The Rising: Deliverance, page 6
“Jim Thurmond, and yeah, let’s get off the street.”
A hungry cry, followed by another, was all the incentive they needed.
Well, Martin thought. They know I’m here now. Just a matter of time before they find my hiding place.
“Is this your church, Reverend?”
Martin smiled again. “It’s God’s church. I just work here.”
***
Martin fixed Jim a makeshift bed using blankets and a pew. He tried not to think about the fact that it was the pew where Becky had slept, and that it was her blankets that the new arrival was now using. He tried to remember the sound of her voice, and was alarmed to find that he couldn’t. Desperate, he tried to remember how she had felt that last night, but the only image that came to mind was her head exploding.
Jim resisted Martin’s efforts, insisting that he only needed to rest for a moment. Then he promptly fell into a deep but troubled sleep. Martin sipped instant coffee and stood watch over him, listening to the occasional shriek of the things outside.
Shortly before noon, a wandering zombie discovered Becky’s corpse and began to feed on her remains. Martin watched in revulsion as, like ants, more of the creatures emerged, attracted to the feast. Occasionally, the zombies glanced around at the surrounding houses and the church. Martin wondered if they would finally be moved to investigate his sanctuary, but they seemed satisfied with the free lunch. An hour later, when the knot of fetid things had finally scattered, nothing remained of Becky except bones and a few red bits, smeared across the sidewalk and grass.
***
Jim awoke at sundown, alarmed at first. His expression was frantic. He sat up, looking around the church in panic. Martin smiled at him in the candlelight, trying to project calmness and reassurance.
“Here you go.” Martin handed him a steaming cup of coffee that he’d just heated downstairs. “It’s not very good, but I reckon it’ll wake you up.”
“Thanks,” Jim nodded. He sipped it and took in the surroundings. “Pretty secure. You do all these fortifications yourself?”
Martin laughed softly. “Yes, by the grace of God, but not by myself. We managed to get the place squared away before it got bad. I had some help. John, our janitor and handyman—the church caretaker. He’s the one who got the windows boarded over.”
“Where is he now?”
Martin’s expression clouded. He didn’t speak for a moment.
“I don’t know,” he said finally. “Dead I suppose. Or undead, more likely. He left two weeks ago. Insisted on getting his pickup truck. He’d planned on driving us out of here. He was convinced that this was a localized problem, and thought the government might have this section of the state cordoned off. He thought there had to be a safe zone out there. Some place where this wasn’t happening. John figured we should make for Beckley or Lewisburg, or maybe Richmond. I never saw him again.”
“It’s like this everywhere, as far as I can tell,” Jim told him. “I—I came from Lewisburg.”
“On foot too, it would seem,” Martin commented in wonderment. “How did you manage that?”
“I almost didn’t,” Jim admitted. “I was on auto-pilot, I guess.”
“These are times when men are forced to do what they must.” Martin sighed. “I had hoped that maybe John was right. That maybe it was different elsewhere. I prayed for a ham radio set, or even a decent pair of those AM/FM headphones I see the kids wearing, just so I could know what was happening. I’ve had no contact with folks, and the power has pretty much been out, except for a few streetlights here and there. I heard a plane go overhead a few days ago, but that’s been it.”
“The power was still on in Lewisburg—or at least it was when I left. I had radio, TV, and the internet. They’re worthless though. There’s nothing—no one. As for this being a localized event, it’s been going on over a month. I think they’d have had troops in here by now, if that was the case.”
Martin thought about this, then excused himself and disappeared into the side room next to the altar. Normally, it was where the acolyte, scripture reader and lay speaker sat before the service began. Since John and Rebecca’s departure, Martin had been using it to store food and water, so that he wouldn’t have to go downstairs as much. Going downstairs and eating breakfast in the church kitchen filled him with loneliness.
Returning, Martin offered Jim a meal of Oreo cookies, bread, animal crackers, and warm grape juice for dinner.
“I got the cookies and crackers from the Sunday School room,” he explained. “The bread and juice were for supposed to be for communion, but I don’t think the Lord will mind.”
They ate in silence. After a few minutes, Martin caught Jim staring at him.
“Why?” Jim asked.
“Why what?”
“Why did God let this happen? I thought the end of the world was supposed to be when Russia invaded Israel and you couldn’t buy anything without having a 666 on your credit card.”
“That’s one interpretation,” Martin said. “But you’re talking about end-time prophecy and you’ve got to remember, there are many, many different ideas about what it all means.”
“I thought that when the Rapture happened, the dead would return to life? Isn’t that what’s happening now?”
“Well, the actual word ‘Rapture’ never occurs in the Old or New Testament. That came along much later. But yes, the Bible does speak of the dead returning to life, after a fashion, to live with the Lord upon his return.”
“No offense Reverend, but if He’s returned, then He’s made a hell of a mess of things.”
“But that’s just it, Jim. The Lord hasn’t returned—at least, not yet. What’s happening isn’t of God. It’s of Satan, who was given mastery over the Earth. Yet even in this, we must stand firm and trust in the will of the Lord.”
“Do you believe that, Reverend Martin? Do you really believe that this is God’s will?”
Martin paused, choosing his words carefully.
“If you’re asking me if I believe in God, Jim, then yes. Yes I do. But more importantly, I believe that there is a reason for everything, good and bad. Despite what you may have heard, bad things are not caused by God. When there’s a tornado, that isn’t God’s will. But it’s his love and power that gives us the strength to carry on in the tornado’s wake, and it’s that same love that will get us through now. I believe we have been spared for a reason.”
But do I really believe that? Martin thought. Is there really a reason we’ve been spared? Do I dare believe it anymore? I’ve sat here, waiting for deliverance, waiting for God to show me what He wants me to do, and look at what its cost. Have I been a fool all this time?
“I have a reason, alright.” Jim nodded, standing. “My son is alive, and I’ve got to make it to New Jersey and save him. Thanks for the meal and the shelter, Reverend, and more importantly, thanks for saving my ass today. I’d like to pay you, if you’ll let me. I don’t have much, but I’ve got some extra sardines and Tylenol in my pack—”
“Your son is alive?” Martin repeated. “How can you be sure? New Jersey is a long way off.”
“He called me last night on my cell phone.”
Martin stared at Jim, unable to speak. Something stirred deep inside of him. For the first time since Rebecca’s departure, he felt hope.
“I know it sounds crazy,” Jim said, “but it happened! He’s alive and hiding out in my ex-wife’s attic. I’m got to get to him.”
Slowly, Martin rose from the pew.
“Then I’ll help you.”
“Thanks Martin. Really, thanks. But I can’t ask you to do that. I need to move quickly, and I don’t want—”
“Nonsense,” Martin interrupted. “You asked me about God’s will and the meaning in all of this. Well, it’s His will that you received that call, and it’s His will that kept you alive to receive it. And it’s also His will that I help you.”
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You’re not asking me. God is.” Martin stamped his foot, then more quietly, said, “I feel this in my heart.”
Jim stared at him, unflinching. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his tired face.
“All right.” He reached out a hand. “If it is God’s will and everything, I guess I can’t stand in the way of that.”
They shook hands, and sat back down.
“So what’s your plan?” Martin asked.
“We need a vehicle. I don’t reckon the church has one that we could use?”
“No,” Martin shook his head. “That’s why John left. To get his truck. But there’s plenty in the streets and driveways.”
“I don’t suppose a man of the cloth knows how to hotwire one?”
“No, but there’s a dealership just off the interstate. We could get one there, keys and everything. It sits right off Interstate Sixty-Four. The lights were still on there, last time I checked. You can see the lights at night on the horizon.”
“Works for me,” Jim said, mulling it over. “When can we make a move? I can’t waste any more time.”
“We’ll leave tonight,” Martin said. “Those things don’t really sleep, but the darkness will give us more cover. That’s how I’ve avoided discovery so far. I stay quiet, watch for them during the day, and sleep at night. With the boards over the windows, they can’t spot the candlelight, and I’ve been careful not to give them a reason to be curious.”
“Well, let’s hope that luck holds.”
“I told you, Jim. It’s not luck—it’s God. All you have to do is ask Him.”
Jim began reloading his pistol. “In that case Pastor Martin, I’m going to ask for an armored tank.”
Martin smiled, thinking about prayers, and how God always answered them, eventually. Sometimes, the answer wasn’t what you expected, or even wanted, but you got an answer all the same. All one had to do was wait for it. Perhaps Jim would indeed get his tank before this was through. Martin would pray for that, as well. When Jim spoke of his son, Martin was reminded of Mark and William. There was nothing greater than a father’s love for his children, because it was in that love that hope sprang eternal.
Jim remained focused on his weapon. Martin left him to his thoughts and bowed his head.
Thank you for my deliverance, Lord. I see now why You had me wait here and what it is You would have me do, and I am grateful and honored for the task. Your will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven. And if it pleases You, Father, answer this man’s prayers, as well. Let us find his son, happy and healthy, and let the two of them be reunited and find a deliverance of their own.
Afterword
For a guy who keeps swearing that he’s done with zombies, I sure do seem to still be writing about them a lot.
In case you’ve been living under a rock or in a coma for the last decade, most critics and media-watchers agree that the current uber-zombie craze in pop culture (books, movies, comics, television, games, trading cards, clothing, food, philosophy, college courses, etc.) is at least partially my fault. Almost fifteen years ago, the publication of my first novel, The Rising, coincided with the release of a movie called 28 Days Later and a comic book called The Walking Dead. All three featured different kinds of zombies, which was okay with most people, since nobody else had done much with zombies for the decade or so leading up to their releases. All three were big hits within their respective media. City of the Dead, my sequel to The Rising, followed soon after, and so did a lot of other books and movies and comics. And they haven’t gone away. Indeed, there seem to be more of them than ever. There are now publishing companies that publish nothing but zombie literature and authors who write about nothing but the living dead.
I had a chance to do the same. In truth, I could have probably made a very good living (meaning a lot more money than what I make now) doing for zombies what Anne Rice did for vampires, and just written zombie novels, but doing so didn’t appeal to me. I didn’t want to be typecast. I didn’t want to become ‘The Zombie Guy.’ I wanted to write about other monsters and other situations. So I did. And a lot of other people came along and wrote about zombies instead and made a lot of money doing so, while I wrote about things like ghouls and un-killable Russian mobsters and giant, carnivorous earthworms. In hindsight, those other authors might have been a lot smarter than me.
Occasionally, I did indeed return to writing about zombies. I tried my hand at the traditional “Romero-style” undead (with Dead Sea) and returned to the world of The Rising with a collection of thirty-two original short stories that all took place in that world, called The Rising: Selected Scenes From the End of the World. After that, I decided I was really burned out on zombies. Upon reflection, though, I wasn’t so much burned out as I was written-out. I didn’t want to just repeat the same story over and over again (which is the risk any author or filmmaker runs when dealing with the undead—or any other genre trope). So I proclaimed myself as ‘DONE WITH ZOMBIES.’
And I fucking damn well meant it, too…
…except that people kept offering me money to write about zombies one more time. It’s hard to say no to money. I like money. I’m a big fan. With two ex-wives and two sons and a metric fuck-ton of debt, I have no choice but to be a big fan of money. So I’ve returned to zombies a few more times since then, but only when I thought I had an original idea (such as my comic series The Last Zombie, which deals with the aftermath of a zombie apocalypse, after the dead are all dead again) and my novel Entombed (which takes place in the world of Dead Sea and deals with bunker mentality and the psychological ramifications of surviving a zombie apocalypse). But when I pause to consider those two works, it occurs to me that the zombies are nothing more than window dressing. They appear only briefly in Entombed, and don’t appear at all in The Last Zombie (except in flashbacks). So maybe I really am done with zombies, after all.
What I’m not done with, however, is characters. The Reverend Thomas Martin has always been a personal favorite character of mine (along with a handful of other characters such as Adam Senft, Levi Stoltzfus, Timmy Graco, Teddy Garnett, Whitey Putin and Tony Genova). I’m quite fond of Reverend Martin, and nobody was more surprised than I was when—SPOILER ALERT—he died in the first few chapters of City of the Dead. I did not see that coming.
I’ve written a lot of novels since then, but occasionally, I’d find my thoughts returning to Martin. I knew his story wasn’t over yet, even though he was dead. I knew there was a lot more to him than what readers saw in The Rising and City of the Dead. I knew that some of the more interesting parts of his saga took place before the events in those books, and I’m glad I’ve finally gotten the chance to write about them here in this prequel.
The Rising: Deliverance isn’t a story about zombies. It’s a story about people. And fate. And faith. And doubt. And all the other things that define us and make us human. It’s a story of the things that shaped Reverend Thomas Martin before readers met him in The Rising. It’s about the real reason he agreed to go with Jim in search of Danny. You might have enjoyed it. You might not have. But I can tell you that I enjoyed writing it.
I wrote this prequel in 2010, which was a terrible year for me. At the time, I’d been seriously considering retiring from writing. There were times, when the going got especially tough, that urge to quit was overwhelmingly strong, and you will never know how close I came to acting on it. But instead of running away, I fled to the place where it all began—the world of The Rising—and returned to a character that has always been near in my head and my heart—the Reverend Thomas Martin. Writing about him restored my faith in what I do and gave me hope that it’s worthwhile. Seeing him again, if only for this brief novella, gave me my own form of deliverance. And I needed that.
I hope it did something for you, as well.
As always, thanks for buying this and for all of your support. It is always appreciated. I’ll keep writing them if you keep reading them.
Brian Keene
December 2014
Author's Note
As a special bonus, here are two short stories featuring another character from the world of The Rising – Ob, a member of the Thirteen and the malevolent leader of the Siqqusim.
The first story, “The Resurrection and The Life”, is a remake of chapter eleven of the Book of John, which tells the story of how Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead. Of course, unlike the version in the Bible, this retelling features the addition of Ob.
The second story, “The Siqqusim Who Stole Christmas”, also stars Ob, but in addition, it guest stars two other recurring characters of mine—Tony Genova and Vince Napoli. These organized crime enforcers have previously appeared in the short stories “Crazy for You” and “Marriage Causes Cancer in Rats”, as well as the novels Clickers II, Clickers III, and Clickers vs. Zombies (the latter of which also features Ob).
Enjoy!
The Resurrection and the Life
And so the Jewish priests accused the Rabbi, who was called Jesus, of blasphemy and tried to stone him. Jesus and his disciples fled Jerusalem for their very lives. Escaping to the borders of Judea, they crossed over the Jordan River to the place where John had been baptized in the early days. There they set up camp, safe from the law, and Jesus began to teach again.
Many curious people came to the site over the next four days. Some just wanted to listen to what Jesus had to say. Others had heard rumors of miracles—that he’d made a blind man see, touched a lame little girl and commanded her to throw away her crutches, cast out demons and walked across water. They flocked to the riverbank hoping for a glimpse, hoping to see something miraculous so that they could tell their children and grandchildren about it in years to come. They longed to say, “I was there the day Jesus of Nazareth made the sky rain blood. He split a rock with his staff and brought forth water. He touched your father’s stump and his arm sprang forth anew. Serpents flee before him.”
