The Rising: Selected Scenes From the End of the World (6 page)

* * *

The Rising

Day Ten

Columbus, Ohio

After five days, the creature’s skin looked like a greasy, bloated sausage casing. The zombie was tied to the chair, and its flesh was swollen around the ropes, rupturing and leaking a stew of toxic juices. Mike replaced the rope with heavy stainless steel chains and padlocks instead.

Mike Goffee lived on the south side of downtown Columbus in a two-story house with ugly yellow siding. The home was in need of repairs, but he wasn’t much of a maintenance person. The front porch and back deck both leaned, and the garage needed painting. He’d been in no hurry to do it. Single, he lived alone, except for his cat. Five days ago, the cat got loose, jumping over the fence in the backyard. Mike hadn’t looked for it, because even then, it was dangerous to go outside. But that night, the cat came back—dead. And it brought company, a human zombie. Both had immediately attacked him. Mike crushed the cat’s head by dropping the microwave on it, and then pushed the refrigerator over on the other zombie, pinning it to the floor. Then, before it could free itself, he’d hacked its legs off at the knees and its arms at the elbows, and tied it to the chair in the living room—a captive audience.

If someone had been around to ask him why he’d done it, Mike wouldn’t have had an answer. Certainly, he’d never done something like this before The Rising started. He wasn’t sure why he did it now.

He guessed that he was just lonely.

Mike recognized the zombie as one of his former neighbors. He’d never known the man’s name, never talked to him while he was living. Just the occasional head nod from over the fence. But he talked to him now. Talked to him every day. Mike scratched himself through his dirty jeans. The power was off and he couldn’t do laundry, and even before The Rising had started, he was down to his last clean pair.

Something ruptured inside the zombie and foul black sludge dripped from its nose.

“Whew!” Mike fanned his nose and reached for the can of air freshener.

“This body is rapidly decomposing.”
The zombie struggled against the chains.
“Free me, so that I may
find another.”

Mike shook his head and sprayed a cloud of air freshener. “I don’t think so. Not yet.”

“We’ve been over this,”
the zombie reasoned.
“It
does you no good to keep me captive like this. What’s the
point? You don’t ask me for information on the Siqqusim,
to determine how to destroy us. You don’t do anything—except talk about movies and books.”

Mike sat the can down and gestured around the living room. The shelves overflowed with books, records, DVDs, CDs, and videos. “Well, as you can see, I like to read and watch films. Don’t you?”

The zombie sighed.
“How many times must I tell
you? I am merely borrowing this shell. My host liked to
hunt and fish. He never read a book after high school, and
he only watched action movies.”

“I enjoy old foreign and independent films, mostly,” Mike said, ignoring the comment. “I used to go down to the Drexel and the Wexner Center to see them. Books, too. Usually, whatever wasn’t popular. Mystery, horror, non-fiction. Whatever.”

“Fascinating.”
The corpse rolled its one remaining eye. Mike sprayed some more air freshener. “No need to be sarcastic.”

“Eons spent in the Void, and I am freed only to
discuss obscure pop culture with the likes of you.”

Mike shrugged. “It’s not so bad, is it?”

The zombie spat out a broken, yellowed tooth.

“Please, human. I’m begging you, something that the rest
of my brothers would ostracize me for doing, if they saw
it. Kill me. Dispatch me back to the Void, so that I may get
a new body. Shoot me!”

“I hate guns.”

“Then crack my skull open and scoop out the brains! Burn me to ashes. Drill through my head. I don’t care how
you do it. Just kill me!”

“And miss all this great conversation?” Mike chuckled. “No. Afraid not. Your predicament reminds me of a good book, though.
Cold As Ice
by Adam Senft. Did you ever read it?”

“I told you—”

“He was a mystery writer. Went insane a few years ago. Didn’t get popular until after he’d killed his wife.”

“Death? Now you have my interest, human.”

“Anyway, the book was about these two guys—lovers. They’d been partners for over thirty years. Then, one of them got cancer. It was terminal, but slow. I remember the character described it as creeping death.”

“There is a demon known to me that has the same
name,”
the zombie said.

“So the guy is dying of cancer. It’s bad. Ravaging his body, just eating through him until there’s nothing left. He’s in a great deal of pain.”

The zombie grinned.
“Sounds beautiful.”

“It’s horrible,” Mike argued. “It was really brutal and sad, the way the author wrote it.”

“Did this character linger with this pain?”

“Yes, he did. And that’s why this situation reminds me of the book. He keeps begging his partner to kill him. To put him out of his misery.”

“And does he?”

Before Mike could answer, there was a loud crack. Splinters of wood exploded from the front door as an axe head battered through it. He dropped the can of air freshener and screamed. A chainsaw stuttered, then roared to life. Within seconds, the front door was gone and four zombies rushed into the room. They shot Mike in the back as he ran for the back door. He tried to crawl away, but his legs didn’t work anymore. Then the creatures fell upon him and slit his throat.

“You’re free,”
shouted one as it cut through the chains binding its brother to the chair.

“It’s about time.”
The zombie tried to stand, but fell to the floor. More fluid drained from its body.

“He’s had me trapped here for the last five days.”

“That’s not long, considering how long we’ve been
imprisoned inside the Void.”

“No, it’s not. But the indignity of it all is what really
angered me.”

“Come, brother. Let’s go hunt some more.”
The zombie with the chainsaw started towards the damaged front door.
“Or would you prefer we destroy
your current form so that you can find a more mobile
body?”

The freed zombie scuttled forward on its bloody stumps, then pointed at Mike’s corpse.
“Wait until
one of our brothers has inhabited his shell.”

“Why? There is much to be done.”

“He was telling me about a book, before he died. Once
his body has been possessed by one of our kind, I want to
know how the book ends.”

* * *

The Rising

Day Eleven

Fort Bragg, California

Terry Tidwell sat in the darkness, drinking a warm can of Foster’s Lager and listening to the dead outside. Woody, his Jack Russell Terrier, growled at his feet, ears cocked. Woody didn’t like zombies. Especially the seal.

Five days ago, a bloated bull seal lumbered into the driveway, chasing after a still-living cat. The sounds it made were horrific, and the sounds the cat made as the creature slaughtered it were even worse. Woody started barking. Terry had tried to quiet him, but he kept growling and scratching at the door. The seal turned its dead, black eyes toward the house, attracted by the noise. Then it alerted the other zombies in the area, and soon the house was surrounded.

* * *

Woody didn’t bark anymore. He’d figured out that it had no effect on the zombies, and was content now to merely growl. But it didn’t matter. The creatures already knew they were alive and inside the house, and the zombies had the patience of death. Terry and Woody were under siege.

It was pitch black. Terry knew better than to light even a single candle. The power had been out for days, and the food in the fridge was starting to spoil, enough that the kitchen smelled like the zombies. But he still had plenty of beer, canned goods, and dog food. Water was going to be a problem if they stayed trapped in here much longer, but they’d make due. Terry had taken to pissing in empty beer cans, so that the toilet water would remain untainted. He’d drink from the commode if he had to. Why not? Woody did it all the time.

“But we’ll go stir crazy,” he said out loud. “We need to get outside, sooner or later.”

Woody gave Terry a look, as if to say, “
Surely you
jest, master. I’ve grown quite accustomed to you letting
me shit in the spare bedroom this last week and a half. I
don’t need to go outside to pee anymore.”

“Don’t give me that look,” Terry scolded.

“Eventually, we’ll run out of food. And beer.”

Woody’s ears perked up and he tilted his head. His master had now mentioned two of his favorite things—outside and food. He flipped his tail cautiously. Terry rubbed the stubble on his face. “Wonder if we can make a break for it?”

Holding the beer in one hand and picking up his old .30-30 rifle with the other, Terry crept to the window. He edged open the blinds with his beer hand, and peeked through a crack in the plywood that he’d nailed over the windows. The moon was full, and he could see clearly. His lawn looked like a scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s
The Birds
. Hundreds of zombies, mostly seagulls and crows, perched on the treetops and phone wires and scurried across the grass, waiting patiently for Woody and Terry. The stench from their rotting carcasses wasn’t bad—the ocean breeze blowing in from the Pacific swept it inland toward the majestic redwoods. The smell from Terry’s own kitchen was worse.

At least there were no human zombies. Not yet. Undead humans would have been a problem. They had opposable thumbs that could open doors or wield tools to smash them down (if their thumbs hadn’t rotted away). All the windows had been boarded over, but human zombies could make quick work of that.

Terry eyed his truck, an F-250 Ford diesel. It was covered with undead animals. If he and Woody ran outside, could they make it to the truck? He wondered how many birds he could bring down with the rifle. He hadn’t fired it in thirty years—and wasn’t even sure if it still worked.

Woody trotted over to him, nails clicking on the floor.

Terry sat the rifle aside, then bent down and petted him. He could carry Woody, he supposed. But he couldn’t work the lever on the rifle and fire it at the same time if he were carrying the dog.

Terry drained the beer, crumpled the can, and belched. “I think we’re screwed.”

Woody flipped his tail in agreement.

Terry started to turn away from the peephole, and that was when night turned to day. Hot, white light burned his eyes. The brightness was dazzling. A second later, there was an explosion. The house shook. His bookshelves crashed to the floor and pictures fell from the wall.

“What the fuck?”

Yelping, Woody dashed for the bathtub.

“Woody! Come back here right—”

Another explosion cut him off. Clods of dirt and grass flew into the air. Terry heard the sod splattering onto the roof. His front yard was now pockmarked with craters. Squawking, the undead birds took flight.

“Holy shit.”

Woody reappeared, creeping up behind his master and looking sheepish.

Terry heard a new sound, the deep rumbling of a motor. Moments later, an armored halftrack clanked down the street, followed by another and another. Then came Jeeps and Humvees and a tank. Soldiers dressed in what looked like radiation suits sprayed arcs of fire from the flamethrowers on their backs. The bull seal charged them and a second later; a burst from an M-16 dropped the creature in its tracks.

“It’s the army, Woody! We’re saved!”

Without thinking, Terry ran to the front door and unlocked it. Still clutching the rifle, he flung the door open. Barking, Woody dashed between his legs and ran outside.

“Woody, wait!”

The soldiers swiveled towards them.

Terry dropped the rifle and held up his hands.

“Don’t shoot. We’re not dead! Don’t—”

The rest of his pleas were drowned out by thunder. Woody yelped once, and then collapsed. He did not move. The ground around him was red.

“Woody!” Terry ran to him.

“Stop where you are,” a voice boomed through a bullhorn. “Keep your hands up.”

Terry collapsed to his knees in front of his dog, hands in the air, tears streaming down his face. Woody was no longer recognizable—especially his head.

Two soldiers cautiously approached him, their rifles un-slung and pointed at Terry.

“Say something,” one of them ordered. “We need to see if you’re one of them.”

Still staring at Woody, Terry cried, “Why?”

“He’s alive,” a soldier shouted. “Get a medic over here to look him over.”

The other soldier knelt beside Terry. He reached out and grasped the grieving man’s shoulder.

“Hey buddy, you okay?”

Terry stared up at him with red-rimmed eyes.

“My dog…you shot my dog, you fuckers!”

The firing stopped and somebody shouted out that the area was clear.

“Sorry about that.” The first soldier shook a cigarette out of its pack and fumbled for his lighter. “He charged us, man. Thought he was a zombie. But cheer up. You’re rescued.”

Terry coughed. “Rescued?”

“Yep,” the soldier said. “General Dunbar himself should be along in a minute, if you want to thank him.”

“Thank him?” Terry stumbled to his feet.

“Sure, man. He’s leading the fight, you know? Making things safe again.”

The second soldier nodded. “He’s in charge now. Everybody else is gone, or in hiding—or dead. General Dunbar is the man. He’s going around, kicking ass and taking names.”