The Lazarus Impact (13 page)

CHAPTER 25

Marcus did as the old priest suggested. He washed up, changed his clothes, and rested at the empty house in town. In the morning he ate some canned food and then set out on his path. He considered stealing a car to drive back down to his stash of things, but he decided against it.
It’s still stealing
.
Even though the owners are probably dead, and the whole world’s a mess, I want to avoid the road, to avoid people, to avoid the corrupt humanity that fights one another just to survive
.
Steal a car and get onto the lawless road? I’d be asking for trouble
.

So he walks between roads, where he is alone with his thoughts. The trees shield much of the icy breeze, but it still chills him to the bone. The woods are quiet, peaceful. But they soon run scarce as he gets closer to the metropolitan area. Eventually Marcus needs to use the streets. He doesn’t want to trespass on peoples’ property, and when he’s off the road, in the woods, he doesn’t exactly know where he is anyway.

He stays on roads closest to the Hudson, but there are cars parked on the highways, abandoned. The road is in complete gridlock. Some cars have people inside, dead. Others were left with their doors wide open, their lights on, and their keys in the ignition. There’s blood everywhere. The streets are stained with it. Scraps of corpses are scattered like road kill along the asphalt; a long bone with bits of flesh and clothing still clinging to it, a severed hand, a gnawed arm. And pigeons. There are hundreds of them. Some pick at the remains of the dead. Others are frozen in death, their heads splattered on the asphalt like they simply fell from the sky.
This is some biblical shit
.

Some of the demons still linger nearby, scavenging on the remains of the fallen. Fearless, Marcus cuts down each one that he sees as he walks along the grotesque roadway, leaving heaps of bodies in his wake. He even goes out of his way to open the doors to cars if they’re stuck inside in order to rid the world of the scourge.

Mobs of the dead seem to congregate on the road. They shuffle between parked cars, they ravage corpses, and they train their glowing eyes on Marcus. He hacks away at them as they swarm. Focused, determined, he’s every bit as unrelenting as they are. But soon they are too many, and Marcus has to run. He breaks into a full sprint when he sees his exit off the highway, but the beasts are closing the gap. Marcus is getting tired, and the zombies seem to come from everywhere. A pile-up of cars is stretched across the ramp. Marcus leaps up onto the car roofs, out of reach from the amassing dead. Their ragged arms reach up for him, but they are unable to follow past the car jam. He looks down upon them in disgust. Their eyes are sunken into their skulls. Blood and spittle hang from their jaws, and pieces of rotting meat cling to them, frozen to the remains of their skin and clothing.
When there’s no room left in hell, the dead will walk the Earth
. Marcus turns off the dead highway, and soon gets to where he needs to be.

He enters the outer edge of town in the fleeting daylight and roams the streets looking for the building where he stashed all his stuff. At the time it was a dump, but a sturdy dump. He bought it outright with cash. A small warehouse in an old part of town that was rarely used by anyone other than bums and druggers.
They couldn’t have done much damage
.
The place was locked up tight before I was arrested
.
But if someone got in, then my stuff might be gone
.
Most of it don’t matter anyway
.
It’s just cash, tools, and some personal shit
...
and the prize: my truck
.

The truck was the first real thing Marcus ever purchased. At sixteen he saved up enough cash from selling weed to buy it, and he continued to work on it over the years, adding the 350 engine, beefing up the tires and suspension, customizing the paint job. He parked it in a corner of the warehouse, covered it in a tarp, and stacked wood shipping pallets and skids all around it.
If someone got in, they wouldn’t even know it was there in the rubble
.

When he found out the police had surveillance on him, he would often go out of the state to do his business, thinking that the New York cops’ jurisdiction might prevent them from following him. He worried they would seize his money and his truck if they could connect it to his drug trade, so he started to hide everything in the event he was ever caught. He thought he was invincible back then. Untouchable. He was wrong. It turned out the cops teamed up with the feds, so state borders didn’t matter. His world came crashing down fast, but the truck and the money were never found.

The front door is reinforced with steel and has a good dead bolt, and the garage part has a corrugated metal roll-down door with a trustworthy lock. The walls are concrete blocks.
The only thing that worries me is the roof
. There were leaks in a few spots before he was put away. But by now it might be the only way in. The warehouse keys are somewhere back in jail, along with his wallet and other small possessions that he had on him at the time of lockup. The truck keys should be inside the warehouse, right where he left them.

With his scythe slung across his back, Marcus walks around to the rear of the warehouse and leaps to grab the bottom rung on the metal ladder that leads to the roof. He climbs up, and sure enough where there was once a leak is now a gaping hole. It’s large enough for him to squeeze through. Lucky for him, though, it sits just above the small lofted area inside the warehouse, so he won’t have to drop 15 feet to the cold cement floor.

Everything looks just how he left it. Across the warehouse he can see the tarp still in place behind the wooden shipping skids. He climbs down from the loft and opens the top drawer of the desk in the glass-enclosed office area. His keys are still there. He spins around to the closet, opens the door, and up on the top shelf is a gym bag. He pulls it down and zips it open.
It’s all still here
.
All my cash
.
My blood money
. Marcus shakes his head in despair.
I wish it wasn’t
.
I wish some unfortunate soul stumbled across it while looking for a place to sleep and made a better life for himself
.
But what use is money now anyway? The world’s all going to shit
.

Suddenly he hears a rattling sound coming from the garage door, and muffled screams; a woman calling out for help.
Likely being attacked by someone like Harley
.
Is this it?
Is this my test?
Does God want me to kill again, to kill another living human being?
He hears pounding on the door now, and more pleading for help. "Please God help us!"
She’s pleading for God’s help
.
I can’t ignore her
. He runs to the door with his blade in his hand and flings it open.

CHAPTER 26

“What the fuck are you?” a shocked Amy blurts out.

Michael’s voice shakes in fear as he looks up at Marcus. “Are we dead?”

Blood drips off of Marcus’ blade. His heavy breathing through the mask makes him sound like an epic sci-fi space villain. “No, you ain’t dead.”

“Jesus Christ! Imagine the luck we have? Someone just happens to be in the one building we’re in front of just before they got to us!” Michael exclaims as he and Amy get to their feet.

“Jesus Christ is right. But it wasn’t luck. It was providence.” Marcus says.

“Huh?” Michael responds.

“There’s luck, and then there’s fate,” Marcus explains. “You were meant to find this building, and I was meant to be here to receive you.”

“Is it part of fate to have a swarm of zombies around the building as well?” Michael asks with sarcasm.

“God will provide a path out when the time is right. I’m being tested,” Marcus says.

Michael’s eyes widen with condescending disbelief. There’s even a bit of laughter behind them. He presses Marcus further upon hearing the dreaded G-word. “Tested?”

“He’s testing me. Makin’ sure I’m worth keeping alive,” Marcus says.

Michael rolls his eyes through his mask.

“Thank you,” Amy says. “You saved our lives.” She glares at Michael as she says this. She’s heard Michael argue over religion before, and many of Amy’s friends were turned off by it, even if they weren’t super religious themselves. He was often abrasive toward people of faith. He blamed them for wars, and slowing what he called progress. Marcus certainly seemed to be a believer, so she had to nip that in the bud before it even started.

“Come on in. Make yourselves at home. I was just about to light a fire to keep warm.” Marcus walks back into the warehouse and begins to arrange some crumpled papers and break apart the wood from a skid.

“Make ourselves at home? This place is a fucking dump,” Michael whispers to Amy.

“Shh.” Amy quiets him. “Are you kidding me right now? It’s better than being dead.”

“I don’t trust this guy. He’s dressed like the Grim Reaper for God’s sake.”

“Well I do. And you don’t believe in God or the Grim Reaper, so what do you care how he’s dressed?” Amy asks.

“I don’t like the idea of being trapped inside here with a religious nutter.”

“Okay. Well let’s see... so far he’s saved our lives, opened up his... home... to us, and is making a fire to keep us warm. He doesn’t seem too nuts to me.”

“Yeah well you didn’t grow up in New York City like I did,” Michael whispers. “I inherently distrust people.”

“Grab some wood and stuff. Let’s at least help him make the fire,” Amy suggests. “We still have a lighter, right?” Michael checks his bag and nods his head yes. “Is this your place, or are you just hiding out like us?” Amy asks Marcus.

“It’s my place. I haven’t been here in a while. Bought it before I went away...” Marcus catches himself. He doesn’t want to bring up prison.
These two are already frightened of me; I can tell
. “I’m Marcus by the way.” He extends his hand with a hidden smile behind the mask.

“Amy.” She shakes it. “This is my husband Michael.”

“Hey. I have a lighter if you need.” Michael passes it to Marcus instead of shaking his hand, avoiding eye contact in the process. Easy to do with masks on. Marcus thanks him and flicks the lighter upon the papers beneath the wood. Soon the old warehouse glows with golden warmth, and smoke billows out the hole in the roof, wafting out into the poisonous air above.

They can hear the beasts moaning and clawing at the door and garage gate outside, no doubt still hungry for flesh, still thirsty with the scent of Amy’s bloodied knuckles in their dead noses.

“Can they get in?” Michael asks.

“Not unless they learn to jump ten feet, climb a ladder, and find the hole in the roof.”

“Or pick a lock,” Amy says with a grin behind her mask.

Marcus chuckles. His deep voice booms and echoes off the cavernous walls. “It’s all concrete block. We should be good.”

Michael peeks into his and Amy’s bags, looking over what they have.

“Got anything to eat or drink in there?” Marcus asks. “I’ve been walking a long way.”

“Not all that much...” Michael starts, but Amy rips one of the bags away from his fingers and flings it over to Marcus.

“Take whatever you want,” she says.

Marcus rifles through the bag, seeing things he hasn’t seen in ages. “Swinkles? Oh man. I haven’t had these in years. You mind?”

“Knock yourself out,” Amy says. “But is it safe to take the mask off?”

“I’m gonna go in my truck,” he says.

Michael perks his head up. “Truck?”

“Back there, under the tarp. I’m gonna head out west when it’s clear if y’all want a lift,” he offers.

“West. That’s where we’re going. To my parents’ house, and then hopefully past the quarantine,” Amy says.

“What quarantine?” Marcus asks.

“They blockaded everyone east of Ohio and North of DC. You didn’t hear?” Michael asks. “We’re lucky we got out of the city. They blocked that off too.”

“No. Haven’t really heard anything too reliable.” Marcus doesn’t care to explain why his knowledge is limited. He lets the silence linger for a moment. “I’m gonna go eat this in the truck and take a nap. Again, make yourselves at home.” He walks back into the area behind the skids and removes the tarp from the truck. Underneath is a black pickup truck with a custom paint job of glowing green skulls and orange flames. It’s the kind of truck a mid-west teenager would kill for; a monster truck, with four foot high wheels and a blower poking out the top of the hood. It may as well be the legendary Bone Yard Crusher. Marcus has to leap up just to reach the step bar.

Michael and Amy huddle by the fire.

“Were you seriously going to say no to him and not give him something to eat?” Amy asks angrily.

“We only have a little bit. We have to make it last until we reach your parent’s house,” he explains.

“Yeah but he saved our lives.” She huffs at him. It’s been a long time since she spoke up to him like this. They used to argue a lot back when they first got together, but things cooled out when Amy stopped giving a shit about the multitude of quirks that bothered her. She began to choose her battles. But now, given all that’s happened, she’s letting them fly.

“Come on. Let’s eat something,” Michael says. “Why’d you grab Swinkles anyway? We don’t eat that stuff.”

“I don’t have an appetite,” she replies, staring off into the flames.

“You have to. We’ll need the energy tomorrow if we’re planning to walk out of here.”

“You don’t want to get a ride with him?” Amy asks with incredulity.

“I told you I don’t trust him.”

“Unbelievable,” Amy says under her breath. “Well, I’m going with him. You were the one complaining about having to walk to Pennsylvania before. Now we have a ride and you want to walk?”

“Okay. I’m going to go eat in the office thing,” Michael says with an attitude. “You can sit out here and cool off by the fire if you don’t want to eat.”

Michael walks back into the enclosed office area, closes the door behind him, and plops down on the swivel chair behind the desk. He starts popping open drawers and poking around a bit before unwrapping a granola bar. He slides chunks of it under his mask quickly and chomps away. He scopes out the room as he chews, noticing the closet on the wall. He opens the door and sees Marcus’ gym bag. He pulls it down and unzips it, and his eyes widen with shock.

Holy fuck!
The bills are haphazardly stacked, bundled with decaying, dry-rotted rubber bands. Twenties, fifties and hundreds. Michael grabs a few stacks and stuffs them into his coat. He shoves some into his semi-transparent plastic shopping bag too, but is careful to hide them among the other items inside. He finishes his granola bar and tiptoes back over to Amy, who is dozing by the fire.

“Amy. You gotta see this,” he whispers loudly to wake her.

“What?” She’s annoyed.

“You wanna talk about trusting this guy? He has a gym bag full of cash back there.”

After a moment of thought she answers. “So what? That’s his business. I don’t want to know and I don’t care.” Admittedly, she
does
think it’s a bit odd to have a stash like that, but part of her just wants to defy Michael at this point.

“There’s gotta be like at least a few hundred thousand, maybe millions, I don't know. It’s suspicious. I told you I don’t trust him.”

“Yeah well there’s worse things to worry about right now than criminals,” she says, motioning to the outside. The moans are still audible; it’s like they’re waiting.

“Maybe we should just grab some and get out of here,” he suggests.

“What do we need money for? We have plenty.”

“Not cash. Ours is in banks. We can’t even get at our money right now.”

“My money,” she corrects him. She never thought of their money as hers, even though she makes 90% of it. But now Michael is getting on her nerves. “What good is money now anyway? Supplies are what we need. Shelter, which we have. Food, water. I can care less about a stack of money.”

“This is all going to get better, just like everything else. The Department of Health and Human Services will work with the CDC to help find and distribute a cure, and the government will make everything right again. We can come out of it with enough money to pay off all our debts.”

Amy laughs at the idea. “We already have enough money to pay down our debts. Trust me. I am the finance person here.”

“Yeah well I know how to deal with these kinds of shady people. I know he’s planning something and I don’t want to wait around until it’s too late. You have to make the first move. That’s how you do it. You fuck him before he fucks you,” Michael says.

“Yeah? You want me to help you? To fuck him for money?” Amy asks with heavy sarcasm. “Let me go back to sleep.” She ignores him for the rest of the night.

#

In the morning, Michael and Amy wake to the sound of Marcus trying to get the truck engine to start. He quietly moved the skids out of the way earlier, popped his baby in neutral, and rolled the beast out from behind the barricade. It cranks, but it won’t turn over. It hasn’t been started in a while. Marcus unhooks the stereo equipment from a separate car battery and swaps that one out for the one under the hood. After some good old fashioned tinkering, and of course some cursing and hollering, it finally roars back to life. A puff of black smoke shoots out the side pipes and the whole warehouse starts to vibrate with testosterone. Marcus revs the engine and the thing screams so loud Michael thinks it might shatter the concrete walls. The radio even works off what little power remains in the swapped battery. For a few moments, the chugging guitar riffs of a familiar heavy metal band echo off the walls of the warehouse before Marcus cuts the engine.

“Wooooooo!” Marcus cheers. “Still purrs like a tiger baby.”

Amy has a grin from ear to ear under her mask, and Michael is in complete shock at the spectacle before him. It truly is an amazing machine.

A small fire dwindles on the cement floor. Marcus tended to it throughout the night. He napped comfortably but hasn’t been much of a heavy sleeper since he went away to prison. After recovering from his startling awakening, Michael notices that there are stacks of money in the fire. The empty gym bag sits deflated a few feet away. It’s all gone.

“Why would you do that?” he asks Marcus, pointing to the money in the fire.

“What, the money? Ahh man you don’t want that. That’s blood money. Besides, my secrecy is more valuable than a bunch of useless green paper right now. Those wood skids? That tarp? I ain’t burning that stuff. If I ever need to hide my truck again, I’m coming back here. No one is the wiser when it’s hidden back there.” Marcus points. “Besides I can use the gym bag to carry things with real value. Food, water, weapons to protect myself from the demons...”

“Demons?” Michael presses him. “They’re people. They’re just sick.”

“Sick people don’t come back from the dead to eat other people. Zombies do that. Demons. Devil’s spawn.” Marcus curls a sinister grin on his face. Michael can see it in his eyes.

“So you’re on a mission from God to kill demons and save people?” Michael asks sarcastically. Part of him wonders if Marcus is high or something. His outlandish giddiness discomforts Michael.

“Maybe so,” Marcus answers, overwhelmed with excitement that his truck is in working order, and unwilling to argue religion at the moment. He changes the subject. “Hey we can get out of here. The demons have been exorcized,” he says with a snarky twang to his voice.

“They’re gone?” Amy asks with hope in her voice. She trots over to the door and presses her ear against it.

“None within eye shot. I was up on the roof a little while ago. They musta been distracted away,” he answers. “You see? God provided the pathway out.”

“Well what are we waiting for?” Amy asks.

“Your man,” Marcus says, pointing at Michael.