Why not just let go and fall to the ground? From this height, he’d be dead before they tore into him. Where was the high point in his life? After all he’d seen and done, and all that had happened to him, both good and bad, all the drugs and drinking and everything associated with them, all those failures, and all the triumphs that had come his way since getting sober—what was the fucking point? Was it all just to end up inside some zombie black bear’s stomach, or worse yet, to walk around like one of them, putrefying on the go?
Sweat ran into his eyes. He blinked, and then pressed on. Moments later, Stephen reached the top of the mountain. Panting, he shrugged off the heavy pack and collapsed.
When he looked around again, he gasped. For a moment, he forgot all about the danger waiting below. From his vantage point, Stephen could see the river; Millbrook Village, New Jersey; Dingman’s Falls; the visitor center; the entire world. Truly, he felt like the old song, on top of the world looking down on creation. This was the highest point in all of the park, and from it, he could see it all. Not even the tower had provided a view like this. The sun was just beginning to sink beneath the horizon, painting the sky a rich tapestry of pink and orange and red hues. A slight breeze ruffled the treetops below, cooling his skin.
Stephen sighed in wonder. It was the most beautiful, perfect scene his eyes had ever beheld. This was the high point of his life.
He sat there and watched the sun set, and when the eagle swooped down from above, with claws extended and one eye dangling from its socket, he didn’t even care.
WHERE THE DOWN
BOYS GO
The Rising
Day Nineteen
Corona, California
When they lowered him into the hockey rink, Paul Legerski did his best not to scream. A soldier who reeked of B.O. spat on him. A ragged, pink scar crossed the man’s face. Paul’s hands were free, but he didn’t bother wiping the saliva away. He was too proud.
Struggling to keep his footing on the slippery surface, Paul scanned the crowd, looking for Shannon. He had to get free. No telling what they’d done with her. He had to find her, rescue her before the bomb went off.
A sea of expressions stared back at him: excitement, anger, glee, arousal, boredom, even indifference. Somehow, that was the worst of all. He was suddenly filled with hatred. They deserved what was coming.
The rink itself was familiar. Paul had played here as a goaltender when he was younger, and he and Shannon had come there to watch the San Jose Sharks practice before a game against the Mighty Ducks.
The partition separating him from the crowd shook, as people beat against it with their fists. The rink’s inside walls were lined with long, razor-sharp pikes, so there was no chance of climbing over the partition. The ice was bloodstained; it was littered with body parts: severed head, organs, and scraps of human meat. Paul recognized most of the stillmoving heads. Once strangers, they’d been his and Shannon’s companions over the last few weeks. Mustaine, the traitor, the son of a bitch who’d sold them out, lay at his feet. His eyes and tongue still moved. Paul kicked him across the arena, scoring a goal.The crowd went wild.
Paul ignored the jeers, shrugged off the cans, bottles, and other debris thrown at him, and searched for Shannon’s face. If he could just see her one more time, he’d be okay. Whatever was about to happen wouldn’t matter.
He locked eyes with General Dunbar, sitting ringside like a Roman Emperor in the coliseum. The old man wore his best uniform, his medals proudly displayed. His face was expressionless. Stone. A strange calm settled over Paul. He took a deep breath, and raised his middle finger. Dunbar twitched. His demeanor didn’t shatter, but he twitched.
Paul grinned. “How do you like that salute, asshole?”
The crowds simmering anger became tangible. Paul’s role had been cast. He was the bad guy. He decided to play it up.
“You like this?” he shouted. “You like living this way, just because he keeps you safe from the dead?
This isn’t how humans act. We might as well be dead, too. We—”
An electronic squeal cut him off. Dunbar’s second-in-command stood, a battery powered bullhorn at his lips.
“We now present this evening’s grand finale. In the ring, the leader of the rebel group known as the Down Boys, responsible for the slaughter of over fifty members of our forces.”
Paul shut his eyes against the booing and hisses, preparing himself for what was about to come. They’d offered everyone in his group a choice as to their method of execution. Firing squad. Hanging. Drowning (what one leering soldier had referred to as a “Liquid Noose”).
All of them had chosen the arena. After all, they’d already planted the bomb.
Paul stood in their blood and tried not to slip. He wondered how much time he had left.
How had he ended up here? He’d once been a productive member of society. Believed in Conservative values. Voted Republican. Paid his taxes. He’d once stood in the ashes of September 11th. Now, he stood in a post-apocalyptic arena, ready to play gladiator against a zombie, branded as a terrorist, the leader of the resistance. Rumor had it that General Dunbar’s forces controlled wide swaths of northern California, after eliminating the dead there. They had careful measures to dispose of the dead and dying before they could turn into zombies. Now Dunbar’s despotism was spreading south, picking up new recruits and eliminating any and all resistance—
living and otherwise.
Paul had supported them at the beginning, eager for things to return to normal, even if under a police state. Sure enough, soon Corona and Riverside were both safe. His support ended when a platoon tried to rape Shannon. They’d been on the run since, eventually joining up with others who opposed the outof-control military; Rhodes, Neil, Osbourne, Coverdale, Tate, Ian, Dubrow, Mustaine—many others. Paul had joked that so many of them had the same last names as famous metal musicians, and they’d begun calling themselves the Down Boys, after the song by Warrant.
Dunbar’s rule sickened him. Yes, there were no zombies, but this wasn’t how Americans behaved. This wasn’t how the military acted. This wasn’t human. Dunbar’s forces were worse than the zombies. The undead simply killed. The soldiers did much more.
He glanced around at his friend’s body parts. Where were they now, he wondered? Paul had never believed in an afterlife, but a month ago, he wouldn’t have believed the dead could walk again, either. Where did the Down Boys go, after they’d died?
The far door opened, and three zombies skated into the rink, their faces covered with hockey masks. All were armed with hockey sticks.
The crowd’s cheer thundered through the arena. Paul crouched, waiting. The first zombie sped towards him. The second tried to flank his left. The third hung back. Paul could smell the rot wafting off of them, even from the other side of the rink. Closing the distance between them, the first zombie raised its stick and swung at his head. Paul ducked, sidestepped, and wrenched the stick from its grasp. He turned the weapon back on the creature, breaking its legs first. As it collapsed, Paul clubbed the head. The face imploded behind the hockey mask. Blood and pulp squirted out the mouth and eyeholes like Play-Doh.
The second zombie tripped over a severed arm and fell to the ice. As it scrambled to rise, the third darted forward. Paul ran towards it as fast as he could without slipping.
Their sticks clashed like sabers. One blow smacked into his side, and Paul felt his ribs crack. He struck the creature in the side of the head, and its mask flew off.