Lockey vs. the Apocalypse | Book 2 | We Will Rise [Adrian's Undead Diary Novel] Meadows, Carl (an ebook reader txt) 📖

learned of what is to come, of the trials we must face, and I caution you all that it will not be easy. For humanity to retain their existence on this earth, the Lord of the Dead must be appeased, and our redemption must be earned, and paid for.”

“We are ready, and we will rise,” intoned the crowd again.

“But we are not alone, my children,” announced Maddock, passion creeping into his words as his tone rose in pitch. “The Lord of the Dead has granted me a gift, and it is a gift I may share with two of you, to aid us in our divine quest to redeem humanity of all its terrible sins.”

Maddock sighed theatrically, a pained expression of remorse clouding his features.

“But, as with all redemption, there is often required sacrifice. It causes my heart such pain for me to ask this of you - my beloved and devoted children - who have worked so hard and done so much for us to have our chance at salvation.” He gazed out among them, meeting as many eyes as he could. “But for this gift to be granted, I must bear this terrible burden and ask one of you for the greatest sacrifice of all.”

A man in his mid-fifties, thin with a waxen complexion, moved through the crowd with one skeletal arm aloft. Maddock’s followers parted, allowing the painfully thin man free passage to stand before his prophet.

“I will gladly give myself as sacrifice, Revered Prophet,” said the man in a weak voice, though he did his best to infuse it with all his remaining strength. “I am dying anyway, and the cancer eating me from within is slow and painful. I am a burden, Revered Prophet, but in this I can serve our community.”

Maddock stepped down from the platform, placing a hand on each of the man’s sharp shoulders, his blue eyes boring into the man’s yellowing orbs.

“What is your name, my child?”

“George Watts, Revered Prophet.”

“Behold!” boomed Maddock. “Behold the noble and courageous Brother George, who would give us the gift of his life, and in return, allow us to receive the Lord of the Dead’s reward!”

“Brother George!” called the crowd in celebration. “Brother George will rise!”

Maddock beckoned to Jacob Tyler, the most senior of his security team. In his early forties, Tyler was every inch a soldier, his head shaven clean, with hard features scarred by battle and eyes that had witnessed the myriad of horrors humanity could inflict upon itself. The traumatic memories remained carved into a gaze forever haunted by those ghosts.

“Your knife, Jacob,” commanded Maddock, holding out his hand.

Jacob looked horrified for a moment. “Prophet, you must not sully yourself,” he pleaded. “Allow me to…”

“No, Jacob,” chided Maddock with a small shake of his head. “Redemption must be earned, and for the Lord of the Dead to grant me his gift, then I must bear the weight of this sorrow. This is part of my penance.” He gifted the soldier with an assuring smile. “I will not be sullied by this, Jacob. I will be reborn.”

“Then use my pistol, Revered Prophet,” begged Jacob.

Again, Maddock declined with a gentle shake of the head.

“It must be thus, Jacob. I must shed blood with my own hand if we are to rise.”

“We are ready, and we will rise,” chanted the crowd in a single voice.

Jacob looked pained as he drew the large blade from his hip, offering it hilt first to Maddock. The prophet gripped the knife, feeling every grain of the leather binding the handle, one hand still on George’s shoulder.

“Kneel, brother,” he said softly to the dying man.

George lowered himself in obvious discomfort to his knees, turning his gaze upwards to Maddock, exposing his throat.

“I am ready, Revered Prophet,” he declared without fear, and closed his eyes.

“Stand back,” Maddock commanded the crowd. “All must bear witness.”

The crowd bowed into a concave, all clamouring for space so they could watch the unfolding drama, eyes bright in anticipation, though many were equally wide in anxious fear.

Taking a deep breath to steady his own nerves and the shake threatening his hold on the blade, Maddock stepped behind George, and placed the cold steel against his throat. Not daring to pause in case his courage faltered, Maddock drove the sharp edge into George’s flesh, driving deep, parting tissue and muscle, hot blood running over his hand as the sharp tang of blood filled his senses.

With the razor-sharp blade deep in George’s throat, Maddock dragged the weapon from left to right, severing muscle, tendons, and the life-giving blood vessels of the man’s neck.

Though inwardly repulsed by the sensation, Maddock retained a neutral expression as he stepped back from his bloody labour. George collapsed, hands involuntarily clawing at his ruined neck, choking and gurgling as his thin blood poured in a torrent to his lungs, drowning him in the very fluid that once sustained him.

Cries of shock and alarm rang from the crowd, hands snapping to mouths in horror as they watched the cancer-ridden man die a choking death, eyes flicking from the dying farmer to the bloodied hand of their revered leader.

George lay still in a mercifully short time, his weakened heart giving out before he could drown in his own blood. An eerie silence fell upon the crowd as they stared at the lifeless form of their fellow brother lying in a puddle of his own blood, waiting for what came next.

It happened no more than twenty seconds from the end of George’s thrashing. His corpse twitched violently, as the dark charge of the divine sparked within the cancerous husk.

“Peace, my children!” assured Maddock in a boom, as the man’s eyes flicked open to reveal irises painted white. The demonic force within had awakened.

George’s lips peeled back with primeval hate, a silent rictus of hunger carving his once gentle features into a dark and primitive predator, the glassy orbs fixing on the crowd as they shrank from the rising horror. Awkwardly, the creature that was once George Watts