The Risen

by Adam J. Smith

  “Bastard.”

  “Painful?”

  “But a scratch,” said Karl, picking up the Frisbee.

  “What are you, masochistic?”

  Throwing the Frisbee back; “No. Anyway, I mean punch. Incidentally, so much for your pacifism.”

  “When it comes to sports, that’s a different question.”

  “Alright, let’s say we’re boxing.”

  “No.”

  “Come on. It’s win-win. You can carry on calling yourself a pacifist because you’ll know what it’s like to punch someone on purpose – and be disgusted by it – unless you’re afraid you’ll enjoy it...”

  Nate laughed.

  Karl began to close the gap between them “... and I’ll have put the fear of being punched behind me so I can stop being such a fucking coward.”

  “I’m beginning to think I probably would enjoy it.”

  “So come on, just do it already.” The Frisbee went in hard towards Nate’s midriff, causing him to double up in the catch.

  “... a-a-a-and no.” Nate held on to the Frisbee and turned back towards his gear on the grass, but then Karl punched him on the arm.

  “Clever. Giving me a dead arm, that’ll work,” said Nate.

  Karl punched him in the face. “Shit, that fucking hurt,” he said, shaking his hand loose of painful bolts of shock in the knuckles.

  Nate turned about face and looked at Karl, his eyes beginning to well. His hand turned to a fist and he prepared to throw a punch.

  *****

  Nate woke, exhausted and starving; and not in some whimsical haven’t-had-anything-to-eat-since-breakfast-and-it’s-now-twelve-o’clock kind of way; actually starving. Early on-set catabolysis was wracking his body to shreds, his stomach atrophying and his muscles – now excess fat had been broken down – were being reabsorbed into his body just to keep it going. He gulped. Iron nails had grown inside his oesophagus and swallowing felt as though he was ripping his throat open. Where his deflated stomach sat below the ridge of his rib cage was a perfect invitation to a reaching hand, and it felt as though that hand had clawed through his large intestine, through his diaphragm, and up, and reached its hungry hands around his stomach and pulled it out, leaving a vast, ocean-sized hollow within him.

  His body cramped into the foetal position and rolled to the side, daylight crashing through the window and pouring acid into his eyes, which he clamped shut.

  I should be dead.

  Suddenly, The Smell hit his nostrils and he dry heaved, the convulsions in turn accentuating his pain and hunger and threatening to cascade his body into a spiralling free-fall, as pain beget pain beget further pain.

  More through exhaustion than anything else, he finally stopped convulsing. Dry eyes opened, slowly, and he turned his head to the floor to shade them. A pool of dried blood uncrusted itself against his face, and all he could see was red. After a while, his eyes balanced the light and he looked up, and saw more red; it was splashed against the decomposing bodies of his remaining family, and the thing that had killed them: on the cupboard doors and handles and the freezer compartment. In daylight, it was all too stark, and he stood, using his hands to steady himself on the kitchen floor, and he stumbled through the doorway into the living room before the convulsions could begin again. He collapsed and rolled on the living room rug in front of the gas fireplace – its enlightening source long since depleted in the network of pipes coursing beneath ground from house to house, mostly through the burning of pilot lights innocently left on – and reached for the plastic canisters of water. He twisted off the cap and drenched his face with the water, some of which he managed to swallow.

  He grabbed another canister and put it to his lips. This time he took care to drink the water.

  Stacked in the corner were all their remaining food supplies. Nate rushed over and ripped the boxes open; inside were stale packets of crackers and breadsticks. He opened these up and began to eat, washing it all down with water. It all scratched his throat as he swallowed, but he had to find a way to quell his hunger pains.

  A gush, a rising, he didn’t know how to describe it, came to course through his body as his stomach gladly took in the nourishment. It was a heat, and he could feel it touch his fingertips and spread to his face, as sweat started to mingle with the water from the canister.

  In another box, he found a tin of pineapple chunks and some tins of peaches. Sitting on the table where it could have gone unused until the collapse of the universe, a tin-opener. He grabbed it and freed the fruit.

  Its syrup was almost too sweet to bear, but he drank from each tin, his body thankful for the sugars. And then he ate every pineapple ring and peach quarter, until the tins were empty and he found himself feeling, if not totally, but somewhat satisfied. Again The Smell hit him, and in it, he could also smell the remnants of the neighbour’s burned down house.

  He stood and ran for the stairs, bolted up them and headed for the bathroom. A bucket in the corner of the landing, thankfully emptied of its contents, got kicked over as he charged towards the bathtub. Bent over it, he clenched his stomach. He breathed. He slowed his breathing and deepened the breaths. His heart rate slowed too; he could feel it. He did not vomit.

  After a couple minutes, he clenched his stomach once more and felt nothing of the urge to vomit that had overcome him before. But he was tired. He turned and went to his bedroom, pulling the bar of the latch-bolt to the closed position behind him, and fell forward on his bed.

  This time he did not dream.

  Part Two: Union

  Sleep by day, travel by night. That was what her mother had told her. Whether that was still applicable, for they had been caught out by the night, she didn’t know. She thought she should stick to it anyway, keeping to the roads and heading roughly south.

  In her mind, the original purpose was lost forever the moment she had plunged that knife in.

  The boots on her feet were slightly too big. Her bicycle had been smashed and bent, along with her mothers’. She took care to keep an eye out for one as she looked around; by starlight she could see well enough all the things that had meant something. Cars and vans and motorbikes cast away to the greater cause of amateur roadblocks. The Mitre Oak car park with spaces actually filled – any valuables inside left at the owner’s risk. Standing atop the grassy island with its river of tarmac running off in four directions, she considered the open lane north, but that only went back to Kidderminster. West, she had no idea, but it was narrow and likely lead into the countryside, to fields or factories. South, to Worcester; the attempted roadblock here was only a couple vehicles deep. Easily clambered.

  But there were dark spots and back seats, too many spaces something could hide, waiting for the perfect opportunity to reveal itself in the rear-view mirror.

  She sat, a dull pain throbbing through her coccyx, and crossed her legs. No bicycles, she noted, ignoring the other pains that were scratched into her legs and arms, and the one ache she wanted to forget completely.

  From her bag she pulled out a Snickers bar and started eating it. Her fourth tasted just as good as her first.

  Wallace the neon devil with glowing eyes and glowing, scowling teeth; his body a black shroud everywhere else, woven in heavy chainmail. Come a little closer, you asshole... but always just out of reach of her teeth.

  More than anything she wanted a shower. A shower and rest. A shower, rest, and a bicycle. Or at least, some shoes that fit.

  The road to Worcester seemed achingly long in her mind right now. The road west was a road travelled, but at least it went back to civilisation.

  She laughed – civilisation – and for a moment forgot what time and fucked-up world she was in. Her laugh didn’t travel far in the darkness, in the now-falling mist, but it went far enough. A metallic scraping followed by a guttural whimpering came from the road-block. A vague black shape dropped from an open car door and landed on the road. She saw the figure, her mouth open with chocolate still coating her teeth,
and bolted to her feet. She swallowed.

  Hooked on the belt-loops of her work-wear trousers dangled a crowbar. She unhooked it and lofted it up; “Come on you fucker!” she shouted, and ran forwards, leaving her bag behind her. She leaped from the island and landed hard on the road, just as the thing had scrambled to its feet and was now charging her. She caught her breath and stood her ground.

  As the stars faded and the mist began to kiss the ground, it jumped at her as she was beginning her swing. Her back bounced against the concrete of the island, helping her to keep her stance, but the things teeth were already in her. She pushed, screaming, and the thing collapsed backwards onto its back. The things face had no nose, and only one eye, but then suddenly it was Wallace.

  Wallace regained his stance and recharged his efforts, clawed hands bearing down to tear at flesh, the music of crushed vocal chords trying to scream from deep within its throat. But Ruby was composing a musical of her own. She swung the baton of her crowbar left, and right, smashing through soft skull, and then, on her knees, up and down, up and down, until it clunked against tarmac sending shudders up her arm that vibrated throughout her body.

  Standing, she wiped the blood from her neck and looked at it.

  “We’ll get out of this,” said Ruby’s mother. “There’s two of us, he’s gonna slip up at some point.”

  She looked at the thing-that-wasn’t-Wallace – wasn’t anything anymore – and spat at it. “Thanks.”

  She dropped the crowbar and looked resignedly around, spinning, spinning, crying; her eyelids heavy but her shoulders weightless; spinning, until she felt too tired to spin. She looked up and saw The Mitre Oak through watery eyes and began to walk towards it. She stepped over a low chain-link fence and walked through the car park, up the steps, up to the front entrance, and tried the door. The doors of the large Victorian pub gave way, and she fell through them, collapsing to the floor.

  *****

  As the sun was setting over the United Kingdom, and as satellites circled over a planet whose continents and islands blinked concordantly from light to dark, and remained dark, Nate opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, sweating. He yawned and blinked away the resulting tears. He watched a house-spider, legs thick and brown, crawl towards the corner of the room, halting above the bedroom door.

  On the back of the wardrobe was a mirror, and looking into it reminded him of the previous night’s activities. His thick black hair was matted all across the left side of his head, and some was stuck to his ear in a bloody clump. His face was no longer a face he remembered; aside from the welt on his temple where the spanner had clocked him, and the paint of blood that covered most of it, his eyes were completely – he could think of no other way to describe it – sharp. The whites of his eyes were as snow, freshly fallen; the brown irises seemed, smaller, yet overall his eyes seemed, bigger. His cheekbones were surely a little wider set – had he broke a bone? Been clocked across the face?

  Shaking this off, he looked at his clothes and began to take them off. He walked over to the material clothes basket and threw everything inside for the washing machine, without thinking. Naked, he unlocked the bedroom door and peered out. The fading light revealed that all was as it had been. He crossed the landing to the bathroom and looked thankfully at the bathtub. The water in it was months old, but it would have to do. He grabbed the side of the bathtub and vaulted straight in with a sharp intake of breath, submerging his whole body. Lapping water cascading over the side and onto the tiled floor where it would evaporate, leaving behind a red-black mark that would never be cleaned.

  Beneath the water, Nate held his breath and relished the coolness of the water against his skin. Opening his eyes, the ceiling was cloudy and dark through the water. He brought his hands up and rubbed his face and hair, then his neck. Then he sat up and took the sponge and shower gel from the side of the bath, and cleaned himself. With the bottle of Original Source: Mint in his hand, he brought to mind the shelves and shelves of washing products that would never be used; and more, the boxes stored in the back of shops; at the factories, the warehouses; the boxes upon boxes of useless stock. “Whoever survives this mess will at least be able to get clean,” he said, thinking, as an afterthought, unless no-one survives.

  He wrinkled his nose, feeling the astringency of welling tears in his temple. Felt Mum running her hands through his hair as she was washed it, the bubbles running down his face, his eyes tight against their stinging reach. Saw his little brother now, playing with toy boats, pushing them across the surface of the bathwater. Heard Dad shout up from downstairs; “Leave some hot water for me!”

  He stepped out of the rust-brown water and stood dripping on the mat in front of the mirror. ‘No more hot water.’ Old toothbrushes and a rusty razor – Dad’s – sat on a mini glass shelf. ‘Last one standing.’ He stood and stared at his own reflection; gazed into his eyes until like repeating a word over and over, nothing made sense anymore: until he didn’t recognise the now-solitary stranger standing there.

  Three towels hung from the rail behind the door. He took his own and dried himself, stepping out onto the landing to do so. Once dry, he grabbed some combat trousers, a shirt and jumper from the wardrobe, and got dressed.

  He lingered at the top of the stairs. An array of photographs in white frames adorned the flowery wallpaper on the wall; memories cascading down step by step – by design or coincidence, Nate did not know, and did it really matter anyway – to photographs of him and his brother, Ryan, as babies. Real photographs, taken when film still meant something. Ascending, he and his brother grew up, wore a school uniform, won trophies, and were then present in more familial photographs, either on holiday or taken by a professional in a studio; showcasing the rise of digital. To his left then, Mum and Dad and he and Ryan posing in the ebb of the sea off El Medano, in Tenerife. Two things struck him; that he would never go to Tenerife again (how was it there?) and that he didn’t want the memory of his family to fade. Even then he was trying hard to remember how it had felt to shake his father’s hand after he had done so well in his GCSEs. How his father had looked so proud, every tooth seemingly on show. His grip had been so firm. His eyes, with exaggerated crow’s feet, looked straight into him, as they seemed to look out of the photograph before Nate now. How he wished his father was here right now, instead of buried in the garden beneath the earth and rocks.

  How he wished he could take them all out of the photograph and tell them to not bother going downstairs, no, that would not be a good idea. Up here, they could stay, until the end. How he wished he could replace the bodies waiting for him with replicas from the photograph.

  In the dying light of day he took the frame from the wall, considered removing the photograph, but then decided it would be safer if he didn’t. Was there anything else he wanted up here? He went back to his room and searched for things of use. He couldn’t stay here, not now. Most things of use were downstairs though, within easy reach in case they needed anything.

  Through the slits between the boards on the window he could see that it was almost dark outside.

  His belly grumbled. It struck how hungry he felt again.

  He picked up a satchel he’d packed as a non-emergency go-bag, things he would want to keep him occupied on the road, if it came to that. A couple of Stephen King books, The Shining and IT, maybe on the road he’d pick up reading; a pack of Lord of the Rings Top Trumps, plus another couple card games he’d found; an MP3 player in case he ever had the chance to charge it up again (charger included); a couple of notebooks, and a handful of pens and pencils.

  He noted the aftershave and deodorant on the chest of drawers – I think I can manage without, or pick some up if I need some – and his running shoes resting up against the base. All four pairs. He picked up his favourite pair, sitting down on the bed. The soles were well worn. He had won many races in them, placed as runner-up in most though. Still, they’d lasted him well. He put them aside and picked up the newest pair and put them on.


  He left the room with a glance at his mobile phone with all its names and numbers, its texts and messages of banality; who will win what and against who; what are you up to and so, what’s up? Messages of flirtation buried within its memory, to girls who were probably dead now. All those inaccessible photographs. All that uploading. Long live Facebook, he thought.

  At the thought of the photographs, he returned for the phone and charger. If he could ever find electricity again, then maybe it would be nice to see some old photographs.

  He descended to the living room and tried to ignore The Smell, though it was hard. Underlying the decomposition was also the unmistakeable aroma of excrement. He picked up two go-bags and filled a third with the remaining food. He drank from one of the water canisters, and then took a scarf and looped it through the handle of two others, tying it in a knot so he could carry them on his shoulder.

  Through to the kitchen, the unmoved bodies remained. Nate didn’t look at the faces, instead he focused his mind on the photograph that was packed away. When he stepped over the bastard that had caused all of this, he pulled out the knife and sheathed it, and then left through the back door. He picked up his bag from the night before, said a mental goodbye to the plastic garden furniture, the trampoline gathering leaves, the punctured football, the mound over by the back wall. “Goodbye Dad.”

  We won’t weigh much.

  Nate stopped and looked back at the door.

  Any religious urges had long since vanished, the verdant possibilities lost in him as friends and family were brutally slain. Still.

  He reached his hand out to the door handle – red – and held it there. Ryan’s torn face.

  “Sorry, I...” he breathed, in, out, in and out trying not to lose it. “I can’t.”

  He lowered his hand and straightened up, turned, and crawled into the hole in the ground, pulling the board across his head and ensuring the board on the other side was across too, and then turned on a torch. His belly rumbled. The smell of ash was strong, and between that and everything that had happened, he let his eyes run free.