Saint Pain (Zombie Ascension Book 3)

by Bilof, Vincenzo

Agonized screams had replaced the sound of gunfire in a matter of seconds. All the bravado had been murdered. Time to retreat.

  Vega’s mouth was open, and she could feel the scream rise through her throat, but if it erupted through her mouth, she didn’t know; remnants of close-quarters gunfire drowned out her voice.

  A gun. She needed a gun to make this a fair fight.

  Bill carried her down a hallway and out a back door, away from the fight. She needed to get back into the house, help these people, pick up a gun and lay down the law of natural selection through bullets.

  Outside, the war was in full swing.

  Colorless shapes gathered around a cadaver, blood leaking into the sun-browned grass. The bright lights of flashing guns were everywhere.

  Bill held her close and tight. She did not resist him, but held onto his thick arms.

  She was carried past a man who wrestled a zombie against a wood fence. A dog had snagged the zombie’s sleeve and ripped the fabric from bone. Another corpse approached. Then another, and another. The dog had disappeared. The man had been pushed through the fence, wood splintering, cracking, snapping.

  The old cop, Taylor, ran toward them, his face smeared with red; the gray in his hair had turned pink from blood. “We’re getting people on the roofs,” he said. “Get your asses up, and hold your position.”

  Taylor had his shit together. Vega could see people scrambling onto roofs, guns blazing, barrel-flashes popping into the night sky. The old cop patted Bill on the back and took off in another direction, but the Champ wasn’t about to let her go.

  Bill found another house and shouldered through the front door; a house untouched by the fog of war. He dropped her onto a couch and closed the door behind them. His chest rose and fell, rose and fell.

  Her body didn’t want to move. She stared at Bill’s outlined body, flickering firelight burning through shadows as if their haven were an altar lined with candles, an altar in a dark church.

  There had been candles at her father’s funeral.

  “Check the house,” Vega said.

  Her voice was calm and she wasn’t breathing heavily. Sweating, heart fluttering, but hardly breathing.

  In an urban war zone, every dwelling, upon entering, must be secured.

  Bill didn’t move from the door. He looked like he wanted to collapse and was doing his best to appear strong. He had risked his life to keep her alive when so many others tried to help themselves and died.

  She couldn’t figure out why the dead were attacking after remaining inert for so long. With Vincent and Father Joe, they had stopped Traverse at Selfridge; even though they didn’t get the former serial killer, they prevented Traverse from taking Mina with him. Mina had stopped all the corpses that hadn’t been spawned through Traverse’s video-apocalypse.

  Vincent might be dead now.

  In the flickering shadows she could see the graffiti that was sprayed all over the inside of the house. A house that did not have anything except for dust and cobwebs, a place that had been ransacked and turned inside out a long time ago.

  TRU LOV

  WERE YOU AT G-D?

  Did the artist intend to write “where”?

  “Let’s just stay quiet,” Bill said.

  He was trying to say something else, anything, but it was all that made sense. Now, there would be time to realize fear. Men like him would exist in a state of denial that would preclude fear and desperation.

  “You didn’t do me any favors,” Vega said. “I’m supposed to be fighting.”

  “You can fight later.”

  “I can fight now. People are getting killed out there.”

  “You don’t care about that.”

  “I’m nothing special,” Vega said, “and neither are you. If you want to be a hero, go back out there and save the children who’re watching their junkie mothers open their doors to let the dead in.”

  “You…”

  “Want to protect people? Want to save the world?”

  “That’s not what this is about.”

  “No?”

  “You can’t just give up.”

  “That’s all you can say? Get away from the door.”

  Here was another man used to being in charge, used to wielding power over others because of his size. He felt helpless against the undead, and this was his way of regaining some confidence in himself. Bill was well over six foot tall, and his size dwarfed her. Vega was nothing more than a dirty, sweaty rat compared to his mountain of muscle.

  But he was afraid, like all men were afraid when they saw their power stripped away. Triceps bulged beneath his shirt and his forearms quivered.

  “I just do what…” he struggled to find the words. “… I just… I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. No more than you know.”

  “I know what I’m doing. Out of my way.”

  “No.”

  “Because it would have been a waste? Because you know you could have saved someone who wanted to be saved?”

  “We’re getting this thing back together.” His voiced dropped, becoming sullen. “This place is safe. This city is coming back. We’re all coming back.” He shrugged, and shame reddened his cheeks.

  “You’re not the philosophical type,” Vega said.

  Vega knew he was distracted by his attempt to obtain pity from her; she feinted left and tried to use her speed to get past him. His hands grabbed her wrists, and his foot stomped down on her shin, preventing her from kicking his balls into his throat. When he pushed her, the sudden shock of force sent her sprawling backward into the dust and onto the couch again.

  Just too slow. Too old. Worn out.

  “You don’t get to decide this,” he said. Fireglow from beyond the windows revealed the shine of his perspiration-coated jawline. He looked like a plastic man about to melt in a bonfire.

  “Who are you?” she asked. “Who are you to tell me? Who the fuck are you to save someone’s life? Who the fuck are you to live when everyone else is dead? Get your ass back out there, and die for those people if you care about them so much. If that’s what you want—die for them, you goddamn blockhead.”

  Vega was up again, and he was still faster. He pushed her onto the couch again. She kicked him in the chin, but his strong fists had her arms.

  “Hit me,” she said. “Hit me, you gutless coward.”

  Her shoulders were pinned down.

  The couch was overturned, their bodies with it. Dust filled her mouth and nose. It tasted like blood.

  “You don’t get to decide!” she said.

  “Stop it.”

  “Let me die. Let me die.”

  “No. Stop it.”

  “Hit me then. Stop me.”

  She was pinned against the floor.

  Hips pushed against his body, upward, into him, against him. Bill’s fists clutched her thin arms. She could not hear the gunfire outside, but she could hear him breathing; his breath smelled like blood, like everything smelled like blood.

  “You son of a bitch,” she said.

  “What makes me so bad?” He slammed her against the floor. “I’m trying to help you, and you keep fighting me.”

  “You’re a coward. There are people out there who can’t fend for themselves. Children, entire families, and you’re trying to stop me from killing those dead fucks out there. You’re doing this for your own reasons. It has nothing to do with helping people.”

  “That’s not right. That’s not right at all.”

  “Really?” she could see the anger in his eyes beginning to cool. His fight with her was a fight that he was having with himself. “I bet you’re a hypocrite, aren’t you?”

  Instead of replying, he listened closely to the screams outside. There was a battle raging, and he had taken himself out of the fight.

  “Go to church every Sunday?” she said. “You’re the type who goes because you’re always racking up the sins, and you can’t help yourself. You try to be righteous, but that doesn’t get you anywhere.”


  “You don’t know me.”

  “You want to help? Then get out there, and fight with me.”

  His grip did not loosen on her arms, but his face twisted through several emotions.

  There was no telling how unstable he was. She felt her own adrenaline crash, and the desire to go back out there and look into those dead eyes and hungry mouths was fading just as quickly as it had seized her. Bill had stolen her away from the battle rage, and in his arms, she had weakened, once again becoming the helpless wretch that she saw in the mirror every day.

  His arms had felt strong wrapped around her, and she wanted that comfort again. Vincent wasn’t able to hold her like that anymore, instead preferring the comfort of shadows and sleeplessness. Did she really want to go back out there and start firing away? The fight against them was never going to end. They had lulled themselves into a false sense of security, and they were paying the price for it. How could they believe the hungry dead were just going to leave them alone? She didn’t understand what motivated the zombies or what created them; how could she possibly let her guard down?

  She hadn’t let her guard down. Everyone was her enemy when they died. Her enemy was everywhere. Her enemy was death, and there was no escape.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Bill finally said.

  The screams and battle cries had become more distant. Had the dead overrun them at last? Maybe Vincent finally got his shit together and picked up a gun. Or maybe he was dead. As much as she wanted to feel something for him, she felt absent, removed.

  Bill released her and sat against the overturned couch. She didn’t get up, but lay there, feeling a moment of peace settle over them, a silence that quieted her boisterous mind. Think about nothing. Feel nothing. Be nothing.

  It seemed so easy.

  She had been living her life this way forever, since her father got himself killed for his own selfish cause. And now she watched Bill run his fingers through his wild, blond hair, the look of puzzlement on his face evident in the flickering glow of flame through the windows.

  “Welcome to war,” she said to him.

  And to herself.

  BELLA

  Angelica spent most of her time staring at the wandering corpses that littered the football field. Even when she pretended to be asleep, she sat in a chair with her eyes half-open.

  Ford Field was probably the most unlikely place for one person to hide in, but it made sense. Bella stared at the football field as one might stare at an aquarium of exotic fish. The football field was littered with trampled hospital tents and cots decorated with various dark stains; hundreds of lazily shuffling dead people were attired in medical, police, or military uniforms. A half-hearted attempt had been made to help save lives, but it had proven costly, taking emergency workers off the streets and dropping them into a sealed meat-grinder. The zombies weren’t milling around the stadium’s seats; it would be easy for an organized group to saunter in and slaughter the corpses and retrofit Ford Field as a fortress, since it could provide shelter during the winter. Maybe its size was daunting, and the smell of spoiled fruit was more heavily concentrated around Ford Field and the baseball stadium, Comerica Park. There had been a Tigers game going on when the outbreak started, and thousands of people had trampled over each other through Comerica and the nearby streets, only to jam it up with a maze of cars. Bella had stayed out of the streets of Windsor during the first few days, and had watched television (although Desmond wouldn’t have approved) reports. She remembered seeing the chaos and wondering how people could possibly differentiate friend from foe.

  Angelica didn’t say much, and it would have been easier for Bella to just move on and look for survivors on her own. She knew it was dangerous to hide for too long; the longer she stayed in the dark, the harder it was to motivate herself to go back into the ruins.

  Why did Angelica bother sharing food with her if it was such an inconvenience? It was easy to think maybe the woman had cracked, but the same could be said of anyone. Cracked. A world full of cracked people.

  Inside the suite high above Ford Field, Angelica had a mini-pharmacy stocked with sleeping pills and anxiety pills and pain killers and vitamin supplements. Peanuts and beef jerky and pretzels. Fruit snacks and black licorice. Boxes of noodles and granola bars. Canned food. A gasoline-powered generator she never used because she didn’t want to make noise and draw attention to herself. She had oil. Clothes stamped into the floor.

  Bella didn’t know what to say or how to say it. They sat awkwardly and silently. They were alone with their ghosts; to unleash them, to speak of them, would give them life again.

  “You think he’s out there?” Angelica said while sitting in her chair.

  She didn’t know how to answer. Angelica was going to stomp on her reality, crush it underfoot. The question itself told Bella all she needed to know; Angelica kept her alive because she wanted to punish a survivor for staying alive.

  Was it easier to take the bait and let this play out?

  “This isn’t something we’re going to talk about,” Bella said.

  “No?”

  Angelica stared at the football field.

  Bella had spent one sleepless night in the suite, watching Angelica, wondering when the betrayal would come. It wasn’t a betrayal if she expected it; there was something to be said for predictability. People were easy to understand as long as you could accept that everyone wanted the same thing you did, but might be more desperate. They might be more cracked inside.

  “I fed you,” Angelica said. “Entertain me. Tell me stories about your bravery. How you fought the evil zombies to find your knight in shining armor.”

  “I don’t want to play games with you. It was nice of you to let me live and all. I want to be on my way.”

  Angelica smirked. “Go then.”

  Bella knew she wasn’t going anywhere. This woman had spared her life, and there was a reason why. Angelica had invited her into the sanctuary, the place where she watched her nightmares unfold from the comfort of plush seats. Bella knew it was better to give a maniac like Angelica just a taste of power; once Angelica became comfortable enough, she would loosen her grip. There might be a spark of humanity inside of the flesh trader somewhere, and Bella could find it. Desmond had taught her to have faith in people, to trust that people inherently want to be good rather than bad. Bella wasn’t about to change the way anyone perceived the world, but she could at least try to buy herself the time she needed to find the man she loved.

  She was so close.

  “I know he’s out there,” Bella said. “It doesn’t have to be complicated, does it?”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “I’ve been lectured before about blind faith and having a purpose to stay alive. Desmond used to give me those lectures before everything happened. Then my son gave me the lectures.”

  “Your son.”

  Angelica seemed to be tasting the idea. Was it familiar to her? There was a chance Angelica had a son of her own, a boy lost to the horrors of anarchy. Here was a woman who probably wanted revenge upon the entire human race for whatever tragedy had befallen her.

  Bella knew better than to ask too many questions. Her own sorrows were enough, and she couldn’t carry the weight of others. She had seen the implosions, the mood swings, the suicides. There were unspoken limits; empathy was a fool’s game.

  Angelica sat up, still focused on the football field. “You’ve been lectured about blind faith. That’s funny. I don’t have time for that shit.”

  “What shit? Faith or lectures?”

  Angelica sighed and changed the subject. “I can watch them from here. Just watch them. Nobody thinks to come here. Maybe everyone thinks it’s a graveyard. The whole world’s a graveyard.”

  The woman stretched, revealing her stomach’s tight wall of muscle.

  “You want to leave this behind?” Angelica said. “This mansion? Don’t have to go nowhere. Do anything. Just rot away. Like them, y’know?”
/>   “You must be good at rotting. I’m good at leaving.”

  “It ain’t like that.”

  “Ain’t like what?”

  “You came in on your own. From Canada. From across the bridge. A woman by herself walking across the bridge. Nothing between here and Alaska except for that bridge.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  Angelica stood. “Enough. One woman walking into Detroit to find a dead man. Probably someone with one of my bullets between their eyes.”

  It was coming now. Angelica was just as nuts as everyone else. Surviving was its own kind of death. She was someone she hadn’t been before, and she didn’t mind being who she was now. Like Bella, but with a gun and a football stadium.

  “You’re telling me you survived on your own,” Angelica said. “You think any kind of place, anywhere, they’re just going to treat you like you’re treasure.”

  “I expect to survive,” Bella said.

  Angelica shrugged. “Tough girl. So tough. You want to go hunting for your man by yourself? You know what this place is like. Like every other place you’ve been.”

  “I’ll find him on my own.”

  It was hard to believe anyone who survived for so long wouldn’t contemplate killing Angelica as Bella did.

  Kill her and keep everything.

  But where did this come from? Did she always think this way?

  Angelica wondered it too. Maybe wondered if Bella was thinking it. If they were both thinking it. In these awkward silences there were murder plans taking shape, a moment in which you could predict how someone might scream.

  She used to think about the noises Desmond would make during sex. The things he would say afterward. The things he said the first time they had sex. The way he looked, the things she tried to guess at. All that shared sweat was taken from her. All the comfortable silences were lost.

  “We’re going out,” Angelica said. “Staying alive takes work. All this wealth doesn’t come from sitting around and watching Desperate Housewives all day. Although I do miss that show.”

  There was a hint of tenderness in Angelica’s voice, as if she were trying to recover a fragment of personality that she protected so that she wouldn’t become vulnerable. She wanted to trust Bella.