The Rising Dead

by Devan Sagliani

A large black man Travis didn't recognize was sitting on a dead man’s chest and neck, pulling his guts out, licking the blood from them. He turned his head to leer at Travis and Gemma, then leaped up and sprinted toward them. Travis could see a gash in the zombie’s cheek revealing the meat all the way to the back of his throat--and it was swarming with a living, white foam. He slammed the door shut with all his might and locked it. Gemma sat next to him and together they did their best to block the door as the wild-eyed man on the other side mindlessly banged against it over and over, scratching the door with his broken, dirty fingernails.

  “Call the police!” Travis belted out, panic rising in him. “Shit! This is Thunderdome. The police won't come even if you call them. Shit! Shit! Shit!”

  Gemma threw her phone in frustration.

  “It's dead!” she cried out. “What are we gonna do?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Are you telling me that after countless hours of watching movies and reading books about the undead you have no idea where to start?”

  “Those were fake,” Travis argued. “This is real. Assuming it's some kind of viral infection transmitted like rabies the best we can hope for is not to get bitten.”

  “Right,” Gemma said. “Good point.”

  “Thank you,” Travis said.

  “So in the movies they always say you need to aim for the head,” Gemma said. “Do you think that's true?”

  “Seems like the perfect place to start,” Travis said. “The only trouble is we don't have any weapons.”

  “Let me get this straight,” she said, sarcasm and anger dripping off each word. “You live in Thunderdome but you don't own a gun? That seems pretty crazy to me.”

  “I've never needed one before,” Travis said. “I'm pretty sure Garrett owns one though, if we can get to his room. He's at least got a bad ass knife. Maybe we can saw our way through one of them.”

  “I don't know,” Gemma said. “That guy was pretty big.”

  “It's not loaded,” Garrett said, as he walked out of his room in sweats, carrying an empty revolver. “I usually buy ammo at the gun store than burn through it all while I am there. I never thought of using it for self-defense.”

  “Jesus man,” Travis yelled. “You scared the shit out of me. Where did you come from?”

  “I was coming down from a DMT trip when I heard the screaming,” Garrett said. “I didn't know if it was real or not. It is real, right?”

  “Yeah man,” Travis said. “It's fucking real. Where is Flynn?”

  “He left when I told him Vance gave me DMT,” he said. “Told me to just lock myself in my room and play trippy music all night and he'd come back for me in the morning. I think he was upset.”

  “Yeah,” Travis said.

  “I told him he could trip with me but he just said he'd come back for me in the morning,” Garrett continued. “Do you think he's out there? That he's one of them?”

  “Man I fucking hope not,” said Travis. “From what I've seen anyone outside is totally...”

  A loud booming sound outside interrupted him and they all froze.

  “What was that?” Gemma whispered.

  “It sounded like gun play,” Travis whispered back. “Maybe the cops came after all.”

  “I thought you said cops don't ever come to Thunderdome?”

  “Guess now we know what it takes,” was all he could manage. His throat had gone dry with fear. What if it wasn't the cops? What if it was something even worse than deranged sick people trying to eat one another?

  Gemma stood up and turned to the door cupping her hands.

  “We're in here! Help!”

  A voice from the other side called out to her.

  “Come on out.” Another volley of gunfire rang out. “Do it now!”

  Travis stood up and nodded to Gemma as she swung the door open to pure carnage. The walls of the hallway were painted a dark, oily shade of scarlet with infected blood. Human brains were splattered against her door and the headless corpse of a former neighbor lay twitching at his feet. In front of them stood Gunner, dressed head-to-toe in camouflage with blood sprayed up across his chest like a Rorschach test. He slipped his shotgun back over his shoulder, leaving it dangling behind by a strap across his chest, and pulled two hand guns from holsters resting on either side of his hips.

  “Friend or foe,” he growled at them.

  “Friend,” Travis yelled, holding his hands up meekly. “Friends.” Gunner looked him up and down.

  “Are there others with you?”

  “Parker,” Travis said. “He went after Max. She should be around the corner. Apartment 313.”

  “Get behind me and keep your heads down.”

  They did as he said and Gunner cut a path through the hallway, shooting two more zombies that unexpectedly came up the stairs and lunged out at them.

  They are fast, Travis thought. Must be because they’re newly dead. Rigor mortis hasn’t set in yet.

  Gemma hugged tight to the back of Travis, fighting squeals of terror every time the gun went off, unconsciously digging her fingernails into his skin. Eventually, they found their way to Max's door and pounded on it. There were hushed voices coming from inside that went quiet as soon as Gunner knocked.

  Parker paced back and forth in Max's living room. Just yesterday he'd been an unwelcome guest here. They'd started arguing--again--and it had quickly escalated. He wished he could go back to the moment when she threw herself into his arms, thinking he was brave.

  “Don't you get it?” she barked. “We're screwed. The world as we know it is fucking over.”

  “There has to be a safe zone somewhere,” he said, the anger growing in his chest until he felt the urge to punch something. If there was one thing he hated, it was the feeling of being powerless. His train of thought was interrupted by a sudden pounding on the door.

  For an instant, they both froze in terror--then a voice came through the other side.

  “Open up in there,” Gunner commanded.

  Max jumped to unlock the door but Parker caught her by the arm.

  “Don't.”

  Max shot him an evil glare as she yanked herself free.

  “Don't touch me,” she growled, turning toward the door again. “And don't tell me what to do.”

  “What if they’re infected?” Parker shouted.

  “They're probably armed,” Max said derisively. “Or didn't you hear all the gun shots. It could be the cops.”

  “Cops never come to Thunderdome. You know that,” Parker warned. “For all we know it could be a band of thugs looking to rape you and feed your corpse to the cannibals outside.”

  Max ignored him completely. She swung the door open to find Gunner, Travis, and Gemma waiting for them.

  “It's not safe here anymore,” Gunner said matter-of-factly. “I'm giving you one chance to come with me. Consider yourselves lucky. Now let's go.”

  “Where?” Parker asked.

  “My apartment is battle fortified,” Gunner explained. “There is a command center located underneath my master bedroom. It's the only place we can lock down.”

  Gunner turned without waiting for an answer and marched back down the hallway. Travis and Gemma followed with Garrett at their heels. Max wasted no time catching up with them. Parker hesitated, but the sound of a distant scream made him reconsider and he quickly joined the small group. He wasn't going to make it out of this alive and in one piece on his own, and he knew it.

  I wish Holt were here, he thought. Be nice to have someone on my team.

  They made their way across the hallway and down a set of stairs toward the front office. From there it was a straight shot to Gunner's place. The sun had finally crested over the horizon, officially ending what had been the longest night of any of their lives. The courtyard was littered with the dead bodies and bloody remains of several of the less fortunate. Parker recognized a few from previous parties. He scoured his line of sight for any sign of Holt but didn't see anything that resemb
led him. Bloody hand prints ghoulishly stained the side of the apartment walls as they passed. They walked without making a sound, save the occasional stifled whimper from Gemma at the carnage they were wading through.

  Gunner held up his fist, signaling for them to hold. They waited in silence, totally exposed for nearly thirty seconds as they cautiously eyed the straight shot to his place. Something didn't feel right. Max grew impatient.

  “What are we waiting for?” she whispered.

  “I'm not sure yet,” Gunner said.

  “We can't just wait here out in the open forever,” Garrett said, charging forward. Gunner tried to grab him but he was already out of reach. He didn't make it five steps before a lean kid with half his face ripped apart came screaming out from the bushes and climbed on top of him. Garrett let out a howl, swatting at him, but the kid was on his back. Within seconds he'd managed to tear open Garrett's throat. Gunner turned without a shred of hesitation and blew his head clean off with one violent blast. The infected corpse fell to the ground, writhing--then lay completely still. Garrett fell to his side, twitched violently. From all sides zombies began to rush towards Gunner. Without skipping a beat he went to work with his handguns, firing in rapid succession at the heads of the oncoming maniacs. He managed to put down seven in a row before needing to reload.

  “Any time today would be nice people,” Gunner yelled, shaking the group from their stunned trance.

  “Holy shit!” Max practically shouted, her nerves blown.

  Gunner cocked his head at her with a wry smile.

  “We've only got a small window to get locked in before the rest get here,” Gunner said. “They are drawn to the sound.”

  They moved through the blood-strewn remnants without looking down, filing into Gunner's open apartment and locking the door behind them.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Holt sat up. His head was pounding. He didn't recognize his surroundings. It looked like a living room from one of his mom's friends houses, with tons of decorations and ferns hanging from the ceiling. He was on a gold sectional couch. He looked down to see dark streaks of blood covered his jeans and shoes. He put his hands out to see they too were caked with blood and filth. What was happening? It looked like he murdered someone. He moved and a pile of beer cans along with an empty bottle of whiskey crashed down around him.

  Reaching up to rub his head he felt something like cardboard matted into his hair with blood. He pulled it, ripping free some of his own strands in the process, to reveal a soiled Burger King crown.

  “What the fuck?” Holt whispered.

  Snippets of the night came to him in jerky flashes. He'd been walking down the street from the hospital. His plan was to try to hitch a ride back to Slaughterhouse, maybe find a freshman to hook up with. He hadn't had any luck. He remembered stopping in a liquor store to grab something to help with the walking since his buzz was flagging. He had his heart set on some Everclear. Holt grabbed a 40 ounce of malt liquor while he waited for the drunk asshole in front of him to hurry up and pay. He started knocking it back right away, getting half of the bottle down before he noticed the cashier was screaming at the top of his lungs.

  “Get the fuck out of here you sick motherfucker,” he hollered. The guy in front of Holt didn't budge. He wobbled back and forth wearing a black hoodie and Dickies.

  Maybe it's a robbery, Holt thought. He'd already been put to the test once this evening. He wasn't worried about getting another opportunity to help out. Shit felt good as far as he was concerned. Holt tipped the bottle back and downed it as fast as he could, letting out a loud burp. If he was going into battle again he wanted to be ready. Loose and lubricated. He cracked his neck to one side, then cracked his knuckles. He caught the cashier's eyes to give him a look, letting him know he was ready to fuck the guy up. The cashier's attention darted between Holt and the man in front of him. Fear creased his brow and he backed away with trembling hands.

  “Go away,” the cashier shouted. “I don't want no trouble.”

  The guy in front of Holt let out a low growl then hopped the counter. Holt didn't miss a beat. The cashier covered his head with both arms and screamed like a girl but nothing happened. Holt had caught the guy by the pant leg and dragged him kicking and flailing back down from the counter, destroying the front register displays of magazines and candy and gum in the process.

  “You got a hearing problem buddy?” Holt asked while delivering a series of hard punches to the back of the guy's head. He tried to turn around but Holt got on top of him and, using his full weight, pinned him down.

  “What's wrong with him?” The cashier asked, hands still trembling.

  “He's an asshole,” Holt roared. “Plain and simple. Say, can you hand me something to wet my whistle while I hold him down for you?”

  “What do you want? Anything. Name it. It's yours.”

  “You got Everclear?”

  “No.”

  “Don't matter then. Something strong,” Holt said.

  The cashier took an expensive bottle of whiskey in a fancy flask and handed it to Holt.

  “Much obliged,” Holt said, tipping it back into his mouth. He remembered how good it tasted.

  The cashier pulled open a drawer and took out a revolver. He did his best to load bullets into it but his hands were shaking so much he ended up dropping several of them then knocking over his box of ammo.

  “You'd think you'd keep that thing loaded,” Holt chastised him, taking another big swig of the whiskey flask. “What are you going to do with it?”

  “I'm going to shoot him,” he replied quickly.

  “Naw,” Holt said. “I'll just take him outside and teach him a lesson. No need to turn this robbery into a homicide.”

  Holt got up and began to drag the struggling man out while he growled and barked.

  “Come on buddy,” Holt said. “Take your medicine like a man. You earned it.”

  When Holt got to the parking lot he realized things were much worse than he anticipated. The street looked like a movie set. There was a car swerving, tires squealing, with a bloody man behind the wheel and two sick looking men on the hood fighting to get at him. He veered and crashed into a pole, flying through his wind shield and laying limp in the road. The men on the hood ran to the lifeless body and began tearing at it with their mouths.

  “What the hell?”

  Holt turned to see a woman literally on fire running down the street screaming while two naked men drenched in blood chased her.

  The robber he was holding thrashed wildly, snapping at the air with his open mouth. Before Holt could turn him around the man threw up black bile like a fountain of filth into the parking lot.

  “Hold him still,” an older man with a cowboy hat screamed as he ran up, crowbar in hand. Holt didn't have time to answer him. The cowboy brought the heavy steel down on the robber's head with all his might, tearing open the back of his head with a single blow. The body Holt held went limp as the slimy black brain oozed out onto the pavement.

  “Here,” the cowboy said, holding out the crowbar to Holt. “You've earned it.”

  Holt dropped the body and took the cold metal in his hands. The cowboy smiled and gave him a pat on the shoulder. He reached to his waist and took out the biggest gun Holt had ever seen. He turned without another word and ran down the street firing at people.

  Holt remembered sitting against the building for a while and drinking. He remembered walking with the cowboy, laughing and drinking more, the two killing anyone who got in their path. He remembered throwing up in the driveway, walking into a house, drinking beer, passing out on the couch.

  How many people had he murdered? What was going on? This wasn't really happening. His head throbbed.

  “It was just a bad dream,” Holt told himself.

  Holt's foot connected with something hard. He looked down to see the crowbar sticking out from under the sofa.

  “Good morning killer.”

  Holt turned to see the cowboy from
his drunken escapades standing before him.

  The guy looks just like the Marlboro Man, thought Holt.

  “How'd you sleep?”

  “Fine,” Holt said. “I guess. I don't remember much.”

  “I'm not surprised,” the cowboy laughed. “You drank that whole bottle of whiskey then polished off about a case of beer. You weren't kidding when you said you were in a fraternity.”

  “Who, I mean,” Holt was having a hard time figuring out what he wanted to ask first. “Is this your house?”

  “Mine? No way. Does it look like the kind of place I'd call home? The only thing missing in here is a velvet painting of Elvis riding Shamu.”

  “Who owns it then?”

  “Some dead guy,” the cowboy said with another laugh. “I think I found part of his leg on the front lawn when we were walking up to the front door last night. Big old piece of meat, like a turkey drumstick.”

  “I don't understand,” Holt said rubbing his head. “What's going on?”

  “It's the end of the world son,” the cowboy said, getting closer to him. “Call it the rapture or whatever you please but it's here.”

  “How many people did we kill last night?”

  “None,” the cowboy said firing up a fresh cigarette. “We took down probably a hundred or so monsters, former people long dead and transformed. Barely made a dent in my opinion. We got a whole lot more work to do before Jesus gets back.”

  Holt thought about the two guys they found fighting in the street near the hospital the night before. He thought about how sick Candy looked. Could it be true? He looked at his blood streaked clothes. He should be dead or in jail by now. Maybe he was still dreaming. He sat back down on the sofa.

  “How did this happen?”

  “Let me give you something for that hangover,” the cowboy said, taking a prescription bottle out of his jean pocket. “I found some time released oxy in the medicine cabinet upstairs. Guy had a serious back problem to be taking these. One ought to do the trick, make you feel all warm and fuzzy for about the next twelve hours.”

  He put the little green pill in Holt's opened palm. Holt just stared at it. The cowboy went into the kitchen and came back with two fresh beers. He cracked one open and handed it to Holt.