The Rising Dead (3 page)

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 themselves taking on this illegal immigrants 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 neighbors 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 no clue 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 the 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 med 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 losing 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 sisters after he blacked 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 research firm in Tucson on a limited Visa. While he hated his new home, the sterile, dry heat and 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 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 in unexpected ways into both sick and healthy cells. 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 researcher 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.