Saint Pain (Zombie Ascension Book 3)

by Bilof, Vincenzo

  “Let’s hear it,” Vega said.

  “They’re not coming next month,” the Champ said.

  Silence.

  The Champ was a practice squad linebacker for the Detroit Lions. Blond-haired and blue-eyed, he was a hard worker whom everyone in the neighborhood respected. He did the toughest jobs and led more rescue and salvage forays than Vincent did, a fact everybody noticed.

  But Vincent didn’t care. He wasn’t anyone’s leader. He had guns and the desire to rebuild here, at ground zero. There was nothing for him at the lavish Grosse Pointe palace he owned; this was his chance to do something right. It was his project, and people followed. They joined. He didn’t ask.

  And so they grew. They expected Vincent to lead, and he reluctantly laid the groundwork for their little slice of paradise.

  The more people they attracted, the larger they grew. They became a bigger target. Harder to control and police. People wanted leadership, organization, laws.

  “Keep going,” Vincent said.

  “There was another problem in Washington,” the Champ said. “Another coup.”

  Vincent smirked and shook his head.

  “Our friends in the chopper have to look out for themselves,” Vega said.

  Taylor, the retired cop, cleared his throat. “We need a ship and a captain if we’re going to stick around.” A weathered old man with a smoker’s voice, he knew the city well enough to help provide direction and speak in metaphors.

  They had been down this road before. All around the world millions of people had watched the video Jim made of Mina eating someone, and millions more were infected. The zombies made by the video were uncontrollable things—even though Mina had seemed to help Vega’s cause by convincing Father Joe to blow her brains out, there was no accounting for the people who were turned into the undead after watching the video.

  As far as they knew, Mina was dead. Father Joe had killed the zombie that she inhabited.

  “You still thinking about leaving?” the Champ asked Vega.

  “We’re kicking ideas around, but we’re probably going to grind it out here.”

  The Champ nodded. “We need you. We need you both. Nobody has combat training. Nobody’s been through this shit like the two of you have.”

  “That’s not true,” Vega said. “It would be a waste if we sat here wondering when our time might be up. We can’t be afraid to keep living.”

  The Champ looked at them for a moment. Bill Bailey was his real name. People around the neighborhood looked up to him, and Vincent tried to encourage him to do more.

  “That sounds real cute,” Taylor said, “but some people are going over to Sutter. He’s got trade set up with people further north of here. Don’t know what he’s trading, but he’s bringing in supplies.”

  “If folks feel safer with him, let them go,” Vincent said. “Ain’t nothing keeping you here.”

  “You’re sitting on a pile of guns,” Taylor said. “You’re guarding it like it’s treasure. We could use it, get in good with this guy, join forces. Could be better for everyone.”

  “Maybe better for you.”

  “You need to be a selfish prick about your hoard?”

  “Hoard? You seen the guns? Because I ain’t seen them.”

  Vincent turned his back on Taylor. A year ago, this would have ended differently. Vincent had never got along with cops, and Taylor was always on his ass about the supposed hidden trove of guns. Vincent never mentioned the guns to Vega.

  Mike Taylor knew Vincent used to be one of the country’s biggest black market gun dealers, and they rarely talked. Taylor was an old man, but Vega enjoyed his company. He was a lot like Bob, her old mercenary team leader. She enjoyed listening to Taylor’s stories. His stories always had a happy ending. When Taylor was around, she would get a few laughs and she could forget about reality for a little while.

  “What do we know about Sutter?” Vega asked. “Anything new?”

  “Ex-military,” Taylor said. “He’s got some ex-military members with him. We know they’re staying at that big ass train depot, and they don’t like people coming close to their turf.”

  “Why would he stay here?” Vega asked. “If he has the people and the supplies, why doesn’t he move out? And why would he want us to join him? He would have more mouths to feed.”

  Taylor shrugged. “Why do we stay?”

  “What’s he trading?” Vega asked.

  Taylor shrugged again. “We should set something up with him. Get someone on the inside maybe, if it comes down to it.”

  Vincent interjected. “Not so difficult to figure this out. He ain’t moving on because there’s plenty around here to trade. He knows about us. He’s trading people. Nothing more complicated than that.”

  “You’re guessing,” Taylor said.

  “Educated guess. And the way you go on talking about guns that don’t exist, I start to wonder if he thinks there’s something else around here. He can sit fat and happy in that castle of his because he’s got women and children right here.”

  The implications hung in the air for a moment as they all figured it out.

  “He’s farming us,” Vega said.

  “Nobody would do that,” Bill said, his voice a whisper as if he couldn’t possibly believe that people were capable of such evil. “No way.”

  “So let’s just keep everyone here, and wait for him to come for us.” Taylor raised his voice now with the realization that it was a waste to pretend he and Vincent could agree on anything. “Let’s just wait for him to decide what he wants to do. You’re keeping your guns for a rainy day? Thinking maybe we shouldn’t defend ourselves because you feel entitled to all the shit that you stole?”

  Vincent approached him slowly, and both men met in the middle, sizing each other up.

  “You think you own this city,” Taylor said. “Until your ass ends up dead because another thug gets tired of your bullshit and takes over, or you get dragged into jail. You’re just like every other gangster-wannabe this city has seen. You never cared how many people died before, so long as you got to be on top. Why would you care now?”

  The fire in Vincent’s eyes flared out. He lowered his head, his shoulders slumped, and walked out of the house. Taylor stood there as if he was still waiting for the blow to come.

  Vincent once confessed to Vega that Griggs, the former detective-turned-skin flick director used to bother him; whenever Griggs brought up the “baby killing” and argued that he was responsible for the things people did with guns, Vincent thought about it. He didn’t let it go. It used to bother him before, but after everything he’d survived and seen, Griggs had stung him.

  Taylor shook his head, confused by the exchange with Vincent. “You have to talk some sense into him. His head’s not right. Hell, none of us are right. He can’t get over himself yet. He can’t let the past go. Has he said anything about those guns?”

  “Take everyone who will follow you out to Sutter,” she said. “Don’t come running back when you find out they’re wasting time with the same arguments we’re having now.”

  Let the past go. Let the nightmares go. Taylor was all talk, and poor Bill was just a muscle head without a clue, a giant with a heart of gold. They were survivors, too, but they were naïve. They wanted Vincent to let go of the man he used to be, and they didn’t realize that the old Vincent truly was dead, and the one left standing didn’t know who or what to be.

  Just like her.

  Her head injury lingered. Bright sunlight bothered her, and headaches were common. She had a hard time remembering things that happened before she touched down in Detroit with Bob and Miles, and her memory of that first night was shot to hell. Fragments. Pieces. Voices. She remembered heat and fear. She remembered running.

  She remembered a little girl.

  There was nothing more to say to Bill or Taylor.

  ***

  Darkness. Shortness of breath. She was awake. Awake and breathing. Sweating. Sitting upright. Alive. Still al
ive.

  In the dark, she couldn’t see. She couldn’t see anything, and she reached for the 9mm that was beside her pillow. She pointed it at the window. A moment ago, she’d seen a face there. There was a face that looked at her.

  “Breathe,” Vincent said. He was in the room with her.

  Her hands shook.

  “Breathe girl. Take a deep breath.”

  Moonlight on the windowsill. Her tattooed hands shaking. Sweat in her eyes. The face had been looking at her. Through the window. Looking down upon her.

  “We’re safe. Take a deep breath. We’re all right.”

  Her heart rate had quickened. Nerves jittery. Moonlight on the windowsill.

  A warm hand gently touched her wrist and eased her down. She still held the gun, and she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the window. The gun was between her legs, her fingers wrapped around the grip.

  “Shhh.”

  Somewhere a dog barked.

  “There was a face in the window,” Vega said. She swallowed a mouthful of air.

  “Another bad dream,” Vincent said. His voice smooth, calm. Soothing.

  She closed her eyes for a moment and opened them. Nothing there. Nothing but moonlight.

  “There was a face,” she said.

  “Ain’t nobody here but us. I promise. Lay your head down. I’m here.”

  His fingers swept strands of sweat-soaked hair from her forehead.

  The dog barked.

  She could hear Vincent sitting up on the bed. He slept soundly sometimes, but not always. He stayed up more often than not and watched through the window. He waited for something. He watched over her.

  A gunshot. A distant pop. Another one. The dog barked. A few people shouted.

  Her body shuddered, and she wasn’t cold. This night was like all the others. Vincent had told her more than once that life hadn’t changed much in the ghetto. A couple gunshots and no sirens. No ambulances. No rescue. Shouts. Tears. Silence. Church on Sunday.

  They weren’t going to repeat their past conversations.

  “Finding him won’t make it stop,” Vincent said.

  The mission. She talked about it sometimes. The mission she didn’t complete. Vincent knew she would start up about it, and they would have their usual argument about leaving to go out there and find Jim Traverse, the man she had been brought into to Detroit to find. But the trail was cold. There was no sane argument for taking off to go hunting for a ghost.

  When she was a mercenary, she killed plenty of people in combat, but her nightmares were mostly about her father, the man who abandoned her. There was no alcohol now.

  “I’m sick of hiding in our little hole,” Vega said. “The nightmares are getting worse, not better. Those things aren’t going away. I’m rotting here.”

  “He’ll be back,” Vincent said. He’d said it before. “Whatever he wanted was here. He lost it, so he’ll come back.”

  “Right. He’s coming for Father Joe. That was supposed to happen a long time ago. And here we are.”

  “Things aren’t getting worse. Wherever he went doesn’t matter.”

  “It does matter. It matters to me. It’s unfinished business. It was something I should have done, something I failed to do.”

  Vincent stood in the dark and left her on the mattress. He went to the window and allowed the moonlight to touch his face. He ran his hand over his head.

  “You’re going to give me shit about your mission,” Vincent said. “You never get tired of talking about it, but I’m getting tired of hearing it.”

  Her mission was to find Jim Traverse and bring him out of Detroit. He might be dead, but she wasn’t.

  Another gunshot outside. She could only hope they were killing zombies. What if they weren’t? What would happen? Everyone got along in their little commune so far because everyone pitched in. But she wasn’t the only one having nightmares. These civilians had survived a mild winter with survivor’s guilt.

  Another gunshot. A dog barked.

  Another sleepless night.

  Vincent eventually fell asleep, as she expected. She walked out into the neighborhood. Sometimes she saw other people wandering around in the dark, and she always feared they were zombies. They probably thought she was, too. But she had a reputation for walking around at night, and some people tried to talk to her about random things. Like the weather, or old movies they wanted to see again.

  Nobody bothered her this night, and she was able to make her way to a fenced-in basketball court for a scheduled rendezvous.

  “I can hear you breathing,” Vega said to the darkness.

  Long pause.

  “You don’t look like you brought anything with you,” a woman responded, cloaked by the shadows. She was invisible, though Vega had a good idea where she might be.

  “I probably didn’t,” Vega said.

  “Wasting my time. I can’t come out here every single damn night. When I do come back out here, I’m kidnapping your ass and trading you.”

  “Calm down, bitch.”

  “You got one minute.”

  Vega sighed. The other woman was good at doing business, had a nose for it. Angelica was her name, a woman who was probably mixed with every bloodline known to man. Calling her “Angie” was an easy way to piss her off.

  Angelica had done Vega a huge favor. Their first trade involved Angelica making a promise that she would be able to get Alexis, a little girl who lost both her parents, to a better outpost. Vega wanted the girl to be safe, but she didn’t trust herself anymore. She spent a lot of time wishing she had the courage to go back out there, to take Alexis to a safer place herself. Angelica was the next best thing, or so she had hoped.

  “I don’t have anything for you,” Vega said. “I just want to know what it’s like out there, by yourself.”

  Angelica chuckled.

  And then awkward silence. For a long time Vega wondered if Angelica was there at all, if she had ever been there. Vega might be totally nuts by now, and nobody was around to tell her. A cold beer would have made all the difference in her world.

  “You can’t trade me enough to answer what your real question is,” Angelica said. “You want to know if you can do it. You want to take my place. You think you can do better, huh? I’m not coming back. Ever. Fuck you, and fuck this place.”

  “I’ve always liked your sense of humor,” Vega said. “I keep hearing about this Sutter guy. You think he’s going to come in guns blazing, or give everyone a chance to surrender?”

  Vega didn’t wait around too much longer before deciding she wasn’t getting an answer.

  JIM

  Her name was Linda and her stomach rumbled. Suspended from chains, her limp body dangled outside of a window, three stories above the pavement. Linda often twisted and turned, but she wasn’t going anywhere.

  Jim flipped through the pages of a poetry chapbook and ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich while sitting by the window. He paused every few lines to inhale; dust and rot and ash, smells that he never wanted to grow used to, smells that he wanted to feel and experience to remind him where he was, and what he had made.

  The abandoned automobile factory, the Packard Plant, was the perfect place for his new kingdom. How silly it was to think going back to Egypt would be helpful. Detroit’s ruins were perfect, and it was ground zero for the apocalypse. What better place to build his kingdom of suffering?

  He closed the book and walked through the shattered halls, his boots crunching on broken glass shards, the graffiti of dead men sprayed on the walls.

  The lines from the last poem he read kept running through his head. Good literature followed you, like music. It left an impression on your mind and changed how you talked or thought, at least for a little while.

  The smell. He opened a crate and inhaled again. He closed his eyes. Yes. There it was. Sewage and curdled milk. The human body’s destiny. A rotting corpse that had become a festering colony for maggots, a breeding ground for disease as nature consumed the flesh.


  He put his gloves on, scooped several maggots into a bowl, closed the crate, and walked down the hall and stood in front of the window where Linda dangled above the street.

  “Hungry yet?” Jim asked.

  “Go…”

  “You were pretty once. Perfect skin. C-cup breasts. You were also a mother? You keep talking about someone named Blake. A boy? The zombies ate him, I presume. You’re sharing your delirious nightmares with me. Did you know that? Do you know that I’m here? Can you hear my voice?”

  He wasted a lot of his time finding women who were semi-attractive, only because he didn’t want an ugly woman to offend his aesthetic sensibilities. It was easy to find any number of ugly people, and he started his project by playing with them, first. But pretty girls were harder to come by these days because most of them were dead.

  This part had become boring. Most of his subjects chose to die from starvation. They actually preferred to become zombies rather than believe in his plan.

  “It’s so easy,” Jim said. “I have food for you in this bowl. Take a bite. If you eat, I’ll bring you inside. I’m not begging, but I am repeating myself. Can you tell my patience is wearing thin?”

  She mumbled her questions, the same ones they always asked. Why me? Why are you doing this? Always the same.

  “I need a commitment from you,” Jim said. “You wouldn’t understand my intentions if I went into detail. You’re too stupid. You can’t let go of your boy’s death. What is one more death? Everyone dies. Right?”

  More whining and crying. Whimpering and begging.

  He looked over the ruined city. Detroit was more beautiful than ever. The Renaissance Center was gone, half of it sitting in the Detroit River. Smoke and ash from Windsor continued to fill the sky. Skeletal shapes—girder and steel bone, pillars of glass and brick, rusted metal car corpses, dust flesh—Detroit was an open grave. He enjoyed the silence here, a silence that could be felt all over the world now.

  The video he uploaded when he was at Selfridge had gone viral and had wiped out almost everybody. Almost. There were pockets of civilization, people who still felt like they could start over. He heard them on the radio; he listened to their desperate attempts to reach out, to ask for help, to survive.