Authors: The Rising
"Well, that's what this Baker was working on." Michaels pulled Baker's identification from his pocket and slid it across the table. "Pretty high level security clearance, I would think."
"The highest," Schow mused, then passed the laminated badge to Gonzalez and McFarland. "As Director, he would have had access to virtually everything in the facility."
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222 "Permission to speak, Colonel?" Miller interrupted.
"Go ahead."
"Begging your pardon, but how does this help us?" Schow paused, his thin smile parting to reveal a set of gleaming white teeth.
"Havenbrook was one of the U.S. Government's foremost research facilities, Sergeant. That's what the public was told. Forget what your amateur conspiracy theorists said about Area 51 and Groom Lake. Oh, those facilities exist as well, as most Americans know, but they are used for mostly experimental aircraft development."
"Havenbrook," Gonzalez told him, picking up where the colonel had finished, "was, among other things, a weapons lab. Biological, chemical, ballistics-you name it, they did it. They had more bugs than Fort Deitrich."
"So we're gonna help ourselves to the arsenal?" Miller guessed.
"You only see part of the picture, Sergeant," Schow told him.
"Havenbrook is vast-huge. It would have to be, to contain all of those different projects. On the surface, it looks like any other facility. Heavy security around the perimeter, but once inside there's only a few office buildings, or perhaps a hangar or two. That's because the majority of the complex is underground. From what I've read, there are miles of tunnels. It's impregnable."
Miller whistled. "That would make one hell of a base of operations."
"Indeed," Schow grinned, "Think of the possibilities that presents. Every day, we are beset by more and more of these creatures. The Sons of the Constitution militia holds sway over much of Western Pennsylvania and it is only a matter of time before they turn this way. Renegade, makeshift armies squabble in the ruins and all the while these creatures multiply. We need to establish a permanent stronghold, something other than Gettysburg. Otherwise, we won't last the winter here. Indeed, we'll be lucky to last another month, because
223 despite all of our weaponry and manpower, we are dealing with a primary enemy that has a distinct advantage over us. It needs only a dead body. These days, the number of dead bodies far outweigh the number of living. We are not fighting for conquest or land or ideals. We are fighting for survival-for our very right to stay alive! And only the strong can do that. This thing that has happened is nature's way of winnowing out the weak. But we are not weak, are we men? No! We are strong! That's what those civilians out there don't understand. They think us cruel and harsh because of our means. But the fact that they do not agree with our methods proves them weak, and therefore, unfit to survive. This is a war that we must win, and Havenbrook may prove a very
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suitable place to start doing just that."
He paused, took a sip of coffee, and then finished. "And now Miller, in the popular idiom of today's youth, you know what time it is."
"Is this Baker cooperative?" McFarland asked Michaels.
"Not so far," the Sergeant told him, "but I'm sure he can be persuaded to be."
"What about the other man that was taken with him?"
"No, just a deaf mute-a retard of some kind. Not sure how they came to be together, but the scientist definitely has a bond with him."
"Then he'll cooperate," Schow said. "Have them brought to me. I want to learn everything this man knows about Havenbrook before we go there. Layout and design, if there is still power functioning, what security systems are still working, manpower, and most importantly, how many of those things are holed up there, if any. He'll serve as a very useful tour guide, I believe."
Pursing his lips, he blew on his coffee to cool it, took a sip, and then turned to Miller.
"Now, Sergeant, I'd like you to advise us of your findings." 224 Miller reported all that had transpired on the mission. When he was finished, they sat in silence for a moment.
"That's a shame about Private Skip," Torres said finally. "I actually liked that kid."
"Perhaps we can use his punishment for insubordination as a learning tool for our new resident scientist. Lieutenant Torres, have the helicopter made ready. I want all three prisoners, our wayward Private, the Professor, and his unfortunate companion, brought to me. We're taking them for a little ride."
"If we put him in with the rest of the townies, they'll rip him apart when they come back from their work details tonight, just like the zombies would."
Baker recognized the voice outside the door as Lapine's, and he pulled his feet off the ledge where he'd propped them while he rested. The key clinked in the lock and the chains rattled as they were drawn away from the door. Worm noticed Baker's quick movements and followed his pensive stare.
The door to the balcony swung open, and a severely battered soldier stood flanked by four armed guardsmen, as well as Lapine. They shoved
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the injured man forward and the door slammed shut behind them. The man sprawled over the back of the chair and then collapsed, huddled and twitching, onto the seat.
"Are you okay?" Baker took a tentative step towards him.
"Ahm fyn," the man mumbled through his ruined mouth. "Mah namez Schip." Jesus, he sounds like Worm! Baker thought.
"I'm William Baker, and this is my companion Worm."
"Hu were on Shee Enn Enn-the blak hole mashine."
"Yes, I was on CNN," Baker admitted in surprise. 225 "You remember me?"
"Shoor, buht kin hu echzcuse mee fo' a shecond?" the man grinned, and pink drool ran down his mangled cheek. He bent over, coughed, and then spit three broken teeth and a wad of bloody phlegm onto the floor. Baker stared, horrified.
"Sorry about that." His voice, while still hoarse, was clearer now, but Baker could still see that it hurt him to talk.
"It's okay," Baker assured him. "Let's take a look at you, Mr. Skip. I'm afraid the light in here isn't so good, but I'll see what I can do."
"You a medical doctor too?" Skip winced as Baker gently but firmly felt his head.
"No, but I did take pre-med in college." He turned Skip's head to the left and right. "Does that hurt?"
"Yes," Skip grimaced "but that's okay."
"What happened to you?"
"This is what happens when you don't follow orders. What about you guys?
They raid the Hellertown facility?"
"No," Baker answered, "but how do you know so much about us?"
"I told you-I saw it on CNN. You guys were the ones working on the black hole machine. Had some other guys working on sentient computers and cloning and all kinds of stuff."
"The Relativistic Heavy Ion Collider was what I worked on-what you called the black hole machine. It was just one of many projects, and
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they kept us pretty much in the dark about the others so I can't verify those."
"Well Professor, you better hope Schow doesn't know about the others. That's why you're here, right?"
"It would seem so, yes. They said he would want to question us. They seemed to think Hellertown was primarily some type of weapons lab."
"So how'd they get you, and who's he?" Skip cocked a thumb at Worm, who was staring down into the theatre.
"I guess you could call him my son, of sorts. I'm his 226 guardian at least. I found him during my travels and I've become quite attached to him. He's a remarkable young man. As to your first question, we were captured by some of your fellow National Guardsmen near Harrisburg. I take it you're from the same platoon or squadron?"
"Something like that," Skip agreed, not in the mood to give a lesson in military terminology. "But I ain't like the rest of them. They're animals. And Schow's the worst. Him and McFarland and Gonzalez. They're fucking crazy!"
He spat more blood over the side of the balcony. It made a distant splat below. Worm watched it, giggled, and then followed suit. Skip grinned at him and ruffled his hair.
"What will this Colonel Schow do to us?" Baker asked.
"Hard to say," Skip shrugged, dabbing at his face with his shirttail.
"But if I were you, I'd tell him whatever he wants to know."
"But that's just it!" Baker exclaimed. "I don't know what he wants us for! I don't know anything. And even if I did know something, doesn't it stand to reason that he'd just kill us after I'd told him whatever it is he thinks I'm good for?"
"He probably would," Skip said, "but trust me, if you're in Schow's hands, you're better off as one of those things out there than as his prisoner. Speaking of which, I've got something to do." He limped back over to the balcony, where Worm was still spitting over the side in delight, and looked down.
"Hmmra, only thirty feet. Not a far enough drop."
"What do you mean?" Baker asked.
"like I said, you're better off dead than in their clutches. They've got me already. I planned to throw myself off this ledge but the drop isn't
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far enough. I could end up just breaking my legs and then I'd be even worse off."
Horrified, Baker wondered how sinister this Colonel Schow could be, to inspire this man to commit suicide
227 rather than face him. Surely, he couldn't be that bad?
A moment later, when he heard voices outside the door again, Baker knew that he was about to find out.
"On your feet, assholes," Lapine sneered, "Colonel Schow has requested your presence. You're going for a little ride."
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Martin leaned forward in the seat, his wrinkled hands gripping the dash.
"Is that what I think it is, Jim?"
They'd just passed the sign for Gettysburg, and Jim slowed to a stop. Directly ahead of them, two Humvees and a tank blocked the road. Several men in military uniforms milled about the roadblock, their attention now focused on the car. The tank's turret swiveled toward them.
"I don't believe it! They're soldiers, Jim!" Martin exclaimed. "It's the Army!"
"National Guard, I think," Jim corrected him, "but what the hell are they doing here?"
"Maybe this is a buffer zone! Maybe we're leaving the affected area?"
"No, that doesn't make any sense. If that were true, then why would New Jersey be affected? This was worldwide. And remember what Klinger told us?"
"He said the army was taking over south-central Pennsylvania."
"Right. I don't like this, Martin."
"What can we do? Those guys have machine guns, Jim! We can't outfight a tank!"
Weapons pointed at the car, two of the men approached them and tapped on the window. They did
229 not smile.
"Gentlemen, I'm going to ask you to exit your vehicle."
"Sure," Jim replied, trying to stay calm. "Can you just tell us what's
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going on?"
"We've got zombies in the perimeter, sir. It's for your own protection." As if to verify this, one of the soldiers seated behind the Humvee's machine guns suddenly looked alert.
"Two o'clock!" he called, and swung the weapon towards the field. A cluster of zombies were weaving their way through a row of civil war monuments, heading towards the road. Jim and Martin could smell them even from this distance.
The man atop the HumVee opened fire, mowing them down in their tracks. Limbs and torsos were scattered, and still the creatures advanced, until the barrage reached their heads. Then they lay still.
"If you would, sirs." The soldier indicated the door, and reluctantly they complied.
"Lucky you fellows came along," Martin said. The troops did not reply.
"Sirs, we're going to have to check you for weapons. I'm sure you understand."
"But just tell us what is-"
"Put your hands on the fucking car now!"
Two more ran forward and slammed Martin against the car. Blood spurted from his nose and he cried out in pain and terror.
"Hey," Jim shouted, "you son of a bitch, can't you see he's old? What the hell is going on?"
Enraged, his fists balled in anger, he started forward. The soldier behind him kicked at his legs, knocking him to the ground. Two more fell on him, wrestling with him until they could snap a pair of handcuffs on him. Two more trussed up Martin.
"What is the meaning of this?" Martin demanded. 230 "You gentlemen are now civilian volunteers," the soldier informed them. "Please come with us."
"Do we have a choice?" Martin quipped.
"You don't understand!" Jim struggled in their grip. "I've got to get to my son!"
"Not any more you don't," the man told him, "as of this moment, you've
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both been drafted."
"You bastards," Jim screamed. "You god-damn fucking bastards! Let us go!
My son needs me!"
They dragged them toward the vehicles, and Jim watched the car, and New Jersey, get farther and farther away.
Frankie shivered, crossing her arms to her breasts as she walked down the corridor. The hospital was cold, and she could see her breath under the bright fluorescent lights.
The hallway was silent except for her footsteps. She grimaced as she breathed in the sterile, chemical smell that permeated all hospitals. Underneath it, Frankie detected another smell, faint but still unmistakable. The reek of spoiled meat and carrion flesh. The perfume of the undead.
She stopped in front of a set of double doors and ran her fingers over a sign hanging on the wall. MATERNITY WARD
She pushed and the doors swung silently open. She stepped through. The stench was stronger in this wing of the building.
She stood in front of the glass observation window, staring at the dozens of little white cribs that were lined up in neat, orderly rows. Each crib was occupied. Tiny fists and feet pumped the air, and here and there she spied a tuft of downy hair peeking over the rims. I wonder which one is mine?
Her question was answered a moment later, as a pair
231 of mottled, grey arms gripped the side of the crib and her baby pulled itself upright. Standing on diminutive legs, the baby climbed down to the floor and scampered over to its nearest neighbor. It scurried into the crib and fell upon the other newborn. The other babies began to cry as one.