River's Rising Read online

  WORLD DOWN

  River’s Rising

  by

  Dan McNeill and Kevin Morton

  Blackburn International

  CEO Letter to Shareholders

  Fellow Shareholders,

  Thanks to the on-going hostilities between revolutionaries in Europe and our brave Coalition forces, I am pleased to say that Blackburn International saw improvements across a number of key operating metrics this past fiscal year. On an annual basis, we expanded gross margins by 2.3 percentage points, increased operating income by $63 billion, grew products and services, and closed the year with an increase in cash flow from operations of $2.2 billion to total $10.3 billion. In addition, we bought back 951 million shares of our own stock for a total purchase price of $2.76 billion during the fiscal year.

  Despite this progress, it was a challenging year for Blackburn. Due to continued media attacks from the secular left, we were not able to secure a contract for supplemental military services in the Japanese theater as we had planned. Although it is fair to say, that with the recent escalation of tensions in Asia, the U.S. government may revisit that decision. I have it on good authority that they will indeed.

  There is no question that the liberal biases of bloggers and an over-zealous U.S. media have had a profound impact on our customers and impeded our ability to grow the top line, especially in the latter half of the fiscal year. Our concentration in some controversial industry segments, particularly biological warfare and battlefield neural-networks, exacerbated the challenges we faced. But remember, as our late President used to say, the only way to stop a bad guy with a gun is with a good guy with a gun.

  With that second amendment truth as our mantra, Blackburn International's acquisition of Costello Pharmaceuticals, announced three days ago, will surely bring a more profitable year for our shareholders. While I am not yet at liberty to disclose our first planned venture with the fine folks at Costello, I can say this. What we plan to announce at our shareholders meeting in D.C. next month not only will ensure the continued profitability of Blackburn International – it will also change forever, Lord willing, the way we wage war.

  God Bless,

  John W. Blackburn

  Archival Control Number: DIGI 01860561

  – Transcript from video footage captured three days after first report of deaths from R17 virus (commonly referred to as the “Rapture” virus)

  Ok. Here we go. 3…2...1...

  Hello folks, as you can see, I am reporting live outside Times Square on this night of...silence. I am my own cameraman now. My assistant Kate, bless her sweet Kansas heart, fell victim to the Rapture early last night. The Rapture. That is what some have whispered. Before dear Kate turned to...dear God...[muffled sounds, perhaps crying or clearing of throat]...she begged me to continue. To spread the gospel as it were. With talent on loan from Grace, I shall honor her deathbed request.

  Now let me show you...you...whoever you may be, what is left of Gotham. I just passed by Macy’s a few blocks back. Empty. Windows shattered. White bone and rapidly decomposing corpses grasping Alfani dresses. Cold flesh to dust in days. Guess they won’t be doing the Thanksgiving Day parade next week, will they?

  Now…Broadway. Mighty Broadway. Empty. A chill wind blows Gotham's ashes into sewers that lead to the Hudson. Right here, across from the Marriot, more bodies of the Raptured litter the street as rats feast on their bags of junk food, grocery items and, occasionally, before I can shoo them away, remnants of their rapidly decaying flesh. Even in death, the cancer continues to do its work, turning its victims into lumps of dust swathed in designer blue jeans. Within a month, all that will be left of the human species I’m afraid is expensively garmented bones. One of the gifts of the Rapture I suppose. It buries it's own.

  Continuing on...A yellow taxi here, an old lady’s cashmere hat there, all serving as the final grave markers for the dead. It vexes me! Lying spread eagle next to an Indian man holding a camera lies a half-naked cowboy clutching his guitar on the corner of Broadway and 46th Street. I saw Meghan Galloway from Entertainment Gawkers News, dead. Her make-up assistant a barely recognizable heap of bone and cracked flesh. Rapture cremation. Ladies and gentlemen, it’s all a testament to our morally irrelevant, electronic society that when pop culture dies, it dies nameless.

  The asphalt cemetery repeats itself across Broadway, across 7th Avenue, across all avenues and the reason is simple. There are no people left to sweep them away. The authorities have abandoned us. The last person I spoke to, some three days ago, a frightened National Guardsman from Albany, himself infected, mentioned that the President, whoever was in line for it at this point anyway, Raptured from his supposedly bio-secured location outside of Omaha. Does anyone else know this? More importantly folks, does anyone care?

  As I move up past the massive, now dimmed, electronic billboards, and theaters…and, ha, look at this…fool. Some shop owner, looks like he sold fake designer handbags…has the entrance to his shop draped in barbed wire. To protect it from looters. Looters! What I wouldn’t give right now for an encounter with an angry mob of handbag-grabbing looters. It would prove that I wasn’t the only one left alive.

  As I make my way towards 43rd Street I see the remains of our mighty military. Dead. The tanks parked out by the Toys R Us are silent. I would like to take it upon myself, as the recently self-appointed Mayor of New York City, to declare martial law officially lifted. For, as you can see...there is no one left to enforce it. Until man can find a cure.

  A cure. That's rich. [clears throat, spits] Come on folks! If I thought there were enough able-bodied citizens left to provide such a thing, maybe I'd be less cynical. But look around folks. Rotting flesh turned to ash cannot discover a cure for a virus intent on making us extinct. And make no mistake folks, the virus is still out there. If by chance you are able to view my broadcast here today, know that it will find you.

  Oh, but wait. The EMP bursts, remember? The nukes they set off over Manhattan, over Chicago, over LA. Over everywhere to stop a death that seemed pre-ordained. Fried out most everything but my camera! Ha! Must have been divine intervention. The Authorities can’t step on Butch Becker’s 1st Amendment rights!

  But it doesn't matter. None of it does. Alas, we're on our own now folks. And on our own without our precious electronics to keep us alive. But not on our own.

  All I know ladies and gentlemen is what I'm seeing here. Dead. They're all dead. Men, women, young, old. Black, white, Muhammadans, Christians. No one has been spared. No, let me clarify. No one worth saving has been spared.

  You know with whom I refer to. You've seen them. There's a plan folks! My God, we know there is! They kept them alive for a reason. Mark my words folks, whenever we put our trust in the corrupting lies of big government, THIS is the end result. Look around. Anyone? Is anyone even left to listen to my report? This final report? …hah…

  No matter. For what it's worth folks, I want to be on record. I know why they spared them, and not us. It's easy. Even a simpleton with oatmeal for brains could figure it out! Hell, even that shopkeeper with the barbed wire, I bet even he could have figured it out if he’d set his money-grubbing mind to it. A population of smiling sheeple will be easier to control in the New World Order. Cattle, folks. That's what they want us to be. Well they got them. Mules. All that survive, will be mules.

  So. What to do now? Well folks, we wait. Wait it out. We hope. Like all Americans, we pray. As I told you all from the start, I'm not exactly sure why the virus chose, so far at least, to spare my life. I call it a miracle. Call me vain, but maybe God spared me so that I could fulfill some greater destiny.

  So folks, that's what I intend to do. Unravel what that destiny may yet prove to be. I shall head west. Into America's heartla
nd. Into her core. And while I'm not quite sure what I will find there, I will continue to report it. This is Butch Becker, signing off fo- [video ends abruptly here]

  Prologue

  The Night. More than ever before, the night held terrors. The wind carried strange sounds that whipped through the trees like the wailing of the uncountable dead rising from the grave to devour the living. More immediate and ominous were the sounds closer to home, the scratching of the beasts of the forest on the deck outside the cottage, the occasional crash of glass breaking off in great shards due to the passage of some small bird or even the simple expansion and contraction on the window panes in the now untended homes. The nocturnal sounds of the world frightened Raymond Bean. It was odd, in a way; Raymond could count the number of times he had truly been afraid in his life on the fingers of his hands.

  At least it was that way before the Rapture virus. The Rap changed everything. No one who survived those dark times could ever truly know peace. But were there survivors? That question scared Raymond more than the darkness. The answer was one he tried to banish from his thoughts the same way his mother could banish his night terrors by a simple flip of a light switch and a gentle humming of a Beatles song.

  These days, Raymond had neither of these comforts. There had been no electricity for close to three years now. Even before the failure of the power grids, the night sky was filled with the eerie afterglow of the bombs detonated in the skies to help stop the spread. As if frying the guts of cars and airplanes would halt a virus that needed neither.

  And now. Now the night brought an inky blackness that even the full moon and the stars could not dispel. Each night brought the thoughts of a thousand dangers to Raymond’s imagination. The beasts of the forests had reclaimed their homes after man’s fall. They had grown wild and feral. Fires sprung up from unkempt fields and whole towns could be put to the torch from one lightning strike. Then there were the more subtle fears- would the stores of food that Raymond and Po had collected last through the harsh winters? What would happen to Po if Raymond hurt himself and couldn’t take care of him? Would Abraham ever return?

  More fears. They assaulted Raymond constantly. “If only Mom were here…” he thought as he caressed the barrel of his rifle. “But no, don’t think of her. Not now, in the dark.”

  The muffled shuffling of a large creature passing on the porch brought a low growl from Rowdy’s throat. “Thank God, for you,” Raymond thought. “Without you boy, me and Po would never have made it.” One small blessing was left to mankind- its loyal companion the dog had held firm in the bonds of friendship.

  Raymond’s Dad had said that Rowdy couldn’t be trained- that he was too wild at heart. But he was wrong. Wrong about everything. The big, goofy Irish Setter pup had turned into a first rate guard and an excellent hunting dog. Rowdy had learned. They all had learned. It wasn’t wise to make too much noise. There were worse things in the night than bears and coyotes. Worse things than even the ghosts and goblins that haunted Po’s dreams. Wild animals still had survival instincts, even if they no longer feared men. A man with a rifle and a good dog by his side could scare them off. As for the ghosts and goblins…well in a way they were much more real and worthy of fear than Po imagined.

  “Get to sleep, Raymond,” he said to himself. Raymond closed his eyes and laid his rifle across his legs. Rowdy had things under control now. And Po will be up before sunrise. Get to sleep.

  But sleep was a long time in coming.

  Chapter 1

  Everyone needed a Po. Raymond knew this to be true. Whether the two of them were fishing off the dam, burping the alphabet or playing battle chess with mall store mannequins, Po made the tedium of apocalypse brilliant.

  Raymond let those thoughts drift away for the moment like the lure on his line, tugging on his pole while he rested his broad shoulders against the tall willow down the hill from their cottage. The mix of trees surrounding their cabin were a sunshine kaleidoscope of red and gold leaves. Before long those leaves would drift to the ground and he and Po would have something to do – namely that Po would jump in the piles while Raymond collected what was left for the compost pits. But Raymond didn't mind. Over these past three years, he'd learned something quite important. You had to mix survival with pleasure.

  You also, of course, had to fish. A lot. Luckily, today appeared to be a good day for it. The early autumn sun was melting off the frost, producing a subtle fog that hung back around the edges of Lake Como like a quarterback from Ray's old football days angling for a receiver. Save for a scattering of geese, the lake was calm. Raymond liked calm. Calm meant Po might actually catch something.

  Jiggling his pole, Raymond took in the silence. Raymond loved the silence. Most of all, Raymond liked being alone. At least he used to, before being alone was all that was left. The towering trees with their untended branches scratched the roofs of the empty cottages. Lake Como's cool waters remained starkly silent. Nothing at all like how it used to be when Raymond’d come out here with his friends in the summer, the water rippling with hot chicks from the University of Wisconsin and douche bags on jet skis from Illinois. The hot chicks had a way of finding themselves partying with the red headed jock from Lake Como. Partying with him of course.

  The douche bags had a way of partying with Raymond too sometimes. But most of the times those kinds of parties weren't the ones the douche bags from Illinois found all that fun. Most of the time, the red headed jock won those parties. Most of the time.

  But there were no more parties these days. No more hot chicks for the red headed jock to seduce. And no more douche bags for the red headed jock to get into scuffle parties with. All of them and everyone else they knew were torn to shit by the Rapture. Torn to shit in days. All of them. But not them.

  Raymond let his red hair grow shoulder length these past three years. He presently brushed it aside to get a better view of the sky surrounding the lake this morning. The deep radiant hues of unreal blues. Raymond loved it. Hearing a low grumble, he glanced over at his older brother – who was not so great at fishing. It wasn't that he sucked at it exactly. More like his body was a great big obstacle.

  Big being the operative word. In the years since the Rap, Po had changed. Before the virus, Po was an overweight teen with low muscle tone. Now...somehow, and Raymond couldn't even begin to explain why, the guy was built like an ox. It was disturbing. Freaky weird. The weight gain? The buffed up muscle tone? Growing up, Po was always the flabby kid on the "short bus". Nowadays, he was built like a defensive lineman on steroids. But Po was healthy and alive. And for that at least, Raymond was grateful.

  Right now, Po's big head was partially covered up by the faded Kelly green White Sox baseball cap he wore to shield his pasty Irish skin from the sun. The hat was a souvenir from the Halfway to St. Paddy's Day White Sox game Grandpa Frank had taken him to the year before the Rap. Strands of Po's bushy brown hair snaked their way out of the corners of the hat.

  With a sudden sweeping gesture, Po removed the hat from his head and whipped it to the ground. Growling, he started rocking from side to side. Raymond saw this before. Po was about to freak.

  “Waymond!” Po shouted. “These stupid heads ain’t biting! The sun’s burning Po’s sweet cheeks and Po don't wanna fish no more!” Growling louder, he tossed his fishing pole over his shoulder, nearly piercing their dog Rowdy in the rump. “It’s clobbering time!” He clenched his fists, daring Raymond to talk him down.

  “Settle down Thing,” Raymond said. He put his pole down and tried to smile. “I bet your worm just got away again.” Of course, that probably wasn’t true. Unless the worm was terribly unlucky, it usually never found its way onto Po’s hook in the first place. But Raymond didn’t blame him. Po had big fingers and trying to hook bait wasn’t one of his strengths. Though he had many others.

  “Here you go,” Raymond said. Fetching Po's pole, he put a sluggish nightcrawler onto the wormless hook. “I tried to pick a sleepy one for you. Just don’t run him
off with any more of your bad jokes! ”

  “Thanks Waymond!” Po patted Raymond on the back so hard he almost dropped his own fishing pole. “Hey, are Po’s jokes really that bad?”

  Raymond raised his eyebrows and smirked, nodding his head. Po let out a snort and they both sat back against the willow’s wide trunk, Po’s fishing malfunction momentarily fixed.

  Po recast his line. Crossing his stumpy legs, he pulled his hat down a tad, nearly covering up his thin blue eyes. Tucking the grip of his pole underneath his armpit, he reached into the lining of his lime-green windbreaker to remove his golden tin whistle.

  The six-holed golden whistle was a little scratched in spots but that didn’t matter. It was a gift to Po from their Grandpa Frank on Po's twelfth birthday. Something Po never asked for but always wanted. In the ten years since he got the gift, Po only learned to play five songs. But that didn't matter. Whether he was playing Happy Birthday or the theme from Superman, the melodies yearned of something that Raymond never had.

  Optimism. Optimism was something Po had loads of. Even back when he had to get up to take his special bus to his special classes, knowing full well he'd probably get a special wallop by the bullies at Glenside, Po still found a reason to greet the day with a smile. Finishing up what Raymond thought sounded like Go Tell Aunt Rhodie, he put his tin whistle down to momentarily pretend to fish again.

  Raymond was too tired to nag him today. Besides Po's tin whistle, the couple of hours of barren sleep Raymond got were one of his few escapes. No nightmares there. And no dreams either. Raymond hadn't dreamt since the Rap. Not real dreams, anyway. The place he went when danger came was not a place of dreams.

  "Oh no Waymond!" Po shouted, tossing down his pole again.