The Rising (The End Time Saga Book 3)

by Daniel Greene

  “They smell terrible,” Max said from underneath his sleeve. The stench releasing from the bodies was compounded by the water lapping and tussling them. Steele poked at one with the tip of his boot and flies burst into a black rain cloud.

  Steele faced them and gave him a smile. “Yes, they do, Max. Everybody grab a body. You want to shoot. Well, here’s your target.”

  The line of volunteers didn’t move. They shifted in the sand, staring at their disgusting task.

  “I feel like that was pretty clear,” Steele said to them.

  “We can’t use cardboard or something?” Hank said. He was an overweight, retired factory worker from a furniture company in Grand Rapids with thinning hair.

  “Not as good as the real thing.”

  “What about the bodies by the campers?” Max asked.

  “Because they don’t have heads,” Steele responded. To everyone else, he said, “I wasn’t joking. Grab a body or you’re done here.”

  Margaret tied a red handkerchief around her head like a Wild West bandit and marched forward. Larry trailed behind her, his beer belly jiggling as he walked down the beach.

  “What are you waiting for?” Steele commanded. “Steve and Max, grab this one,” he said, waving at them. “Alex and Hank, grab that one. And you two grab that one over there. Try and get the ones with the most head still remaining.” He put his hands on his hips and watched his volunteers struggle.

  A limp body is difficult to pick up and carry. A waterlogged, dead, limp body was even worse. Steele watched as Max puked onto the sand. Nathan struggled but held it in, the black man gritting his teeth to hoist his body. Hank heaved, breathing hard, and Trent dragged a body by himself like he had bagged a prize buck.

  Steele held his stomach contents in and made sure that they didn’t see that it made him feel equally as ill. Never show them weakness during turmoil, and they will follow you for it, said one voice in his head. Never make them do something you wouldn’t do, said the other.

  “Damn it,” he said under his breath. He marched down to the water. A body lay in the surf, rocking with the charge and retreat of the waves. The dead man’s head lay twisted on its side, mouth open as if during his last breath he had called for help, but Steele knew it only called for the flesh of the living.

  Steele covered his face with a green and black shemagh. Tess had given it to him out of a stash of Pagan’s clothes, saying that he had used it during his military deployments. Steele was grateful. The shemagh was an amazingly versatile piece of clothing. Originally used throughout the Arab world, it had been adopted by Westerners frequenting or fighting in the region. It could be wrapped in dozens of different styles to protect one from the heat, wind, cold. It could be used as a tourniquet, sling, pillow, or a bag. In Steele’s case, he used it for protecting his nose from the onslaught of rotting flesh.

  Steele unsheathed his dagger and crouched into a squat. Slipping his dagger into the soft spot between the spine and head, he made sure he wasn’t picking up a yet functioning infected. Getting his heels under him, he hefted the body. The torso and head flopped to the side, but he managed to get a shoulder underneath it. Sickening pops and noises rippled inside the dead infected. A scattering of black and orange beetles, ticks, and bugs scrambled for safety after being exposed to the light.

  “Heavy fuck, aren’t ya,” he said to himself. Readjusting the dead man’s weight, he double-timed back to the camp. He made sure to beat the volunteers, tossing his body down into the dune grass before the others. Lead by example. Show them the correct actions to take. You are a leader, not an office manager.

  His volunteers straggled in gagging and complaining.

  “Alright. Grab those logs and prop these bastards up. I want their heads leaning upright. Spaced out every five yards.”

  When they were finished prepping their targets, he surveyed their work. Dead bodies stood upright, tongues out, eyes white, horrific gore-covered mouths hanging open.

  “Good. Now, for some fun stuff. Everyone to the camper.” Their speed was agonizingly slow as they made their way to the camper roof. Steele joined them, dropping a box of .22 ammunition at their feet.

  “Two at a time, we are going to shoot the bodies out there. Some of you may be wondering why we are using the dead bodies. It is scientifically proven that when people shoot things that look like other people, they are much more likely to get the job done in real life. With round bullseye targets, the results are significantly lower. This is a form of conditioning. If you don’t think you can handle it, no one will think less of you, but this isn’t the right place for you.” He stopped, waiting for any of them to leave. They stayed, eagerly waiting for more instruction.

  “I don’t care about body shots. That training is obsolete now. I want everyone to aim for the head. A head shot will kill both people and the infected, body shots only people.” His volunteers nodded. Having a blank slate with the trainees made them much easier to train. He wouldn’t have to retrain the commonly taught “center mass” shooting technique. The rules had changed and he was adapting with them.

  “Larry and Margaret, would you like to go first?” he asked. Larry took the gun in his hands. Margaret shook her head no. She looked down toward the ground, unable to meet his eyes.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked her.

  “I’m nervous,” she complained.

  “You came to me because you wanted to learn to fight. Now, I’m offering you the opportunity and you say no?” He gave her an incredulous look. “Please don’t waste my time.”

  Her eyebrows dipped on the sides making her look scared. “I want to learn, I really do, but can I shoot something else?” She pointed at the propped up bodies. “You know, something other than them.”

  “No, you shoot the dead. This is a proven form of firearms training. You will see how the bullet affects the human body. It will lessen the shock when it happens for real. And it will happen. You will kill the infected or somebody else, but in this world, you will kill. This training will give you the edge to do the things that need done and worry about the effects later. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, but…” she trailed off.

  “You can go back to using a shovel, in which case you are useless to me, or you can learn how to shoot a gun and protect yourself and your family.”

  She stared down at the infected bodies. The bodies sagged onto their stakes.

  “My family’s gone,” she whispered. He held the gun out near her body. “I couldn’t fire Brian’s gun. I hated that thing in the house. He was always harping about self-defense and the like, but we both knew we could never use it. Then the infected broke inside and massacred him while I watched. I haven’t heard from my kids since the end of August. They were up at university for welcome week. I’m not stupid. I know what that means.”

  Steele sighed, pushing his bottom lip into his mustache, sealing his mouth. “No one can replace them, but you have a family all around you. You’ve survived, and these people need you to learn how to fight. So the same things that happened to Brian won’t happen to Larry. Or Max. Or Nathan. As hard as it is, this is your family now.” She looked around him at the faces of the other volunteers.

  “Take the gun, Margaret,” Steele said, pushing it further into her hands.

  Her hands hovered around the stock of the gun. “I’m not sure.” Her eyes darted up at him. “You can call me Margie. Only Brian called me Margaret.”

  “I’m sure.” He nodded his affirmation. He looked across at Larry. “Larry, you sure?”

  Larry’s bald head bobbed up and down.

  “Steve, you want Margie here?”

  Steve gave a slight nod. “Yes, I do.”

  Steele leaned closer to her. “We all need you. You’re here for a reason. I’m giving you a second chance to save your people.”

  Her hands wavered as she accepted the weapon and magazine.

  “You made the right choice,” he said to her. He moved on, looking at the rest
of their faces. “Now. Let’s go over some of the basics. From far away, it is easier to shoot from a more steady kneeling position. It will allow you to support your off arm while you shoot. Kneel first.” Margie and Larry kneeled. “And sit back on your foot.”

  “Load your weapons and keep them pointed downrange.” Magazines tentatively inched their way into weapons.

  “You ain’t going to break them. Slam those mags in,” Steele yelled.

  Magazines clanked as they were forced into place.

  Steele knelt in-between them. He sat back on his strong-side leg with his support-side leg upright. “Now, watch the way I do this.” He brought the butt of his M4 up to his shoulder and kept it tight to his shoulder pocket, the place between your shoulder and the edge of the pectoral muscle. His pressure was firm yet relaxed enough to allow his shoulder to absorb recoil. He let his support arm tricep rest not on his knee, but into the meat of his leg next to his knee. “Depending on how high or low your optic is will determine where the butt is going to sit in your shoulder pocket. I don’t want you moving your neck all funny to get a sight picture.” He looked up at the others, gauging whether or not they understood. Completely enthralled eyes watched his every move as he taught a beginning shooter’s course.

  “I don’t care that the gun wavers a bit as I aim. I care that the crosshairs are hovering near where I would like them to be. A trigger press is never fast. Remember slow is smooth, smooth is fast. Only as fast as you can be accurate. As I pull the trigger, the weapon will fire. After it fires, the trigger resets. I want to take the slack out of the trigger after every shot because this shortens the amount of time between shots. I don’t care that the head is fuzzy in my sights. I will not anticipate the carbine firing but will know that it is going to fire only when I am pressing the trigger.”

  Bang. The carbine went off and a dead infected man’s chin disintegrated into his neck revealing white bone beneath.

  “Does everyone understand?” he asked, lowering his M4. Wide eyes stared back at him and they nodded vigorously.

  “Good.” He stood back up in the middle of the shooters.

  “Everyone. The line is hot. You may begin firing.” He stood between them, ensuring their safety as well as watching their shots.

  Bang. Larry fired first. Sand waved up at them from behind the bodies in a shameful hello. Not comforting. Bang. More sand sprang up. Bang. The infected man’s shoulder twitched. A leg wiggled. A few bodies jerked, but mostly the sand took the brunt of the punishment.

  Margie knelt, still holding her gun. Her eyes were drawn down to it. She was mesmerized by it. Steele stood near her, shadowing her with his frame.

  “Margie, you may fire your weapon,” he said, loud enough to make sure she heard him clearly.

  She jerked as if she had been shot. Her eyes drifted up to him and her shoulders slumped. Her crow’s-feet deepened on her face in a grimace that settled into a sad smile.

  He tilted his head at the bodies in the sand. “Margie, you may fire.”

  She sighed as if his persistence had finally broken her down and hefted the weapon near her shoulder.

  “Hold it tighter. Now, keep your sight picture level.” He held out his hand in a level straight line. “Put it right on that ugly SOB’s head and gently pull the trigger.”

  She let the gun sights lower a bit. “I don’t know.”

  “You wanted to be here. Protect your family and friends. Pick the sights up and fire your weapon.”

  She gave him a terse nod and hammered on the trigger. The shot went wide, sending sand in the air.

  “Treat the trigger like a handshake with an old friend. Firm but gentle. No tension in your firing hand,” he said. He stepped down the line providing Larry with instruction before they switched shooters.

  ***

  Three hours later, he could see their patience waning and fatigue setting in.

  “Okay, Gregor. Hold.” The large long-haired man let his gun drop. The big welder gave off the impression he could play a bad guy in a horror film, but in actuality, was a gentle soul.

  “Who’s the best shot out here today?” All eyes ran to Margie. Steele was only a little surprised. After she had gotten over her fear of the weapon, she picked up its usage with some easy instruction.

  “Now, Margie. Do what you’ve been doing all day.” She gave him a half-smile and held the .22 to her shoulder. A few hours ago you were afraid; now you stand with some confidence.

  “Nice and easy now. Slow is smooth,” he whispered behind her. Seconds ticked by as she zeroed in on her shot. Long moments later, the gun’s barrel exploded. The closest infected’s head smacked against the stake, a dime-sized hole appearing in its forehead.

  “That’s a direct hit,” Steele exclaimed. She lowered the .22, looking down at the body in satisfaction. “Everybody give Margie a round of applause.” The volunteers clapped for a few seconds for her. She smiled over her shoulder at him. “Again,” he commanded, his voice stern. She took aim, slowly depressing the trigger. Boom. The infected’s head lolled to the other side. A red hole appeared through its cheek.

  Her brown eyes darted to him for approval.

  “Again,” he commanded, neither giving her a smile or any praise. She lined up her sights, taking her time.

  Steele leaned close to her gray-streaked hair. “Again,” he yelled in her ear. Fearful eyes darted back at him, nervousness dancing across her. “Why are you looking at me? Shoot the damn infected,” he yelled. He thrust his arm outward pointing a finger.

  Resting her cheek on the stock, she lined up her sights. Her right eye squinted.

  “I said again, volunteer.” His words seemed to whip her, but he continued on anyway. “In the time you took to line up your shots, they’ve butchered Larry because he couldn’t hit a fucking thing.” He gave Larry a sidelong glance. Larry’s eyes blinked with shame. He went back to Margie to break her down. “And now they’re coming for you. I said fire again.”

  The gun shook in her hands.

  “I said fire, goddamnit. They’re in your house murdering Brian. Save your husband. Shoot.”

  She jerked the trigger and the shot went wide, spraying beach sand in the air. She laid the weapon on the ground, looking abashed as color rose in her cheeks.

  He clenched his jaw. “Why are you looking at me? Why did you drop your weapon? Are you a hand-to-hand combat expert? Can you wield a knife like a Kali master? They are going to kill you. Keep shooting. Keep shooting!” he screamed, in his best drill instructor voice.

  She hesitantly picked up the gun and fired. Her shots went wide, high, and short. A few hit the bodies. Her magazine went dry. She looked at him from the corner of her eye, awaiting his reprimand.

  He put a hand on her back. She flinched under his touch. “To have died once is enough. Make sure your weapon is safe.”

  She slid the bolt backward and inspected the extraction port. He looked over her shoulder. “The weapon is safe. You may return to the line.” She hurriedly joined the other volunteers.

  Steele paced in front of them. He spoke in a calm voice. “I need you to be able to do that under pressure.” Margie nodded her head and gave a short smile.

  He addressed everyone. “That was only a taste of stress inoculation training. We must be able to fire under pressure. Your mechanics aren’t bad, but you all need work. Same time tomorrow. Unfortunately, we don’t have enough ammo to do this every day. So tomorrow is dry fire practice and tactical movement drills.” They all nodded and climbed back down from the trailer, walking back to their abodes. Steele watched them walk away. Alex and Jason talked excitedly to one another. Can they handle this?

  He was tired from the instruction. Shouldering the sling of his M4, he went back to his tent.

  Gwen looked up when he unzipped the front flap. He plopped down next to her with a grunt, his body finally allowed to rest. She watched him for a moment. “How’d they do?” she asked.

  He set his M4 near the side of his sleeping
bag, its barrel pointed toward the door, and laid back.

  “There’s always tomorrow.”

  TESS

  Little Sable Point, MI

  Yells broke her sleep in the night like twigs snapping beneath the heavy tread of a combat boot. She sat up in her futon bed, reaching for Pagan’s side. A handful of blanket made her painfully aware that she was alone. His corner of the bed was a mess of blankets as if she had created a blanket Pagan to hold in the night. She kicked her feet free of them and threw on her harness, the weight of the 1911 weighing on her shoulders.

  Draping her silk robe over her naked shoulders, she shoved open the door to her camper. She hopped out into the darkness. The voices sounded off, trapped inside the ring of vehicles. Steele’s angry voice joined the fray, making her run faster. Her robe flapped around her as she raced past the lighthouse for the vehicle-made entrance of Little Sable Point.

  As she grew closer to the shouting, Steele stood out in his blue boxer briefs, pointing his M4 at a man in a pickup. Jack sat behind the wheel of his pickup, hands in the air. His wife, Julie, cried in the passenger side, holding their youngest in her arms. In the backseat, their oldest bawled.

  Julie looked out her window and saw Tess coming. “Please, Tess. You promised,” she cried. She held her child’s crying face to her chest.

  “What’s going on? What are you doing?” she asked. Jack was one of the few who didn’t seem enthusiastic about Steele’s new job title. She had taken note when she announced she was bringing him into the fold. His departure didn’t surprise her. Steele’s actions did.

  Steele spoke out without looking at her. His eyes never left Jack. “The Red Stripes caught Jack trying to steal from us and then leave in the cover of darkness.”

  Jack shook his head no. “It’s a lie.” He pointed at Tess. “You said we could leave anytime we wanted. It was one of your guarantees. Tell your fascist lapdog to stop pointing his gun at my family.” This shady bastard is right.