Authors: The Rising
Down here, alone with that thing...
He collapsed at his desk. The chair groaned in protest. To Baker's surprise, he had actually gained a few pounds during the crisis. Probably from the lack of exercise. His days consisted of the endless tedium of research and more research. His nights, (if they were nights, he couldn't differentiate down here) were spent constantly awaking; escaping the nightmares.
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He leaned back, rested his feet on the desk, and turned on the recorder.
"While I am not a biologist or pathologist, I have observed a remarkable transformation in the subject."
He paused as the lights flickered again, then continued. 30 "The subject is not simply a reanimated dead body. In many ways, it functions like a living being. It seeks nourishment, specifically in the form of human-flesh. I cannot be sure, but it would appear that this is essential to its survival. Observation of the footage provided by the Federal Emergency Management Agency seems to verify this. Of course, it will probably be a long time before FEMA sends another tape." His nervous chuckle turned into a fit of coughing. Then he continued.
"The subject's musculature appears to adapt to its new state. While decomposition is present, it appears to act not as a detriment, but as a natural process. Hair, skin, even vital organs are irrelevant to the subject's functioning. The flesh that it eats does not pass through the digestive system. It is absorbed through an unknown process; converted into-"
The lights died. Baker sat in the darkness, holding his breath. The squeal of the tape recorder was the only sound. His heart beat once, twice. The lights came back on, and Baker was surprised to find that he'd been crying.
"When you feed," Baker asked through the intercom, "why do you not consume the entire body? Why do you leave so much behind?"
"Because so many of our brethren wait to come through," Ob answered, the raspy tone indignant, as if annoyed with the scientist for asking the obvious. "They would not enjoy it, waiting eons only to inhabit a vessel incapable of movement. A torso with no arms or legs; a mere bag of human-flesh that simply lies there? That would be nothing more than escaping from one prison into another."
"Tell me more about this place you come from. You called it the void." 31 "No more," Ob said angrily. "I must summon my brethren. I hunger. Release me and you shall not be harmed."
Baker kept his voice even. "Answer my questions and I'll feed you."
"You play a dangerous game, wise man. Do not think that I am reluctant to damage this shell, in order to be freed. I can obtain another."
"That glass is bulletproof. Those walls are reinforced with steel and
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concrete. You must realize that I am in charge."
"Your race is no longer in charge of anything. We are free to walk this earth again, as we did long ago."
"Tell me about the void," Baker insisted.
"Very well," the thing sighed, exhaling fetid air from unused, rotting lungs. "But be warned, Professor. Your age has ended. We are your inheritors."
"The void," Baker began.
"THE VOID IS COLD!" Ob roared, suddenly rushing toward the window. It slammed Powell's fist against the glass. Baker skittered backward.
"It is cold because HE is cruel! I dwelled there, trapped for eons with my brothers, the Elilum and Teraphim. HE sent us there! Banished us to the wastes. We watched while you scurried like ants, multiplying and breeding, basking in his frigid love. We waited, for we are patient. We lurked on the threshold, ever observant. And you, wise man, you and your fellow man provided us with the means of our salvation. Just as your bodies provide our temples, you provided our doorway!" The creature hammered the window again. Baker winced. A small crack spiraled through the glass.
The lights flickered again.
"Do you think that when you die, you go to Heaven?" it laughed. "You don't. You go to what He has set aside for you! Your bodies belong to US! We are your masters. Demons, your kind called us. Djinn. Monsters. 32 We are the source of your legends-the reason you still fear the dark. We control your flesh. We have been waiting a long time to inhabit you!" It punched the window again. The crack widened, web-like tendrils spread across its surface. The hand that had once belonged to Dr. Timothy Powell, the hand that had once held a martini glass and swung a golf club and deftly operated the controls of the RHIC, was now a battering ram of rotting meat. Baker recoiled as the fingers split open, revealing jagged pieces of bone that further scratched the inner glass. Baker fled from the room; Ob's shouts pursuing him down the corridor.
"We are the Siqqusim! We have stood by, waiting to take possession and you are ours. Yidde-oni! Engastrimathos du aba paren tares. We are Ob andAb andApi andApu. Our number is greater than the stars! We are more than infinity!"
The glass shattered, and a moment later, the lights died, plunging the
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facility into darkness.
Baker cowered in the hall, listening in terror as the zombie stumbled after him.
The lights did not return.
33
There were two ways out of the shelter. The first was a shaft that led up to the yard. To use it, Jim would have to sling all his gear while climbing the ladder, then unbolt the lock and lift the manhole cover without attracting attention.
He needed to have at least one weapon in hand, so climbing was out. The zombies would swarm on him as soon as they heard the cover begin to open. That left the cellar.
When he'd built the shelter, he'd gone to a scrap yard in Norfolk and purchased two hatches off a decommissioned Navy troop carrier. When opened from inside the shelter, the first led into a narrow hallway running toward the house. The passageway ended at the second hatch, which was affixed to the walls of the basement.
Twice in the weeks before, when his depression became unbearable, Jim went to this second door, intent on opening it and exposing himself to whatever lay beyond. Both times he'd stopped, listening to the shuffling sounds on the other side. The walls and heavy steel muffled the bumps and gurgles, but they were undeniably there-and undeniably real. Now, he opened the first hatch, and listened for a footstep, a creak; anything that would betray the
34 presence of the creatures lurking in his house. He heard nothing, but the silence was somehow worse.
Hesitantly, he crept down the passageway, stopping at the second hatch. Placing his ear against the cold steel, he held his breath and waited. More silence.
He made his way back to the shelter, determined not to spend another hour in his tomb. He replaced his sandals with his black, beaten, steel-toed work boots. They'd served him well during the years he'd worked construction, and he hoped they would continue to do so. He pulled a long-sleeved flannel over his black T-shirt. It would provide comfort against the chill of the night, but was lighter than a jacket and could be tied around his waist during the day.
He unzipped Carrie's blue nylon backpack, catching a faint hint of her
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perfume; another ghostly reminder of what had been.
Brushing aside the emotions, he began to choose his necessities. A light load would be crucial to speed. Into the pack went a box of shells for the Ruger. He grabbed two more clips for the pistol and filled them with fifteen more bullets each, then placed them aside. He picked up the light, compact Winchester .30-30 lever action rifle that had accompanied him on so many hunting trips, and stuffed several boxes of ammunition for it into the pack as well. Four squeeze bottles of distilled water followed cans of tuna, sardines and instant noodles. Binoculars, a road atlas, the flashlight, boxes of wooden matches, candles, a ceramic coffee mug that Danny had given to him for Father's Day, a small jar of instant coffee, a toothbrush, toothpaste, a bar of soap, spoon and fork, and a can opener all found a home inside as well.
He slung his arms through the straps, testing the weight. Satisfied, he stuffed his pockets with two lighters, his buck knife and the extra clip. The pistol hung in a holster at his side. He picked up the rifle, taking comfort in the familiarity of the smooth wooden stock. Double35 checking that it was loaded, Jim took a deep breath. The room began to spin. Sudden nausea gripped him, as the tension that had been building reached critical mass. His arms and legs tingled and cramps wracked his stomach. Moaning, Jim dropped the rifle and vomited, spattering his boots and the floor.
Eventually, the anxiety spell passed. Shaking, he retrieved the rifle.
"Okay," he said aloud. "Time to go." He glanced around at the shelter one last time, knowing he would never stare at the four cinder block walls again. His eyes wandered over the photographs of Carrie and Danny, and settled on the cell phone. He hesitated, then picked it up. After a moment's consideration, he clipped it to his belt. The battery was dead without the charger.
"Just in case," he said to the room, trying to convince himself. He walked down the narrow passage and placed a steady hand on the door lever. Slowly, he lifted the handle. Each click of the tumbler boomed in the silence. There was a final click, and the hatch creaked open. Raising the rifle, Jim let the door swing backward, revealing the dark cellar beyond it. The basement was quiet, but once familiar shapes now took on sinister connotations. The tool cabinet became a zombie. The furnace was a crouching beast, ready to leap upon him. His heart pounded ferociously in the darkness.
Carefully, he picked his way around the scattered debris of their past
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life. He reached the stairway, which led up to the kitchen. He paused again, listening.
Above him, a floorboard creaked softly. Then another. The third creak was punctuated by the distinct squeal of a kitchen chair being scooted across the linoleum.
Jim froze. Finger tightening on the trigger, he fumbled in the darkness for the bottom stair. His foot found purchase and he took a tentative step. 36 More sounds from the kitchen now, followed by a frustrated growl. He pointed the rifle at the door and took another step. Something brushed lightly against his ear and Jim bit his tongue, stifling a scream. The fly buzzed him again, hovering invisibly.
He shook his head, willing the insect to go away. Now there was a new sound; a droning hum farther up the stairway.
The fly had friends. Lot's of them, judging by the noise. Their buzzing protests filled his ears. A second one landed on his palm, followed by another on his neck.
Then he smelled it; a sickly, butcher shop odor. The reek of roadkill and offal and rotten meat.
He took another step, felt the ceiling brush the top of his head, and realized that he was halfway up. From beyond the door came more plodding steps. The creaking floorboards tracked the zombie's progress. Steeling himself, Jim prepared to charge up the remaining stairs and burst through the door.
There was a wet squelch as his foot came down in something slippery. The buzzing grew angry, the flies upset at having their dinner disturbed. The stench was stronger now, overpowering. His feet slid out from under him and he toppled forward, his knees colliding with the stair. The footsteps in the kitchen hurried towards the door.
Grimacing, Jim pulled the lighter from his pocket and looked down. Intestines. Somebody's intestines lay on the stair in a congealing heap. The footsteps stopped on the other side of the cellar door. Gagging, Jim dropped the lighter. The intestines stank worse than anything he had ever smelled. Ignoring the pain in his knees, he stood up. The doorknob began to turn.
He raised the rifle, aiming blindly in the dark.
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37 The door crashed open, and Jim gaped at the hideous thing standing before him. The viscera on the stairs had belonged to Mr. Thompson. The glistening ends of its intestines hung from their empty cavity, swaying as the zombie raised its arms.
"Howdy neighbor," it rasped. Its voice sounded like somebody gargling glass. "I see you found the rest of me."
The zombie's tongue was a blackened, swollen mass; yet impossibly, the thing spoke.
Jim fired, then worked the bolt on the rifle and squeezed off another shot. The crotch of the creature's soiled corduroy pants disintegrated.
"Oooo," it glanced downward. "Mrs. Thompson isn't going to like that at all."
With a speed that belied its ponderous movements, the zombie lashed out, clutching the smoking barrel and snatching it from Jim's grasp. Stunned at its strength, Jim backed away as the thing examined the gun. It grinned, swung the rifle around, and pointed it at Jim. The leathery skin lining its fingers cracked as it playfully stroked the trigger. Beyond the kitchen, the screen door banged on its hinges. More zombies paraded into the house. The thing that had once been his neighbor stepped forward. Jim retreated to the bottom of the stairs, yanking the pistol from its holster.
"I ever tell you about the big war, neighbor? That was a real war, not like Viet Nam or Desert Storm or the 'War on Terrorism'. I was there. Well, not ME, of course. But this body was there. I see the memories." It advanced down the stairs. A plump maggot dropped from the crater that had housed its stomach, and the zombie squashed it underfoot.
"Of course, you never fought in a war, did you? You don't know the effects that a gut shot has on a human being. You're about to learn."
"Mr. Thompson," Jim began, "Please. I just want to 38 get to my son."
"Oh, don't worry, you will," the thing cackled. Behind him, more zombies swarmed into the doorframe. "You'll still be able to get around. I'm just going to wound you, make you suffer a bit Then we'll eat parts of you. Got to keep our strength up. But we'll leave enough of you left to walk. There are many of us still waiting to walk again."
"Many of you-?"
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"We are many. Our number is more than the stars. We are more than infinity." The phrase echoed through Jim's head, grimly reminding him of Danny. He fired six shots in rapid succession. The bullets slammed into the rancid flesh, boring through muscle and tissue. Laughing, the zombie returned fire.