The Rising: Selected Scenes from the End of the World

Hawera, New Zealand

There were nine of them inside the water tower; Mean, Charlie, Ross, Greenberg, Sally, Rachel, Sid, the unconscious old man, and the Maori, unable to tell them his name because his tongue had been ripped out by a zombie. Mean didn’t know them, having only recently moved back from England. The old man was a dairy farmer, brought in by Sid. Rachel and Charlie were teenagers; Ross a butcher, paunchy and asthmatic; Greenberg an accountant; Sally an American on vacation (visiting the locations where The Lord of the Rings was filmed). The zombie plague was slow to strike Hawera. The first week, the townspeople watched it spread to other parts of the world, horrified—and perhaps a bit annoyed that the coverage preempted rugby.

Slowly, it infected their little corner of the world, first with dead animals, then with people. When the creature’s numbers increased enough to launch a full-scale assault, the town—population 10,000—collapsed within an hour. Home by home, street by street, they eradicated the living, further swelling their ranks. The nine survivors took refuge inside the old water tower in the center of town. The structure, which could be seen for miles, hadn’t been used for decades. When it was built, it leaned so badly that the construction workers dug underneath and jacked it up. Still, it leaned. But it was dry, empty, and secure. They sat inside, waiting in the darkness for an attack that never came. That was four days ago. Since then, they’d run out of food and had one bottle of water between them. They still had weapons and ammunition—

Mean’s .22 semi auto, and some .303s, and .308s. No automatic rifles or handguns; both were illegal in New Zealand.

It was starting to stink inside the tower. They’d been using the corner as a toilet.

This morning, the water tower had trembled. Slight at first, then more noticeable. Mean was on watch, and he woke the others. It wasn’t repeated, and they chalked it up to a minor earthquake or a truck rumbling by.

Then, the shaking started again, fiercer this time, a series of jolts that made the entire structure shudder around them.

“What do we do?” Sally’s voice was panicked.

“We get the hell out,” Mean said.

Charlie flicked his lighter. “The dead—they’ll be out there waiting.”

“So?” Mean made sure his weapon was loaded.

“We either face them, or die when this thing crashes down.”

“What about the old man?” Sid asked. “We can’t leave him.”

“Fine.” Mean hated the indifference in his own voice. “You’re responsible for him.”

The flame vanished. In the darkness, Charlie cursed, sucking his burned thumb.

“The Maori?” Ross wheezed. “What do we do with that poor bastard?”

Mean gritted his teeth. “Infection’s already set in. His mouth is dripping pus. He’s burning up, on his way to becoming one of them. I say we leave him.”

Greenberg flicked his lighter on in place of Charlie’s. His face was pale, his eyes two dark circles. “Where will we go?”

Mean realized they were all looking at him. Somehow, he’d become the leader.

How did that happen? I grew up on a farm, breeding racehorses. I’m not a leader! I don’t even know these people.

“I don’t—”

“The sea,” Rachel interrupted. “We’ll go by boat.”

“Don’t be daft,” Greenberg grumbled. “Ohawe is nearly nine kilometers away.”

She shook her head. “Waihi.”

Mean knew the spot. Waihi was a small beach less than a kilometer away—a gap, eroded by a stream between the cliffs.

“Charlie and I have a rowboat,” she continued,

“hidden off the trail. At night, we used to…”

She turned red, embarrassed. Beside her, Charlie shifted uncomfortably.

“Let’s go, then.” Mean crouched over the trapdoor. “Stay in a group, move fast. Look for a car with the keys inside.”

Sid grabbed his shoulder. “I’m not leaving the old man.”

“Suit yourself. But we’re taking the guns.”

They started down the ladder. Sid gave one last glance back at their two incapacitated companions, and then followed.

“Changed my mind.” He shrugged.

“Hang on,” Ross grunted, and ducked back inside the tower.

The rest reached the bottom of the ladder. Hawera was deserted. Nothing moved, living or dead. It was eerily quiet. Mount Egmont (or Taranaki, as the Maori called it) loomed over the town. The dormant volcano’s shadow filled the streets with gloom. Mean thought of the local saying: if you can see the mountain it’s going to rain, if you can’t see it, it’s already raining.

“See anything?” Greenberg asked.

Mean shook his head. “Just the mountain.”

“Maybe they’ve all gone,” Sally whispered. Inside the leaning water tower, two gunshots rang out.

Charlie whispered, “Bloody hell.”

A cry went up, followed by another. The town came alive with the dead, alerted to their presence by the shots.

Ross climbed down the ladder, his rifle still smoking. “Put those two out of their misery. No sense leaving them up there to die and come back.”

“You idiot!” Mean resisted the urge to hit him. And then, with a roaring, unanimous shout, the zombies poured forth.

“Run!” Mean pushed Sally ahead of him and squeezed off a shot, dropping a corpse—the effect of taking an ounce of water from the ocean. Ross froze, staring at the onrushing masses.

“There’s so many.”

The others ran. When Mean looked back, the undead tide had engulfed the fat butcher. Three down. How far can we get?

He decided to save one bullet for himself. Sally was the first to fall beneath the hordes. She tripped and a zombie dog ripped off her face. She was still screaming when Mean ran by. Greenberg went next, felled by a bullet to the spine. Sid turned down an alley.

“This way,” Rachel called.

“No,” he insisted, “It’s this way.”

He darted down the alley. They heard him screaming a second later.

Mean, Charlie, and Rachel reached the steep goat track that wound down to the narrow beach. The zombies charged down the hill after them. Charlie pushed aside the brush and dragged the boat out.

“Hurry,” he cried. “It’s heavy.”

Grunting, Rachel helped him. Mean turned and opened fire, dropping a zombie with every other shot.They leaped into the boat and cast off. The zombies stood on the beach, waving their fists. Some walked into the water, sinking beneath the surface, pursuing them along the bottom, but eventually, the boat was carried too far from shore.

“They can’t reach us now,” Charlie shouted.

“We’re safe. Nothing can get us out here!”

The two teenagers hugged.

Mean looked back at Mount Egmont. The old saying ran through his head again.

If you can see the mountain it’s going to rain, if you can’t see it, it’s already raining.

“We’re safe,” Charlie repeated.

Mean couldn’t see the mountain. Not from rain, but from the flock of birds swooping towards them across the sky.

It began to rain.

YOU ONLY LIVE

TWICE

The Rising

Day Sixteen

Livonia, Michigan

Things were better now. She had more free time on her hands, to do the things she’d always wanted. This was living.

As long as you ignored the stench outside…

The world was dead, but Jade Rumsey was finally alive; a second chance at living, another shot at life.

A vehicle—military, judging by the sound—

rumbled by outside. The vibrations were strong enough to send books tumbling from the shelves. Surprised, her sewing needle slipped, pricking her finger. Jade sucked the small bead of blood. It was the first thing she’d had to eat in four days. Her stomach grumbled. Jade made a face, disgusted. She was hungry—but not that hungry. Not yet.

The street outside fell quiet again, and she returned to sewing, trying to ignore the fresh hunger pangs, trying to look on the bright side. Yes, maybe she was out of food, and maybe she only had enough water for another three days—five if she was extremely conservative with what was left in the toilet and bathtub, but at least she’d finally lost weight. That had always been on her list of “Things To Do.” Lose fifteen or twenty pounds. Nobody could say she wasn’t on her way now.

Jade smiled at her own gallows humor. She always wanted to make a quilt, and over the years, had collected an amazing amount of fabric towards such an endeavor. But she’d never seemed to have the time, until now. So there was that. She’d lost weight and was making a quilt.

Jade got up from the chair. As she put the books back on the shelf, arranging them alphabetically, she considered her situation. What else had been on that list of “Things To Do?” Read more. She loved horror novels, especially works by Stephen King, Dean Koontz, M.M. Smith, Richard Laymon, Tad Williams, and Charles De Lint. She’d certainly found time to do that. In the last sixteen days, she’d re-read plenty of her old favorites.

She’d always wanted to learn to shoot, but had never had the opportunity. Since the dead started coming back, she’d not only learned to shoot, but could bring them down with one bullet. The first had been her boss at the Ford Motor Company. The last had been her cat. She wasn’t sure if it had been the cat’s diabetes or lack of food, but it died in its sleep a week ago. Then it came back, intent on doing her harm. So she’d killed it, too, using her last bullet and the last of her tears.

That had kept her fed for another three days. Her grief had diminished as the void in her stomach was filled.

Finished with the books, she turned on the battery operated stereo and popped in a Sam Kinison cassette. His voice roared from the speakers, doing a bit about Jesus and Lazarus coming back as zombies. Frowning, Jade replaced it with Lewis Black, and then sat back down again. That was something else she loved—stand up comedy, and now she had all the time in the world to listen to her favorites, as long as the batteries lasted, at least. Wistfully, she wished her satellite radio were still working. She wondered if the satellite still functioned, hovering in space, beaming comedy and music to a dead planet.

What else? She’d always wanted to have a Dead Like Me marathon weekend, where she sat down with popcorn and drinks and watched the entire series. Couldn’t do that now, without power. Couldn’t look at porn online anymore either. Not that she’d ever been able to anyway. Every time she’d tried, her computer went haywire. Now it sat, silent and dark, collecting dust.

No movies, no porn. No family either. That was something else on her list. A family. Except she needed a man for that, and her last boyfriend, Anthony, wasn’t here now. Had never really been there before, either. Anthony didn’t want a serious relationship. Oh sure, he was more than willing to go on vacation with her to Punta Cana in the Dominican Republic, and he was happy to drive around with Jade in her 1995 Cougar (the same car that was sitting in the driveway—and might as well be on the moon for all the good it did her), but when it came time to talk about things like marriage and commitment and family, Anthony disappeared. She wondered where he was now? Was he one of those things wandering around outside? Or was he hiding somewhere, hunkered down and barricaded like she was?

Gunshots echoed, muffled by the heavy wood nailed over her windows. Jade idly wondered what was going on, and then turned her attention back to the quilt. It wasn’t like those things could get inside. Jade lived in what she often called “the world’s smallest house,” 675 square feet, no basement or attic, just a small loft over the bedrooms. All of the walls were a light mint green, adorned with Gris Grimley artwork. The windows and doors had been barricaded, and she doubted the zombies even knew she was inside.

“Attention!”

The voice was stern and male and commanding, pumped from a loudspeaker or a bullhorn. Along with it came the sounds of machinery and engines, clanking treads and more sporadic gunfire.

“Attention,” it repeated. “Citizens of Livonia!

This is Captain Conway of the Michigan National Guard. This area is clear. Repeat; we have secured this area! If you can hear my voice, please exit your homes in a quick and orderly fashion. We have transports waiting to take you to shelter stations in Detroit.”

Detroit was twenty minutes away. Could the military have really recaptured that much territory—the city and the surrounding suburbs? Was the crisis really over?

The Captain continued his announcement, urging her neighbors, if any of them were left alive, to come out. Jade started to get up.

Then she glanced around her house. It was small, but it was hers. Full of her favorite stuff. This was her world, now. Her second chance at life—her opportunity to do all those things she’d never had time for.

“This is your last chance,” the Captain warned. His voice, though still loud, was fading. Jade sat back down.

She needed to finish her quilt. When she was done, she thought that perhaps she’d read a book.

AND HELL FOLLOWED

WITH HIM

The Rising

Day Seventeen

York, Pennsylvania

With only the pale full moon to keep him company, Bob Ford walked out of his home and into the cemetery. It teemed with dead people, most of who were still walking around, and yet he was alone in the crowd. Bob’s grip on the pistol tightened. His ponytail fluttered in the wind, tangling around the shotgun strapped to his back. He pushed his glasses up on his face with the barrel of the .45, and then realized he didn’t need the glasses anymore. Bob found the graves and stared down at them. Freshly turned soil. Crude headstones, fashioned from wood paneling, the names scrawled in his handwriting with a black marker.

He’d buried them himself—after he died. Bob closed his eyes and heard the gun blasts. Felt the bullet slam into the back of his head and bore through his skull. Smelled the cordite, and the blood. Burning hair. His hair. Heard their cries. His family. Heard them pleading as they were raped and butchered.

It wasn’t the zombies that had done this. It was his fellow humans.

Monsters.

The last thing he saw before he died was the man on top of his wife, the man with a phoenix tattoo. Jen was screaming. Then Bob’s own blood had blocked his vision, and he’d slipped away.

When Bob opened his eyes again, he’d been back in the house. One time, long ago, a writer friend of his had proposed (over many beers) that ghosts returned to the places they held dear in life. Bob supposed that was true. But that didn’t mean he had to stick around. There were debts owed. And hell to pay…

A zombie approached him, and Bob realized he could no longer smell them. It was in bad shape, both arms missing, an ear hanging by a thread, and one empty eye socket festering with maggots. He could see something inside the body, a shadowy form, like coiled smoke, nestled in the corpse’s brain.

“You have no life glow,” the zombie slurred. “You are useless to us. Depart, little ghost. Man’s time is over.”

“Useless?” Bob grinned. “You’re falling apart. You’ll need a new body soon, I guess. Having any luck finding one?”

“When this host fails me, I will return to the Void. From there, I can have any body, anywhere in the world, just like that.”

The zombie snapped its fingers, and the tip of its thumb peeled back like a rotten grape. Bob holstered the pistol at his side. “Yeah, but you’ll have to wait in line, right? If you hunt down a victim, another of your kind gets the body, rather than you. Doesn’t seem fair.”

“How do you know this?”

“I know a lot of stuff, now that I’m dead.”

“It matters not,” the creature hissed. “I follow orders. We are to clear paths for our brethren, until all of us are free. You don’t know as much as you boast.”

Bob shrugged. “I know enough.”

“Like what?”

“Like where the rest of York’s human population is hiding.”

“Ridiculous,” the zombie scoffed. “The city is full of humans, different factions fighting each other for control, and fighting us as well.”

“Yeah.” Bob nodded. “But why go all the way into York City and fight a bunch of well-armed skinheads, gang-bangers, bikers, and military guys if you can get an easier—and closer—target, right here in the suburbs?”

More of the creatures had gathered around them, and seeing that he had their attention, Bob continued.“I know where there’s a house full of scumbags, less than two miles from here.”

“How do you know this?”

“My—my family and I were trying to escape. We’d been holed up inside the house. Ran out of food and water yesterday, and decided to make a break for it. We got to York, and it was a war zone. So we turned around and headed for home, thinking we could scavenge food and water on the way back. Some bikers ambushed us, about two miles from here. Twelve of them. They’d taken over an old farmhouse, totally fortified it. And I know they’re still there.”

“How?”

“Because they were there when I went back for my family’s bodies.”

“Twelve,” the zombie mused. “In a fortified position. And they are well-armed?”

Bob nodded.

“How is that different from the city?”

“Because in the city, the odds are even. Out here, there are more of you than there are of them.”

The zombie’s lips peeled back in a horrible smile.

“Don’t you mean more of us?”

“Us?”

“The dead,” it replied. “You’re dead like us.”

Bob unsheathed the shotgun. “I’m nothing like you. You things have no soul.”

“And you?”

Bob racked a shotgun shell. “Me—I am a soul.”

The undead crowd laughed.

“Show us, little ghost,” the armless zombie said.

“Lead us to this nest of humans.”

“There’s just one thing,” Bob said. “When we get there, the one with the phoenix tattoo is all mine.”

The zombie nodded. “Lead the way.”

He did. Shotgun in one hand and the pistol in the other, the ghost led the dead forward. More bodies joined them as they marched by—male and female, human and animal, young and old, decomposed and freshly dead, all united in death. And all of them thirsting for revenge. For the Siqqusim, it was revenge upon the Creator, He who had banished them to the Void. For Bob, it was something much more personal. But if the Creator had allowed that to happen, then so be it. As they plodded down the road, Bob thought,

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

* * *

Inside the house, the bikers heard them coming long before they arrived. The one with the phoenix tattoo—Rhino to his friends—went to the door.

“The fuck is that?” he whispered. “Sounds like an army…”

The other man on watch, Jakes, blinked twice in the midst of his crystal meth high. “It’s a fuckin’ earthquake, man.”

Rhino shook his head. “Tweaking mother fucker.”

He stared out the peephole just as the dead army crested the hill. Rhino recognized the one in the lead. Cursing, he grabbed the AK-47 from its perch against the chair, and burst through the door.

“Can’t be,” he shouted. “I fucking shot you, man!

Shot you in the head. You can’t be one of them.”

Smiling, Bob whispered down the barrel of his shotgun. “I’m not one of them. I am something else.”

He squeezed the trigger, and all around him, the forces of hell were unleashed.

THE HIGH POINT

The Rising

Day Eighteen

Delaware Water Gap National Recreation Area The bears were hungry. So were the deer, squirrels, raccoons, and snakes—even the rabbits. Those were the worst. Bunnies were supposed to be cute and fluffy—not rotting and ravenous.

Stephen Griglak clung to the steep rock face, staring at the zombie animals clustered far below. Several tried to scale the sheer sandstone cliff, but slid back down. Satisfied that they couldn’t reach him, Stephen started climbing again. His pack had never felt heavier than it did now, and his muscles burned—far beyond the aching stage.

He’d originally lived in Montclair, New Jersey, where he worked as a senior technician at Rutgers University’s soil lab. It was a nice town; he and his wife Eileen liked living there. A bit pricey, but that was the way of the world. And after the life he’d led, it was nice to settle into comfortable anonymity. His past was a fog of booze and drugs, until he met Eileen and got sober at the age of thirty-two. Married her at thirty-five. Life became good. Until The Rising.

Eileen…he didn’t like to think about what had happened to Eileen. There are some things human beings aren’t meant to see happen, especially when it happens to a loved one. So he’d blocked that from his mind. Almost. At night, he could still hear her screams, and the awful tearing sounds—and the chewing.

Stephen was approaching fifty. His parents had passed away six years before. He had six brothers and sisters, but didn’t know if they were alive or dead. He’d tried calling his younger brother while the phones were still functional. The thing that answered the phone said it was his brother—but Stephen didn’t believe it. His co-workers were dead. Same with his friends. And after Eileen—well, there was only one thing to do.

He looted the sporting goods store, dispatching two zombies with a golf club in the process, and appropriated all the guns and outdoor gear he could carry. Then he fled for the Delaware Water Gap National Recreation Area; seventy thousand acres of ridges, forests, and lakes on both sides of the Delaware River in New Jersey and Pennsylvania. For almost forty miles, the river passed between low-forested mountains with barely a house in sight, before heading out to sea. Stephen figured he could hide out in the forest along the river. If trapped, he could use the river as an escape route. He’d always liked camping and hiking, knew how to fly-fish and track animals. He could hunt for his food, and keep moving, hoping to find other living survivors. That had been the plan anyway.

He hadn’t realized the animals were coming back, too.

His time in the forest became a running battle. He’d found shelter in the park visitor’s center, but the zombies got inside, almost trapping him on the boardwalk when he fled. He spent the next fourteen hours and many boxes of ammunition on the run, the woods literally crawling with the undead. Luckily, most of them had been animal and reptile, and didn’t carry weapons.

Stephen managed to find a lookout tower, the kind used by rangers to spot forest fires, and took refuge at the top. It was accessible only by a ladder and single door, which he immediately barricaded. At the top, there was a small, one-room living space, along with a circular outdoor platform. There was no way he could go outside, because of the flocks of zombie birds swarming around the tower’s top. But he had water and food and ammunition, and a battery-operated cassette player on which he listened to Bruce Springsteen and Zydeco and Vivaldi. He stayed put. Eventually, the creatures’ numbers dwindled. One by one, they went off in search of easier prey—or simply fell apart, rotting on the spot.

He’d finally crept out this morning, desperate for food and water, and fresh air, all of which had run low. He longed to see the sun again. And he had seen it, for a brief second, until a v-shaped formation of undead geese swooped down out of the sky, honking an alarm to their brethren.

Then he was on the run again.

He’d made it here to the cliff. Now, clinging from the rock, feeling the sandstone crumble beneath his fingers and toes, Stephen wondered what the point of it all was. Why insist on surviving? Why fight so hard? There was nothing left. Eileen was gone. His family was gone. For a moment, he wished the two of them had had kids. Then he forced himself to continue climbing.

Why not just let go and fall to the ground? From this height, he’d be dead before they tore into him. Where was the high point in his life? After all he’d seen and done, and all that had happened to him, both good and bad, all the drugs and drinking and everything associated with them, all those failures, and all the triumphs that had come his way since getting sober—what was the fucking point? Was it all just to end up inside some zombie black bear’s stomach, or worse yet, to walk around like one of them, putrefying on the go?

Sweat ran into his eyes. He blinked, and then pressed on. Moments later, Stephen reached the top of the mountain. Panting, he shrugged off the heavy pack and collapsed.

When he looked around again, he gasped. For a moment, he forgot all about the danger waiting below. From his vantage point, Stephen could see the river; Millbrook Village, New Jersey; Dingman’s Falls; the visitor center; the entire world. Truly, he felt like the old song, on top of the world looking down on creation. This was the highest point in all of the park, and from it, he could see it all. Not even the tower had provided a view like this. The sun was just beginning to sink beneath the horizon, painting the sky a rich tapestry of pink and orange and red hues. A slight breeze ruffled the treetops below, cooling his skin.

Stephen sighed in wonder. It was the most beautiful, perfect scene his eyes had ever beheld. This was the high point of his life.

He sat there and watched the sun set, and when the eagle swooped down from above, with claws extended and one eye dangling from its socket, he didn’t even care.

WHERE THE DOWN

BOYS GO

The Rising

Day Nineteen

Corona, California

When they lowered him into the hockey rink, Paul Legerski did his best not to scream. A soldier who reeked of B.O. spat on him. A ragged, pink scar crossed the man’s face. Paul’s hands were free, but he didn’t bother wiping the saliva away. He was too proud.

Struggling to keep his footing on the slippery surface, Paul scanned the crowd, looking for Shannon. He had to get free. No telling what they’d done with her. He had to find her, rescue her before the bomb went off.

A sea of expressions stared back at him: excitement, anger, glee, arousal, boredom, even indifference. Somehow, that was the worst of all. He was suddenly filled with hatred. They deserved what was coming.

The rink itself was familiar. Paul had played here as a goaltender when he was younger, and he and Shannon had come there to watch the San Jose Sharks practice before a game against the Mighty Ducks.

The partition separating him from the crowd shook, as people beat against it with their fists. The rink’s inside walls were lined with long, razor-sharp pikes, so there was no chance of climbing over the partition. The ice was bloodstained; it was littered with body parts: severed head, organs, and scraps of human meat. Paul recognized most of the stillmoving heads. Once strangers, they’d been his and Shannon’s companions over the last few weeks. Mustaine, the traitor, the son of a bitch who’d sold them out, lay at his feet. His eyes and tongue still moved. Paul kicked him across the arena, scoring a goal.The crowd went wild.

Paul ignored the jeers, shrugged off the cans, bottles, and other debris thrown at him, and searched for Shannon’s face. If he could just see her one more time, he’d be okay. Whatever was about to happen wouldn’t matter.

He locked eyes with General Dunbar, sitting ringside like a Roman Emperor in the coliseum. The old man wore his best uniform, his medals proudly displayed. His face was expressionless. Stone. A strange calm settled over Paul. He took a deep breath, and raised his middle finger. Dunbar twitched. His demeanor didn’t shatter, but he twitched.

Paul grinned. “How do you like that salute, asshole?”

The crowds simmering anger became tangible. Paul’s role had been cast. He was the bad guy. He decided to play it up.

“You like this?” he shouted. “You like living this way, just because he keeps you safe from the dead?

This isn’t how humans act. We might as well be dead, too. We—”

An electronic squeal cut him off. Dunbar’s second-in-command stood, a battery powered bullhorn at his lips.

“We now present this evening’s grand finale. In the ring, the leader of the rebel group known as the Down Boys, responsible for the slaughter of over fifty members of our forces.”

Paul shut his eyes against the booing and hisses, preparing himself for what was about to come. They’d offered everyone in his group a choice as to their method of execution. Firing squad. Hanging. Drowning (what one leering soldier had referred to as a “Liquid Noose”).

All of them had chosen the arena. After all, they’d already planted the bomb.

Paul stood in their blood and tried not to slip. He wondered how much time he had left.

How had he ended up here? He’d once been a productive member of society. Believed in Conservative values. Voted Republican. Paid his taxes. He’d once stood in the ashes of September 11th. Now, he stood in a post-apocalyptic arena, ready to play gladiator against a zombie, branded as a terrorist, the leader of the resistance. Rumor had it that General Dunbar’s forces controlled wide swaths of northern California, after eliminating the dead there. They had careful measures to dispose of the dead and dying before they could turn into zombies. Now Dunbar’s despotism was spreading south, picking up new recruits and eliminating any and all resistance—

living and otherwise.

Paul had supported them at the beginning, eager for things to return to normal, even if under a police state. Sure enough, soon Corona and Riverside were both safe. His support ended when a platoon tried to rape Shannon. They’d been on the run since, eventually joining up with others who opposed the outof-control military; Rhodes, Neil, Osbourne, Coverdale, Tate, Ian, Dubrow, Mustaine—many others. Paul had joked that so many of them had the same last names as famous metal musicians, and they’d begun calling themselves the Down Boys, after the song by Warrant.

Dunbar’s rule sickened him. Yes, there were no zombies, but this wasn’t how Americans behaved. This wasn’t how the military acted. This wasn’t human. Dunbar’s forces were worse than the zombies. The undead simply killed. The soldiers did much more.

He glanced around at his friend’s body parts. Where were they now, he wondered? Paul had never believed in an afterlife, but a month ago, he wouldn’t have believed the dead could walk again, either. Where did the Down Boys go, after they’d died?

The far door opened, and three zombies skated into the rink, their faces covered with hockey masks. All were armed with hockey sticks.

The crowd’s cheer thundered through the arena. Paul crouched, waiting. The first zombie sped towards him. The second tried to flank his left. The third hung back. Paul could smell the rot wafting off of them, even from the other side of the rink. Closing the distance between them, the first zombie raised its stick and swung at his head. Paul ducked, sidestepped, and wrenched the stick from its grasp. He turned the weapon back on the creature, breaking its legs first. As it collapsed, Paul clubbed the head. The face imploded behind the hockey mask. Blood and pulp squirted out the mouth and eyeholes like Play-Doh.

The second zombie tripped over a severed arm and fell to the ice. As it scrambled to rise, the third darted forward. Paul ran towards it as fast as he could without slipping.

Their sticks clashed like sabers. One blow smacked into his side, and Paul felt his ribs crack. He struck the creature in the side of the head, and its mask flew off.

Shannon stared back at him.

“Hello, Paul.”

Paul gaped. Behind him, he heard the fallen zombie getting to its feet.

“Surprised to see me?” It spoke with Shannon’s voice, but Paul knew it wasn’t Shannon.

“Wifey,” he gasped, his voice thick with emotion.

“What did they do to you?”

“They tortured her, Paul. Made her drink acid. Injected gasoline into her veins. She died croaking your name.”

Paul grimaced. The zombie laughed.

The crowd grew louder.

Paul lowered his stick. “Do it. I don’t want to live without her.”

The zombie’s laughter ceased. “You don’t wish to fight? It’s more fun when you fight.”

“Just do it.” His stick clattered across the ice.

“Make it quick.”

“If you insist. I’m so hungry.”

He embraced Shannon’s corpse. Her teeth closed around his throat.

At that moment, the bomb they’d planted exploded, filling the arena with heat and light and wind. A moment later, the sound followed. Paul and Shannon shared one last kiss as the ice melted beneath their feet.

Then they both found out where the Down Boys go.

WALKABOUT

(Part Two)

The Rising

Day Twenty

Melbourne, Australia

Leigh Haig opened the dumpster lid a fraction of an inch and stared outside. Dark, ominous clouds dominated the sky, and cold rain fell in sheets. A flock of birds wheeled overhead, buffeted by the gale force winds. The storm lashed them, sending molted feathers and shreds of rotting meat plummeting downward with the rain. He remembered peeking out the window of his home before he’d departed, and seeing the sun. Now, he couldn’t remember what the sun looked like.Twelve days ago, he’d left his house in search of medicine for his wife Penny, whose body was being ravaged by the common flu. The sun was still shining when he departed. Now, it was raining, and he was hiding inside a garbage dumpster behind a Chinese restaurant, less than ten kilometers from home.

Ten kilometers. Not far. Not far at all. And yet, it might as well be the other side of the world.

Shivering from the cold, Leigh closed the lid. The darkness surrounded him again. His fingers and toes were numb, and his muscles ached. He felt for the rifle, a Yugoslavian-made SKS with a bayonet mounted on the barrel. He drew the weapon to him. Twelve days ago, he hadn’t even known how to fire it, let alone the rifle’s specifics. Now, it was his best friend. His teddy bear, after sleeping in the dumpster overnight.

After leaving the house, Leigh had gone one and a half blocks before encountering his first zombie, an elderly woman whose wig had gone missing and whose varicose veins had burst right through her skin. He’d smelled the creature before he saw it, and had time to hide behind the burned-out shell of a car before the corpse rounded the corner and started down his street. Armed only with a makeshift axe, Leigh had let it wander by. When the coast was clear, he continued on his way.

That was when the snake bit him.

He’d felt a sharp, jabbing pain in his ankle, and when he looked down, there was a snake clinging to his foot, its fangs piercing his sock and the flesh beneath it.

Leigh screamed, and that attracted the attention of the zombie that he’d just eluded.

The snake was already dead. Maggots squirmed in the open, ulcerated sores all along its body. One eye was missing, and more maggots filled that cavity. Muscles, free of rigor mortis, flexed as it clamped down tighter against his skin. It glared at him with its one good eye, and Leigh saw a dreadful intelligence reflected there.

He swung with his axe—two kitchen knives embedded in a wooden mallet. The blade sliced through the snake’s mid-section, cutting it in half, scattering maggots and innards. A dead mouse spilled out onto the road, the serpent’s last meal. Then the mouse began to move as well. Leigh stomped on the zombie rodent with his free foot. Tiny bones crushed beneath his heel.

The snake’s upper half held on to his ankle. Its severed end whipped back and forth like an out-ofcontrol fire hose. Leigh swung again, carving another six inches from its body.

The other zombie, the old woman with the missing wig, ran towards him.

“Come here, lad. I’m hungry!”

With the snake still clinging to his leg, Leigh planted his feet and watched the zombie’s charge. His heart pounded in his chest. As it reached for him, he swung the axe with all his might. The blade buried itself in the center of the old woman’s bald skull, cleaving flesh and bone. The zombie collapsed to the pavement, blood and brains leaking around the weapon.

Leigh tried to retrieve the axe, but it was stuck. He heard more of the undead approaching, and cursed, tugging on the handle.

Suddenly, automatic gunfire rang out. Seconds later, an armored jeep pulled alongside him. The side-door opened, and a man with a red beard leaned out, offering Leigh his hand. “Come with us if you want to live, mate.”

Leigh jumped onboard.

There were four people in the jeep—two soldiers, a woman, and the red-bearded man. All of them were heavily armed.

“You’ve brought a friend,” the woman said, nodding at Leigh’s leg. “Lucky it’s not poisonous.”

The red-bearded man leaned over, pried the snake from Leigh’s ankle, and tossed it out the window. “We’ll have to get that doctored. Fucking things are crawling with bacteria.”

“I need a doctor,” Leigh stammered. “Medicine. My wife, Penny, she’s sick.”

“You’re in luck,” one of the soldiers said. “We’re from Box Hill. A bunch of us have holed up in the hospital.”

Leigh soon learned that forty survivors, mostly medical staff and military forces, were living inside the hospital. After arriving, a doctor fixed Leigh’s ankle and gave him something for the infection. But before Leigh could convince anyone to accompany him home to get Penny, the hospital fell under siege from the zombies.

He got a crash course in combat weapons training, was given the SKS and plenty of ammunition, and assigned a position on the barricades. The siege lasted eleven days before the undead finally broke through. By then, the survivors’ numbers had dwindled to ten, and their dead companions had wreaked as much havoc inside the facility as the zombies outside.

As the creatures stormed the hospital, Leigh stuffed a sack with vials of antibiotics, a few bottles of water, and some candy from a vending machine. He grabbed his rifle and extra ammunition, and fled through an unguarded fire door. He made it two blocks before being forced to hide inside the dumpster.

And now here he was.

“I’ve got to get home,” he said aloud. “I promised Penny that I’d be back.”

He lay there in the garbage, cold and wet and miserable, until it was dark. Then he crept out of the dumpster and, using the darkness and the rain for cover, walked out of the alley.

The downpour immediately soaked through his clothing, and he was drenched before he’d gone a dozen steps. The rain blinded him, but Leigh hoped that it would lessen the zombie’s visibility as well. Leigh Haig wasn’t a religious man, not after everything he’d seen these last twenty days, but he prayed now.

“Please Lord, if you really are still up there, just let me make it home. Let me get back to Penny without meeting any of those things.”

Thunder rumbled across the sky.

Leigh walked all night, and whether it was the weather, or the darkness, or someone really answering his prayer, he didn’t encounter a single zombie. Shortly before dawn, he reached the estate their home was located in. His legs ached and his feet were blistered from his wet shoes rubbing against them on the long walk home. His nose was running and he’d developed a chronic cough.

Despite his misery, Leigh smiled when he passed by the little park where he and Penny often walked. His smile broke into relieved laughter when he caught sight of their home. The two-story brick house was just as he’d left it, complete with the red X on the door.

“Penny…”

Leigh broke into a run. He fumbled for his keys, slid them into the lock with trembling fingers, and burst inside.

“Penny? I’m home!”

There was no answer. The couch was empty, the blankets tossed onto the floor.

“Penny?” he called out again, his voice cracking.

“Where are you?”

Leigh sat the rifle and sack down on the floor and began to search the house

Please, please, please let her be okay. Just let her be okay.

“Leigh?”

His spirits soared. She was alive! He ran to the stairs and started up them.

“I came back,” he shouted. “And I brought medicine. Just like I promised.”

“I know,” Penny said. “I knew you’d be back. I knew you’d return.”

Leigh halted halfway up the stairs. Something stank, and he heard flies buzzing.

“Well,” the voice continued, “I didn’t know. But your wife did. I saw it in her mind when I took over this husk. She believed in you. She knew you’d keep your promise.”

Leigh glanced back downstairs at his SKS. It seemed to him that the weapon was ten kilometers away, like everything else from his journey.

“Penny…”

The thing that had been his wife stepped into the light.

“She knew you’d come back,” the zombie slurred.

“So I waited.”

Leigh Haig’s tired legs gave out beneath him, and he could walk no more.

1 CORINTHIANS 15:51

The Rising

Day Twenty-One

Lynchburg, Virginia

“Chapter fifteen, verse twelve, tells us; ‘Now if Christ be preached that he rose from the dead, how say some among you that there is no resurrection of the dead?’”

Chris Shackelford rolled his eyes. “God, I’m getting sick of this shit.”

“I thought you two were Christians?” Klinger looked up at the church basement’s ceiling.

“We are Christians,” Dawn Shackelford said, loading more hollow points into her .357 Ruger.

“But what’s going on upstairs isn’t worship. It’s blasphemy.”

Klinger nodded. “Word. Few days ago, I met two guys traveling north, to Jersey. Jim Thurmond and a preacher named Martin. I was never much for church either, but that Martin was cool. Not like Reichart. That guy’s fucking crazy, man.”

“So we agree?” Chris asked. “We’re really going to do this?”

“I’m in,” Klinger said. “But this is your town. Where we gonna go?”

Chris handed Klinger the side-by-side Browning 12 gauge, and double-checked his Sig Sauer P228

9mm. “Basement of an empty house? Grocery store?

Another church?”

Klinger snickered. “I’ve had enough church.”

Lynchburg was home to Reverend Jerry Falwell’s Thomas Road Baptist Church. The famous minister had his hand in everything, dictating all that happened. As a result, the town had more churches than anywhere in America.

“But if there is no resurrection of the dead,”

Reichart’s voice thundered from upstairs, “then is Christ not risen; and if Christ is not risen, then is our preaching in vain, and your faith in vain?”

“They’ll come looking for us soon,” Dawn warned. “We’ve been gone too long.”

Klinger’s face turned pale. “Probably nail us up on one of those crosses, just like the others who dissented.”

“Let’s do this, then.” Chris took his wife’s hand and squeezed. “You okay?”

Dawn shook her head. “No, I’m not. Look at us, Chris. We’ve changed. You were an accountant for Genworth Financial. I taught fifth grade math and history. I played the violin for twenty-six years. Gardening, target shooting—and now…”

“You can really shoot?” Klinger asked.

“She can put a grouping of six tight enough to cover with the bottom of a soda can.” Chris pulled Dawn close and kissed her forehead. “Things have changed, honey. You know that. It’s not the same world out there. We’ve got to worry about us.”

“What about the others. Are we just going to let Reichart and his followers do this?”

“He’s probably killed them already. Right now, they’re turning into zombies.”

“But what if they’re not,” Dawn whispered.

“What if they’re still alive on those crosses?”

“We don’t have a choice. It’s just us now. Mom, Dad, Bryan, your folks, April, even Scotch and Sandy—they’re all gone. We’ve got to live. Me and you.”

“And me,” Klinger added.

Chris grinned. “Yeah, and our new friend Klinger, the ex-pro surfer.”

Weapons drawn, they left the Sunday school rooms and crept up the stairs. Reichart’s mesmerizing voice swelled louder as they entered the narthex.

“See now, brothers and sisters. See how they rise!

Behold the mystery. There were asleep, and now they are changed.”

“Release me.”

The raspy voice from behind the sanctuary doors wasn’t the preacher’s or anyone in the congregation. It belonged to something dead.

Finger to his lips, Chris led them to the front door. Heavy pews had been stacked atop one another to form a barricade. While Dawn covered them, Klinger and Chris sat their guns aside and lifted the top pew.

Inside the sanctuary, someone screamed. Startled, Chris lost his grip. The pew crashed to the floor, reverberating throughout the building. Reichart stopped in mid-sermon. A second later, the sanctuary doors banged open. Parishioners flooded into the narthex, wide-eyed.

Dawn raised her pistol. “We don’t want any trouble. We just want to leave.”

Inside the sanctuary, Reichart shouted, “Who dares disturb the resurrection?”

“It’s the Shackelford’s,” a man yelled. “And that stranger we let in earlier in the week. Say they’re leaving.”

The preacher squawked. “Oh, no they aren’t. Bring them to me.”

Chris and Klinger sprang for their guns. Several more members of the congregation poured through the sanctuary doors.

“Get back,” Dawn warned, spacing her feet apart. “I will shoot you.”

“You won’t kill us, sister.” The speaker was a fat man, an atheist four weeks before, now one of Reichart’s most fervent followers. His eyes darted from the gun to Dawn’s breasts. He licked his lips. Dawn shot him between the eyes. Her wrists snapped backward from the recoil. She drew a bead on the next.

The fat man collapsed. Some of the believers rushed them while others ducked back inside the sanctuary. Dawn and Chris opened fire, dropping six attackers in as many shots. Klinger fumbled with his weapon, and the crowd fell on him, dragging him inside.

Chris and Dawn pursued them into the sanctuary. At the front, twelve makeshift crosses had been mounted around the communion rail. Former members of the congregation—those who’d spoke out against Reichart—hung crucified, their throats cut. Blood still jetted from the fresh wounds. The corpses twitched, reanimating.

“They were asleep,” Reichart shrieked, “and now they are changed. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed!”

Chris grabbed Dawn’s arm. “Let’s go! We’re too late.”

“Klinger.” She shook him off. “We can’t just—”

One of the zombies tore free of its cross, the nails ripping through its wrists and feet. It landed on an elderly woman, crushing her to the floor. Then it began to feed. Chris and Dawn couldn’t see it, but they could hear the tearing sounds.

The other creatures followed its lead, freeing themselves, ignoring the damage to their bodies.

“Go,” Klinger shouted, swept along by the panicked crowd. “Don’t worry about me!”

“They should worry.” Reichart slammed his fist down on the pulpit, ignoring the rampaging zombies. “Worry about their souls.”

Chris aimed his handgun at the crazed preacher.

“Shut the fuck up! I am sick of listening to your bullshit.”

Before he could squeeze the trigger, another zombie charged the pulpit, clawing at Reichart’s face. Chris fired anyway. Dawn’s weapon roared in tandem. Blocking the doorway, they shot indiscriminately, gunning down living and dead alike. Frantic parishioners charged the door, and Chris and Dawn shot each and every one of them. Their ears rang and their hands went numb, and still they fired controlled shots, feet spaced apart. Flying brass burned their arms. They reloaded, worked their way through the aisles, methodically firing rounds into each target’s head.

When it was over, all forty-six parishioners and a dozen zombies lay dead.

Klinger stared at the couple in astonishment. His forehead was bleeding.

“Jesus Christ. Would have never thought the two of you could do that.”

“A month ago,” Chris said, “we couldn’t have.”

Dawn nodded. “We’ve changed. We shall all be changed…”

Klinger picked his way through the corpses, and retrieved the rifle from the narthex.

“Guess we should get to work on moving these pews.”

Chris shrugged. “We’ve got this place to ourselves now. Maybe we should just stay put.”

The ex-pro surfer cocked a thumb at the bodies.

“Suit yourself. But I ain’t cleaning up that mess.”

“Leave them,” Chris said. “We’ll close it off.”

Arms entwined, Chris and Dawn started downstairs. Klinger followed. Behind them, the dead slept and did not change.

ALL FALL DOWN

The Rising

Day Twenty-Two

The Desert Near Avondale, Arizona

“It ain’t like it wasn’t hot around here to begin with.” Roche spat tobacco juice into one of the rattlesnake holes dotting the hard-baked earth. Paul Goblirsch didn’t respond, because the old man was right. It was too hot to even talk. Paul shielded his eyes, not from the sun, but from the flames on the horizon.

Phoenix was burning.

The fires started in the second week, after the military lost control of the city. Smoke filled the skies, actually blocking out much of the sun’s more harmful rays. Despite that, the temperature was sweltering, especially with the added heat from the fires. Metro-Phoenix went up first, followed by the rest of the city. Then the flames spread to the suburbs, including Paul’s home in Avondale. Escaping both the inferno and the zombies, Paul joined up with other survivors heading into the desert: Roche, who Paul thought might be crazy; Destiny, a dancer from one of the strip joints; Tina, a six-year old girl still clinging to her stuffed rabbit; and Juan, who’d worked as a telemarketer. Roche hummed the song, “Convoy.” Paul glanced back. The old man was pissing into a snake hole.“Better put it away before a zombie rattler comes out and bites your dick off.”

Grinning, Roche shook, stuffed, and zipped.

“Let’s head back,” Paul said. “It’s Juan and Destiny’s turn for watch.”

They’d taken shelter at a construction company’s airstrip in the middle of the desert; a single runway, two port-o-potties, and a corrugated steel shed. They stayed inside the shed as much as possible. Two walked the perimeter at all times, on the lookout for zombies, looters, and other monsters. Of everything Paul had seen over the last twenty-two days, human nature was the most vile and disgusting.The plane landed that afternoon: a small, twinengine Cessna. Weapons drawn, Paul and Juan met it while the others hid inside the shed. The pilot was a gregarious Mexican named Sanchez. He wore a dazzling white cowboy hat that matched his drooping mustache and beard. Sanchez told them (as translated by Juan) that there was a human settlement in Canada, just over the border with Minnesota, free of the undead and broadcasting via short wave to other survivors.

Paul’s suspicions towards the stranger vanished upon hearing the news. The five survivors squeezed into the plane, leaving behind everything except their weapons, water, and Tina’s bunny. It was a tight fit, especially with Paul’s 240 pound, 6 foot 1 inch frame.

They took off, and Paul tried to relax. His scalp itched, both from sunburn and from the stubble growing back in. He speculated about this Canadian paradise, wondered what they’d find there. He hoped for things he hadn’t thought about since The Rising began: playing pool (he’d played enough cards with Destiny, Juan, and Roche to last a lifetime), books, food and drink. He had a sudden craving for a Crown and Coke, and wondered if they’d have any.

Destiny’s head lolled on his shoulder. She’d fallen asleep. Juan sat up front, chatting with Sanchez, and Roche was swapping jokes with Tina. The girls’ spirits had lifted since boarding the plane.

“What’s black and white and red all over?”

Tina giggled. “I don’t know. What?”

“A penguin with a sunburn.”

Paul closed his eyes and listened to the girl’s laughter. His mind turned to his own family, and he cut it off. Instead, he thought about his friend,

‘Kresby’ (his real name was H, but Paul always used his online name—Kresby.) They’d never met, but knew each other from various internet book forums. Kresby lived in Minnesota. Paul wondered where his friend was now. Maybe he’d crossed the border into the Canadian settlement. Maybe they’d finally meet in this dead new world.

He slept.

Tina’s scream woke him. That, and the jolting lurch in his stomach and the cold air whistling around him. His ears popped as he opened his eyes. At first, he didn’t understand what he was seeing. Tina’s face was wrong. It was red, and the eyes, ears and nose were missing, and it had grown feathers. Paul bolted upright and slammed into the bulkhead.

The plane was plummeting downward. The cockpit was filled with undead birds. Their rotten bodies obscured Sanchez and Juan. More zombies fluttered around him, feasting on Destiny and Roche. Destiny reached for him, opened her mouth to scream, and then a bird ripped her tongue out. Another zombie nipped at his face, the razored beak slicing into his cheek. Paul smashed it aside and found his footing.

There was nothing he could do for the others. Even as he moved, Tina disappeared beneath the avian corpses. Soon, she and the others would start moving again. Probably before the plane hit the ground.

Die in a plane crash, or die as a bird buffet…

He chose a third option.

Paul had skydived only once in his life, from 14,000 feet, in tandem with an experienced instructor. The experience was one of the most thrilling days of his life, and he’d never forgotten it. He was grateful for the memory, and it all came back to him as he strapped the parachute onto his back. The roaring wind filled his ears. The squawking birds made his testicles shrivel.

They shriveled more when he forced the door open and stared out at the spiraling sky. Jumping from a steady, level airplane with an instructor was one thing. This was something very different.

“Paul,” the thing that was now inside Tina croaked. “Join us.”

He crushed another bird in his fist. His face and hands were bleeding from dozens of cuts and scratches. Another zombie darted towards his eyes. Paul slapped it away and stomped on it. He grinned, feeling the delicate bones snap beneath his heel. Tina’s bloody hand closed around his ankle.

“Stay, Paul. It’s such a long way to fall.”

He shot her in the head.

She was right about one thing, Paul thought as he jumped. It was a long way down. If he survived, he’d have plenty of time to reflect.

His chute opened. Paul breathed deep. It took a long time to reach the ground, and Paul did indeed have plenty of time to reflect. And plenty of time to scream…

The birds stayed with him, hovering like a cloud, all the way to the bottom. When the pain became unbearable, shock took over, and Paul thought about Kresby again.

The plane fell. Paul fell. The birds fell with him. They all fell down together.

The plane crashed first.

THROUGH THE

GLASS DARKLY

The Rising

Day Twenty-Three

Modesto, California

Larry Roberts didn’t have to understand what was going on to understand what he was seeing. He looked into Hell, plain and simple. Hell, right on the other side of the glass.

Larry knew glass. When he wasn’t running his real estate business on the side, he was a plant manager for the Gallo Winery, producing bottles for the wine. And as another crack spiraled through the Humvee’s windshield, Larry paid attention. Obviously, he didn’t know as much about automotive glass as he did glass containers, but he knew enough. He knew it wouldn’t last much longer. All glass was basically made the same way, starting with the batch process, which mixed all the ingredients for the type of glass in production. In many ways, it was like mixing a cake, only on a much larger scale; ingredients being sand, soda ash, limestone, sulfur, and cullet. After cooking in a furnace at 3,000 degrees, it was then put it into a fore-hearth, which conditioned and evened out the glass for blowing. The glass was then put into molds and shaped. After it had been formed, it was annealed, to take the stress out of the glass. Larry wished the windshield had been annealed a little bit longer, because it was all that stood between him and the things outside.

The Humvee was upside down, its tires sticking up in the air like four dead legs. Larry didn’t know what had happened. They’d been cruising along, the soldier and he, looking for a way out of town. The zombies had barricaded the streets, turning Modesto into a giant trap. With General Dunbar dead, killed in that explosion in Corona, the troops had lost focus. The regular soldiers were drifting away, and the civilian recruits, people like Larry, drifted with them. It was either that, or wait for the zombies to kill them.

He and the soldier, whose name was Higgins, had been barreling down the main drag, weaving through the stalled, burning cars, and running down everything that got in their way—both living and dead. Higgins had been telling Larry about a man in Fort Bragg. He and his buddy had shot both the man and his dog. In the days since then, Higgins felt guilty about the act.

Larry was about to reply when something exploded beneath the driver’s side front tire. The Humvee shook, and then flipped. The last thing Larry remembered was screaming, and he wasn’t sure if it was Higgins or himself.

When he opened his eyes again, he was upside down—and the zombies were all around him. Dunbar’s scattered forces and those they’d been protecting fought a running battle with the dead. So far, they hadn’t noticed him. Maybe if he kept still…

A gunshot went off to the right. A zombie stumbled backward, its head raining down on the pavement and splattering across the passenger’s side door. Larry felt the bile rise in his throat. Higgins was dead. The barrel of his M-16 had speared the back of his neck on impact, and rammed up into his brain.

At least he won’t be coming back, Larry thought. He shuddered.

It began to rain.

In the street, a pack of dead dogs brought down a fleeing Private, ripping him limb from limb as he squirmed beneath them. A red-faced, panting Sergeant stumbled by, hands clasped around his bleeding stomach, dragging his entrails behind him. Giggling, an undead child darted out from behind a newspaper box, grabbed the length of intestine, and wrapped it around a telephone pole. The injured Sergeant walked on, oblivious. The cord grew taught, then snapped. The Sergeant lurched forward a few more steps, and then fell on his face. A woman screamed; her body covered with dead birds. Incredibly, a zombie elephant charged another Humvee. The soldier on the back brought it down with his mounted fifty-caliber, before being shot himself by another zombie.

Bullets chewed up the pavement. Chunks of cement bounced off the windshield, shattering it more. The stench wafted in through the hole: decay, cordite, burning fuel and flesh. The screams became louder.

Slowly, carefully, Larry felt around for his pistol. He couldn’t find it, and he was afraid to turn completely and chance attracting attention. His fingers closed over the neck of a wine bottle. It hadn’t broken during the wreck, and more amazingly, there was still liquid inside. He lifted the bottle to his lips and drained it in one gulp. A child was screaming. He drowned the noise out.

Larry turned the empty bottle over in his hands and smiled. He’d made this, in another time, another life. The first thing he noticed was the little

“g” in a circle, which stood for Gallo. The knurling on the bottom was well formed, as was the pushed up bottom. He checked the baffle and verified that it wasn’t swung. There were no critical defects. His crew had done well. He wondered where they were now.In the street, a zombie horse galloped by, a screaming man hanging from the saddle. His hands beat at the creature’s flank. A homemade gasoline bomb slammed into a building, and the structure erupted into flame. Artillery whistled overhead, then crashed nearby. Larry felt the concussion before he heard the explosion. It rattled his teeth, his chest, and the windshield.

The glass finally gave way, showering his upside down face with jagged chunks. Larry slipped his seatbelt off and sat upright.

Ten feet away from him, an elderly corpse sliced an unconscious soldier’s penis off with a pair of tin snips. It bent its head to the spurting stump and drank, as if at a water fountain. Then, seeming to sense Larry’s presence, its head pivoted towards him.

“Hello, Meat.”

“Shit.” Frantic, Larry glanced around for the missing pistol.

“Look at you,” the zombie teased. “Sitting inside that tin can just like a Vienna sausage.”

Pulse racing, Larry scrambled backward. Shards of glass ripped into his palms. He ignored them. The zombie charged. Larry held the bottle he’d manufactured up to ward it off. He saw it coming through the glass.

Then it was upon him and the glass grew dark.

A MAN’S HOME

IS HIS CASKET

The Rising

Day Twenty-Four

Silver Bay, Minnesota

H Michael Casper didn’t go outside anymore. Not that he had much before. Silver Bay had no cultural activities. H and his wife, Leen, went to Duluth and Two Harbors for that. They did much of their shopping via the internet, and bought groceries off a whole foods coop truck that made the weekly trek from Madison, Wisconsin.

H firmly believed that a man’s home was his castle.

He didn’t go outside now because everything he needed was here. Amazingly, after twenty-four days, the power was still on. He had plenty of food and water (although he longed for some spicy Asian take-out), tequila, two cases of St. Paulie Girl Dark and a six pack of Spaten Optimator), weapons (a semi-automatic .22, which he’d used to kill some feral cats that strayed onto his property and attacked his own cats, and a homemade driftwood cane that he kept next to the front door), radio and television (the satellite wasn’t sending signals—although he occasionally heard snippets of phantom broadcasts on the radio), movies (luckily, because it might be a while before Netflix delivered again), his guitar (even at age fifty-two, H still maintained his tenor and awesome falsetto), music (Rundgren, Champlin, and that ol’ albino, Edgar Winter), and his books. Lots and lots of books…

H lived in a rambler with a tuck-under garage and huge, vaulted ceilings. His library overflowed with books and comics. He had more comics downstairs in the basement—along with Leen and the cats.He didn’t know what had killed her. She just fell asleep one night and didn’t wake up. Oh, her eyes opened again. She moved around, attacking him in bed. But it wasn’t Leen. She’d gone to sleep and something else had woken inside her. He’d wrestled away. She chased him into the library and he clubbed her with a lettered Brian Lumley edition. That bought him enough time to get the gun. H was a peaceful man. Killing his wife, even if she was no longer his wife, was one of the hardest things he’d ever done. Killing Kitchi and Kito, their two black cats, had been a close second. Disposing of them all was third.

He didn’t go down to the basement anymore. It stank.

Besides, he had all of his comforts right here. The only thing he missed was going fishing at Thunderbird Lake, but it was probably full of zombie walleye now, anyway.

The clock showed midnight. He was sitting in front of the fireplace, reading a short story collection, when he grew uneasy. It felt like somebody was watching him.

“Leen?” His own voice sounded funny to him after so long without speaking.

H crept to the front door and peeked outside. He had a large front yard, filled with apple, maple and birch trees, and his one hundred foot long driveway was lined with trees as well. Their leafy canopy cast all in shadows. The shadows were empty. He locked the door, and crossed to the east side of the house, looking out across the backyard. Nothing moved in the darkness. He saw the old woodshed and Leen’s gardens, and beyond them, the tree line of Tettagouche State Park. That was all.

“Quit being paranoid.”

Nobody else knew he was here. Nobody was coming, living or otherwise.

All he had to do was wait it out.

There was a knock at the door.

H nearly screamed.

Who is that? The army? National Guard? A neighbor? Or one of them …those things?

The knock came again.

Quietly, H picked up the .22 and crept into the foyer. He’d blocked off the skylight to keep the birds from breaking through, and the small space was pitch black.

A third knock—louder, longer, more insistent.

“Who is it?” He pointed the rifle at the door.

“Kresby? That you?”

Nobody he knew called him Kresby. That was his internet identity. Only his online friends referred to him that way.

The knocking changed to hammering. The door rocked on its frame.

“Kresby, open up! There’s zombies out here. Zombie moose…”

H racked his brain. “Michael? Michael Bland?”

“Try again.”

“PG?”

The door splintered inward, and a leering skull, stripped of most of its flesh, peered through.

“You guessed it, buddy!”

With a cry, H squeezed the trigger. The .22

punched a small hole in the creature’s jawbone. The zombie vanished. H’s ears rang. The foyer smelled like smoke.

“He lives in Arizona,” H whispered, peeking through the hole in the door. “What’s he doing here?”

The door exploded inward, knocking H

backward. He gritted his teeth against the pain shooting through his bad lower back.

Paul Goblirsch’s corpse lurched into the foyer. Even as he scuttled away, H’s analytical, biologytrained mind observed the zombie’s condition. It looked like he’d been skinned alive and dropped from a great height. His ribs and pelvis were shattered, skull cracked, legs broken yet still mobile. His internal organs and one eye were missing. His nerves and veins hung like spaghetti. The zombie grabbed the heavy wooden cane H

kept by the door. “Sorry I’m late. I entered this body about 14,000 feet above Minnesota. My host knew you lived here. Was jealous of your books. Thought I’d stop by so that you can join him.”

Grimacing, H fired again. The bullet punched through the creature’s empty eye-socket. Cursing, he aimed higher.

The zombie lashed out with the cane, knocking the barrel aside as H fired a third time. Then it smacked him on the head. Blood ran into H’s eyes.

“Son of a bitch…”

“No,” the thing rasped. “Son of Ob, son of Nodens.”

The cane descended again, cracking him on the knuckles. The gun slipped from H’s grasp. Clambering to his feet, H dodged another blow and ran. His lower back was a sheet of agony, and he kept wiping blood from his eyes to see. The zombie pursued him into the library. Though H wasn’t a trained fighter, he was determined to use whatever means necessary to live.

The zombie swung the cane. H ducked, and the driftwood bludgeon snapped on a bookshelf. H plowed into the creature, turning his face away from the stink. He clenched his fists, digging into the tissue. It felt like cottage cheese. Maggots wiggled between his fingers. Living man and dead man slammed into the wall.

Roaring, the zombie wedged a rancid thumb into H’s eye. Screaming, H did the same. The zombie reared back, blinded.

Eye for an eye, H thought, as his body went numb. Shock. Going into shock. Got to finish this. The zombie fumbled with outstretched hands, searching for him. H pulled away.

“I can smell you, Kresby. Smell your blood.”

“Come get some,” H chuckled.

PG giggled as well, the thing inside his body immediately recognizing the movie reference in its host’s memories.

H wobbled forward and thrust himself against a bookcase with all of his remaining strength. His back shrieked. His eye throbbed. The bookcase groaned, then toppled over onto the zombie, smashing it to the floor. Its arms stuck out beneath the pile. Gasping for breath, H stood over the destruction.

“You wanted my books, PG? There you go!”

He smelled smoke. Alarmed, he turned to the fireplace. One of the books had slid into it, and more lay nearby.

Before H could act, the zombie’s hand curled around his ankle and yanked. Arms pin-wheeling in surprise, H crashed to the floor. Something inside his back snapped, and when he tried to move, he couldn’t.

The flames grew louder.

Man and zombie burned together, along with the book collection.

Neither one rose again.

ZOMBIE WORM

The Rising

Day Twenty-Five

Hellertown, Pennsylvania

It was hard to eat people when you didn’t have a lower jaw.

Or tongue.

Or even teeth.

Not that this host body’s mouth had functioned even before being shot in the face. No. This human shell was absolutely the most useless form the Siqqusim had ever inhabited. Even the human’s name was worthless—Worm. What kind of a name was that? Worms were low creatures that crawled through the dirt and shit (except for Behemoth and the Great Worms—and this human was an insult to them). The Siqqusim seethed. This body had been nothing but a nuisance, and he couldn’t wait to leave it.

Like most of its brothers, the Siqqusim inside Worm had no name. Once, long ago, a Sumerian sorcerer had summoned him into a dead woman and commanded him to tell fortunes. The sorcerer had given him a name—Tenk. But that name had lasted only as long as the body he inhabited. When that body deteriorated, Tenk was no longer under the Sorcerer’s command. And after all of the Siqqusim were cast into the Void by the Creator, there were no more chances to get another name. He still thought of himself as Tenk, but made sure that Lord Ob new nothing of such conceit. When humanity ripped open the walls of the Labyrinth and freed the Siqqusim from the Void, Tenk’s first host body had been an old woman named Melba who lived in Puerto Rico. Then he moved on to inhabit a tiger in India, a middle-aged goat-herder in Nepal, a snake in South Carolina, and an infant in Greenland. All of these bodies were preferable to Worm. Even the baby’s corpse had been better. Tenk had been able to use its helplessness to appeal to other humans’ maternal instincts. Then, when they’d pick it up, he attacked. But this new body? This... Worm?

Completely useless.

When Tenk had first taken possession of Worm, he’d searched through the body’s memories, cataloguing his experiences and finding any information that might be useful. There wasn’t much. Worm was a deaf-mute. Worse, he’d been sheltered and protected. His entire life consisted of playing checkers with his father, cooking with his mother, and taking long walks with his dog. No strife or hardships. He’d been home-schooled, so there were no taunts from other kids. He’d been happy, living a life of luxury until undead mice ate his parents. Then he’d struck out on the run. His dog died next, shot by a farmer who’d mistaken Worm and the mutt for zombies. Worm had taken shelter in an interstate rest stop. There, he met a man named Baker, and the two had traveled together until they were captured by a group of renegade National Guardsmen. Tenk probed deeper, seeing Worm pushed from the back of a speeding military vehicle and then killed by a group of zombies from an orphanage. And that was when Tenk had entered him, while his corpse lay bleeding in the middle of the road.

Since then, he’d been pushed down a hill (breaking one of his host’s legs), run over by a speeding Humvee (breaking the other leg, along with several ribs), shot in the arm (resulting in a shattered elbow), and then shot in the face (disintegrating the lower jaw). He was a joke. The rest of his brethren continued with the worldwide slaughter, but Tenk could only crawl along behind them, pulling himself with one good arm. He wanted this body to die—again. He wanted to be free. Wanted to find another host and join in the extinction of mankind.

Tenk thought about all of this as he lay face down in a roadside puddle of muddy water. He was playing dead, waiting for some unsuspecting human to come along and mistake him for a lifeless corpse. Then, as they neared him, he’d lurch to his feet and try to appear menacing. With any luck, they’d destroy Worm’s brain once and for all, and he would be free of this shell.

At sundown, he was still waiting.

He would have cursed, if he’d had the ability to speak.

Eventually, Worm’s one remaining ear twitched. The sound of a motor rumbled towards him. Slowly, ponderously, Tenk clawed at the asphalt with Worm’s good hand and dragged himself out into the road. Headlights appeared in the distance. He stumbled to his feet, wobbling on broken legs. The bones protruded from the flesh. Insects spilled from his wounds, landing in piles at his feet. The vehicle slowed as it drew closer. It was hard for Tenk to see with Worm’s eyes; they were infested with maggots. The vehicle drew closer—a truck. A human leaned out of the passenger-side window, and then ducked back inside. Tenk shuffled forward, thrusting his good arm out and trying to look menacing. The passenger slid something long and metallic through the open window. A rifle barrel, maybe? It was hard to tell. The truck picked up speed and swerved towards him.

Yes, Tenk thought. This is it. Destroy me. Destroy this brain so that I might be free. The truck barreled down on him. The headlights grew blinding. His vision blurred. Then the truck raced past him, continuing down the highway. Tenk caught a glimpse of the passenger pulling the object back inside. It was a sword.

Something was wrong. Everything was tilted, as if the world had been turned on its side. Tenk tried to move Worm’s arm and found that he couldn’t. Then he noticed why. Worm’s body lay five feet away. It was headless.

But if his head is missing, then why am I... The breeze ruffled his hair. He felt it. Felt the wind on Worm’s scalp. But he couldn’t feel anything else. Oh no. Those stupid humans! Those ignorant apes—

they only cut my head off. The brain is still intact... Tenk looked out from Worm’s decapitated head and watched the moon rise.

He couldn’t even scream.

THE NIGHT THE

DEAD DIED

The Rising

Day Twenty-Six

Bronx, New York

All night long, Cookie and the blind man sat in the dark restaurant’s kitchen. They tied damp handkerchiefs over their faces to block the stench of decay permeating the city. They ate sardines, washed them down with the olive oil inside the empty tins, and listened to the dead die.

It began with a message broadcast over a public address system. They heard it several times.

“This is the Federal Emergency Management Agency, broadcasting to all who can hear this message. The United States Department of Homeland Security has determined that Manhattan, Brooklyn, and the other New York boroughs are now safe zones. The quarantine has been lifted. You are free to leave your homes. All civilian and military personnel are encouraged to make their way to the area immediately. Aid stations have been set up for your convenience, to provide food, water and medical assistance. Again, the threat alert for New York City has been lifted and the area is now designated as a safe zone. Make your way into the streets. Military and civilian authorities will be there to assist you. Message repeats…”

The blind man didn’t believe it. Cookie did at first, but he had urged her to wait. He said it was a trick. The message was being broadcast by the zombies in an effort to flush the survivors from their hiding places. Cookie wondered how he could be so sure. The blind man said he heard something coming—something more than just the zombies outside. Minutes later, Cookie heard it to. An army. Tanks and halftracks and heavy artillery. They rolled into the city from all directions. Soon, the sounds of battle erupted throughout the city—screams, explosions, gunfire, and shouting. Cookie sat her empty sardine can down. “I guess you were right. It was a trick.”

“Think about it,” the blind man whispered. “This morning, the zombies were going door to door, trying to find us all. The only reason we escaped was because we hid inside the basement freezer and they didn’t bother to check it. It’s nighttime now. Less than twenty-four hours have passed. If the army had rolled in here and wiped them all out, wouldn’t we have heard the battle? The fighting is just starting now. Wouldn’t they have told us to come outside after the city was secured, rather than before? And even if the army had killed all the zombies, they wouldn’t tell us to come outside. They’d tell us to stay in our homes.”

“Why?”

“It’s a biohazard. We’re surrounded by millions of dead bodies. It doesn’t matter if they’re walking around killing folks or if they’re really dead. Either way, corpses carry disease: bubonic plague or hepatitis or dozens more. Those things outside are nothing more than a walking biological attack. If F.E.M.A. or the army were really here, they wouldn’t tell us to come out until they’d managed to burn the bodies and contain the threat.”

“That ain’t what happened in New Orleans,”

Cookie said. “The authorities said it was safe, so people came out and had to wade through floodwaters and bodies floating in the streets.”

The blind man shrugged. “Perhaps, but this is different.”

Cookie nodded in agreement. The blind man had been holed up in the restaurant since the end of the first week. He’d managed to stay alive all this time. When Cookie had crept into the restaurant a few days ago, half-starved and desperate for food, he’d automatically been able to discern her from one of the undead. He said he did it by smell. Cookie didn’t care what his methods were as long as they worked—and they obviously did. He was alive while the rest of the city was dead or dying. And so far, he’d kept her alive, too. Sure, maybe he was a little weird. He refused to tell her his name and he slept sitting up—on the rare occasions that he slept at all. But he hadn’t tried to rape or attack her the way the last group she’d sheltered with had. Finished with their dinner, Cookie threw away the sardine tins. She wanted a cigarette, but the blind man said the zombies could smell the smoke. Besides, she only had three left and she was unsure when she’d be able to find more. Venturing outside at this point was simple suicide.

Far away in the distance, artillery explosions rolled across the city. Cookie jumped. The blind man smiled.

“I understand that you want to leave,” he said.

“You’re almost out of cigarettes. I want to leave, too. No offense, but with your added presence, we’re running low on supplies. We need food, medicine, water, and ammunition—not that I can shoot very well anyway. But you have to be patient. If and when the time comes, we will leave.”

She started to speak, but another explosion cut her off. It was followed by the sound of machinegun fire. When the sounds of battle faded, Cookie tried again.

“Where would we go?”

“Ramsey Towers,” the blind man said. “That’s our best option. A man came through here a few days before you showed up. He said they’ve got electricity in Ramsey Towers. I say we try for that.”

“How do you know he was telling the truth?”

“His voice—I can tell when someone is lying.”

“But Ramsey Towers is in Manhattan. Might as well be on the moon. We wouldn’t make it one block. Those things are everywhere. Humans, rats, pigeons, cats, dogs—and all of them are zombies.”

“Exactly. That’s why we stay put for now. I can tell by your voice that you’re getting tired. Why don’t you get some sleep? I’ll stand watch.”

Cookie wasn’t sure how long she slept. She was jolted awake by a rapid-fire series of explosions. They sounded distant, but the blind man said they were coming closer. His voice trembled. It was the first time she’d heard him sound afraid.

“What’s happening?” she gasped.

“I’m not sure. They just started.”

Another explosion, this one closer, rattled the light fixtures.

“Maybe the army is fighting them,” Cookie said. She grabbed a claw hammer and crept to one of the windows. Using the hammer, she pried a nail loose and pulled the heavy plywood away. The blind man stumbled forward. “What are you doing?”

“It’s okay,” Cookie said. “I don’t think they’re out there.”

She peeked out into the darkness. Dead bodies lay everywhere. None of them moved. All along the street, brilliant flashes of orange flame erupted from the sewers, and then vanished. The restaurant shook.

“Cookie? Where are you?”

“Right here, by the window. Keep coming forward.”

He touched her shoulder. “What is it? More zombies? I don’t hear them...”

“No. It’s not the zombies. They’re dead—again.”

“How do you mean?”

“They’re lying in the street. None of them are moving. But something’s happening in the sewers.”

Another explosion rocked the building. Dust rained down on them both. Across the street, a liquor store burst into flame.

“Open the door.” The blind man tottered backward. “We need to get out of here before the gas lines explode.”

Working quickly, Cookie removed the barricade and flung the door open. She helped her companion out into the street. Both of them tensed, awaiting an attack, but none was forthcoming. Slowly, they waded through a sea of decomposing corpses. Cookie gagged. “Be glad you can’t see this.”

“Why? What’s that noise? It sounds...disgusting. Like Rice Krispies.”

“It’s the zombies. They’re falling apart.”

“Literally?”

Cookie nodded, but then realized he couldn’t see her. “Yeah.”

One of the creatures twitched. She prodded it with her foot but it did not fight back.

“We’ve won,” the zombie rasped. “Now we move on to the next world, to make way for Ab and his kind to invade this level.”

The blind man grunted. Beside him, he heard Cookie gasp.

“What is it? More zombies?

“No. The horizon is glowing. Something big is burning in Manhattan.”

The blind man shuffled over to the zombie. His foot came down on its face, sinking into the rancid flesh like it was pudding. He seemed not to notice.

“What is Ab?”

The creature grinned. “Now come…the Elilum.”

It melted across the pavement. The blind man wrinkled his nose, and scuffed his shoe on the curb. Then he reached for Cookie. She took his hand, and then turned back to the fire.

“How bad is it, Cookie?”

“It’s huge...”

She paused. Something buzzed in her ear. A second later, a mosquito landed on her arm and bit her. She let go of the blind man’s hand and slapped the insect. It fell to the sidewalk. It was crushed. Broken.

Dead.

“I wonder what the Elilum are?” the blind man asked.

Cookie didn’t answer. She was staring at the dead mosquito.

It was moving again...

THE MORNING AFTER

The Rising

Day Twenty-Seven

Goffstown, New Hampshire

In the 1700s, when Goffstown’s first settlers arrived, they found a magnificently forested area with hardwood-covered hills and magnificent stands of white pine, which extended along Mast Road (named for the many trees cut down and hauled to the Merrimack River so that the Royal British Navy could use them as ship’s masts). The morning after The Rising ended, Brian Lee, the last surviving human in Goffstown, emerged from his hiding place to find that the trees still stood. He climbed to the top of a cell phone tower and scanned the forested hills and the Uncanoonuc Mountains (Native American for “woman’s breasts”). It was a clear day, and Brian could see for miles.

The hills were green with life, but Goffstown’s streets were choked with death. Corpses, both animal and human, lay everywhere—on sidewalks, in the streets and gutters, rooftops, in vehicles and doorways and storefronts. Nothing moved. The corpses did what they were supposed to; they remained still and rotted.

Brian cheered. His cry echoed all the way to the winding river in the distance.

He’d survived by hiding inside a restaurant’s walk-in freezer. Earlier that morning, he’d crept out, looking for water. He’d stumbled, literally, over the first zombie a few minutes later. It was lying in the shadows. Using the butt of his rifle, Brian bashed its head in like a rotten melon, but the creature never reacted. Within minutes, he discovered two-dozen more, including several zombie dogs and an undead cow. All were truly lifeless, but there was no sign of head trauma—the only way to bring a zombie down. Brian was reminded of War of the Worlds, and how the Martians had seemingly died off overnight, infected by the common cold.

He’d explored for the last two hours and hadn’t encountered a single active zombie. The dead were dead again. The stench of rotting corpses hung thick, filling the streets like fog. He’d tied a bandana around his mouth and nose, but it did little to help. It was beautiful. The smell of victory.

“It’s over,” Brian said out loud as he climbed down. “It’s really over. They’re gone!”

His voice bounced back to him off the abandoned buildings. Gone…gone…gone…

Where were the other survivors? He couldn’t be the only one, could he? His wife and daughters had…

They had…

He blinked away tears. He couldn’t be the only person left alive.

Brian’s parents moved to Goffstown when he was five years old. He went away to college for a few years (where he studied engineering), but then moved back, along with his wife (whom he’d met while in school). They’d lived here since, along with their three daughters. Life was good, the way it was supposed to be. A month ago, they’d added money to his daughter’s college and wedding funds. Now…

He ripped the bandanna from his face and screamed. “What’s the point? I can’t be the only one left!”His echoes answered him.

Overcome with delayed anger and grief, Brian snapped. He ran through the streets, firing into the unmoving corpses until he was out of ammunition. Then he clubbed them, beating them into piles of red pulp, until the rifle’s stock shattered. He sank to his knees in a red, wet puddle, and sobbed. Eventually, he found a vehicle that still had the keys, and drove out to his parents’ home. They were gone, of course, killed the same night as the rest of his family, but he didn’t know what else to do. He couldn’t return to his own home. He just couldn’t. His parents’ home was on the west side of Addison Road, halfway between Shirley Hill and Winding Brook roads. Driving there, trying to ignore the constant crunch of bodies beneath the tires, Brian thought back to his youth…in the woods with his sister, Anne, and best friends, Ken and John, digging junk out of the old dump, walking along the old overgrown railroad bed, exploring streams and swamps, catching frogs, and barely making it home in time for supper.

He stopped when he saw the Big Pipe. That’s what they’d called it—a huge granite culvert and cement pipe that ran under Addison, big enough to stand in when they were kids. They’d sit on the end in the spring and watch the water rush through, the level from the melting snow. Now, it trickled through, barely ankle deep.

Lost in memory, Brian got out of the vehicle and scrambled over the rocks. In the forest, the leaves hissed. He walked through a patch of waist high weeds, twisting as they clung to his jeans. The weeds refused to let go. They squeezed tighter. The trees groaned.

Brian looked down and screamed, thoughts of his endless childhood summers gone.

Ticks swarmed up his legs, crawling over the denim. He’d never seen so many before, a moving carpet. Frantic, he tried brushing them off. Lyme disease, he thought. Oh fuck, I survived and now I’m gonna get Lyme disease.

The weeds cinched around his wrists, coiling like snakes. That was when Brian noticed they were dead: brown and withered—yet still moving. Slapping at the insects (he could feel them all over him now), Brian wrenched free of the vegetation and started back up the embankment. There was a deafening crash. He looked up at the road—which had suddenly sprouted a forest. Tall oaks and pines covered Addison, their roots serving as legs. Their limbs battered the vehicle, smashing the windshield and crushing the roof. Brian wheeled around and fled for the Big Pipe. A mosquito buzzed his face, biting him right below the eye. He glanced down at his feet and noticed that the insects were not only attacking him, but attacking each other as well. They’re zombies. It wasn’t over. It’s just spread to other life forms.

If that was true, then he stood no chance. No chance at all.

“No.”

He dove into the culvert and crouched low, ducking into the Big Pipe. He’d been able to stand up inside it as a kid. Now he barely fit. Splashing through the water, he burrowed into the darkness. He still felt insects crawling on him, but he couldn’t see them. There was little light inside the pipe, just two small circles of daylight at each end. He stripped down to his underwear and flung his clothing as far as he could. Then he slapped at his exposed skin and checked for ticks.

It grew darker.

Brian glanced back at the opening. The daylight was slowly disappearing, blocked out by the vegetation choking the exits. Soon, it was pitch black.

Brian Lee retreated back into his memories, ignoring the slithering sounds, creeping closer in the darkness.

MARCH OF THE

ELILUM

The Rising

Day Twenty-Eight

Florida Caverns State Park

When it was all over, Michael Bland and his son, Kyle, were grateful to be alive. Before they’d gone underground, Mike, a 46-year-old divorcee, was a professional geologist with the Florida Department of Environmental Protection. His entire world had revolved around 14-year-old Kyle. When they saw each other (every other week as ordered by the court) they spent time playing World of Warcraft and going to the movies and just hanging out. When Kyle was at his mother’s, Mike, who had been married for nineteen years, enjoyed his independence. He didn’t date, and had no desire to start. One of his co-workers had once suggested that he “come out of his cave.”

Mike stood blinking in the sunlight. He remembered the comment, and laughed.

“What?” Kyle asked.

“Just thinking.”

Kyle glanced back at the cave entrance and then to his father. “Do you really think they’re gone?”

Mike nodded. “Sure looks that way. Maybe they’re all dead.”

“They were already dead, Dad. They can’t die twice.”

“Well, whatever it is that happens when you destroy their brain—maybe it’s finally happened to them all.”

Mike and Kyle had taken shelter in the caves (only an hour from Mike’s home in Tallahassee) on the second day of The Rising. They’d burrowed deep into the subterranean network, hiding among the dazzling formations of limestone stalactites, stalagmites, soda straws, flowstones, and draperies. The cave was dry and air-filled, and a small spring fed by the Chipola River, provided them with water. They had sleeping bags and a kerosene lantern and other survival gear. By the second week, they’d run low on food, and Mike went out to find some. Despite the warm sunlight, he shuddered, remembering the horses.

Florida Caverns State Park was also popular for horseback riding, and offered stables for equestrian campers. Some of those animals must have been left behind, starved to death in their pens, and then reanimated. While Mike had been hunting for food, the zombie horses attacked.

He rubbed his forehead, which still bore the scabbed, crusty imprint of a hoof.

“Dad?”

“Hmmm?”

“What if we’re the only people left alive? What about Mom?”

Mike felt a pang of regret. What if, indeed?

Could they possibly be the last living humans? No, there had to be others, maybe hiding underground like they were, unaware that the zombie plague was over. He wondered if there were other fathers out there, battling to get to their sons or loved ones. If so, he wished them luck.

“I don’t know, Kyle. But we’ve got each other. If there is anybody else left, they probably can’t say the same.”

“I love you, Dad.”

The boy rarely said it anymore, and Mike’s eyes watered.

“I love you, too.”

“So what do we do now?”

Mike shrugged. “We go home. Carefully, until we’re sure the zombies are dea—gone. We’ll see if our car is still in the parking lot. If it is, we’ll take 90

to 71, and then hop on I-10.”

“Good. I’m sick of these caves.”

They stepped out of the shadow of the cavern mouth and started down the trail. The treetops and grass swayed back and forth, rustling softly.

“You know what I want?” Kyle asked. “Pizza.”

Mike chuckled. “Yeah, now that you mention it. Beat’s those cold beans we’ve been eating.”

They continued on. Twenty-seven days of living in the cave had hardened them both, but Mike was still tired. Sweat ran into his eyes and he wished for a cool breeze. Despite his exhaustion, he felt good.

“Everything’s going to be okay.” Mike mopped his brow. “We outlasted them.”

Kyle didn’t respond.

The plant life continued rustling.

How, Mike suddenly thought. There’s no wind…

“Dad?”

Mike stopped. Kyle was pointing at something ahead of them. Mike looked. At first, he didn’t understand what they were seeing. An armadillo, still alive and not a zombie; lay twitching on a rock. A black cloud swarmed around it. The cloud buzzed.

“Mosquitoes,” Mike said. “What the hell?”

Kyle screamed.

His legs had turned black, as thousands of ants crawled up them, covering his shoes and pants. Kyle slapped at the creatures and his hands came away covered.

“Dad, get them off me!”

Stunned, Mike beat at the insects, brushing them from his terrified son’s legs. Smashed ants littered the trail. Crushed, their bodies still impossibly twitched.

“Oh Jesus…” Mike moaned. “They’re zombies. Kyle, run! Back to the cave!”

Pushing Kyle ahead of him, Mike glanced back. The mosquitoes forgot about the armadillo and darted towards them. The trail was covered with ants. When he looked back toward the cave, the insects blocked their path, surrounding them.

“Dad—”

“Get off the trail.” Mike shoved him onto the grass. “Keep running!”

The zombies didn’t disappear, he thought. They just changed. It’s not the humans and animals anymore. It’s the fucking bugs!

They ran through the grass, biting ants still clinging to their extremities. Beneath their feet, the grass moved. Yellow lilies stretched towards them, whipping at their legs. Overhead, the tree limbs groaned. The leafy canopy hissed.

Mike tripped, crashing to the ground. Sprawled on the grass, he gasped for breath. Kyle stopped to help him and the mosquitoes surrounded the boy’s face.“Keep going,” Mike shouted. “I’m okay!”

Mike felt the individual blades of grass probe beneath his clothing, entwining around his fingers and ankles.

“Run, Kyle!”

With one last, lingering look, Kyle did, speeding towards the cave mouth, frantically slapping at the hungry insects.

Mike sat up. A vine wrapped around his arm and tugged. Mike tore away and sprang to his feet. More vines encircled him. There was a horrible, wrenching groan behind him. He whirled around and gasped.

Slowly, ponderously, the trees were stalking towards him, tip-toeing along on their tendril-like roots.

Screaming, Mike ripped free of the clinging vines and fled for the cave. He leapt through the mouth. Cool darkness surround him.

“Kyle?”

His voice echoed back to him.

“KYLE!”

“I’m here.” Despite the boy’s age, his son’s voice sounded small and afraid.

Mike’s did, too.

They found each other in the darkness, and returned to their camp inside the cave’s interior. Mike lit their kerosene lantern, and they checked each other for damage. Both were covered in hundreds of insect bites, and the vines had left ugly, red welts on Mike’s arms.

“Dad? There’s no plants in here, right?”

Mike shook his head.

“And bugs don’t live inside caves, right?”

“No,” Mike lied, closing his eyes. “No they don’t.”

At the edges of the lantern’s glow, the cavern floor began to move.

Darkness scuttled towards them.

Outside, the Elilum reigned over all.

BEST SEAT IN

THE HOUSE

The Rising

Day Twenty-Nine

Cashmere, Washington

“Something’s happening.”

Chris Hansen put down his Stephen Crane collection and looked up at Francesca. She stood at the window, the sunlight reflected on her skin. For a second, Chris found it hard to breathe. She looked beautiful, even after living barricaded inside this house, with no showers and very little to eat. She was slender with long dark brunette hair and big brown eyes. The only thing missing was her great smile.

Francesca hadn’t smiled in a long time. Chris nudged the sluggish wheelchair towards her. It was less responsive. The batteries were almost dead. And with the electricity out, there’d be no way to recharge them.

“What is it?” he asked.

Francesca didn’t reply.

They hadn’t seen a zombie for three days. The last one to approach the house had collapsed in the driveway, literally falling apart. The arms fell off and the abdomen popped like a balloon. When Francesca crept outside to investigate, she said the insects burrowing through the rancid flesh were fighting with each other. Chris had scoffed at this.

“So what is it? Not more zombies?”

She shook her head. “Something else…something…weird.”

Chris was thirty-eight years old and had been a quadriplegic for the last eighteen. He had good use of his left arm (except for the fingers), but very limited use of his right. He could not feel his skin or use any muscles below his collarbone. Dead from the neck down, he’d once said. Sometimes he was envious of the dead outside. Unlike him, they could still move.

He looked out the window, and gasped. The trees were dying. Their house sat in the middle of a flat square acre. As they watched, the grass died—and then came back. There was no clear way to describe it. Like a wave on an ocean, a patch of brown rippled across the lawn. In its wake, the grass then turned green again—but it moved. The grass moved, each blade waving like an individual tentacle. The same thing was happening to the trees—tamarack, pine, fir, and blue spruce—each died and was resurrected. They ripped themselves free of the soil and clambered away on their roots. Thankfully, none of them realized there were two humans less than twenty-five feet away.

“It’s spreading,” Chris whispered. “Maybe nobody’s going to come after all.”

“They’ll come.” Francesca wheeled him into the kitchen. “The Rising is over. We’ve stayed inside for twenty-nine days. All we have to do is stay inside for a few more.”

“Not like either one of us were social butterflies anyway.” Chris grinned, trying to take his mind off the strange occurrences outside.

Before Francesca came into his life, Chris had barely left the house in over ten years. They’d met online when he’d purchased some books from her on eBay. Like him, she was reclusive, wading through and waiting on life. After three months of phone calls and emails, Chris invited her to visit. A month later, Francesca left the east coast behind and moved in with him.

Every day since then was magic. Sunshine. Life.

Chris felt alive with her.

“I’ll make you lunch,” Francesca said. “It’s good that you don’t eat much. We’re almost out of food.”

Chris ate little at mealtimes to avoid getting fat, which was a quad’s worst enemy (other than pressure sores and bladder infections).

“What’s left?”

She held up two cans. “Corn or Spam.”

“Crap.”

“You are always grumpy at lunch and dinner. Why do—”

She screamed, dropping the cans.

“What?” Chris’s eyes darted back and forth.

“What’s wrong?”

“The cactus.” Francesca’s face was pale. She pointed to a small pot on the windowsill. “It’s moving.”

Chris tried to stay calm. “The trash. Throw it in the trash.”

She did, holding the cactus pot at arm’s length. Then she went through the rest of the house and did the same with the other plants. The philodendron’s long vines wrapped around her arm, the heartshaped leaves caressing her skin. When it was over, Francesca wept.

“Maybe you’re right,” she cried. “Maybe no one is coming to save us.”

“Come here.”

She did. She sat in his lap. Chris’s cushion made a farting noise. They both giggled.

He wheeled them back to the big window, and the chair finally died.

“Well,” he said. “I guess this is as good a spot as any.”

Twenty-five feet away, on top of a four-foot high hill in the front yard, was a huge waterfall with a pond. Water splashed over several big rocks that Chris’s father had put there years before. A huge, black cloud hovered over the rocks.

Mosquitoes. More mosquitoes than either had ever seen. Another cloud, larger and darker, swooped down from above. Bees. The two groups began battling.

“What’s happening?” Francesca draped her legs over the side of the chair. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s spread. Think about it. First, it was the humans and the animals. But that stopped. Remember the zombie that just fell apart on the sidewalk two days ago? That was the end of that…

wave. But now it’s affecting the plants and the insects. Look. They’re going after each other, just like the other zombies did.”

Francesca stayed silent. She shifted against him, and though he couldn’t feel it, her soft buttocks cradled Chris’s groin.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you, too.” Her breath tickled his ear. She stroked his thinning hair.

Outside, the yard grew thick with praying mantises, ants, hornets, ladybugs, and other insects, all fighting to the death. The grass struck out at them, but the sheer number of insects was overwhelming. Francesca stirred. “Can they get inside?”

“No,” he lied. “We’re safe.”

Chris knew he should be afraid, but he wasn’t. He felt safe. Secure. Warm. He sensed that Francesca was beginning to feel the same way. She relaxed, snuggling against him. He wrapped his left arm around her.

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he told her. “Do you know that?”

“As are you. I’d be lost without you, Chris.”

“I’d be lost without you, Francesca. You’ve given me so much. You taught me how to live.”

“You taught me how to love.”

“You’re my reason to live.”

They kissed for a long time. When Chris opened his eyes, the insects were crawling over the window. Sitting in the chair from which Chris had spent so much time, from which he’d viewed the world around him, viewed life itself, the two of them held one another and watched the world die. They were content and happy and unlike everything around them, their love was eternal. It did not die.

AMERICAN PIE

The Rising

Day Thirty

Drammen, Oslo, Norway

“I’m so glad you speak English,” the American said. “I haven’t talked to anybody alive in almost two weeks.”

Trygve Botnen nodded. “I haven’t seen anyone either. Just the dead, and I don’t like talking to them. But yes, having visited forty-six different states in the last six years, I’d like to think my English is pretty good.”

“You go there on business?”

“Vacations,” Trygve said. “I’m the…I was the Vice President of ABN AMRO Asset Management’s real estate division, but when I went to the states, it was mostly for pleasure.”

“Ever been to New York?”

“Sure.”

“I’m from New York. Came over here on vacation. I’m an angler. I’ve fished all around the world. Wanted to fish the Drammen River, all the way down to the Svelvikstrømmen. I rented a cottage, and was here two days when it happened. I waited a few more days before deciding to head back to the States, but I couldn’t go home, because by then, there was no home to go back to. They’d stopped all air travel.”

There was a rustling sound outside and both men immediately fell silent. Trygve crept to the window and peeked. A brown, desiccated vine dragged itself across the wall, slowly curling. As he watched, it stopped moving.

They were hiding in a gift shop outside the world-famous Spiral Tunnel. Trygve had arrived an hour ago, wearing a beekeepers outfit to protect him from the marauding undead insects, and a flamethrower to contend with the zombie plants. He was tired, hungry, and thirsty, and when he found the American, his spirits soared.

“I’m Don, by the way.” The American stuck out his hand. “Don McClain.”

Trygve shook his hand. “Wasn’t there an American singer with the same name?”

Don nodded. “Yep. ‘Bye bye Miss American Pie, drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry.’

I think he spelled his last name different though.”

Trygve’s stomach rumbled. “I could go for some American Pie right now. Any kind of pie.”

Don laughed. “I don’t have any food, but there’s water, if you’re thirsty?”

“Please.”

Trygve brought the canteen to his lips. The water was warm and oily, but it was the sweetest he’d ever drunk.

“So,” Don asked. “Any ideas on what to do next?”

“They are dying off.” Trygve sealed the canteen and wiped his lips. “The zombies. The people and animals stopped moving a few days ago. They’re just regular corpses again. And the same thing seems to be happening with the plants and insects now. They’re moving slower, not attacking. The last few miles here, I wasn’t attacked by anything.”

“What if they come back? Maybe this is some form of hibernation, or transformation.”

Trygve shrugged. “My plan all along was to make a wilderness walk up Kjøsterudjuvet. Get high up into the mountains, where there is snow all year, and live there.”

“But the zombies would find you there, too. The mountains are just as dangerous as the cities—

maybe more.”

Trygve shrugged out of his beekeeper’s outfit and coat, and leaned back against the wall. He performed a cursory check of his weapons: flamethrower, two pistols, and a long, sharp knife.

“I don’t think they would,” he said. “What are the zombies? Reanimated corpses. Cut off an arm or a leg, and they keep coming. They’re dead. But yet they move. Function. My theory is this—if I get to some place where the temperature is below freezing, the zombies can’t move. After all, since they’re dead, they have no body heat, nothing to keep their blood and tissues from freezing. If they tried to invade such a region, they’d stop in their tracks, frozen into place.”

His stomach rumbled again. It had been five days since Trygve had last eaten, and fourteen days since he’d had more than a mouthful at a time. He’d lost weight, and looked much older than his thirtythree years of age. The last month had been hard on him, to say the least.

Don looked thoughtful. “Well, I’m not a biologist or a scientist, but I guess that makes sense. If their blood and stuff freezes, then they can’t move. Could we make it into the mountains?”

Trygve nodded. “As long as they stay in hibernation, yes. We can find a vehicle and be there in a few hours. Then we’ll climb.”

“Climb?”

“I’ve hiked in the Himalayas. I can teach you how.”

“Well, shit!” Don grinned. “Let’s go now. I’m tired of hiding out in this gift shop.”

“Sleep now,” Trygve suggested. “We’ll leave tomorrow morning. Find some food first, and then set out on our journey.”

Don rubbed his stomach. “Food. That would work. I miss pancakes and bacon. God, I’m hungry.”

“Yes,” Trygve agreed. “Me, too.”

They made small talk for a while longer. Trygve sharpened his knife and Don prattled about all the foods he missed. After a while, the American’s eyes grew heavy, and he stifled a yawn. Trygve smiled.

“Sleep, my friend. I’ll stand watch.”

Don didn’t argue with him, and soon, he was fast asleep, snoring softly.

Trygve waited for ten more minutes, making sure the American would not wake. Then, when the hunger pangs in his stomach grew unbearable, he slid forward, put the knife’s blade to Don’s throat, and sliced. Blood spattered across Trygve’s face. Don’s eyes flew open. He grasped at the gaping wound, his fingers coming away slick with blood. Trygve held him down, and waited for him to die. It didn’t take long.

When it was over, Trygve stripped off the man’s clothing and went to work, skinning and cleaning the body, cutting him up like a cow in a butcher’s shop…steaks, chops, thighs—meat.

He drooled through the entire grisly task. Finished, he pulled some plastic freezer bags out of his backpack, and slipped the meat inside. He left a large section of breast out, started a fire, and cooked it over the open flame.

“I’m sorry, my friend, but it is a long journey into those mountains, and I don’t know how much food I’ll be able to find.”

Whistling the tune the American had been singing, Trygve Botnen sank his teeth into the flesh, closed his eyes, and sighed with delight. He slept soundly that night, his belly full. Outside, in the night sky, a new star appeared. It grew brighter and bigger by the hour. The temperature began to rise.

TWO SUNS IN

THE SUNSET

The Rising

Day Thirty-One

Oconto, Nebraska

Big R wondered if he was the last person left alive on Earth.

He wondered a lot of things. First and foremost, was his name really Big R? Why was he here? Where the hell was everybody else?

His memories were decaying faster than the putrid corpses lying in the streets. He knew he lived in Alexandria, Virginia, yet here he was in Nebraska, with no recollection of how he’d arrived, or for how long, nor why he’d woken up in the basement of a flattened farmhouse. He didn’t know what had destroyed the house, didn’t know if he’d grown up here, didn’t know what had happened to the world. Occasionally, he got flashes of memory—fuzzy clips, coming attractions excerpted from some movie in his head. A dead man, arms pulled out of their sockets and ear dangling on a thin strand of gristle, lurching towards him, spitting curses and threats. A horse, broken ribs jutting from rancid, maggot-infested flesh, galloping along in pursuit of a terrified little girl. Trees, crushing buildings, and smashing a car open with their limbs and pulling out the occupants like candy. Poison oak vines, snaking their way into someone’s bulging throat. A swarm of red and black ants devouring each other—and everything else in their path.

The Pressey Wildlife Management Area. Big R shuddered. His memories of the wildlife area were crystal clear. He wished he could lose those, too. So many dead animals. The stench, the screams—the horror. The chewing sounds. He walked on. Sweat poured down his brow and into his eyes. He wiped his face. Though the sun was going down, it was sweltering outside—much too hot for this time of year.

He passed by the St. Mary’s Catholic Church, and had no memory of it. The building looked like something off the set of The Andy Griffith Show—a small, white, old-fashioned building with a crosstopped steeple and bell. The brown grass was dead, as were the trees. Red spray paint covered the front doors; THERE IS NO GOD BUT OB.

Big R wondered what it meant. Who was Ob?

Was this his fault?

On the sidewalk, a dead crow and the insects inside it had melted into a congealed puddle. Nose wrinkling, Big R stepped around the mess, and was reminded again of the wildlife management area. He had a sudden revelation. The Pressey Wildlife Management Area was only four miles north of Oconto, located along the South Loup River. How did he know that? It must mean he’d spent some time there, at least.

He continued along, mopping the sweat from his brow. Big R took in his surroundings, looking for something familiar, something that would break his amnesia. A Farmers Bank. Eggleston Oil Company. A blood-stained banner advertising the Annual Fireman’s Barbeque Cook-Off fluttered in the hot breeze. His stomach rumbled. He was hungry, and had no idea when he’d last eaten. A road sign stated that Lexington was twenty-five miles away. And death. Lots and lots of death: dead humans, animals, insects, and plants were everywhere. Nothing breathing. Nothing green. The air reeked of decay. Big R checked his watch, and saw that there was only a half an hour or so till sundown. He should try to find a place to sleep for the night, somewhere other than the abandoned basement. At least find a place to escape from the increasing heat. He found the local library and trudged up the steps. His heels stuck to the pavement, and he glanced at his feet, astonished. The rubber on his soles was melting. All around him, the corpses were doing the same, bubbling and hissing as they turned into toxic stew.

The library door was locked, so Big R forced it open with his pry-bar. He had no idea where he’d found the weapon, only that he’d been clutching it upon waking up. The library’s interior smelled of dust and mildew. Thankfully, he smelled no rotting corpses. His nose welcomed the relief. He made his way to a little bulletin board, labeled, FACTS ABOUT OCONTO. The town, it seemed, was a Menominee Indian word for, “place of the pickerel.” So now he knew that. Meant absolutely shit to him, but at least he knew.

Big R felt like crying, but didn’t know why. That made him want to cry even more.

He turned back to the bookshelves and was surprised by how much light there was inside the building. The power was out, the electric lights didn’t work, and the sun was going down outside. Yet the library was brightly illuminated, with no shadows between the rows of shelves. As he watched, dazzling brilliance flooded through the windows, blinding him. Shielding his eyes, he turned away.

Big R smelled smoke.

“What now?”

He went to the door, intent on discovering the source of both the light and the smoke. The ornate wood felt warm beneath his palm, and Big R hesitated. Fire? Could there be a fire outside? But he’d just been out there two minutes ago.

Pulling his sleeve down over his hand, he pushed the door open and stepped outside—

—into Hell.

There were two suns in the sunset. One of them, a hazy, reddish-orange half disc, sat in the west, slowly sinking beneath the horizon. The other one, an intense, white-with-red-tinged ball of fire, hung high in the southern sky, growing bigger by the second. Big R stared at it, couldn’t help but stare at it, mesmerized by the sight. He wondered what it was. A nuclear explosion, perhaps? A comet?

The word Teraphim ran through his mind. He wondered what it meant and how he knew it. Then Oconto began to burn. The treetops burst into flames, followed by the church steeple, and then the buildings themselves.

The last thing Big R saw before he went blind were orange, smoke-like creatures, resembling wisps of flame. They emerged from the center of the second sun and swooped down upon the earth like the wind. There were millions of them, and everything they touched caught on fire. Their faces—their howling faces—looked almost human…eyes, noses and mouths of flame. Their laughter crackled along with the inferno.

Big R wondered what they were, and then, as his hair singed, decided he was grateful not to know.

OTHER WORLDS

THAN THESE

The Rising

Day Thirty-Two

Aurora, Colorado

And then, the burning ember that was once Earth fizzled, as if snuffed out by solar winds…