Authors: The Rising
"I'm his father you son of a bitch!"
The zombie laughed. The pale end of a worm dangled out of its nose and it sniffed it back up.
"Some father you are," it crowed. "You weren't here to save him. He belongs to us now! He's our son!"
"Like hell he is!" Jim raised the P38 and fired, the bullet passing neatly through Rick's skull. The zombie collapsed to the floor and Jim kicked it in the head. His boot sank into the soft flesh, and he laughed at the bits of brain matter on his steel toes.
He was still laughing after he emptied the clip into the corpse.
"You know, I've always wanted to do that."
134 He ran up the stairs two at a time.
"Danny, it's okay now! Daddy's here-"
Tammy lunged out of the bathroom at the top of the stairway. Squealing in wicked delight, she shoved him backward. Jim tumbled backward, collapsing in a heap at the bottom of the stairs.
Hissing furiously, she lumbered down the stairs after him.
"KillyoukillyouKILLYOU! Gonna eat your guts and your useless cock and tear out your eyes and eat them too because you were never a man and you were never a husband and you were NEVER A FATHER!" Jim had dropped the empty pistol in the fall. There was a fresh gash on his forehead and blood filled his eyes. Groaning, he wiped it away.
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"You were never a father. You were never anything. But now you'll finally get to be something, Jim. You can be one of us! Forever!"
"You promised me forever once before, bitch. No thanks." Shrieking, she sprang at him. Her putrid, bloated body crushed him to the floor. Jim turned his head away. The stench of her proximity made him gag. Her jaws clamped down on his arm and she yanked her head back, taking a chunk of flesh with it. Hungrily, she began to chew. Blood spurted from the hole in his arm. Grabbing a fistful of her oily hair, he slammed the zombie's head into the wall. The meat fell from her mouth, and he had a crazy urge to stick it back on his arm.
"You fucking bitch! Give me my son!"
He rolled them both over. Straddling her chest, he pounded her head into the floor repeatedly. After a halfdozen blows, something cracked. Tammy screamed and still he kept at it. Finally, she lay still. The screaming continued long after her head was a pulpy smear, and Jim realized it was coming from him.
For a second, he thought of Carrie. Then he wiped his
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gory hands on his shirt, and crawled up the stairs. Reaching the top, he limped towards Danny's bedroom door. Despite the commotion, the door remained closed.
"Danny, it's Daddy! Come on out, son. Everything's going to be alright now." The door creaked open, and his son stepped out into the light.
"Hello Daddy," the zombie tittered. "I thought you'd never get here." Jim screamed.
"It's okay Jim. It's okay now."
Martin stood over him, shaking him gently.
Still in the throes of the nightmare, Jim shrank away from the preacher. Immediately the pain in his shoulder flared. Wincing, he looked at the gauze taped around it; white and clean with only a small red stain in the center.
"Delmas bandaged it. He fixed you up real good. He was a medic in Viet Nam."
"Who?"
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"Delmas Clendenan. He and his boy saved our skins. This is their cabin we're in." Martin chuckled. "Boy, you've been out of it. Thrashing around and sweating in your sleep. Delmas said it was shock, fatigue and blood loss, but you're okay now. The bullet passed clean through your shoulder, and there's no infection or anything. He sewed you up nice, praise God. I imagine it'll be a little sore for a time though." Jim sucked his tongue, working up saliva to coat his parched throat.
"How long?" he stammered.
"Have we been here? Day and a half."
Instantly, Jim swept back the covers and was on his feet.
"Two days? Martin, we've got to go! We should have been in New Jersey by now!"
136 He stumbled as the room spun out of control. Quickly, the old man caught him and gently but insistently forced him to lay back down.
"I know, Jim," he assured him. "but you're not going to be any help to Danny if you can't walk."
"Don't need to walk. I can drive."
"I believe you probably can. But we're going to have to walk to find ourselves another car, and you're in no shape to do that. You can't even lift your arm yet!"
Jim struggled to sit up again.
Martin pushed him back down. "Rest. Get your strength. We'll leave first thing in the morning."
"Martin, we-"
"I mean it," the preacher warned him. "So help me God, Jim, if you don't lay back down, I will knock you out! I aim to help you save your boy, and I truly believe that God is going to help us do just that-but we won't even make it a mile with the shape you're currently in. Now rest!
We'll leave in the morning."
Jim nodded weakly, and lay his head back on the pillow. Moments later, there was a knock at the door, and a man entered the room. A young boy trailed shyly along behind him.
"You're awake," the man observed. "That's good, but you ought to be resting."
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He was a big man; not flabby, but by no means skinny either. A thick reddish-brown beard, sprinkled with strands of gray, covered his ruddy face. He wore muddy work boots, a flannel shirt, and a pair of denim overalls.
"Delmas Clendenan." He thrust his hand out and Jim shook it, wincing slightly as tendrils of pain spiraled through his shoulder. "This here's my boy, Jason."
"Howdy," Jim smiled.
"Hello, sir."
The boy was older than Danny, maybe eleven or twelve, and leaner.
"Thanks for helping us, Mr. Clendenan," Jim said. "Is 137 there any way we can repay you?"
The woodsman snorted. "Naw, there's no need for that. We're happy to have some company, truth be told. Things have-well, it's been a bit quiet around here since my wife passed on." A shadow seemed to fall across his face, and the boy dropped his eyes to the floor.
"Was it...?" Martin began.
Delmas nodded, then placed a hand on Jason's shoulder.
"Why don't you check on the stew for me?"
After the boy had left the room, he continued.
"Happened about four weeks ago. She was birthing a calf out in the barn, and it was stillborn. The mother died along with it. My wife, bless her heart, was just as soft as a daisy, and she sat there in that stable and cried. Cried so much, she didn't notice when they started moving around again."
He grew quiet and looked out the window towards the barn.
"I'm sorry." Martin said.
Delmas sniffed, but said nothing.
"I lost my wife too," Jim told him. "Second wife, actually, but I loved her more than anything. She was pregnant with our first child. But I've got a son about your boy's age, from my first marriage. He's alive, and we need to get to him."
"Mister Thurmond, I know that you've been through a lot, but how do you
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know that your boy is still alive?"
"He called me on my cell phone, just four nights ago. He was hiding out in my ex-wife's attic."
"On your cell phone?"
"The battery still had some life in it. He got through before it was spent." Delmas shuffled his feet. "I don't mean no disrespect, but are you sure he called you on your cell phone?"
"I didn't imagine it, if that's what you're thinking! Most of the utilities were still working back home. Haven't they been on here?" 138 "Off and on, sure. But they're spotty. Luckily we've got a wood burning stove in the kitchen. Power went out about a week ago and hasn't been back since."
"But the power was on until recently. You've seen other survivors?"
"Well sure, but that don't mean-"
"It means that my son is alive, Mr. Clendenan, and I aim to keep him that way."
Delmas held up his hands. "Whoa there! I didn't mean any disrespect. Reverend Martin here said your son was up in Jersey. Hell, that's hundreds of miles away. You just need to think about it, is all. Consider the possibilities."
"Believe me, I have. But let me ask you one thing, Mr. Clendenan."
"Call me Delmas."
"Okay, Delmas. If it was Jason out there, wouldn't you do the same thing for him?"
"You bet I would."
"Then help me," Jim said. "Please." Delmas looked at them both, and shrugged his shoulders.
"I reckon you boys will need a full stomach before you leave. We ain't got much, but we'll be glad to share. I'm fixing to go out and bag something for dinner. You want to come along, Reverend?"
"You mean in the woods?" Martin stammered. "But isn't that dangerous?"
"Sure it is, but I'm careful. We got no choice, really. The grocery
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store is a long ways off, and I don't reckon they're open for business anyway. Hunting's still pretty good in these hills. I'm sure we can round us up a squirrel or a rabbit or maybe even a wild turkey that ain't been turned into one of them things."
"Well, okay I guess." Martin cast a sidelong glance at Jim, but his companion seemed lost in his own thoughts. "I haven't been hunting in, oh, well I guess it's been about ten years. Ever since the arthritis started acting up. This
139 might be fun!"
Laughing, Delmas slapped him on the back and sauntered out of the room. Martin turned to Jim.
"Try to rest, okay Jim? I'll be back as soon as I can." Jim made no reply and Martin assumed he hadn't heard him. But then Jim stirred and looked at him.
"Be careful Martin."
The old man nodded and followed after Delmas.
Jim closed his eyes and tried to fall back asleep, but he was haunted by images from his nightmare. Images of Danny.
"Hang in there, squirt," he whispered to the darkness. "Daddy's coming. I promise."
Delmas unlocked the cedar gun cabinet and removed two rifles. He hefted a 30.06 in one hand, and passed a Remington 4.10 to Martin. The preacher eyed the gun skeptically.
"Kind of small, isn't it? What if we run into something bigger than a groundhog? Will this do the trick?"
"I've got some punkinballs you can use," Delmas grunted. "Jason's brought down a four-point buck using that there rifle and punkinballs. As for anything else we might run across-just make sure you aim for the head." He winked, and began loading his rifle.
"Yes, I'd established that much." Martin said, and accepted a box of ammunition from Jason. The weight of the rifle felt good in his hands. The gun was a bolt action, and he loaded three shells into it.
"Ready?" Delmas asked.
"Ready as I'll ever be!" Martin declared, trying to sound confident. The
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feeling wasn't mirrored in his eyes though, and the big man grinned.
"I'm telling you, Reverend, there ain't nothing to 140 worry about. We're just going down yonder in the hollow. Jason and I hunt it a couple times a week. We've got no choice. We ate the last of the chickens, and the cows-well, I told you about the cows already. Garden's done for the year, and I don't have enough canned goods to spare. You boys want to eat, it's gonna have to be wild game." Martin kneaded the rifle stock, letting his aching fingers slide over the smooth faux-walnut finish.
"I'm sorry, Delmas. We're grateful. We really are. I'm just a little nervous is all." He smiled, patted the gun, and motioned to the door.
"After you."
The mountain man chuckled and pointed at Jason.
"No leaving till I get back, you hear? I want you to stay here and help Mr. Thurmond if he needs anything."
"Yessir. You want me to fix some potatoes?"
"Sure," Delmas answered, going out the door. "Start peeling them awhile." They stepped out onto the porch.
Delmas turned and pressed his bearded face against the screen door.
"Hey Jason?"
The young boy turned expectantly.
"Yeah Pop?"
"I love you son. Behave."
"You too, Pop."
Hearing the exchange between father and son, Jim swallowed hard. Rising, he looked out the window and watched them walk across the field, their forms growing smaller until they finally vanished into the hollow. He crawled back beneath the covers, gently kneading his throbbing shoulder. He was unable to shake the weird sense of foreboding that had fallen over him. He hoped that Martin said a little prayer. Then his thoughts turned back to Danny, and the
141 foreboding grew worse.
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He slipped back into a troubled sleep.
The hollow was quiet; brooding. Spanning a little over a square mile, it was created by four sloping hills leading down to its center. A serpentine creek wound through its length, exiting into a cornfield on the other side of the Clendenan homestead.
The silence was pervasive; and to Martin, unsettling. No squirrels danced playfully in the branches. No birds sang from the boughs. There was no sound, save the occasional squirt as Delmas spat a wad of brown tobacco juice from his mouth, and the trickling of the creek. The greenery was alive, of course. Gentle ferns covered the banks of the stream. Twisting thorns, vines and tree limbs blocked their passage at every step. Moss clung to the gray stones thrusting up from the forest floor. The rocks reminded Martin of tombstones.
Delmas parted the leafy canopy in front of them and made his way down the hill. The branches rustled back into place, and after a moment's hesitation, Martin followed.
The ground sloped steadily downward. There were still no signs of other life, and Martin had the uncanny impression that the hollow was holding its breath.
"I love this place," Delmas whispered. "Ain't no salesmen or bill collectors to deal with. Just the air and the smell of the woods-the wet leaves. And when that wind whistles through the branches? God, that's the best."
"You've lived here a long time?"
"Yeah, since the war. I got out in sixty-nine, just before the dope smokers got over there and fucked everything up. Came home, married Bernice, and we built this place. Had two girls; Elizabeth and Nicole. They both moved away a long time ago. Nicole's in
142 Richmond, married to a veterinarian. Beth moved up to Pennsylvania." He kicked at a root jutting from the ground.