Arize (Book 1): Resurrection

by Nicholson, Scott

  The host’s previously implacable façade crumbled a little. “So you’re going to turn away non-Christians?”

  “The Religious Liberties measure passed by Congress protects our rights,” Ingram said. “Since the evil ways of non-believers spawned this crisis, we’re justified. The world brought this upon itself.”

  “Circular logic,” Sydney said, her sibilant mushy from beer. “The government can give him an army but he doesn’t have to allow equal access to his shelter. Mixing church and state on his own bullshit terms.”

  “This isn’t helping,” Arjun said, clicking away to another site. Their reprieve from the world’s horrors had been brief, and plenty of footage depicted the zombie outbreak around the globe. Thousands of people streamed videos on their social-media feeds. Even with constant news coverage, Arjun had no way to judge the scale of the slaughter.

  Were a million people infected, or a billion? Or more?

  More importantly for their survival, he was ignorant of conditions in the Raleigh area. Sporadic gunfire and sirens still erupted outside, and passenger vehicles still sped down the street. Plenty of people disobeyed the governor’s order to remain indoors. Leaving Sydney to search the web for news, he checked out the window again.

  Several pillars of smoke rose to the north. That made no sense, because the zombies appeared to operate on a primal, instinctive level with no higher brain functioning. Aside from the rapid spread of the outbreak, the symptoms were typical of the classic zombie in films, books, and videogames. They’d have no motivation to start fires if all they wanted to do was eat flesh.

  Unless they’ve discovered the joys of barbecue.

  Either the military was deploying explosives or people were rioting downtown. If the flames reached the natural gas pipelines running beneath the city, Ingram’s vision of hell on Earth might literally come to pass. Arjun’s view to the south and west were obstructed, but from what he could see, the government district was intact. Much of the automatic gunfire originated from that direction. Arjun imagined the National Guard’s priority was protecting politicians, followed by hospitals, police stations, and whatever churches Ingram had gotten on the president’s list as federal shelters.

  Several cars and a van sped down the street, followed by a police cruiser with its bar lights flashing. The cruiser didn’t seem to be chasing the others. It was as if they were all fleeing the same danger.

  If even the cops were scared, Arjun wasn’t sure he wanted to know what that danger was.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Sydney said. Her words were a little clearer now.

  “Better than getting drunk and waiting for someone to rescue us?”

  “No, dude. We go to Ingram’s church. I saw a video on it. They’ve got a kitchen, a big food pantry, and even a nurse’s clinic. You could survive for a year in there.”

  “Are you crazy? That’s at least a mile away. Besides, I’ll never pass for a Christian. They’ll think I’m a Muslim terrorist and shoot me on sight.”

  “Just talk the talk.”

  “I don’t know the talk.”

  “Talk like Ingram. ‘Blah blah blah, the Lord is my shepherd’ and all that crap.”

  “Are you a Christian?”

  “I’d be a Wiccan but I’m too lazy. I hate rules.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “So let’s go. Once we’re inside the church, we’re safe.”

  “I’d rather wait a while. We’ll keep it as a Plan B.”

  Sydney returned to the sofa and slouched back down. “Your funeral.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Rocky’s squad navigated the run down Bicentennial Plaza with only minor resistance—Grabowski had stopped to peg a zombie a block away who hadn’t even noticed them.

  Once inside the capitol building, Rocky read the directory in the lobby. Now he tested the handle on the oversize oak door labeled “Southwest Suite.”

  It was locked. He drove the butt of his rifle against the wood. “Anybody in there?”

  “You’re going to rile up the zombies,” said one of the young soldiers.

  “Fine with me. If they’re locked inside, we move on.”

  A muffled voice came from the other side of the door. “Who’s there?”

  “Specialist E-4 Rocky Maldonado,” he replied. “U.S. Army.”

  “Any deaders out there?”

  “None that are alive.”

  “Wait a sec. Don’t shoot.” The door handle clicked and the door swung open. A pale man with a high forehead and wire-rimmed glasses peered out at them.

  “How many people are in here?”

  “Four,” the man answered. “We’re not breaking the law. We were told to come to work today.”

  “Any other rooms in there?”

  “This is the governor’s office. We’re his staff.”

  “Where’s the governor?” Grabowski said, pushing forward to peer into the room, which was an array of desks, filing cabinets, and glass-enclosed bookshelves. Rocky put out an arm to bar his entry, but Grabowski shoved his way inside anyway.

  Rocky ordered two of the troops to guard the door and followed Grabowski inside. The room showed signs of a struggle: computers lying on the floor, papers scattered, and splotches of dried blood along one wall. The office workers were huddled in a corner behind a desk, two overweight women and an older man who gripped a lamp with both hands as if it were a club.

  Grabowski stood before an interior door with the man who’d let them into the room. A large brass plate on the door read “GOVERNOR OWEN MAYFIELD.” Rocky joined them before Grabowski could take charge.

  “Don’t open it,” he shouted.

  “The governor’s in there,” Grabowski said.

  “We don’t know what happened,” said the man in glasses, bewildered and distraught. “The door was locked when we got here. And we heard screams, and since then they’ve been banging against the door.”

  “Why didn’t you open it?” Grabowski asked.

  “What if it’s those things in there? We called security but…one of the people in there is a security guard.”

  “You’re telling me the governor’s a zombie?” Rocky asked. This mission was getting more FUBAR by the minute.

  “And the Lieutenant Governor, the guard, and a secretary,” the man said. He stepped away as the commotion grew louder. Now it sounded like multiple hands were scratching at the door, trying to claw their way through.

  “Wait a sec,” Grabowski said. “If the governor’s a deader, then who declared the curfew and martial law?”

  “Me,” said the older man, setting down his makeshift weapon. “I’m the Attorney General. Simon Marks.”

  He stepped forward and extended his hand like a politician at a chicken-dinner fundraiser, but the soldiers ignored him.

  “All right,” Rocky said. “One of my men will escort you from the building.”

  “To where?” Marks said. “The whole building’s contaminated.”

  Rocky thought it was weird that none of the people in this room had turned, while everyone else they’d encountered was a zombie. He pointed at the spattered blood. “Where did that come from?”

  Marks pointed across the room. A corpse lay half-concealed beneath a desk, a pool of thickening blood around it. “I…put it down, I think is the proper terminology.”

  Rocky gave the exposed skin a cursory glance. He didn’t see any streaked veins or obvious signs of illness. “You sure it was infected?”

  “He tried to bite Brenda,” said the man in glasses.

  One of the women—Rocky guessed it was Brenda—gave an audible sob. The other comforted her.

  “Let’s get them out of here,” Rocky said to Grabowski.

  “Our orders are to clear the building,” the private said.

  “Those deaders are locked in. They don’t pose any immediate danger.”

  “It’s the governor. We can’t leave him like that. It seems…unpatriotic somehow.”

  Grabowski didn�
�t understand that nationalities and allegiances no longer mattered. Political boundaries had been erased and replaced by a single line—one between the living and the living dead.

  Before Rocky could get Grabowski in line, his walkie-talkie hissed and Sgt. Jackson’s voice came over: “Fox Alpha One. You there, Maldonado? Over.”

  “Affirmative, Sergeant. Over.”

  “Stand down on current ops. Repeat, stand down. Over.”

  “Copy that, Sergeant.”

  “Proceed to Hillsborough Street, ten blocks west of you, over. Perform an evasion and escape and rejoin the unit, over.

  “We have civilians, Sergeant. And the governor is a…”

  “Is a what, Maldonado?”

  “He’s an enemy combatant, sir.”

  “Dead or alive? Over.”

  “Both.”

  The radio emitted a soft hiss as Sgt. Jackson mulled the information. Then he came back with, “Evasion and escape, immediately. Over.”

  “What about the civilians, over?”

  “Not your problem. You have your orders. Over and out.”

  “Copy. Over and out.”

  The governor’s staff members looked stricken. Marks said, “But I’m the Attorney General!”

  Grabowski waited outside the governor’s office, eager to bust in and empty a magazine or two. Maldonado debated escorting the civilians to safety, perhaps just a block or two along the way. Sgt. Jackson would never know and, given the chaos, would have other things to worry about besides a court-martial.

  But where was safe? A building with other civilians? And how vulnerable would they be on the streets without weapons or training? The Attorney General had gotten lucky once with his lamp, but that ploy wouldn’t work if they were swarmed.

  Maybe they were better off right here, at least for the short term. They had access to water and could lock the doors. This was familiar turf. True, they’d have to listen to the scratching and thumping of the zombies next door, but at least they were alive.

  “You heard the sergeant,” Maldonado said to the other soldiers. “Let’s move out.”

  “We’re coming with you,” Marks said. The two women’s wide eyes suggested they might not be part of that “we.” The man in glasses chewed at his fingernails as if he’d already developed a mild taste for human flesh.

  “You’re on your own. I can’t stop you from leaving, but I’d advise you to stay here and wait for rescue.”

  “We thought you were the rescue,” said the man in glasses. His face glistened with sweat, even with the air conditioning whistling from the vents.

  Maldonado took a closer look. The man wasn’t turning, was he?

  The sergeant’s words echoed in his ears: “Not your problem.”

  “I’d recommend you stay here and carry on,” Maldonado said. To Marks, he added, “After all, you’re the acting governor now, right?”

  Marks seemed to consider the newfound power, unaware that conditions outside would soon render governments useless. He straightened up a little, cleared his throat, and said, “Of course, we’ll continue to serve this state to the best of our abilities. Right, ladies?”

  Even Brenda gave an enthusiastic nod, probably relieved at not having to venture beyond the capitol building. Maldonado gave them a casual salute and waved a grumpy Grabowski out the door, waiting until the staff members locked it behind them.

  “You should’ve let me put the governor down,” Grabowski said. “When the public finds out, morale’s going down the shitter.”

  “I got news for you, Grabo. Morale can’t get much lower.”

  They retraced their steps to the building’s entrance. The hallways were free of zombies, but by the time they reached the lobby, a horde awaited them on the capitol grounds. One zombie had climbed a statue of a horse and rider, possibly mistaking the statue for prey. The terrain offered plenty of trees, though, so they’d have enough cover while still enjoying wide firing lanes.

  At least the zombies weren’t shooting back. All they had to do was outrun them and stay out of arm’s reach. They fanned out once they hit the open, staying quiet to avoid attention. But Grabowski couldn’t resist. They’d barely covered forty yards when he let loose a burst with his M-16. A couple of zombies collapsed, but a dozen more discovered that fresh meat was in the area.

  Cursing under his breath, Rocky waved the troops to the next tree, a large oak that had probably been a sapling when North Carolina was still a British colony. Rocky gunned down a zombie that already looked like it was rotting, even though that was impossible. The infection had started barely more than a day ago. Even the most vicious virus couldn’t reduce a human to suppurating flesh that fast.

  He shifted his aim to a second target, a long-haired girl who couldn’t have been more than ten. He hesitated. This was somebody’s daughter. But did age really matter anymore? Wasn’t death a state beyond time?

  And if she was a deader, wasn’t it compassionate to make her deadest?

  Before he could act, a motion above caused him to tilt his head. Something heavy dropped on one of the troops with a wet, doughy thump. The soldier screamed, and Rocky turned to see a nearly naked figure snapping and snarling. The quarters were too close for gunplay, so Rocky rushed forward and drove his boot into the thing’s ribs.

  The zombie rolled away, barely seeming to notice the blow. It certainly didn’t register pain. If anything, it was annoyed at having dinner interrupted. The watery eyes swept over Rocky, and its hungry glare reminded him that these things harbored no humanity at all.

  Instead of lunging at its attacker, the zombie grabbed the scrambling soldier and pulled him into a sickening embrace. In a parody of romantic passion, the thing’s lips brushed along the slope of the soldier’s neck and then parted. The soldier squealed again as teeth clamped down on his cheek and the zombie ripped away a dribbling morsel. It was going in for another bite when Grabowski blew its head into a stump of red cottage cheese.

  “Why’d you freeze?” Grabowski said to Rocky.

  “I didn’t.” But Rocky wasn’t sure if he had or not. The attack had been so swift and the entire situation was so overwhelming that his brain might’ve overloaded. All the training in the world couldn’t have prepared them for this.

  “Watch my back,” Grabowski said, kneeling to help the wounded soldier, who whimpered and moaned while holding one hand against the gash in his face. Blood leaked from around his fingers and stained the sleeve of his fatigues.

  Rocky turned to find the zombie girl, who was now twenty yards closer. She was in no hurry, but she was determined. Her nose lifted in the air when she smelled the blood. She picked up the pace, but managed barely more than a wobbling stroll.

  Rocky sighted his rifle to the middle of her forehead. He didn’t think about her next birthday party, the boys she’d never kiss in high school, or the kids she wouldn’t have. Her future was nothing now but one long, diseased forever.

  Until he ended it.

  The gunshot roared in his skull. She dropped like a watermelon balanced on a broomstick.

  The other two soldiers brought up the rear, firing sporadically. The noise had attracted a crowd, as more zombies came out of the streets and between the trees. The unit fought its way to the intersection, where they found better concealment among the stranded vehicles. Grabowski was unable to provide firepower, focusing his attention on helping the injured soldier. The victim was faint from blood loss and shock, barely able to walk.

  They fought their way to an abandoned city bus. Rocky ordered the others to wait while he did a quick recon. The bus was clear, so they helped their wounded comrade aboard. One of the soldiers said he could drive it after finding the keys in the ignition. He heated the glow plugs and then fired the diesel engine with a belch of black smoke.

  “We’ll never make it to the rendezvous with this traffic jam,” Rocky said.

  “Trust me, boss,” the driver said. “I used to compete in dirt-track demolition derbies back in Rockingha
m.”

  “Buckle up,” Grabowski said, sliding the wounded soldier onto a bench seat.

  “No seat belts,” said the other soldier.

  “Hang the hell on, then,” Grabowski said as the driver slipped the bus into gear and jerked it forward.

  Rocky stared out the tinted windows at the zombies streaming along the sidewalks. The movement of the bus caught their attention and they changed direction and followed. He estimated two dozen of them. Vague ghosts of shapes flitted beyond the glass storefronts and apartment buildings, but he had no way of knowing whether those were the living or the dead.

  Grabowski had taken charge, instructing the driver where to turn. Rocky didn’t care. He was glad to be relieved of the burden. Any additional blood would be on Grabowski’s hands.

  The bus’s front fender sideswiped a utility truck, pulling away with a brittle crunch of glass and grinding metal. The driver plowed between a narrow opening, parting two import sedans like bowling pins. Their maximum speed didn’t get much over ten miles an hour, but it was enough to gain some distance from the trailing zombies. Unfortunately, more seemed to lurk around every corner, pouring out of alleys and between parked cars, and in one case dropping from atop a building to smash the hood of a BMW.

  When the well-dressed woman exited the BMW, Rocky at first thought she was infected, because she moved with stilted, uncoordinated steps. Then he realized she was in a state of panic and trying to flee on high heels. She waved at the bus with a frantic hand as several zombies closed in on her.

  “Stop the bus!” Rocky bellowed.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Maybe we should go back to the house,” Ian said, idling with several dozen other cars in a massive traffic jam.

  “And wait for Ramona to get worse?” Meg glanced in the back seat at their daughter, who was still sweaty and jaundiced-looking. Her symptoms had progressed past the worst Meg herself had suffered. Despite her reassurances to Ian and Jacob, she was afraid her daughter would change into one of those things.

  “We can’t go back,” Jacob said. “A million cars are behind us blocking us in.”