The Rising: Selected Scenes From the End of the World (16 page)

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.

* * *

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.

The Rising

Day Thirty-Two

Aurora, Colorado

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

The Labyrinth

Day One

The City Between Worlds

Robert Lewis, Bob to his friends, and Cyber-Bob to his online buddies, opened his eyes, amazed that he could still see. Indeed, amazed he still
had
eyes. He remembered them popping, running down his charred face as the second sun burned everything in Aurora—humans, zombies, plants, and insects alike. The last thing he’d seen were the walls of his parents’ home, turning to ash.

Bob looked around. He was in an empty room carved out of gray, stone blocks. A pale half-moon shining through the room’s lone window provided his only source of light. The air was damp and cold.

“This is Heaven?” His voice echoed off the walls. Bob considered himself a Christian—a Catholic. He was open-minded and respected other beliefs, as long as people did the same for him. He disagreed with some of the church’s dogma, but Bob knew his Bible, and he didn’t remember Heaven being described like this. His personal vision of the perfect afterlife had always involved a really big library with comfortable chairs and fireplaces and an endless supply of books, both for reading and writing (he enjoyed both).

He went to the window. A thick layer of gray clouds floated so far below that he almost mistook them for mountaintops. Bob glanced up at the moon, hanging alone in the darkness, with no stars to keep it company. Not even the flashing lights of a passing airplane.

Then the moon blinked.

Gasping, Bob leapt backward and collided with something else. Something in the room, that hadn’t been there before.