The Rising: Selected Scenes From the End of the World

by Brian Keene

  * * *

  TWO SUNS IN THE SUNSET

  The Rising

  Day Thirty-One

  Oconto, Nebraska

  Big R wondered if he was the last person left alive on Earth.

  He wondered a lot of things. First and foremost, was his name really Big R? Why was he here? Where the hell was everybody else?

  His memories were decaying faster than the putrid corpses lying in the streets. He knew he lived in Alexandria, Virginia, yet here he was in Nebraska, with no recollection of how he’d arrived, or for how long, nor why he’d woken up in the basement of a flattened farmhouse. He didn’t know what had destroyed the house, didn’t know if he’d grown up here, didn’t know what had happened to the world. Occasionally, he got flashes of memory—fuzzy clips, coming attractions excerpted from some movie in his head. A dead man, arms pulled out of their sockets and ear dangling on a thin strand of gristle, lurching towards him, spitting curses and threats. A horse, broken ribs jutting from rancid, maggot-infested flesh, galloping along in pursuit of a terrified little girl. Trees, crushing buildings, and smashing a car open with their limbs and pulling out the occupants like candy. Poison oak vines, snaking their way into someone’s bulging throat. A swarm of red and black ants devouring each other—and everything else in their path.

  The Pressey Wildlife Management Area. Big R shuddered. His memories of the wildlife area were crystal clear. He wished he could lose those, too. So many dead animals. The stench, the screams—the horror. The chewing sounds. He walked on. Sweat poured down his brow and into his eyes. He wiped his face. Though the sun was going down, it was sweltering outside—much too hot for this time of year.

  He passed by the St. Mary’s Catholic Church, and had no memory of it. The building looked like something off the set of The Andy Griffith Show—a small, white, old-fashioned building with a crosstopped steeple and bell. The brown grass was dead, as were the trees. Red spray paint covered the front doors; THERE IS NO GOD BUT OB.

  Big R wondered what it meant. Who was Ob?

  Was this his fault?

  On the sidewalk, a dead crow and the insects inside it had melted into a congealed puddle. Nose wrinkling, Big R stepped around the mess, and was reminded again of the wildlife management area.

  He had a sudden revelation. The Pressey Wildlife Management Area was only four miles north of Oconto, located along the South Loup River. How did he know that? It must mean he’d spent some time there, at least.

  He continued along, mopping the sweat from his brow. Big R took in his surroundings, looking for something familiar, something that would break his amnesia. A Farmers Bank. Eggleston Oil Company. A blood-stained banner advertising the Annual Fireman’s Barbeque Cook-Off fluttered in the hot breeze. His stomach rumbled. He was hungry, and had no idea when he’d last eaten. A road sign stated that Lexington was twenty-five miles away. And death. Lots and lots of death: dead humans, animals, insects, and plants were everywhere. Nothing breathing. Nothing green. The air reeked of decay. Big R checked his watch, and saw that there was only a half an hour or so till sundown. He should try to find a place to sleep for the night, somewhere other than the abandoned basement. At least find a place to escape from the increasing heat. He found the local library and trudged up the steps. His heels stuck to the pavement, and he glanced at his feet, astonished. The rubber on his soles was melting. All around him, the corpses were doing the same, bubbling and hissing as they turned into toxic stew.

  The library door was locked, so Big R forced it open with his pry-bar. He had no idea where he’d found the weapon, only that he’d been clutching it upon waking up. The library’s interior smelled of dust and mildew. Thankfully, he smelled no rotting corpses. His nose welcomed the relief. He made his way to a little bulletin board, labeled, FACTS ABOUT OCONTO. The town, it seemed, was a Menominee Indian word for, “place of the pickerel.” So now he knew that. Meant absolutely shit to him, but at least he knew.

  Big R felt like crying, but didn’t know why. That made him want to cry even more.

  He turned back to the bookshelves and was surprised by how much light there was inside the building. The power was out, the electric lights didn’t work, and the sun was going down outside. Yet the library was brightly illuminated, with no shadows between the rows of shelves. As he watched, dazzling brilliance flooded through the windows, blinding him. Shielding his eyes, he turned away.

  Big R smelled smoke.

  “What now?”

  He went to the door, intent on discovering the source of both the light and the smoke. The ornate wood felt warm beneath his palm, and Big R hesitated. Fire? Could there be a fire outside? But he’d just been out there two minutes ago.

  Pulling his sleeve down over his hand, he pushed the door open and stepped outside—

  —into Hell.

  There were two suns in the sunset. One of them, a hazy, reddish-orange half disc, sat in the west, slowly sinking beneath the horizon. The other one, an intense, white-with-red-tinged ball of fire, hung high in the southern sky, growing bigger by the second. Big R stared at it, couldn’t help but stare at it, mesmerized by the sight. He wondered what it was. A nuclear explosion, perhaps? A comet?

  The word Teraphim ran through his mind. He wondered what it meant and how he knew it. Then Oconto began to burn. The treetops burst into flames, followed by the church steeple, and then the buildings themselves.

  The last thing Big R saw before he went blind were orange, smoke-like creatures, resembling wisps of flame. They emerged from the center of the second sun and swooped down upon the earth like the wind. There were millions of them, and everything they touched caught on fire. Their faces—their howling faces—looked almost human…eyes, noses and mouths of flame. Their laughter crackled along with the inferno.

  Big R wondered what they were, and then, as his hair singed, decided he was grateful not to know.

  OTHER WORLDS THAN THESE

  The Rising

  Day Thirty-Two

  Aurora, Colorado

  And then, the burning ember that was once Earth fizzled, as if snuffed out by solar winds…

  THE END

  The Labyrinth

  Day One

  The City Between Worlds

  Robert Lewis, Bob to his friends, and Cyber-Bob to his online buddies, opened his eyes, amazed that he could still see. Indeed, amazed he still had eyes. He remembered them popping, running down his charred face as the second sun burned everything in Aurora—humans, zombies, plants, and insects alike. The last thing he’d seen were the walls of his parents’ home, turning to ash.

  Bob looked around. He was in an empty room carved out of gray, stone blocks. A pale half-moon shining through the room’s lone window provided his only source of light. The air was damp and cold.

  “This is Heaven?” His voice echoed off the walls. Bob considered himself a Christian—a Catholic. He was open-minded and respected other beliefs, as long as people did the same for him. He disagreed with some of the church’s dogma, but Bob knew his Bible, and he didn’t remember Heaven being described like this. His personal vision of the perfect afterlife had always involved a really big library with comfortable chairs and fireplaces and an endless supply of books, both for reading and writing (he enjoyed both).

  He went to the window. A thick layer of gray clouds floated so far below that he almost mistook them for mountaintops. Bob glanced up at the moon, hanging alone in the darkness, with no stars to keep it company. Not even the flashing lights of a passing airplane.

  Then the moon blinked.

  Gasping, Bob leapt backward and collided with something else. Something in the room, that hadn’t been there before.

  A… person?

  It was shaped like a human. Tall. Bob couldn’t tell if it had legs, because it wore a long, flowing black shroud. Its face and hands were milk-white, and its eyes and mouth were black, empty holes.

  “Robert Lewis of Earth, early Twenty-First Century?” Its voice was like an echo with
no sound at first. The lips did not move.

  Bob tried to speak, and found he couldn’t. All he managed was a strangled sigh.

  “That is a yes?”

  Bob nodded.

  “And on your Earth, were the dead coming back to life, possessed by a race of beings known as the Siqqusim?”

  “Um…” Bob shrugged.

  The creature took a step backward, and though Bob heard its footsteps ring out on the stone floor, he realized that it was actually floating several inches above it.

  He swallowed. So what’s making the footstep sound?

  “Yes or no, Mr. Lewis?”

  Bob nodded again.

  “Does the term ‘Hamelin’s Revenge’ mean anything to you?”

  Frowning, Bob shook his head. It didn’t ring any bells.

  The thing smiled. “Good. Then I have obtained the right version of you. Welcome to the Labyrinth. You were expecting Heaven, and you may see it yet. But there is something you must do before you pass on. Follow me.”

  The creature rotated in mid-air, floating towards the door.

  Bob finally worked up enough saliva to shout, “Hey!”

  His companion turned. “Yes?”

  “What is this? Who are you?”

  “This is nowhere and everywhere. This is the inbetween—the black space amidst the stars, the backdoor of reality. As for me, do I not look familiar?”

  Bob considered this. The being did look familiar, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

  “I get the feeling I’ve met you before.”

  “You have. All of you have. In your dreams.”

  A sense of relief washed over Bob, and his posture slackened. “That’s it! I’m dreaming. I’m still back in Aurora, and the Earth didn’t burn up!”

  The other floated out the doorway. “No, I’m afraid your Earth was incinerated, as were countless other Earths, by the Teraphim.”

  “W-who?”

  “The three brothers: Ob of the Siqqusim, Ab of the Elilum, and Api of the Teraphim.”

  “This is a dream,” Bob replied, “so it’s okay if I don’t understand a thing you just said, right?”

  “It matters not.” The creature led him down a long staircase, which led to another door.

  “We now enter the Labyrinth,” the mime-thing said.Bob followed his companion through a confusing, maze-like series of hallways with closed doors on all sides. They seemed to walk for a long time.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You are going to a different Earth. Your father played in a musical duo. Lewis and Walker, correct?”

  “Yeah, but how—?”

  “That is what this incarnation of Kevin Jensen is listening to right now. He has just buried his friend. Tomorrow, he will attempt to rescue other friends from a cult. It has gone disastrously wrong infinite times before. We are sending you in to tip the balance.”

  “Can I wake up now?”

  The thing ignored him. “You must obtain the cult’s copy of the Daemonolateria. Use it to stop Leviathan and Behemoth, and to halt the rains.”

  Bob stopped in the middle of the hallway. “Look. I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what this is about. You’re not making any fucking sense!”

  The creature whirled around, and its voice boomed inside his head.

  “THE THIRTEEN HAVE BEEN LOOSED ACROSS TIME AND SPACE. ALL EARTHS, ALL PLANETS, INDEED—THE VERY FABRIC OF EXISTENCE IS THREATENED. REALITIES ARE COLLAPSING IN ON ONE ANOTHER. DEATH IS LIFE AND LIFE IS DEATH. ALL ARE IN DANGER OF BECOMING NOTHING. YOU WILL DO THIS, OR YOU WILL BE LEFT HERE TO WANDER FOR ALL ETERNITY!”

  Bob fell to his knees and clutched the sides of his head. It hurt. The voice physically and mentally hurt.

  “Please,” he sobbed, curling into a ball. “I don’t understand. I just want my old life back.”

  The creature hovered over him. When it spoke again, its voice was softer.

  “Your old life is gone, devoured by the Siqqusim, Elilum, and Teraphim.”

  “The zombies?”

  “Indeed. The first group is led by Ob. He, along with his brothers, is one of thirteen beings that existed long before the Morningstar’s fall. Your kind named them demons without truly understanding what they were. There are thirteen total. Meeble and Kat and Shtar, Behemoth and Leviathan and Kandara, Nodens and Purturabo…”

  Bob interrupted the litany of names. “What does this have to do with me?”

  “There are other worlds than the one you came from…other planets and other Earths. The Thirteen were scattered across the realities and planes of existence. The Siqqusim have been released from one such dimension, a place called the Void. Ob intends to gather the other Thirteen, building an army, and declare war on Heaven itself.”

  “So there really is a God?”

  “Yes, but humanity has always misunderstood His existence. Perhaps, if you succeed, you will stand in His presence and understand for yourself.”

  Bob stood up. “What do I have to do?”

  “Go through this door.” The creature opened one of the countless doors. Bob heard the soft hiss of rain. “Seek out a young man named Kevin Jensen. Accompany him when he goes to rescue his friends. There is a book called the Daemonolateria. Do not let it be destroyed this time. Use it to undo what has been done in that reality.”

  “How do I get back here?”

  “The Labyrinth has many doors. You will find one when you are ready.”

  Swallowing hard, Bob stepped through the doorway. He found himself standing on the roof of a hotel, surrounded on all sides by water. When he turned around, the doorway closed behind him, vanishing into thin air.

  * * *

  AFTERWORD:

  STORY NOTES FROM THE END OF THE WORLD

  And so, once again, we close the curtain on the world of The Rising. This is the fourth excursion into that nightmare: The Rising, The Rising: Necrophobia, City of the Dead, and now the volume you’ve just read. Will there be another? I’m not telling—yet. Suffice it to say, the Labyrinth has many doors, and you never know what’s waiting behind the next one. Like Ob said in The Rising and Reverend Martin repeated in City of the Dead; there are other worlds than these.

  I do know this; when I started this project, I was worried that I’d burn out. Like I said in the introduction, this wasn’t a book that I wanted to write. I wasn’t as enthusiastic about it as I’ve been past books. Figured I’d said all I had to say about the Siqqusim, and wondered where I’d find the inspiration to revisit them again. But I’m very happy to report that never happened—the inspiration was still there. As I prepared for each story, and spoke with the individual it was being written for, I found more and more things to write about. And even when I finished the last story, I still had more ideas. I got excited again.

  So, no—I might not be done with this world yet. We’ll both just have to wait and see. Meanwhile, if you’re interested, here are some little tidbits about each tale and where it came from and where it was written. If you’re not curious about that sort of thing, you can close the book now and be assured that you didn’t miss anything. But if you’re the type who likes to know how the magician did his trick, here’s how I pulled these particular rabbits from their hats.

  A note on the stories: many of the characters in these tales are real people. Their stories appeared in an earlier, pricey, collector’s edition. Each of them paid Delirium Books for the privilege, but in truth, the privilege was actually all mine. I think these are some of the best short stories of my career, and the reason for that is because of the people I wrote about. So thanks to all who participated. In addition to real people, you’ll also see some familiar fictional characters from The Rising mythos. More on that below…

  * * *

  “Don’s Last Mosh”

  This was written at home, in my office, over the space of two hours. Finished the second and final draft the next day. Don’s a big guy, and he likes heavy metal. When I met him in person (at the 2004 Horrorfind Weekend
convention in Baltimore), my first thought was, “Jesus, I’d hate to be in a mosh pit with this guy.” Obviously, the story came from that. Don is the brain behind Necessary Evil Press (a fine small press publisher), thus the name of the band he was going to see in the story. Long-time readers may also catch a brief reference in this story to “Caught In A Mosh,” an earlier short story of mine.

  “Family Reunion”

  This was also written at home, in my office, over two days, when I needed a break from working on The Conqueror Worms. When Terry gave me his background so that I could craft the story, he told me a lot about his family. Families were something I’d wanted to explore more in relation to the zombies (other than Jim and Danny from the novels, obviously), so this was the perfect opportunity. If you look closely, you’ll find references to events mentioned in The Rising, and “Don’s Last Mosh.”

  “As Above (Sisters, Part One)”

  “So Below (Sisters, Part Two)”

  These are the first of a pair of two-part stories (the second pair being “Walkabout” Parts 1 and 2). These two stories were written at home, in my office, over a very long week. When Roman told me the stories were for his daughters, it immediately presented a challenge, and at first, I wasn’t sure what to do. See, I have no problem gleefully killing off your spouses and partners and extended family members in these stories. I’ll even slaughter your beloved pets. But your children? Nope. Can’t do it. I don’t mess with kids (if you think about it, I didn’t even truly mess with Danny in the novels). So what to write about? After several failed drafts, I had Roman ask his daughters what they’d do if the zombies invaded. These stories were their reply. Smart, tough kids—so all you zombies better beware.

  “Last Chance For La Chance”

  This was written at home, in my office; three drafts in three hours. A long time ago, the first draft of The Rising had a scene in which Frankie goes to the Baltimore-Washington International airport (after her escape from the zoo). The whole segment slowed the plot down, so I cut it. But the idea—I loved the idea. When Jamie told me I could place the story anywhere in the U.S., I was happy, because I finally got a chance to re-write that scene. Oh, and in this story, when Jamie decides to go to a friend’s house in Cockeysville? In real life, that’s my old apartment.