The Rising: Selected Scenes From the End of the World by Brian Keene Read Free Book Online Page B

California
     
    Terry Tidwell sat in the darkness, drinking a warm can of Foster’s Lager and listening to the dead outside. Woody, his Jack Russell Terrier, growled at his feet, ears cocked. Woody didn’t like zombies. Especially the seal.
    Five days ago, a bloated bull seal lumbered into the driveway, chasing after a still-living cat. The sounds it made were horrific, and the sounds the cat made as the creature slaughtered it were even worse. Woody started barking. Terry had tried to quiet him, but he kept growling and scratching at the door. The seal turned its dead, black eyes toward the house, attracted by the noise. Then it alerted the other zombies in the area, and soon the house was surrounded.
    * * *
    Woody didn’t bark anymore. He’d figured out that it had no effect on the zombies, and was content now to merely growl. But it didn’t matter. The creatures already knew they were alive and inside the house, and the zombies had the patience of death. Terry and Woody were under siege.
    It was pitch black. Terry knew better than to light even a single candle. The power had been out for days, and the food in the fridge was starting to spoil, enough that the kitchen smelled like the zombies. But he still had plenty of beer, canned goods, and dog food. Water was going to be a problem if they stayed trapped in here much longer, but they’d make due. Terry had taken to pissing in empty beer cans, so that the toilet water would remain untainted. He’d drink from the commode if he had to. Why not? Woody did it all the time.
    “But we’ll go stir crazy,” he said out loud. “We need to get outside, sooner or later.”
    Woody gave Terry a look, as if to say, “ Surely you jest, master. I’ve grown quite accustomed to you letting me shit in the spare bedroom this last week and a half. I don’t need to go outside to pee anymore.”
    “Don’t give me that look,” Terry scolded.
    “Eventually, we’ll run out of food. And beer.”
    Woody’s ears perked up and he tilted his head. His master had now mentioned two of his favorite things—outside and food. He flipped his tail cautiously. Terry rubbed the stubble on his face. “Wonder if we can make a break for it?”
    Holding the beer in one hand and picking up his old .30-30 rifle with the other, Terry crept to the window. He edged open the blinds with his beer hand, and peeked through a crack in the plywood that he’d nailed over the windows. The moon was full, and he could see clearly. His lawn looked like a scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds . Hundreds of zombies, mostly seagulls and crows, perched on the treetops and phone wires and scurried across the grass, waiting patiently for Woody and Terry. The stench from their rotting carcasses wasn’t bad—the ocean breeze blowing in from the Pacific swept it inland toward the majestic redwoods. The smell from Terry’s own kitchen was worse.
    At least there were no human zombies. Not yet. Undead humans would have been a problem. They had opposable thumbs that could open doors or wield tools to smash them down (if their thumbs hadn’t rotted away). All the windows had been boarded over, but human zombies could make quick work of that.
    Terry eyed his truck, an F-250 Ford diesel. It was covered with undead animals. If he and Woody ran outside, could they make it to the truck? He wondered how many birds he could bring down with the rifle. He hadn’t fired it in thirty years—and wasn’t even sure if it still worked.
    Woody trotted over to him, nails clicking on the floor.
    Terry sat the rifle aside, then bent down and petted him. He could carry Woody, he supposed. But he couldn’t work the lever on the rifle and fire it at the same time if he were carrying the dog.
    Terry drained the beer, crumpled the can, and belched. “I think we’re screwed.”
    Woody flipped his tail in agreement.
    Terry started to turn away from the peephole, and that was when night turned to day. Hot, white light burned his eyes.