The Rising: Deliverance, page 5
He looked around and saw a pile of lawn fertilizer bags stacked against one wall. Martin placed a sheet of plywood down over the grate and then, with some difficulty due to his arthritis, moved the fertilizer bags on top of it. By the time he was done, his face was lathered in sweat and he was panting hard. His chest gave a few quick pains, but there was no flare-up like before.
“Whew.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “That should do the trick.”
“I hope so,” Becky said. “What if one of the human zombies comes through the tunnel, though?”
“I don’t think they can get enough leverage from the bottom of the shaft. But I’ll tell you what. Just in case, maybe we should make some kind of early warning system.”
“Like what?”
Martin moved over to the tool bench and picked up a coffee can full of nails, screws and other miscellaneous bits. He sat it on top of the fertilizer bags, and then added some aerosol cans and other junk. Then he stood back and admired his handiwork.
“There. Now if any of them do manage to push through the blockade, we’ll hear them coming when all of this crashes to the floor. Feel better about things?”
“Yes, I do. Thank you, Thomas. I’m just…like I said before, I don’t know what I’d do without you here. You must be thirsty. Let me get you something to drink.”
He nodded, too unsure of his own emotions to respond, not knowing what he’d say if he tried.
***
Dinner that night was something special—a vegetable stew Becky made from cans of corn, green beans, peas, diced tomatoes, carrots, chick peas and beef broth. When Martin swirled his plastic spoon around the bowl and saw the bounty, he was surprised.
“Becky, are you sure that you should have used all this? Shouldn’t we be rationing our canned goods?”
“This is a special occasion.”
“It is?”
“Sure, it is. You killed a zombie today. Kept us safe.”
Martin grinned. “It wasn’t much, really. To be honest, I was terrified. Thought for sure I was going to have a heart attack there for a moment.”
“You did fine. I thought I’d repay your bravery with something other than canned tomato soup and communion wafers.”
“Well, I do appreciate it, Rebecca.” He spooned a mouthful and groaned with delight. “It’s delicious.”
“Good. I’m glad you like it.”
“Oh, I do. I’m just worried about our supplies. Are you certain we have enough to last? And what will we do with the leftover soup? We can’t refrigerate it.”
“We have plenty. And we’ve been starving ourselves. I don’t think there will be any leftovers tonight.”
Martin’s smile broadened. “Gluttony is a sin.”
Becky returned his smile. “So are a lot of things.”
***
She came to him that night after he’d fallen asleep. He awoke to the sounds of her stirring, of cloth on skin. Her pew creaked and groaned when she stood up. She was nude. Even in the darkness, Martin could tell that. And when she took his trembling hand and placed it on her breast, he felt it, as well. Her nipple stiffened beneath his fingers, and she moaned softly.
“Becky… Rebecca… I…”
“Make love to me, Thomas. Please?”
“Becky…”
He pulled his hand away and she flinched. Martin sat up in the pew and turned away. She reached for him, cupped his chin in her hand, and turned him back toward her.
“What’s wrong, Thomas?”
“We can’t. I can’t. It’s not right.”
“It’s not wrong, either. We don’t need to talk about it, Thomas. It doesn’t even need to mean anything. But I’m scared and I’m lonely and I’m cold, and I need to feel something. I need to feel somebody. I need to feel loved, and wanted. And safe. If only for a little while. Please?”
“Rebecca, listen to me. It’s not that I don’t find you attractive, and it’s not that I don’t want you. Believe me, I’ve thought about it. The Lord knows that.”
“Is that it? Your faith? Martin, God won’t care. He knows that it’s right.”
“No, Rebecca. It’s not right.”
“I’ll beg, if you want me to. Please, Thomas. We don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow. The zombies could figure out we’re inside here and break in. We could run out of food. You said you almost had a heart attack today. We don’t know what will happen.”
“But we don’t know what will happen tomorrow anyway, Rebecca. It doesn’t take the end of the world to feel that way. Life is uncertainty. That’s why it’s important to be strong in your faith. We can be gone in an instant.”
“Do you think I don’t know that?” Her breasts jiggled as she talked. Martin couldn’t help but look at them. Something stirred in his gut.
“Everyone we know and love is dead,” Becky continued, “or worse, they’re one of those things outside. Everything and everyone is gone. Our friends. Our family members. And now John is gone, too, and it’s just us. We’re alone here, and we could be next. You could be gone tomorrow. I could be, too. I don’t want to die, Thomas. I want to live. I want to feel alive. Make me feel alive. Make me feel good, even if just for a little while. Please do this for me?”
She moved closer, leaning toward him. Her nipples brushed against his whiskered cheek. Groaning, Martin turned away. He felt himself stiffen, even as his eyes filled with tears. Becky reached down, grabbed his wrist, and before Martin was aware of what was happening, she guided his hand between her legs. Martin sighed. She was slick and warm there, and her wetness dribbled down the inside of her thighs and across his fingers.
“I can’t,” he moaned. He tried to pull his hand away, but his body resisted. “Please stop this, Rebecca. Please don’t do this to me.”
“Why not? What’s so wrong with me? I don’t understand.”
“It’s not you. It’s me.”
She tried to guide his fingers to her swollen clitoris, but Martin yanked free, and clutched his wrist as if he’d been burned. Rebecca glared at him as if she’d been slapped.
“It’s not you, it’s me? You’re really going to use that old cliché, Thomas?”
“It’s true. It’s not that I don’t find you desirable, Rebecca. I do. I meant what I said. You’re a beautiful woman, and any man would be lucky to have you as his wife. But that’s just it. I already have a wife. I’m married.”
Her brow furrowed in confusion. “Chesya? But she’s… Martin, she’s been gone how many years now?”
“I know. And I know that I should move on. You’re not the first person who has told me that. But in my heart, we’re still married. I still love her. Believe me, I’d like to move on. I’d like to find deliverance—to be able to live and love again. But I can’t. When I’m with you, I think of her. I just miss her so much. I’ve asked the Lord to give me something to take her off my mind. I’ve prayed for a new task that I might focus on, but none is forthcoming. I want to be with her, and I can’t. It’s not fair!”
His tears flowed freely then. Martin tried to say more, tried to explain, but his words were lost in sobs.
Becky said nothing. She stood over him, watching him cry. She reached out a tentative hand, but Martin waved her away. After a few minutes, she returned to her pew and got dressed in silence. Then she returned.
“It’s okay, Reverend. I understand, and I’m sorry.”
Sniffling, Martin wiped his nose with his sleeve. He noticed that she was back to calling him by his title rather than his name.
“Don’t be sorry, Becky. I’m the one who should be apologizing.”
“No, don’t you dare. This was my fault. I had no right. I just…I thought you felt the same way.”
“I wish I could,” Martin whispered. “You don’t know how much I wish that.”
Becky smiled at him, but her mouth was tight and the gesture wasn’t reflected in her eyes.
“It’s okay,” she said again. “We don’t have to talk about it anymore. I’ll sleep downstairs tonight.”
“Are you sure? You don’t have to—”
“I want to. I need to. You’re hurting, Martin, but I’m hurting too.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s all right. I’ll be okay. I just need some time to myself. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“I’ll see you in the morning.”
Martin nodded. “Yes. I’ll see you then. We can talk more about it at breakfast, if you like.”
“There’s nothing more to say,” Becky reassured him. “I’ll be okay. I will. Just give me a little space. Tomorrow is another day. Good night, Martin.”
“Good night, Rebecca. I’ll see you in the morning.”
***
The next morning, when Martin awoke, Becky was gone. An investigation of the boiler room showed that she’d moved the blockade aside and gone out the same way John had. She left a note in the kitchen, and had placed the jar of instant coffee on top of it to insure that Martin would find it. He picked up the paper with shaking hands, and read it.
Dear Reverend Martin,
I’m sorry again about what happened tonight. I didn’t mean to do that to you. I didn’t know. But I do now, and I understand. Chesya was a lucky woman to have you in her life. She was lucky to have a man who loved her the way you still do. It occurs to me that maybe she’s lucky in other ways, too. She died before any of this happened, so she didn’t end up like everyone else who has died. Perhaps that was God’s will? Maybe he spared her from that fate by taking her home early, before everything fell apart. It’s like you always say, we can’t guess the mind of God.
I know that you feel that it’s the Lord’s will that we stay here. I believe that you believe this to be true. But I also know that I have to listen to my own heart and my own head, and hope that what I’m feeling is God making His will known to me. Because what I’m feeling right now is heartbreak. I need to leave this place. I can’t stay here anymore. Not after what just happened. We’d always have that hanging in the air between us, and even if it remained unspoken, it would still be there. Eventually, it would poison us, and I don’t want that to happen. I want you to have a clear conscience, so that when God does reveal your deliverance from this place, you are clear-headed enough to know it.
I took some of the food and water. Just enough to get me by until I find some more. I’m leaving the shotgun. I don’t know how to use it, anyway. I’m taking the pick-axe from the boiler room.
Don’t look for me, Thomas. Don’t come outside. If you truly believe that God wants you to wait here, then please don’t let me jeopardize that. I couldn’t bear it if I made you doubt the will of the Lord, on top of the hurt I’ve already caused you. And don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay. Yes, I know very well what will probably happen to me out there, but I also know that it won’t matter, because I’ll be with God. Our friends and loved ones will be there, too. So will Chesya. We’ll all be waiting for you.
Love,
Rebecca
Sighing, Martin read it again, letting the words sink in. Then, crumpling the note into a ball, he cast it aside and screamed.
“Why have you forsaken me, Lord? Why have you let this happen? First John, and now Rebecca. What do you want of me? What am I waiting for? What is it that you want me to do? I have prayed and begged for deliverance, and yet you stay silent. You never talk to me! Why me, Lord? Please, please give me an answer. Let me know your will. Please…”
His cries faded. Grief-stricken, Martin ran out of the kitchen and dashed up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He went to the peephole, knowing it was already too late, but looking anyway. He wept at what he saw.
Rebecca was gone.
The dead were not. They milled about, wandering in and out of his view. Martin watched them, blinking away tears and trying to stifle his sobs. Gradually, he became aware of a far-off droning sound. As it drew nearer, he realized what it was.
An airplane. He wondered who was in it and where they were coming from, and where they were going. Who were these hardy survivors and how had they managed to commandeer an air-plane? Then he realized that their identity and story wasn’t important. What mattered was that they were alive.
Somewhere overhead, life went on.
And somewhere above that, his loved ones were waiting for him.
Four
Martin stared at Jesus on the cross and thought about resurrection.
Lazarus had lain dead in his tomb for four days before Jesus came along. Martin opened his Scofield Reference Bible and turned to the Book of John. In Chapter 11, Verse 39, Martha told Jesus “by this time he stinketh; for he hath been dead four days.”
That was pretty specific.
So was the account of Jesus bringing Lazarus back from the dead. “Lazarus come forth!” and the dead man did just that, still bound in grave clothes. Jesus then commanded the crowd to turn Lazarus loose, after which John dropped the narrative and moved on to the conversion of the Jews and the Pharisee conspiracy.
Nowhere in the Bible did it say Lazarus went around eating people.
The Bible that Martin had known, taught, and loved for the last forty years was full of examples of the dead coming back to life. But not like this.
“He that believes in me shall have eternal life,” Martin spoke aloud. His voice sounded very small in the empty church. He wondered again if the things he had glimpsed in the street were still believers.
John and Rebecca had been gone for two weeks. As he’d done every day since they’d departed, he prayed for their safety and for their souls. He wondered where they were now. Were they alive out there, in some new sanctuary free of a crazy old preacher who was so afraid to move on or go outside that he’d convinced himself—and almost convinced them—that it was God’s will that they sit here and starve to death? Or were they dead, their souls in Heaven and their bodies commandeered by demons from the Pit? And if so, would the zombie version of them come back here looking for him?
Filled with despair, Martin moved across the church to the boarded-over stained glass windows and peered through a knothole in the plywood.
And then he got an answer to his question.
Though not quite dawn, the darkness was already receding. Becky had finally returned. She had lost her dress. Now, she squatted among the shrubs, clad only in a filthy pair of once-white cotton panties. Martin closed his eyes, remembering how she’d felt against his skin, remembering her warmth and wetness. Those things were gone now, and this was a perversion of the woman who had loved him. Her sagging breasts swayed freely.
“Oh, Rebecca. I am so sorry. Please forgive me.”
She gnawed on a human forearm as if it were a chicken leg, and then cast it aside, staring off into the distance and moaning softly. Something had attracted her attention. Martin strained, trying to see what she was looking at.
A man appeared, cautiously limping down the street. His jeans and flannel shirt were dirty and torn. He clutched a pistol, but the weapon dangled limply by his side. He did not seem to notice the corpse moving in the shadows. Wearily, he collapsed to his knees on the sidewalk. The hedges rustled and Becky darted forward. Half-conscious, the man seemed unaware of the impending danger.
“Hey,” Martin shouted, beating his fists against the plywood. “Look out!”
Mouthing a quick prayer, he dashed into the narthex and struggled to move the heavy wooden pew propped against the door. For a brief moment, he considered exiting the church through the sewer tunnel, but that would take too long, and the man would be dead by the time he got outside. Sliding the pew aside, Martin grabbed the shotgun from the coat rack, undid the four recently installed deadbolts, and ran out into the street.
“Heads up,” Martin yelled. “Behind you!”
Hearing the commotion, the stranger turned as the zombie lurched toward him. He raised the pistol and fired. The bullet tore through Becky’s shoulder. Running across the yard, Martin ducked as the second shot missed its mark completely.
“Don’t shoot me,” he cried. “I’m not one of them.”
The man squeezed the trigger again, and missed once more. He fired a fourth time, but the clip was empty. Confused, he looked at the pistol, and then stared up at Becky.
She squealed with delight, and Martin shivered at the sound. Becky reached for her victim.
The man closed his eyes, and Martin heard him whisper, “I’m sorry, Danny.”
Martin slammed the shotgun into the creature’s back. Becky toppled face first to the sidewalk. Her now-yellowed teeth shattered on the pavement. Martin jacked a shotgun shell into the chamber, and placed the barrel against the base of the zombie’s skull. Becky screamed in rage.
“Go with God, Rebecca.”
He squeezed the trigger. Brain matter and skull fragments sprayed across the sidewalk like a Rorschach pattern. Martin closed his eyes, but it was too late. The image had already burned into his brain. The sun peeked over the rooftops and the roar of the shotgun echoed through the quiet streets, greeting the dawn.
I’m sorry, Martin thought. I’m so sorry…
He turned to the new arrival. “I’m afraid that’s going to attract attention. We’d best get inside.”
He held his hand out to the man, and the stranger took it. His grip was firm and his hands bore the calluses of a working man—possibly a farmer or mechanic or construction worker. Martin had shaken many hands over the years, as he greeted each parishioner after the sermon. He’d become a good judge of what a man did for a living just by the texture of their palms.
“Thank you, Father,” the man said.
“Pastor, actually,” Martin corrected him, smiling. “Reverend Thomas Martin. And there’s no need to thank me. Give your thanks to the Lord after we’re safe.”
