Saint Pain (Zombie Ascension Book 3)

by Bilof, Vincenzo

  Vega could see two other ragged survivors. Huey must have been the hammer-man, and talking to him was a thin, long-haired man with a crooked jaw and a shotgun. Beside him was another survivor, an old woman with white hair and a 9mm in each fist.

  The old woman spotted Vega looking at her and offered a toothless, gummy smile.

  “This is my only chance,” Huey said. “Been cooped up in the castle, and I’m gonna bust some heads. Watch these eggs crack!”

  Huey went back to work. Lifting the sledgehammer over his head, sliding it through his hands, watching it drop. More undead fingers clutched the rim of the valley, and the smell of blood wafted into Vega’s nostrils. She swallowed the smell. The smell of death was in her clothes, in her hair. And then this: Huey was going to get himself killed. How many times had she seen this happen? How many times did she try to achieve the same thing, only to have the moment stolen from her?

  Huey dropped his sledge and popped open faces.

  As a zombie climbed over the edge, the old woman unloaded her guns until it dropped backward into the bowl.

  Then everything stopped. All sound—everything—paused. It felt like the oxygen had been sucked out of the world.

  Dust shook from windowpanes. The ground trembled.

  The tall man said it first.

  “Fuck.”

  The sentiment was echoed by the old woman, and a lightness in Vega’s stomach stopped her from repeating it.

  Stomping toward them, a big motherfucking zombie. That’s what it was. A big zombie made of a hundred zombies. No. A thousand zombies. A towering collection of bones with hundreds of heads and hands all connected, and one huge, monstrous arm hanging from it like an old, rusted crane. Maybe ten stories high.

  It wasn’t there a minute ago. She was too busy kicking ass to see it.

  Huey laughed at it. “Hammer time, bitch!”

  Vega wouldn’t have laughed. She would have run. But she couldn’t even do that. Her legs didn’t want to move for her. She was stuck there, frozen.

  The huge arm swung down like Huey’s hammer, only it missed him completely, hitting the ground a few yards away. The ground shook, and Huey lost his balance, falling over the edge of the valley’s rim and tumbling over the broken debris of shattered skeletons. The huge arm swung again; this time, with less force. It dropped swiftly, the hand snatching Huey up by his crotch. He screamed as he was lifted into the air. The hammer dropped from his fingers, and he dropped from the massive skeletal hand.

  The big motherfucker had grabbed him by the balls, and it hadn’t held on. A trail of blood followed him through the air as he dropped to the ground without his most important parts.

  Instead of trying to save his comrade, the tall man grabbed Vega by her shirt and spat words into her face. “Huey’s dead because of you! How do you feel about that? Huh? How do you feel? Answer me!”

  The tall man began to drag Vega, growling in frustration until she moved an inch down the debris hill. She wrenched his fingers away, only to be shoved from behind, probably by the old woman. Vega stumbled forward through the dust and ash, losing her balance and rolling over the ground.

  “Cut the shit,” Vega said. “I’m with you. We have to find Bill.”

  “There’s no time,” the tall man shouted into her face. “Move it. Move!”

  Behind them, Huey roared. “Come and get some!”

  These fools had come for her and were risking everything to get her. She was more valuable than Huey. She was important merchandise. A woman who could be traded or sold.

  She glimpsed Desjardins out of the corner of her eye as they ran down the rubble hill. Resisting him had probably resulted in Bill’s death. If she had just come with him the first time, none of this would have happened. And their friend, Huey, wouldn’t be screaming now.

  ***

  Thankfully, there wasn’t much action on Michigan Avenue. They walked along the road’s red-bricked overlay concrete and stuck to the shadows for temporary relief from the sun. There were more zombies wandering around the car dealerships and Corktown cafes, but all of them were moving in the same direction as Vega and the others; instead of attacking, the zombies seemed drawn to some magnetic destination.

  Vega learned the names of Sutter’s people. The tall man was named Rook, and the old woman was Mean Magda. She was apparently his aunt, and they were Detroit natives, not soldiers trained by Sutter.

  “He brought his own men,” Desjardins explained while they wound through the maze of cars and the spaces between the distracted dead people.

  “I could give a shit,” Vega said, wiping sweat from her eyes. A part of her didn’t want to admit that Bill’s death was her fault. He might not even be dead; still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that her dislike for Desjardins had clouded her judgment. And Bill, once again, tried to protect her.

  “We’re almost there,” Desjardins said. “You’ll see. Once we get there, Sutter will tell you. We’re at war with Traverse, and this is the end. This is the very end.”

  “Can’t believe we lost Huey,” Rook said. “The boss better say something nice.”

  “The boss always has something nice to say,” Mean Magda said. “He liked Huey.”

  “We had the band. We were all together.”

  “We had the band. Not anymore. Back to the castle we go.”

  “Fucking zombies.”

  “We’re not even trading her?” Rook asked Desjardins. “Why did we go to all that trouble? We lost a good man. Huey was my friend.”

  “I’m standing right here,” Vega said. “I lost a good man, too. Quit your whining, and keep your ass moving.”

  Rook stepped up beside her. “Hey, you got a problem? You owe us. We’re doing you a favor, and you keep on running your mouth.”

  “Do something about it.”

  They stopped walking, and Mean Magda shoved her nephew back. Her lips made wet smacking sounds as she talked. “You leave everything to the boss. We got a war to fight, and Huey knew it.”

  “We had a deal,” Rook said. “Huey and I were going to die in the castle. Cracking zombie eggs. I don’t care what the boss says about the war. Huey got himself killed trying to save this meat.”

  Vega patted the Desert Eagle in its holster. “You can still join him. It’s not too late.”

  “We’re wasting time,” Desjardins said. “We can argue about this later.”

  Rook seemed to have all the emotional stability of a five-year-old. Instead of walking away, he tried to stare Vega down. Not many people could meet her glare, and this guy wasn’t budging. Not one bit. She tried to focus on his crooked jaw, but looked away. Desjardins was right. Best to get moving.

  “That’s right,” Rook said. “We’ll have to introduce her to the bone man. He’ll know what to do.”

  “Stop it,” Mean Magda said.

  As they resumed their walk, Vega began to feel the heat getting to her. While Rook and Mean Magda reminisced about Huey to mark time, Vega’s tired mind wandered. Bill had just wanted to go home. Sure, Vega was nothing more than a substitute for the woman he should have saved a long time ago, the woman his friends raped.

  Dizzy, she tried to figure out how Huey managed to get himself killed for her, and maybe even Bill. Too many people were dead, and she wasn’t. She tried to get herself killed, and it still didn’t happen. It was her fault Bill and Huey were both dead.

  The old Catholic guilt creeping in. What would Father Joe say about it?

  She missed him. The smartass priest was a good influence on her, and he knew it. If she found Traverse, she would find Father Joe. Traverse had probably killed the priest, but it was worth fighting through all this shit to find out. He would do the same for her. Traverse was the key to everything, and Desjardins had mentioned they were going to finish some kind of war with that bastard. There was a lot more to this whole thing. Vega was just a soldier, and all she needed was a set of crosshairs on the Artist’s face, and it was over. All over.

  Except i
t wasn’t.

  She could ask Desjardins more questions, try to get more out of him, but she was exhausted, her body crashing hard from the adrenaline surge and the Bushmaster’s firepower. All she could think about was laying down and taking a long nap. A dirt nap was probably best. That’s what she deserved.

  Stop thinking like that. There was work to be done. Don’t let Bill’s death mean nothing.

  Maybe he wasn’t dead.

  Damn, it was hot. Her skin burned. Her throat was parched.

  When they made it to Rose Parks Boulevard they could see Michigan Central Station looming in the distance. Dizziness and nausea blurred her vision, and Rook’s voice seemed far away.

  “This was their year. They had a nice draft this year. They got that guy from Texas, I think his name was Bailey. And I like their coach. The Lions were going to be good.”

  Vega faded. Went somewhere else. Sickness and delirium took over; maybe she passed out. Voices drifted through her brain. Rook, mostly.

  “Nobody was going to take my Barry Sanders autographed football. I didn’t let them take it. The boss said it makes me important. Nobody else has a Barry Sanders autographed football. I’m the only one.”

  She saw a fence, and beyond it, Michigan Central Station. A squatting structure of broken windows and cracked masonry, an icon of metropolitan ruin before the apocalypse. A few scattered zombies lingered around the fence.

  “We got the girl!” Rook shouted, and then his voice was closer. “You better be worth it. Huey said you were ugly. I don’t think we could trade you if we wanted to.”

  Vega wanted to smile at that comment. Miles would have said something like it.

  They brought her inside the abandoned train station, and she listened to Rook and Mean Magda continue their conversation about football. The old woman seemed to be humoring him, and Vega admired the conversation’s simplicity; if only Rook had known Bill Bailey was with her. Maybe the guy would blow a gasket and run back out there to find him.

  Such an innocent conversation, yet it betrayed the fact that people could find something better to do with their lives than wallow. She wished she could be like Rook. He was stronger than her.

  Fading in and out, she glimpsed the inside of the massive train station with its graffiti-splattered walls and chunks of plaster lying on a marble floor; tall, Romanesque columns covered in dust and shadows caught the glare of cathedral-like sunshine. The lobby was mostly empty; the word VOMIT in huge letters upon a wall was enough to make her think it might actually be good advice, considering the shudders that coursed through her body.

  Huddled behind bunkers made up of concrete blocks, men smoked cigarettes and watched her. Rook talked about football. Voices echoed. The men in the bunkers were stationed behind huge six-barreled miniguns. Finally, someone had the balls to bring the firepower.

  “She’s got heatstroke,” Doctor Desjardins said. “We need to get her upstairs and clean her up before Sutter talks to her. She needs to be awake. We need this woman.”

  “She ain’t trade?” someone asked.

  Vega wasn’t sure what the question implied, but she wanted an answer.

  THE CHAMP

  Vega was gone. So quickly, before he could blink. A group of four people had charged up the hill and dragged her back down. One of them, a big guy carrying a sledgehammer, died in the attempt.

  Bill knew how to keep his head straight in a pressure-situation. If he ended up dead in a failed attempt to save Vega’s life, it would be a waste. Desjardins and his people wanted Vega. She was going to survive.

  Amidst the shooting and the dropping bodies, Bill had tried to maneuver around the field of abandoned vehicles and wreckage. Zombies emerged from every shadow, from every corner. He pumped the shotgun and fired. His arms were clawed and bloody, and he had been scratched in several other places, but he couldn’t stop to figure out where the pain was coming from.

  This was the fight of his life, and he was alone.

  He was also out of ammo.

  Nothing would stop them. They would keep coming. And coming. And coming.

  Their moans filled the air. Distorted noise, different voices ebbing and flowing. They walked indiscriminately, pushing through each other, bumping, stumbling, falling. They would not stop. Once they fell, they would try to get back up. They would grab onto another corpse and try to pull themselves up. More of them would fall. Entire clusters within the massive mob dropped like dominoes.

  They were so clumsy. They all seemed like a normal group of people who were just drunk. Their limbs moved awkwardly. If you looked closely, if you stared at one of them, you could see the wounds. You could guess how they had died. You could begin to make up stories in your head about these people, what they may have been like, maybe even what their names used to be.

  He didn’t want to think of them as people. Best to look away. Best not to stare at them. Keep moving. Don’t stop to think. They’re nothing more than an obstacle in the way of victory.

  But there were so many. So many.

  Through the crowd, he noticed two shapes that scrambled faster, pushing through a few of the muddy bodies, the colorless bodies, the gray bodies. Ashen bodies. Charred bodies.

  Two shapes running. Pushing through. Going against the crowd. Not travelling in the same direction as the mob that flowed like a river down the street and over the valley of walking corpses. A river filled with rot.

  They were alive. Two people were alive and trying to get through.

  Bill tried to run through. If they could do it, he could, too. The mob was driven to one purpose, and they didn’t know what that purpose was. They didn’t know anything. They were a mob of dead people.

  Go through them. Just walk right through them.

  He elbowed several of them out of the way, and they bumped into others, causing temporary confusing among them. Undead gridlocked traffic.

  Bumping into him. Jostling him. He kept his head lowered and did his best not to look at their faces. He lowered his shoulders as if about to go through a tackling drill. Elbows locked, poised at his sides, knees bent. He needed to keep his feet moving.

  Crowding around him. Bodies, shapes. Surrounding him. Closing in.

  They were no longer surging forward, but trapped in a pattern. They had stopped, unable to push through each other, unable to climb over one another. Soon enough, though. Soon they would be climbing over each other.

  But he couldn’t stop with them. They would devour him. Rip him to pieces.

  Then he imagined it. He imagined their mouths filled with his blood. Their eyes filled with his blood. Their empty throats where veins and flesh had been ripped away; their chests, their clothes; their hands, meat slipping between fingers; covered in blood. His blood. His body. The inside of him. His face gone, ripped away. He could be like one of the corpses that had become indistinguishable, barely a walking skeleton.

  No time to stop moving.

  He pushed them aside. He wondered if this is what it felt like to swim in quicksand. Pushing weight aside. Dead weight.

  “Not happening,” Bill told them.

  But could they hear him?

  Why did he talk to them? They were dead.

  “Let me through,” he said. “Get out of my way. Just move.”

  Heads cracked on mangled spines, turning to him. Mouths opened. Toothless mouths opened, lips shriveled, gums shrinking.

  Any moment now they would grab him. They would untangle their limbs and seize him, drag him into a world of pain and blood.

  “I want to help you,” he said.

  Why did he say that?

  These people were victims. They were victims of a hellish infliction, a terrible experiment. Somehow, he was doing them a favor by resisting them. They were not in control of their souls anymore, and they should not be damned to Hell because they could not control the monstrous presence that commanded them. It was not their fault.

  They could kill him, and he felt sorry for them.

 
“Just move, please. Please move out of the way. I want to help.”

  How was he going to help? These people were all dead, and they were supposed to attack him. For too long they had been seemingly asleep, waiting on the outskirts of Bill’s little suburban haven. He had grown soft. Unable to accept what these things were. He knew what they were, but he hadn’t confronted them in a situation that seemed hopeless.

  Because he was never hopeless.

  There had been two people moving through the crowd, and he had a better chance of getting to them. But for what? They didn’t need him, did they? He was a stranger. They might shoot him on sight.

  Encircled by hundreds of walking corpses, a sense of dread began to fill him. How had he come this far without thinking this through? Why make a silly gamble and attempt to break through the wall of dead people, just to give up on Vega, give up on everything, throw his life away?

  The challenge. He wanted the challenge.

  A fight that belonged to him alone. Nothing in his life ever came easily, and he wasn’t going to hide behind one person’s death. For what had he saved her, only to abandon her now? He had saved her because of the challenge. Because he had felt left out. He wasn’t part of the heroics, the fight, and now he was at the very center of it all.

  If only there were cameras. A crowd. Bright lights.

  There was a crowd all around him. The sky was bright white. The buildings around him, the perimeter, looked like hollowed-out skulls. Windows without glass. Doorways without doors.

  “Let me through!” he shouted. “LET ME THROUGH! LET ME THROUGH LET ME THROUGH LET ME THROUGH!”

  Without thinking, he grabbed a corpse and nailed it with a right hook; he heard the jaw crack as the dead face rocked sideways. With his left hand, he grabbed the same corpse by the neck and punched it again with his right. And then again. And again.

  He wrestled the dead person to the ground, and several members of the crowd moved aside. In the back of his mind, a faint whisper reminded him that he was going to die. The dead were going to close in, and it would be all over for him. So easily, so simply. Still, he sat astride the dead person’s chest and roared. A long, terrible roar that seemed to reach for the blank sky like a ghost hand reaching for the edge of a cliff.