Zombies: The Recent Dead Part 44

Three Stories from the Universe of The Rising.

Brian Keene.

I: Family Reunion.

"Where are they?" Stephen Smeltzer yawned.

"Maybe they got delayed," Carl suggested. "Traffic could be bad."

"No." Stephen shook his head. "They would have called."

"This is your family we're talking about," Carl grunted. "Do you really expect your mom or stepfather to pick up the phone and let you know they're running late? That would indicate common courtesy on their parts."

"What are you saying?"

"I mean your mom was mentally abusive to you all these years, and your stepfather used to beat the s.h.i.t out of you both. Why would they feel the need to call and let us know they're late?"

"Okay," Stephen replied. "But they're still my family, and I do love them, despite everything. My step-dad; he's been trying to make up for all of that ever since he got diagnosed with prostrate cancer. And Mom has mellowed with age."

"They'll have to prove it to me. We've been together eighteen years, Stephen, and I've seen just what your family is capable of. I hate the way they treat you, sometimes. Just because your step-dad has suddenly been humbled by his own mortality, doesn't excuse the fact that he's a bully."

Stephen watched the pier through the rain, looking for his mother and stepfather's car, or his sister's van.

"Besides," Carl continued, "if your mom is as psychic as she claims, wouldn't she have seen whatever delayed them in advance?"

"Cheri would call at least. She's got Dad with her."

Stephen's real father had his leg amputated the year before, and now spent his time in a wheelchair, popping pain pills and drinking himself into oblivion. He was coming to the reunion with Stephen's sister, Cheri.

The raindrops whispered against the boat's deck, and plunked into the waters of Lake Vermilion. In the distance, they could see the town. Stephen's family was supposed to arrive around dawn, after driving all night, for the annual family reunion. The gathering was held each year at Stephen and Carl's place on Ghost Island. The lakeside dwelling was accessible from the mainland only by boat.

Carl reached out and squeezed his hand. "The weather probably slowed them down. That's all. Everything will be fine."

Stephen smiled at him, and tried to relax. That was easy to do with Carl at his side. They'd met when Stephen was nineteen and Carl was thirty-two, and Stephen still thanked G.o.d every day for putting Carl in his life.

The boat rocked slightly as Carl walked over to the radio and turned it on. Stephen watched him as he moved past-the Richard Gere type, with thick, gray hair and a solid, healthy build. The past eighteen years together had been wonderful, and Stephen looked forward to many, many more. Carl had helped him get over so much; so many shadows from his past.

Were it not for Carl, he'd never be able to host these annual reunions. Some things never stayed buried.

His past-his family-was one of those things.

Carl turned the dial, searching the airwaves. Curiously, there was no music, no traffic reports, no zany morning show antics. Each station featured announcers talking in the same grim, somber tones.

Federal authorities were not commenting on why a government research center in h.e.l.lertown, Pennsylvania had been shut down overnight. The Director of Homeland Security a.s.sured the reporters that the situation was under control, and that there was no danger to the public, but due to national security concerns, they couldn't say more at this time. Terrorism was not suspected.

In Escanaba, Michigan, over twenty people had been killed, and dozens more injured, when an apparent riot erupted during a rock concert.

Stranger still, some form of ma.s.s hysteria seemed to be springing up at random across the country and, according to some reports, throughout the world. The reports didn't make a whole lot of sense, and it was apparent that some of the newscasters were skeptical as they read them.

Stories of the dead coming back to life-in morgues and at funerals and in the back of ambulances and on the battlefield.

"Sounds like those movies you always watch, and the stuff you read and write," Carl laughed. "Where the corpses run around and eat people?"

"Yeah," Stephen replied, shivering. "Weird, huh?"

Headlights pierced the early morning gloom, and a moment later, his sister's van pulled up, followed by his mother's car.

Stephen took a deep breath. Gooseb.u.mps dotted his arms, and he wondered why. He chalked it up to the dampness in the air.

Carl led him across the deck. "Come on. Brave face. It's only one weekend."

They climbed onto the dock and slowly walked towards the parking lot. n.o.body got out of the vehicles. As they got closer, Stephen grew alarmed. There was a jagged, splintered hole in the car's windshield, and the van's front grille was crumpled. A splash of red covered the white hood.

Stephen broke into a run. "Oh G.o.d! There's been an accident!"

He could see his sister's silhouette behind the rain-streaked van windshield, but couldn't tell if she was hurt or not. As he dashed around to the driver's-side door, Carl opened the sliding door on the side.

Stephen's father rolled out on top of him, and sank his teeth into Carl's ear.

Cheri burst from the vehicle, slamming the door into Stephen's legs. He collapsed to the ground, skinning his palms on the wet asphalt. Cheri giggled. Somewhere out of sight, his parent's car doors creaked open.

"Sorry we're late, Stephen," Cheri croaked. "There was a major fender bender in Duluth, and then we stopped for a bite."

His sister was a grisly sight. Her nose was a swollen, broken bulb, and a portion of her scalp had peeled back, revealing the pink meet between it and her skull. She reached for him, and Stephen gaped in horror. His sister's hand was broken at the wrist, and twisted into a deformed claw.

"Cheri," he gasped. "You're hurt!"

Carl shrieked.

"Wow," Cheri snickered, "I haven't seen Dad this active in awhile."

Stephen stared in horror at Carl's ear dangling from his father's clenched teeth.

His mother, stepfather, and sister advanced on him. His mother's right arm was missing from the elbow down, and his stepfather's face was split in two.

Stephen cast one last, shocked glance at Carl. His father had his face buried in Carl's neck, burrowing into the flesh.

Then Stephen fled. Eighteen years of comfort and bliss were forgotten, overridden by blind panic. Carl's agonized final screams echoed in his ears. Stephen jumped onboard the boat, started the engine, and sped away across the water.

Back at the house, the radio and television talked about the chaos spreading across the world-worsening by the hour.

Later that day, Carl and the others arrived on the island, dripping wet from their long walk along the bottom of the lake.

And then they had a family reunion.

II: The Ties That Bind "I wonder what time it is."

"Time for you to die."

"Stop that." Philip got up from his bedside chair. The alarm clock in the bedroom broke during the struggle. The power was still on-although sporadic. He walked into the kitchen, glanced at the microwave clock, and saw that it was after midnight. Outside, the distant sound of far-away thunder rolled across the sky.

Champ brushed up against his leg. Philip bent down and scratched the dog's back end. Champ wagged his tail in delight. Then Philip readjusted the wet handkerchief tied around his face. It helped block out the smell.

He sighed. "It's very late."

"It is indeed," Denise cackled from the bedroom. "Too late for you all! Humanity's numbers are dwindling while ours grow. We are more than the stars. More than infinity."

Philip rubbed his tired eyes. They were out of coffee and tea-almost out of food. He was physically and mentally exhausted, but he couldn't sleep. The couch hurt his back, and the bed-the bed they'd slept in-was out of the question. Denise had been tied to it for almost a week now, and she was leaking.

Slowly, he walked back into the bedroom. Champ trotted after him, stopping at the bedroom door. He refused to enter the room. Instead, he stood at the door and growled.

Denise was strapped spread-eagled to the bed frame with bungee and extension cords. More cords bound her torso to the mattress. There was a horrible bite mark on her arm. It was black around the edges, and oozed a stinking, yellowish-brown fluid. The bite was what had killed her-one of the neighborhood kids, dead but hungry. Philip had destroyed the zombie with a garden hoe to the back of its head, but that changed nothing. Infection set in. Within days, Denise was dead, as well.

"Getting a good look?" the zombie rasped.

Philip stared at her. Denise's bathrobe was stained and crusty. Her abdomen had distended and then burst, and her bowels had evacuated. Her white cheeks were sunken, and her eyes looked hollow.

Despite all of this, she was still the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

"Why did this have to happen?" he asked. "Why to us? We were happy, weren't we?"

The zombie groaned. "I've told you. I have your wife's memories and your wife's body, but I am not your wife."

"No," Philip shook his head. "You are. To me you still are. If Denise's memories of us together still exist, then she still exists. What are we, if not memories? You are my wife, Denise, and I still love you."

A worm wriggled out of the corner of Denise's left eye. Philip tried to ignore it.

"You know what I miss the most? The little things. Watching a movie together or taking a walk. Talking-not like we're doing now, but really talking to each other. You know? Holding your hand. Watching you while you sleep."

He leaned forward.

"What are you doing?" Denise snarled.

"Holding your hand, the way I used to."

Her left hand fluttered against the bedpost, tied right at the wrist and again at the elbow. He took her hand in his. The skin was cold and clammy, but still felt like Denise. If he closed his eyes, he could picture them walking around the lake together, hand in hand, just like this.

He squeezed.

Denise squeezed back. Hard. Philip's knuckles popped. Her laughter sounded like rustling leaves. Champ howled.

Philip gasped. "You're hurting me."

Denise began to sing. "I wanna hold your haaand. I wanna hold your hand."

"Stop it!" Philip yanked his hand free and backed away from the bed.

"Come on, darling," Denise t.i.ttered. "You remember the words, don't you?"

Philip rubbed his fingers. They felt greasy. His pulse was racing, and he fought to keep his emotions in check. A tear rolled down his face.

"Why are you doing this? Tell me, Denise. Why? Can't things be the way they were?"

"Why are you holding me like this," the zombie countered. "Keeping me here? Why not just let me go?"

"Because we made a promise," he whispered. "Till death do us part? That was our vow. But not even death kept us apart. You died-when that kid bit you on the arm, you got sick and you died. But you came back. You're still here. You're still with me. Till death do us part."

He went to the kitchen and selected the biggest knife in the drawer. Then he fed Champ for the last time, a mixture of dog food and rat poison. Champ gulped it down, wagging his tail. Philip returned to the bedroom and sat down in the chair again. He ran the blade across his wrists, and then slashed his own throat.

Philip died with their wedding vow on his lips.

His soul departed- -and something else took its place.

The thing inside Philip sat up, examined his body, and then looked at Denise. It freed her corpse, and they began to hunt, free, unchained, and together in death-never to part.

III: The Viking Plays Patty Cake The air burned their lungs, thick with smoke from the fires-and the stench of the dead.

Chino pushed a branch out of the way and peered through the bushes. "What's wrong with him?"

"Don't know." King shrugged. "He ain't a zombie. Looks more like a Viking."

They studied the giant on the park bench. He was impressive; early forties but in good shape, well over six feet tall, decked out in tattoos and earrings. His hands clutched an M-1 Garand, the barrel still smoking from the round he'd just drilled into a zombie. The creature sprawled on the ground ten feet away-minus its head. The gra.s.s and pavement were littered with more bodies. An a.s.sortment of weapons lay scattered on the bench; two more rifles, four grenades, a dozen handguns, and boxes of ammunition for each. Next to those was a large backpack, filled with bottled water and food.

The Viking sat like a statue, his eyes roving and watchful. Another zombie closed in on him from the right. The rifle roared and the creature's head exploded.

The Viking never left the bench. He brought down three more before the rest of the creatures fell back. From their vantage point, Chino and King heard one of the monsters ordering others to find guns. Several of them raced off.

The Viking began muttering to himself. "Patty cake, patty cake . . . "

Chino crouched back down. "The f.u.c.k is wrong with him? Why don't he hide?"

"I don't know," King said. "Maybe he's crazy."

"Got an awful lot of firepower," Chino observed. "We could use that s.h.i.t."

"Word."

The Viking fired another shot. From far away, deep inside the city, more gunfire echoed.

Chino's fingers tightened around his .357. "That the Army guys shooting?"

"Maybe," King said. "They've been trying to take the city back. Held it up to the railroad tracks down on Eight Mile, but then they got overrun by them things."

Chino shook his head. "Why bother. Ain't n.o.body in charge anymore. Why don't they just bail?"