by Unknown
The Rising: Selected Scenes...
So we turned around and headed for home, thinking we could scavenge food and water on the way back. Some bikers ambushed us, about two miles from here. Twelve of them. They’d taken over an old farmhouse, totally fortified it. And I know they’re still there.”
“How?”
“Because they were there when I went back for my family’s bodies.”
“Twelve,” the zombie mused. “In a fortified position. And they are well-armed?”
Bob nodded.
“How is that different from the city?”
“Because in the city, the odds are even. Out here, there are more of you than there are of them.”
The zombie’s lips peeled back in a horrible smile.
“Don’t you mean more of us?”
“Us?”
“The dead,” it replied. “You’re dead like us.”
Bob unsheathed the shotgun. “I’m nothing like you. You things have no soul.”
“And you?”
Bob racked a shotgun shell. “Me—I am a soul.”
The undead crowd laughed.
“Show us, little ghost,” the armless zombie said.
“Lead us to this nest of humans.”
“There’s just one thing,” Bob said. “When we get there, the one with the phoenix tattoo is all mine.”
The zombie nodded. “Lead the way.”
He did. Shotgun in one hand and the pistol in the other, the ghost led the dead forward. More bodies joined them as they marched by—male and female, 106
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human and animal, young and old, decomposed and freshly dead, all united in death. And all of them thirsting for revenge. For the Siqqusim, it was revenge upon the Creator, He who had banished them to the Void. For Bob, it was something much more personal. But if the Creator had allowed that to happen, then so be it. As they plodded down the road, Bob thought,
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
* * *
Inside the house, the bikers heard them coming long before they arrived. The one with the phoenix tattoo—Rhino to his friends—went to the door.
“The fuck is that?” he whispered. “Sounds like an army…”
The other man on watch, Jakes, blinked twice in the midst of his crystal meth high. “It’s a fuckin’
earthquake, man.”
Rhino shook his head. “Tweaking mother fucker.”
He stared out the peephole just as the dead army crested the hill. Rhino recognized the one in the lead. Cursing, he grabbed the AK-47 from its perch against the chair, and burst through the door.
“Can’t be,” he shouted. “I fucking shot you, man!
Shot you in the head. You can’t be one of them.”
Smiling, Bob whispered down the barrel of his shotgun. “I’m not one of them. I am something else.”
He squeezed the trigger, and all around him, the forces of hell were unleashed.
107
THE HIGH POINT
The Rising
Day Eighteen
Delaware Water Gap National Recreation Area The bears were hungry. So were the deer, squirrels, raccoons, and snakes—even the rabbits. Those were the worst. Bunnies were supposed to be cute and fluffy—not rotting and ravenous.
Stephen Griglak clung to the steep rock face, staring at the zombie animals clustered far below. Several tried to scale the sheer sandstone cliff, but slid back down. Satisfied that they couldn’t reach him, Stephen started climbing again. His pack had never felt heavier than it did now, and his muscles burned—far beyond the aching stage.
He’d originally lived in Montclair, New Jersey, where he worked as a senior technician at Rutgers University’s soil lab. It was a nice town; he and his wife Eileen liked living there. A bit pricey, but that was the way of the world. And after the life he’d led, it was nice to settle into comfortable anonymity. His 108
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past was a fog of booze and drugs, until he met Eileen and got sober at the age of thirty-two. Married her at thirty-five. Life became good. Until The Rising.
Eileen…he didn’t like to think about what had happened to Eileen. There are some things human beings aren’t meant to see happen, especially when it happens to a loved one. So he’d blocked that from his mind. Almost. At night, he could still hear her screams, and the awful tearing sounds—and the chewing.
Stephen was approaching fifty. His parents had passed away six years before. He had six brothers and sisters, but didn’t know if they were alive or dead. He’d tried calling his younger brother while the phones were still functional. The thing that answered the phone said it was his brother—but Stephen didn’t believe it. His co-workers were dead. Same with his friends. And after Eileen—well, there was only one thing to do.
He looted the sporting goods store, dispatching two zombies with a golf club in the process, and appropriated all the guns and outdoor gear he could carry. Then he fled for the Delaware Water Gap National Recreation Area; seventy thousand acres of ridges, forests, and lakes on both sides of the Delaware River in New Jersey and Pennsylvania. For almost forty miles, the river passed between low-forested mountains with barely a house in sight, before heading out to sea. Stephen figured he could hide out in the forest along the river. If trapped, he could use the river as an escape route. He’d always 109
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liked camping and hiking, knew how to fly-fish and track animals. He could hunt for his food, and keep moving, hoping to find other living survivors. That had been the plan anyway.
He hadn’t realized the animals were coming back, too.
His time in the forest became a running battle. He’d found shelter in the park visitor’s center, but the zombies got inside, almost trapping him on the boardwalk when he fled. He spent the next fourteen hours and many boxes of ammunition on the run, the woods literally crawling with the undead. Luckily, most of them had been animal and reptile, and didn’t carry weapons.
Stephen managed to find a lookout tower, the kind used by rangers to spot forest fires, and took refuge at the top. It was accessible only by a ladder and single door, which he immediately barricaded. At the top, there was a small, one-room living space, along with a circular outdoor platform. There was no way he could go outside, because of the flocks of zombie birds swarming around the tower’s top. But he had water and food and ammunition, and a battery-operated cassette player on which he listened to Bruce Springsteen and Zydeco and Vivaldi. He stayed put. Eventually, the creatures’
numbers dwindled. One by one, they went off in search of easier prey—or simply fell apart, rotting on the spot.
He’d finally crept out this morning, desperate for food and water, and fresh air, all of which had run low. He longed to see the sun again. And he had 110
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seen it, for a brief second, until a v-shaped formation of undead geese swooped down out of the sky, honking an alarm to their brethren.
Then he was on the run again.
He’d made it here to the cliff. Now, clinging from the rock, feeling the sandstone crumble beneath his fingers and toes, Stephen wondered what the point of it all was. Why insist on surviving? Why fight so hard? There was nothing left. Eileen was gone. His family was gone. For a moment, he wished the two of them had had kids. Then he forced himself to continue climbing.
Why not just let go and fall to the ground? From this height, he’d be dead before they tore into him. Where was the high point in his life? After all he’d seen and done, and all that had happened to him, both good and bad, all the drugs and drinking and everything associated with them, all those failures, and all the triumphs that had come his way since getting sober—what was the fucking point? Was it all just to end up inside some zombie black bear’s stomach, or worse yet, to walk around like one of them, putrefying on the go?
Sweat ran into his eyes. He blinked, and then pressed on. Moments later, Stephen reached the top of the mount
ain. Panting, he shrugged off the heavy pack and collapsed.
When he looked around again, he gasped. For a moment, he forgot all about the danger waiting below. From his vantage point, Stephen could see the river; Millbrook Village, New Jersey; Dingman’s Falls; the visitor center; the entire world. Truly, he 111
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felt like the old song, on top of the world looking down on creation. This was the highest point in all of the park, and from it, he could see it all. Not even the tower had provided a view like this. The sun was just beginning to sink beneath the horizon, painting the sky a rich tapestry of pink and orange and red hues. A slight breeze ruffled the treetops below, cooling his skin.
Stephen sighed in wonder. It was the most beautiful, perfect scene his eyes had ever beheld. This was the high point of his life.
He sat there and watched the sun set, and when the eagle swooped down from above, with claws extended and one eye dangling from its socket, he didn’t even care.
112
WHERE THE DOWN
BOYS GO
The Rising
Day Nineteen
Corona, California
When they lowered him into the hockey rink, Paul Legerski did his best not to scream. A soldier who reeked of B.O. spat on him. A ragged, pink scar crossed the man’s face. Paul’s hands were free, but he didn’t bother wiping the saliva away. He was too proud.
Struggling to keep his footing on the slippery surface, Paul scanned the crowd, looking for Shannon. He had to get free. No telling what they’d done with her. He had to find her, rescue her before the bomb went off.
A sea of expressions stared back at him: excitement, anger, glee, arousal, boredom, even indifference. Somehow, that was the worst of all. He was suddenly filled with hatred. They deserved what was coming.
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The rink itself was familiar. Paul had played here as a goaltender when he was younger, and he and Shannon had come there to watch the San Jose Sharks practice before a game against the Mighty Ducks.
The partition separating him from the crowd shook, as people beat against it with their fists. The rink’s inside walls were lined with long, razor-sharp pikes, so there was no chance of climbing over the partition. The ice was bloodstained; it was littered with body parts: severed head, organs, and scraps of human meat. Paul recognized most of the stillmoving heads. Once strangers, they’d been his and Shannon’s companions over the last few weeks. Mustaine, the traitor, the son of a bitch who’d sold them out, lay at his feet. His eyes and tongue still moved. Paul kicked him across the arena, scoring a goal.The crowd went wild.
Paul ignored the jeers, shrugged off the cans, bottles, and other debris thrown at him, and searched for Shannon’s face. If he could just see her one more time, he’d be okay. Whatever was about to happen wouldn’t matter.
He locked eyes with General Dunbar, sitting ringside like a Roman Emperor in the coliseum. The old man wore his best uniform, his medals proudly displayed. His face was expressionless. Stone. A strange calm settled over Paul. He took a deep breath, and raised his middle finger. Dunbar twitched. His demeanor didn’t shatter, but he twitched.
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Paul grinned. “How do you like that salute, asshole?”
The crowds simmering anger became tangible. Paul’s role had been cast. He was the bad guy. He decided to play it up.
“You like this?” he shouted. “You like living this way, just because he keeps you safe from the dead?
This isn’t how humans act. We might as well be dead, too. We—”
An electronic squeal cut him off. Dunbar’s second-in-command stood, a battery powered bullhorn at his lips.
“We now present this evening’s grand finale. In the ring, the leader of the rebel group known as the Down Boys, responsible for the slaughter of over fifty members of our forces.”
Paul shut his eyes against the booing and hisses, preparing himself for what was about to come. They’d offered everyone in his group a choice as to their method of execution. Firing squad. Hanging. Drowning (what one leering soldier had referred to as a “Liquid Noose”).
All of them had chosen the arena. After all, they’d already planted the bomb.
Paul stood in their blood and tried not to slip. He wondered how much time he had left.
How had he ended up here? He’d once been a productive member of society. Believed in Conservative values. Voted Republican. Paid his taxes. He’d once stood in the ashes of September 11th. Now, he stood in a post-apocalyptic arena, ready to play gladiator against a zombie, branded as 115
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a terrorist, the leader of the resistance. Rumor had it that General Dunbar’s forces controlled wide swaths of northern California, after eliminating the dead there. They had careful measures to dispose of the dead and dying before they could turn into zombies. Now Dunbar’s despotism was spreading south, picking up new recruits and eliminating any and all resistance—
living and otherwise.
Paul had supported them at the beginning, eager for things to return to normal, even if under a police state. Sure enough, soon Corona and Riverside were both safe. His support ended when a platoon tried to rape Shannon. They’d been on the run since, eventually joining up with others who opposed the outof-control military; Rhodes, Neil, Osbourne, Coverdale, Tate, Ian, Dubrow, Mustaine—many others. Paul had joked that so many of them had the same last names as famous metal musicians, and they’d begun calling themselves the Down Boys, after the song by Warrant.
Dunbar’s rule sickened him. Yes, there were no zombies, but this wasn’t how Americans behaved. This wasn’t how the military acted. This wasn’t human. Dunbar’s forces were worse than the zombies. The undead simply killed. The soldiers did much more.
He glanced around at his friend’s body parts. Where were they now, he wondered? Paul had never believed in an afterlife, but a month ago, he wouldn’t have believed the dead could walk again, either. Where did the Down Boys go, after they’d 116
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died?
The far door opened, and three zombies skated into the rink, their faces covered with hockey masks. All were armed with hockey sticks.
The crowd’s cheer thundered through the arena. Paul crouched, waiting. The first zombie sped towards him. The second tried to flank his left. The third hung back. Paul could smell the rot wafting off of them, even from the other side of the rink. Closing the distance between them, the first zombie raised its stick and swung at his head. Paul ducked, sidestepped, and wrenched the stick from its grasp. He turned the weapon back on the creature, breaking its legs first. As it collapsed, Paul clubbed the head. The face imploded behind the hockey mask. Blood and pulp squirted out the mouth and eyeholes like Play-Doh.
The second zombie tripped over a severed arm and fell to the ice. As it scrambled to rise, the third darted forward. Paul ran towards it as fast as he could without slipping.
Their sticks clashed like sabers. One blow smacked into his side, and Paul felt his ribs crack. He struck the creature in the side of the head, and its mask flew off.
Shannon stared back at him.
“Hello, Paul.”
Paul gaped. Behind him, he heard the fallen zombie getting to its feet.
“Surprised to see me?” It spoke with Shannon’s voice, but Paul knew it wasn’t Shannon.
“Wifey,” he gasped, his voice thick with emotion. 117
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“What did they do to you?”
“They tortured her, Paul. Made her drink acid. Injected gasoline into her veins. She died croaking your name.”
Paul grimaced. The zombie laughed.
The crowd grew louder.
Paul lowered his stick. “Do it. I don’t want to live without her.”
The zombie’s laughter ceased. “You don’t wish to fight? It’s more fun when you fight.�
�
“Just do it.” His stick clattered across the ice.
“Make it quick.”
“If you insist. I’m so hungry.”
He embraced Shannon’s corpse. Her teeth closed around his throat.
At that moment, the bomb they’d planted exploded, filling the arena with heat and light and wind. A moment later, the sound followed. Paul and Shannon shared one last kiss as the ice melted beneath their feet.
Then they both found out where the Down Boys go.
118
WALKABOUT
(Part Two)
The Rising
Day Twenty
Melbourne, Australia
Leigh Haig opened the dumpster lid a fraction of an inch and stared outside. Dark, ominous clouds dominated the sky, and cold rain fell in sheets. A flock of birds wheeled overhead, buffeted by the gale force winds. The storm lashed them, sending molted feathers and shreds of rotting meat plummeting downward with the rain. He remembered peeking out the window of his home before he’d departed, and seeing the sun. Now, he couldn’t remember what the sun looked like.Twelve days ago, he’d left his house in search of medicine for his wife Penny, whose body was being ravaged by the common flu. The sun was still shining when he departed. Now, it was raining, and he was hiding inside a garbage dumpster behind a 119
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Chinese restaurant, less than ten kilometers from home.
Ten kilometers. Not far. Not far at all. And yet, it might as well be the other side of the world.
Shivering from the cold, Leigh closed the lid. The darkness surrounded him again. His fingers and toes were numb, and his muscles ached. He felt for the rifle, a Yugoslavian-made SKS with a bayonet mounted on the barrel. He drew the weapon to him. Twelve days ago, he hadn’t even known how to fire it, let alone the rifle’s specifics. Now, it was his best friend. His teddy bear, after sleeping in the dumpster overnight.
After leaving the house, Leigh had gone one and a half blocks before encountering his first zombie, an elderly woman whose wig had gone missing and whose varicose veins had burst right through her skin. He’d smelled the creature before he saw it, and had time to hide behind the burned-out shell of a car before the corpse rounded the corner and started down his street. Armed only with a makeshift axe, Leigh had let it wander by. When the coast was clear, he continued on his way.
