by Peter Giglio
As he jumped from the chair, time seemed to grind to a crawl. No way in his mind Glory could squeeze off a round with a broken finger; the bitch didn’t even look animated. But in the split second he reached for the gun, he saw something terrifying.
She blinked.
A blast rang out, and Frank felt his chest explode.
Then he felt nothing.
CHAPTER 21
Standing in the median of the busy street, halfway between the hotel and the church, Monika cringed when she heard the gunshot. She shared a brief and fearful glance with Eric—he’d heard it, too. He waved his hands urgently, stepped in front of oncoming traffic.
Cars screeched to a halt and horns blared as he and Monika sped across the street. They bounded up steep stairs, then Eric yanked on the door. Locked.
“I think we’re too late,” he said.
But Monika heard it; faintly at first, then more distinctly.
Static.
“Shoot the door open,” she said.
Eric cast his attention on the busy traffic and all the people on the sidewalks. He shook his head. “No. That’s crazy.”
“Goddammit, Coop.” She pulled him close and felt the armies of fear marching through him. A what-the-hell-are-you-doing? look darkened his face as she drew the Colt from his jacket. Spun on the door. Fired at close range.
Wood splintered. Eric jerked back. Cars slowed. And birds fluttered from nearby trees.
Monika pulled the brass handle and the large door swung wide. They sprinted through the vestibule but slid to a stop when they saw the scene on the stage.
Glory was standing, her arms spread wide. Although still a corpse, she was changing fast, life beginning to light her eyes. Frank Allen’s body was splayed at her feet, and static screamed from the SSA’s speakers. Lingk looked upon Glory with the wide-eyed anticipation of a child, seemingly oblivious to the presence of Monika and Eric.
Monika wasted no time. Striding at the stage, she aimed the Colt at the pastor. Fired. Missed.
He flinched as he turned on her, a mixture of fear and anger radiating from his eyes. “No,” he shouted.
She squeezed the trigger again. Sparks flew from a metal support behind Lingk.
A smile slowly spread across Glory’s face, and static rose to a roar.
Lingk lowered himself and scrambled across the stage, and Monika saw what he was reaching for as she crested the stairs. His fingers curled around the pearl handle of his gun.
She started to squeeze the trigger but then something pulled her attention away. Her grip loosened as her eyes locked with Glory’s. Control faded, and the Colt slipped away from her hand and clattered down the stairs.
Lingk drew on Monika, but Glory halted him with a quick hand. “Don’t, Stevie,” the mechanical voice droned from the speakers. Her stare remained on Monika.
Glory’s face became a red dot in Monika’s vision. And everything she was, had ever been, seemed to pour itself into that point in space.
“We’ll rule this world together,” Glory said. It was clear she wasn’t addressing the pastor.
* * *
Half of Eric wanted to run for the door, but his better angels pleaded otherwise. Everything was happening too fast and shock gripped him, a toxic plague of doubt and self-loathing.
Time for running is over, he told himself. Headlong, he sprinted for the stage.
Glory’s hands clenched Monika’s shoulders, and Lingk, slowly returning to his feet, gazed upon the two women. Despite the chaos of the moment, Eric recognized the pastor’s expression.
Jealousy.
Eric grabbed the Colt from the bottom of the stairs, then, peeking over the stage, he targeted Lingk and squeezed the trigger.
Blood flowered from the pastor’s chest as he crumpled backwards.
Eric pulled himself onto the stage and grabbed Monika’s hand; yanked her away from Glory. She spun into his arms, and he held her close. Then he looked at her face and screamed.
Her eyes were milky white. Dead.
Glory suddenly shifted her attention to Lingk. He crawled across the stage toward her. A crimson streak trailed behind him on the hardwood floor.
“Make these streets bleed,” Glory said through the machine.
Reaching a hand upward for her, he nodded listlessly. Then his eyes turned inward and his body began to tremble.
Pulling Monika close, Eric stared down at the pastor through a haze of tears. “She doesn’t love you,” he said. “Don’t do it.”
“I feel it,” Lingk said. “The magic. There’s…still time.”
“Still time,” Glory agreed.
“She doesn’t love you,” Eric shouted.
“Doesn’t matter,” Lingk said, a blood bubble forming on his lips. “I love her.”
The church began to shake. Glass shattered. Debris fell.
Eric scooped Monika into his arms, then bent his knees as he jumped from stage. Clutching her close to him, he ran.
Outside the church, car alarms blared and the earth quaked. Tears flooded Eric’s face, but he didn’t let go of the girl he loved. Feet slapping shifting pavement, he kept moving, a chaotic din of screams and destruction surrounding him.
The Lexus was parked on the street, just around the corner from the cheap hotel. Propping Monika against the car, he unlocked the doors, then placed her in the passenger’s seat.
Scurrying around the Lexus, he chanced one last glance at Glory’s Children Church and gasped. The entire structure was ensconced in crows, each of them motionless and watchful. A nearby explosion jerked Eric back to action. He slid into the car, started the engine, and floored the accelerator.
* * *
Staying on back roads, and because of his unique involvement in the mayhem, Eric was able to get out of the city ahead of others. He listened to frantic news reports on the radio. Though the earthquake hadn’t lasted long, mankind’s troubles were far from over.
Second-lifers had turned feral.
Glory’s zombie apocalypse was finally upon humanity.
But Eric only cared about one thing. He kept glancing at Monika as he drove fast, anxious for any sign of hope. Her eyes remained vacant, her body motionless. He pleaded for her to wake—a jumble of inarticulate emotions and sobs—as he careened around sharp bends in the road, heading for the only place he could think to take her.
He finally swung the car into the field where they’d picnicked on their last day together, then left the engine running as he lifted her lithe form and laid her in the grass.
A shaft of light bled down through a darkening mass of storm clouds. And her pale face was beatific in the sun’s last rays. He felt her neck for a pulse. Found it. And she was still breathing. Hope wasn’t dead yet.
He leaned down to kiss her but then stopped himself. He gently pushed her bangs from her face, but his attention fixed on the thing around her neck. A pendant that looked familiar. Then it hit him; it was the symbol for Glory’s Children Church. He yanked the necklace away from her prone and precious body and tossed it as far as he could.
In the spot where the jewelry landed, a bright flame erupted from the ground. Then a blue nimbus opened in the fire’s wake, and standing within it was the ghostly image of Glory, fully restored, though physically only a teenager once more.
“She’s mine,” Glory said.
“No,” Eric shouted. “You can’t have her.”
“She was selected from millions to rule at my side.”
“No. She’s mine. You have what you want, what could she possibly mean to you?”
“She knows how to love. She felt more in death than I did in life.” Glory’s face turned grim, sad. All of this power, and she was nothing more than a stupid, angst-consumed kid.
“What about Lingk?” he asked.
“Obsession,” Glory replied. “Love will be needed for the rebuilding.”
He returned his attention to Monika.
“Wherever you take her,” Glory said, “I’ll find her.”
Monika blinked.
“That’s it,” he said. “Come back to me.”
She blinked again, and when her eyes opened, they were once again blue. A smile cracked her lips.
He then glanced up. The image of Glory was gone. But, through the trees, a horde of the undead fast approached, intent clearly malevolent.
“Come on,” he said, taking Monika’s hand and pulling her to her feet.
Then they did what had always come naturally to him. And the only thing that made sense now. But that wasn’t a problem.
He was born to run.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A Pushcart Prize nominee, Peter Giglio is the author of four previous novels, three novellas, and edits a successful line of books for Evil Jester Press. His works of short fiction can be found in a number of notable volumes, including two comprehensive genre anthologies edited by New York Times bestselling author John Skipp. With Scott Bradley, Peter wrote the author-approved screen adaptation of Joe R. Lansdale’s “The Night They Missed the Horror Show.” And an established screenwriting team in Los Angeles holds the film option on Giglio’s novella Sunfall Manor. He resides in Lincoln, Nebraska, where he stays out of trouble.
Website: www.petergiglio.com.
Blog: http://petergiglioauthor.blogspot.com/.
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Table of Contents
Prologue
15 Years Later…
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
About the Author
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