Gods of the Dead (Rising Book 1) (2 page)

Chapter Two

Trent - Fifteen Years Old

It’s raining.

Somewhere in the cabin there’s a leak in the roof that’s dripping water down onto the floor. I’ve looked everywhere but I can’t find it. I can only hear it. It’s driving me insane.

I roll over in my bed, the wood frame creaking faintly in protest before falling back to sleep. I can hear my dad in the bunk above me snoring softly, the sound mingling with the heavy thrum of rain on the roof. With the steady drip of the leak on the floor. It refuses to rest so neither do I.

drip…drip…drip

Maybe it’s under the sink. The pipes sweating and dripping onto the floor inside the rough wood of the cupboards. They’re bowed and misshapen from too many years of too much rain, but it’s the Northwest. You’ll never get away from it. You’re more likely to run away from your own shadow than escape the water in these woods. They’re laden with it. Buried under its presence. Drowning below its promise.

drip…drip…plop

It’s getting louder. Wherever it’s leaking, the puddle is growing.

I sigh, throwing off my heavy quilt and swinging my long legs over the edge of the bed. I remind myself to slouch as I sit up. I’ve been banging my head on the bunk above me lately. On branches hanging from the trees around the cabin that I’ve easily passed under for years. On upper cabinets I shouldn’t be able to see the inside of without rising up on my toes. I’m getting taller, thinner. My body isn’t the way I remember it, the depth of my voice still so new to me that it’s surprising when I speak.

plop

I groan roughly in irritation before lurching forward. I propel myself up and out of my bed as quickly as I can to keep from making too much noise. It creaks violently once, then it’s quiet. I pause to listen, standing perfectly still in the center of the small bedroom with nothing but the steady strum of my heart to give me away, but I’m in the clear. My dad keeps right on snoring.

He taught me this – the silence. How to keep quiet when you’re hunting or hiding. He taught me to always be prepared. To never go more than five minutes from home without a pack on your shoulders with fresh water, three days food ration, and a weapon.

“You never know what can happen in the woods,” he warned me, handing my eleven year old hands a knife the length of my forearm. “If you get treed by a bear and you have a pack with fresh water and food, you can wait him out. If you get turned around and lost—“

“How would I get lost?” I interrupted.

“No one knows how they get lost, Trent. If they did they wouldn’t be lost.”

“I know my way around. I’ll be okay.”

“I hope so. But just in case I want you to be prepared.”

“For what?”

He looked unsure for a second, his eyes clouding dark and troubled. “Everything,” he murmured quietly.

Using only the faint morning light sneaking in through the bedroom windows, I head out the door and into the kitchen. It sits in the corner of the only other room in the cabin. It’s nothing but a sink sharing counter space with a small gas stove and a short, ancient refrigerator crouching next to them. The walls are a warm wood tone reaching up to the open beam ceiling high above my head. Our furniture is simple but comfortable; a couch, two chairs, a small kitchen table with a couple stools slid underneath. The small space can’t handle guests and that’s okay because we’ve never had one. The only people we see on a regular basis are from the Farm.

The Farm is a commune a couple miles to the north where they grow and sell organic fruits and vegetables. They also make honey and beeswax everything from their massive stock of bees. It has an official name – Sunset Grove, or something like that – but to us it’s the Farm. My dad has known the people running it almost his entire life and when Candace and Diane founded the place together twelve years ago they asked him to come out and join them. He didn’t want to live at the Farm but he was quick to take up the chance to build our small cabin, move his family out of the city, and leave the rest of the population behind. My mom was less thrilled.

She didn’t last long. She took off one night when I was five and never came back. I barely remember her. The raspberry print curtains with uneven hems hanging from the kitchen window are the only proof she was ever here. Dad says he keeps them to remind us both to forgive her because she tried. This life just wasn’t for her.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s for me or if I grew up in it and don’t know any better. Would I like living in the city? Would I like being part of society? What’s it like to pick fruit off a table instead of a tree?

I have absolutely no idea and the not knowing bothers me.

I hear it when my dad turns over in bed, moans in a long stretch, and finally rolls out of the bunk to land on the hard floor with a soft
thump
. He shuffles out of the bedroom with wild, long hair, scratching his dark beard absently.

“Hey, buddy,” he mumbles groggily. “What are you doing already up?”

“I couldn’t sleep. There’s a leak.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. I can’t find it.”

“Then how do you know there is one?”

“I can hear it.”

He looks at me quizzically. “Over the sound of the rain on the roof, you can hear a leak that you can’t see?”

“Yes.”

He wanders over to the kitchen and pulls the kettle off its hook on the wall. “That’s not possible.”

“I’m not lying.”

“No, but I think you’re not feeling right. You haven’t been sleeping well lately.”

“I can’t sleep with zombies less than five miles away.”

Dad snorts. “They’re not zombies and they expanded the quarantine over a month ago without trouble. It’s secure. We’ve never even seen one of the sick.”

“Kyle called them zombies,” I insist.

“Yeah, him and the panicked masses on the outside.”

“
We’re
on the outside.”

He shakes his head seriously. “Not like them. Not like that. The people out there in the world and the people inside the quarantine – they’re not our business. And we’re not theirs.”

I nod my head in agreement, not entirely because I agree but because I understand. It’s what I’ve been taught. It’s all I know.

We are an island. An oasis, our own nation bartering and at peace with the Farm, but that’s it. That’s the extent of our world. Everyone else – alive or undead, quarantined or free – they are not our people.

“If they’re not zombies then what do you think they are?”

“Draculas,” he jokes distractedly.

“You mean vampires. Dracula is a person not a species.”

“Fine. Frankensteins then.”

“Frankenstein was the doctor. The guy with bolts in his neck was Frankenstein’s monster.”

Dad groans, rubbing his hand over his eyes. “I’m not awake enough to argue with you.”

“What are they?” I ask again.

He finishes making his tea and comes to sit down at the table with me. “Aliens.”

“You’re hilarious,” I droll.

He chuckles. “Clearly it’s not a trait I passed down to you.”

“What are they?” I demand, getting annoyed.

He sighs as he sits back in his chair. “They are what everyone has always said they are. They’re sick people.”

“Yeah, but they’re eating each other. That’s not just sick, that’s something else.”

“Fever victims are delirious, their brains are melted and lost, but we don’t know for sure that they’re eating each other.”

“That’s what people were saying when it first started happening.”

“Yeah, but they were scared and panicked. They slapped a name on it before they bothered trying to understand it.”

“It sounds like zombies,” I push. “The scientists say it’s transmitted through bodily fluids. So if the sick people aren’t biting everyone then how is it spreading so quickly?”

“Sneezes. Coughs. Sweat. Spit.”

“Sex?”

Dad hesitates. “Possibly.”

“How exactly? How would that work?”

"How would... how does sex work?"

"Yeah. Walk me through it."

He freezes, his expression shifting slowly into fear. He opens his mouth twice to speak but nothing comes out.

I smile with satisfaction. “I’m kidding.”

“You’re—you what?”

“I’m joking,” I laugh. “I know how sex works. I learned in school years ago. I’m messing with you.”

“Oh thank God,” he breathes, his body collapsing forward in relief.

“And you said I’m not funny.”

“You aren’t. You almost killed me.”

“If this cure doesn’t work will they burn the rest of Oregon the way they burned Portland?” I ask abruptly.

It’s a rough question, one I know he doesn’t want to consider, but it’s been on my mind for a while. It’s one we don’t ask, we don’t talk about, but I need an answer. I always want answers.

Dad looks at me warily, weighing his response. “I don’t know,” he says softly. “I really hope not. That’s a lot of life to lose.”

I nod my head silently, but I don’t bring her up. I don’t talk about where she went when she left us. Between the faded curtains and my bright blond hair, neither of us goes a day without thinking about her.

“Are you done with your tea? Can we look for the leak now?

“I don’t hear a leak, Trent. I only hear the rain.”

“I’m not making it up.”

“I think you’re bored and you’re looking for things to work on.”

I bite my tongue before telling him that’s exactly the same thing as saying I’m making it up. I try not to let my frustration boil over any more than it already has. Over the last year we’ve started snapping at each other more and more, this sort of conversation rising into an argument for no good reason. It comes out of nowhere and luckily it disappears just as quickly, but it’s still strange for us. There’s a faint tension in the air that wasn’t there before and it refuses to go away completely. The cabin has started feeling smaller and it’s not all because of my growing body.

“I think I’ll go to the Farm,” I tell him, standing to go get dressed.

“I thought you didn’t have school today.”

“I don’t, but maybe they have something going on.”

“Do you want me to drive you?”

“Is the truck working?”

“I can get it going, I’m sure.”

“No, I’ll walk.”

“That’s a long way to walk in the rain.”

“It’s the same distance in the sun,” I remind him, disappearing into the bedroom to change.

When I head for the back door I find my dad already there slipping on his raincoat. He hands me mine and I step into my black rain boots.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“Outhouse. How long you gonna be gone?”

“A few hours.”

He grins mischievously. “Say hi to Zoe for me.”

“I doubt I’ll even see her,” I mumble, ignoring the rush of blood through my veins at the mention of her name.

“If she hears you’re there, she’ll find you.”

I flip my hood up over my head and hunch my shoulders to burrow deeper inside the jacket. Otherwise I don’t respond. Instead I hurry to open the door and step outside. The rain hits me immediately, pelting down on the thick material of my coat, and I wonder if I wasn’t imagining it after all – the leak. Dad’s right, how could I possibly have heard it over the sound of all this rain coming down outside? Must have been my mind making worries so I’d have something to—

“Dammit!”

I turn sharply to look back at my dad. He’s sitting on the bench by the door, his boot in his hand and a sour expression on his face.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

He holds his boot up. Tips it sideways. Water pours out onto the stone floor of the entryway, creating a puddle at his feet. I notice then that the sock on one foot is darker than the other. It’s soaking wet.

“I think I found your leak,” he tells me dryly.

Chapter Three

Vin

I jog across the street, dodging puddles. Most of them I miss. Some I can’t escape. By the time I’m under the awning outside the entrance to the bar my shoes are soaked clear through to my feet. They leave their own tiny puddles on the floor behind me as I walk deep inside the dark building.

“Hey, what’s up, man?” Wright calls from the bar. He’s sitting casually on one of the stools facing the entrance. A short black guy built of brick, he travels with the Boss everywhere. He’s a cool guy when you’re in good standing, but if you fall off he’s a fucking nightmare. When Bennett surfaces, the Boss will put Wright to work on him. I want to feel bad for him but I don’t. Not after the night I’ve had.

Wright stands from his stool to take my hand and pull me into a half hug. I slap him on the back firmly once before pulling away.

“Nothin’ much,” I tell him. “Cashing out for the night.”

“You took the trip to the Southside?”

“Yeah. Filling in for B.”

Wright shakes his head as he takes his seat, his lips pinched in annoyance. “Dude still hasn’t surfaced.”

“How long has it been since anyone saw him?”

“Too damn long. He’s getting close to the point it’s better he never shows up again.”

“Don’t say that,” I groan, pulling out the wad of cash I have stuffed in my pocket. “If he disappears, I inherit his route. Is the Boss in with Marlow?”

“Yeah. Just went in.”

“You mind if I cash out with you? I’ve been up all night. I gotta get some sleep.”

“Yeah, no problem,” he answers absently, his eyes locked on the TV behind my head. “You seen this shit?”

I glance up to the screen to find it filled with news coverage, the ticker at the bottom going crazy as it speeds across familiar aerial footage of the Oregon forest.

Immunizations failed…Warm Springs colony on lock down… Quarantine secure…

“The immunizations? Yeah,” I mutter, turning my back on the TV. “The cure was crap.”

“Unreal. They just expanded the quarantine last month because it was so supposed to be doing so great. Next month they were talking about bringing people out, but now the whole place is shut up tight.”

Warm Springs is a little shit town in eastern Oregon that’s become famous because it sits right up against the wall of the quarantine. The military and all of their scientists set up shop just on the other side of the fence from the place and they’ve been working with the people inside the city since all of this started. Warm Springs built fences and walls of its own to keep the infected out and last I’d heard the head count inside the colony was somewhere just shy of two hundred. That’s a lot considering how many died when the Fever first hit. It’s the biggest pocket of humanity left inside the quarantine and it’s the first place they started their trials with the cure. We heard for months that they were doing good, but then around Thanksgiving things took a turn. Now here we are coming up on Christmas and news about the Fever has been scarce. People are getting worried.

They say no news is good news, but that’s not true. I know from experience that sometimes it means you’re hiding something.

“Your dad came around looking for you.”

My eyes snap to Wright’s, my entire body going tight. “When?”

“Day before yesterday.”

“You didn’t tell him where I’m living, did you?”

Wright laughs. “Hell no, man. I wouldn’t do you like that. ‘Sides, I don’t know where you live anyway. No one does.”

“Good.”

“You’re like Batman or some shit.”

“Wayne Manor,” I comment absently, counting out the cash.

Wright scowls. “Huh?”

“Batman lives in Wayne Manor. Technically everyone knows where Batman lives, they just don’t know that they know.”

“Oh, yeah,” he drawls thoughtfully. He slaps the back of his hand against my shoulder. “Hey, what about Spiderman?”

“No one gives a shit about Spiderman.” I slide the money across the table before folding my cut neatly into my pocket. “Do you want to count it?”

“Nah, you’re good. I’m not worried.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you next week.”

“Later, Mr. Wayne!”

I don’t live in Wayne Manor. Hell, I don’t even live in anything as nice as a cave, let alone one with electricity and a car on a spinning pedestal. I’m more of a squatter than a liver. I rarely stay in the same place for too long and when I do I never have power or running water. I’ve learned to live off dry goods and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Cans of tuna fish. Cheap fruit, raw vegetables, and jugs of water. All of my spare cash goes toward my clothes. My appearance.

My hair is always cut and clean, my teeth sparkling white, and my clothes are expensive and spotless. People looking at me walking down the street right now, they’d never imagine me in these designer jeans and forty dollar t-shirt slipping through the gap in a chained door on the abandoned office building up the street, but that’s where I’m going. That’s where I live.

For now.

I make it into my building without anyone seeing me and I head up the stairs. I unlock the deadbolt I installed on the door, then lock it behind me before doing a quick sweep of the place. Not because I’m paranoid but because I’m careful. In everything I do. I look both ways before crossing the street, I wrap my dick no matter who I’m banging, and I’ve slept with a knife under my pillow every night of my life since I was eleven because I don’t like surprises and life is always trying to slip you one.

I peel off my soaked jacket and hang it by the door, kick off my wet shoes, and collapse on my air mattress on the floor. I don’t bother pulling the blanket up over myself. I can sleep through the cold. I can sleep through hunger, fighting, shouting, gunshots, police sirens. I can easily ignore the sounds of the street outside my window. The pelt of the rain against the walls.

***

When I wake up my hand is already under my pillow. My fingers already wrapped around my knife. My body stays perfectly still but I open one eye, scanning the room. It’s light outside. The rain is still pouring from the sky and against the window pane. Otherwise the building is silent.

So what woke me?

I sit up slowly, dragging my knife out from under my pillow and rolling onto my knees. I listen again.

Rain. Muffled shouts from outside. Cars roaring by. A motorcycle winds its engine before racing away down the street. A low hum to my right.

I groan and stow my knife back under my pillow, then reach for my phone. When I went to sleep I put it on silent. Now it’s vibrating on the floor by my right knee. I miss the call but it doesn’t matter. It’s Sienna – a girl I make regular deliveries to at her dad’s place out by the water. She’s rich and bored and always looking for a good time, and lately I’m her favorite entertainment. I’m not complaining. The girl is hot and when she’s up on E she’s so fuckin’ freaky it’s unbelievable, but I’m not in the mood right now.

Apparently she’s not in the mood to wait because immediately after the call goes to voicemail it blows up in my hand again with her number.

I sigh and hit ANSWER grudgingly. “What?” I croak.

“Vin?!”

“Yeah. What’s up, Sin? What do you need?”

“I need you to come here!” she shouts frantically.

I pull the phone farther from my ear. “Stop shouting.”

“Vin, please,” she whimpers.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m scared. Haven’t you seen the news?”

“No. Wait, yeah. Maybe.”

“Are you drunk?”

“No. I’m tired. What news? What are you talking about?”

“The Fever!”

“Yeah. The cure didn’t work. Huge surprise.”

“No! The cure messed with it, it mutated it or something. It made it slower. The Fever is in Tacoma!”

“Shouting,” I groan, getting annoyed. She’s riled up, probably high and misunderstanding everything she heard on TV. No way is the Fever out. It’s been contained for almost a year now.

“They’re saying one of the Army guys had it. They didn’t know!” she exclaims. “They sent him back to his base and he brought it with him. It’s all over the news. They think it even got on a plane to Montana or Denver, I don’t remember which.”

“Montana’s not a city, you know that, right?”

“Shut up, dick,” she spits angrily. “I’m freaked out. I can’t remember everything.”

I lay back down, throwing my arm over my eyes. “It’s just another scare, Sin. Chill out.”

“It’s not a scare. It’s spreading everywhere and they can’t contain it. Tacoma is filled with Fever victims and Seattle is next. People are rioting and looting and leaving town. They’re freaking out! It’s all over the news!”

The last of her words are swallowed up by the unmistakable
thwump!
of a helicopter flying overhead. It’s close, the rhythmic spin of the blades rattling the windows and walls.

I stand up quickly and head for the window, peeling away the tattered curtains. I wince as harsh daylight slices across my vision.

It’s chaos outside. People in the streets, cars taking up both lanes, all of them pointed toward the freeway. They’re backed up as far as I can see in both directions, and the pound of the helicopter keeps on going.

It’s so loud I barely hear my phone when it beeps in my ear. I pull it away to find Marlow’s name flashing on the screen. “Sin, I gotta call you back.”

“No, don’t hang up!”

I hang up on her, taking the call from Marlow.

“Yeah,” I answer.

“Where are you?”

“Home.”

“Can you get to the bar?”

“No,” I lie.

He pauses. “What’s that sound?”

I press my face to the glass and look up at the sky, watching as the large black chopper heads north over the city. “Helicopter. Military I think. Not news.”

“Heading north?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m on the roof of the bar. Just saw it too. You must be close by.”

I close my eyes, cursing myself silently. “Yeah,” I admit reluctantly.

“You been outside yet?”

“No.”

“It’s crazy out there.”

“Yeah.”

He pauses, considering my clipped tone. “You sure you can’t make it to the bar, Vincent?”

“Is the Boss calling us in?” I answer evasively.

“The Boss is dead.”

I lick my lips, gripping the edge of the windowsill hard. “How’d that happen?”

“Fever.”

“That’s a shame.”

And a lie
, I think to myself.

“A crying one,” Marlow says dryly. “Fucking weeping,”

My phone beeps in my ear again. I ignore it. “I’ll come in as soon as I can.”

“Good. Make it quick. We have a lot to talk about. This will die down in a few weeks and we’ll stake our claims when the smoke clears. I’ll need you with me when that happens.”

I release my hand from the windowsill, my knuckles white and aching. “Yeah, okay.”

“Get your ass in gear. And try to stay alive, would you?”

“Don’t worry about me.”

He laughs roughly. “Kid, you’re the last of my worries right now.”

When I hang up I shake my hand out, shaking my head as well, and I bring up my missed calls list.

Sienna answers on the first ring. “Are you coming?”

“Yeah, Sin. I’ll be there soon.”

She breathes a loud sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

She shouldn’t be thanking me, but I don’t bother telling her that. It’s better if she’s grateful. It gives me the upper hand, like I’m doing her a favor by coming to her house when really it’s exactly where I need to be. Outside this building the streets are flooding with rain and people and I know the thin door to this apartment won’t hold anyone out. I have almost zero food or water, no power which means a dead phone in a matter of hours and a dead cell means no internet. No news. I’ll be completely ignorant and that’s a thought I can’t stand. Her house is a well-stocked mini-fortress where I can wait out the storm.

Where I can easily avoid Marlow.

“You’re alone?” I ask Sienna.

“Yeah. My dad is in Japan and it’s just me here at the house and I’m so freaked out.”

“Keep your doors locked. The gate too. Set the alarms. Don’t let anyone but me inside.”

“Okay.”

“Give me some time to get across town.” I watch a blue car race down the street, jump the curb, and tear up the road. It plows down a NO PARKING sign without even hitting the breaks, sending the metal sign clattering across the pavement behind it. “I have a feeling it’s going to take me a while.”

“Please hurry.”

I hang up the phone and slip it into my pocket before grabbing the charger that I take to the bar with me. I don’t know how long it will be worth anything, though. They cut off cell service to Oregon in a matter of weeks.

I grab my bag, a large black duffel that’s been with me since the day I ran away, and I stuff most of my clothes into it. I don’t have a lot. Never too much to carry. I throw in some essentials – toothbrush, toothpaste, brass knuckles – and stash my gun in my belt loop under my coat. My knife I keep in a sheath strapped to my calf on the outside of my pants. Normally I conceal it but not today. With what’s going on outside I need it handy more than I need it hidden.