Rise Again Below Zero

by Ben Tripp

  So she knew there were two plans to make: The first was how to destroy one or both of the monsters running Happy Town. The second was to escape the place before they destroyed her right back, with as many kids in tow as possible.

  The comatose teenager watched eternity go by in the gloom of the classroom. Danny watched the presidents. None of them had known what would happen, or that there would one day be a last president. She eventually slept a little, drifting in and out, waking with a start every time her dreams stuffed the doorway with rotten undead. At some point in the early afternoon the snow stopped falling.

  7

  The bed wasn’t particularly comfortable by ordinary standards, but to a body accustomed to sleeping in the front seats of cars, the simple fact of being fully prone in a warm room was luxury beyond compare. When Danny awoke, it was because lunch had arrived; another male nurse was backing a cart into the room. He turned around, and she cried out:

  “Patrick!”

  He put a finger to his lips, tipping his eyes at the door by way of caution, and rolled the food to her bedside. “Let’s get you upright,” he said, operating the bed motors to get her into the full sitting position. “Today we have shepherd’s pie, creamy whole milk from an actual cow that Amy just gave a checkup to, coffee, bread, and jam. Fuck a duck, you’re skinny. You’ve completely let yourself go.”

  “What are you doing here?” Danny asked, stupid with surprise. Her mind was whirling. She thought she had no allies in the Tribe, and yet here was Patrick, chattering along like a jaybird just as cheerful as could be.

  “I’m Amy’s official nurse. They let me work here while they figure out the Tribe. It’s the largest group they’ve had in quite a while; most are still outside the wall in this kind of shantytown. Anybody with useful skills the town keeps, that’s how it really works. If they like me, they’ll say I brought in child X; meanwhile if they don’t like child X’s father, they’ll throw him out. The system here is completely corrupt.”

  “I figured that much. God, It’s good to see you, Patrick.”

  “Me, too,” he said. “To see you, I mean. Not me, I can see myself any time. Don’t judge me for coming here. I wasn’t going to participate except for two things: First, things totally imploded as soon as you left and I’m pretty sure I’d have got killed sometime soon . . . and second, if you turned up anywhere, I figured you would turn up here. Where’s Wulf?”

  “Died in his sleep,” Danny said.

  “I’m sorry. Amy thought that was going to happen pretty soon. She said the way his nose was turning blue meant his heart was congested.”

  “Amy,” Danny muttered, and her eyes went to the window.

  “We don’t hate you, Danny,” Patrick said, his voice low and soft, the way people spoke at funerals back when there were such things. “Some people do, but they’re assholes. What hurts is you hating us.”

  “But I don’t—” Danny began.

  “Even after what happened?”

  “You didn’t start that.”

  “Oh, eat your food,” Patrick said. “I can’t deal with it when you’re being reasonable. I’m going to check on your roommate. We can talk once you’re sedated by carbohydrates.”

  As it happened, they didn’t resume their conversation until noon. Patrick came in with a cart laden with sheets, towels, hospital gowns, and washing materials; he started by changing Danny’s bed linens, and chatted with her in low tones. Danny stood by the window and mostly listened. Patrick told her that the administrators of Happy Town (which was the worst name imaginable—underpromise and overdeliver, he often used to say on his television show; “Happy Town” just screamed hubris) were taking a special interest in the Tribe. And their interest seemed to focus especially on the banty sheriff who led them. He didn’t know why.

  “There are bureaucrats here, can you believe it? The end of the world happened and we still have bureaucrats. They test everybody before you’re allowed into town. And we are not in Kansas anymore, by the way. They asked me if I was gay, what my political orientation was, and whether I believed the zombie outbreak was caused by Islamic militants. They wanted to know if I was religious! Like, ‘Hey, are you interested in religion? Separation of church and state? Would you consider converting to a new religion if asked about it?’ ”

  “They Scientologists?” Danny interrupted. She knew the answer, but she wanted to hear more about this question. Patrick was sponge-bathing the comatose youth in the other bed.

  “They’re looking for converts, I guess. A lot of people feel like their faith doesn’t work anymore, these days. You know. They think it’s End Times because Walmart is out of business. But—I guess you don’t know this yet—there’s a religion here in town, and it’s pretty twisted. There’s a church downtown where they have this crucified zero standing in for Jesus. I think the bureaucrats are worried about it.”

  “Huh,” Danny grunted.

  “Then they asked a ton of questions about the Tribe. We’re better known than I thought. They know a lot of inside stuff. Who the players are, first of all. A lot of questions about you. I tried not to sound like I knew you personally, right? Because I didn’t want to give them any details. Especially about . . . somebody you used to know really well. They were very interested in these rumors that we traveled with a thinker, and I played dumb about it.”

  “Good idea,” Danny said. She could see Patrick was extremely cautious around that subject; it showed her how much of a wall she had erected between herself and the others to keep Kelley safe. She wondered why he was speaking in a near-whisper. The hall guard had been pulled off her room, but they might have had listening devices in place, she supposed.

  “Anyhoodles,” he went on, flipping the patient on his side, “they wanted to know how many members were permanent to the Tribe, how many vehicles, how much fuel we used per day for how many miles of travel. What hours did we travel per day? And did we know any good places to get medical supplies, food, and weapons? I didn’t know anything detailed about all that stuff, but they tried anyway. I wanted to seem real reasonable because I think it was a strike against me that I admitted I was queer.”

  “So basically they’re stuck here and they need eyes and ears out on the road. That’s what I’m getting out of this,” Danny said. She wondered how the bureaucrats came to know as much as they did, but Patrick wouldn’t have been their first interview. They probably talked to that bastard Crawford first. He’d have told them everything he could think of, and more.

  “But here’s the part I thought you ought to know about,” Patrick said, finishing up the sponge bath. He lowered his voice so Danny could hardly hear him. “They asked me about you in some detail. ‘The leader of your organization recently departed. Do you know where she went? . . . Is she on good terms with others in the organization? . . . How is she equipped? . . . Does she have traveling companions? . . . Have you communicated with her recently?’ The woman asking the questions didn’t say why she was asking these things, but the shape of the questions was telling. You know what it felt like?” he concluded. “It felt like they were thinking of hiring you for a job, and I was one of the references on your résumé.”

  Patrick turned his attention to Danny, making a noisy show of getting her washed up. He showed her the sponge at one point during the cleanup: It was red with reconstituted blood.

  “Don’t ask,” Danny said. He didn’t, but kept on talking, wringing the sponge out and pouring the bloody water out the window.

  “Somebody killed a guy at the church last night,” he remarked.

  “That’s too bad,” Danny said. She waited, but Patrick seemed to have taken the hint.

  “You missed an awful scene back on the road,” he continued. “I mean not just the—the thing that happened. But after that, after you went. There were all these arguments. Guns got pointed at people. The chooks went crazy. I thought for sure somebody else was going to die. A bunch of people drove off to find this train station of yours. I went
with them because me and Maria were watching all these kids and most of the parents wanted to go that way. We got to this little depot place and there were guards and another big argument broke out. People started throwing punches. Some wanted to go and some wanted to wait and see.

  “Then we heard the train whistle, and that was that. A day later we were all in the processing center behind the train station, waiting to be admitted into Happy Town. And now, here you are. One big happy family again,” Patrick concluded. “Of people who mostly refuse to speak to each other.”

  • • •

  He came for his late-afternoon round and arrived just as Danny was getting out of bed.

  “I have to take a dump,” she said. “I’m not doing that in a bedpan.”

  “Try to look ill,” Patrick said, and when she didn’t: “Perfect.”

  She allowed Patrick to escort her into the hallway, past a couple of people dressed like surgeons who were struggling to interpret an X-ray print, and down to the girls’ room. Those two might have been yoga instructors or massage therapists, Danny thought. There were so few doctors left in the world—or cops, for that matter. The very first people to be attacked and eaten had all been first responders.

  On the way back to the room, she announced she was hungry again.

  • • •

  The relatively good rest and the multiple doses of nutritious food seemed to have filled Danny’s cells with energy, as if she was made of billions of microscopic batteries all charged up. But this revitalization only served to increase her feeling of being trapped in the schoolroom—and more so, Happy Town in general. It might only be a matter of time before someone figured out she’d already made a move in the church—the Architect guessed as much, but had given her a pass, and Patrick and Dr. Joe certainly had their suspicions. Nor had her unexpected interview with the Architect gone unnoticed by the Risen Flesh and his minions, she was certain. This was no time to lie around. She’d only forced herself to stay idle the last few hours because Dr. Joe was right: The more people thought she was ill, the more room she’d have to maneuver. It didn’t occur to her that she was ill.

  But enough time had passed so that it was clear that she had not been identified by the general population as the killer inside the church, which meant the crucified monster hung up inside it was true to his word. At least so far. He might claim infinite patience, stuck in place as he was, but Danny suspected if she didn’t make some move in the Architect’s direction very soon, he might decide to reveal her, just to get things moving along. She tried to focus her mind not on her own uncertain fate, but on the plan.

  • • •

  Dr. Joe Higashiyama came by in midafternoon to find Danny getting dressed to go out.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going for a walk,” she said. “Maybe do some shopping. Do you need anything?”

  “I don’t think you understand,” he said. He had a clipboard in his hand and kept looking at it as if his lines were written on it. “Your brain is bleeding. This isn’t a joke.”

  “I didn’t say it was funny, Doctor,” Danny said. She finished knotting her laces and stood up. If he had something to say, now was the time.

  “We need to discuss your condition.”

  “I don’t want to,” Danny said.

  “I have to because I’m your doctor.” When Danny folded her arms together and leaned against the wall, he continued, “I’ll keep it brief. I told you your brain is bleeding, way down inside beneath the two big lobes, near the stem. If it doesn’t get worse, you could remain functional, except for the headaches and the blackouts. If it gets better, you might still experience the occasional headache, but probably not. I’ve been reading up on this. I’m not an expert.”

  “If it gets worse?”

  “You have a stroke and you’re paralyzed, or die. Short form. A lot of ways that can happen, but it’s not good.”

  “So what does anybody do about that?”

  “Don’t hit your head. Like not even a little bit, ever again. Don’t drink a lot of alcohol, hang upside down, get into fights, or use speed. Basically retire and live somewhere quiet and you should be okay.”

  “Is that it?”

  “There’s a lot of stuff happening here,” he said. “People are freaking out. You turned up at a time when I think things are changing kind of fast . . . And from what I hear, that’s where you’re at your best. Don’t go for it, okay? Whatever happens, keep out of it.”

  “I’m not interested in your town or your politics or any of that. I want the Silent Kid back. You can have this shithole all to yourself. Can I ask you a personal question?”

  He was taken aback by this change of subject, but nodded. “I guess.”

  “Which one is worse: the Architect, or the Risen Flesh?”

  As she spoke, the church bells began to ring for the afternoon service.

  Dr. Joe tipped his head in the direction of the bells.

  “Why don’t you make that call yourself?”

  8

  Danny’s heart was kicking as she approached the church. The overnight snow still survived in the angles of buildings and against the curbs, a rime of dust left in the corners by an indifferent housekeeper, and it looked and felt like another snowstorm was on its way. Danny found she was one of hundreds walking up the street; the shuffle of the worshippers reminded her uncomfortably of the undead. Now she found herself wondering how many of them were infected with this new poison, half-dead, half-living. Was that the future? Or was it something so rare all the infected had already been isolated from the general population?

  She saw that many women had covered their heads beyond the purpose of warmth—a measure to ensure modesty or an attempt to conceal their identities, maybe, so their neighbors wouldn’t judge them for joining a cult that in another time would have been considered blasphemous, unthinkable. It occurred to Danny to pull the brown sweatshirt’s hood up over her own distinctive head; her notoriety was going to be a problem when it came time to act. Anonymity was always an asset. For the first time in her life, Danny considered dyeing her hair.

  By the time she made it in past the big, sullen-looking ushers on the steps, the place was packed. She saw the Risen Flesh down at the far end of the nave, rolling his cloudy eyes and moaning like a common zero. The sight of the thing was even more hideous by daylight; she could see the permanent bruises, the peeling skin, the ragged apertures where the nails pierced its limbs. It was standing room only on the ground floor, so Danny allowed herself to be pushed along with the rest of the latecomers into the upper gallery where the organ pipes were. She struggled to a point near the railing of the balcony, determined to see what kind of system they had going, how many acolytes there were, and whether the crowd seemed convinced by what they were doing or not.

  The Risen Flesh’s followers were crammed into the pews, chairs, and benches of the church; they filled the aisles and the balcony and the stairs. There were others massed at the windows outside, their silhouettes visible through the stained glass, and still more stood beyond the front doors, massed on the steps, stretching their necks for a glimpse within. Except for the grotesque centerpiece of the scene, it reminded Danny of the refugee food distribution centers she’d done security on in Pakistan, Iraq, and Afghanistan: countless hungry, unwashed faces all turned to the same spot, bodies pressed together, united by desperation.

  But where the deuce-and-a-half truck laden with bags of rice ought to have been, there was an altar. Danny hadn’t been able to see much during her nocturnal visit, so the fixtures were new to her eyes. The altar was older than the church, battered and blackened; it had probably been one of the props used by the preacher when he was still on the move with his sideshow religion. Behind the altar stood four of the acolytes, presumably half-living infected, as the Architect claimed; they were costumed in hooded sweatshirts after the fashion of monks, heads bowed, hands clasped in front of their groins. Behind them, overspreading the scene, was a tal
l wooden cross made of thick timbers with gilded edges. A ladder was set against the right-hand crosspiece; atop the ladder waited a fifth hooded acolyte.

  It was the Risen Flesh from which Danny could not take her eyes. In daylight the thing was so hideous as to invoke pity, mouth working without words, beard wagging. Its milky eyes roamed hungrily over the crowd below. The thing had been nailed firmly to the cross, hands and feet, and upon its head was set a crown of rusting barbed wire that had scraped the flesh down to the skull. In its side was a wound; black fluid had run from the gaping cut all the way to the zero’s feet, and spattered the wood of the upright beneath. The zombie writhed against the nails. Danny saw there had been more than one set of nails—a couple of secondary holes in feet and wrists must have been from earlier attempts to keep the thing in place.

  All eyes were upon the inhuman effigy. And then their heads turned in near unison, in the way a flock of birds will change course in midflight, as a new actor walked upon the stage at the front of the church. A pale-skinned man with dark eyes, a narrow beard, and long hair parted carefully in the center. He looked like Rasputin, Danny thought. One of those Russian mystics. He was dressed all in black leather, except for a white silk scarf at his throat; on the back of his jacket was painted a crimson X with a white cross over the top of it, in rough strokes like Japanese calligraphy. It was the Preacher, come at last to minister to his flock.

  He took his place in front of the crucifixion, his fists thrust against the altar. There was a massive leather-bound book on the altar that might have been a Bible, or it could have been the register of an old hotel. To Danny’s suspicious eyes, the entire thing was pure theater; there was no question that everything had been composed for maximum dramatic effect. She wondered who had first conceived of this obscene ritual: the Preacher or the Risen Flesh?

  “Children,” the Preacher said.

  “We are all but children,” chanted the monks and a number of the most fervent worshippers at the front. “O Lord, save me!” someone shouted.