The Risen (Book 4): Courage

by Marie F. Crow

  CHAPTER 3

  There is only one left from J.D.’s madness. With how well Death is winning this game, I am not sure I want to play anymore. How do you beg Death for mercy? What flag do you wave signaling your surrender? Where is my pause button so I can hide for just a few moments? Life isn’t equipped with those, and Death really doesn’t care if you are unable to go on.

  The steps between my friend and I seem to multiply by four with every two I take. My feet are weighing heavily with fear’s quicksand. J.D.’s blank, begging eyes swim before mine. Carol’s twisted body at the bottom of the stairs flashes before me. Ashley, with her innocence over-run by evil, falls again before my eyes. I can hear Conroy’s screams for help like the roar of an ocean in my ears. Lilly, with her missing center, is staring at me surrounded by the halo of her death. With Aimes’ image added to its pages, would my portfolio of failures now be complete?

  With a firm voice to reach the wrecked minds of Rhett and Chapel, Paula is giving instructions attempting to turn them into her assistants. They have exposed Aimes’ upper body to gather a better idea of the damage. Rhett’s eyes refuse to rest upon her with his unease over the exposure. They dart from the black bag of tools of Paula’s trade, back to Aimes, never lingering longer than needed to fulfill the task set to him. It’s endearing to see him falter so if it were not for the circumstances around it.

  Aimes would marvel in the fact of finally being the source of his discomfort. Her quick wit would dance with comments. Instead she is silent, grey, and the shocking contrast of it only adds to the fears that flutter inside me. All the times I have wished for her silence I would take them all back for just one bubble gum scented, smart-ass remark. Just for one eye roll giving finality to any argument with her silently expressed point of view. Please, God, don’t take my friend. Please, don’t deny me the chance to say the words that I have never said to her. I don’t need to hold her memories in the days that are left for me. I need to hold her hand.

  The white lace of her bra adds a frail beauty to the singed circle on her flesh. Paula’s examination allows red rivers to flow into her cleavage, pooling around pale flesh before slipping free to cascade to the tiles around her body. The contrast of colors between the rivers of blood and her skin’s tone stirs my soul to panic. The very imagery I was seeking to avoid with my weakness is laid before me, taunting me. I know if she dies here today on this cold floor, the memory of her fall will come find me tonight. It will replay a thousand times with my mind’s wickedness.

  “Paula?” My voice holds the questions my tongue won’t form.

  “I don’t know. If I dig to retrieve it, I will cause more damage. Did it pass through anything?” Paula is not exaggerating about the damage risk. With each new twist or tug of the singed circle, more rivers form with different speeds and currents.

  “No. Clean shot.” Rhett’s voice is the weakest I have ever heard. His coloring seems to be fading as the reds grow bolder.

  “You are absolutely sure of that?” Paula asks. I can see some of the tension loosening from Paula’s shoulders. The grim press of her lips is relaxing, allowing color to slowly return to them.

  Rhett and Chapel only nod. They are not sure if she is relaxing because of good news or if she is giving up. The weightlessness in my knees is also afraid of her answer. The room is tilting as I wonder if Death is again dancing in victory.

  Strong arms circle my waist. The man I feared was lost to me now supports us both in our moment of fear-laced truth that awaits the future of our friend. I wonder if J.D. is holding his breath with worry over what awaits her. In his moment of hell, did he know the outcome of his madness, or was he able to escape the knowledge of where his shots landed? I know without a doubt one of us joined the ranks of hell today. The only thing uncertain is if heaven will gain one too.

  “I can’t lose her.” I whisper to Lawless, who is the only thing keeping me standing.

  There is no return reply, just his arms that hold me a little tighter and a head that rests a little heavier on my shoulder.

  Paula is either ignoring us on purpose, or has completely forgotten us with her concentration. She has taken the bag from Rhett, placing Chapel’s hand over Aimes’ wound with thick, white gauze. I want to assume this is a good thing. She wouldn’t waste resources if Aimes was past saving, would she?

  Marxx seeing Rhett’s distress is giving him silent support with one hand on his shoulder while we wait. Rhett is a ticking time bomb of rage on normal days. Not even Marxx knows what to expect from his brother this dawn if we lose Aimes.

  So much betrayal and pain has been placed before Rhett, and when the tears settle, there are no promises of how Rhett will handle it. We are a huddled group awaiting news of our pixie, surrounded by the wails of those already mourning the ones they have lost. How will any of us handle what today has brought?

  “I think she will make it even with the blood loss. If it was a clean shot, with no added debris other than a small piece of fabric from her shirt, then the heat from the bullet will cauterize any vessels it landed near and sterilize the actual shot. From what I can see, the path didn’t hit anything vital, but I will keep a close eye on her. If an infection doesn’t set in, there is no reason she won’t recover completely,” Paula says, wasting no time in moving to stitching the wound. She lets her words float in the air, waiting for them to sink in with each one of us as a smile sneaks upon her face.

  Aimes is going to be fine. It will be a slow recovery, but she is going to be fine! A slow smile of praise spreads to us as reactions vary. Chapel’s head bends back, gazing at the ceiling with silent prayers of thanks to a God he still holds close. Rhett’s head comes down and his body hangs limply with his fear and tension released. Marxx pats Rhett’s back with his silent emotions expressed in comfort to his brother. Lawless and I are a silent world of nerves as we cling to each other with love for our friend. No one is brave enough to utter a word that risks breaking the first small strand of hope on this once happy holiday.

  “We aren’t out of the woods yet. She has lost a lot of blood and is very weak. Soon as I finish these stitches, we need to move her downstairs where she can rest and I can keep a better eye on her. If an infection is going to set in, we will know it by tonight.” Paula has never sugarcoated her words. She isn’t going to sprinkle sweetness now.

  “Just say when,” Rhett says, moving the position of his body to support Aimes’ fragile weight.

  “Isn’t this just perfect.” The voice chills the celebration. Dolph, covered in his own red horror story, is standing near us holding a look that fills his face with a fire of injustice. “J.D. - your leader - kills over half of us but his little pink princess lives. I’m sure all those crying over their dead will be so comforted to hear the news.” Dolph’s anger is pulsing with heat and it covers each word with bitterness. All the shyness has left the man with his emotions being a knot of torment.

  “Aimes had nothing to do with this. There is no reason to place this on her,” Paula says. She is not the only one stunned by Dolph’s words. Unfortunately, the moment she used to reprimand Dolph, allowed Rhett to recover.

  “Anything they say to the news, you just let me know. I’ll have a nice talk with them right after you and I finish our little chat,” Rhett says. There is no mistaking the innuendos that Rhett alludes to. If there are, the shading of his eyes and expression on his face will clear them up.

  “If you’ll excuse us, we have to take our princess downstairs. I’ll be back with shovels for your queen,” Lawless says. He knew the reaction his words would stir. He had already left my side to block Dolph’s path to me with his body.

  Dolph’s anger erupts as he rushes towards Lawless. He swings with his closed fist and wide-open eyes like a man possessed. Lawless, having learned a lot about the man from their little boxing match in the gym, is able to dodge the attack. He lands his jabs upon Dolph’s body as he moves, stealing the air from his lungs. They don’t fight against Chapel separating
them after the first round is exchanged as they once did. Their anger is of a different type, but the look in their eyes radiates the same hatred for the other.

  “Let us get Aimes to safety. Then, we will come back. We will help. We will help with it all,” Chapel says. He seeks to soothe the ache of so many deaths caused by our leader and the damage from Lawless’ hateful words.

  “If Simon had never accepted your help to begin with, this would never have happened! Why the hell would we want to accept it now?” Dolph’s question finds no answers from Chapel, and with a shove to the only man trying to help, Dolph walks back to Simon who is still mourning the loss of his wife and child.

  “He’s right,” Chapel, the bearer of all things guilt-related, says with remorse. “All of this, it’s our fault. I thought at the time it would have been harsher to loot them and let them go than to come and see what was here. I was wrong.”

  “The fault rests with J.D., God rest his soul, not with you. Not with any of you. You would think you would understand the difference between the truth and words said in anger with how your group carries on.” Ah, there is that cold slap we have come to expect from Paula’s words. She says, “Let’s get this girl downstairs before Lawless provokes anymore unnecessary mayhem.”

  The look she gives Lawless is one well rehearsed from many years of mothering. She motions for Rhett to lift Aimes’ unconscious body and he does so, letting his anger melt away with each inch he lifts with her in his arms. His eyes grow bright with his tears as he gazes down at her. Until now, I held no knowledge of how deeply he felt for her.

  With my own glare to Lawless for what just happened, I follow Rhett and Paula down a hallway I wish I could avoid. I focus on the blood that falls to the floor with the delicacy of rose petals shaken from a flower. It leaves a red trail in their wake that I do my best to step around it. Step on a crack; break your mothers back. If you step on your friend’s blood, what becomes of that?

  I close my senses to the many broken bodies that still lay about. I ignore the ones huddled in mournful embraces and blaming eyes as Chapel’s words keep repeating in my mind. With each death I pass, I wonder if it is another sin added to my soul.

  Is all of this our fault? If we had let J.D. have his fun then, would they be suffering now? If his simple ego was appeased back at the Welcome Center, would there have been a need for it to be appeased here at the school? Paula said this was J.D.’s fault, but I am starting to agree with Chapel. It was not J.D. who wanted to be here. He wanted to leave, but I stopped him. I kept them here when they were so close to leaving, and these innocent people could have escaped his wrath. I thought Aimes was going to be the last entry into my portfolio of failures, but with each body I pass, the pages grow along with the nightmares that will haunt me.

  Our eyes are rimmed with red. Our hands are soaked in red. We have spread red to every thing we have touched. We are covered and surrounded by the deaths of those we knew. Like flowers at a headstone, the red stains will always serve as a silent reminder of what has happened here today. As the moans mount, I am signaling my surrender. Death has won the game. He has defeated us almost completely. I truly hope it is now over. I only hope he will let us hold onto the one small victory Rhett clutches in his arms as we begin to descend into the lower level of the high school.

  CHAPTER 4

  The sun has finally crested the trees, sending its dazzling rays into the long windows of the bottom floor. The dead man with his broken neck seems more horrifying in the bright light of day. I refuse to glance at the woman who holds the proof we no longer need still planted in her chest. Her blood sticks to the bottom of my boots like glue in its cooled state. We trample it across the hallway, only spreading more of the red coloring I had hoped to escape. I have seen and smelled enough blood in one day alone to fill every day of a calendar with comments of its vision. After today, I have no desire to be reacquainted with it any time soon.

  “Law, you left the gate open.” Marxx motions with his head to the wide-open wooden doors of the courtyard to which Lawless stares at with a confused look.

  “Pretty sure I didn’t,” Lawless says. He is lost in thought trying to force the memories from last night to the surface of his mind.

  “Did they open themselves?” Marxx meant it as a jest, but no one is laughing. The mood shifts like an earthquake. We know what can open doors when others have had them closed.

  “Give her to me.” Marxx tells Rhett and when he gains no response he says, “My arm is still bum. I can’t fight them, but I can get her and Paula to safety.”

  “Wait, we don’t even know if it really is them.” Chapel pleads, trying to edge down the growing adrenaline.

  “Take Hells.” Lawless tells Marxx as he ignores the preacher’s son. He is well aware of the risk that could be taking place.

  “No.” Rhett and I both speak the word together.

  Turning his head to Marxx as he hands Aimes over to his protection. “We are down one already. She fights better than most men could anyway,” Rhett says. It is high praise from him. If only it was something I wanted to be praised for, though. Someone could tell me my hair looks nice today. That would be a better praise with how jumbled my nerves are. Yes, it is extremely “girly” and I’m okay with that.

  “Anyone mind filling me in on who exactly “them” are?” Paula has gained enough insight to know whatever we are speaking of is dangerous. She just wants a better clarification on the matter.

  “It’s not who. It’s what. The Risen.” Chapel’s words, even whispered to spare her a shock, cause her spine to straighten and eyes to widen. She knows the name he dubbed them months ago in a dirty bar of past lives. It was the first time we faced the truth of what was happening as a group, and since then, we have not been able to escape it.

  “…but that is impossible. The chain gate should prevent them from entering. The wooden gate to the courtyard should block them if it fails. They can’t open gates!” Paula stutters over the start of the sentence only to have her words crash into each other as it ends.

  Trying to figure out who gets to tell her the truth of what the Risen can do, we stare at her. We know the facts well. We have seen them open doors. We have seen them fight in groups, silently sharing strategies to kill. We have seen them watch and wait, solving problems presented to them with their eyes. What chance does a fence or a wooden-gated set of doors stand before them if they are motivated? None!

  “You said so yourself, they keep pieces of their former selves. It allows them to think. It helps them figure out stuff. They adapt.” It’s Rhett who breaks the news to her, mumbling it while loading a fresh clip in his gun. His hands tremble a little from the many emotions he has endured today. I sense another roller coaster is about to start.

  He is right. She said so herself when Marxx was bitten that they never truly die. Whatever was in the vaccine takes over the body. It shuts down the brain, making the person appear dead for moments in time until the new mind can take over. As she said, the vaccine takes over the host. It results in the pure hunters they are now where nothing alive is sacred. Not even their own family. That I remember only too well.

  Her eyebrows speak the words her mouth does not. You can almost watch the conversation with just the face she is mentally holding. The scientist inside her must be fascinated with the results, but the humanitarian is struggling with the consequences. They had hoped to remove viruses from people. They have only managed to remove people with a virus.

  “Marxx, follow behind me. Chapel and I will take the lead. Lawless, you and Hells keep our rear safe. Don’t want anything sneaking up like a joke just when we think our shit is safe.” Rhett barks the orders another man would have once given; my chosen father, J.D.

  He was the man who kept us in line and encouraged us in a backhanded way. He was also our doom should we cross him. He taught us the meaning of the word “monster” this morning in his grief over the death of the prodigal son, Lawless. Lawless, who not only survived,
but escaped the Risen and returned last night, only to be thrust into the chaos. It was he who then ended the life of J.D. with a single shot to his head, bringing the circle of Karma to a completion. Now he stands silent and brooding. His tongue is darting across his teeth as a sign of his growing anger or anxiety.

  “Why?” Lawless’ simple one-word question brings everyone to stare at us. “You heard what Dolph said. They don’t want our help. Why do we keep offering it?”

  “Because we are the good guys.” Rhett tosses Lawless a spare clip, letting him know there is no room for argument.

  Chapel half laughs looking to Rhett and asks him, “Since when?” He remembers the many past deeds they have done as a club.

  “Since the real bad guys got a whole hell of a lot scarier than we are.” Rhett chambers his gun, and the sound seems to echo against the plain, gray slate walls. He locks eyes with every man around him, sparing a few seconds of and because I said so with his face. It ends any further debates on the matter.

  The resounding, agreeing chorus is the many echoes of chambered guns in response to his. Just like their Harleys, when one revs, they all rev. It has to be a boy thing. Their “boy thing” makes one thing plainly obvious to me. I don’t have a gun. I am honestly about to bring a knife to a gunfight. I would have pointed that fact out, but the Risen left me no time.

  The echoes from their guns proved to be a door knocker to the Risen. They inch slowly from the cafeteria, waiting for another clue to tell them where to turn. They have not seen us yet, but it will only be moments until their eyes begin to seek out what their ears no longer hear.

  Seven of them stand now in the space between the cafeteria’s open doors and the hall, but with the many sounds of shuffling, I know there are more. Their clothing is layers thick with stains from wear and death. Not only their death, but also the many they have brought to death. The stains swirl from rust colors to dark blacks as blood and earth mingle like a name branded upon them. Their bodies hold signs of abuse with broken fingers and torn flesh. Their flesh is spread, tainted, or bloated with decay. It holds all the shades rot can hold. If Death has ambassadors, the Risen would fill the position.