Dead Rising

Now then, this is a piece I wrote for a competition on AGS a fantastic forum for amateur Adventure Game designers. The challenge was to create a story with the same title as a computer game. I decided to take a drastically different approach to the title 'Dead Rising.' I hope you enjoy it! By the way, parts 3 and 4 of 'The New Departure' are written but may take a while to type up.


Dead Rising

All the answers I got were on the morning of the 99' Dead Rising. The townspeople aren't free about it during the year, all you get is blank stares and bland denials of knowledge. The occasion is something you don't talk about.

The town is so small you can see the 'Welcome to Willamette' sign from the 'See You Again Soon' one. A community of 500 or so souls, and half that many people.

I had stopped there for a coffee on my way through. I got talking to one of the waitresses for so long, before I knew it, it was dark outside. Funny, it was the first time in months I'd spoken over a few sentences to anyone at a time. There was something about the people there, a comforting anonymity you felt as the only stranger in town.

When I mentioned that I had to get back on the trail again, the waitress, Sarah, stopped me. It was far too late to drive, and the next town was hours off, she insisted. Why not stay here, she suggested.Stay at my place,you can leave your car here and get it in the morning.

Well, why not? I wasn't thinking so straight and her sudden generosity caught me off guard. I allowed myself to be led by Sarah into an old cream sedan, owned by her father, she said.

The house was a tall, white, beautiful period building, clearly a former courthouse or the like. An empty flagpole poked out above the door.

I was too muddled at the beginning to even notice the food I was shoveling into my mouth, but as the meal went on, my head cleared a little, like it hadn't in months. These were people I could talk to, anonymous friends who could offer advice without the history that pervaded everything I heard from others. I began to open up about myself, my life. What had happened.

The woman's father was an open and talkative man, looking like nothing so much as a child's drawing of his grandfather. He didn't seem at all disturbed that his daughter had brought home a strange man, complete with tales of his tragic past, for dinner. He said as soon as I canme in he knew I was troubled. He instructed me to sleep on it, and in the morning I'd have all the answers I wanted.

At first I insisted on finding a hotel, saying that I had imposed on their generosity far too much already. They weren't having any of it. This huge empty house, she said, is just waiting for someone to fill it.

The next day is so clear in my head that it's as if I'm living it every time I shut my eyes.

The sunlight flows in through the giant window beside my bed, a stark counterpoint to the yesterday's gray, overcast look. I get up and shower quickly. There's no sign of either Sarah or her father.

As I leave the house, after penning a note thanking them for their generosity, I notice the absolute stillness over the town. A few hundred metres down the road an oldish couple sit on the front of a car, talking quietly to each other.

I walk ito the centre of Willamette and all around me people are in twos and threes, heads close in intimate talks with each other. In the distance I spot Sarah and her father with a middle aged woman wearing a beautiful blue dress.

Someone taps me on the back. I turn and see a tall man of unguessable age, hair down to his shoulders, smiling at me. He wears an expensive bespoke suit and a look of sublime contentment on his face.

'I expect you're wondering who that woman is.'

'Well yes, an aunt or?' I leave the question in the air.

'Ha, no, that woman is Patrice Belkin, Sarah's mother.'

'But...'

'In case you did not know, she died on the first of March 1988.'

'But...'

'Before you ask, let me tell you a little story. Don't worry, it won't take long.' He smiles even wider and begins, 'In 1964 a child of Willamette died. How she passed is not something I wish to get into but on Christmas morning we buried her in the little cemetery behind the chapel. In a town this size a death is a blow to everyone, a child is...' he trails off slightly and he isn't smiling anymore,

'What that woman went through I can only imagine. A few days later, on the 30th, she came out for the frst time since the funeral. She wasn't wearing black, she seemed normal at first but we noticed that she was talking to her daughter still. None of us wanted to give the poor woman any more troubles than she already had, so we, uh, played along.' At this point he pauses, and slowly, like the rising sun behind the mountains, the grin returns to his face.

'It was Father Simon who saw her first, the little girl everyone loved tugging at his robe, her arms outstretched to hug him, like she did half the town.'

'The next day, well, she was gone. Her mother knew this and she moved on. the next year it wasn't just that woman who got to see an old face. So there you have it, stranger. Willamette's big secret. We don't talk about it, save for today, because there's nothing really to say, is there?'

I take this all in in mute astonishment but I don't for a minute question what he says. It doesn't feel like the sort of thing anyone would make up. I do have one question though, 'Where is the person you want to see?'

'Aha, well son, here she is.' He spreads his arms out wide, as if to embrace the whole town. 'And now, I shouldn't detain you, because it looks like someone wants to see you.' He points behind me.

I turn and there she is. There is nothing ethereal or ghostly about her. not made of fog or dreams but real, solid and in my arms again.

We talk for hours and hours about everything. How things are, how they were and finally, where they can go now, after this day ends.

As I hold her tight the dawn is approaching. I know when I let her go, she'll be gone once more. She whispers almost inaudible in as I release her.

'Take it slow and enjoy every minute of it. I love you.'

***

We do take it slow, Sarah and I. Every year we make a visit to Willamette, to meet with friends, old and new. To see those people in the next room. We travel a lot, talk a lot, about how someday we'll settle down, maybe think about the future.

For now though, we take it slow, and we enjoy every minute.

The New Departure Part II

I do apologise for the long wait, I have actually been busy recently (seriously!) and haven't had time to type up the stuff I've written. In any case, it's here now and the third part is written up, but not typed yet.

I should mention that this is actually going to be a four part story as opposed to the original three part idea. I need another section to pull of the ending as I chose to introduce more characters than I had originally envisaged. Enjoy this part, written in a very loose, first person style.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen’ he raises his hands up high like he’s praying to the god of arms trading. With another breath he says ‘Let me introduce you to The New Departure.’ You can hear the capital letters click into place.

I try to listen but I find my mind wandering off, not out of boredom but out of sheer disgust at what this excuse is saying. Outside the seventy-fifth floor boardroom the rain is hammering down, so unsuited to the lofty words being spoken,
I’m shaken out of my self imposed exile from the conscious world by the smiling suit’s introduction.

What am I now? Did he say Visionary or Paragon? Who cares? I stand and face the assembled faceless drones. Jesus Christ I must be higher than I thought, they really do look faceless.

‘Esteemed-’I snigger inadvertedly but manage to turn it into an almost convincing sneeze. Drone #1 at the head of the table becomes alarmingly smiley, like he’s just realised that the coffee cup he’s drinking out of contains raw sewage and he’s unsure how to come to terms with the situation.

‘Esteemed persons of the board.’

‘You may not know me, I’m…uh…I’m…’ I look down at my cards, which aren’t there anymore. Holy shit, did I just forget my own name? Must recover this. Must stay focused.

‘I’m the man who designed the T-Chip that currently resides in the uh…um…’ Christ, what’s a diplomatic name for killing machine?

‘The uh…Recon and Combat assist vehicles being used by our armed forces.’ Used is perhaps the wrong word. Unleashed? Nah, it has too many negative connotations. I’m a wee bit zoned out at this point. Guy Smiley across the room hints at me that I’ve been staring blankly at the windows for the last 15 seconds.

‘Protecting our soldiers is our number one priority’ Just above suppressing our rampant alcohol and drug addictions.

‘We at…’ only a few moments pause as I try to remember who writes me cheques every month. ‘Davis and Davis Corporation are committed to protecting our assets…uh our troops. Our troops are our most valuable assets, we here at Davis and Davis and…Davis know our most valuable troops are our most um…’

Smiley has just stood up, ready to take charge. Good thing too.

‘I need to piss.’

Did I say that out loud? Ooh probably time to exit.

‘Mr. Gleeson everyone!’ The hollow, confused applause follows me down the hall.

The executive bathroom. A bright, sparkling tribute to what rich people do with their trousers down. Chrome and expensive wood are in evidence everywhere. The urinals are made of only the finest china, handcrafted by Tibetan monks in a monastery high above the clouds. Probably. I wonder if they knew what they were going to be used for.

The bathroom attendant creeps up to me, takes one look at my face and backs away slowly.

None of the cubicles are occupied and I’m free to sing fragments of songs at the top of my lungs to entertain the bemused attendant.

‘All finished!’ I say as if there’s a nervous crowd outside awaiting news of my bathroom engagement.

Damn my head hurts, I need another fucking…oh for the love of…I’ve dropped the goddamn box. I root around on the pristine floor a bit. No such luck. I stand and open the door, forgetting the vital step of removing my hand when it has finished opening. I stumble forward and shake my head. Bright black spots ship across my vision and I fall unceremoniously to the floor.

***

Images dance in and out of my eye line and muffled sounds filter through the buzz that blankets me morning til night. Am I on a plane?!?

Christ I hope I didn’t bring any of the junk onboard. The company won’t bail me out again.

‘Excuse me; I have to take a leak.’ Damn that didn’t come out right, few things do these days. I try to stand but I’ve been strapped in like a fucking baby.

‘It’ll keep him out of trouble for a bit and it might even give us a bit of a boost in-’

Things feel a wee bit…fuzzy. Not booze fuzzy or coke fuzzy but the kind of fuzzy you get from expensive prescriptions to stop you killing your husband as he comes back reeking of scotch for the seventy billionth time in a row.

The ginger bloke, uh, Chaz? Chiz? He’s the one talking like I can’t hear. The other guy keeps snatching glances at me like I’m going to go postal any second now.

I wonder what the inflight meal is. When do we get the menus?

‘Passengers’ the speaker above my head intones ‘This is your captain speaking, we are currently cruising at an altitude of thirty thousand feet and we should reach Fort Baxter, Poland in about eleven hours. Until then, enjoy your flight.’

‘Oh for fuc-‘