The Rising Read online

Baker refused to believe that it was all over. Surely, somebody out there was still alive, and working on regaining control; reversing the catastrophe. It was folly to consider mankind extinct.

  So where could he find them?

  From where he stood, he was close to many East Coast hubs. Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, Baltimore, New York City, and the nation's capitol were all within five or six hours driving distance. But these major metropolitan areas had such high population areas, that they would be virtual death traps.

  Baker ran a dirty finger down the map, frowning. It seemed best to continue south into Pennsylvania, possibly crossing over into Maryland or Virginia. He traced the blue highway line.

  Harrisburg, while small, had a large urban population and would present the same problems. York and Hanover might be feasible. Although they had dense populations, both were surrounded by miles of rural communities and uninhabited farmlands and forests. The local governments in these areas could have kept up a fight, possibly barricading themselves against the enemy.

  Farther south, just beyond Hanover, his finger stopped on Gettysburg.

  More than just a Civil War memorial, Gettysburg was near Camp David, and was rumored to be the location of something called "the underground Pentagon." Baker had earned himself friends in both congress and the military over the years, and his own security clearance was quite substantial. He knew things-things the public didn't know.

  Things like the fact that in the case of a war or a crippling terrorist attack, several of the country's leaders would be shuttled to a location in Gettysburg, where they'd be safeguarded while they did what was necessary to get the country operational again.

  If there was any semblance of order left, the closest place to find it would be Gettysburg. They could take the turnpike southward, skirting only the outskirts of Harrisburg, then on to York, where they could lose themselves in the countryside and travel through the less populated back roads to Gettysburg.

  He nodded to himself, convinced it was a good plan.

  Of course, they could be killed at any time along the way.

  He considered transportation. Under normal conditions, Gettysburg was an approximate three-hour drive from where he stood. What the drive-and the roads-would be like now was anybody's guess.

  Should they even drive, he wondered, or would a moving vehicle just attract more attention? He thought about the young couple that he'd seen hunted by the zombies. The creatures could operate vehicles and use firearms. Their dexterity was slower, but they were still cunning-and lethal. Wouldn't a speeding vehicle, or even a slow-moving one, provide a much more apparent target for them than if he and Worm were to just stick to the fields and woods, and go on foot?

  He sighed in exasperation. Walking was just as deadly; perhaps more so.

  That left them vulnerable not only to the human zombies, but to the rest of the living dead bestiary. Distance was also a factor. On foot, a three-hour drive became a one hundred and twenty-mile hike. Baker was by no means in bad shape. He'd taken advantage of Havenbrook's extensive physical fitness center every other day. Nevertheless, at fifty-five, he was no longer a young man, and two hours on an exercise bike three days a week were no comparison to a grueling journey on foot, especially one where danger was so prevalent.

  Adding to his frustration was Worm. He couldn't just abandon him. The boy seemed to have survived on his own quite well so far, but now that Baker had discovered him (or was it the other way around, he wondered), he felt responsible for his new ward. Perhaps, Baker realized, he was making amends; trying to get back in God's good graces for the mess he'd helped to cause down here.

  Driving it would have to be. That decided, he turned his mind to the task of finding transportation. There had been a few cars and trucks scattered among the rest area's parking lot, so that seemed a logical first choice.

  He got Worm's attention, and placed a hand on his shoulder.

  "Stay here," Baker commanded. "I have to go out."

  "Shugh Baykhar!" the boy smiled, giving him an okay sign with his fingers.

  Verifying the pistol had a fully loaded clip; he stepped out into the rain. Doubt gnawed at him. What was he doing? He was a scientist, not a car-jacker. He hadn't the faintest idea how to hot wire a car, or even how to break into one without smashing the window or setting off one of those annoying car alarms that would alert every zombie in the tri-state area as to their location.

  The first three vehicles; a Saturn, Dodge truck, and a Honda, were locked. The fourth, a rusting "K" car, was unlocked, but missing it's keys. Baker rummaged halfheartedly through the glove compartment and under the seats before giving up and moving on.

  The fifth car, a gray, compact Hyundai, was not only locked, but occupied.

  The keys lay on the ground, just beyond the driver's side door, still clutched in a severed hand. The rest of the body was missing; eaten or walking around Baker couldn't be sure, and all that remained was a dried reddish-brown spot on the blacktop.

  The child in the backseat had probably been five or six years old. It glared at Baker through the window, baring its teeth in undisguised savagery and loathing. The child had been oriental; Chinese, Baker was sure.

  After a moment of fright, he paused, realizing that the zombie was trapped inside. He studied the situation, weighing the evidence.

  Obviously, he surmised after careful observance, the parent and this child had been set upon by the creatures. The parent had made certain the child was safely in the car first, but there was no time for themselves. Somehow, either through the parent's doing or the child's mistake, the child-safety locks had been engaged. After the death of the child (starvation, previous wound, shock-Baker ran off a litany of possible causes), the entity that took over its body was unable to work the safety locks because the child itself had no former memory of how to work them. It lacked the physical strength of an adult host, so attempting to smash through the window, as Baker had seen Ob do at Havenbrook, was fruitless.

  How long had it sat there, trapped in this cage of Detroit steel and Japanese engineering?

  It looked very hungry. Ravenous in fact.

  Baker tapped the glass with his finger, and the creature snarled; its rage muffled by the glass and the rain.

  Stooping, he snatched the keys from the dead hand.

  The zombie tensed.

  Baker placed the key in the lock and turned. The zombie sprang over the console and into the front seat.

  With a speed that surprised even himself, Baker whipped the driver's side door open and aimed the pistol. Eyeing it, the zombie froze. A bulbous, gray tongue licked the split and cracked lips.

  It spoke to him in Chinese. When Baker didn't respond, it switched to the form of Sumerian that Baker had heard Ob use as well.

  "You don't speak English," he observed in calm detachment, "because your host didn't know English."

  The thing spat, its mottled fingers clutching at the seat tightly.

  "But you know what this is, don't you?" Baker gave the pistol a slight shake. "That's sad. The child learned about guns before he learned to speak the language of his adopted home country."

  The creature launched itself at him, but Baker was quicker. Thunder crashed overhead, and was answered by his pistol. The inside of the dead child's head splattered across the dashboard.

  Baker made sure it was destroyed, then grabbed the corpse by its skinny ankles and dropped it unceremoniously onto the pavement. His stomach fluttered.

  They aren't human, he reminded himself. This is the only way to survive.

  "I'm sorry." he whispered to the grisly pile of flesh and bone.

  Then he fished the key from the door, slid behind the wheel, said a Hail Mary (something he hadn't done since college), and turned the ignition.

  The engine turning over was the sweetest sound Baker had ever known, and he cheered.

  He checked the gauges, and was delighted to find that the car had a full tank of gas. Everything else looked okay as well.
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  He ran back to the shelter and burst through the door, rainwater pooling on the rug in the lobby. He found Worm, dejectedly bouncing the ball against a stall in the women's bathroom.

  "We're leaving," Baker mouthed, trying to convey his excitement. "Let's get your things!" He had to make several attempts before his meaning was clear, at which point Worm cringed, backing farther into the restroom.

  "Don't you want to leave?" Baker asked "Don't you want to find other people?"

  Shaking his head back and forth, Worm whimpered and dropped his eyes.

  "Eeeet uss," he protested. "Peepol trhi to eet Wurhm!"

  The boy refused to look up. Baker cupped his chin and forced him to meet his stare. Tears streamed from the frightened boy's eyes.

  "Worm!" Baker insisted. "Nobody is going to eat you. I promise. I'm going to take care of you now."

  "Nooomyss? Noodahd peepol?"

  "No, Worm," Baker assured him gently, cradling the boy to his chest.

  Worm trembled, and then clung to him. Though he knew Worm couldn't see his lips, he continued talking in soothing tones.

  "I'm not going to let anything harm you." Baker promised, and in doing so, realized he had taken his first step on the path to self-atonement.

  "I'm going to make up for it."

  They gathered their belongings and with a last, perfunctory check of the building, they walked outside to the car.

  The rain had stopped.

  Raindrops fell like tears from a black tar god-or drops of rancid milk from a dead mother's breast. The industrial residue that Baltimore's recently defunct factories had spewed into the sky for decades was now falling back down to be claimed by the earth.

  Emerging from the sewer, Frankie baptized herself in the slick rain, luxuriating in the oily film that it left behind. She imagined the pollutants burning away her old self, revealing the new. She'd just come from hell. "Troll." she whispered.

  She shivered, remembering her escape from the zoo and what happened after.

  The first zombie tumbled down the manhole shaft after her, hitting the tunnel floor and rupturing like a sack of rotten vegetables; its innards spilling out around it. The shattered limbs wriggled like worms, then lay still. Covered in gore, Frankie fired blindly up the shaft, deterring the rest.

  The tunnel was pitch black. She had a flash of memory; from the distant past before the smack and turning tricks to get more smack became her life. A murderer in Las Vegas had once eluded the authorities' dragnet by using a sewer drain to escape. The man was underground for five hours and, according to maps, he'd trudged at least four miles. She wondered how dark it was in the drain, what he'd encountered and what he was thinking. Was the hardened felon frightened? When he finally saw light at the tunnel's end, was he relieved?

  What if there was no light at the end of her tunnel?

  She slogged forward, fingers trailing along the invisible wall to her right, feeling the slimy dampness.

  Abandon hope, all ye who enter here. Another snippet of the past; from Mr. Yowaski's class, right before she'd started screwing him in exchange for a passing grade in English. She wondered who or what might be lurking down here; crackheads, deranged survivors, zombies. What was hiding in the dark, watching her even now? Weren't there alligators in the sewer? Maybe in Florida, but she didn't think Baltimore suffered from that particular urban blight. But there were rats; of that she was sure. She had no idea how many shots she had left, and couldn't tell in the darkness. How could she possibly fend off a swarm of hungry rats?

  She yawned, shivering as the first chills of withdrawal set in. Large goosebumps broke out on her skin. Cold Turkey, they called it, because you looked like a fucking plucked bird when it hit.

  She paused. Was there something there, in the dark? A soft padding sound faded and stopped.

  She stood still, holding her breath. The sound was not repeated.

  She shuffled forward, flinching when her fingers came in contact with something round and metallic. After a moment's experimentation, she realized that it was a doorknob.

  Unlocked.

  Taking a deep breath, she turned it. The door grated open. Particles of dust flaked down into her hair and eyes.

  The space beyond the door was even darker than the tunnel. Carefully, she stepped through the opening and pulled the door shut behind her. There was no draft of air. No sound. She could sense walls but she could not see them. A maintenance or storage room of some kind, she guessed. She was safe for now.

  Or was she?

  What if there was a zombie in here with her, lurking in the darkness, waiting to lunge out and eat her? She sniffed the air. It was stale and damp, but there was no telltale smell of the putrefaction that signaled one of the undead. There was no rasp of flesh or exposed bone, no whisper of something moving.

  Crouching on all fours, she crawled forward. Her hands traced the alien outlines of unfamiliar objects. Then she collided with a wall. She put her back to it and began to twitch.

  The hot flashes followed, and though she couldn't see her ears, she knew they were scarlet. Her breathing grew short and jerky. Her eyeballs were getting hot too, and felt like they were going to melt right out of their sockets. She knew they were bloodshot, even in the darkness.

  She was going to die here, underground. In a fucking storage room. In the dark. With no heroin. She should have let the lion eat her, or let T-Bone and the others scrag her ass. That would have been quicker, at least.

  She knew she had at least one bullet left.

  She thought about the baby.

  (It wasn't my baby)

  The hot flashes passed, and the chills returned; intense and biting. She knew that the drowsiness would follow soon. She usually slept for eleven or twelve hours when it happened. What fresh horrors of the withdrawal came after that, Frankie didn't know. She'd never made it that far.

  There was always another dick to be sucked by then; to be milked for ten or twenty bucks that could be converted to junk with ease.

  She yawned, deep and long.

  Sleep. That sounded good. Frankie had no intention of waking up again.

  She put the barrel of the gun against her head, and then thought better of it. What if she missed? She'd heard about that. Attempted suicides where the bullet traveled around the brain like a car on a racetrack, horribly maiming the victim but not bringing the desired effect.

  She yawned again, and stifled it by placing the gun in her mouth. She tasted oil and cordite, and found she preferred them to the man-sweat of the cocks that had been there before it.

  She steeled herself and then, before she lost her nerve, squeezed the trigger.

  There was an empty click.

  She screamed in frustration and flung the pistol into the darkness.

  There was a metallic clang as something fell over. Frankie sobbed, and the tears did not stop.

  She was still crying when she passed out.

  When she awoke she wasn't aware of it at first. Lying in darkness, she opened her crusted eyes and saw more of the same.

  The cramps seized her almost immediately, and she barely had time to turn her head before the vomiting began. Her stomach was empty, and turned itself inside out, savagely heaving what little fluid she had left. Warm bile spattered her shirt and clung to her hair. She was sweating profusely, and her ragged clothes quickly became drenched.

  There was a brief respite, and then another cramp stabbed her abdomen.

  Her bowels erupted, and everything below her waist grew warm and wet.

  The smell made her gag, causing another round of dryheaves.

  She groaned, biting through her lip as a third wave of cramps set in.

  Blood trickled down the back of her throat, and was thrown up a second later.

  She cried out, struggling to sit up. Sweat ran into her eyes, stinging them. Her muscles began to twitch, legs convulsing as she 'kicked the habit.' Each jerk sent a bolt of pain through her bones, rocketing up her spine where it exploded int
o the center of her brain.

  She was still moaning, eyes clenched tightly shut, when the doorknob turned.

  Frankie gasped, fear overriding the lack of opiate her body was protesting.

  The door inched open, revealing a flickering torch.

  "You're not one of them." The voice was deep and quiet, and spoke matter-of-factly.

  Trembling, Frankie squinted, trying to see beyond the light. The pain grew worse and she fought back a scream as another spell of watery diarrhea hit.

  "I've seen this before," the voice whispered. "I guess we'll have to wait, won't we?"

  The door closed softly and then Frankie was alone with the fire and the voice.

  "Wh-what are you?" she whimpered.

  "I am a Troll."