin, just beneath his chin. He opened his mouth to scream, and as his cigarette fell out, Martin caught a glimpse of the knife as it penetrated the roof of his mouth and sank into the cavity above it. The hilt was tight against the man's chin.

  Miller toppled over, curling into the fetal position as he died.

  Martin tugged at the knife's handle but it was lodged tight. He stood, wiping his bloody hands on his clothing.

  "But thou, oh God, shalt bring them down into the pit of destruction.

  Bloody and deceitful men shall not live out half their days; but I will trust in thee."

  He kicked Miller's body, then picked up the discarded weapon and examined it.

  "Psalms fifty-five, verses four through twenty-three."

  He experimented with the rifle, recalling his own experience in the military, and then readied himself. He glanced back at the two bodies, making sure neither was moving, and a shudder ran through him. His rescue at the hands of Miller reminded him of the wheelchair zombie. Jim had saved him then.

  "Please Lord, watch over him. Help him find his son."

  A strange peace settled upon him. Filled with renewed confidence and strength, Martin ignored the arthritis stabbing at his joints and the shortness of breath in his chest, and moved toward the yawning exit.

  "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me."

  He went out into the valley, and though the shadow of death covered all, he knew no fear. Staff Sergeant Michaels kicked the door in, shattering the glass all over the sidewalk and carpet. He ran through the office building's lobby, and the sounds of his men dying trailed in his wake.

  A zombie leapt up from behind the receptionist's desk where it had been hiding, and fired at him. Something burned across his shoulder, like a bee sting but sharper. Something else punched his leg. Hollering, Michaels gunned the creature down and gasped.

  He paused in front of the elevator doors, panting heavily and trying to figure out what to do next. His shoulder and thigh both felt warm, and it was only then that he realized he'd been hit. He peeled away the cloth of his shirt and appraised the wound. It was bad. The hole in his thigh was even worse. Feeling light-headed and sick to his stomach, he pressed a palm to his shoulder and considered his options.

  The complex was without power, so the elevators were out. He briefly considered prying one of the doors open and hiding inside the shaft, but decided against it. To his left, a stairwell led upward and a men's room sat off to his right.

  He limped toward the stairwell and edged the door open a crack. Voices and running footsteps echoed down to him.

  "The gunshots were from downstairs!"

  The voices were not human.

  Michaels let the door swing shut and staggered toward the restrooms.

  Several zombies stalked through the front entrance and more were storming down the stairs. He shouldered through the men's room door and glanced around in panic. There were three sinks, four stalls and a row of urinals. No windows, and the only exit was the door he had just come through.

  The zombies shouted to each other in the lobby. Whimpering, he hid inside the stall farthest from the door, and collapsed on the toilet. As he drew his feet up from the floor, he noticed that it hadn't been flushed since its last use. The water inside it was dark brown, and the remnants of months-old feces and urine had congealed into a toxic soup. Michaels gagged and tried to hold his breath.

  They won't find me in here.

  The bathroom door squeaked open and footsteps plodded towards him.

  Michaels looked down at the floor and froze. Shining quarter-sized drops of blood had dripped from his wounds, leaving a trail brighter than any breadcrumbs.

  "Come out, meat, and we'll make it quick!"

  More of the creatures crowded into the restroom.

  Sobbing, Michaels pointed his rifle at the stall door. The barrel shook, the pain in his arm intensifying. Fear, adrenaline, and blood loss merged with the stench of both the toilet and his pursuers, and nausea took over. Michaels retched, his rifle clattering to the floor as the cramps seized him. He couldn't move, couldn't think.

  They forced the door open as the bile spewed forth, and he couldn't even scream as they dragged him out and forced him down onto the cold, hard tiles. He choked on his own vomit as they began to feed.

  "Welcome back, wise man." Gangrenous fingers seized Baker by the hair, yanking him to his feet. "I see that you've brought some friends. I appreciate the gesture."

  Baker couldn't speak. He coughed as the miasma of cordite and burning fuel and Ob's rotten flesh coated his lungs. The battlefield rang with the screams of the dead and the dying. Bullets whizzed by and explosions peppered the air like fireworks. Both sides were suffering heavy casualties, but most of those killed in the human army were quick to rise again and replenish the ranks of the dead.

  "What was the purpose of this, Billy-boy"

  "They-they wanted to use Havenbrook as a base of operations."

  "Really?" Ob shook his head, stroking the rocket launcher almost lovingly. 'Your kind must learn that your time is over. You are food.

  Meat. Transport. Nothing more. Your time here is over!"

  "I've been wondering about that," Baker ventured, holding a hand over his nose and mouth. "Surely you must realize that if the human race is hunted to extinction, then your kind will be endangered as well."


  Ob stared at him with Powell's dead eyes.

  "There are other worlds than these."

  Something whined by Baker's head and a hole blossomed in Ob's shoulder.

  The zombie staggered backward, raising the rocket launcher.

  Baker flung himself to the ground as a second bullet smashed into Ob's face, destroying his nose and upper lip. The rocket launcher slipped from his grasp as he roared in indignation. His words were unintelligible, but his intent was clear.

  "You fucked up, Professor!" Schow stalked toward them both, oblivious to the bullets whizzing by them. He raised the pistol and fired again, this time obliterating the side of Ob's head. The brain glistened through splintered fragments of skull. It reminded Baker of bloody cauliflower.

  Ob collapsed, twitching in the dirt.

  Baker curled into the fetal position as Schow aimed a savage kick at his ribs. He screamed as the heavy boot connected, and something snapped inside him.

  "You son of a bitch! Those are my men dying! My men! You led us into a trap!"

  He lashed out again, catching Baker in the side of the head. Pain exploded throughout him and his vision grew blurry. Kneeling, Schow pressed the pistol against his crotch. Baker groaned and tried to roll away, but Schow shoved him flat on his back.

  "I'm going to put an end to you right here and now, Professor. But it's not going to be quick and it's not going to be painless. I'm going to shoot your dick off. How do you like that?"

  He punctuated the threat by pressing the barrel hard into Baker's testicles. Baker screamed.

  "Doesn't feel good, does it Professor? It's about to feel much worse.

  You'll bleed to death, but not before these scumfucks get a hold of you.

  Most likely, you'll still be alive when they start on you. Then you know what I'm going to do?"

  Baker closed his eyes.

  "I'm going to wait for the zombie version of you to rise up, and then I'm going to do it all over again. I'm going to shoot out your kneecaps and your spine and both your arms. Hell, I might just cut them all off.

  But not your brain. I want what's left of you to lay here in the dirt, alive."

  "Go ahead, Schow," Baker grimaced. "You'll be the first one I eat when I come back."

  Ob sat up behind them, tissue and fluid running down the side of his face. His brain, still intact, pulsed from inside his ruined head.

  He grabbed Schow from behind, wrapping his fingers around the Colonel's throat, and yanked him backward. The few remaining teeth in his lower jaw slavered across the back of Schow's grizzled neck, and Ob squeezed.

  Baker snatched at the pistol, but Schow clutched it tight. Squirming in Ob's clutches, he thrust it behind his back and squeezed the trigger, emptying the clip into the zombie's chest and abdomen. Ob squeezed tighter, and Schow began to kick and flail.

  A burst of machine gun fire raked the ground around them, and Baker spun to see Schow's command vehicle bearing down on them. Gonzalez was behind the wheel, and McFarland sat perched in the gunner's seat, sweeping his machine gun towards them.

  Something heavy punched him in the stomach, and Baker tried to breathe, only to find that he couldn't. His mid-section felt warm, and he was afraid to look down.

  He fell to the side as the next volley slammed into both Schow and Ob.

  McFarland cackled madly as the barrage decimated both flesh and bone.

  Something wet was running down Baker's legs, and he didn't want to look at it. He felt very weak, and still he could not breathe. Grappling with the rocket launcher, he sat up and pointed it towards the vehicle.

  Schow had been pulped, and the rest of Ob's head had vanished, leaving only a chin and one staring eye.

  Baker felt the strength ebbing from him and knew it was only a matter of seconds. He could smell himself now, and the crimson pool spreading around him left no doubt. He braved a glance at his wound and found that his stomach was missing; replaced by something that looked like raw hamburger.

  "Oh God..."

  He belched and blood sprayed from his mouth.

  Still laughing, Gonzalez and McFarland bore down on him.

  "I'm sorry for what I've done, and I'm ready to face the consequences."

  They fired at the same time, and the last thing Baker saw before the beautiful orange flower bloomed was the look of disbelief on both Gonzalez's and McFarland's faces.

  The pain in his stomach ceased, and Baker closed his eyes. The explosion felt warm on his skin, and he relished it.

  Something was screaming at him from far away, and a second later, he found out what it was. Carrion birds hovered over the site in a thick, dark cloud. Jim remained beneath the shelter of the trees, staring in disbelief. He'd found a pair of binoculars on one of the zombies he had killed, and though he wanted to look away, he found that he couldn't. Instead, he watched in dreadful fascination as the horrors were magnified before him.

  Schow's forces were decimated. The burned out husks of tanks and vehicles still smoked, their inhabitants smoldering with them. Zombies littered the landscape, each one brought down by some form of head trauma. Dozens more thrashed in the mud; appendages severed, bodies cut in half, but still moving. Hordes of them swarmed about the lawn, feasting on the fallen.

  Jim shuddered, noting that many of the creatures partaking in the massacre were once Schow's men. Even worse were the once captive civilians, now freed from bondage but their dead bodies a prisoner of something even worse.

  Not all of the humans were being killed. Several dozen had been rounded up, stripped of their weapons, and were now being herded inside the complex. Jim could only imagine what the creatures would do with them.

  Would they be used for food? Livestock? Or perhaps, something even more sinister?

  His shoulders slumped. Martin was nowhere in sight, and Jim could only hope that the old man had not suffered. There was nothing more he could do here.

  He started to turn away, and then froze, staring through the binoculars.

  Baker walked toward the captives, talking to the group of zombies that guarded them. His flesh was burned black in places, and his mid-section was an empty cavity.

  Jim lowered the binoculars, gathered as much weapons and ammunition that he could carry, and turned away. Martin was dead. Baker was a zombie. Nothing else now stood between him and Danny.

  Ob looked out at his kingdom through Baker's eyes, and he saw that it was good. He gave orders regarding the captives, and then traversed the battlefield, welcoming the newly risen and joining in the feast. He had no stomach but it didn't matter to him. He was enjoying this new body.

  From somewhere far away, Baker screamed.

  Ob's laughter drowned out the sound of it in his head, and soon, the screams faded away to nothingness.

  Jim hobbled along the side of the road, sticking close enough to the edge so that he could seek cover in the treeline if he needed to. As near as he could tell, most of the undead in this area, both two-legged and otherwise, were concentrated around Havenbrook. He hoped to travel as far as he could while they were occupied at the site.

  He readjusted the M-16, shifting its weight in his hands. An identical weapon was slung across his back, and he wore a pistol holstered at his side. The straps on the second machine gun chafed his skin as he walked.

  He tried to ignore the protests from his aching muscles, but his blistered feet were balls of flame, and the reopened wound in his shoulder trickled blood and pus. His upper arm felt warm where the infection burned in him, and the flesh around the bullet hole was red and puffy.

  He had never felt so exhausted. He shuffled northward and swirling clouds of dust, kicked up by his boots, marked his passage. All around him, the land was silent, as if nature were holding her breath. The cornfields did not hum with the buzzing of insects or the chorus of birds. The houses sat like stones, dour and mournful. The sounds of the battle's terrible aftermath faded with every step he took, until they vanished completely. Jim wiped the sweat from his eyes and l
istened to the silence, losing himself in the strange beauty of the moment. He wished he was more articulate, wished he could define what he felt. He found himself wondering if Martin would have appreciated the serenity, and thought that he would have.

  Thoughts of the old man brought a smile to his haggard face, and he began to replay the journey in his mind; Carrie and the baby, Martin, Delmas and Jason Clendenan and the other scattered survivors they'd encountered, Schow and his men, Haringa, Baker-it all flashed before him, leading him to now. This road. This final road. If he could find a car, he'd reach his destination within an hour. If not, he could still be there before nightfall, as long as he kept this pace.