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

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

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

  Mike shook his head and sprayed a cloud of air 63

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  freshener. “I don’t think so. Not yet.”

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

  except talk about movies and books.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The zombie spat out a broken, yellowed tooth.

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

  “I hate guns.”

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  “Then crack my skull open and scoop out the brains!

  Burn me to ashes. Drill through my head. I don’t care how you do it. Just kill me!”

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

  “I told you—”

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

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

  “Anyway, the book was about these two guys—

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

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

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

  The zombie grinned. “Sounds beautiful.”

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

  “Did this character linger with this pain?”

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

  “And does he?”

  Before Mike could answer, there was a loud crack. Splinters of wood exploded from the front 65

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Why? There is much to be done.”

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

  66

  THE MAN COMES

  AROUND

  The Rising

  Day Eleven

  Fort Bragg, California

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Holding the beer in one hand and picking up his 68

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

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

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

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

  Terry sat the rifle aside, then bent down and petted him. He could carry Woody, he supposed. But he couldn’t work the lever on the rifle and fire it at the same time if he were carrying the dog. 69

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

  Woody flipped his tail in agreement.

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

  “What the fuck?”

  Yelping, Woody dashed for the bathtub.

  “Woody! Come back here right—”

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

  “Holy shit.”

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

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

  “It’s the army, Woody! We’re saved!”

  Without thinking, Terry ran to the front door and unlocked it. Still clutching the rifle, he flung the door 70

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  open. Barking, Woody dashed between his legs and ran outside.

  “Woody, wait!”

  The soldiers swiveled towards them.

  Terry dropped the rifle and held up his hands.

  “Don’t shoot. We’re not dead! Don’t—”

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

  “Woody!” Terry ran to him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Hey buddy, you okay?”

  Terry stared up at him with red-rimmed eyes.

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

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

  “Sorry about that.” The first soldier shook a cigarette out of its pack and fumbled for his lighter. “He 71

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  charged us, man. Thought he was a zombie. But cheer up. You’re rescued.”

  Terry coughed. “Rescued?”

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

  “Thank him?” Terry stumbled to his feet.

  “Sure, man. He’s leading the fight, you know?

  Making things safe again.”

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

  The other took a drag off his cigarette and pointed at Terry’s rifle, lying in the dirt. “You know how to use that thing? If so, we could use you.”

  Terry stooped and picked it up. He worked the lever.

  “Use it? Yeah, I know how to use it.”

  He pulled the trigger. The first soldier’s crotch turned red. Screaming, the man slumped to the ground, cigarette still dangling from his mouth.

  “Thank you, you son of a bitch! Thanks for rescuing us…”

  Terry thanked several more of them before they finally gunned him down. His body fell next to Woody’s. The troops made sure neither of them would get back up again.

  The armored column rolled on. When it had departed from sight, the zombie birds returned to feast on what remained of their bodies. 72

  THE SUMMONING

  The Rising

  Day Twelve

  Land O’ Lakes, Florida

  By noon, the rain had ended and the mercury skyrocketed again. The streets and sidewalks steamed in the heat. Outside the store, right along the main highway, a family of four cooked inside of their stalled vehicle. That slow, agonizing death was preferable to getting out of the car. The street was eerily quiet. Even the zombies seemed to have moved on, other than the dead birds which perched on the car, daring the family to open their doors or roll down a window.

  The family died in the shadow of Camelot Books. The building had once been an old GTE switching station, but Tony and Kim turned it into a bookstore. The walls were sixteen inches thick, and built to withstand hurricane force winds. A glass atrium, now blocked off with plywood and empty bookshelves, stood at the front of the store. Next door 73

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  was an old United Methodist church.

  The family’s reanimated corpses got out of the car and surveyed the street. Eventually, they moved on in search of prey.

  Camelot Books’ thick walls prevented the zombies from hearing the screams coming from inside the store.

  Before they opened the store, Tony had once owned a gun shop. He knew how to defend himself. But defense was an impossible thing when you were handcuffed to a desk leg. Kim was cuffed to the other side. The minister from next door was duct taped to a chair. Other people, mostly store customers and parishioners from next door, were bound upright to bookshelves.

  They watched in horror and revulsion as the skinny man sliced the girl’s throat.

  The skinny man was sweating profusely, from both the stifling heat and his own excitement. His long, stringy hair clung to his shirtless back. He pushed his thick, wire-rimmed glasses up on his bony nose and licked his lips in anticipation. After a minute, the girl died, her life-blood covering her clothing and the floor beneath her in a wet spray. A few minutes after that, she began to move again.

  And then the skinny man selected a pair of wire cutters from his vast array of tools, and proceeded to snip her fingers off, one by one.

  The zombie cursed him in an ancient language. Tony cursed him in a more modern tongue.

  “Why are you doing this?” he shouted. “You’re 74

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  as bad as they are!”

  The skinny man giggled. “I have been given the power of life over death.”

  “What?”

  “I can bring people back from the dead.”

  Kim coughed. “You’re insane.”

  “Am I?” The skinny man selected a filet knife, gave Tony and Kim a wink, and then moved on to his next victim, a middle-aged Hispanic man.

  “No,” the man pleaded. A wet spot appeared on the crotch of his pants. “Please. P
lease don’t do this. I’ve got a wife—kids. They’re still out there somewhere.”

  The skinny man leaned close to him and whispered in his ear. “They are dead, just like everybody else outside. But you don’t have to worry. I can give you something they will never have. I can bring you back.”

  The man closed his eyes. “Please, don’t. Please…

  please…please…”

  Sighing, the skinny man plunged the knife into his quivering victim. He twisted it savagely, and then sliced upward. The Hispanic man’s bowels spilled out onto the carpet.

  Kim screamed.

  “You should be grateful,” the skinny man told her. “You don’t know how lucky you are. All of you are. You get to be witnesses to the summoning.”

  Gritting his teeth, Tony strained against his bonds. The handcuffs cut into his skin, drawing blood. “You sick son of a—”

  “Ssshh.” The skinny man brought the bloody 75

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  knife to his lips and kissed it. “Be quiet. Be still. Don’t blaspheme. Just watch.”

  The preacher, who’d fallen unconscious before the girl was slain, finally stirred. He looked around in bewilderment, apparently forgetting their circumstances. “What’s happening?”

  “I am giving you what your Savior couldn’t,” the skinny man said. “I am offering life after death. I am summoning these souls back from the other side.”

  Kim rattled her handcuffs. “But—”

  “Watch.”

  The Hispanic man stirred. Something looked out through his dead eyes.

  “Release me,” the zombie demanded. The skinny man shook his head. “No.”

  Then he poked the zombie’s eyes out with a pair of needle-nose pliers.

  The corpse screamed in indignation. “You will pay for this, human! I will feast on your own eyes when I am freed.”

  “You’ll do no such thing.” The skinny man grasped its tongue with the pliers, and with his other hand, he sliced the organ off and held it up for the others to see. “If thine eye offends thee, pluck it out. If thy tongue offends thee, cut it out.”

  The preacher muttered the Lord’s Prayer under his breath.