900 Miles: A Zombie Novel

by S. Johnathan Davis

  They pulled up on a suburban street in Detroit, one of the few where the lawns were still mowed and the people paid their bills. It was an old neighborhood close to the Grosse Pointe border. Tree branches hung low over the narrow street, and all the homes had been built close together, their driveways barely wide enough for one car.

  They got out, quietly opened the trunk, and suited up in the rain. Bob assumed they were parked at least a block away from where Traverse was located; Crater was a professional. They slipped their night gear on, which included black tights, night-vision goggles, light Kevlar, Berettas, and combat knives.

  Crater dialed in the air support to evac their target as soon as they could confirm the target's position. Crater and Bob were never supposed to be able to bring Traverse in on their own: an entire team of commandos was needed, but first, the target had to be located, and he had to be inert.

  "Showtime," Crater announced.

  Bob didn't ask about their plan; he was getting careless, and he allowed Crater to take the lead. He trusted him because he'd been dragged off his bar stool in the middle of a binge to apprehend the man they had both been chasing for far too long.

  Crater eagerly led him across the street through puddles of rainwater. The mission was truly on, and Bob realized that he might actually capture Traverse. Finally, after all this time, the hunt was coming to an end.

  An unexpected excitement bloomed within his chest as they walked through a darkened yard. For once in his life, he believed that something good was going to happen to him.

  Lightning crashed through the night, and both men stopped in their tracks. They crept through the yard in their gear and spied the house where Traverse might have been waiting for them. Bob could feel his heart slow and his muscles tense up. The house was completely dark. How could he let them get the drop on him now, after all this time? It wasn't right. No. Traverse was waiting. He knew…

  Bob turned around sharply and found that Crater was twisted backward, his hands clasped around his foe's arm. Traverse held Crater's own knife at his throat.

  "Hey there, Bob," the former commando said casually. "Why don't you boys come in and have a beer? The police will be here soon. I figured maybe we can sit down and have a little chat before they arrest me."

  "Arrest you?" Bob kept his Beretta trained on the shadowed man.

  "It will be much easier to explain if you just come in," Traverse said. "I was waiting for you, Bob. This is all part of the game, I assure you. Drop your false sense of bravado—you can’t win. It would be best if you killed me outright, but you won't, because that's not in the contract. It's a rather old contract though, isn't it?"

  "I'm a merc," Bob said. "I'll pick up another job."

  "Sure. But the people who employed you to bring me in will be disappointed. They will have you and your friend erased. You know this. I'm far more important to them alive."

  "You're fucked," Crater choked. "We got you this time. Got the whole block on lockdown."

  Traverse chuckled. "I'm counting on it."

  Bob didn't like the feeling of helplessness. He was a man of action, and Traverse had him dead to rights. More than anything, he wanted to take a good look at the ex-soldier's face. He wanted to see the man who had eluded him for so long, so easily.

  "Your beer better be cold," Bob grumbled.

  "I'm glad you see things my way," Traverse said through the rain. "Go on inside. This house will suit us, I think."

  "You don't live here," Bob stated the obvious, because he was afraid of the truth.

  "Don't be an idiot," Traverse replied. "Of course, I've been staying in the other house. But I thought it would be rather fun to throw a party tonight. You can keep your weapon, by the way."

  Bob cringed. He knew what was coming next. Traverse wasn’t going to kill him, or he would have done it already. If he didn't do anything stupid, Traverse was going to let him live, because it had something to do with whatever game he was trying to play. Traverse was a firm believer in method...

  He walked into the dark house in front of Crater and Traverse, though he kept the gun in his hand. The job had been compromised, but he would be damned if Traverse was just going to waste him without a fight.

  "Turn on the lights," Traverse said. "I want you to see the surprise."

  Strips of human flesh were stapled into the gore-painted wall above the couch. Various organs, shining wetly, were laid out in a macabre collection on the bloody coffee table. The family of four skeletons sat on the couch, their bodies completely skinned, their faces expertly posed to face the television across the living room.

  "You sick fuck," Crater said with the knife against his throat.

  Bob looked away as bile rose in his throat. His gray beard was long and he had seen many atrocities in his life, but for the first time, he had seen more than he could bear.

  For the first time, he stood face to face with the man who had eluded him for too long.

  Jim Traverse was tall and thin, his arms wiry, his face a marble, unblemished mask of features that didn't animate when he spoke. A swath of black hair was combed neatly to the side, and with his cold, blank eyes, he stared right back at Bob.

  "Like I said," Traverse began anew, "I've already called the police. We only have three or four minutes, at best."

  "I talked to these people," Crater eked out a tremulous sob while Traverse held him... "Those kids were little… I saw them smile! Shit! Shit!"

  "Look at them," Traverse nodded at the display. "The perfect little family. I'm an artist, Bob. I hope you like my work. It took me all day to get it just right. Homicide is a craft that must be perfected over time. It's no laughing matter. The masterpiece, of course, would be the complete murder of the entire species at my hands. Why don’t you have a seat at the table here, so I can share my vision with you?"

  "I don't give a shit about your vision," Bob refused to look into the living room again. He hated needless bloodshed. He always differentiated between combat and murder. He had always wondered, since he had started following Traverse's bloody trail, if he was doomed to end up like the madman when the contracts stopped coming in.

  "All the same, I'm going to talk," Traverse insisted while Crater attempted to wrangle free.

  Bob spat on the kitchen floor.

  "Kill him," Crater said. "Just kill this piece of shit. I don't care what happens. Just kill him."

  "You're so angry now," Traverse said flatly, "but what about all the poems I composed with the edge of a blade? Did you enjoy them, or did they anger you? You kept following, so you must have enjoyed my handiwork."

  Traverse removed the knife from Crater's throat and pushed the man aside. Crater instantly drew his Beretta and pointed it at the maniac's chest.

  "It's really quite easy to get a hold of the nuclear stockpile and blow everything up," Traverse put his hands in the air to placate Crater. "The internet, the command controls, the computers… nothing is sacred, anymore. The entire system is right there for the taking. But that's not what I want. One of the gates to the inferno has opened, gentlemen. Yes. You know what I'm talking about. A gate to Hell! I've seen it. It's a paradise of pain. The screams are forever. I've been looking for the gate, and I've found it, here, in Detroit."

  "You shut the fuck up, just shut the fuck up," Crater blubbered.

  "I think not," Traverse insisted. "Our government is not naïve. They know about the gate. In fact, they know it's here. They don't know how to open it, but they want to try. They're the ones who've built a new asylum right here in the city, called Eloise Fields. I'm going there. They're going to lock me up and do a battery of tests. I'll be committed, and they'll call me insane."

  "You're a joke," Bob said. "You got spooked in Egypt. If you could hear yourself talk, you'd be pretty amazed at the bullshit."

  Traverse smirked. "I'm not insane. I'm an artist. I believe in the beauty of torment. Without suffering, there could be no cathedrals, no literature, and no music. Death is a celebration of life,
and it should be just as wondrous. I recommend that while carving up human flesh, you should consider listening to classical music. Soothes the nerves. I know it sounds rather cliché, but truly…"

  "Shut up!" Crater shouted. "Shut your damn mouth!"

  "The Nazis knew about the gates," Traverse continued. "In the beginning, I thought Charles Manson might know something, but he's just a hack. The first gate, once it opens, is really quite interesting. The dead… well… the dead…"

  Thunder and lightning shook the house, and the blast was accompanied by a thousand flashing red and blue lights outside.

  "Play time's over, jackass," Crater said.

  Traverse smiled awkwardly, his lips splitting over rows of pristine teeth that were perfectly arranged in their rows. "For you, maybe, but not for me. I'm a very patient man. As patient as the dead."

  "The first gate," Bob said, "finish your damn sentence."

  "You're interested? Great! Like I said, it's in Detroit, and when it opens, the dead will…"

  "Jim Traverse!" said a voice through a megaphone outside. "We have the house completely surrounded. Please come out slowly with your hands up! Do not harm the hostages!"

  Traverse chuckled. "They must have misheard me. I told them over the phone that I butchered the entire family. I would like some credit for my work, at least."

  A bright white light pierced through the veil of madness within the house, and Bob inhaled deeply, tasting the blood of innocents on his lips. He wished that he hadn't found Traverse. Regret was hardly something he mused over, but now, all he could think about was that his life had changed forever. He felt old and overmatched, beaten by a force he could never understand. He couldn't hear the voices outside; he was frozen in front of Traverse, and he watched Crater's lips move while he denounced the killer for all his atrocious crimes.

  He heard Traverse mock them, "How does it feel now that you've finally caught me? Was it everything you thought it would be?"

  Crater continued to shout, and Bob lowered the Beretta as light flooded the house.

  "The end of the world will be beautiful," Traverse whispered.

  Ever since that night, Bob had nightmares.

  DESMOND

  Stars sprinkled across the summer evening sky, reminded Desmond how much time passed since he began his day at the office, and how little time he had to enjoy an evening with his beloved, Bella, in Windsor. He couldn't wait to see her; if he was lucky, Bella might become his second wife. Bumper to bumper traffic on the bridge to Canada did little to damage his sense of relief—a long, bizarre week was coming to an end.

  He was too tired to be frustrated by the odd jam on the Ambassador Bridge. He was impatient, but lacked the will to poke his head out the window or turn on the radio for a traffic update. Coltrane's saxophone poured through the speakers controlled by his satellite radio, and the music soothed him. He loosened the collar on his shirt and thought about texting Bella to tell her he was going to be late, but he was too lazy.

  He always wanted this life. His law career was blossoming, and he spent his hours away from the office entrenched in long phone calls that often drained the battery to its last sliver of life. There were nights, like tonight, where he looked at the phone as a device that had cursed him, an artifact from a society that once tried to bury him in the rot and dust of poverty. He was a busy man, and when he was in college, he used to think success looked like the speed-walking businessman with a headset attached to his ear; an important man was always on the phone.

  Desmond should have turned down his latest client, but it presented a unique challenge for him. He already suffered a setback, and he was waiting on the phone to buzz once again with good news. He'd entrusted an important piece of evidence to a reputable psychologist yesterday morning, and he hadn't heard back from him yet.

  The pain from a lingering headache refused to fade from behind his eyes. All day, he was nagged by the feeling that he made a critical mistake by agreeing to take on the client. He needed a breakthrough case that could help launch his career into the stratosphere; he needed notoriety, and even if it was a losing cause, he needed to earn the respect of his peers by taking on the more challenging fights.

  While the traffic ahead of him refused to move, he tried to let Coltrane calm him. He picked up his phone and obsessively checked for another text message or a missed call that hadn't come.

  All day, he regretted not watching the video on the flash drive himself. He trusted the psychologist, but too much time had passed. The video had never been released to the public before, and it apparently provided incontrovertible proof that the cannibalistic porn star recorded herself eating another man. The porn maven, who was suing the state because they shut down his studio, was out to prove that he had nothing to do with the murder, and he didn't know the woman was unstable.

  The small time, independent porn maestro was a former homicide detective. The first time he met the man, Desmond could understand why the man had been kicked off the force. Desmond did a bit of research on Patrick Griggs, and discovered that his wife divorced him not because he spent long hours in search of killers, but because he was addicted to pornography.

  Desmond felt dirty thinking about the meeting with Griggs.

  Middle aged with salt-and-pepper hair that had thinned on the top but had grown long and curly in the back, Griggs looked like a man who was used to driving through Michigan's pot-holed streets and watching shitty Detroit Lions football games on sleepy Sunday afternoons. He wore a brown sport jacket over a gray shirt, and a cheap pair of Kmart jeans that squeezed his potbelly over his beltline.

  "You don't exactly have a waiting list for your services, buddy." Griggs pointed out.

  Desmond hadn't wanted to seem desperate, but he needed to be in court for something, anything, and a cannibalistic psycho-porn star might be just what he needed to jumpstart his firm.

  "The state has an injunction on the movies that star this Mina woman, because…" Desmond shuffled his papers and pretended to skim over them, although he already knew exactly what he needed to say.

  Griggs stopped him. "I know it's fucking rocket science. Maybe a bit over your head, but hey, you're an educated man, right? You can figure this one out. Mina's movies are being pirated all over the damn web after what she did, and I can't see a cent of that action. Just because she happens to like human flesh with her caviar, doesn't mean I should be penalized for it. The state owes me, and if you can't squeeze 'em, then I'll find someone else who will. I'm suing them for damages, because people are out there profiting off her movies while I'm not allowed to sell them."

  Desmond leaned back in his chair and crossed his left leg over his right thigh. "You're telling me this video that you have was never admitted as evidence in court? They already declared her insane… she's in Eloise Fields, now. I don't understand what your angle is."

  "I've never seen the video myself," Griggs smirked. "That woman… I think about her. I remember her. She recorded herself, because she was afraid to hurt me. We were in love, you know."

  "How did the police miss the video?"

  "Pocketed the camera's memory card," Griggs said. "I was the one who called it in. I had her arrested, and I did all the right things. They didn't search me."

  "You withheld evidence," Desmond pursed his lips.

  Griggs clenched his fists while his face reddened. "She was declared unfit to stand trial for the wrong reasons, and I'm the one paying the price! She told me that in the video, she explained the nightmares that caused her to eat people. I can't sell her videos because they said she's a psychotic cannibal, but it was all beyond her control, and mine! They're studying her nightmares at Eloise Fields!"

  "And it's in the video?"

  "Yup."

  "You’ve never watched it yourself?"

  Griggs stood. "You'll file the paperwork and you'll get us a court date. I'm losing more money every day because of copyright infringement, only I can't do a damn thing because they stripped me of ow
nership. Mina… she was a good performer. You might even like her videos, yourself."

  After Griggs left, the flash drive with the video sat on the edge of the desk, daring Desmond to pop it into his computer and watch it. Instead, he called the only psychologist he knew who owed him a favor.

  Desmond couldn't imagine himself watching a video of a woman killing and eating a living person, but he was the one who decided to take on the case. He should have watched it, first. Now, he waited for the doctor to return his phone calls; he needed to know that the video was still secure.

  He'd sent his secretary out to the doctor's home in the wealthy Grosse Pointe suburb just outside of Detroit, but that was hours ago. Why didn't she call him back yet? Did she finally give up on him? She was more than generous enough to forgive him for not paying her last week, and she was all he had left.

  This afternoon, there had been news reports of a gruesome murder in Grosse Pointe. Maybe Elaine was stuck there? Desmond cursed himself for not trying to learn more. He was anxious to go home, and upset with himself for taking on the lawsuit.

  With his hand on his brow and his elbow on the armrest, he sighed when his cell phone vibrated.

  It was Bella.

  He picked up the phone and immediately told her, "I'm stuck in bridge traffic. Be home as soon as I can."

  "Stay on the phone," Bella quickly demanded.

  He sighed again. "Look, it was a long ass day. This case I took is too wild, even for me. It's been wearing me down, and this traffic isn't helping. I'm just tired and I really want to be with you."

  "You mean the porn director? You agreed to take it?"

  "Sure. He's got a case. Can't believe the guy used to be a homicide detective. And the girl he was involved with…well, anyway, I hope to be home soon."

  "I called because I'm worried about you."

  "Well, I'm fine. Everything's fine."

  Her voice became hysterical. "Are you even watching the news?"