THE RISING DEAD - Chapters One & Two

CHAPTER ONE

It was as if someone had sent out an invisible signal that let people know summer had officially ended. All around him people began pouring out of their hotel rooms, as if on cue, packing their cars until the entire parking lot was crammed full of them. Carefree smiles creased slightly sun burned faces. Summer beach folk mindlessly packed suitcases and beer coolers into pickup trucks, sedans, family vans, and SUV's. Beach balls were deflated. The trash and recycling bins overflowed. A line of cars as far as the eye could see glistened in the golden light of the late August afternoon as they made the slow crawl down Ocean Boulevard, up along Orange, and back over the Coronado Bridge towards San Diego and the Five.

Donovan could not remember having a better summer vacation than the one he had just spent with his girlfriend, Poppy, on Coronado Island. He'd loaded his Kindle up with over twenty new books he’d wanted to finish before heading back to school. His smile grew as he realized that he had not fired it up even once.

He pushed his way through the mess, getting high fives and back slaps along the way from friends, some old and some new, until he reached the edge of the beach. Poppy was standing there in cut off shorts, a bikini top, and a see-through blouse. Her long blonde hair whipped around her face in the ocean breeze.

God, he thought. She is so beautiful—I am truly lucky! Not that he'd ever let her know that. He'd acted aloof since they first started dating, convinced that if he ever did tell her just how much he cared about her she might freak out. No need to ruin a good thing. But every now and then—like that moment—it hit him, and damn near knocked the air out of him in the process.

“It's a shame, isn't it?” she asked herself just loud enough to be sure he heard her. “A summer beach vacation without being able to go in the water even once.”

“We're lucky they didn't just shut down the island altogether,” he replied. “It could have been so much worse than this.”

“Where did they go? It's like they just disappeared overnight, like it was a bad dream,” she said.

“I don't know,” Donovan replied with a shrug of his shoulders.

“It's all wrong,” she said, staring toward the expanse of glistening blue water, yearning and loss reflected in her eyes. He wrapped his arms around her from behind, pulling her warm body into his. He looked down at her tiny hand as it touched him. “They didn't even take down the signs. That's the only way I know I didn't make it up. Isn't that technically littering?”

“I think it is,” he agreed, whispering into her ear before kissing her neck. “It's downright criminal if you ask me but it's not like anyone cares when it's the government. Hell this whole town is in love with the military.”

Poppy leaned into him, lingering just a moment too long before jerking away. She grabbed his hand, dragging him with her despite his protests towards the ocean. She let go of him and crawled under the fence set up to block access to the beach, the one with all the bright new warning signs she was just complaining about. She turned back to him and flashed a wide smile.

“Don't be such a chicken,” she taunted. “Come on!”

Donovan glanced around nervously before following her. He complained under his breath the whole time – just loud enough to let her know he disapproved but not loud enough for her to make out his string of curse words. Once she got an idea in her head nothing could slow her down again and he knew it. The truth of the matter was this was part of what he found attractive about her, her devil-may-care attitude. Poppy was always in search of a new adventure. Her enthusiasm was nothing short of infectious. He could feel the excitement growing in him, a nervous tickle in the center of his chest that seemed to radiate outwards.

Poppy let go of his hand and raced at full speed toward the water, her long beautiful legs flashing as she pulled away from him. Donovan tried to keep up with her, but it was no use. She was fast when she wanted to be; damn near uncatchable. She'd run track all of high school, no doubt driving the other boys crazy with her sexy legs and her long, honey blonde hair wildly flowing behind her, waving in their faces like a victory flag as she passed. She made short work of the distance between the fence and the water. By the time he reached her, panting and out of breath, she was calmly leaning against the warning sign put up to keep people out of the water. He was trying not to let on how out of shape he was feeling. Summer had definitely taken a toll on him. When he got back home he was going to hit the gym and up his cardio routine. He was going to have to lay off the beer as well, a thought that made him wince.

“What took you so long, slow poke?”

“Very funny,” he managed at last, straightening up to read the sign.

It had all started the same day they'd left for summer vacation. Donovan had been randomly flipping through radio news channels in search of a traffic report that explained the insane snarl he'd been caught up in when he'd come upon the breaking story. The Coast Guard had intercepted a burning tanker off the coast of San Diego headed up from Mexico. It was believed that some of the passengers were escapees from a Mexican island prison colony and might possibly be infected with an aggressive new strain of highly contagious leprosy. The President of the United States had even made a statement, assuring all Americans that he was taking every conceivable precaution to ensure public health and safety were not endangered by this event.

Donovan flipped between talk radio stations where usually irreverent radio shock jocks were now arguing whether or not one of the Cartels had been involved in the prison break and if high ranking Mexican officials had been involved.

“Whatever is on that boat,” one particularly obnoxious host cajoled, “they don't want it getting off. It's trouble, not just for the current administration, but for you and me. Mark my words friends because the liberal media is going to try to cover this up as quickly as they can. We're on our own here and your life may just depend on how much you know.”

“Are you sure you still want to go?” Poppy looked concerned as she switched the radio off before he could hear any more. “We don't have to you know. We can turn around and head back home. I won't be mad.”

“And miss out on our big beach vacation?” The thought was more than he could bear.

“What if they've closed down the bridge?”

“They won't,” he said fiercely, trying to ward off his shaky nerves. “There are too many people who live on the island. They depend on the tourist economy to stay alive. They need us to come.”

“I don't know,” Poppy grumbled, looking at her nails.

“I do,” Donovan fired back. “Besides, we've already paid for the hotel. Do you want to lose all that money so we can sit around the public pool back home with all the high school kids?”

Poppy shook her head no without making a sound.

“What is it?”

“I got a bad feeling about this Donnie,” she said in a tiny voice.

“It's going to be fine,” he cooed. “They've got it all under control. Aren't you excited to see the Hotel Del Coronado? I thought that was one of the main reasons you wanted to come to San Diego?”

“I was,” she sulked.

“Listen,” he said, turning to look at her as they came to another frustrating dead stop in the middle of the road. “Nothing is going to happen. I promise. I will look out for you. Got it?”

She turned and kissed him on the cheek.

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you too baby,” he replied.

After hours of slow crawling traffic they finally reached the bridge. There was a military checkpoint stopping cars leaving the island and a single soldier waving traffic in. It didn't look any worse at first glance than most airport security details he'd seen.

“You see,” Donovan said. He couldn't resist letting her know he was right. “They're on it. Nothing to worry about.”

Poppy smiled and shook her head in a supportive way but her eyes betrayed her fear. By the time they'd checked in and unpacked it was long forgotten and she was back to her bubbly self. Donovan raced to settle in then changed into trunks. He practically ran out of the room towards the water just in time to see the Army National Guard putting up barricades. Behind them, workers in hazmat suits took readings from the water and put up signs. Donovan felt like a total idiot standing there shirtless in his trunks and flip flops, towel over his shoulder, bottle of tanning lotion and a copy of the Economist in hand. He turned to the soldier. He looked the same age as Donovan, maybe slightly younger.

“When are they going to reopen the beach?” The minute the words were out of his mouth he realized that he sounded like a spoiled, whiny child.

“This area is currently off limits to civilians, sir.”

Donovan couldn't read the guys face. Was he annoyed to have to answer to some rich kid? Donovan wasn't what others would call wealthy, but surely next to this poor, pimple-faced teenager who had to stand out in the hot sun telling guys in swim trunks to stay off the beach, he was well off. Donovan had studied plenty about income inequality in his civics classes. He wouldn't blame the soldier if he had some misplaced anger about their respective positions in society; that was for sure. Not that it was his fault. He hadn't chosen to be born slightly better off. It was just the way things had worked out, the cards that he’d been dealt.

No amount of reasoning seemed to take the guilt away though. The beach air was hot, flushing his face red with embarrassment and twisting up his guts. The fact that the kid had no facial expression just seemed to make things worse. Donovan rationalized that one day, when he was an elected official in Congress, he would work toward reducing poverty and creating better opportunities for people like this kid. He drew himself up and saluted the kid.

“Thank you for your service,” he said.

The kid soldier didn't respond. Already committed, Donovan dropped his hand from his brow, turning as he did and confidently strode away. He wanted to make sure his body language was congruent with his patriotic display. Otherwise it would look like he was mocking the guy. Not wanting to take any chances, he opted not to look back. It was only when he was back in his room, sitting on the edge of his bed and staring out the window, that he noticed his hands were violently shaking.

I’d make a lousy soldier, he thought, trying to calm his nerves. What rattled him most was the soldier’s total lack of emotion. It was as if the guy was a robot devoid of feelings. How did people get that way?

During the rest of their stay they had set up camp by the pool. Poppy worked hard at making all the guys jealous with her amazing body and endless supply of tiny bikinis. Nights were spent going across the harbor in water taxis to the Gaslight district and drinking until they closed down the tiny, crowded bars. They'd missed the last boat back more than once and had to take a yellow cab back over the bridge. Once they went home with another couple, Frank and Amanda, but had chickened out when it became clear they wanted to swing and left early. They'd walked over a mile to a Denny's to order breakfast and sober up. They slept most of the next day. Poppy hadn't brought it up again and neither had Donovan. The rest of the days had flown past them like pages being ripped off a calendar.

From time to time, Donovan would look over and see Army trucks rolling in and out of the island. There were no reports of bodies washing up on the shore. The government's official position was that the disease had been contained. Donovan kept an eye out but he never saw that pimple-faced kid again. Time seemed to go by in a blur. By the end of their vacation Donovan and Poppy were spending more time indoors, drinking and exploring each other’s bodies than they were outside partying with their friends.

They managed to pull themselves out of bed one Sunday long enough to visit the Hotel Del Coronado. It was old and beautiful and gave Donovan the chills to look at. Poppy had seen an episode of Ghost Adventures on the Travel Channel talking about a lady in a black dress named Kate Morgan that committed suicide while she was a guest and has haunted the place ever since. They wandered through the lobby in search of otherworldly clues, admiring the woodwork and sitting on the ancient couches before hitting the endless gift shops. Once Poppy had gotten her fill of candy and souvenirs for her little sister, they walked out into the gardens that overlooked the ocean.

Down by the water guys in white lab coats came and went, like mad scientists from a black and white horror film on basic cable. Soldiers in hazmat suits waded into the water, taking samples and bringing them back to the scientists.

“What are they looking for anyway?” Poppy asked.

“I don't know,” Donovan replied. “But whatever it is can't be that serious or they'd evacuate us all, right?”

“Did you feel the chill in the lobby?” Poppy said suddenly. “All the hairs on the back of my arm stood up at once.”

“You think it was that woman's ghost?”

She shook her head, her eyes growing almost as wide as her smile.

“Why didn't you say something?”

“It freaked me out,” she said, “but in a good way.”

Donovan suggested they walk the street back and hit the New York style pizzeria for beers and slices. Poppy jumped at the idea. They turned away from the water and scurried around the haunted hotel.

That afternoon the news reported that the tanker had sunk. Donovan thought it was strange that no one was saying why it had gone down, whether it had sustained damage from the fire and taken on water or whether the Navy had deliberately torpedoed the hull to intentionally sink it. The twenty-four hour news feeds all had the same details. The only channel not playing it was ESPN so he spent the evening watching an NFL exhibition game and a documentary on John Wooden.

The next day they were just gone—all of them. He woke up to get coffee and couldn't help but check for that kid one last time. To his shock there were no trucks, no scientists in white lab coats, no guys in self-contained white suits and masks, not even any soldiers. The posted warning signs were the only reminder that any of them had ever been there. It was, as Poppy had described it, eerie.

“We're not supposed to be here,” he said. “The beach is still closed.”

“Don't be silly, Donovan,” Poppy replied with one of her trademark carefree laughs that always seemed to melt his resistance away. “You’re always finding something to worry about. These are the last few hours of our break, the last chance we might have to be alone for a while. Between your obsessive devotion to your studies and my demanding social calendar, we might not even see each other again till graduation.”

“I thought that's why we moved in together,” he replied. “Why we’re living in sin.”

Poppy held her hand up to her mouth in fake shock and outrage. Donovan smirked, fighting back a smile. As much as he hated it when she mocked him, he had to admit she was pretty adorable. After all, wasn't her ability to lighten the mood in any situation part of the reason he had chosen to ask her out—over several other girls from wealthy families that insisted they would make a better match than a vacuous party girl who flunked out of college?

“Ah, I can see the start of a smile on your face,” she teased.

“Come on,” he protested, trying to fight it back.

“It's fine,” she continued, ignoring him. “See?” She lifted one foot to show him the soft pink underside. “No tar. No dead bodies. Nada.”

“I just don't want to get into any trouble. This whole area has been closed off by the military the entire time we've been here. That has to mean something.”

“And they left in the middle of the night?”

“The signs are still up, Poppy.”

“Which they probably just forgot to take down on their way out of town,” she offered. “Why are you being such a little boy about this? You sound chicken. Are you a chicken, Donovan?”

She twisted her hands up into her arm pits and flapped her fake wings, dancing around as she mocked him.

“You do understand we could get arrested,” he countered, his argument growing weaker by the second. Poppy stopped and gave him a serious look, creasing her brow and locking her eyes on his as if she hung on his every word.

“Do you have any idea what that could do to my chances of being President one day?”

He tried to stick to his argument, to stay focused, but as he spoke she began to perform a very sexy strip tease like nothing he had ever seen before, pulling her light blouse over her head first, then pushing down her cut-off jeans. His head swam.

Where did she even learn to move like that, he wondered? It was as if she had been hiding this secret talent from him, waiting for the perfect moment to unveil it. Her shorts hit the sand about the same time as his jaw did.

“I wouldn't want to make you do anything you’re uncomfortable with, Donovan. You know that.”

His mouth had suddenly grown as dry as the sand they were standing on. Who was this amazing woman in front of him? He did his best to recover. He didn't want her to know how bad she’d rattled his cage.

“Very funny,” he replied, darting his eyes back and forth, checking up and down the beach to make sure they were still alone. He thought he saw something that looked like a clump of seaweed about the size of a dog off in the distance, but her gentle cooing drew him back.

“Happy Birthday, Mister President,” she sang slowly in a perfectly breathy, high-pitched rendition of Marilyn Monroe. With one hand she reached behind her back and unhooked her bra, removing it with a quick motion and flinging it at Donovan. It landed over his head like something out of a bad 80's sitcom. Donovan was too distracted by her sudden nudity to reply. Poppy used her right arm to cover herself quickly, a slight blush obscuring her facial features, as she twisted back and forth in her bikini bottom panties. A warm breeze wafted under her white bra and made it flap around Donovan's head like a head banger at a metal concert. Poppy laughed unabashedly as Donovan shook his head back and forth, trying to get it off.

“You are a bad girl,” he said matter-of-factly. “Are you aware of that, miss?”

She lifted the index finger from her free hand to her lips and bit down gently on her fingernail, a coy maneuver that made something deep down inside of Donovan stir to life as he stared into her deep sea foam green eyes.

“Uh huh.”

He pulled the loose bra off his head and flung it at her feet.

“I thought so. Well, I guess there’s just no way around it. I was hoping it wouldn't come to this, but I'm going to have to spank you.”

He sprang at her with a ferocious but playful roar and Poppy, not expecting him to play along, was nearly caught off guard. She shrieked in delighted surprise and leaped out of the way at the last second, pivoting like a gazelle and racing toward the water. Donovan stopped once he’d chased her in, pulling his shirt off, balling it up and chucking it toward the drier part of the sand. Poppy dashed out into the shallow waves, loudly splashing.

“Come on!” she said with a wave of her hand.

“Be right there,” he replied. “Hold your horses.”

“Why don't you come hold them for me?”

Poppy bounced a little, exposing her pert breasts and perky nipples just above the water to tease him.

Donovan almost fell over trying to get out of his pants. He stripped down to his boxers, and then charged in like he was making up for lost time. The water was cold, but felt good on his skin which already felt broiled from the hot sun reflected off the white sand. When he was up past his waist, Poppy came over and latched herself onto him. As usual, Donovan was just totally amazed by her—the way she moved, the way the light sparkled in her eyes. She was always so full of life, no matter what the circumstances were. He loved that about her, her ability to pull him back from the brink of seriousness. He needed that in his life, especially with all the pressure his family put on him to get good grades.

What would I ever do without her? Donovan wondered.

That was something he couldn't even imagine. He hoped he'd never have to either. He pushed it out of his mind as he began plotting his revenge on her. It was time for him to pay her back for toying with him, and he knew just the thing.

Donovan unhooked her from him and swam out to deeper water.

“Where are you going?” she whined.

Donovan waited until the water was over his head. He turned back toward her, smiling. His feet brushed against something slimy, like seaweed. He hated that feeling. It was the whole reason he preferred swimming in the ocean as opposed to a lake, so that he wouldn't have to feel the muck on the bottom. Something large swam past his leg, brushing him with its rough skin. He remembered learning that changes in water due to global warming meant a whole new host of predators were now able to access these waters.

Don’t spook yourself out over nothing, he told himself.

Poppy waved for him to come back over to her. She looked nervous.

“Donovan, come on,” she pleaded. Just then, Donovan was abruptly pulled underwater, leaving only his flailing right hand visible above the water. Icy cold fear shot through Poppy. What had she done? She lured him out here and now something was attacking him. She screamed as he thrashed back and forth, fighting his way to the surface. She was paralyzed with fear, her high-pitched scream the only thing her body allowed to escape. Donovan went all the way under, and then everything went quiet. Poppy froze in fear. Bubbles rose to the surface where Donovan had gone under, and then nothing. She called out to him, unsure of what to do.

“Donovan! Donovan!”

All at once, a burst of bubbles rose up like an explosion to the surface and Donovan flew out of the water past his waist. He was laughing! The stitch in Poppy's chest loosened and she let out a nervous laugh that melted quickly into anger as she realized she’d been tricked. She angrily splashed at Donovan as he waded toward her to wrap his arms around her tiny waist. He leaned in to kiss her, but she turned her head, still upset with him.

“Don't be cross,” he said. “I was just playing.”

“That's not funny,” she chided, but she was already softening. He put his hand under her chin and gently turned her face toward his, pulling her into a kiss. She kissed back at first, soft and warm and reassuring, then pulled away and began to swim back to shore. Donovan didn't follow her immediately. Instead he dove back into the water, splashing around wildly like a kid turning an unwanted bath into a new adventure. By the time he dove through a small set of waves, she was already fully dressed, back on the shore pouting.

“Come on back in, baby,” he shouted to her. “It's really nice.”

“Not until you apologize,” she icily replied. “You scared the daylights out of me!”

Donovan was amazed at how quickly her mood had changed. It was one of the few things that bothered him about her, how mercurial she could be. Most girls were like this about once a month, but Poppy was like this all the time. Not that he was a picnic to be around all the time either, with his pensive nature and occasional brooding. He knew he was no saint, so he tried to be as kind to her as he could when she got this way. So far, he hadn't figured out a quick way to change her mood, especially when they were out in public. He'd already tried almost everything he could think of. He just wished there was a phrase he could use or a secret move he could learn that would make everything better again. He suspected that there was, that every woman knew it, they probably printed it in their chick magazines, but they sure as hell didn't plan on sharing it with him. He'd have to do this the hard way so he resigned himself to win her back slowly. Hopefully, the nice day would help sway her mood. Otherwise, it was going to be a long drive home.

“I'm sorry baby,” he began, trying to sound as contrite as possible. “You know I didn't mean to frighten you so bad. I was just trying to have a little fun and . . .” Donovan's words trailed off. What he saw walking up behind Poppy made his face twist into a mask of fear.

“And what?” Poppy demanded, arms folded in front of her, a stern look of anger knitting her brow together.

“Go on and finish.”

He didn't respond at first. A look of absolute terror had washed over his face. This isn’t like Donovan to be so playful, Poppy thought. Despite taking a semester of drama he really wasn't that good of an actor. It was unnerving. Poppy decided she wasn't going to let him trick her twice. He'd never let her live it down.

“Poppy!” Donovan cried out. “Look out behind you!” He didn't wait for her response this time. Instead, he plunged head first toward her and began swimming as hard as he could in to shore. A huge wave crashed over him, tumbling him like a heavy sweater in a washing machine. He spit water out as he came up coughing and sputtering. The tide pulled back and he got to his feet.

“Poppy, run!”

She smirked at him, the anger fading. He was just being ridiculous now. She was sure of it. He had to be. She had never seen him so out of control. If that wasn't an act then what else could it be? He was trying to humiliate her but it wasn't going to work. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of being able to tease her for the rest of the year.

“I'll have you know I grew up with three older brothers,” she began, cocking her head to the side. “I've seen every trick in the book, mister.”

Just then a cold, wet hand that felt like marble clamped down on her bare shoulder. Poppy felt an unexpected wave of fear and shock wash over her as she was spun around. Unbridled terror replaced the sinking feeling of surprise as she came to a stop, face-to-face with the diseased features of what looked like a walking nightmare. The sick man was wearing tan slacks and a matching button up shirt streaked down the front with dirty brown stains and dark red stripes that appeared painted on by bloody fingers. Sunglasses rode the top of his head, twisted into the knotted clumps of ratty black hair that remained in between exposed sores and puss-filled boils on his balding scalp. His face was tinged a putrescent shade of gangrene and the skin had lost its elasticity, giving it the appearance of hanging just slightly loose, like on a corpse. His lips were darkened the color of dried blood, with the kind of deep grooves only fire or frostbite could inflict, and his broken and chipped teeth were a terrible mix of rotting gray and bile yellow. His breath smelled sickly sweet, like sugar and sewage, with a cold coming out from him that was as bone chilling as an icy winter wind that penetrated to the core. A low moan that sounded like a rattle starting in his chest erupted out of him, blowing flecks of wriggling white foam from his decaying mouth onto her, as he held her in place with both hands.

Poppy looked up from the man's mouth to his eyes, and time seemed to stop. Fresh streaks of thick blood poured out of his eyes like a weeping saint. His pupils were large, black, and empty.

Soulless, Poppy thought, like a dead thing.

The rest of the eye had turned a dull shade of yellow. Poppy stared, lost and helpless, as his cold grip pulled her closer in toward his open mouth. There was a sharp pain in her shoulder as the sick man bit down into her and tore a chunk of skin away. She cried out in pain, a piercing and unexpected shriek drowned out by the offshore winds and crashing tides.

Poppy turned her head to see bright blood gushing out of the wound in her shoulder. The living foam, like tiny maggots, was crawling over the bite-shaped opening. She turned her face toward the man holding her, eyeing the hot blood smeared on his face—knowing it was her blood. The taste of her seemed to awaken a deeper hunger in him and he opened his mouth again, his strength redoubled, and he began pulling her in for another bite. Poppy screamed at the top of her lungs, so loud and long that it felt like she was damaging something in her throat. Fear overwhelmed her as she realized she couldn’t stop him from hurting her again. Then, as the terrible mouth came down closer to her shoulder again, Donovan's fist collided with it, knocking the man back and freeing Poppy. Her legs gave out and Poppy fell limply to the soft, warm sand. Her vision was blurry but she could see Donovan raising his fist over and over again, slamming it down into the man's head and chest. At first the man twitched and convulsed. Then, after what felt like a long few minutes, he simply went limp. Donovan raised his foot and stomped down on the man's head for good measure before rushing to Poppy's side. He knelt down by her side and put his arms around her. His skin felt like it was on fire. She didn't realize till now how cold she was. Despite being a warm sunny day only minutes ago, it now felt like it was the dead of winter.

“Poppy! Are you okay? Talk to me.”

She wasn't okay. She was shivering all over. She began to cry and her body seemed to tremble even more. It took all the energy she had just to force the words out.

“It hurts. Who was that guy? Why did he bite me?”

Donovan let out a loud sigh. He glanced back at the unmoving body behind them.

“Just some creepy pervert,” he said unconvincingly.

“Is he dead?” Poppy hoped he was. She was surprised by the intensity of her desire. She had never wished for anything more in her life than she did for his death in that moment.

“No,” Donovan said a little too quickly. He glanced back again but the man didn't move. “I don't know. I don't think so. I think he's just knocked out.”

“I hope you killed him,” Poppy said, filled with fresh hate.

“Can you walk?”

“I’m . . . not sure,” she stuttered. Donovan frowned. He pulled her to her feet and began examining her wound.

“Honestly, it's not that bad,” he said, looking a little relieved. “We can get it looked at by a doctor at Urgent Care when we get back home or I can drive you to the emergency room if you don't want to wait that long.”

Donovan nervously fidgeted.

“What is it?” Her teeth were chattering as she spoke.

“It's just that I don't want to have to file a police report,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “We weren't supposed to be in the water and I'm not sure how badly injured that asshole is. I know I was within my legal rights to protect you but you never know when someone is going to sue you. California has some crazy laws. They could even go after my family in a civil case.”

“It's fine,” she managed. “Just get me to the car.”

“Are you sure?” Donovan felt like a prick but the last thing he needed was her overreacting. It was just a bite. It would heal. What he didn't need was some hopped up ACLU lawyer out to make a name for himself by taking on this illegal immigrant’s case pro bono and dragging his family into court. He could almost hear his father's angry voice telling him to be a man and just take care of it.

“I'm so cold,” Poppy whimpered. The urge to sit down and cry overwhelmed her. If it wasn't for him holding her up, she was sure she’d break down.

“It's just shock,” Donovan offered. “You've had a horrible, traumatic episode. Let's get you wrapped up and in the car, okay baby?”

Donovan leaned over and picked up their clothes. He slowly began walking Poppy back to the motel. She looked over her shoulder at the man who had attacked her. His body lay still as the grave. A dark oily looking fluid leaked out around his head. The sinking feeling inside of her returned but she told herself it was just the shock. Donovan would take care of her. He always did. The pain in her shoulder was settling into a dull, burning throb. Her joints ached like they were on fire as she walked. It felt almost as if they were stiffening, locking up on her, as if that white foam was filling her up.

Donovan pulled his own shirt over her head, the blood from her wound soon soaking through the shoulder and making the fabric stick to her. He walked her through the parking lot to her car. It was her car but for a minute she didn't recognize it. Donovan unlocked the passenger side door and helped her sit down. He gently buckled her into the seat and reclined it so she could lie down. The world and everything in it felt like a bad dream and all she wanted to do was lie down somewhere and sleep—forever.

Back down on the shore where they'd been playing just moments before two more men in tan outfits came up out of the water and began walking towards the shore.

CHAPTER TWO

Satoshi Takahashi's hands shook as he took out samples from the freezer. He set them on the smooth counter with a rattling clatter.

“Get it together,” he fiercely whispered to himself. “This is no time to fall apart.”

Satoshi had dreamed of coming to America since he was a little boy. He blamed his older brother, Akihiro, who used to talk about it incessantly in between playing ball in the field near their house as kids.

“One day I'm going to go to America and be a star pitcher for the New York Yankees,” Akihiro would say.

“You will still be here helping mother fold laundry, especially the way you throw!”

Satoshi thought about the hours he spent helping his mother fold the neighbor’s laundry. She'd taken on the side work to make up for his father's falling wages, but the arthritis in her hands made the work slow going. Soon word got around of her ability to remove almost any stain and the piles of laundry outstripped her ability to keep up on her own. He was happy to help. His mother often rewarded him with a new book at the end of each week. By the time he was a teenager he had an extraordinary library in his room. He was also doing most of the laundry himself. His mother would sit nearby and read out loud to him, often having little idea what many of the words meant.

Those were some of the best days of my life, he thought. The memory of the wrinkles in his mother's face made him smile and tear up at the same time.

His father Hito worked long hours at the plant. Satoshi didn't see very much of him growing up. He only came home long enough to eat before going out to drink away most of his wife's profits. Hito was a man of few words, but from those words Satoshi could tell his father favored his muscular, athletic older brother over him. Satoshi had suffered from Crohn's disease as a young child. It had stunted his growth. It had only lasted for a couple years but he could still remember them vividly, the fever dreams and rashes on his legs. His mother, Meiko, had fretted over him long after the illness had gone into remission. While Akihiro was out exploring the banks of the river bed near their home, getting into scrapes with the local boys, and practicing his pitching, Satoshi was stuck indoors with nothing but his books and his imagination to keep him company. His father, who loved rice wine and American baseball, took to calling him the daughter he'd never wanted.

“Sick all the time,” he slurred one night, throwing his hot soup spoon at Satoshi's head, “like a weak, good for nothing girl.”

Satoshi had been accepted to University on scholarship. He never planned on studying anything but medicine even though he excelled at math as well as science. He breezed through his studies, maintaining a high grade point average and graduating with full honors. Next came medical school, along with his successful residency as a pediatrician in Japan. Then another three years in general pediatrics and neonatology in Kyoto.

Akihiro was drafted by the Angels in Anaheim. He'd become a national star pitching left handed successfully for the Chiba Motte Marines in Nippon. His signature throw – a spiraling, downward breaking split finger fast ball – regularly clocked over 99 mph and left even A-Rod scratching his head on more than one occasion. It was enough to lift the Angels to the playoff's but they fell just short of making the World Series due to an abundance of last minute errors by exhausted outfielders and the loss of their best player to a fifty game steroid ban. Akihiro had earned the Cy Young for the American League but missed the entire next season due to needing Tommy Johns surgery to repair his arm. He was scheduled to make his comeback against the Yankees but was killed by a drunk driver in Fullerton the night before the game. Satoshi rushed home to be with his family upon hearing the news. Hito fell into a depression that would not lift, drinking to black out and refusing to get dressed or leave the house. His mother took the brunt of his abuse, eventually packing a bag and leaving to her sister’s after he blackened her eye. They found Hito drowned in the river the next day, floating face down. It was not clear if he meant to do it or fell in drunk.

Satoshi decided to study infectious disease in America after that. There was nothing left for him at home. His mother gave her blessing. She had refused to return, preferring the company of her widowed sister to an empty house. He applied for a job and was quickly picked up by a research firm in Tucson on a limited Visa. While he hated his new home, the sterile, dry heat and his casually racist neighbors; he loved the work so much it didn't matter. He spent long hours at the lab studying how microbes interacted with skin cells and blood samples. He discovered, much to his own amazement, that he no longer yearned to work as a physician directly interacting with patients. The thought of never having to deal with another hospital administer sounded like a dream to him. No he'd much rather work as a scientist. He was particularly interested in splicing apart viruses in an effort to reverse engineer them. He'd spent months attempting to increase blood flow to necrotic cells by introducing infectious but relatively harmless pathogens and felt close to a break through. Instead he'd come home to find his apartment had been broken into in his absence. Everything but his mattress was gone, and that had been torn to shreds. When he returned to his lab his pass no longer worked. When he asked what was going on he was told to go home and wait for someone to contact him.

Satoshi drove to a bar instead and ordered a beer. A white man with slicked back hair in a black suit and tie showed up a short time later and sat next to him. He quickly struck up an overly familiar conversation with him, the central thesis of which seemed to revolve around how Satoshi should move to Vegas to work for his employer. He knew a lot about what Satoshi had been up to, too much in fact, and while the tone of his voice was relaxed and casual, Satoshi felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up when he spoke – as if each word was its own threat.

“Who are you?” Satoshi had asked.

“You can call me Bob,” the man had replied, handing him just a card with a Black Helix logo on it. The man in black promised that everything would be taken care of if Satoshi just came along. His employer had close ties to the government. He would be given a place to stay, a lab of his own, an open ended work visa, and more money than he could ever spend in one lifetime. Satoshi didn't remember saying yes. All he remembered was the man's wide smile as he was led from the bar outside to a black town car and driven to a private jet on a secluded airstrip in the middle of nowhere.

He'd been working at the labs in Las Vegas ever since. Truth be told, he'd never been so happy in his life. He had a huge two story house with a pool and Jacuzzi in a gated community. The closets were filled with clothes in his size and taste when he arrived. The entry way table had a selection of tickets to shows, sporting events, and concerts – more than he could attend. The fridge was fully stocked and so was the wine cellar. He fell into bed that first night, a California King, and passed out. The next day they drove him to his new lab. All of his original research was there waiting for him when he arrived. He was given a personal assistant, along with a body guard, and told to begin picking out his research team from a list of pre-screened applicants.

He'd spent most of his time in the lab from then on, working around the clock on taking apart some of the worst disease known to mankind. He'd tinkered with everything from Nodding disease to Crohn's to rabies to Ebola. Occasionally someone would pop in to check up on him but for the most part he was left to his own devices. He'd made remarkable strides in isolating pathogens and introducing them to both sick and healthy cells in some very unexpected ways. When he finished he would upload the results into the mainframe and log out for the day. He'd fall into bed each night feeling content and empty in the best possible way.

Everything had been perfect – until last night. He'd come home late, as usual, and flipped on the television. The minute he heard reports of the ghost tanker he felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. That name, Islas Maria, had been in a research folder on the mainframe. He'd always assumed that his work would be used to target and treat diseases, sick kids like he once was, by top pharmaceutical companies. That was the extent of his ethical dilemma, that only the wealthy and connected would be able to initially afford the fruits of his labors. He'd assuaged his prickly conscience with thoughts of other scientists taking apart the medicine and making generic copies for countries like India and less fortunate African nations.

How could I be so naive? How could I be so fucking stupid?

They'd made a weapon from his work. He knew it at once. He'd seen the symptoms listed on the television screen and knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that they had nothing to do with leprosy. Biological warfare – that's what it was. He barely slept that night. He felt like the father of the atomic bomb, like Oppenheimer. His work would be used to kill millions, possibly even end life on earth. For hours he contemplated killing himself, trying to think of the most painless and effective method. Perhaps someone would come for him, to do the job for him, to keep him from talking, from telling anyone his story. Maybe they'd send Bob again. He listened for footsteps, half hoping they would end his crippling guilt, but they never came.

Morning eventually arrived and he returned to the lab feeling jumpy and tired. He logged on to discover that the research folders were now locked. In fact the only access he had was to his own work. The rest of the system appeared to be offline.

They are already covering their tracks, he thought. That's why they don't have to worry about killing me. They've compartmentalized. They can deny all of this when the time comes.

He could see exactly how it would play out. Their million dollar marketing team would release a statement about how Satoshi was a rogue scientist working on his own pet projects, how they'd taken him in and he'd betrayed them for his own dark designs.

All the blame will fall solely on me.

One thing they hadn't taken away from Satoshi was access to the samples, his work. If he could take one with him, if he could make a copy somehow, maybe he could tell his side of the story. He fumbled with the clear lid of the sample but couldn't get it open with his gloves.

Damn! I'm running out of time. Soon they will lock me out of my own lab and I'll be taken God knows where, Guantanamo or some black site and kept in isolation. This may be my last chance to prove my innocence!

Satoshi ripped his gloves off in frustration. He reached up and yanked his protective mask free as well. He was sweating profusely now, panting from excitement. He leaned over and pried open the lid to his most virulent sample. He turned and looked up at the security cameras monitoring him. Nothing happened. He laughed. He had been expecting sirens to go off, maybe armed guards to come running in. He was so tired he was practically delirious. Surely he was being paranoid. No one was coming for him. Still it wouldn't hurt to have an insurance policy.

Better to hide something now before it's too late, he thought.

Satoshi broke apart part of the sample with a nearby glass stir rod and transferred it to a small test tube, corking it with a rubber stopper. He held it up to get a closer look. In that tiny container was the culmination of his life's work – all he was and all he'd ever be.

Mother would be so proud, he thought, if only she knew.

He closed the lid back up and replaced the sample in the fridge. He had a tough decision to make. What was he going to do with the rest of his day? Should he leave early, claiming to be sick? Should he stay and wait for them to come for him? Who would come? Would it be one of the suits from the front office or someone else like the man in black who originally recruited him? What if no one ever came?

He chalked up his indecisiveness to lack of sleep. He'd have to go home and rest. He had never taken a sick day. No one would give him a hard time for needing some rest, not after all the work he'd done. He was one of their most valuable employees. He had no doubt about that.

He was undressing when he began to feel the tickle in the back of his throat. He didn't pay much attention to it, chalking it up to the dry Vegas air or maybe some mild allergy. He was so hot. He couldn't think straight with all his clothing on. He needed his car keys, but he didn't know why. He couldn't remember where he'd parked his Mercedes. Come to think of it, he couldn't remember driving to work in the first place. He was having trouble thinking clearly, having trouble remembering things. Everything felt foggy in his brain all of a sudden. He had a terrible headache coming on. His sore throat now felt red raw, like someone had dragged a fork through it. He coughed to relieve the tickle and a fine mist of blood sprayed out onto the counter. It felt like chunks were coming loose inside of him but he wasn't able to focus on it. He looked down to see blisters forming on the back of his hands. His skin itched all over. Something was wrong but he couldn't figure out what it was. His stomach gurgled as he leaned over and threw up a fluid stream of black bile all over the counter top. It felt good to get it out but left him empty inside. He'd never felt so hungry in his life before. He felt like he would die if he didn't get something in him right away, something warm and living and full of blood. Just the thought of tearing apart a small animal, a rabbit, yes, or maybe a dog, mmm, or even a small child, made him swell with manic bliss.

A sharp pain in his arm brought him out of his vivid daydream. He'd bitten his own arm. Dark burgundy coagulated blood began to puss out of the wound. It hurt so much he screamed in agony. Anger surged through him, overpowering his reason. A terrible rage rose up from the core of his being for not being able to feed, for not being able to quench his overwhelming hunger. The feeling came in waves, filling him up, making him strong, numb, and unstoppable. It was as if the anger was a living being capable of overriding all of his other systems. It was his God now. Yes. It would take care of him. It would lead him to food, living breathing food. It would take all the pain away. Satoshi gave himself over to it and soon the last of his troubled thoughts vanished like dew drops evaporating in the desert sun. The last things he saw were his blistered hands pushing open the security door and heading down the hallway.

*** 

Read the rest of THE RISING DEAD now on Amazon by visiting http://www.amazon.com/The-Rising-Dead-ebook/dp/B009OKD3EW

THE RISING DEAD will be available in paperback from Permuted Press in late 2013.

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