DISEASE: A Zombie Novel (20 page)

Children lean in on tiptoes for a better look. After her last performance, word traveled on horseback, rumor on wings and almost every single person in the community is here, waiting with baited breath.

Over the past few hours heated debates and arguments swirled. Unanswered questions allowed conjecture and assumption to reign supreme. How can something like this happen here? What kind of monster would hurt a defenseless child?
What if it had been my child instead of that boy
?

Anger rolls through the crowd like an oily soap bubble, coating everything it touches, ready to burst at any moment. It’s a distraction from the horror of the world beyond their refuge. The horror of loved ones that rise from the grave with empty stomachs and a taste for flesh.

But even in this world people crave justice, especially in this world. They need that clear-cut sense of right and wrong, something to latch onto, something to make them believe they have a chance. The people need this.

Opie extends his hand, stabilizing Lot as she climbs a homemade pulpit. As she looks down on her subjects, it feels like coming home. It’s been years now since she addressed a crowd from a stage, but back then it came so naturally. Lonely, lost people flocked to her guiding hand in droves. The hand that would mold them, that would shape them into the person they thought they should be. This will be no different.

Lot slowly caresses the crowd with her gaze. A fire is already raging here, and she barely needs to add fuel. In fact, if she were to throw Danny into the crowd at this very moment they would probably tear him limb from limb.

She can see it now, the mass of people closing in on him as he lie helplessly in the middle, their greedy hands outstretched, eager to deliver punishment. Their eyes so clouded with fear and anger and hate that they can see nothing else. Slow and coddled minds would rest easily with the knowledge that they are doing the right thing.

The Mass would kick and grab and pull and bite. They would sink fingers into Danny’s writhing body and pull up huge bleeding, lumpy ribbons of flesh. They would tear at each other’s clothes, drunk on justice, bare skin rubbing on bare skin and The Mass would throb. Bloodlust would take over and Danny would be devoured as she stood on her pulpit, watching, filled with the light of pleasure.

Lot’s thoughts swing back into reality and her flight of fancy falls away, leaving an aching hole in its place. The angry, sweaty face of The Mass is turned up at her and a grumbling chant rides a building wave.

“Slay the brute. Spill his blood. Crush his skull. Do him in. Slay the brute. Spill his blood. Crush his skull. Do him in.”

Lot thrusts her powerful voice upon The Mass, her tone faltering beneath impassioned chanting. “Slay the brute. Spill his blood. Crush his skull. Do him in.” But, little by little The Mass submits, allowing Lot’s words to embrace it, and it responds, quivering, awaiting command.

Lot grips the pulpit with her good hand. Her other hand is clenched, hidden in the homemade sling strapped around her shoulders. The muscles where Danny hit her with the bat are swollen and purple, crushed and wailing. Her fist brings tears that shimmer in her eyes and are reflected in kind by the light of many lanterns and candles. Hands emerge from The Mass, they stretch out, fingers gently whisper at the hem of her skirt and she smiles, so giving, so loving.

The hum slowly dies down and the silence left in the room is deafening. Lot wipes her eyes and stares out across the glut of faces.

“I have failed you. I have misused your trust for my own selfish reasons.”

Pockets of noise erupt, but quiet down quickly. She clears her throat. “Stepping up here to admit to you my failings is one of the hardest things I have had to do in my entire life. I covered up, I manipulated, I turned a blind eye. I allowed a disease to grow among us—to masquerade as one of us. Danny—”

The Mass screams. Pure rage shakes the walls, echoing in on itself. Lot raises a hand and it quiets, obeying its master. “
My
Danny, my little boy, my son. I am guilty of putting my love for him above all else, and now Alex, an innocent, a nine-year-old child, has been murdered by one of the most shameful predators in existence.

“Alex came to us for help, for safety, and instead fell into the clutches of The Beast. We will never know the indignities that poor little Alex suffered at his hands, but we know he did suffer, and he shouldn’t have.”

Whispering filters toward Lot as The Mass croons like a well-tuned violin in her skilled hands.

“It may be Danny who physically committed such hateful acts, but I should be punished alongside him. If I hadn’t been too afraid to acknowledge his true nature, none of this would have come to pass, and so I stand here, ready and willing to receive your judgment and my punishment.”

A legion of eyes grips Lot as she steps down from the pulpit. With head hung low, she presses against The Mass, penetrating it. Hands, faces, bodies reach out to touch her, grasping, embracing, feeling, welcoming her in. She falls to her knees, sacrificing herself to the will of the many.

The Mass envelops Lot. Sporadic chanting dribbles through the air, its sound slowly and powerfully building. Inside, hot breath and bodies drape her in a living robe and she is cocooned in the flesh of her followers. The Mass lifts lovingly to her feet, crushing around her, every touch, every word, a symbol of forgiveness, which strips her of all sin and forges something new.

With a groan of effort the The Mass pushes out The Leader and she humbly takes her given place: the pulpit. She places her hand over her heart as a symbol of servitude, once again able to face her public.

The Mass cheers for its newly resurrected deity. Tears flow and hands pound against each other. A wave of chanting slowly becomes clear as voices synchronize. “Slay The Beast. Spill its blood. Crush its skull. Do it in. Slay The Beast. Spill its blood. Crush its skull. Do it in.”

As the chant thunders under the spackled ceiling, Lot looks down at Opie. He stands just off to the side, a dazed spectator, unsure of what he’s actually witnessing. He catches the flash of a covert smile. As the only one in the room not enchanted by Lot’s spell, and the knowledge of her true power makes him uneasy.

***

The courtyard was once well manicured for the pleasure of high paying guests that frequented the hotel. Now it’s a wild, luscious garden filled with blooming plants and supported by an ingenious irrigation system where nearly ripe tomatoes cling to dark green vines. Thick shadows, accentuated by the moon, are cast across row after row of fresh fruit and vegetables.

The garden is like a slice of Eden. The only outside area that’s safe. The fruits and vegetables that push and struggle on the top floor aren’t nearly as healthy as what grows here. Only a select few have the privilege of eating from this bounty.

All of this is lost on Hannah as she kneels in freshly turned earth. Streaks cut by tears shine through the mud on her face. Her hands and clothing are filthy with dirt. Three inches below the surface Jamal festers in the ground.

Hannah doesn’t know how or why the dead come back from the grave, she only knows everyone eventually does. There’s no telling how long, minutes or days, but she knows she’ll be here when her son comes back to her.

***

Alex slows his pace. It’s dark and the moonlight that filters through only serves to make the shadows swim around him. It was hard enough to navigate by himself during the day, avoiding hungry monstrosities and certain death, but now everything looks the same, and it has for a while.

FIND DANNY.

FIND DANNY.

Where am I?

Alex isn’t sure if he’s going in the right direction anymore. It’s as though the forest has morphed into a maze of smoke and mirrors with the fading sun. Dread slowly begins to circulate through his veins and with each step the awful poison grows stronger. He stops, his breath choked by the slithering of doubt.

Alone.

Alone.

Alone.

Should he stop? Should he turn back? Turn back… to where? Casey is gone. Danny is gone. Everyone is gone. Alex takes an uncertain step forward, the habit of walking driving him. He stops. He starts. His head jerks. Fear eats away at his brain.

He pushes through a wall of brush and stumbles as the forest spits him out into empty space. A long stretch of summer-baked grass, blinding white in the moon’s light, stretches out before him. Dotted across the landscape, dark figures drift aimlessly, their rotten eyes scanning for prey. Far in the distance stands the silhouetted hotel.

***

Candles light the long corridor, the dancing flames piercing Danny’s eyes. His head is pounding. Every noise, every smell, and especially the light, drills a hole straight into his skull. The greasy taste of the rag stuffed into his mouth turns his stomach. The rope tying it in place bites his cheeks and peels the skin from his lips.

Even worse than his head is his side. Under heavy guard Julie patched it up, enough to make sure he didn’t die in that cooler anyway, but she hadn’t spared him any painkillers. Every push and pull on his body sends strikes of agony through his very core, making his legs feel like wet noodles. The herd of stone-faced guards surrounding him prods their inmate forward. He can read it in their faces: it’s time for this monster to face the music.

Odd thoughts swirl through Danny’s pain addled mind. This is all there is, this moment. This is what has always been and what will be forever. Lot wins. Danny loses. Lot wins. Danny dies. Lot wins. Mentally he is already lying in a grave and all he can do is watch as he shovels dirt over his own body.

The voice of The Mass grows louder as they approach the hotel’s banquet hall. How many weddings had been held here? How many corporate retreats and snake oil seminars, carefully designed to part the public from their money? The people that stand in there now, had they once attended such events? Do they feel that twinge of familiarity as they stamp their feet and chant?

“Slay The Beast. Spill its blood. Crush its skull. Do it in.”

The thunderous voice of The Mass disgorges itself from the room as Danny’s captors open a door. Booing, hissing and chanting churn the hot air as he’s dragged forward. A tomato launches from The Mass, exploding over Danny’s face, its rotten funk sticking in thick chunks to his skin and hair.

Moon-eyed, Danny stares at the wall of faces that’s distorted in anger and disgust. He recognizes them all as they jeer and chant. Danny’s brain buzzes with fear and death. He can feel it, the yoke he’s worn for so many years is back, and tighter than ever. This is where he has always been, this room, since he can remember. This is
his
house.

The Leader, standing at her pulpit, makes a grandiose gesture, playing for the amusement of The Mass. She signals for two sets of guards to pull a hastily constructed platform forward. Cheering erupts. The Mass is hungry for entertainment.

Standing in the center of the platform is something that looks like a stunted cross nailed together from splintered planks of wood. Boards jut from the cross’ back forming a stabilizer that allows the device to angle back slightly.

Danny’s death murky eyes turn up toward the platform. The sight of the cross freezes his heart and perfect fear floods his very being as he’s dragged forward. The chant of The Mass grows to an even more fevered pitch.

Danny is pushed onto the platform. There is no struggle. Like a stunned beast to the slaughter, he stumbles toward his own death. Rough hands yank him to his knees in front of the cross. They bind him, pitilessly stretching his arms, up and over the “t” shaped boards and trussing them behind his back. They pull on the pulsing, infected muscle of his wounded side. Agony coils deep inside of him, but he only stares out, unblinking in the face of their loyalty, their mockery of civilization.

The guards step back to admire their handy work. The Beast is gagged, immobile, on its knees leaning awkwardly back. Its chest is forced out, leaving it unprotected and vulnerable. Its arms are stretched behind to their limit. Its legs bound in place.

“Slay The Beast. Spill its blood. Crush its skull. Do it in. Slay The Beast. Spill its blood. Crush its skull. Do it in.”

Tears leak from The Beast’s eyes. Its chest heaves, it shakes, and finally it screams in terror against the gag, its vocal cords nearly tearing with the effort. The Mass roars back in approval.

It is a good night for an execution.

***

The overgrown field rustles with each step Alex takes, echoing in his ears. His breathing quickens as he closely passes a group of creatures devouring an unfortunate deer. The poor animal, nursing an arrow wound from a botched hunting attempt days ago, never stood a chance.

The ghouls gorge, overloading themselves with warm meat. The stomach of one is so bloated that the skin looks ready to burst. It stuffs another dripping handful of venison down its gluttonous throat and its stomach pushes out more, stretching until it rips wide open, spilling its contents to the ground. The creature greedily claws at its own innards and packs its mouth once again with the felled flesh.

Alex tiptoes by, grass swishing at his knees.

Cankerous faces and bulging eyes turn hungrily toward him.

***

The Leader stands on the platform facing The Mass. Behind her, The Beast writhes against its bonds. The Mass howls. She holds up her hands for silence and an eerie quiet takes hold.

“Who among you will take reparation for the murdered boy, Alex? And for our own flesh and blood? Who among you will volunteer to become a vessel of justice?” she asks.

The Mass murmurs thoughtfully. Hands rise and bodies eject toward the platform like tentacles from the core. The Leader approves. She gestures theatrically and a squeaky-wheeled cart full of weapons is rolled forward.

“Tonight I am here to serve you. This Beast,” she points at the struggling form on the cross, “is the personification of disease from which we must be cleansed.

“Habib, Jamal, Javier, Rob, Brody, and Alex. These are the names of the fallen, taken from us by this confessed child murderer, this pedophile. This evil that walks among us. If we allow this disease to continue unchecked, the innocence will be ripped from our children and the lives from our brethren.

“I ask you to bear witness and not to shy away from what is about to happen. I ask you to carry this story with you into your daily lives as a warning to those who would seek to sow chaos. Carry tonight’s proceedings with you as a vaccine against this disease, this ultimate form of evil because if we allow it, The Beast will destroy our children in the very beds in which they sleep.”

The Mass erupts forcefully, its screaming chant drowning out cheers of agreement. “Slay The Beast. Spill its blood. Crush its skull. Do it in. Slay The Beast. Spill its blood. Crush its skull. Do it in.”

The Leader’s cheeks flush with delectation, each word melting over her, tenderly touching every part of her body. She turns to face The Beast. Crimson drips from its newly bandaged side, slowly pooling on the ground. Its shirt is plastered to its body with a mixture of sweat and blood and she can see its heart vibrating beneath the fabric.

She crosses the platform to stand before it. The thing looks up at her, black ringed, bloodshot eyes pleading with her to stop. She reaches her hands behind its head and loosens the gag. The rope falls around its neck and it spits the rag out onto the platform.

“Lot—” The Beast’s mouth has trouble forming words. “Please…”

She leans in closely, listening, hoping it will scream, needing to hear it scream. Her cheeks are on fire and her skin tingling with pleasure as its voice wavers with dread. “Finish this quickly.”

The Leader’s eyes smile and her breath delicately falls in The Beast’s ear, only for it. “You never should have crossed me, little boy.”

She lovingly grazes its cheek with her lips. There is something about the finality of the kiss, about the way The Leader turns so crisply and walks away, which ignites The Mass. The thirst for blood blazes hotly.

The Beast screams. It screams in hatred of The Leader. In contempt of the universe. In repulsion of The Mass. In utter terror. It screams, but its voice is carried away by the ugly mantra that fills the room. “Slay The Beast. Spill its blood. Crush its skull. Do it in. Slay The Beast. Spill its blood. Crush its skull. Do it in.”

The Leader steps down from the platform and presses through The Mass on a surge of euphoria. Hands reach out and stroke her as she passes. She struggles to keep her composure, to dampen her merriment just a bit, she can’t let them see her smile.