The Rising of the Dead

by Lindsey Rivers

  “Rosie,” a thin girl with a shock of kinky pink hair said. The name was picked up by the other two.

  Rosie had been in the front with him. She had been the one that had shot the car. She was nowhere to be seen. Calvin stood, dusted his bleeding palms against his fatigues and walked around the edge of the car. Rosie's feet protruded from under the car. Not moving. A pool of spreading blood, seeping past the wheel that rested partway onto her body and out into the lot. He stopped. “Rosie's finished,” he said aloud. He raised his eyes from the pavement. “Better see what's happened inside.” He trotted toward the front entrance with the others, his rifle in his hands, safety off.

  The Stock Room:

  Things moved fast after the doors swung shut. The one with the thick chest tore off her bandana and shook her head as if to get some of the dust out of her hair. White-blond hair flew about her face. She bent over a second later and vomited. Pearl smelled it on the air instantly and fought the gag reflex that started in her own throat. A few of the oldsters didn't make it, and the small floor area was covered with sprawled and bent double bodies a second later as more became sick. Pearl kept her eyes on the the three. A second later the other two tore off their bandanas and Pearl's heart sank.

  The one with the deep voice spoke again. A tall pimple faced white boy, Pearl saw. He couldn't be more than fourteen. “Get these,” he said as he passed long pieces of plastic to the other two. The plastic made no sense until a few seconds later when the other two began slapping the zip ties around one of the oldsters wrists and tugging another through the first before pulling them tight. The pimple faced kid had several pairs of steel handcuffs that clinked and jangled as he began to handcuff those closest to him. The cuffs produced a low ratcheting sound as he closed them tight. The chrome finish glinted in the emergency lighting as he pulled them from a small canvas bag.

  “Oh, God. Don't do that to me,” Annie, one of the new clerks screamed. She bolted forward as if making a break for the now closed stock room doors, and Pearl watched as the pimple faced white boy raised his rifle and squeezed the trigger once. Annie collapsed to the floor in mid stride, like a sail that had spilled all of its air at once. One leg spread before her, the other at an angle behind her. Her body skidded along the floor an inch or two and then stopped. She sighed loudly as her upper body sagged forward across her leg to the floor. You could almost believe she was doing some sort of a stretching exercise Pearl thought. Her mouth was closed tightly in a grimace, but her eyes were open, and for a second Pearl thought maybe she was seeing, but then something in them shifted, and she knew she was gone. A few of the oldsters began to mutter between themselves, a few others began to cry. Jason, the new Assistant manager, stepped forward.

  “Listen,” he began in a loud voice. “I don't know who you people think you are, but you've killed someone now... Killed someone!” He stopped and looked incredulously at the three who stood closer to the doors. His eyes cutting down to Annie and then up once more. The pimple faced boy raised the rifle once more, Jason opened his mouth and the boy shot him in the chest before he could say another word.

  The blast was amazingly loud in the closed area. Louder than the other shot had been, and a large section of Jason's smock turned instantly red, puffing out behind him. He sank slowly to the floor, his mouth working as though he had one last thing to say, but he said nothing. He reached the floor, tipped sideways, and a flood of dark blood spilled from his mouth. After that no one spoke; the other two went back to tying the others wrists with the zip ties and time seemed to jump forward in quick little jerks as Pearl watched them do her own wrists and then move on.

  They would kill her now, she knew it. Eighteen years of living through the violence of the Council flats, the Projects here: Making it out; all to die in the back of some market stockroom over a few dollars that didn't even belong to her. And they would do it. There was no reason not to. No reason to tie them. No reason to remove the bandanas. No reason at all.

  A sharp banging came from the side of the stockroom and Pearl twisted her head quickly. The door that lead out to the sidewalk, Pearl knew. A voice calling, and the pimple faced white boy raised his own voice in answer; turning toward the sound.

  “We're good... We're good,” he yelled in that voice that didn't seem capable of coming from him. He turned back, his eyes scanning the crowd. They stopped on Pearl.

  “Where is that fucking door?” he asked. “Where's it go to?”

  She motioned with her head. “Behind the boxes... There, at the end of the aisle. Goes outside... Out front.”

  “Show me, bitch.” He moved forward and his rifle barrel dug into her stomach and then upward across the edges of her ribs as he lifted the barrel and motioned with it. She stifled the urge to cry out. She could feel blood trickling downward, across the flat of her stomach under the smock she wore. She walked the short distance to the door and found herself suddenly falling as he shoved her hard to one side and slammed down on the door width bar; swinging it open.

  Pearl's forehead hit the concrete hard and she slid forward on her chest, rolling into a skid of cereal boxes. She was out cold before the boxes tumbled to the floor around her.

  Locked Away:

  “What the fuck? The one called Calvin said as he stepped into the room. The pimple faced kid held up the bag of money as he stepped forward to go through the door, the other two behind him. Calvin caught the edge of his shirt and shoved him backwards hard.

  “Why'd you kill some? Why'd you do that? Didn't we talk about it? Didn't we make it clear? What the fuck?” His eyes swept from Pearl over to the two bodies that lay on the floor; blood running away in small rivulets toward the floor drain near the swinging doors that lead back out into the store area.

  “The cunt on the floor tried to rush us... No choice!” The kids frightened pale blue eyes stared up into Calvin's own. A small smile played at the corners of his mouth.

  “The other guy played hero,” the blond said. Her face was slicked with sweat, making it seem even darker than it was. She stepped forward slightly, trying to hold Calvin's eyes with her own. Calvin's hand flashed to his waist and a second later he bought it up in a sharp thrusting motion. The kid gasped, his mouth opened, and a small trickle of blood ran from the corner and across his cheek. Calvin watched the life begin to bleed from the kids eyes before he released him. The kid slid to the floor as if in slow motion. Calvin sheathed his knife: The blonde stepped forward as if to catch the kid, and Calvin raised his rifle.

  “You got something to say?” he asked.

  The blond wagged her head. Tears glistened at the corners of her eyes. She stared down at the body on the floor.

  Calvin motioned to the blond and the other remaining kid and they stepped through the door out onto the sidewalk and the cold air. The blond started to walk away, but Calvin curled his fist into her hair and dragged her back. She cried out involuntarily as he pulled her around to face back into the stockroom.

  “Can't leave it like this,” he told her. “Your man fucked it up. Unless you want to be in there with him you better take care of it.” Her eyes pleaded, but he pushed her away, turning loose of her. He raised his rifle, holding it on her. “Take 'em out,” he said quietly. “Take 'em out.” She turned to him once more, briefly, and then turned back, raised her own rifle, and began to fire into the stockroom. Things happened fast after that.

  The Man With The Pin:

  Calvin turned at the sound of tires screeching on the wet pavement. A kind of low grade squalling as the car slid to a stop, muted by the rain slicked roadway. He turned, fully prepared to flash the rifle and show whoever this was that it might be smarter to take off. He wasn't prepared for the sight that greeted him.

  A military van had skidded to a stop halfway across both lanes of the street and soldiers seemed to boil out of it. A half dozen. All armed. All dressed in riot gear and bulletproof vests, Calvin saw. He fully intended to keep turning but at nearly the same time he saw them his leg
s seemed to be pushed out from under him, and he felt himself falling as an eruption of noise and smoke seemed to fill the air all around him. The others sprinted for the only shelter, the stockroom, but the soldiers were on all of them just that fast. They fell even as they made the doorway, sprawling on the heap of bodies already there. The rapid shots fell off to single blasts and then stopped. Two heavily armored soldiers ran forward, flanking the door, hesitated only briefly and then jumped through the doorway into the room beyond. The silence held for a brief second longer and then one called back.

  “Toast... Done up.” The one that had called out turned, a silver pin affixed to his armor glinted in the market lights. A small cross looking both out of place and completely at home on his black body armor. The emergency lighting glinted in his dark eyes as they shifted down to the floor, continued on, and then came back to the doorway. He bent his tall frame, and then crouched to his knees beside Pearl. He turned her over and peered into her eyes. He lifted her smock into the air and looked at the scrape across her stomach: Blood was welling up to the surface of the wound. It overflowed and trickled across her side on it's way to the floor. He stripped off one glove and laid the fingers on that hand against her throat.

  “Live one here.” His eyes lifted to the other man. He nodded, bent, grabbed her ankles and together they dragged her out onto the sidewalk where she lay unmoving.

  They returned and swept the rest of the room with their eyes. The taller man pulled a small silver canister from his side and depressed the handle. A thick white fog began to emerge from the nozzle. He tossed the canister into the room and then started for the door when his eyes fell on a thick padlock hanging next to it. He grasped it as he leapt through the doorway; the other man, shorter, broader across the shoulders, followed. They both bent and picked up the few scattered weapons that lay on the sidewalk; tossing them into the darkness of the stockroom that was now quickly filling with fog, and then the first one slammed the door shut. He ran the padlock through the welded plates on the door and snapped it shut.

  “Come on, come on, come on!” This from one of the cops crouched back by the van were it idled on the roadway: Vapor curling from the exhaust pipe and lifting into the air. The two crouched; roughly pulled Pearl from the sidewalk and then sprinted for the van. They shoved Pearl into the open doors at the rear of the van where other hands roughly grasped at her. She disappeared into the interior. The two men jumped into the rear of the van; holding the doors partially shut with their hands, and the van roared away. It turned two blocks down and disappeared onto one of the side streets. The motor could be heard screaming on the still air for a few moments longer and then it was gone. Silence held the street, and then snow began to fall a few moments later. Within a short time the entire street was covered in a coating of snow as lightening flashed in the dark skies above Watertown.

  Pearl:

  She came awake in the dark. She was shivering, the cold metal floor of the van seeping deep into her body. Her head ached, but when she tried to lift her hands to it she remembered that they were still zip tied behind her back. That caused panic to settle into her for a brief moment until a dark face appeared in her vision and she felt the plastic bands cut from her hands.

  “Itzawight,” the voice said in a far away drone. “Awightzzz.” The light dimmed, the voice spat static, the light dimmed a little further, and then she found herself falling into the darkness.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Kate

  March 1st: Early Morning

  The traffic leaving the parking lot had slowed to a trickle, the lot nearly empty. The live shows were over, the bands packed up and gone, the dancers gone before or at the same time. The club was empty except Jimmy, the club boss, Don, the main door security, and me.

  “Why are you still here, Honey,” Jimmy asked as he came up to the bar. He was on his way back from the parking lot. It was a short trip across the parking lot to the bank night deposit on the lot next door.

  “I had an idea that Harry would be by tonight. He wanted to talk to me,” I shrugged. Harry was a Bookie, at least on the surface. Off the surface, or maybe it would be truer to say under the surface, Harry controlled most of the organized crime north of Syracuse. Jimmy... Jimmy managed the club, among other things, but the best description for Jimmy was to say Jimmy solved problems for Harry.

  “Wants to talk you into staying here. That's about all,” Jimmy said.

  I turned away and pretended to check my face in the mirrored wall behind the bar. I wanted to Dance. I had suggested to Harry, through Jimmy, that maybe it was time for me to move on if there wasn't any hope of me dancing. “Anyway, I ended up tending bar. So...”

  “So it's not dancing.” He dug one hand into his pocket and pulled out a thick wad of bills. He peeled two hundreds from the roll and pushed them into my hand, folding his hand over my own and closing it when I started to protest.

  “But,” I started.

  “But nothing. We did a lot in bar sales. You and I both know it was because of you.” He smiled, let go of my hand and stepped back. “It was me, not Harry,” he said.

  I fixed my eyes on him. I knew what he might be about to say, but I wanted to be sure.

  He sighed. “It was me that put the stop to your dancing. You're too goddamn good for dancing, Honey. And once you start?” He barked a short, derisive laugh. “The law thing? Right out the window. What's a cop make anyway in this town? Maybe thirty or forty a year?” He settled onto one of the stools that lined the bar, tossed his hat onto the bar top and patted the stool next to him. He continued talking.

  “So, thirty, maybe forty, and what's a dancer make? I can tell you there are dancers here who make better than one fifty a year. And that's what I pay them. That's not the side stuff or tips.” He moved one large hand, fished around behind the bar and came up with a bottle of chilled Vodka from the rack that held it just below eye level. He squinted at the label. “Cherry Surprise,” he questioned in a voice low enough to maybe be just for himself. “This shit any good, Honey?”

  “It's not bad,” I told him. I leaned over the bar and snagged two clean glasses when he asked me, setting them on the bar top. He poured us both about three shots worth. “Jesus, Jimmy.”

  He laughed. “Which is why I don't make drinks. It'd break me.” He sipped at his glass, made a face, but sipped again. I took a small sip of my own drink and settled back onto the bar stool.

  “So, I said to myself, smart, beautiful, talented, and you have that something about you that makes men look the second time. You know?” He took another small sip. “Man sees a woman walking down the street or across a crowded dance floor, beautiful or not he looks. That look might be short or it might be long. Depends on the woman. Then he looks away. Does he look back? Not usually. But with you he does. There are women men look at that second time for whatever reason, and you're one of them. I looked a second time, and then I really looked, for a third time. And I've seen a lot. That tattoo makes men and women look again.” His eyes fell on the tattoo that started on the back of my left hand, ran up my arm, across my breasts and then snaked back down over my belly and beyond. I knew it was provocative. That was the rebellious part of me. I had no better explanation for why I had sat, lain, through five months of weekly ink work to get it done.

  Jimmy rubbed one huge open palm across the stubble of his cheeks. “Jesus do I need a shave.” He took a large drink from his glass. “It wasn't the tattoo. It caught my eye, but that wasn't what made me look that third time.”

  “Honey, I took a third look because I saw a young woman that doesn't need to have anything to do with this world. You're too goddamn smart, talented, for this. So I said no. I let you dance a few times, but I didn't want you to fall into it. I made the decision that you should tend bar instead of dance.” He tossed off the glass.

  “I see that,” I told him. Although I didn't completely see it. He was reading a lot about what he thought, what he saw, into who I really was.

&nb
sp; “Yeah? I don't think so, Honey. And that's a reason right there. Honey... like a treat. When did it become okay for anyone to call you that? Because I remember a few months back when you started hanging around. It was Kate, and pity the dumb bastard who didn't understand that. Now it's Honey to any Tom, Dick or Harry that comes along.” He saw the hurt look in my eyes, reached below the bar, snagged the bottle and topped off his glass. I shook my head, covered the top of my glass with my hand and smiled. He put the bottle back and continued.

  “I'm not trying to hurt you, only keep you on track. I'm giving you the keys. You drive. All I'm saying is set your ground rules. Make them rigid. Don't let anyone - me, Harry, these boys that work here, customers - Don't let anyone cross those lines. You see, Honey?”

  I nodded.

  “Yeah? Then why not call me on calling you Honey? I've done it since we sat down. Why not start there?”

  “Well... I mean, you're the boss, Jimmy.”

  “Which is why you start there. I don't allow anyone to talk anyway to anyone that doesn't want that. Let me explain that. You got girls that work the streets. You don't see it so much here. It's a small city, but it happens. I spent a few years on the streets in Rochester, bigger place, as a kid. Happens all the time there.” He sipped at his drink. I took a sip of my own drink and raised my brows at what he had said.

  “Yeah? Don't believe it? It's true. I fought my way up. I have respect because I earned it.” He waved one hand. “Don't let me get off track.” He smiled and took another sip from his glass. “So, I've seen girls on the streets... Whores... It is what it is. Would you hear me say that to them? Maybe you would, maybe you wouldn't. If a woman sees herself as a whore, if that's all it is, what it is, then who am I to say different? Do you see? It's a living, or it's a life... There is a difference. Now back to you. You want to dance. Some of these girls,” he waved one meaty hand at the empty stage area, “work the other side. Some of them do that for me, some do it on their own. Some don't,” he sighed. “Either way you would not see me treat them any other way than what they want to be treated. I mean that. If you believe you are a whore and that is what you see, then that is what you show the world, and that is how the world sees you... treats you,” he settled his eyes on me.