"There's not much fuel," the zombie called. "I may have to coast it down the hill."
"That's fine. The complex has several fueling stations. We shall accompany you."
The passenger door opened, and the truck sagged even lower as more piled in. Then the truck began to move.
"Guys," Kevin breathed, so quietly that they had to strain to hear him.
"I can't hold it anymore. I'm sorry."
He let go, and immediately a flood of warmth spread across the crotch of his jeans. It ran down his leg and into the bed of the truck, pooling around his companions. The stench, mixed with that of their forward passengers, was overpowering.
"Ohhhh." Kevin shuddered as the pressure left him. Soaked in his own urine, he gasped in pained ecstasy.
The truck picked up speed now, rolling down the hill. The urine followed the law of gravity, running beneath all three of them.
"Oh Jesus," Mikey exploded. "Stop it, Kevin! Fucking stop!"
"Did you hear something?" someone asked from up front.
All three of their hearts skipped a beat at the same time.
"What?"
"I don't know. Thought I heard a human."
"Your body's ears are faulty. Look around. I don't see a life glow anywhere."
"There's Ob. Let us stop and show him our prize. Perhaps he will reward us."
The truck lurched to a stop, and Kevin's bladder squeezed out the last few drops. The three men lay in the darkness; wet, cold, and afraid.
Ob evaluated the line of vehicles pouring into the facility as one of his undead soldiers directed them. Four-wheel drives, sedans, an M-88 tank recovery unit, several sport utility vehicles, a half dozen Humvees, a motorcycle, and a few tractor-trailers. His eyes widened in pleasure when the two Paladin motorized howitzers rolled up. Several tow trucks crested the hill. The vehicles that hadn't been destroyed, but were damaged or not operational, were being towed inside the facility, so the dead could repair them.
"Good. Very good. You have all done well." He started to turn, but a beat-up old truck coasted toward him and stalled at his feet.
In the bed, buried beneath the tarp, Ron twisted his neck, trying to work out an agonizing kink. His face slid into a puddle of Kevin's waste.
"Where did you find this pile of junk?" Ob asked.
Ron gagged. Kevin and Mikey stiffened beside him.
"Atop that hill, lord. It only needs some gas and then it will be fine."
Ron felt the cough building inside him. Kevin's urine dripped from his nose and chin.
"Hmmmm. Put it with the rest, then."
Ron fought it down and froze, listening.
"Wait," Ob called. "Why does it smell like human urine?"
Ron coughed, loudly. Another one seized him, rustling the tarp over their heads.
"In the back! They're in the back!"
"Shit!" Mikey shouted. "What the fuck do we do?"
Kevin fumbled blindly for the rifle. His fingers closed around the cold barrel and he pulled it toward him, hitting Mikey in the head. Mikey yelped in surprise and pain.
A dozen creatures surrounded the truck and ripped the tarp away. Some had been children and office workers. One of them looked like a scientist, or maybe a doctor. Others were their fellow mercenaries, killed in the battle and now fighting for the other side.
Two pairs of mottled arms grasped at Ron, dragging him out of the bed.
He twisted, broke free, and fell to the ground. His ankle snapped.
Immediately the creatures fell upon him, stabbing him with knives, clubbing him with rocks, and clawing his skin with their dead fingers.
Another corpse locked on to Mikey, its teeth seeking the soft flesh of his quivering throat. He groped at the zombie's head and pushed it back up. His fingers slid into the thing's mouth and he struggled, pulling down in an effort to break the jaw. Instead, the teeth snapped shut, severing his digits at the first knuckles. Blood spurted from the stumps. His scream was cut off as the corpse's mouth found his. They locked in a repugnant kiss, and then the zombie pushed him away, his tongue hanging from between its lips. Mikey collapsed, his screams replaced by a high-pitched gargle. Blood poured from his ruined mouth.
Another zombie leaped forward and zapped him with a stun gun.
Ob leaned his elbows against the rim of the Chevy's bed and leered at Kevin.
"Hello, meat! What do you have there? A gun? Doing some deer hunting, were you?"
"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit..." Kevin scrambled backward, his back resting against the cab. The zombies surrounded the truck. He glanced around for the Lancaster brothers. Mikey was dead, his eyes glazed over even as the zombie continued to zap him with the stun gun. Ron lay on the ground moaning. His chest and abdomen were an open wound. Kevin saw the knives and rocks come up, and then flash back down. Up. Down. Then Ron's cries ceased.
Kevin stared upward in fear as Ob leaned in, clutching at him.
"Come here!"
Another zombie opened the tailgate, and several of the undead clambered in after him.
"Ohshitohshitohshitohshit..."
"Give me that." Ob gripped the 30.06.
Kevin struggled with him, jerking the rifle back and forward. The creatures on the truck grabbed Kevin's legs and pulled him toward them.
The rifle barrel landed against Ob's jaw, and the zombie leader flinched.
"Oh shit!"
Screaming, Kevin's body convulsed. His fingers squeezed the trigger.
Baker's head disintegrated in an eruption of flesh and blood and bone.
Ob went with it.
FOUR
He ignored the first two shots. They were faint, though he couldn't be sure if it was from distance or because of the thickness of the walls around him. He strained to hear them over Claude Debussy's "Arabesque #2," floating softly from the battery-operated portable stereo. One shot-maybe-followed by a second. Most likely it was zombies hunting their dinner-some unlucky bastard that had the misfortune to wander into the neighborhood. He considered checking, then decided against it.
He lit another candle and returned to his book, John Steinbeck's Cannery Row. He'd read it three times since he'd sealed the door. It was the only book inside the room, with the exception of an old issue of Entertainment Weekly, a thriller by Andrew Harper (with everything going on outside, that was the last thing he wanted to read), and Myrna's Chicken Soup collection. He hated those Chicken Soup books. Wondered if there'd ever be a Chicken Soup for the Undead Soul book. Probably not.
The muffled gunfire erupted again. This time, it didn't fade, continuing unabated for a full minute. He heard different explosions, which meant different guns. There was a brief pause and then more.
Don De Santos jumped out of his chair.
"Jesus Christ!"
His voice sounded funny to him. It was the first time he'd spoken aloud in nearly four weeks.
He listened to what sounded like a war breaking out nearby and wondered what to do about it.
Before the Rising began, Don De Santos had been a successful media consultant, one of the thousands for whom New Jersey was simply a bed and breakfast in between the daily treks into Manhattan. He had a lovely wife, Myrna, and a son, Mark, who had just started his first year at UCLA. A house in the suburbs, a dog named Rocky, a silver BMW, black Ford Explorer, and matching his and hers Honda motorcycles. Life was good, and his investment portfolio was even better.