“Or… can you be redeemed?”
The question was a lifeline, a shining light of hope cast into the black sea of devastation in which he drowned.
“You, John Maddock, have always dreamed of being special, standing centre stage in the theatre of your unremarkable life.” The voice softened a fraction, but it was enough for Maddock’s hope to flare. “Were you to be granted the chance to atone for your decadence and sloth - for your boundless and selfish pride - would you grasp it?”
For the first time, his weightless body relaxed enough for him to sob a response.
“Yes! With all my heart, yes!”
The words exploded from him in choked relief, his intent genuine and heartfelt, desperate to redeem himself to the dark divinity holding him in the void.
The pause that followed was an eternity, and the silence a gargantuan emptiness surrounding him. Maddock could still feel the presence of the divine entity – for it was divine, of that he was certain – but it said nothing for an age while it measured the depth of his sincerity.
“Your followers BELIEVE in you, John Maddock,” came the voice in his mind again, blowing through his senses like a mournful gale, and the whispering breath of the dead. “You will NOT betray them again, for they are the hope for ALL humanity. They are the Children of MY Dark Resurrection, and you are my first disciple, but know this, John Maddock; there are those still living who will bring about the end of all things if they remain unhindered.”
“What would you have me do, my Lord?”
He had no care for how desperate and sycophantic he sounded. Pride was an empty gesture against this towering, timeless presence.
“Always, John Maddock, the enemies of humanity will come in three, for three is the accursed number. They will be wolves in sheep’s clothing, professing unity and compassion, but just as you have been, they are the betrayers of the people they swear to protect. Their tongues speak honeyed words, but the sweetness obfuscates the bitter venom beneath, and you must not be swayed. You must remain resolute if humanity is to have its chance at redemption.”
“How will I know them, Lord?” pleaded Maddock, eager to please.
“This is YOUR test, John Maddock,” cautioned the darkness. “Redemption must be earned, not freely given.”
“I understand,” he replied in meek contrition. “Forgive me.”
“I will, however, grant you a gift, to bind your followers closer still.”
Maddock realised with growing relief that he would survive this encounter with the dark force of his dreaming. He would awaken.
“As the enemy are three, so shall WE be three. When I release you to your waking world, you will choose two of your followers loyal to you. I will give you a gift, that you in turn can grant your two most loyal supporters. You must show your people this gift even as you accept yours, but it will come at a price to each of you. Nothing in your redemption shall ever come without cost, John Maddock. This is the price for humanity’s failure.”
He listened in mute awe as the darkness revealed its magnanimous gift, fear of the act he was required to perform shifting to a trembling excitement as he realised the power he would be entrusted with.
“Awaken, John Maddock,” breathed the darkness, its sibilant rasp fading to an echo. “And RISE.”
Maddock shivered as he woke, the hiss of the dark, eternal voice still echoing in the shadowed halls of his soul.
Was it just a dream? Nothing more than a vivid nightmare?
One trembling hand reached to his cheek. Crumbling under the warmth of his fingertips, he touched the icy track of frozen tears against his skin.
All eyes stared at Maddock, every expression expectant and afire with reverence for the man who stood before them. John Maddock, Prophet of the Resurrection, was resplendent before them, his blue eyes sparkling like the summer sky.
The gleaming pure white of his cotton shirt, buttoned to his neck, was a direct contrast to the black shimmer of his silk waistcoat. Black trousers and boots completed his simple ensemble, but as he stood gazing out at faces that adored him, he seemed a man out of time. He was a preacher of a bygone age, reborn to guide his children through this dark resurrection consuming the world, radiating power and assurance in this time of greatest uncertainty.
There were no whispers or muted conversations. All attention was focused entirely on him alone, as they waited in breathless anticipation for him to speak.
“Brothers and sisters,” he began, then smiled, as though catching himself in error. “My children,” he corrected with a benevolent look of affection. “Our day is finally here. Even as I speak, the pillars of humanity crumble under the weight of the rising dead, called from their eternal slumber to judge our species for its vast litany of sins. We are ready, and we will rise.”
“We are ready, and we will rise,” repeated the crowd with passion, echoing their community’s mantra that Maddock had penned at the beginning. He had thought it catchy and laughed at the time, but now, he felt the truth of it in his blood.
“Last night, I was visited in my dreams by the Lord of the Dead, He who wakes the damned, and the dark judge of all humanity.”
He waited for disbelief or outcry, but none was forthcoming. The acceptance of his words warmed him to these people, and he inwardly cursed himself for ever thinking of betraying such good, honest folk who invested all their trust and faith in him. He would never take them for granted again.
“I have learned of what is to come, of the trials we must face, and I caution you all that it will not be easy. For humanity to retain their existence on this earth, the Lord of the Dead must be appeased, and our redemption must be earned, and paid for.”
“We are ready, and we will rise,” intoned the crowd again.
“But we are not alone, my children,” announced Maddock, passion creeping into his words as his tone rose in pitch. “The Lord of the Dead has granted me a gift, and it is a gift I may share with two of you, to aid us in our divine quest to redeem humanity of all its terrible sins.”
Maddock sighed theatrically, a pained expression of remorse clouding his features.
“But, as with all redemption, there is often required sacrifice. It causes my heart such pain for me to ask this of you - my beloved and devoted children - who have worked so hard and done so much for us to have our chance at salvation.” He gazed out among them, meeting as many eyes as he could. “But for this gift to be granted, I must bear this terrible burden and ask one of you for the greatest sacrifice of all.”
A man in his mid-fifties, thin with a waxen complexion, moved through the crowd with one skeletal arm aloft. Maddock’s followers parted, allowing the painfully thin man free passage to stand before his prophet.
“I will gladly give myself as sacrifice, Revered Prophet,” said the man in a weak voice, though he did his best to infuse it with all his remaining strength. “I am dying anyway, and the cancer eating me from within is slow and painful. I am a burden, Revered Prophet, but in this I can serve our community.”
Maddock stepped down from the platform, placing a hand on each of the man’s sharp shoulders, his blue eyes boring into the man’s yellowing orbs.
“What is your name, my child?”
“George Watts, Revered Prophet.”
“Behold!” boomed Maddock. “Behold the noble and courageous Brother George, who would give us the gift of his life, and in return, allow us to receive the Lord of the Dead’s reward!”
“Brother George!” called the crowd in celebration. “Brother George will rise!”
Maddock beckoned to Jacob Tyler, the most senior of his security team. In his early forties, Tyler was every inch a soldier, his head shaven clean, with hard features scarred by battle and eyes that had witnessed the myriad of horrors humanity could inflict upon itself. The traumatic memories remained carved into a gaze forever haunted by those ghosts.
“Your knife, Jacob,” commanded Maddock, holding out his hand.
Jacob looked horrified
for a moment. “Prophet, you must not sully yourself,” he pleaded. “Allow me to…”
“No, Jacob,” chided Maddock with a small shake of his head. “Redemption must be earned, and for the Lord of the Dead to grant me his gift, then I must bear the weight of this sorrow. This is part of my penance.” He gifted the soldier with an assuring smile. “I will not be sullied by this, Jacob. I will be reborn.”
“Then use my pistol, Revered Prophet,” begged Jacob.
Again, Maddock declined with a gentle shake of the head.
“It must be thus, Jacob. I must shed blood with my own hand if we are to rise.”
“We are ready, and we will rise,” chanted the crowd in a single voice.
Jacob looked pained as he drew the large blade from his hip, offering it hilt first to Maddock. The prophet gripped the knife, feeling every grain of the leather binding the handle, one hand still on George’s shoulder.
“Kneel, brother,” he said softly to the dying man.
George lowered himself in obvious discomfort to his knees, turning his gaze upwards to Maddock, exposing his throat.
“I am ready, Revered Prophet,” he declared without fear, and closed his eyes.
“Stand back,” Maddock commanded the crowd. “All must bear witness.”
The crowd bowed into a concave, all clamouring for space so they could watch the unfolding drama, eyes bright in anticipation, though many were equally wide in anxious fear.
Taking a deep breath to steady his own nerves and the shake threatening his hold on the blade, Maddock stepped behind George, and placed the cold steel against his throat. Not daring to pause in case his courage faltered, Maddock drove the sharp edge into George’s flesh, driving deep, parting tissue and muscle, hot blood running over his hand as the sharp tang of blood filled his senses.
With the razor-sharp blade deep in George’s throat, Maddock dragged the weapon from left to right, severing muscle, tendons, and the life-giving blood vessels of the man’s neck.
Though inwardly repulsed by the sensation, Maddock retained a neutral expression as he stepped back from his bloody labour. George collapsed, hands involuntarily clawing at his ruined neck, choking and gurgling as his thin blood poured in a torrent to his lungs, drowning him in the very fluid that once sustained him.
Cries of shock and alarm rang from the crowd, hands snapping to mouths in horror as they watched the cancer-ridden man die a choking death, eyes flicking from the dying farmer to the bloodied hand of their revered leader.
George lay still in a mercifully short time, his weakened heart giving out before he could drown in his own blood. An eerie silence fell upon the crowd as they stared at the lifeless form of their fellow brother lying in a puddle of his own blood, waiting for what came next.
It happened no more than twenty seconds from the end of George’s thrashing. His corpse twitched violently, as the dark charge of the divine sparked within the cancerous husk.
“Peace, my children!” assured Maddock in a boom, as the man’s eyes flicked open to reveal irises painted white. The demonic force within had awakened.
George’s lips peeled back with primeval hate, a silent rictus of hunger carving his once gentle features into a dark and primitive predator, the glassy orbs fixing on the crowd as they shrank from the rising horror. Awkwardly, the creature that was once George Watts clambered to its feet.
Now was the true test.
As the demonic form shambled towards the masses, its wasted arms reaching for flesh just out of its grasp, Maddock’s voice cracked like a gunshot through the rising tumult of the crowd.
“Hold!”
Exhilaration coursed through Maddock as the thing halted mid-reach, arms falling lifeless to its sides, awaiting his next decree.
“Kneel!” he commanded, barely containing the triumph in his voice as the undead fell to its knees, just as it had moments earlier when George offered himself in sacrifice. The sharp metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, though there was none there.
Power.
Raw, exultant power of the divine.
And it was his.
“Jacob,” he trembled, beckoning the awestruck soldier forward.
“Prophet?” the warrior inquired, eyes wide and shining. For this moment alone, the haunting ghosts of his memory were exorcised by reverence.
“Put our brother to his final rest. He has earned that much.”
Without hesitation, Jacob Tyler drew the pistol from his hip and executed the undead George with a single round to the head. The corpse collapsed for a second time, but this time it did not rise.
Climbing to the platform so all could remember this moment, Maddock cast out his arms as though he would embrace them all. Crimson drops flicked from the hand still warm with George’s blood.
“My children!”
The radiance of the divine descended with the silence, every breath held, every eye fixed to him.
“This is our reward for Brother George’s sacrifice, for your devotion and dedication, for your faith! And now, my children, I am no longer your mere Prophet, for my words are now our truth, and I have been touched by Death itself! From this day forth, I am your First Disciple of the Resurrection!”
The crowd exploded in unfettered acclaim, the touch of the divine upon them all.
“WE ARE READY, AND WE WILL RISE!” they roared as one. Over and over, the crowd thundered the mantra, until it eventually devolved into a three-word frenzy.
“WE WILL RISE! WE WILL RISE! WE WILL RISE!”
Maddock allowed the joy to smother him, swallowed by its ecstasy.
A beatific smile radiating from his lips, and his eyes wet with tears of rapture, he finally lowered his head and drank in the divinity of the moment.
His hands bunching to fists, John Maddock, First Disciple of the Resurrection, whispered triumphantly back to the crowd through clenched teeth.
“We… will… rise!”
NOVEMBER 11th, 2010
IT’S OH SO QUIET
Well, I’m sitting here at the kitchen island in the lodge, tapping at my keyboard, all alone. Nate is already asleep, as is Alicia, and it’s just little old me sitting in the quiet.
It’s SO quiet.
Everybody has moved to Crenshaw, and we’ve been back and forth for a few days to settle everyone in. I swear Particles looked at me with the thought of, “Damn you, betrayer of worlds!” when I left him in Charlie and Mark’s care. It’s like he knew he was being left there and I was clearing out. I feel like such a turd.
Maria has moved into the mini apartment in Hall Fire with Dean. Mark and Charlie have taken one of the three small houses down in the maintenance area where Mark will be working most of the time. Isaac has moved into one of the single dorms used by older kids in the same building as the rest of them.
Norah has planted herself in one of the houses near Mark and Charlie as well, and that makes me happy. Norah thinks the world of them both, and she and Charlie have developed a special bond. I’m glad she’ll be close to them, and those two won’t be isolated far from everyone else.
We moved the tanker over there, the loader truck, the van, they still had the black Astra, and a couple of others. The three of us just kept our beloved pickup, and you would have to drag Nate’s cold dead body from that up armoured Humvee. Everywhere we go on outings beyond the gate now, we’ll do so as a trio, so we’ve just kept the two vehicles.
We moved the bulk of the resources over, dug up Norah’s vegetable garden and transported that over as best we could, and we’ve left ourselves with plenty of supplies. One of the sticking points were the guns and ammo.
Nate was adamant about retaining them, no matter Dean’s training as a specialist firearms officer. Everyone who carried a sidearm got to keep their Glock, and he was happy to hand over some shotguns and ammo for them as we’ve plenty of both. But he flat refused to just hand over the bulk of the stuff we’ve gathered like the SMG’s, the .22 rifle, the big .357 revolvers from Tucker and Jamie Banc
roft, the L85 rifles, the AK-47’s we got from Bancroft, and all the other stuff. Nate was clear and concise that every single one of those weapons had been fought and killed for by me and him, and he wasn’t just going to hand them over.
Side note. Nate has told me to stop calling the rifles SA80, as that’s just the family, not the exact model. Apparently, it’s an L85A2, so henceforth I shall be calling them L85’s. He’s such a pedant when it comes to guns.
It made for a bit of tension with Dean and Nate, which I didn’t enjoy as I can see both arguments. There are more people at Crenshaw and more that will need weapons training, which Dean can do, but I sort of stand by Nate. We’ve fought and killed for every one of those weapons and bullets we’ve acquired. We’re the only two out of the lodge that battled the living who were using them to shoot back at us or terrorise innocents. Just handing those over into someone else’s care doesn’t seem right, even if it is Dean. Plus, Nate and Dean don’t know each other that well yet.
Nate was happy to let everyone go with their sidearms, the spare magazines they had for them, and an extra box each for refills, plus the shotguns and ammo for them as I said.
If they needed any more, they would talk about that. After all, we had just handed over most of the food and other resources we’d been gathering over the months, while we were risking our necks. Handing over all the weapons and ammo was just a bridge too far for Nate, and I can see his point.
Still, it’s weird sitting here at this moment, Freya. For a while it was just you, me, Nate, and our lucky pug, and it never felt empty then. Now it does. I’ve grown used to everyone being here, seeing people in the morning and saying hello, chilling out in the evening with my adoptive little bro, and getting sagely wisdom from Norah.
Now it feels like we’re some distant military outpost on the edge of the realm, a skeleton crew of forward observers going through the motions.
We’re going back over to the school tomorrow anyway. We need some of those radios of Dean’s so the three of us can talk freely when we’re out and about without the fear of unknown eavesdroppers. Those radios fix to the belt but have earpieces and fancy throat mics with comms buttons, so we can speak much easier on the move, keep our communications quiet without the radios blaring out, and their transmission is encrypted. If we’re going to be out and about looking for Evil Jesus and his fruit loops, we need those communications to be stealthy and secure. We also have to decide on a plan that we all agree on.
Lockey vs. the Apocalypse | Book 2 | We Will Rise [Adrian's Undead Diary Novel] Page 21