The Rising: Deliverance, page 9
Now they were holed up in a converted bedroom in the tavern’s attic. Tjers was dead and buried in the snow, and Otar hadn’t shown. They had no one to guide them over the mountain path, and it looked like they were going home empty-handed—if they made it home at all. Their employer was going to be pissed. He didn’t like mishaps or mistakes. Their asses were grass and Marano was the lawnmower, unless Tony figured out how to salvage this whole mess.
Merry fucking Christmas.
On the television, cartoon characters jabbered in Finnish.
“All things considered,” Tony muttered, “I’d rather be in fucking Pittsburgh.”
“What was the dream about?” Vince asked.
Tony watched his obese partner shovel three double-stuffed Oreo cookies into his mouth at once, and sighed again.
“We were sitting in this little cafe in Atlantic City, waiting for Frankie Spicolli to show up. Then a bunch of crab-things straight out of a bad Sci-Fi Channel movie showed up and started killing people. They looked like a cross between a crab, lobster and scorpion.”
“Then what happened?”
Tony got out of bed and stretched. Then he smoothed his suit.
“Something about a fucking hurricane or some shit. I don’t remember. What the hell are you watching?”
Vince shrugged. “I don’t know. It ain’t in English. Pretty good, though. Kind of reminds me of Thomas the Tank Engine, except it’s got chicks in it. Look at the tits on her!”
“Very nice.”
“I was hoping they’d show that Rudolph cartoon.”
“The one with the Bumble?”
Vince’s eyes lit up. “Yeah, that’s the one! I always liked Bumble when I was a kid.”
Probably cause you’re about the same size, Tony thought. Then he said, “I liked Herbie, the elf that wanted to be a dentist. But then they did that stupid fucking sequel, with the Baby fucking New Year. Ruined the whole thing.”
Vince turned back to the television. “Seems like there’d be some kind of special program on, what with it being Christmas Eve and all. Santa lives near here, you know?”
“What?”
“Santa Claus,” Vince explained. “Everybody knows his reindeer stay in Finland during the year. There aren’t any reindeer at the North Pole.”
Tony paused before speaking. “Vince, there ain’t no fucking reindeer at the North Pole because there ain’t no Santa Claus.”
“You sound like my folks, back when I was a teenager. They tried to say there weren’t no Santa, too.”
“You still believe in Santa Claus?”
“Well, sure, Tony. Don’t you?”
“No, I don’t. And neither does anybody else over the age of nine. And probably not many of them anymore, either. Hard for a kid to believe in Santa when there’s people flying airplanes into buildings and shooting up schools. Jesus fucking Christ, Vince. You believe in the Easter Bunny, too?”
“No.” Vince sulked. “Everybody knows the Easter Bunny is make believe. But Santa Claus ain’t. He’s—”
A scream cut him off, followed by more. A gunshot echoed through the darkness.
“The fuck?” Tony grabbed his Sig-Sauer off the pine nightstand.
More screams and gunshots drifted up from the streets below. The gunfire didn’t surprise them. Gun ownership was fairly common in this part of the world, at least by European standards. What startled them was the sudden clattering sound on the roof.
“Turn that shit off,” Tony whispered. “Let’s see what’s the matter.”
The television screen went black. Vince pulled his Kimber 1911 and heaved his prodigious bulk out of the chair, staring at the ceiling. Meanwhile, Tony crept to the window and peered through the blinds.
“Anything?” Vince asked.
Tony shook his head. “Nothing. Sounds like a—wait a fucking second. What the hell?”
Outside, a reindeer was goring an old man in the stomach. When the animal raised its head, entrails hung from its bloody antlers. Before Tony could react, the noise on the roof grew louder.
“Cops?” Vince said, moving towards the chimney.
“Why the fuck would they be coming through the roof, Vince? No. This is something else.”
Something jingled in the night. Tony swore it was... sleigh bells.
There was a rustling noise from the roof. Soot and dirt tumbled down the chimney, sprinkling the fire and filling the air with dust. Vince sneezed and Tony’s eyes watered. The fire flared, and then sputtered. More debris fell down the chimney. Then they heard a scraping sound and a huge mound of snow fell onto the fire, extinguishing it. Smoke curled from the fireplace. Vince sneezed again and glanced at Tony.
Tony put his finger to his lips, and then motioned towards the fireplace. The two men tiptoed towards it, standing on either side with their handguns at the ready. A long shadow stretched down from the roof. The sleigh bells rang again. Vince started to speak, but Tony shushed him. More snow fell down the shaft, and then something scuffed against the sides of the chimney. The shadow lengthened. Whoever—whatever—was on the roof was coming down.
Moving as one, Vince and Tony backed away from the fireplace. Standing side by side, they extended their arms and clutched their weapons with both hands, holding the barrels steady. Their fingers rested lightly on the triggers. Neither man flinched. They barely breathed. They stood statue-still, waiting.
A figure crashed into the sodden remains of the fire, knocking burnt logs and ashes aside. Crouching, the intruder surveyed the two and cackled.
Tony had seen some bizarre shit in his time. Back home, he’d seen weird lights at night in the woods of LeHorn’s Hollow, which was supposed to be haunted. They’d hovered above the ground, no bigger than softballs, before zooming up into the sky and disappearing. There was other oddness, too. He and Vince used the services of a cannibal who lived in York, Pennsylvania to dispose of bodies when the occasion called for it. They’d once had to steal a diamond that burned your skin like acid if you touched it. Then there were the dreams—dreams he’d never told anyone about, not even Vince. Dreams that he’d lived in other times and places. Other worlds. Fighting weird crab-monsters and all sorts of other creatures.
But the figure that emerged from the fireplace was the strangest fucking thing Tony had ever seen.
It looked like Santa Claus—fat (though not as fat as Vince), red suit and hat, rosy cheeks and a beard. But that was where the similarities ended. This garish figure was better suited for Halloween than Christmas. His skin was pale—almost blue. Blood and gore had matted in the beard, and the rosy glow on his cheeks was more dried blood. Most telling was the gunshot wound in his chest. Tony glanced at it, remembering the shot they’d heard earlier. He’d seen men shot there before—had shot men there before. That wasn’t a wound you walked around with, let alone crawl across rooftops and drop down chimneys.
Tony tried to speak and couldn’t.
Vince summed it up for him, his voice tinged with unexpected delight.
“Santa Claus!”
“Ho, ho fucking ho. Time to die, humans. My brothers need your bodies.”
Vince paled. “Santa doesn’t curse.”
“I am not Santa. I am Ob the Obot, Lord of the Siqqusim and greatest of the Thirteen! Your time is over. For each of you that we kill, one of my kind will take your place. There are so many of us. More than infinity.”
Tony smirked. “Are all of them as fat as you?”
The man in red charged towards them.
Tony squeezed the trigger, aiming for the intruder’s belly. His mark was true, but Santa barely slowed. He grunted as the bullet slammed into him and ripped through his back, before hitting the brick wall behind him. Santa grinned and took another step forward.
“Tony, you can’t shoot Santa Claus!”
Tony barely heard his partner. The sound of the gunshot filled the room. Instead of responding, he fired again. Whoever this guy was, he was still standing despite two shots to the body. This time, he aimed for the face. Santa’s grin vanished in a wet explosion of red.
“Shoot the fucker, Vince!”
Santa tried to speak, but his lower jaw was missing. His tongue flopped uselessly, sliding across the shattered remnants of his upper teeth. He seized a fireplace poker and swung it at Tony. Tony dodged the blow, raised his pistol, and fired again. This time, he aimed for the fat man’s forehead.
He didn’t miss.
Santa uttered a short, garbled moan. Then he fell forward, face first onto the floor. His body twitched once and then he was still. Tony put a foot on his back and fired two more rounds into the back of his head at close range. Then he kicked him. Santa didn’t move.
Silence returned. The air was thick with wood smoke and gunpowder. Outside, the screaming continued.
“Jesus...” Vince leaned against the wall with one hand, panting. “I told you, Tony! See? There is so such a thing as Santa Claus.”
“No, Vince. There ain’t no fucking Santa Claus.”
He prodded the corpse with his shoe.
“At least, not anymore.”
Tony popped the magazine from his Sig-Sauer, slid a few more bullets into place, and then slammed it back home. He ran to the window and glanced outside. The slaughter continued in the streets as Santa’s dead helpers ran riot. Tony grabbed Vince by the arm.
“Come on. Let’s go kill ourselves some zombie reindeer.”
BRIAN KEENE writes novels, comic books, short fiction, and occasional journalism for money. He is the author of over forty books, mostly in the horror, crime, and dark fantasy genres. His 2003 novel, The Rising, is often credited (along with Robert Kirkman’s The Walking Dead comic and Danny Boyle’s 28 Days Later film) with inspiring pop culture’s current interest in zombies. In addition to his own original work, Keene has written for media properties such as Doctor Who, The X-Files, Hellboy, Masters of the Universe, and Superman.
Several of Keene’s novels have been developed for film, including Ghoul, The Ties That Bind, and Fast Zombies Suck. Several more are in-development or under option. Keene also oversees Maelstrom, his own small press publishing imprint specializing in collectible limited editions, via Thunderstorm Books.
Keene’s work has been praised in such diverse places as The New York Times, The History Channel, The Howard Stern Show, CNN.com, Publisher’s Weekly, Media Bistro, Fangoria Magazine, and Rue Morgue Magazine. He has won numerous awards and honors, including the World Horror Grand Master award, two Bram Stoker awards, and a recognition from Whiteman A.F.B. (home of the B-2 Stealth Bomber) for his outreach to U.S. troops serving both overseas and abroad. A prolific public speaker, Keene has delivered talks at conventions, college campuses, theaters, and inside Central Intelligence Agency headquarters in Langley, VA.The father of two sons, Keene lives in rural Pennsylvania.
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Afterword
Author's Note
The Resurrection and the Life
The Siqquism who stole Christmas
Brian Keene, The Rising: Deliverance
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Merry fucking Christmas.
On the television, cartoon characters jabbered in Finnish.
“All things considered,” Tony muttered, “I’d rather be in fucking Pittsburgh.”
“What was the dream about?” Vince asked.
Tony watched his obese partner shovel three double-stuffed Oreo cookies into his mouth at once, and sighed again.
“We were sitting in this little cafe in Atlantic City, waiting for Frankie Spicolli to show up. Then a bunch of crab-things straight out of a bad Sci-Fi Channel movie showed up and started killing people. They looked like a cross between a crab, lobster and scorpion.”
“Then what happened?”
Tony got out of bed and stretched. Then he smoothed his suit.
“Something about a fucking hurricane or some shit. I don’t remember. What the hell are you watching?”
Vince shrugged. “I don’t know. It ain’t in English. Pretty good, though. Kind of reminds me of Thomas the Tank Engine, except it’s got chicks in it. Look at the tits on her!”
“Very nice.”
“I was hoping they’d show that Rudolph cartoon.”
“The one with the Bumble?”
Vince’s eyes lit up. “Yeah, that’s the one! I always liked Bumble when I was a kid.”
Probably cause you’re about the same size, Tony thought. Then he said, “I liked Herbie, the elf that wanted to be a dentist. But then they did that stupid fucking sequel, with the Baby fucking New Year. Ruined the whole thing.”
Vince turned back to the television. “Seems like there’d be some kind of special program on, what with it being Christmas Eve and all. Santa lives near here, you know?”
“What?”
“Santa Claus,” Vince explained. “Everybody knows his reindeer stay in Finland during the year. There aren’t any reindeer at the North Pole.”
Tony paused before speaking. “Vince, there ain’t no fucking reindeer at the North Pole because there ain’t no Santa Claus.”
“You sound like my folks, back when I was a teenager. They tried to say there weren’t no Santa, too.”
“You still believe in Santa Claus?”
“Well, sure, Tony. Don’t you?”
“No, I don’t. And neither does anybody else over the age of nine. And probably not many of them anymore, either. Hard for a kid to believe in Santa when there’s people flying airplanes into buildings and shooting up schools. Jesus fucking Christ, Vince. You believe in the Easter Bunny, too?”
“No.” Vince sulked. “Everybody knows the Easter Bunny is make believe. But Santa Claus ain’t. He’s—”
A scream cut him off, followed by more. A gunshot echoed through the darkness.
“The fuck?” Tony grabbed his Sig-Sauer off the pine nightstand.
More screams and gunshots drifted up from the streets below. The gunfire didn’t surprise them. Gun ownership was fairly common in this part of the world, at least by European standards. What startled them was the sudden clattering sound on the roof.
“Turn that shit off,” Tony whispered. “Let’s see what’s the matter.”
The television screen went black. Vince pulled his Kimber 1911 and heaved his prodigious bulk out of the chair, staring at the ceiling. Meanwhile, Tony crept to the window and peered through the blinds.
“Anything?” Vince asked.
Tony shook his head. “Nothing. Sounds like a—wait a fucking second. What the hell?”
Outside, a reindeer was goring an old man in the stomach. When the animal raised its head, entrails hung from its bloody antlers. Before Tony could react, the noise on the roof grew louder.
“Cops?” Vince said, moving towards the chimney.
“Why the fuck would they be coming through the roof, Vince? No. This is something else.”
Something jingled in the night. Tony swore it was... sleigh bells.
There was a rustling noise from the roof. Soot and dirt tumbled down the chimney, sprinkling the fire and filling the air with dust. Vince sneezed and Tony’s eyes watered. The fire flared, and then sputtered. More debris fell down the chimney. Then they heard a scraping sound and a huge mound of snow fell onto the fire, extinguishing it. Smoke curled from the fireplace. Vince sneezed again and glanced at Tony.
Tony put his finger to his lips, and then motioned towards the fireplace. The two men tiptoed towards it, standing on either side with their handguns at the ready. A long shadow stretched down from the roof. The sleigh bells rang again. Vince started to speak, but Tony shushed him. More snow fell down the shaft, and then something scuffed against the sides of the chimney. The shadow lengthened. Whoever—whatever—was on the roof was coming down.
Moving as one, Vince and Tony backed away from the fireplace. Standing side by side, they extended their arms and clutched their weapons with both hands, holding the barrels steady. Their fingers rested lightly on the triggers. Neither man flinched. They barely breathed. They stood statue-still, waiting.
A figure crashed into the sodden remains of the fire, knocking burnt logs and ashes aside. Crouching, the intruder surveyed the two and cackled.
Tony had seen some bizarre shit in his time. Back home, he’d seen weird lights at night in the woods of LeHorn’s Hollow, which was supposed to be haunted. They’d hovered above the ground, no bigger than softballs, before zooming up into the sky and disappearing. There was other oddness, too. He and Vince used the services of a cannibal who lived in York, Pennsylvania to dispose of bodies when the occasion called for it. They’d once had to steal a diamond that burned your skin like acid if you touched it. Then there were the dreams—dreams he’d never told anyone about, not even Vince. Dreams that he’d lived in other times and places. Other worlds. Fighting weird crab-monsters and all sorts of other creatures.
But the figure that emerged from the fireplace was the strangest fucking thing Tony had ever seen.
It looked like Santa Claus—fat (though not as fat as Vince), red suit and hat, rosy cheeks and a beard. But that was where the similarities ended. This garish figure was better suited for Halloween than Christmas. His skin was pale—almost blue. Blood and gore had matted in the beard, and the rosy glow on his cheeks was more dried blood. Most telling was the gunshot wound in his chest. Tony glanced at it, remembering the shot they’d heard earlier. He’d seen men shot there before—had shot men there before. That wasn’t a wound you walked around with, let alone crawl across rooftops and drop down chimneys.
Tony tried to speak and couldn’t.
Vince summed it up for him, his voice tinged with unexpected delight.
“Santa Claus!”
“Ho, ho fucking ho. Time to die, humans. My brothers need your bodies.”
Vince paled. “Santa doesn’t curse.”
“I am not Santa. I am Ob the Obot, Lord of the Siqqusim and greatest of the Thirteen! Your time is over. For each of you that we kill, one of my kind will take your place. There are so many of us. More than infinity.”
Tony smirked. “Are all of them as fat as you?”
The man in red charged towards them.
Tony squeezed the trigger, aiming for the intruder’s belly. His mark was true, but Santa barely slowed. He grunted as the bullet slammed into him and ripped through his back, before hitting the brick wall behind him. Santa grinned and took another step forward.
“Tony, you can’t shoot Santa Claus!”
Tony barely heard his partner. The sound of the gunshot filled the room. Instead of responding, he fired again. Whoever this guy was, he was still standing despite two shots to the body. This time, he aimed for the face. Santa’s grin vanished in a wet explosion of red.
“Shoot the fucker, Vince!”
Santa tried to speak, but his lower jaw was missing. His tongue flopped uselessly, sliding across the shattered remnants of his upper teeth. He seized a fireplace poker and swung it at Tony. Tony dodged the blow, raised his pistol, and fired again. This time, he aimed for the fat man’s forehead.
He didn’t miss.
Santa uttered a short, garbled moan. Then he fell forward, face first onto the floor. His body twitched once and then he was still. Tony put a foot on his back and fired two more rounds into the back of his head at close range. Then he kicked him. Santa didn’t move.
Silence returned. The air was thick with wood smoke and gunpowder. Outside, the screaming continued.
“Jesus...” Vince leaned against the wall with one hand, panting. “I told you, Tony! See? There is so such a thing as Santa Claus.”
“No, Vince. There ain’t no fucking Santa Claus.”
He prodded the corpse with his shoe.
“At least, not anymore.”
Tony popped the magazine from his Sig-Sauer, slid a few more bullets into place, and then slammed it back home. He ran to the window and glanced outside. The slaughter continued in the streets as Santa’s dead helpers ran riot. Tony grabbed Vince by the arm.
“Come on. Let’s go kill ourselves some zombie reindeer.”
BRIAN KEENE writes novels, comic books, short fiction, and occasional journalism for money. He is the author of over forty books, mostly in the horror, crime, and dark fantasy genres. His 2003 novel, The Rising, is often credited (along with Robert Kirkman’s The Walking Dead comic and Danny Boyle’s 28 Days Later film) with inspiring pop culture’s current interest in zombies. In addition to his own original work, Keene has written for media properties such as Doctor Who, The X-Files, Hellboy, Masters of the Universe, and Superman.
Several of Keene’s novels have been developed for film, including Ghoul, The Ties That Bind, and Fast Zombies Suck. Several more are in-development or under option. Keene also oversees Maelstrom, his own small press publishing imprint specializing in collectible limited editions, via Thunderstorm Books.
Keene’s work has been praised in such diverse places as The New York Times, The History Channel, The Howard Stern Show, CNN.com, Publisher’s Weekly, Media Bistro, Fangoria Magazine, and Rue Morgue Magazine. He has won numerous awards and honors, including the World Horror Grand Master award, two Bram Stoker awards, and a recognition from Whiteman A.F.B. (home of the B-2 Stealth Bomber) for his outreach to U.S. troops serving both overseas and abroad. A prolific public speaker, Keene has delivered talks at conventions, college campuses, theaters, and inside Central Intelligence Agency headquarters in Langley, VA.The father of two sons, Keene lives in rural Pennsylvania.
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Afterword
Author's Note
The Resurrection and the Life
The Siqquism who stole Christmas
Brian Keene, The Rising: Deliverance
