The dead were responding to the siren. They emerged from doorways, appeared at second and third floor windows. One even crawled out from under a fire truck, right where she had been standing a short while ago. It couldn’t have been there earlier, she thought. It would have tried to bite her ankle.
Angie raised the Galil and fired. A man in a sport coat went down. A woman in a meter maid’s uniform and another in a bathrobe collapsed with head shots. Turning left, she dropped a high school student, an elderly man, a fireman and the rotting corpse of a teenager limping towards her in a thigh-length cast covered in signatures and lipstick hearts. More appeared.
She trotted to the big SUV and tossed her rifle onto the passenger seat, climbing in and locking the driver’s door behind her. Bodies thumped against the vehicle as she fired up the engine and reached for the walkie-talkie.
“Bud, what’s happening?”
No reply.
“Bud, come in. Do you copy?”
The siren cut off abruptly, and at that moment she caught a horrible, sour stench coming from the back seat. She glanced at the rearview, already reaching for her shoulder holster, and saw a scarecrow seated behind her wearing a hooded sweatshirt. His eyes jittered, the pupils so big and black that they looked like twin bullet holes. The muzzle of a pistol pressed against her right temple, and her hand froze on the butt of her own automatic.
“Hello, beautiful,” Brother Peter said.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Mission Bay
It was only three blocks, but Father Xavier’s journey from the building where he left Alden to the waterfront was the longest and loneliest time of his life. He moved down the center of a street which was like a canyon, the high walls of condominiums rising on the left and right. Cars sat parked in silent rows along the curbs, many of their owners banging rhythmically at windows high above, dead and trapped within their homes.
A rat the size of a housecat strutted insolently across the street in front of him, its grey-black hair slicked flat by the rain. A solitary corpse, a woman in tight jeans and a torn blouse, one hand so chewed it looked as if she had stuck it in a lawnmower, hobbled after it, not seeing the man in the street. They quickly disappeared between a pair of buildings on the left.
The rain drummed on the hoods and roofs of cars, creating puddles on the asphalt and plastering the priest’s clothes against his chest. It was a cold rain.
I saved no one, Xavier thought. I protected no one.
He suddenly wondered why he was going on at all. To what purpose? To stay alive in a world where only he existed? To perhaps encounter another handful of desperate, frightened people, only to fail them as well?
And then he knew Tricia had been right. He was already in hell, and this was God’s punishment for his unforgivable sins. Did he deserve less? He thought, if this was a movie, I would cry to the heavens, ‘God, why have you forsaken me?’ But he already knew why. God had turned his back because Xavier Church was a killer, and one who masqueraded as a man of faith, perhaps an even greater sin. He had taken lives, and in doing so, broken his covenant with God. Now he was condemned to walk among the dead, a man without hope.
And yet he kept moving towards the bay.
Eventually he came to a final cross street, Terry A. Francois Boulevard. Beyond was a large park which led to the water. Xavier turned left and kept going, staying close to the park side of the street, watching for movement in the rain and still wondering why he bothered. Near Mission Bay Boulevard South, the park ended at another industrial area on the right; small garages, fenced yards where boats rested elevated on metal racks, repair facilities and a few shops specializing in sport fishing equipment. Xavier moved into this area, still heading for the water, and soon found himself at the edge of a long wharf. Off to his left was a large building with many windows, and umbrella tables outside. To the right was a commercial fishing pier and docks, where small cranes sat waterside near ice houses, ready to receive the day’s catch. The air reeked of oil and salt and fish, but there were no boats in the water. A dirty gull stood on a piling not far away, watching him with small black eyes.
The priest stared out at the gray day, at the storm clouds passing slowly across the sky, at the water, choppy and cold. He knew its temperature could get down into the forties, even in August. It wouldn’t take long before the water sapped him of heat and strength, pulling him under and quickly silencing him.
Suicide meant immediate damnation.
But he was already in hell, wasn’t he?
It took a moment before he realized he had been watching the small shape of a helicopter far out across the bay, moving slowly along Alameda Island. He blinked. Helicopter. That processed for a moment, and then he began to wave his arms and shout, demanding it see him, demanding it come. And then he dropped his arms and shook his head, feeling foolish for the unthinking reaction. Did he really think he could be seen or heard at this distance?
But he did get a response. A chorus of moans called out behind him.
Xavier turned to see a hundred or more of the dead coming at him in a crowd. They had approached steadily, quietly, while he stared out at the water. Now they were less than ten yards away.
The priest ran, heading into the commercial fishing area. The crowd followed, and he didn’t get far before more corpses staggered out onto the wharf in front of him. He cut left, running down a floating wooden dock which bobbed beneath him, threatening to throw him off balance and into the water. It was a short dock, and he reached the end in less than a minute, angry with himself for coming this way, not thinking, knowing he had obeyed a primitive instinct to run, run, run. He turned and saw the dead streaming off the wharf and onto the wooden planking, bumping against one another as they came on in a wave.
Xavier looked at the crowbar in his hand, looked at the water. A few of the dead lost their balance on the bobbing dock and fell off the sides, but the rest kept coming, their moans rising. Fifty feet. Twenty-five. Mouths dropped open and the creatures in the lead began lurching faster.
The priest planted his feet and raised the crowbar, the beginnings of an ‘Our Father’ coming out in a whisper without him realizing. He tensed to swing.
A spotlight framed him from behind, and he heard the sound of an idling motor. He turned to see a San Francisco Police Harbor Patrol boat drifting fifty feet away, silhouettes of people moving behind the light.
“Swim!” someone shouted.
Xavier dropped the heavy tool and dove. The water took him in a frigid grip, and when he broke the surface he gasped, trying to breathe. Dozens of splashes came from behind him, and he forced his arms and legs to move. The boat seemed miles away.
“Faster!” the voice yelled, and then there was the boom of a shotgun. Xavier pulled himself through the water, forcing himself to take even breaths, not to give into the stabbing cold. Another shotgun blast went off just overhead, and then one of his hands rapped hard against the fiberglass hull. He pawed his way down the side, finding a narrow metal platform half submerged at the stern. Xavier hauled himself out of the water and tumbled into the rear of the boat.
A man and a woman sat on a bench seat, keeping close together and huddling under rain ponchos. The woman was pregnant. Another woman in blue camouflage and a ball cap stood at the helm, gripping the wheel and already throttling the patrol boat away from the dock. Xavier slumped to the deck, shivering as a man stood over him. He wore sneakers, khaki jeans and an expensive, caramel-colored rain coat. His skin was a light mocha, and he wore his hair in tight, neck-length braids with a few shells and colored beads woven into them.
He was pointing a shotgun at Xavier. The priest thought he looked terrified.
“Helicopter,” Xavier said, his teeth chattering.
The man with the braids ignored him. “He’s shaking,” he called to the woman at the helm. “I think he’s got the virus.”
She didn’t look back. “Then kill him.”
Xavier raised a hand and shook his head as the m
an pointed the muzzle of the shotgun, and pulled the trigger.
THE STORY CONTINUES…..
Additional titles from John L. Campbell
RED CIRCUS
THE MANGROVES
IN THE FALLING LIGHT
Photo by Linda Campbell
John L. Campbell was born in Chicago, and attended college in North Carolina and New York. His jobs have included limousine driver, bouncer, store detective and investigator. Campbell studied Kendo, and is a professionally-trained interrogator.
His short fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies, literary magazines and online ezines. Campbell's first book, RED CIRCUS: A DARK COLLECTION, assembled 21 tales of horror and suspense, and was followed by a second, larger collection of terror, IN THE FALLING LIGHT. Campbell's novella, THE MANGROVES, is based on actual events, and chronicles a WWII Japanese regiment which marched into the most horrific crocodile massacre in recorded history.
Watch for SHIP OF THE DEAD, the next chapter in the Omega Days series.
Visit or contact the author at www.johnlcampbell.com
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
Additional titles from John L. Campbell
Omega Days Page 31
