Rise Once More

by D. Henbane

  “He can wait.” Alex says sternly.

  “I gotta go. We can talk about this later.” Eve says as she lifts herself up from the floor. Alex grabs her arm to help her up but Eve tosses his hand away as she storms off towards Reese's office.

  “Eve WAIT!” Eve doesn't even pause, shifting to a brisk walk down the hallway, leaving Alex alone once again. “At least I can admire the view.” Alex says, as he stares at her rear end.

  Eve pauses in front of Reese's office door and tries to calm her nerves before entering. Her hand rests on the French style doorknob and memories of Haus flood her brain. Little flickering images of the happy times, interrupted with static like a worn out television set. She is overcome with emotion. A tear begins to stream down her face, but she is jolted back into reality, by the sound of the lock mechanism clicking. The door swings open and she steps into the office.

  “Eve, please have a seat. I have something I need to talk to you about.” Reese says as he gestures for her to sit down. Eve walks slowly towards the chair. Her gait is weak and her facial expression is withered. Eve sits, crosses her legs nervously and waits to hear Reese speak. “Eve we have a very serious problem on our hands.”

  “Yeah, I guessed that. Since when did Alex come back?” Eve says.

  “Alex has been re-activated.” Reese says.

  “Just what in the hell is going on around here Reese?” Eve says.

  “While Haus was working, he uncovered some disturbing intelligence and let me do my best to summarize it for you. A suspect has acquired a biological weapon, is currently in transit to release this biological weapon and is regarded as a terrorist.” Reese says.

  “What kind of a biological weapon?” Eve asks.

  “A virus to be specific.” Reese says.

  “Sounds to me like Alex can handle this terrorist just fine.” Eve says.

  “Yes, Alex could hunt the terrorist down. But that is when it gets complicated.” Reese says.

  “What do you mean complicated?” Eve says.

  “This isn't a simple mission, it has several layers and Alex has requested that you accompany him on the mission.” Reese says.

  “Why? So he can flirt and have control over me?” Eve says.

  “He feels that you will be able to give him an edge in this mission.” Reese says.

  “How could I give him an edge? Sure, I can dress his wounds, when he foolishly gets shot in action. Even then, aside from making him comfortable until paramedics arrive, I can offer nothing.” Eve says.

  Reese sits silently, staring across his desk at Eve and adjusts his tie to allow more breathing room. He takes a few deep breaths and carefully selects his next choice of words. His fingers nervously roll across his desk and he suddenly sits upright. “The terrorist is your mother...”

  “WHAT?” Eve exclaims.

  “Yes, Trixie has the virus with her and has every intent to destroy mankind with it. She has murdered several people in the process and is a key player in the death of Agent Haus.” Reese explains.

  “My mother couldn't hurt a flea, let alone be a terrorist!” Eve exclaims.

  “Eve, please calm down, I think you need to see this footage.” Reese plays the footage from Haus's Dlink on the screen behind him. As the footage rolls Eve covers her mouth and begins to sob. Anger, sadness, and disbelief bombard her thoughts. The video is damning evidence, Eve still can't believe what her eyes are relaying to her confused mind. Her body shivers when Trixie kicks Haus in the chest and she looks away as he falls down the air shaft.

  It was one thing to accept his loss, but another, seeing it happen in real time. Eve didn't even recognize the camouflaged monster that her mother had become. Long lost were the memories of a soft, kind, and caring mother. The same guardian angel that cooked her chocolate chip pancakes on the first day of school and made a smiley face out of bacon.

  All that remains is the defunct shell, of a woman that vaguely looks like her mother. The goodnight kisses have been replaced by bullets hitting their target. Tender embraces a thing of the past, nothing but stone cold salutes and uniform inspections.

  The human has been removed, and all that remains is the primal animal deep down inside. Stripped of all emotion, and left wanting. A human can only live that way for a brief period, before they succumb to the madness, and after that, there is no coming back.

  “What if I refuse to go?” Eve says.

  “Well, I guess that is a big problem. I already promised Alex that you are coming along.” Reese says.

  “It's not gonna happen....” Eve says.

  “I knew you would react this way, but if you are forcing my hand. I have no choice...” Reese says.

  “No choice?” Eve asks.

  “I have to authorize Alex to use lethal force, to neutralize the threat.”

  “You can't kill mom!” Eve says.

  “My hands are tied on this one, kiddo. I tried to offer you a way to save the day, yet you are defiant. I wish I could just wave a magic wand and make this all go away.” Reese says.

  “That's my mom! You heartless bastard!” Eve says.

  “Eve, listen to me sweetheart. As much as you hate the idea of being with Alex, you need to toss it aside for the sake of your mother. I know you don't want to go, but listen to reason on this proposition. You can save your mother. You, and you alone can convince her to abandon her plan. Otherwise, if I send Alex in alone, you might as well start carving your mothers tombstone.” Reese says.

  “Do you promise my mother will be unharmed?” Eve asks.

  “I will do everything in my power to assure her safety, but I cant promise anything. Reese says.

  Eve contemplates the situation. She knows that the best chance to sort this mess out, is if she confronts her mother and keeps Alex from firing the final shot. Once Trixie is told the whole truth, maybe she will back away from her plan and ultimately save her own life.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Sweat Of My Brow

  I awaken to the feeling of cold water dripping on to my forehead. In the distance, I can hear shuffling in the darkened madness. There is no light, just black, nothingness, and even more black. My head is reeling and I can't find the strength to sit up. I clench my fists tightly, raising each arm above my chest and twisting my body slightly. The ringing in my ears has started to retreat, as I check myself over mentally for major wounds.

  I wiggle my toes, then pull my knees toward my chest and for a moment I feel that I am unharmed, but that was a false sense of security, I soon realize as the images of the blast come back to me. Is this what people refer to as shell shock? I am confused, my muscles seem to respond, but I have almost no sense of feeling.

  I think I spoke to soon, my body floods my brain with pain responses and I quickly realize that I am in pretty rough shape. To make matters much worse, I hear the shuffling sounds in the distance growing much closer. Muffled cries, a few whimpers, and ramblings all seem to refocus on my origin.

  I drag myself to my feet, leaning heavily against the stone shaft behind me for support. In my sensory depraved state, I imagine a figure moving in the darkness. I can hear a hissing noise, as I attempt to track the object. Foolishly I scan the area with my useless eyes, and I reach out into the darkness.

  My hand is slammed to my side, by an outside force collapsing upon it. I can feel something squirming at my feet, and I kick out of reflex. I can hear it scurry on the ground, and come back at me. It grabs my legs, forces it ways towards my face, and I intercept it around my waist.

  I dig my fingers into its skull, forcing my thumbs into its eye sockets, and pin the creature at my hips. I feel a slimy tongue brush my inner wrist, and the adrenaline takes over. I slam the skull into the granite shaft floor, holding it firmly with my left hand, as I pound my fist into it repeatedly, until no movement occurs.

  I grip my knees with my shaking hands, forcefully slow down my rabid breathing and try to regain some composure. The moment is short lived, as I hear more movement behind me.
The darkness is playing games with my bodies senses, I bump my head into the shaft wall, expecting nothing to be there and the resulting thump aggravates me more.

  I turn my back to the shaft wall to eliminate the chances of an attack from behind; one less thing to worry about in this unfamiliar abyss. I stand perfectly still in the darkness to try to locate my next target by sound alone. I have often wondered how blind people navigate the congested streets of modern society without the convenience of eye sight. Unfortunately for me, I am learning first hand, and failing miserably at it.

  I am jolted by the sound of hands slamming against glass, turning I can very vaguely make out a light source and slowly proceed towards it. Hand over hand pressed against the granite to guide me to my destination. A faintly lit, red exit sign glows above my head and I can make out the dual doors of the command post. I recognize the area from my encounter with Trixie earlier and shake my head in disbelief that I had gone deeper into the old mine.

  I succumb to the feelings of hopelessness and collapse onto the floor. There really is no reason to keep going. I am stuck here, underground, with no food, or any real chance of escape. If I go back towards the vent shaft, the infected would have surely found a way around the glass and I would be an easy target. I can at least entertain myself here while I wait to starve to death.

  Food. Oh yes, I remember food in all of its sugar coated glory. Candy bars, energy drinks, and caramel layered nougat smothered in chocolate. Would you like some peanuts? Well, yes, I would love some peanuts!

  I reach down to my feet, fumble around the rubble, and grab a few spent brass shells. Mistaking them for peanuts, toss a few into my mouth and attempt to chew. It doesn't take long for my body to realize, that I am hallucinating, and quickly rejects my food fantasy.

  “Son of a bitch!” I pictured my death very different than this. I always assumed I would be shot in the back by a jealous husband, as I jumped out a second story window, after pleasing his neglected wife. Now that it has come down to it, I might as well relish in my remaining time, and I might even find some kind of peace with myself.

  I crawl on the cold floor, to what I assume is the center of the room, and begin to give myself final rights. I bend forward to say a half hearted prayer, when my hand falls onto something strange, and I snatch it up to examine it closer. A round plastic tube, I shake it next to my ear, and hear the distinct sound of liquid inside.

  I grab the container, bend it in the center until it snaps, and shake the concoction a few times. I am greeted by the phosphorescent light it emits. What a stroke of luck to find a light stick, maybe this is a sign from some god, that I am not to die in darkness.

  While it is a blessing to be able to see again, it is also a bane. The body of General Stratton is illuminated a bit too well. While I have never been a fan of viewing the dead, I can at least say, that he looks at peace for being dead. It may sound morbid at first, but I had no qualms of searching his body for anything useful.

  The reward for my morally bankrupt soul? A Bowie knife, with a very old patina to it, and a hand carved elk horn handle with a brass hilt. The General had it strapped to his right calf. I knew the man was an outdoors kind of guy, but I had no idea, there was a little cowboy in him too.

  I drew the blade from its leather sheath, examining the blade closely in my green light, and found it to be without much decoration. It is so common these days to see fantasy daggers, inscribing every inch of the blade, and exaggerated dimensions. I surprises someone to see a real weapon, little to no decoration, but designed to simply take life. It doesn't take many bells and whistles, or laser cut designs, to slit a mans throat. Function without the flair, cold hard steel, and a blood stained hand.

  Just holding the antique blade empowers me, leaving a lasting feeling of power, and a boost knowing that I at least have an advantage. That advantage is over a living human, not an endless onslaught of infected, but it still is an advantage none the less. I do know, if you cause enough trauma to the brain they stop moving, but that doesn't mean they are finally at rest. For all I know it just stuns them for a bit, maybe later they re-animate, to continue their goal of total destruction.

  It does make me feel a little cocky, and what else do I have to lose? I am going to die down here. What is to stop me from growing a Norris nut? I think of all the games I played, pretending to be this unstoppable hero, fully emerged into the cheesy story, and ready to open my own personal can of whoop ass. I can stay here, be relatively safe, slowly starve to death, and hope someone tells my story. The other option, try to do something about it, and let god sort out the details.

  First I need an epic weapon, my own version of the master sword, but this knife isn't exactly legendary. The blade length is impressive, but doesn't qualify as a last stand weapon. What I need is a scythe. Yes, the weapon yielded by death himself! Since I don't have one, I will have to fashion my own version.

  I look around my surroundings and find a five foot length of lumber. A simple two by four, barely hanging by a nail, in the cross beam above my head. I yank it down, and use a rock to force the aged blade into the tip of my adopted staff. I rid the general of his boot laces, securing the blade in place, by a crude series of knot work.

  I grip my scythe and make several practice swings into the open air. A new found reaper, reclaiming his sown wheat, one single swipe of the blade after another. If I am to reap, what I hath sown, let it hurt like hell in the process.

  The adrenaline flows through my veins and I can feel my balls growing larger. Is it a case of feeling unstoppable, or have I taken one too many hits to the cranium? In the end it doesn't matter, I am the sheppard and it is time to cull the herd.

  I use one of the Generals boot laces to craft a necklace, carefully winding it around my glow stick, securing it tightly, and giving me a much needed source of light. Scythe in hand, I venture into the darkness, one foolish step in front of the other.

  My main objective is to get back to the ventilation shaft, and ultimately navigate the dark corridors to the beloved sun parched earth above me. I know the infected have only further increased their numbers, and the outcome looks grim at best. I could just simply retrace my steps, but my concussed memory has failed me, and the odds of following the correct path is statistically working against me. Sure I am pumped up, ready to take on the world, but I neglected a minor detail. I have no idea where the hell I am actually going, let alone having a rational plan to survive.

  I might spend hours going in the wrong direction; I could even end up deeper into the bowels of the Earth. My confidence quickly erodes, and I am forced to sit and ponder my next move. I sink down to the floor, clutching my home made redemption weapon, and wishing I was that hero from long ago. My hand flops onto the floor of the mining shaft. “Just great! Rat shit! Now my hand is covered in rat shit.” I say out loud in disgust.

  At first I am repulsed by the idea, and quickly wipe the excrement from the back of my hand onto my pants. Like an instant message from Hermes, the Greek god of communication, my brain is flooded with ideas, and I can clearly draw the connection.

  “Rats, are the first to abandon ship, but they always have an escape plan.” Follow the rats, find a way out of here. My hand might be coated in shit, but that shit, has a purpose, and that purpose is survival. There is a way out of here, and those furry bastards know the way. I just hope I am small enough to crawl through the hole.

  I grab the light stick from around my neck, and shine it down the corridor. Sure enough, I see the reflection of the rat's eyes ahead of me. A few yards down is a single furry rodent, he is staring back at me, and the new found light aimed in his direction. He stands up, from the prone position, as if to challenge me to follow him.

  Locking the my gaze on the rodent, I follow his every move, hopping around the shaft floor, and pausing for a few moments. Each time I renew the game. A game of chase, a game of chance, either I will catch him, or he will lead me to sudden death.

  Every few hops, he l
ooks back at me, as if to challenge me. Or maybe he is offering some kind of rat like advice. I couldn't care less. I want out of this hell hole, and I won't stop until I see the burning light of the sun. The only thing that separates me from freedom is my furry little companion, and he seems to be taking his sweet time.

  The fur ball has decided to stop being helpful, he sits on a piece of electrical conduit, raising his gray snout to the musky air, and twitches his whiskers. Suddenly he stops moving, frozen in place, like a megalith from Stonehenge. I stare at him, growing ever more intolerant of his new game. Suddenly he turns face, and runs into a small crevice in the shaft wall. “Well, this is a new low for me. Even the rats don't care for my company.” My voice echoes around me in a dull tone.

  I stand to my feet, dust off my pants, and proceed forward. The light stick does a decent job of illuminating my immediate surroundings, but is almost worthless after four feet. My stomach chimes in again, with some nice cramps, reminding me it has been a while since I last ate anything. My mouth is dry, balls of dried saliva ring the outside of my lips, and I do my best to wipe them away.

  I think I see light ahead. I wave the light stick around, the reflection is almost eye level with me, and I am confident that it must be a light at the end of a tunnel. I take two quick steps forward, and slam into a solid object. I fall backwards onto the hard stone below. A weight falls onto my chest from above, and I feel the cold of something clawing at my chest.

  In the dim green light I can see his face, the blood fouled eyes, the chill of a seemingly lifeless corpse hovering over me. I can feel the aggression his body radiates. I thrust my forearm into his throat, blocking him from coming any closer to my face. He wails at me, like the distress call of a wounded deer, it sounds like an infant crying, while its lungs are partially filled with liquid.

  I struggle to find my scythe, once I have it in my hands, I make a quick sweeping motion, severing the head from the spine. The head falls near my ear, and I think I heard it say... Thank you.