by Unknown
“I need to get home,” he screamed. “Tell me how, god damn it!”
Around them, a few bystanders watched the scene unfold, but no one stepped forward to intervene. More people ran by, screaming at each other, shouting into cell phones, or just looking generally dazed.
Earlier, after the first cancelled flight, when Jamie was stretched out in a hard, plastic chair and trying unsuccessfully to sleep, somebody had mentioned that the world was ending. He’d scoffed. But now he thought they might be right. The crazed man picked up the computer keyboard and slammed it over the ticket agent’s 34
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head. Blood flowed. Several people screamed. A few ran away. But most just watched, as if it were a movie or a play.
Jamie wanted to help her; he felt compelled to. But his feet remained rooted to the floor. He could only stare as a National Guardsman finally materialized from the crowd and, without one word of warning, raised his rifle, sighted, and then squeezed the trigger. The attacker’s head splattered against the wall. A moment later, his lifeless body tottered over.A woman standing next to Jamie fainted. Her newspaper fluttered across his feet and he glanced down at the headline. MASS HYSTERIA GRIPS NATION. THE DEAD WALK. BIO-TERROR NOT RULED OUT. Martial law. State of emergency. He needed to call home, needed to check on Joann and his kids, Travis and Leslie, as well as their families. His cell phone battery had died during his extended stay here at the airport. He glanced around in desperation and spied a bank of pay phones. Jamie pushed his way through the crowd, and waited ten minutes for a phone to become free. He had to elbow a fellow traveler out of the way when the man tried to step in front of him. He brought the phone to his ear and heard a dial tone. He pulled out his credit card and dialed his home in Rowland Heights, California. There was a pause, and a series of electronic crackles, but that was it. There was no ring, no answer. Just silence.
“Damn.”
He tried again, and got the same thing. Then he 35
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dialed Travis in Buena Park, California, and was greeted with more dead air. Calling Leslie and her husband, Martin, at their new home in Nampa, Idaho. This time, he got a recorded voice that told him all circuits were busy.
Frustrated, he slammed the phone back onto its cradle. His ears began to ring, and his skin felt flushed. Heart attack? Panic attack? He didn’t know but he realized that he needed to calm down. He’d never get home if he were hospitalized here in Baltimore.
The fear in the air increased, becoming almost tangible. Somewhere, a woman began to shriek. Jamie forced his way through the masses again, and exited the airport. He stood on the sidewalk, breathing in car exhaust fumes and cigarette smoke, and tried to think.
A taxi sat next to the curb, the driver slumped backward in the seat, his eyes closed, his mouth slightly parted. Maybe he could get a ride to a friend’s home—he had several that lived in the Baltimore area.
Jamie banged on the taxi’s window, and slowly, the driver opened his eyes.
“You in service?” Jamie asked.
The driver grinned, flashing yellowed teeth. He turned slightly, and unlocked the back door. Jamie hopped in, and closed the door behind him.“How much to take me to Cockeysville?”
The driver paused, considering the request.
“That’s a forty-five minute drive. And everything else is 36
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shut down. I can get you there for fifty bucks.”
Jamie grimaced. The cabbie’s voice sounded odd, gravelly. And now that he was inside, he noticed the man’s skin pallor, a sickly, pale color.
“Sounds like you’re my last chance to get out of here. Fifty is fine.”
The cabbie grunted, and pulled away from the curb.
“Hope I wasn’t interrupting anything,” Jamie offered, feeling guilty for waking him.
“Not at all,” the driver hissed. “My host had just suffered a heart attack, and I was still taking stock of his memories. You’re my first customer of the day.”
“What?”
The driver pulled into the parking garage, and turned off the engine.
“Hey,” Jamie protested, his skin beginning to crawl. “What are you doing?”
“Freeing up your body, so that one of my brothers can inhabit it.”
“What—”
Without another word, the cabbie crawled into the backseat and fell upon him.
37
WATCHING THE
WORLD END
The Rising
Day Six
Snyder, Oklahoma
Wolf Blitzer told William King that the following footage was going to be graphic, but Will had seen it all before, so he changed channels. He clicked to MSNBC, but they were still off the air, and Fox News was re-running the same footage as CNN. In it, the Secretary of State was giving a press briefing, sweating profusely and looking nervous, assuring the assembled reporters that the President, Vice President, and cabinet members were all fine, and that the crisis was passing. The Federal Emergency Management Agency would soon have it under control, and everything would return to normal. Until then, martial law would remain in effect as a cautionary measure.
The Secretary of State mopped his brow, called 38
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upon another reporter, and then, suddenly, all hell broke loose. The President darted onto the stage from somewhere off-camera, and sank his teeth into the Secretary of State’s arm. He chewed through the immaculate, tailored suit and came away with a mouthful of flesh. The Secretary of State screamed, the reporters shrieked, and then the President looked at the camera and unleashed a string of obscenities—all of which the media were beeping out. A Secret Service agent pulled his weapon and pointed it at the President, and then a second agent shot the first. Gunfire and chaos erupted in the room, and the screen faded to static, as Fox News joined the leagues of those no longer broadcasting. So Will clicked back to CNN and Wolf Blitzer. What else was there to do? He’d decided yesterday, after he’d killed his mother, Carol, and his sister, Pari. They hadn’t shown any signs of infection yet, but how could he be sure? He’d made the choice. He was going to sit here and watch the world end, via satellite, on his 20-inch television. Snyder was Will’s home away from home. Here, they called him Will, rather than William, which was what they called him back in Portland. The threebedroom rancher sat on the outskirts of town. It was easy to defend, surrounded by plowed fields and rural countryside. The two-car garage had been converted to a den, and after dispatching his mother and sister, Will had barricaded himself inside the den, constructing a plywood and cinder block wall between it and the rest of the house. He’d brought along a rifle, food and water, a first aid kit, and his 39
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cats—Hunter, Boo, and Ally.
He reached down and scratched Hunter behind the ears. The gray tabby arched its back in appreciation. Perched on the shelf, Ally looked at him reproachfully.
“What kind of a name is Wolf Blitzer, anyway?”
Will asked the cats.
Hunter purred in agreement, Boo continued napping, and Ally kept staring at him.
“I’m not crazy,” he told her. “So quit looking at me. They could have been infected. The news said that it might have been caused by biological or chemical warfare. Or some kind of virus.”
Ally didn’t blink, and Will tried to read the small calico’s mind.
Yes, it could have been those things. But the news said it could also be government testing, alien invasion, the Second Coming of Christ, and radiation from a meteor.
“That’s ridiculous,” Will insisted, and sipped warm beer from a can. “There’s no such thing as aliens. This was obviously some kind of contaminant.”
He grabbed the remote and flicked through the dwindling number of channels that remained on the air—surfing chaos. In Pennsylvania, a National Guard Colonel named Schow had reportedly ordered the death of civilians by firing squad. They were ac
cused of looting. In Baltimore, zombies overran the entire airport. The Reverend Pat Robertson had committed suicide, believing that the Rapture had occurred and he’d missed it. In China, the dead had seized control of a nuclear reactor and 40
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intentionally caused it to meltdown. Chicago was on fire. The military had retreated from New York City after losing control.
“And this just in,” Wolf Blitzer told him as he returned to CNN. “You’re looking at footage from the London Zoo, where The Rising, as it’s come to be called, is also affecting the animals. This thirty-year old elephant died just an hour ago, and now it seems to be infected by the same symptoms as—”
Will froze.
“My apologies,” Wolf Blitzer told the camera. He looked scared. “There seems to be a disturbance outside the studio. As you know, we’re broadcasting from Atlanta, rather than New York, and—”
There was an explosion and the anchorman’s throat exploded in a wet, red spray. A black-gloved hand appeared, blocking the camera. A voice shouted, “Turn it off! Turn it off now! We’re shutting you down!”
There was another gunshot, and then the picture dissolved into snow.
He changed channels, and found the local news broadcast. A county official was wringing his hands, pleading for the populace to remain calm. The reporter laughed at him, but the official continued. But Will wasn’t paying attention. He was still thinking about the zoo—and the zombie elephant.
“The animals, too.”
He stopped scratching Hunter, and picked up the rifle. Ally didn’t move. She cocked her head and continued staring.
Will didn’t meet her eyes when he pulled the 41
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trigger.
The blast frightened Hunter and woke up Boo. Both cats scrambled for cover, howling and spitting. Will reloaded and then finished the job, shooting each of them in the head, just as he’d done his mother and sister.
Then he stood panting in the middle of the floor, tears streaming down his face.
“I’m not crazy. I’M NOT FUCKING CRAZY!”
Clutching the rifle by its still smoking barrel, he collapsed into the recliner.
“They could have been infected,” he muttered.
“What else was I supposed to do? I’m not crazy.”
The man on the television agreed with him.
“I’m not crazy,” the official snarled at the jeering reporter. “None of us are safe. There’s no rhyme or reason. Any one of us can become one of these things. And sooner or later, we all will. Sooner or later, we all have to die.”
Will blinked. The guy was right. Despite what he’d done, he still wasn’t safe, not even here, barricaded inside the den. He could become one. Eventually, he would.
So he put the rifle in his mouth and pulled the trigger, while the world ended on the television screen.
With the gunshot still echoing inside the garage, the power went out and the screen faded to black. 42
THE FALL OF ROME
The Rising
Day Seven
Rome, Georgia
Eddie Coulter watched the fall of Rome from inside a little room at the top of the 104-foot Tower Clock. The stone structure sat atop a hill just east of the city’s downtown district, giving Eddie a clear view of the atrocities below.
The street was littered with body parts, and the gutters ran with blood.
He wondered if he should consider himself lucky to be alive, or cursed because he wasn’t dead yet. Of course, if he were dead, then he’d be a zombie. Eddie wondered if they knew—remembered—who they’d been.
The soft strains of Pink Floyd’s “Shine On You Crazy Diamond (Part One)” drifted from the headphones hanging around Eddie’s neck. The headphones were connected to an iPod that had belonged to a Hispanic guy. Eddie didn’t know his 43
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name. Didn’t know anything about him at all, other than he’d apparently liked Pink Floyd, since it was the only thing on the iPod. The Hispanic guy hadn’t been able to speak, because a zombie had bitten his tongue in half. He’d reached the Tower Clock, and Eddie sheltered him, tried to make him comfortable. When he finally bled to death, Eddie dropped the body from the top of the tower before he could wake up again. But the Hispanic guy didn’t land on his head. Sure enough, he rose again, and crawled away on shattered legs in search of prey.
Eddie didn’t put the headphones in his ears. He wanted to be able to hear if the creatures found their way inside the Tower Clock. He wished he could, though. He needed something to drown out the screams from below.
“Remember when you were young?” Roger Waters asked him. “You shone like the sun.”
Eddie did indeed remember when he was young. Hell, he was still young. Too young to die. But maybe too scared to go on living? He wasn’t sure yet.He picked up the sniper rifle, poked the barrel through the window, and sighted with the scope. A zombie staggered by an antique store. Its arms were missing. Eddie squeezed the trigger. The rifle jerked against his shoulder. The explosion drowned out Pink Floyd, and smoke filled the room. The store’s display window shattered, and the zombie crouched down. Eddie fired again. The bullet made a small hole in the back of the zombie’s head, and its face exploded. The creature crumpled to the sidewalk. 44
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Eddie grinned. He didn’t know what type of gun this was, but he liked it. He’d gotten the rifle three days ago, during the siege at the hardware store. A burly man in a straw hat showed him how to use it. Three seconds later, a corpse clambered over the sandbag barricade and stabbed the man in the eye with a knitting needle. Eddie shot the zombie, and then shot the man who’d given him the rifle. Rome was located 65 miles northeast of Atlanta, and had a population of roughly 80,000 people. Three rivers, the Etowah, Oostanaula, and Coosa, surrounded the city’s historic downtown district. The townspeople had tried to make their stand there, cutting off all bridges and roads crossing the rivers, and blockading the streets and buildings. It hadn’t helped. The creatures raided the area’s two National Guard Armories, and then attacked the fortifications with heavy weapons and artillery. Now, as Eddie watched through the scope, a group of zombies drove by in a commandeered halftrack. A pimply-faced teenager in a Slipknot shirt darted from an alleyway next to the post office and tossed a Molotov cocktail at them. It exploded in front of the vehicle, but the creatures paid it no mind. They opened fire with a mounted fifty-caliber. The kid’s body jittered and danced as the rounds punched through him. Then he collapsed. The halftrack rolled on. A few minutes later, the teenager got up again, trailing blood and pieces of his insides. Eddie put him back down with another shot. Located in the middle of the Bible belt, Rome had an overabundance of churches, but God had 45
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deserted his people. God was gone. He’d left no forwarding address, and His answering machine was on the fritz.
But that was okay. From his vantage point, Eddie felt like God, looking down upon Creation. Or Hell.
Yeah, definitely Hell.
He could see it all.
Myrtle Hill Cemetery sat on a large hill to the north, just across the Etowah River. It dated back to the Civil War, but the recently deceased would no longer find peace there. Instead, they hammered through their coffins and crawled from the dirt to join their brethren.
The fighting spread to every street, every alleyway, every building. Fighting? More like a massacre. At Berry College, the zombies lined up captured humans like livestock, and cut their throats one by one. Several blocks away, a group of survivors fought a running gun battle with their dead loved ones. Police headquarters was on fire, and the flames were spreading. A pack of undead dogs ripped an infant from a fleeing mother’s arms, and tore it apart. A zombie shot the mother in the back, and then fell upon her.
Rome had survived General Sherman’s march, and the great flood of 1886, but it hadn’t survived The Rising.
Some determined good old boys sped down the main thoroughfare in a camper-covered pick-up. They made it two blocks before the zombies rammed them with a dump truck. Eddie watched as 46
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the rednecks were pulled from the vehicle and devoured. He picked one off just as a zombie’s yellow teeth bit into his throat.
So far, the zombies hadn’t discovered him. He’d remained hidden, masked beneath the fighting in the streets, the chaos and screaming and gunshots and dying. Eddie wondered what he’d do when they did find his location, and then decided it didn’t matter. Instead, he pulled the trigger and watched rotting brains splatter across the brick wall of a clothing store.
A large group of corpses gathered around the convenience store. Eddie wondered if there was somebody trapped inside. He lined the crosshairs up with the large propane tank in the store’s parking lot, and squeezed the trigger. The hammer fell but there was no kick, no explosion.
“Shit. Empty.”
The fires spread, engulfing the downtown district, and creeping closer to the Tower Clock. The smoke curled through the window, and Eddie coughed. When he looked up, an undead sparrow sat on the window ledge, staring at him with one remaining eye. A maggot fell from the empty socket. Spinning the rifle in his hands, Eddie swung the weapon like a club. The bird darted out of the way, and the wooden stock splintered on the hard stone windowsill. The impact sent shockwaves up his arms. The zombie bird zipped forward and pecked at his hand, drawing blood.
“Fucker!”
Eddie swatted at the zombie, but it flew away, 47
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vanishing into the smoke.
He went to the window.
The flames licked at the edges of the hill. The fire would reach the Tower Clock soon. But he was okay. Stone couldn’t burn, could it?
He looked out over his town. The zombies stared back at him, pointing and shouting. The bird. It must have told the rest of them. Now they knew where he was.Heedless of the flames, the undead began converging on his location, encircling the Tower Clock. Eddie glanced down at the broken, empty rifle, then back to the zombies.
Sighing, he leaned out, looking straight down. He put the headphones in his ears and let Pink Floyd take him away.
