“So it won’t be safe in there?”
“I’ll keep us safe.”
The soldiers who’d been stationed along the top of the wall had largely descended into the compound to join whatever battle was taking place there. She saw that they’d been standing on the tops of transport trucks parked alongside the wall. Since she couldn’t see any troops, she reasoned they wouldn’t be able to see the two of them. She only hoped no one shone a flashlight in her direction.
Hannah and Ramona slithered out along an overhanging branch until they were above the top of the wall. Ramona was right; she was a pretty skillful climber despite her illness. She’d probably had to keep up with her older brother when they played.
The ledge was narrow, maybe a foot wide, which would be easy to walk on the ground but not suspended in the air. A stray bullet pinged off the bricks nearby. Hannah didn’t want to be exposed any longer than necessary.
“Climb down onto your belly and wiggle like a worm until you reach a truck,” Hannah said.
The girl obeyed, sliding gracefully from the branches onto the wall and working her way to the right. Hannah took a last look at the streets behind them. More shadows came out of the deeper darkness, and she didn’t think these were people. They shambled forward with the careening, awkward gait of the damned.
Without the troops thinning their numbers and keeping them at bay, the deaders moved toward the commotion erupting inside the churchyard.
I’ll be grateful for these walls once we’re inside.
Some of the windows of the main building cast a dim gleam aside from the reflection of distant bonfires. Hannah imagined the facility had emergency generators in the event of power failure, and one large tent in the parking lot was suffused with the soft glow of an interior light source. It bore the stark logo of the Red Cross, which Hannah noted was in ironic contrast to the white cross that towered over the church and now reflected the muted orange light of hellfire.
“They can take care of you there,” Hannah said, pointing to the tent.
“I know,” Ramona replied. “Maybe my mom’s waiting for me.”
“There’s a truck just ahead. Can you climb down onto it?”
“Yeah. Do you still have Mister Grizz?”
Hannah felt along her belly and for one disturbing moment she thought she’d lost the stuff animal. But then she felt it along her side, where the bear had shifted during the climb. “All good.”
The gunfire seemed to increase. Much of it took place inside the main facility. Occasionally a flashlight beam would sweep over the open double doors, giving Hannah a glimpse of the carnage inside. While she never discerned enough detail to make sense of it, her impression was of gunfire and bloody bodies. The troops appeared to be gathered at the entrance, gunning down anyone who moved.
A steady thrum arose in the distance, growing louder. Hannah recognized the whir of helicopter rotors beating the air, verified by green and red navigation lights set on each side the cockpit and winking red lights near the main and tail rotors. A searchlight swept over the streets, illuminating a horde of zombies that had emerged from the alleys and buildings.
The helicopter descended toward the church parking lot. Hannah urged Ramona to hurry before the searchlight revealed their whereabouts to the troops. The girl pivoted on her rear and dangled her legs over the wall, and Hannah held her while she made the short drop onto the truck roof. Hannah quickly followed, and they crouched on the roof as the rotors buffeted the air around them, the chopper’s engines drowning out the gunfire.
Troops holding red-coned signal lights formed a cordon to signal the helicopter’s landing zone. As it drifted in for touchdown, Hannah could see into the cockpit, which was lit by green lights from the instrument panel. The pilot appeared to be struggling with the controls as the co-pilot attacked her. The helicopter dipped to one side, skewing toward the church sanctuary. The troops on the ground scattered.
Hannah and Ramona clambered off the truck and hid beneath its big front wheels, breathing in the smell of motor oil and smoke. The helicopter appeared to regain its equilibrium forty feet above the ground, but then a spurt of dark fluid spattered the cockpit window. The helicopter canted crazily and teetered straight for the wall near the main entrance, accelerating as it dropped.
Hannah shielded Ramona as the chopper bounced once off the asphalt and then crashed into the wall, sending bricks flying into the air. Much of the fuselage plowed through the opening before the main rotor broke free and was flung off into the darkness beyond. Metal screeched like a monstrous, wounded bird, followed moments later by a whoosh and a sudden bloom of fire.
The flames illuminated the entire courtyard with coruscating ribbons of brilliance, throwing the fleeing people into stark relief. The wreckage spat twisted scraps in all directions, cutting one woman nearly in half. Another piece of shrapnel slashed a large hole in the Red Cross tent, causing even more panicked flight.
So much for getting medical attention.
Hannah covered Ramona’s ears to muffle the screams and gunfire, but the little girl had already absorbed so many horrors that the effort seemed futile. She wondered how long they’d be able to hide here before the chaos settled down enough for them to enter the facility and look for Ramona’s family. Hannah wasn’t even sure that was the best play, and now questioned her commitment to this mission. Then the girl’s eyes—wide, frightened, imploring, and hauntingly hopeful—met Hannah’s, and the doubt was gone.
Then Hannah remembered the shambling figures outside the walls. They’d be attracted by the explosion and the flames, and they now had a way into the compound.
The zombies seemed to make the realization at the same time as Hannah, because the first of them staggered through the ruins, flickering like an inhuman torch.
Dinner time.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“They’re inside the compound, Reverend.”
At first, Cameron Ingram didn’t register Cyrus Woodley’s words. He’d been staring at his phone in the dark, as were several others in the surveillance room that connected to the multimedia studio. The emergency generators kicked on, but there wasn’t enough power to run the spotlights and monitors. Cyrus was posted by the window with a couple of Col. Hayes’s officers, watching by firelight as zombies streamed through the breached wall.
The helicopter crash had shaken the entire complex, grit and debris drifting down from the ceiling tiles, but Hayes assured him his troops could contain the invasion. Ingram wiped his phone screen and dialed Sarah Beth’s number once again. Their private jet had landed at Raleigh-Durham International an hour ago, but he hadn’t heard from her since. In fact, none of his calls or texts went through, even his attempt to respond to the president.
When Cyrus repeated his words, Ingram set aside his phone. “We have to defend the sanctuary,” Ingram said. “It’s one thing for evil to trespass against us, but it shall not set foot on sacred ground.”
“You’re safer here,” Cyrus said.
“No. The Lord is with me wherever I go.”
As he stood and headed for the door, one of the lieutenants said, “Sir, Col. Hayes requested that you wait for further orders.”
Ingram wasn’t quite sure of the powers conveyed to him by the presidential appointment, but he figured this foot soldier didn’t know, either. “Tell the colonel he’ll have to take it up with God.”
As Ingram exited the control room, Cyrus on his heels, he heard the lieutenant calling Hayes on his two-way radio. The emergency lighting on the fifth floor barely afforded enough light to navigate the hall, but he knew the church property well enough to walk it in his sleep. He’d worked closely with the architectural firm in the facility’s design, particularly the 8,000-seat sanctuary with its massive pipe organ, tastefully arrayed video screens, and stained glass. While its placement in the center of the facility—with an outer layer of offices, workrooms, and meeting spaces girding it—was more a metaphorical than practical protective barrie
r, Ingram now wondered if some higher purpose had been at work all along.
How could there not be?
“They might get in the building, Reverend,” Cyrus said.
“Judging from the gunfire, they’re already in,” Ingram said. “And probably have been all along.”
His decision to open Promiseland to everyone but the afflicted had proven to be a mistake. He thought he was fulfilling his duty, but Satan had exploited the act of benevolence and generosity. True, Hayes and the government had forced his response as well. He was now doubly determined that only the elected—those accepting the Lord’s salvation—would find refuge in his church.
Ingram peered through one of the stained-glass frames into the sanctuary below, but all he could see was distorted darkness. He punched the button to his private elevator and then remembered the power was out.
“The back stairs,” he said, not waiting for Cyrus to catch up. Two soldiers emerged from the control room, apparently ordered to follow by Col. Hayes. One of them carried a spotlight that augmented the light from Ingram’s cell phone. Ingram headed down the stairs, which led to a small sanctum and vestry behind the pulpit. Ingram often spent his Sunday mornings there instead of his office, praying and meditating in preparation for a worship service.
Few people were allowed access to his most private and sacred space, but Cyrus knew the entire layout of the facility and had free access to all of it. These two soldiers, however, had yet to prove themselves worthy. But these were troubled times, and he’d have to trust that God would send him allies in the war against Satan.
When they passed through the sanctum to the main body of the worship hall, the distant fires leaked through the stained glass of the vaulted steeple, throwing a watery orange glow across the cavernous space. The light glinted off the organ pipes where the instrument sat on a loft a story above the nave. A choir loft was attached to the opposite wall, capable of seating a hundred and twenty. Seating for the congregation was arrayed in three different sections, which led some of his critics to claim it was more like a movie theater than a church. Ingram ignored those who considered him a huckster and spiritual impresario—he only wished he could spread the gospel in football stadiums and concert venues like his father had, but times changed.
He was relieved to find the sanctuary hadn’t been invaded, but numerous hands pounded on the thick wooden doors. Emergency exits near the pulpit led onto the second floor, but so far no one was trying to gain entry there.
“Do we let them in?” Cyrus asked. The soldiers stood in the gloom, visible only as black silhouettes behind the spotlight.
“Only the elected,” the reverend replied. “Only the believers.”
“We won’t be able to keep anybody out once you open those doors,” one of the soldiers said.
“Perhaps I have to trust the Lord. If He led them here, it was for a purpose.”
Cyrus drew his firearm. He’d taken care to show Ingram how to release the safety and chamber a round using the slide-action, but Ingram had refused to use it himself. While he was grateful for the weapons around him, he saw no need to sully his hands.
“You don’t know how many deaders are out there,” the other soldier said.
“Hundreds, I’m sure,” Ingram said. “The pale rider, Death, is granted a fourth part of the earth to kill using hunger, the sword, and the beasts of the earth. And what have we here but hunger?”
As Ingram walked down the center aisle of the seating area, gunfire filtered in through the protective walls, a dim and distant reminder of the safety of this space. Cyrus kept close behind him, walking from side to side to make sure the place was empty. The two soldiers waited in front of the pulpit, sweeping the spotlight back and forth. The glittering light reflected the massive stained-glass depiction of Jesus kneeling before a lamb that hung over the main entrance. Those waiting outside would be able to see it and draw comfort.
Ingram put his hands on the doors. The vibrations were urgent and powerful, God’s people in need. He was ready to throw back the locks on the massive deadbolts when Cyrus put a hand over his. “Allow me, Reverend. Stand clear.”
They would be frightened when they poured inside and so would need some time to recuperate. Ingram stood beside the first row of seats like an usher.
“Let them in,” he commanded.
The doors opened like Moses parting the Red Sea, and wild, scared faces appeared. Then the crowd pushed its way inside. Despite the clamor and noise, there were only a couple of dozen people, and they huddled behind Ingram, unable to recognize him in the weak light.
“Shut it!” a man implored. “They’re coming!”
Parents with a small child knelt on the carpet and genuflected, marking themselves as Catholic. While Ingram had evolved from Baptist to a more general Church of Christ nondenominational leaning, he realized he’d have to broaden his philosophy even more. Those details could be worked out, as long as the elected were willing.
And if they weren’t…well, the Tribulation would come soon enough.
Cyrus peered into the gloomy hall, shining a penlight alongside the barrel of his handgun in a two-fisted grip. “Got some bodies out here.”
“Because they’re trying to kill us,” the loud man said.
“All shot,” Cyrus said. “No bites.”
The gunfire was louder now, reverberating inside the gym, and Ingram could only imagine the slaughter taking place there. Perhaps it had been a mistake to allow the soldiers into Promiseland. The army was crudely separating the chosen from the damned, whereas Ingram could have accomplished the mission with grace. But as he joined Cyrus at the doorway, he saw that the soldiers might not have been killing as indiscriminately as it sounded.
One of the people lying on the tiled floor of the foyer opened her eyes. Despite the bloody wound in her abdomen, her face showed no suffering. Ingram knelt beside her, taking her hand. “Shall we pray, my child?”
Cyrus’s pen light danced across her pupils, which were brilliant and opalescent. Her cheeks were flushed and mottled, not pale as they should’ve been if she were enduring the onset of shock. Her mouth opened, and a low growl came out along with a spray of spittle.
“Ask His forgiveness and the kingdom of heaven shall be yours,” Ingram said.
“She’s infected,” the bodyguard said.
“Infected with sin. But that can be healed.”
Ingram placed his hand on the woman’s forehead. She twisted her neck and snapped at his fingers, missing by inches. Ingram pulled away and studied her as she tried to roll onto her side.
He heard more commotion and gunfire as the doors rattled at the end of the hallway. More people had fled the gym and crowded onto the ground floor, searching for a way inside. Ingram wasn’t sure how many he could help. Better to start with one soul at a time.
“Help me bring her in,” Ingram said to Cyrus.
Cyrus hesitated, playing the light over the woman’s writhing form. “Are you sure you want her in the sanctuary?”
“The Lord has tested me. Tested all of us. And our faith is strong.”
Cyrus still made no move to help him. The belligerent man inside the sanctuary appeared beside Cyrus and said, “You want to drag that damned deader in here?”
“She is just as deserving as you are,” Ingram said. In truth, he was a little afraid of her. Despite his earlier encounter when he’d healed the afflicted—just before Cyrus killed it—he wasn’t sure his power was real. If he could cure this demon, then he would know that God had chosen him.
“This place,” the man said. “They told us it was a shelter. That the army would protect us from them. And now you want to bring one in.”
The soldiers came into the hallway, drawn by the heated debate. One said, “Stand aside. Let me put a bullet in its skull.”
Cyrus stepped in front of the soldier. “If any killing needs to be done, it’s my job.”
“All I need is a moment,” Ingram said. “Bring her in, and let’s se
e if she is worthy of salvation. If not, you’re welcome to kill her.”
“She’s already dead,” the soldier said. “I’d just be killing her the second time.”
The metal door at the end of the hallway began to creak from strain as the crowd hammered against it. Ingram had no way of knowing whether demons, the elected, or the damned would come flooding through those doors. The woman squirmed toward him, leaving a slick wet trail on the floor.
“All right, let’s get her,” Cyrus said, stooping down beside Ingram and gripping her upper arm. She angled her neck to bite him and he delivered a backhanded slap that sent her head wobbling.
Ingram grabbed her other arm and together they dragged her inside the sanctuary just as the hallway door gave way. A great shouting and commotion arose, spiked with screams and gunfire. The soldiers slammed the thick wooden doors leading into the sanctuary. Cyrus and Ingram laid the woman on the carpet, and then Cyrus slid home the metal crossbar and deadbolt just as the knocking began.
Ingram wondered if this was how Noah had felt, when the floodwaters came and the unbelievers suddenly wanted to board the ark. Was it too late for them?
“Let’s take her to the vestry,” Ingram said to Cyrus.
Cyrus pulled out a large hunting knife—Ingram had no idea where it might’ve been hidden beneath the bodyguard’s expensive suit—and snipped a length of decorative gold braid from a set of stanchions used for directing congregants. He yanked the woman’s arms behind her back and tied her hands together. He hooked one of the stanchions inside the knot, grabbed the stanchion base, and pulled, nearly lifting the infected woman off her feet. He used the makeshift lever to guide her toward the pulpit.
The woman snarled as Ingram led the way, washed by the great fire in the distance that made the stained-glass figures dance. The refugees parted and allowed them a wide berth. The Catholic family resumed its prayers, several of the others whispered among themselves, and the new wave of the lost pounded ever harder on the sanctuary doors.
Arize (Book 1): Resurrection Page 19
