Dead Rising

by Carl Hose

  He couldn’t stay in the cellar forever. He knew that much for sure. Where he’d go when he left was still a mystery. Before his family had been attacked and devoured by a horde of dead things, they had all planned to head up north. He wasn’t sure why his daddy had decided on north, but that had been the plan.

  Billy couldn’t think beyond getting out of Little Creek, which was about as far as he’d ever been, not counting the time his daddy had taken him to Faith to an American Indian festival.

  Faith seemed like forever away to him. It was actually only fifteen miles, but to Billy, that might as well be halfway across the world.

  He had to try, though. He was running out of food, he was going crazy in the dark, and he couldn’t stand the smell of the bucket.

  He finally made his decision. He wasn’t going to stay in the cellar any longer. What was waiting for him out there in the world wasn’t very good, but it seemed like a better option to him than waiting in the cellar for what was wandering around in the world to find him.

  He grabbed the shotgun, which he did every time he left the cellar, and he opened the cellar door. It was daylight. He was thankful for that much. Not that he wasn’t going to be wandering around at night, but at least he could start his journey in the daylight.

  He made one last stop inside the house to see what he could scrounge up to take with him. He found some stale crackers and warm soda. He stuffed them into a backpack, slung the pack over his shoulder, and started in the direction he was sure Faith was in. He didn’t know what would be waiting for him there, but he hoped he’d find people who were still alive. That was the thing he wanted more than anything in the world.

  It was three miles to the nearest main road. Billy walked a good portion of it without incident. He spent most of that time thinking about his daddy and his momma and his sister. His sister, mostly, because she had been the first to go, with Billy just a few feet away from her. He’d tried to save her, but there were so many of those things. The whole town, it seemed like, had decided to have dinner at his house.

  When he was almost to the main road (that’s the only name he knew to call it), he began seeing some of the dead things moving around. They were pretty far away at first, but when they began to notice him one by one, they started making their way in his direction.

  He picked up the pace to keep ahead of them, but had the shotgun clutched tight in his hands just in case.

  When he was almost to the top of the slope leading to the main road, he looked back over his shoulder to make sure the things were staying behind him. He was so busy looking back that he didn’t see the massive dead thing rising in front of him, and when he ran into it, he felt like he’d hit a brick wall. He went tumbling back down the slope, head over heels, still gripping the shotgun in both hands, praying it didn’t go off.

  He reached the bottom of the hill and knew at once that his ankle was twisted. The zombie was coming down the slope. He thought he recognized the dead man as a deaf-mute drifter that worked on some of the local farms whenever there was extra work to be had. The guy really didn’t look all that dead, unless you counted the hole in the side of his neck and the fact that one of his arms had been chewed off at the elbow, leaving nothing behind but strands of bloody tissue that swung back and forth as he made his way down the slope.

  Billy drew himself into a sitting position. He knew the Mossberg was going to knock him back, so he had to make the first shot count. He raised the barrel of the shotgun with his left hand and tightened his finger on the trigger, making sure to account for the fact that he was lower than his target. One shot, that was it. One shot, and if he missed, Mr. Deaf-mute was going to have a field day with him.

  He sighted in on the zombie’s head, thankful it was a big target, then he squeezed the trigger. Just like he knew, the kick from the shotgun rammed his shoulder and sent him flying backward. After a few seconds to recover, he sat up to see how he’d done.

  There was no sign of Mr. Deaf-mute at first, then he saw the lump on the ground, partially hidden by a mass of overgrown weeds. He couldn’t see if he’d taken the head off or not, but since the dead thing seemed to be staying dead, he thought maybe he’d done a pretty good job.

  The immediate problem was out of the way. There was another problem looming behind him. The walking corpses he’d managed to keep ahead of were now closing in on him. With his bad ankle, there was no way he was going to get ahead of them again.

  He started back up the slope, crawling at first, and when he realized that wasn’t going to get him anywhere fast, he forced himself to stand on his hurt ankle. The pain was fierce, sending jolts of what felt like electricity up his leg. He managed to stay on his feet despite the pain and started up the hill, not quite moving at the pace he wanted, but doing much better than when he was crawling.

  He realized his ankle had to be almost broken. He’d never had a twisted ankle that delivered this much pain. He tried not to look down at it because he didn’t want to know the truth, but he looked anyway, and saw that his foot was twisted almost 360 degrees.

  He reached the top of the slope and collapsed, but he kept going, holding the shotgun in one hand as he dragged himself to the center of the road. He rolled over when he could go no further. Several of the zombies had topped the slope and were moving toward him.

  He thought he heard something in the distance. He tried to get the shotgun into position, but there were five or six corpses coming his way. There wasn’t any chance he could get more than one of them before they were on top of him.

  The distant sound grew louder. Billy recognized it as a car, maybe even a truck, and it sounded like the engine was revving up. Sure enough, it was a car. A station wagon, to be exact, and it was barreling this way, on a direct collision course with the dead things coming at him.

  He saw the front of the station wagon slam into the zombies and heard the squeal of tires as the car came to a halt. The driver’s side door flew open and a tall, wide man with disheveled blonde hair got out, opening fire with what appeared to be a machine gun. Some of the zombies that hadn’t been taken out with the car took several bursts from the machine gun as the blonde man helped Billy to his feet.

  “In the car,” the blond man said.

  “My ankle,” Billy said.

  The man took one look at Billy’s ankle, turned and released a burst of gunfire on two more walking corpses, then squatted and wrapped a thick arm around Billy’s legs.

  Jim Pierce (formerly Pastor Jim Pierce) was in his fifties, but he still had the strength of an ox. He hefted Billy (who still clutched his shotgun) over his shoulder and carried him to the car, pushing him across the seat as he climbed in behind the wheel.

  “Hold on,” Jim Pierce said, but he didn’t give Billy time to heed the warning. He didn’t even bother closing the car door. He mashed his foot down on the gas pedal and plowed through a couple of corpses that looked like they’d been buried for the better part of the century.

  “Thank you, mister,” Billy said.

  “Jim. Call me Jim.”

  “I’m Billy.”

  “How’d you end up in a tight spot like that, Billy?”

  “Tryin’ to get somewhere safe. I was doin’ all right ’til I hurt my ankle.”

  “Where are your parents?”

  “Dead. My sister too.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It’s okay,” Billy said, then after a pause, “How’d this happen?”

  “I don’t really know,” Jim said.

  He glanced over at the boy, wishing he could give an answer, but there was nothing to say. Nothing that would bring the kid’s parents back or make their deaths more meaningful. Nothing that would make the things either of them had seen make sense.

  “Where we gonna go, Jim?” Billy asked.

  Jim shrugged. “The first place that looks like we might stand a chance, I guess. Where that might be, your guess is good as mine.”

  They rode in silence for several m
inutes, then Billy said, “Where’d you come from? Where were you when this happened, I mean?”

  “I was getting ready to talk about God,” Jim Pierce said. “Same as I always do. I was the pastor of a church in Canton. My congregation . . .”

  Billy was a smart kid. When Jim Pierce let the words trail off, Billy knew exactly what that meant.

  “I never knew a preacher could use a gun like you do,” Billy said.

  The former Pastor Jim Pierce chuckled. “Neither did I, Billy. I found it in the back room of the local gun shop and gave myself a crash course. Figured I’d leave the rest up to God. Seemed liked as good a plan as any.”

  Jim Pierce fell into silence, contemplating the events of the last few days. It still weighed heavy on him that he’d left Canton. Not very Godly, leaving behind the neighbors he’d preached to every Wednesday and Sunday, but he’d done all he could do. Those who could get away did. The others died. Some of those who died came back.

  “You okay?” Billy asked.

  Jim looked at him again, smiled, and said, “About as okay as I can be under the circumstances, I guess.”

  When they came to the outskirts of Faith, Billy looked in wonder at the corpses scattered around the landscape, while Jim admired the wall surrounding the town.

  “Wow, something big happened here,” Billy said.

  “Looks like we found ground zero,” Jim said.

  “What’s ground zero?”

  Jim was about to answer, but his attention was drawn to a military transport truck moving in their direction. He angled his station wagon toward the truck and slowed until coming to a stop alongside the truck.

  “How many in there?” the soldier behind the wheel of the truck asked.

  “Just me and a boy,” Jim said.

  “You armed?”

  “We have guns,” Jim said.

  The soldier keyed his radio. “Colonel, we have two survivors.”

  “Bring ’em in,” Edgewater’s voice boomed over the radio.

  Eighteen

  Dalton pulled into Abigail’s driveway, leaving the truck running and the headlights on.

  “We’re here,” he said, and immediately felt stupid for stating the obvious.

  “Yep, we’re here,” she said, then after a short pause, “Can you stay?”

  “I can do that,” he said, happy for the invitation.

  He followed Abigail inside, running possible scenarios through his mind as he did. He really liked this girl, but he didn’t have a clue how to act around her, which only made him feel clumsy.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” she said, motioning to the couch.

  Dalton sat.

  “I’ll be just a minute,” she said, disappearing down a narrow hallway Dalton guessed led to her bedroom.

  While Dalton waited for her to come back, he looked around the living room, taking in the little unicorn knick-knacks and the snow globes on shelves all over the room. It occurred to him that he’d known Abby for several years and had no idea she liked unicorns and snow globes. That made him even more nervous, and suddenly he wondered what he was doing here, sitting in her living room like a love-struck schoolboy.

  Abby returned shortly, wearing a T-shirt and cut-off blue jean shorts. A sight for sore eyes on any day, but at this particular time, with everything going on like it was, Dalton couldn’t think of anything he’d rather look at than Abigail in those shorts.

  She sat beside him on the couch and turned to face Dalton, tucking her feet under her bottom. “I’m not what you’d call a bold girl, Dalton Connors,” she said, wasting no time. “Not when it comes to matters of the heart, or anything else, for that matter.”

  Dalton listened. He felt like he should take some of the weight of the moment off her shoulders and take over, but he let her go on.

  “I’ve waited to say this for a long time now, so hear me out.”

  “I will,” he told her.

  “I’ve dropped hints, but I guess they weren’t good enough, or maybe you’re just too blind to see them. I’ve done everything but throw myself at you, and now I guess I’m going to have to do that, because I feel like time is short. Do you know what I mean?”

  Dalton knew exactly what she meant, and instead of letting her continue or putting her in the position of having to throw herself at him, he leaned over and kissed her lightly on the lips.

  “I have feelings for you, Dalton. Strong feelings, and I know you probably think it’s just infatuation or whatever, me being so much younger than you, but it’s not. My feelings are—”

  He cut her off. “Abby, I know I’ve been a little slow. I can see that. The way things are now, with the world falling apart around us, I don’t want to waste any more time. None of us knows what tomorrow might bring. You’re right about time being short. Life is short, Abby, and I don’t want to waste another minute of it without finding out about us.”

  He leaned forward and kissed her again. It was a gentle brushing of lips at first, then more aggressive. They melted together, kissing like it was the first last kiss they would have together. When the kiss ended, Dalton brushed hair from Abigail’s cheek and let his hand rest there.

  “Will everything be all right?” she asked.

  “We’ll be all right,” he said. “I don’t know about everything else, but we’ll be all right.”

  He took her in his arms and brought her close. They kissed again. His hands explored her body and his fingers fumbled with her clothing. They undressed one another awkwardly. Dalton picked Abby up and carried her down the hallway, into the bedroom.

  Their first round of lovemaking was urgent, with hands groping and their mouths locked in an almost-constant kiss. Abby guided Dalton into her, arching her back to take him as deep inside her as she could, as if making him a part of her would change everything.

  Afterward, they lay together in silence, Dalton stroking Abby’s hair from her face and letting the tips of his fingers trace her lips and eyes. They talked about the military presence and the rising dead. They talked about what might have been between them had they found one another before everything had gone to hell. Most of all, they talked about what it might be like if all of the insanity were to go away.

  They made love again, with less intensity, reaching a place together where nothing existed but the two of them.

  Nineteen

  The people of Faith, both those who had been born and raised there as well as those who found their way there, banded together. They saw changes no one could have imagined. A town normally content to take its place among other small towns of America was now a war zone.

  “Our ship is sinking fast,” Edgewater told Dalton, Colbrook, Johnny, and Jim one night over cold beers. “All my life, the military is all I ever gave a damn about. I’m a career military man. Never been any doubt about it. Now, the military is what we have here in this town. My command is all we can count on. The United States of America and its armed forces as we know it has gone to Hell. I’ve called in all the favors I can. We’re on our own from here on out. You yokels are all I got left, save for the rest of my troops, and damnit, I guess that’ll have to do.”

  “Appreciate your vote of confidence,” Colbrook said.

  “We’ve done all right so far,” Dalton added. “We just need to keep working together, that’s all.”

  “Working for what?” Johnny asked.

  “For survival, you dimwit,” Edgewater shot back.

  “Look, I don’t have to take your—”

  “Stop it,” Colbrook said. “The last thing we need to be doing is fighting with each other. In case you haven’t noticed, the small portion of town we have left here is surrounded by corpses trying to suck us dry.”

  “He’s right about that,” Dalton agreed. “We start fighting amongst ourselves, we might as well go out there and join them.”

  Edgewater finished his beer and twisted the cap off another. To Johnny he said, “We may not see eye to eye, but I respect a man that’s willing to st
and up and fight. From what I’ve seen, you got a set of cojones on you big enough to bowl with. That makes you okay by me.”

  “I appreciate that,” Johnny said. “I respect what you’re doing here, and since we have the same goal in mind, it’s probably best we work together.”

  “That’s good,” Edgewater said. “And now that we’re finished wipin’ each other’s ass, let’s get drunk.”

  The five men raised their beer bottles and drank.

  “You know the world is going to hell when you’re getting drunk with a man of God,” Edgewater said, clapping a big hand on Jim Pierce’s back.

  “The way things are, I don’t think God would deny me the right to a drink,” Jim said.

  “Never put a lot of faith in God myself,” Edgewater said. “The way I see it, man is God. We need to take care of ourselves and stop relying on some unseen deity to do our dirty work.” Edgewater paused long enough to take a drink of beer, then indicated the Uzi strapped across Jim’s back. “You brought that weapon with you. Not standard issue for a man of God, I’d say, and I haven’t seen you without it since you got here. Looks like you put your faith in more than God.”

  “I didn’t say I relied on God for everything,” Jim said.

  “That’s good, that’s all I’m saying,” Edgewater said. “You keep a little faith in God, that’s no big deal, so long as you know when it comes down to it, God won’t be holding your hand when you pull the trigger.”

  “Why is it you’re always an asshole?” Colbrook asked Edgewater.

  “It’s in my nature, son,” Edgewater said. “Born ’n’ bred. A man never got far being nice. You’re nice, people think they can take advantage of you. I’ve never had that problem.”

  “Gotta agree with the colonel on that one,” Johnny said.

  “Man knows the value of being an asshole,” Edgewater replied, raising his beer bottle for a toast. “That’s the kind of thinking that’ll get us through this shit.”