Gods of the Dead (Rising Book 1)

by Ward, Tracey

  “Fever.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  And a lie, I think to myself.

  “A crying one,” Marlow says dryly. “Fucking weeping,”

  My phone beeps in my ear again. I ignore it. “I’ll come in as soon as I can.”

  “Good. Make it quick. We have a lot to talk about. This will die down in a few weeks and we’ll stake our claims when the smoke clears. I’ll need you with me when that happens.”

  I release my hand from the windowsill, my knuckles white and aching. “Yeah, okay.”

  “Get your ass in gear. And try to stay alive, would you?”

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  He laughs roughly. “Kid, you’re the last of my worries right now.”

  When I hang up I shake my hand out, shaking my head as well, and I bring up my missed calls list.

  Sienna answers on the first ring. “Are you coming?”

  “Yeah, Sin. I’ll be there soon.”

  She breathes a loud sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

  She shouldn’t be thanking me, but I don’t bother telling her that. It’s better if she’s grateful. It gives me the upper hand, like I’m doing her a favor by coming to her house when really it’s exactly where I need to be. Outside this building the streets are flooding with rain and people and I know the thin door to this apartment won’t hold anyone out. I have almost zero food or water, no power which means a dead phone in a matter of hours and a dead cell means no internet. No news. I’ll be completely ignorant and that’s a thought I can’t stand. Her house is a well-stocked mini-fortress where I can wait out the storm.

  Where I can easily avoid Marlow.

  “You’re alone?” I ask Sienna.

  “Yeah. My dad is in Japan and it’s just me here at the house and I’m so freaked out.”

  “Keep your doors locked. The gate too. Set the alarms. Don’t let anyone but me inside.”

  “Okay.”

  “Give me some time to get across town.” I watch a blue car race down the street, jump the curb, and tear up the road. It plows down a NO PARKING sign without even hitting the breaks, sending the metal sign clattering across the pavement behind it. “I have a feeling it’s going to take me a while.”

  “Please hurry.”

  I hang up the phone and slip it into my pocket before grabbing the charger that I take to the bar with me. I don’t know how long it will be worth anything, though. They cut off cell service to Oregon in a matter of weeks.

  I grab my bag, a large black duffel that’s been with me since the day I ran away, and I stuff most of my clothes into it. I don’t have a lot. Never too much to carry. I throw in some essentials – toothbrush, toothpaste, brass knuckles – and stash my gun in my belt loop under my coat. My knife I keep in a sheath strapped to my calf on the outside of my pants. Normally I conceal it but not today. With what’s going on outside I need it handy more than I need it hidden.

  I hesitate at the door. Pulling a calming breath deep into my lungs, I stop to ask myself if this is smart. I wait for that gut check, the confirmation in my blood that tells me I’m making a good decision. One that will keep me alive.

  Part of me doesn’t want to leave this room. It wants to close up shop and hide from the chaos, from the sickness and the fighting. Some small part of me – a part that I’ve tried to leave behind time and time again – just wants to be safe. That part of me is a kid, a coward, and I shove it aside as I throw open the door and turn my back on my apartment.

  The rain is instantly on me the second I clear the building. I’m drenched but I don’t mind it. What I’m worried about is the rush of people. They’re in the cars packed bumper to bumper up and down the street, in doorways and windows, on the sidewalk. They’re running, shouting, shoving, and the last thing I want is for one of them to touch me. If what Sienna said is true the Fever isn’t in Seattle yet. It’s in Tacoma and making its way up, but that’s not a theory I want to test. And honestly I worry more about a panicked healthy person than a mindless sick one.

  I push through the crowd and head up the street. I start climbing and weaving, my bag getting heavier and heavier the farther west I go. I stop a little over a mile into my run, leaning over and letting the bag rest fully on my back and not my shoulders. I’m young, I’m in shape, but I’m not a cardio guy. I go to the gym six days a week to lift and spar in the ring. I keep my shit tight, cut, but I don’t run because I don’t need to. I train to fight, not be a pussy.

  I stand up straight and look around, noticing how much thinner the crowd is heading this direction. Everyone is running for the freeway, trying to get out of town like rats fleeing a sinking ship. I watch as a guy across the street on a dirt bike weaves through cars and up onto the sidewalk. He slows down for people. He putts along one inch at a time, barely making better time than the cars standing still next to him on the road.

  I sprint across the street, jumping over the hood of a car and sliding off it so fast I nearly land on my ass on the pavement. They honk their horn as I scramble to right myself and dodge between the rest of the cars, jumping up onto the sidewalk. I dip my shoulder, center my weight, and crash straight into the guy on the bike.

  He shouts as he tips over and sprawls out on the sidewalk. His bike has toppled with him and I quickly grab it and stand it upright.

  “What the hell, bro?” he yells.

  People hurry up and down the sidewalk around him. They walk between us and block me from his view as I throw my tired leg over the bike and settle in.

  “You okay?” I call without looking at him. I’m busy checking out the handle bars, testing the throttle.

  “Yeah, no thanks to—Hey, what do you think you’re doing?!”

  “Stealing your bike.”

  I gun it and fly forward before quickly snapping the break and spinning around. It’s as graceful as my hood slide and I nearly hit the asphalt harder than he did, but my reflexes save me. I kick my feet out and drag them along the ground to get me right again, then I’m gone. I roar past the guy as he screams at me, I fly by people who jump out of the way to save themselves. I keep a straight line and the high whine of the bike announces my approach. People are dumb but they can be fast when they want to be. Like when they don’t want to get run over.

  Or when they know the devil is on their tail.

  Chapter Four

  Trent

  “I don’t want to do it,” Chris says, flinching. His outstretched fingers creep slowly forward. “It’s going to hurt.”

  “Not if you’re fast,” I remind him.

  “I’m fast.”

  “Probably not fast enough.”

  “If you can do it, so can I.”

  “I wouldn’t use me as a benchmark for your accomplishments.”

  “Why not? ‘Cause you’re better than me?” he asks sarcastically.

  “I may not be better as a whole, but I am better at a lot of things. Speed is one of them.”

  “Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

  His hand shoots forward, his fingers diving inside the trap. He touches the cheese but that’s it. He fumbles it, replacing the dairy with his digits, and the bar snaps forward hard. It cracks against his knuckles. He yelps, jumping up and down wildly.

  Orsen and I laugh as he shouts indistinct curses at the ceiling.

  “I told you that you weren’t fast enough,” I chuckle.

  “Shut up!” he shouts, rubbing his fingers. “Dammit, that hurt!”

  “Should have been quicker,” Orsen tells him.

  Chris tosses the trap onto the table. “Let’s see you do it.”

  “No way. I know I can’t do it.”

  “I’ll do it again,” I offer.

  “You’ve done it three times,” Chris protests, sitting down heavily and eyeing the trap with latent anger. “We get it. You’re quick.”

  “Never been caught.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Fastest hands in the forest.”

  “Not some
thing to be proud of. We all know how you got so fast.”

  “Stop,” I tell him seriously, my body going stiff.

  He laughs. “Why? Are you embarrassed? You’re alone up there in the cabin with your dad and a goat. Of course you churn your own butter. It’s no secret.”

  “The goat is dead,” I tell him plainly, my eyes on the doorway behind him. “It was eaten by wolves last week, and you need to shut up about this.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he heard me coming,” Zoe says, appearing in the doorway to the kitchen. She’s wearing white pants and a thick gray sweater that hides her curves. Her long hair is braided loosely and swept over one shoulder, the way she always wears it. “He’s worried I’ll hear what disgusting things you guys are talking about.”

  “What’s up, Zo?” Orsen calls, waving faintly.

  “Not much. Just following the sound of stupid. What are you guys doing in here?”

  Chris shows her the mouse trap. “Playing a game.”

  She smiles at his red fingers. “Looks like you’re losing.”

  “Only because Orsen won’t play.”

  “Orsen playing wouldn’t help you,” I assure him. “You’d still be too slow.”

  “Yeah, but I wouldn’t be the only one losing.”

  “You’d still be losing.”

  “Can I play?” Zoe asks.

  Orsen shakes his head. “No, Zo, you don’t want to—“

  “Sure,” I interrupt.

  Her smile widens as her eyes find me. I feel myself start to sweat a little.

  I shrug out of my jacket and deftly reset the trap.

  “What are the rules?” she asks, sitting down next to me at the long dining table.

  “You have to pick up the cheese without getting your fingers snapped, that’s it. Simple,” Chris explains. “But seriously, you don’t want to do this. It hurts like hell.”

  “Only if you do it wrong, right?” she asks, nudging my leg with hers under the table.

  I nudge her back, catching her scent. Sweet honey soap and winter orange.

  Chris grins at her. “Yeah, we’ll see how much trash you’re talking in a minute when that thing is latched onto your fingers.”

  She glares at him before turning her head toward me. “Any tips?” she asks softly.

  “Don’t get caught,” I advise.

  “Wise words. Thanks, Trent.”

  “I’m here to help.”

  “Less talking, more stalking,” Orsen chants. “Get that cheese!”

  Zoe sits up straight, squaring her shoulders. She theatrically flexes her fingers out. She makes a show of darting her arms forward as though testing her speed. Stretching and flexing.

  “Any day now,” Chris drones.

  She grins faintly before her hand dashes forward. The cheese flies out of the trap onto the table as the snare slams shut and Zoe yanks her fingers back away from it. It doesn’t touch her.

  She smiles triumphantly. “Yeah!” she cries, throwing her arms in the air.

  Chris frowns. “What are you so happy about?”

  Zoe picks up the piece of cheese and shoves it in Chris’ face. “I win.”

  “No you don’t!”

  “Yes, she does,” I correct him.

  He gapes at me indignantly. “How? How is that winning?”

  “Does she have the cheese?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did she get caught?”

  “No.”

  “Then she wins.” I shrug, spinning the trap idly on the table. “You said it yourself. The rules are simple.”

  “And beating the system is even simpler,” Zoe sings, still smiling.

  “That’s cheating,” Orsen protests.

  “It’s still winning.”

  “You want to win like that?” Chris asks, obviously annoyed, but I think it’s more at the fact that she managed to outsmart him than anything else.

  “Beats having broken hands,” she says, standing to leave. “You’ll have to get someone else to churn your butter for you for a while.”

  “How’d you hear that?”

  “Because my hearing is almost as good as Trent’s. And you’re loud. Really loud.”

  “And you’re a cheater!”

  “I know,” she laughs. Her dark eyes settle on mine. “You coming, Trent?”

  I’m already rising to follow her. “Yes.”

  “Where are you guys going?” Orsen asks suspiciously.

  “To get caught up.”

  “Which one?”

  “Majesty.”

  “Bleh,” Chris groans in disgust. “That show is boring.”

  “Good thing no one invited you to come watch,” Zoe calls as she leads the way out of the room.

  I follow behind her down the hall and up the stairs to the classroom. There’s a lone computer sitting on a desk in the far corner that we only use on rare occasions. It’s supposed to be blocked from accessing too much of the internet, but Orsen has a way with technology. He didn’t have to work too hard to break past the walls they set up. Now we have access to anything we want. Some of it, mostly the things Chris finds, are not my style. He’s really into sports and naked women. The sports I don’t understand the thrill of at all and the naked women I understand the thrill of all too much. I have to share a very small space with my dad where you can hear every hiccup, every fart, and the last thing I need is excess images of beautiful women dancing in my head while I try to sleep three feet away from him.

  Zoe shakes the mouse to wake the computer up. “What episode were we on?”

  “Twelve,” I remind her, sitting back in my seat and crossing my arms over my chest. “The priest had just smuggled the princess’ son out of the city.”

  “Right. I hope Killander gets back in time to save her from her brother.”

  “He won’t.”

  She winces. “Why would you say that?”

  When she opens the web browser the screen fills with a site covered in news articles and weather information. Rain clouds for the next five days. Great. We have a leak in the roof, a hole in the fence from the wolf attack, and no good time to fix any of it.

  “Because it’s true,” I answer her. “With the baby in play she’s expendable to the plot. If the baby had died she’d survive. She and Killander would grieve together. But with the baby alive she’ll die before he gets there and he’ll go on a quest to find their son because it’s the last piece of her in the world.”

  “That’s kind of romantic.”

  I shake my head, not sure where she’s getting that from. “It’s more dramatic than anything.”

  “What the…” she trails off. “Trent, are you reading these headlines?”

  I wasn’t. “Which ones?”

  “All of them.”

  NEW OUTBREAK IN TACOMA

  RIOTS REACH SEATTLE

  FEVER SUSPECTED ON FLIGHT TO UTAH

  I sit forward until my face is next to hers and the headlines fill my eyes. My blood swells painfully in my veins, constricting my chest. “Are these real? Remember what Orsen said about fake news sites.”

  “This is a major news network’s website. It’s as real as anything. Oh my God,” Zoe mutters, still reading. “There’s a new strain.”

  “Where are you reading that?”

  “Here. Look. It’s different than the first outbreak. This one works more slowly. Incubation is closer to a day than a half hour. Some sources are saying it could be as much as a week, but those are anonymous. Who knows how reliable they are.”

  “Is that a video of Tacoma?” I ask, pointing to a grainy still of a city street engulfed in flames.

  Zoe clicks the play button and the video backs up, springing into action from the start. It’s too jerky, impossible to tell what’s happening, but the audio is enough. People are screaming. Gunfire in erratic bursts from somewhere far off. A car is burning in front of a store with broken out windows.

  It looks exactly like the footage that came out of Portland al
most a year ago.

  We didn’t see much from inside the quarantine zone. They shut down cell service, internet, and satellite in that area early on. The pictures and video that did make it out initially would go up, but almost immediately they would disappear. Chris said it was the government censoring what we saw.

  “Trent,” Zoe whispers tremulously.

  “What?”

  She points to a map that’s gone up showing the progress of the Fever being reported by surrounding cities. Utah has a dot, Minnesota and Florida too, but the area around Tacoma is bathed in red. It’s bleeding out. It’s creeping steadily toward Seattle and dripping down south.

  “It’s coming toward us,” I mutter deeply.

  She scrolls down, bringing up more and more articles. The military is in motion. They’re being pulled from all over the area, all over the country, and swarming on Tacoma trying to contain it. There’s talk of extending the quarantine again, a move that would easily lock us inside.

  Zoe switches to another site and it explodes with more of the same. This time there are images. People running through the streets. Store fronts in flames. Military green hummers. Uniformed men and women in gas masks. At first I assume it’s all Tacoma but almost half of the tags say Seattle on them.

  “I have to go,” I tell her, standing abruptly.

  She looks up at me with fear in her eyes. “Where are you going?”

  “Home.”

  “No! Trent, it’s out there. It’s spreading. Remember how fast it went through Oregon? You can’t go.”

  “My dad is alone. I have to.”

  She surprises me when she leaps up from her chair and hugs me tightly. My eyes go wide as I breathe in the scent of her and feel the soft press of her body against mine. Suddenly my heart hurts for another reason and the heat I felt in the kitchen is inside me now. Awkwardly, I wrap my arms around her waist and hold her loosely as she clings to my neck until I’m nearly choking.

  “You’ll come back, right?” she whispers into my ear. “You’ll get your dad and come right back here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Please? You have to. You guys can’t stay out there alone.”

  “I’ll try.”

  She squeezes me harder one time before loosening her hold on me. I pull back from the hug, freezing when I see her face. It’s so open, so worried. She’s such a pretty girl, I’ve always thought so, and up close it’s even more obvious. Her clear, smooth skin, her bright eyes, the never ending colors of her hair.