- Text Size +
Part III: Day of Unholy Resurrection




Chapter 31


Darkness came over the whole land… Jesus cried out with a loud voice, “… My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Mark 15:33-34)

Then Jesus, crying with a loud voice, said, “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.” Having said this, he breathed his last. … It was the day of Preparation, and the Sabbath was beginning. (Luke 23:46, 54)

On the first day of the week, at early dawn, they came to the tomb… but when they went in, they did not find the body. … The men said to them, “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen. Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, and be crucified, and on the third day rise again.” (Luke 24:1-7)


Sunday, April 15, 2012
12:00 a.m.


Brian could not be sure what woke him up at midnight, but later, he would guess it was a creak from upstairs. Just the house settling, he might have thought. But he didn’t remember thinking that.

What he did remember was sitting up, looking around in confusion, and wondering what he was doing on the living room couch. Usually, when he dozed off there, it was during a game, or maybe one of the twins’ cartoon movies. But the TV was off. The room was dark and empty. It was the middle of the night. Some husbands were banished to a night on the couch when their wives were upset with them. But he and Leighanne didn’t have that kind of a marriage. They rarely fought, and when they did, they never went to bed angry. It was sort of a pact they’d made as newlyweds, and they’d managed to keep it for eight years now, he and Leighanne…

Leighanne.

All of a sudden, Brian froze. His breath caught in his throat. His heart seemed to stop, mid-beat.

Leighanne.

Brooke. Bonnie.


The last twenty-four hours crashed through the wall his groggy mind seemed to have built, and he remembered everything. First Bonnie had died, and then Brooke, and then Leighanne. His girls… his beautiful girls, all dead in their beds upstairs. A strangled noise escaped his throat, as he buried his face in his hands. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes and felt moisture well against them. He bit down on his bottom lip, struggling to hold himself together. It was a battle he’d fought – and lost – all day.

He couldn’t believe an entire day had passed. In some ways, it had been the longest day of his life, and unquestionably the worst. In others, it seemed to have passed in a blur, hazy and dreamlike, as if it were some epic nightmare from which he might soon wake up. But though he’d drifted off into restless fits of sleep and awoken several times, the reality had always come back into sharp, unforgiving focus.

His family… his entire family… dead.

They’d been dead for some twenty hours, and normally, by now, he’d have called his family, and Leighanne’s, and started making funeral plans. He’d performed enough funeral services, counseled enough grieving families, to know how that worked.

But although time had passed, the world seemed to have stopped, and it wasn’t just Brian’s grief that made it feel that way. The power was out, and the phones were down, and even before that, no one had answered his calls anyway. Not the paramedics, or the coroner, or the police. Not his parents or Leighanne’s, not his brother or Leighanne’s sisters. No one had answered, and so no one had come to take care of the bodies, or of Brian. He’d been utterly alone in the house with his dead wife and daughters for almost a full day, and there was no one around to notice or to care.

Something truly horrific had happened, and its effects seemed to extend far beyond the walls of the Littrell house. How far, Brian did not know, but he was beginning to fear the worst. The rest of his family, spread along the east coast from Kentucky to Florida… were they gone, too? Was he the only one left?

It was midnight, but Brian was suddenly wide awake with worry, wondering what to do. He couldn’t lie around in this house for much longer. Something had to be done. If there was no one to take care of his family, then he would. He would have to. He couldn’t just leave them lying there in their beds to rot. They deserved much more than that, a proper burial and funeral, at the very least.

He struggled to his feet, grabbed his flashlight, and paced a circle around the living room before making his way toward the stairs. He heard a creak as he started up, not from the stairs, but from somewhere overhead. Just the house settling, he thought. He remembered thinking it that time.

He passed the closed door to the twins’ room and stopped outside his own. He took a deep breath before turning the knob. When he entered the room, he shut off his flashlight, not wanting to look just yet, but the fragmented moonbeams streaming through the window blinds provided enough light for him to see the shape of his wife, lying on her back, as he’d left her, in the center of their bed. He flicked the flashlight on again as he went to the night table on his side of the bed and opened the drawer to retrieve his Bible. Then he sank down into the armchair in the corner of the room, the Bible in his lap, and aimed his light at its worn, leather cover.

Brian owned several Bibles, one from his Confirmation into the church as a teenager, another from his graduation from Bible college, one a gift from his congregation, which he used during his sermons, but of all of them, this was his favorite. It was the one he kept at his bedside and read from before turning in at night. Its pages were dog-eared, its spine creased from being cracked open so many times. It had belonged to his mother, hers since her own childhood, and she had read to him from it when he was a child, and prayed over it in his hospital room, when he was five years old and seemingly on his deathbed. She had passed it on to him a few years after that, and though still very much a child, Brian had listened in earnest as she’d explained its significance to him. “Take care of it,” she’d told him, “but use it. It’ll give you strength.” And he had, and so had it.

Now he opened it slowly and turned not to the twenty-third Psalm, the most classic of funeral readings, but to First Corinthians. He would do two separate services, he decided then, one for his wife and one for his daughters. For his daughters, he would read from Ecclesiastes, the passage that begins, “For everything there is a season…” But for his wife, for Leighanne, no passage fit better than First Corinthians, chapter thirteen, verses four through eight.

Though he turned to this passage, faintly highlighted by his mother in her young adulthood, Brian did not need his flashlight to read the words. He did need to read the words at all. He knew them by heart, had recited them at countless wedding ceremonies and heard them spoken at his own. He turned his light now onto Leighanne, and when the ring of golden light encircled her face, brightening the gray pallor of death, washing out the lesions of disease, she looked somehow beautiful again.

The light wavered in his unsteady hand, and his voice shook as he cleared his throat and began, “Love is patient… Love is kind… Love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude.” He paused, swallowing hard, and then he continued thickly, “It does not insist on its own way. It is not irritable or resentful. It does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth.” As he found strength in the familiar words, so did his voice, and it was clear and steady as he finished with conviction. “It bears all things… believes all things… hopes all things… endures all things. Love… never ends.”

He drew in a breath and held it for a few seconds before releasing it slowly. Then he stood, closing the Bible in his hand, and crossed the room to the bed. He set the flashlight down on the mattress, still on, and the circle of light it projected onto the wall behind the bed brightened the room enough for him to see. He leaned down and kissed his wife’s dry, cracked lips. “I love you,” he whispered, and he sank to his knees beside the bed, clasping his hands together, squeezing his eyes shut. Poised in prayer, he began to recite the twenty-third Psalm by heart.

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters; he restores my soul. He leads me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil…”

The mattress creaked, but Brian assumed it was just his elbows, bearing down, and continued, “For thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me…”

The bed moved again, and this time, Brian opened his eyes and looked up.

Leighanne was looking back at him.

He gasped and rocked back on his heels, blinking in shock. Surely, his tired eyes were just playing tricks on him. He looked again. No… he wasn’t just seeing things. Her eyes were open. Only they didn’t look like her eyes. Even in the dim light, he could see that they were vacant and cloudy, no longer blue. He looked away with a shudder and released the breath that had caught in his throat.

Just a spasm of some sort. Nothing to get upset over. He swallowed hard and forced himself to look back, extending his thumb and forefinger to close her eyes again. He wanted to remember them the way they had been in life: vivid blue, like the sky on a clear day, sparkling along with her smile. A lump of sadness clogged his throat once more, as he realized he would never see her smile again.

He reached out to touch her face…

In a violent thrash of covers, he saw her arm fly up off the bed. Her hand, stiff and hooked like claws, latched onto his wrist in a grip that was shockingly strong. He cried out in disbelief and horror as his dead wife raised her head from the pillows, an animalistic growl expelling from her chest. Instinctively, he tried to pull away, as her vice-like grip wrenched his arm towards her mouth, which was wide open, her teeth bared. He struggled and finally yanked away from her grasp, falling backwards with the force of the pull.

He got quickly to his hands and knees, then scrambled to his feet. He wasn’t able to think clearly, as adrenaline took over his body, but somewhere in the back of his mind, the voice of reason seemed to say, This is a nightmare. This has to be a nightmare. Wake up! Why won’t you wake up?

He hesitated just long enough to see Leighanne stumble out of bed, lurching toward him with her arms outstretched, fingers splayed, and then he ducked into the bathroom, slamming the door shut in her face. His clammy fingers fumbled with the lock, slipping off the brass several times before finally securing it, effectively barricading himself in.

Gasping for breath, more out of shock than exertion, he staggered back and sat down hard on the toilet seat. He doubled over, putting his head between his knees, and tried to collect his thoughts. This can’t be real, he thought, but even as the words formed in his mind, he could hear fists beating senselessly on the door, long fingernails scratching at the wood.

With his head down, his ragged breathing sounded extra loud, and even his heartbeat was amplified in his ears, drumming out the erratic cadence of raw terror. The bathroom was pitch black, but for the faint glimmer of moonlight through the beveled glass of the lone window. He’d left his flashlight behind in the bedroom, yet somehow, incredibly, his Bible was still clutched in his left hand. He squeezed it, feeling the girth of its pages between his fingers.

Then he stood, on shaky legs, shoved the Bible into the waistband of his pants, and faced the locked door. He could still hear what had been his wife pawing at the other side like an animal, trying to claw her way in. He wasn’t sure what to call her now, but that… creature… out there was not Leighanne.

What exactly she was, he would wonder later. At the moment, the more immediate question in his mind was, What do I do now?

The door rattled on its hinges as her hands thumped against it. If she kept at it, he feared she’d force the lock, or maybe even beat the door down. And if she managed to get in, what then?

He looked around wildly. There was the window… should he try to escape out of it? He was on the second floor and terrified of heights. How would he get down? He’d worry about that later, he decided. He could already hear the wood of the door starting to splinter, and if he didn’t make an escape route for himself, he’d have to face whatever was behind it.

With the burst of strength only adrenaline can provide, he wrenched the towel bar out of the wall. Screws clattered to the floor. He held the bar in his hand like a sledge hammer. It wasn’t nearly as heavy, but it was high-quality brass. It would be enough to break the window glass if he used the right force. He choked up on his grip and brought the bar back, over his head. With a guttural cry, he swung it with all his might, down and through the window.

The cloudy glass exploded outward, showering the roof below. As it did, the bathroom door banged inward. Brian turned in shock to find that she’d succeeded in breaking it apart. Her slack face showed no expression, triumph or otherwise, and she did not hesitate before staggering into the room, tripping over part of the door. Brian saw a splintered piece of wood tear into her bare leg and winced, but when he looked again, the gaping slash across her skin was bloodless.

He gulped, tightening his grip on the towel bar once more. There was no time to squeeze out the window. He reacted instinctively, and when she came at him, he swung. The bar caught her under the chin, throwing her head back with a sickening clang as it ricocheted off her jaw. She stumbled backward, but didn’t fall, her head rebounding quickly. He swung again, this time connecting with the side of her face. The force was enough to send her head spinning as far as it would go, but not enough to take her down. Again, she lunged at him, and this time, he used the bar like a stake, thrusting it forward with a jabbing motion, instead of a swing.

He’d meant to hit her chest, but at the last minute, she crouched, like a cat preparing to spring, and his aim proved high. The end of the bar soared into her face, plunging straight through one of her eye sockets. The force of his motion sank it so far through her head, he felt the resistance as it bumped against the back of her skull.

He let out a choked cry of horror and revulsion and immediately let go. Without his leverage holding her upright, she toppled backwards and fell with a tremendous crash as her dead weight hit the wood-strewn floor, the towel bar still protruding from her right eye. She twitched once and then went completely still.

Retching, Brian fell to his knees in front of the toilet and tore up the seat. Doubling over, he vomited into the bowl, again and again. Finally, only dry heaves racked his body, and eventually, those died away, leaving him weak and trembling. Somehow, he found the will to climb back to his feet, if only so that he could get out of the room and away from the desecrated remains of what had once been his wife.

He found he was afraid to go back into the bedroom, back through the house, and so he climbed out the window instead. He barely felt the shards of broken glass cut into the soles of his bare feet as he hit the roof of the back porch, nor did he feel the usual fear of heights squeeze his heart. He felt numb, utterly numb, and the adrenaline coursing through his system made him both reckless and brave. He padded across the rooftop, knelt at the gutter, and lowered himself over the edge, climbing swiftly down the trellis he had built for Leighanne along one side of the porch. It cracked and started to splinter beneath his weight, but it managed to hold him until he could safely jump down.

He skidded on the dew-soaked grass that cushioned his landing, his feet nearly sliding out from under him. He got his balance and paused to look around, beginning to collect himself. The night was cool and silent, but for the rustle of wind in the trees and the low hum of crickets. He crept around the side of the house, pausing every few steps to listen, his senses heightened to their full capacity. In the front yard, he looked up and down his street, but saw nothing. Deep down, he knew there was no one left to help him. His neighbors’ houses had been dark and quiet all day.

His only option was to get away, as far as he could go. He wasn’t going to stay here. He couldn’t. But that would mean going back into the house for his car keys…

It ashamed him to be afraid, afraid of setting foot in his own house, afraid of…

Of what?

Deep down, he knew, but he couldn’t bring himself to articulate what that last fear was. He felt sure he’d killed what had once been Leighanne, if “killed” was the proper word for it, but another worry nagged at the back of his mind.

He would just have to face it. He couldn’t stand out here on the front lawn, waiting and wondering, worrying about what else might come for him. He sprung into action, ducking back into the house through the front door, which he’d thankfully left unlocked, because… well, who had he needed to lock it from? As far as he could tell, the rest of his neighborhood had met the same fate as his family.

The same fate…? With a shudder, he wondered how true that would prove to be.

He hurried about in the house, keeping to the downstairs, collecting his keys, wallet, and an extra flashlight. He tucked his phone into his pocket, too, just in case, and put on shoes. He was wearing only a pair of pajama pants and a gray tanktop, now blood-spattered, but he was not about to go back up to the bedroom to change. He grabbed a windbreaker from the front hall closet and threw that on over the sleeveless shirt.

He was standing in the kitchen, just about to go out into the garage, where both cars were parked, and put up the door manually, when he heard a familiar creak from upstairs. This wasn’t just the house settling. He knew this sound all too well, was used to hearing it every morning as he helped Leighanne with breakfast.

It was the sound of footsteps on the landing.

Brian froze, torn between running on to the garage and never looking back, or going to look. A part of him didn’t want to see, didn’t want to know, but he had to. He had to know.

Instinctively, he looked about for something with which to arm himself. His gaze fell to rest on the wooden knife rack, which held Leighanne’s expensive set of cooking knives erect, handles up, in increasing size from the smallest paring knife to the large meat cleaver. With a sick feeling in his gut, he reached for the meat cleaver.

He held it behind his back as he tiptoed across the kitchen floor. In view of the stairs, he stopped. Feeling faint, he stared.

There, on the staircase, stood his two little girls in their brightly-colored pajamas, their blonde hair tangled from sleep. At least they looked like his little girls… at first. But as they slouched down the steps towards him, moving in a strange, stiff-legged way, he could see that they weren’t his daughters at all. Their dead, gray skin and eyes gave them a ghostly appearance, though he was quite sure they were solid, as the woman upstairs had been. They didn’t smile, didn’t speak; their faces were utterly blank and expressionless.

But they sensed his presence.

He knew it in the way their shuffling feet picked up their pace, as they shambled awkwardly down the remaining stairs, their arms flailing into each other as they reached out for him. Brian took a few tentative steps back, trying to brace himself for what he was about to do. For what he knew he must do.

“Lord, forgive me,” he whispered, and he closed his eyes briefly.

After that, he shut his thoughts off. What happened next was pure reaction. When he opened his eyes, they were lurching towards him, dragging their toes on the hardwood floor. The creature which had been Brooke pushed ahead of Bonnie, and when she was within an arm’s length of him, Brian whipped the meat cleaver out from behind his back and slashed the air. The sharp, silver blade cut through more than just air, and Brian felt the spray of blood as something heavy hit the floor. The seven-year-old body of his daughter, the body he had helped to create, collapsed.

Its twin staggered over it, unfeeling, unnoticing, its cloudy, bulging eyes fixated on Brian. For the second time, he raised the cleaver. For the second time, he shut his eyes and swung. His aim was true, and he cringed as he felt the blade meet its target. It sunk in deep before the resistance became too much, and the handle slipped from his hand. His eyes flew open just in time to see Bonnie’s body fall, Leighanne’s giant meat cleaver embedded in her small skull.

He spun away before she hit the floor, and when he heard the sick thump she made against the hardwood, the kind of thump that had always brought him running in a panic to see which twin was hurt, he dropped to his hands and knees and began to retch again, though there was nothing left to bring up.

It took him several tries to get up, for the strength had left his arms and legs, which were shaking too uncontrollably to support him. Finally, he managed to climb to his feet, though he hung on to the wall for support as he dragged himself back into the kitchen. Later, he would not remember gathering up the few possessions he had collected, or cranking up the garage door, or even backing the car out of the drive, but somehow, he did all of these things. Autopilot. He was acting on autopilot.

When the shock wore off, when he eventually came back into his right mind, Brian found himself behind the wheel of his car, weaving slowly down the freeway. How long he’d been driving, he didn’t know. How he’d gotten out of Marietta, he didn’t recall. The highway was scattered with cars, some parked on the shoulder, others stalled or crashed in the middle of lanes. Now that he was aware again, he welcomed the obstacles, welcomed the need to concentrate on the road. He could not bring himself to think of what he’d seen and done at home.

He put down the windows, letting the night wind whip through the car and lift up his hair. He hoped it would waft the stench of death and blood from his clothes. He flicked on the interior light and saw that he was covered with it.

Then he saw the Bible, his mother’s Bible, resting on the seat next to him. He didn’t remember that he’d still had it wedged in his pants when he’d left, that it had been pressed up against his back the entire time, but at some point, maybe when he’d first gotten into the car, he had pulled it out and set it there. He looked at it now, and for the first time in his life, he felt not comfort or strength, but revulsion.

“Where were You?” he croaked, his voice hoarse and bitter. “Where were You when I asked You to bring Your children home and watch over their souls? It’s all I asked, and where were You? You weren’t there. You weren’t there. You don’t exist…”

He picked up the Bible, felt its weight in his hand, and thought about how much meaning he had once found in it. He had set out to live his life by this book. And for what?

Nothing.

It was meaningless. Everything in it, everything he’d ever believed in, was a lie. His life, as he’d known it, had been nothing but a lie.

“You’re dead,” he whispered, holding the Bible up to the window, letting the wind rustle its tattered pages. “If You ever did exist, You’re dead now. Just like everyone else. Dead to me… dead to the world. You’re dead!”

He held the sacred book, the heirloom from his mother, once his most valued possession, up to his chest. Then, with one, sharp flick of the wrist, he flung it out the window. He watched as it bounced into the gravel on the shoulder and then out of sight, shrouded by the darkness. Then he floored the accelerator and sped on down the freeway, never looking back.

***





You made it! What do you think? We would love to hear your reaction… either here at AC or email us at rokofages75@dreamers-sanctuary.com and backstreetbunny@gmail.com. Now that you’ve made it this far, we can finally reveal to you the real title of the story and the new webspace it will be posted on from now on. Click the link below, and you will be taken to the new site for this story with extras we can't feature here. All future updates will be posted there, as well as here on AbsoluteChaos.

Presenting…

SONG FOR THE UNDEAD



Enjoy!

~ Julie & Rose