Saint Pain (Zombie Ascension Book 3) (36 page)

“Do I need to tell you what happened? Do I need to remind you? I really have to do that?”

“The problem is that I didn’t forget! We both survived. We’re both standing here. We could have done this together. I had my way of dealing with it. And I’m here. We’re standing right here.”

More dust flaked down from the ceiling.

“You don’t get it,” Brian said. “You’re brain-damaged. You’re all fucked up. I can’t deal with it. I left because I couldn’t deal with it anymore.”

“I’m dead to you.”

Look at his profile. Look at the whiskers above his upper lip. The creases beneath his eyes. He had seen the same things, had participated in the same atrocities just to stay alive. To be accepted. To fit in.

Maybe she did forget. Maybe it was easier to forget. Was she stronger for it? Did forgetting bring her back to him? Did it keep her alive?

This could be a sort of death, too. To find out the son she had raised no longer existed.

Trying to do the right thing never got her anywhere. Angelica had died anyway. The family inside the apartment was dead by the time Bella reached them. If Desmond had tried to do the right thing, he might not have survived. How could he change? Changing would be a sort of death for him, too.

Desmond was out there. He had to be.

Maybe not the Desmond she knew.

Did that matter?

Rolling thunder again. Was the battle outside still going on, wherever it was? Had it come closer?

People in the room slowly hushed, and tried to listen.

A wild, savage animal scream echoed through the night. Outside the bar, a wounded animal of some kind.

Nobody volunteered to go look.

Until they all decided to go at once. They checked to make sure their guns were loaded, and they talked each other into it. Their bravado was unmistakable. They were going to take care of business. They were ready for anything that came their way.

The room emptied. Bella moved with the crowd, filing out into the slow-fading day. The expressive sky was becoming dark blue again, fading into night.

“Oh,” someone said.

Bella heard other voices chime in, but not many. They were trying to figure it out, even though they knew exactly what was coming their way. They knew exactly what that wave of charging people was. Running through the wilderness of concrete and ruin, hundreds and thousands of people.

Zombies didn’t move like that. Zombies were slow.

Not all zombies were slow.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck…”

“Back inside! Get back inside!”

“We got to get the hell out of here!”

“Them things ain’t zombies…”

Bella didn’t move. Nobody moved. They all stood and watched, because what they saw was impossible. What they saw was something they weren’t ready for. They were more than ready to deal with zombies, but what they saw was something they had overlooked or forgotten.

What would Brian do now? Run away?

That’s all she could think about. She had no idea what she would do, but she thought about Brian.

Would she follow him?

Would he let her follow him?

As one, the charging crowd roared. A shrill, terrible roar that sounded like it could have been the noise made by an entire family of burning elephants.

People scattered.

“High ground!” someone shouted. “Get up the stairs!”

It seemed liked nobody heard.

The rotted dead were coming.

JIM

Let them all come.

It was supposed to be this way.

He thought of Prospero from Shakespeare’s
The Tempest.
But he wasn’t quitting his cause. This wasn’t not any sort of retirement.

This was not suicide.

The dead broke the fence down and came for him. Sutter’s voice rang through the yard, and Jim remembered Egypt. He remembered Bob Fields. He remembered Georgia Cone. He remembered what Rose had been like before she became his program.

How long had it been since he had seen this much action? Never on this scale before, but he had been locked away in an asylum, had been wandering across America with Bob Fields and Nick Crater on his tail. Egypt was a long time ago.

Jim stood and stretched. He opened his eyes, cracked his knuckles, his neck.

And they came for him.

A wave of dead flesh and bone. Popping, snapping, cracking. Slow corpses pushed forward by the sheer magnitude of the numbers involved. Their hands stretched out for him. They stumbled over each other; corpses were trampled underfoot as knees and ankles gave up.

The first one. Jim didn’t see its face. He grabbed it shoulders and heaved himself up and over.

A sea of them. Walk on water, like Christ.

Atop their shoulders.

They held him because their bodies couldn’t drop beneath the weight of an entire wave of dead flesh. Dead people shoulder-to-shoulder, some of them looking up at him. They tried to reach for him.

He was beyond their reach.

There was so much to say, if only they would listen. But the dead could not appreciate him. They could not appreciate what he had wrought. They could not appreciate the new world he helped create for them.

He was their king, and they carried him.

Not for long. Walking over their shoulders, stepping lightly, looking down into their dead eyes. They moaned, their rot filling his nose. He inhaled deeply and was proud. Yes. Proud. They were part of his masterpiece. A mockery of the living.

Traveling along the shoulders of the dead, he walked among them and over them, until finally he managed to drop behind the majority of the crowd. At least half a mile past where the gate had been.

Gunfire rattled from the Depot’s windows.

Good luck to them.

Hopefully, Sutter lived for a long time.

Vega, too.

But this was for him. This, first.

Move like a dancer. Dance like a fighter. Watch the blood flow through the veins, watch its shape move the limbs, watch the limbs move to kill.

Roundhouse kick to a head, wrenching it, cracking the neck. Jim’s fingers punctured eye sockets, and those tiny, worthless sight organs dropped from his fingers. Pretty. So very pretty. Stuff those eyes back into the dead person’s mouth.

Move. Dance among limbs.

Kicking shins, kneecaps. Hands shaped like flat blades, slamming into temples, jaws, elbows. Breaking limbs, snapping frail bones like branches in a lightning-scorched forest.

There was no way to know how many were around him. He had moved to the back of the crowd and was destroying everything he could see. Everything that came close to him. Everything that could possibly see him, find him.

His body was responding quite well.

Impressive.

Efficient. Destroying Hell’s curse upon the world. His body was made for Hell. His body was better than Hell.

Did Rose want to kill him?

The zombies kept coming.

He kept killing.

Snap.

Bones were broken.

These weren’t people. They weren’t even dead people. They were nothing. Each corpse was nothing more than a bag of bones. 

Kill them again.

Impressive how well he could still move.

Sweating? A little. Breathing heavily?

Let the dead come. Their hands ripping across his exposed muscle. Raking across his abdomen. Fluids splattered his skin. Their rot was his world. Their stench was everything.

And they were coming. As long as they came for him, he would not stop.

Alive.
He was alive. He could feel the flesh and bone surrender to his will. The dead fell at his feet, and he stood atop them. Yes. This was it. This was power. Murder at will.

How foolish he had been to let everyone else kill each other. He was the one who should be doing the killing. All along, it should be him.

Rose, let them keep coming. Rose, keep them coming. As many as it takes. As many as he had to destroy. All of them. Bring them all. Every one of them.

VINCENT

Vega was taking care of business. She had her shit together, and everyone else had their shit together. Sutter was worth keeping around; the bodies piled up in front of him and he led his soldiers. Zombies dropped.

Like the good old days.

Watching her move again. Watching her fight for her life. Watching her fight when so many others had lacked the courage. Vega lived a thousand lifetimes when she fought a war. He could see it in her eyes.

The zombies were cluttered on the stairwell, blocked by a wall of dead bodies. Vega was wet with blood, her black hair sticking to the side of her exotic face.

A zombie stood in front of her.

She wasn’t moving.

Instead, she tripped on her own heels while trying to step back. She fell awkwardly, and she didn’t move.

“Don’t try to help me,” she said.

Was he supposed to just watch?

Bullshit.

Three-round burst into that skull, and the dead man dropped. Dead again.

Vega was fast, and her growl caught him off guard. She was on him quickly, ripping the rifle out of his hands and pointing it at him.

“I told you.”

“Sorry if I failed that test of yours. You don’t get to decide when you go out.”

“Who does? You?”

“Fuck if I know when or how. But I need your ass now, girl. I need you to go another round with me. Keep score.”

“That thing—you don’t know. You don’t know who that was.”

“Ain’t nobody. It’s dead. Whoever you thought it was don’t matter. Could be Moses, could be the president, could be Gandhi. Could be Traverse. Those things are still coming.”

Easily the smartest thing he had ever said. Words that he should have lived by from the first. He might still have something with her. Maybe he could have kept her from getting to this point, or maybe they would both be dead. The man he had been brought him to this point, so he had survived. He had lived this long. Whatever crimes he had committed in the past were pointless now.

And if Doctor Desjardins found the others, everyone would get their way. Ground Zero would be wiped clean. No Sutter. No Traverse. No Vega. Nobody.

Guns? All this for guns? Is that what Sutter had wanted? The only thing that mattered now? Couldn’t be. Because he was standing in front of Vega now, and she wanted to listen to him. She wanted to keep fighting.

“Being dead would be boring,” she said.

He nodded to weapons that were scattered along the floor. The others who had made it this far were scavenging for guns and trading for appropriate ammo. Sutter helped coordinate the trades, making sure everyone had a gun, and nobody was hoarding ammo someone else could use.

Vega had a sawed-down with two barrels, but someone else had a shotgun. She came up with a pair of 9mms, and Vincent still had two magazines left for the AR-15.

“Should get your initials on it,” Vega nodded to the Desert Eagle he carried.

“Might already have Patrick’s.”

“You haven’t checked.”

Comfortable silence for a moment, and then he said, “I’ll let you have a taste.”

“Yeah?”

“When you’re bit, I’m bit. I do you first, then me.”

She nodded and looked away. The idea wasn’t too appealing to her. It wasn’t exactly appealing to him, but it was death on his own terms.

Knowing Vega, she had her own terms.

But it was good to talk to her again, if just for a few seconds. To be around her and not feel like he saw a clock over her head, a clock winding down the seconds until she couldn’t handle being alive anymore.

Now for the good news.

“Those boys who used to bring goods, the boys in the helicopter,” Vincent tried to rattle her memory. “Anyway, those guys gave me codes for an airstrike. I only get one. Don’t even know if they’ll come through. But anyway, never thought I would need it. When the deal was on the table, I didn’t want to take it right away. Thought about it. Left the radio equipment back at the house. I know someone who has it, and they’re bringing it here. They’re bringing all the heat we have in the city.”

“We?”

“That’s right. F-15’s from an aircraft carrier. Some boys who were interested to know your boy Traverse was still alive.”

“You’re making this shit up.”

“Nope.”

“I believe you. You’re not smart enough to make this shit up.”

“He’s at the top of the hit list. They still got an FBI, a CIA, an army. They got a revolving door as far as who’s in charge, but this isn’t over. Not yet.”

“Like Traverse has some kind of magical potion to make it all go away.”

“Don’t know what they think. Payback more than anything, I’m thinking. Or someone with a mission like yours.”

“Well, anyway, you helped with the bone man. You didn’t lift a finger to help me before.”

“I didn’t help you with the bone man. I wasn’t even in the room when that went down, but I knew you were here.”

Vega laughed.

What was so funny?

She wouldn’t stop laughing.

Sutter heard the laughter and stomped toward them, pointing at them frantically like a pro wrestler scouring the ring in search of an opponent. His white suit wasn’t so white anymore. Spots of dirt and blood had ruined his good taste in wartime fashion.

“That’s the enthusiasm we need,” Sutter said. “You hear that? Laughter! You’re going to die in the next hour. That’s right. You’re going to be dead. All of us will be dead. I’ve seen a lot of unlucky bastards with their heads turned, no idea it was coming to them. Didn’t know they had maybe one more second of oxygen left. What were they thinking about? You get to think of Valhalla. You get to think of Heaven and naked whores and rivers of wine and the power of ever-loving-Christ on a bicycle. YEAH! YOU HEAR THAT? ALL RIGHT! Hold your grenades close and laugh at these cocksuckers who want to march up here right now and eat your faces. These people are out to get you. They’re out to kill you. WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT IT? WHAT? OH YEAH? OHHHHH… YEAH!”

Nobody cheered back. They were too busy loading their guns and saying their prayers. The old lady who had fired the RPG stood near them. Mean Magda.

“Got the magic touch,” Vincent said to her. “You like killing zombies?”

What else was there to say to her? He didn’t have to make conversation. She might be dead in the next five minutes.

“I do,” she said. “Nothing else to do about it. You seem like you’re into it.”

“You could say that.”

“Your girlfriend?” the old lady nodded at Vega.

“Close. Just really close.”

“Good luck with that. I’d rather be alone.”

Sutter wasn’t carrying a gun, but he was already pointing up the stairs, just as a single person stepped into the room. Followed by a second.

When the Depot shook, Vincent glanced down a hallway and watched dozens of them ooze through the windows, like an oil spill filled with floating bones. That giant thing outside was climbing the building, and every opening was going to fill with zombies. They were going to be surrounded in seconds.

“I like our chances,” Vincent said to himself.

But Mean Magda heard him, and she cracked a toothless smile.

***

For some reason, Vega didn’t move right away.

This again. Locked by fear.

Standing there in a daze, watching the zombies file into the room. Watch the dead shuffle toward them. This was it. If she didn’t wake up now, it was over.

And then, she said, “Get behind me.”

Both her pistols raised, bright flashes bursting against the gloom. The dead were shapes, nothing more. Shifting, roaming shapes. Flitting shadows.

Vega didn’t have time for fear anymore, but she had time for blood.

Vincent tugged on Mean Magda’s sleeve. The old lady cackled madly while unleashing her own volley of hellfire. She was intent on bringing death to the masses; good for her.

Backing up again, backing out. Lead the undead on a march to the top.

Sutter had mentioned barricades.

Vincent looked around and couldn’t see him. There wasn’t a lot of light from the dreary day filtering through the dust-encrusted windows. Where was Sutter? Shapes. Shapes and bright lights. Guns popping off, one shot after another.

Through the tired window frame a black, inky substance poured in, dripping over the stairs in a liquefied stream of zombie rot. It smelled like a South American sewer was being emptied into the Depot, wet bones and chattering skulls drifting along the sludge.

Okay, so the giant zombie thing outside was melting into the Depot. There was purpose and intelligence behind all this. The greedy scientist had talked enough shit about Hell and zombie experiments that it was lost on him. A complete waste. And here was all the waste he could ever want or need. More than he could have ever bargained for.

He never really cared why this was happening. But this was just fucking ridiculous. No matter how hard he fought, there was something else.

The sludge collected around his ankles and flooded the steps behind him. There was nothing else to do but move through.

“This one looks like Reagan!” Mean Magda shouted from somewhere behind him. Bullets popped off, and Vincent was distracted by her silly comment. If he looked close enough, maybe he would see faces that he recognized. Faces that he blamed.

“Read my lips!” Mean Magda declared. “No new taxes!”

Reagan didn’t say that, did he?

Bones floating through the black ooze of swampy rot bumped around his legs as he tried to wade up old concrete steps. He managed to circumvent most of the ooze, but everyone behind him was in for a treat. Sutter? Vega? The old woman?

“We’re rolling out!” Vincent shouted down. Bright lights flashed their response, gun smoke drifting up like Catholic incense dedicated to an imperfect ritual.

Where was she?

After how far they had come, there was no fucking way. No way.

Dropping to one knee, he leaned into the AR-15 and felt his teeth vibrate in his face. Pouring bullets into the ooze that leaked through the window and down the stairs, he wasn’t going to let anything get down that stairwell without getting a taste.

Let the bastards eat. Bullet after bullet after bullet.

He stopped to reload. One more magazine.

“Vega!” he called out.

There wasn’t anyone close to him. He was alone in the smoke and glare. Shadows swirled around him. Dust was caught in his throat, and he coughed.

Waiting now. Any second she would charge up the stairs. He couldn’t see a damn thing through the fog of war, and the gunshots were distant, somewhere else maybe. Several floors up or down. But the screams were close.

There she was, charging through the shadows with people behind her, following her. More of Sutter’s men.

“Get your lazy ass moving,” she said.

It was good to hear her voice, and she knew it made him happy.

They made it to another floor, to another abattoir dressed in filthy bodies hanging from the ceiling beams, walls scratched and scarred by graffiti. The looming shadow from the giant corpse outside blackened the entire floor momentarily as people struggled to catch their breath. When the ooze began to fill the windows, Vincent heard a cracking sound that reminded him of an egg, and the smell that accompanied him reminded him of an egg that was rotten. Not one egg. Hundreds. Thousands.

Mean Magda laughed. “They all look like Reagan, don’t they?”

Vincent nodded. She was right. The dead all looked the same. They didn’t look like anything at all. Just skulls and bones rolling through the black rot, a mess of fluids and insects, ruined clothes and swimming eyeballs.

“Tastes like chicken!” Sutter announced from somewhere.

Mean Magda hollered and cut at a rope with a long knife. The bodies hanging from the ceiling had caught fire, bones popped and sizzled, and Vincent thought of the neighborhood barbecue parties; kids ate dog food or deer meat. Black smoke filled the room as the dangling bodies caught fire, bright light raging inside the shadowed chamber. The room looked like the inside of a bloody membrane. The bodies dropped from the ceiling into the pooling mass of rot. The flames spread upon the undead wreckage.

The bone-ooze crept along the floor and drowned a man’s ankles. Vincent watched shapeless mass consume him, peeling flesh away from his face, zombie substance chewing through a man’s lips and eyelids. Tufts of human hair and skin stuffing fleshless skulls. An entire man disappeared into the mush. Swallowed. Chewed up, gone.

Fiery zombies lumbered forward, bodies aflame; they charged forward, the searing heat from their burning bodies causing Sutter’s men to shrink back faster, react quicker. Men screamed as fiery mobs tore at their flesh; they burned while being devoured.

Vincent was going to bring his own heat.