Her father had been planning this ceremony for weeks and they’d rushed to make the preparations and remodel the casino before the beginning of March. Before her Festival Day. Before the ancient Egyptian ritual that welcomed spring and fertility with the eating of the onions.
Every evening after their work was done, his followers gathered to hear him speak. To teach them about the old ways that were now the new ways. For anyone with uncertainties, anyone with lingering doubts, he told them he would perform the miracles that would prove his deity. He read to them from ancient scrolls, translating the forgotten language, telling them of the prophecy that foretold the very times they were living. The rising of the dead, the coming of a new messiah and his disciples who would walk among his enemies unscathed. See them torn asunder all around him and he and his warrior priests would be immune.
Today was the chewing of the onions, a ceremonial tradition thousands of years old. They honored Bastet as they ate them, sweet, red and roasted. They raised their stone cups, toasted her with the laced wine. If she were really honest with herself, she liked their worship. She knew they bowed and prayed to Bastet, not Scarlet Harrison, but today she was the Goddess of war and protection. The patron saint of sensuality and wine and cats. Today she was Bastet and it was hard not to let it go to her head. She knew it was science that would allow her to perform the miracles, but who was to say that wasn’t what the prophecy meant anyway?
Her father's voice boomed through the sound system, a little echoey from beneath the Jackal mask, and the gathered believers became silent. They were in the balconies surrounding the main hall, looking down on the thirteen men and women standing on the floor, clothed in white robes, partaking in the onion ritual. Only a select few were chosen to be tested, although all were allowed to volunteer if they wished. All were given the choice of fine food and drink and the safety of the balcony, or to be on the floor when the undead were unleashed. Only the most devout, only the most faithful would be chosen by Anubis and his messengers to go on to greater glory. The weak-willed and the unworthy would be shredded and gutted, torn to bits by the hungry mob. Their hearts would be weighed and found wanting, rejected by the Lord of the Dead.
Ricketts chewed his onion, going through the motions, lifting his cup and intoning the prayers. He and most of the others had been given the shots weeks ago. They knew they’d be safe. It was still unnerving, to be in the same room as the zombies. There was still a chance one of them would attack, the inoculation wasn’t one hundred percent fool proof. It was still a test of faith, although in science. He didn’t glance to his left or right, they all stared at the two Egyptian gods before them. Bastet and Anubis. It felt as real as it must have three thousand years ago. The lights were dim, fragrant smoke curled up from censers, red robed priests intoned wordless hymns from the balcony. A few of the people on the floor with him were intentional sacrifices. Prisoners who believed they would be leaving their cells and joining the ranks of the converted once they finished the ritual. Out of the dank underground sewers and into the luxury apartments of the new believers. All they had to do was go through a little ceremony before being welcomed into the faith.
Think of it as a baptism of sorts.
Just a little white lie to get them to cooperate.
A little stretching of the truth.
They had no idea what was in store for them.
The others partaking in the onions were his most trusted guards who knew that their protection came from science and not from faith. The inner circle all had to go through the ceremony, though. It had to be public and as far as the public knew, it was the will of the gods who lived and who died. This was the big show, the final proof that had been promised. The chosen would be granted super human strength and walk freely among the dead so they could carry out the dark jackals wishes.
Scarlet’s father finished his speech about the Choosing, mixing passages from the Egyptian and Tibetan books of the dead, the Bible, the Quran, and even an internet meme if she wasn’t mistaken.
Finally, he raised the staff high and his voice thundered through the loudspeakers, “Let the Choosing begin!”
Behind them, the doors sprang open and a hundred ravaging undead came screaming through, hungry arms outstretched, running for the living. The two gods stood without fear in their golden robes and animal masked faces, pointing towards the supplicants. The undead flowed around them, sprinting down the stairs and leaping into the shrieking men and women who had not been given the elixir of invisibility. The Medicaments of life. The blessings of Anubis. The dead tore into those not medicated, and gouts of blood splattered and sprayed their white smocks. They screamed and fought but within minutes, they had risen from their ghastly wounds and joined the other undead wandering around the hall, sensing the living in the balconies above and reaching for them. The survivors remained silent, unmoving, standing near the tables. Trying to control their breathing, trying to be invisible to the undead.
Anubis and Bastet turned slowly, lowered their arms, and walked to the rear entrance of the stage, the newly Chosen following in blood-sprayed robes.
The devout followers quietly emptied the balconies, leaving the blood spectacle behind. They joined in the festivities in the main hall of the palace, ready to celebrate with the chosen ones. They had just witnessed a miracle. They had seen his power with their own eyes. They believed.
It was no longer a casino, all traces of the glittering, buzzing machines were long gone. Gauzy linens hung from the tall atrium, plastic pine trees were adorned with fairy lights, and everyone wore robes and burnooses. Music played, people danced, and the recently slaughtered dead weren’t remembered. They hadn’t been worthy. They would be forgotten, their deaths wiped from memory, and most fervently hoped they wouldn’t be called upon to prove their worth. They would all worship a little harder. Show devoutness a little more. That should be enough. They would do everything their leaders wanted and with gusto. They had seen the power, the miracle of walking among the dead, and they believed. Most would do anything to prove they believed, except volunteer to be Chosen.
Professor Harrison relished the attention, the fawning way the women silently ran their hands over his body when they passed by, just as he’d suggested was custom during one of his sermons. He was in his early forties and still had the desires of any man. Before, he could only live vicariously through pay sites on the internet, but now he had a whole harem of women to choose from. He grinned behind his mask and basked in their attention. Nothing like a little spilled blood and rejoicing that it wasn’t you to make even the most chaste women crave the attentions of a god. The LSD didn’t hurt matters, either. The Viagra would help him perform like a god, too.
9
Scarlet
Scarlet locked the door behind her and went over to the windows of her penthouse suite. She’d remained at the festival for hours, acting regal and cat-like, playing for the devotees. By the time she left, couples and groups were already having sex on the couches and barstools. That just wasn’t her scene. Maybe if she’d drank some of the laced wine she probably would have been like a cat in heat, like the rest of the people, but she’d steered clear of it. Dr. Stevens was a mad genius, there was no doubt about that, but just because he could create a mild hallucinogenic aphrodisiac that made you lose all your inhibitions, didn’t mean she wanted to be a part of an orgy. Especially with her dad right there with a girl on each arm. She knew a little about the ancient gods and Bastet and Anubis had hooked up. Gross. That wasn’t going to happen.
She stripped out of her costume and tossed the priceless, three-thousand-year-old jewelry carelessly on a chair. She’d ensured the undead had been rounded back up and caged again, a part of her duties with the security team she took seriously. Another reason not to get drunk, stoned, or tied up in a love knot somewhere. Somebody had to keep this place running smoothly, and her dad no longer bothered himself with the day to day operations. He had long since stopped doing menial tasks, it was benea
th him. He was too busy being ‘The Messenger of Anubis.’ Ricketts had promoted himself to Captain and had taken over the day to day operations, but he was in his cups tonight, enjoying his new minor god status. She sighed, rang the bell for her handmaidens, and then sat at the window as they started unbraiding her hair. She needed to get a wig for her Bastet duties, this was too bothersome.
Her mind drifted as they unwove each strand, their fingers working carefully not to pull her hair. She wasn’t even sure how she’d wound up in such a ludicrous situation, being worshipped as a Goddess and having hundreds of people at her beck and call. Pretending prisoners were new converts wanting to be chosen and watching them get slaughtered by the undead. Was that really necessary? Her dad and Doctor Stevens had both insisted it was, so she’d gone along with the charade, but it could have been done some other way. They could have shared the results with everyone, instead of continuing this whole Anubis Cult thing, pretending like it was divine intervention that made them invisible to the undead. They could have embraced science and the future, instead of magic and the past.
She was sixteen but wasn’t a typical teenager, had never really had any friends, didn’t know what it was like to have a BFF. They’d moved around so much when she was growing up, she’d never had time to put down roots or get to know any girls her own age. Most of the time she was homeschooled by her mom because they were out on some archeological expedition in some exotic sounding location that was really just a miserable dig sight in a remote desert wasteland. When they were in the States, they never stayed put for long. He’d be a guest professor at a college for a year, then they’d move to another city where he would help set up a museum. She’d start all over, trying to make friends and the older she got, the harder it got. Finally, she’d just quit trying and became the weird loner girl who rode motorcycles, hung out in the library and ate lunch by herself. No one in America cared that she had helped uncover ancient tombs in places they couldn’t pronounce or that she was a master in Egyptian stick fighting. No one in Persia cared about reality TV or Facebook. She always felt like a square peg trying to fit into a round hole.
His latest job had been in Minnesota when everything went crazy. They’d only been here for a few weeks; his previous assignment had been in Cairo, where they’d lived for nearly two years. Her mom was dropping her off at school and people just went nuts. A middle schooler came running out from the cafeteria where the poor kids got free breakfast and attacked her. She wasn’t used to the cold of Minnesota in September and had been bundled up, so his little teeth hadn’t sunk into her skin. Her mom had gotten bit when she jumped out to help, to pull the screaming little brat off.
They’d made it to the museum where her dad was working and everything just kept getting crazier and crazier. Her father and one of the security guards, a rent-a-cop named Ricketts, helped gather people into the basement and they hid as the world went mad. A few of the people turned into the hungry dead, but they pulled the ancient mummies out and locked them into the sarcophagi of kings and queens. Her mother was one of them, the small bite on her wrist growing steadily worse, blackening and spreading dark runners of poison up her arm. It was easy to believe in something supernatural when you were cut off and afraid for days, nibbling on candy and snack cakes from the vending machines, and surrounded by unnatural things. Her father started telling stories of the ancient Egyptians, about their beliefs of the afterlife. About their prophecies of the apocalypse and how a messenger would rise from the chaos to lead the people to a better life. Soon he was having visions, speaking in an ancient and long-dead language, and telling them of things to come. The eleven people he had gathered already owed him their lives. Was it so hard to believe that he was the messenger foretold in the ancient papyrus scrolls? If he got them out of the basement, if he led them to a better place, maybe then they’d believe.
Scarlet wasn’t buying any of it. She knew her dad could read and write the mostly forgotten Egyptian language. No one spoke Coptic anymore except in church ceremonies, much like Latin was still used by the Catholics, and it did sound ancient and mysterious.
The security guard was the only person with a gun out of their group, so it was him, her, and her father on that first outing to see how bad things were. She and her dad were both equipped with scimitars liberated from the museum displays, although she was much more comfortable with it than him. Everything she’d learned in the Tahtib classes, one of the few pastimes available to her during their stay in Egypt, easily translated from ancient stick fighting to modern sword fighting. It was basically the same thing and she’d convinced her father and the security guard to let her go after she showed them what she could do with it. She danced around both of them in a swirling dervish, slapping them with the flat side of her blade before they could even begin to parry. She left them humbled and with multiple welts. They stopped telling her she’d just get herself killed and grudgingly helped her find protective clothes.
Once they left the museum, they found guns easily enough, but she had never become fond of them. She’d never fired one before and couldn’t get the hang of it. Ricketts tried to teach her, but she wasn’t a very good shot, especially if the zombie was fast, and the noise always brought more. She tried to avoid fights, run when possible. If she had to make a stand, she preferred the batons or machetes. Fast, quiet, never ran out of ammo and she was much more accurate with them.
They had found Doctor Stevens on their first trip out. The museum was in the small downtown area of Sissipaw, where it was nestled between the civic center and the First Minnesota Bank. There weren’t many of the undead wandering around the district after the first few days, they had all run to join hordes trying to get to the living in the various hotels, apartments, or homes in the subdivisions. They saw Stevens in the lobby of the hospital when they passed. He had a teenaged zombie in a catch pole, dragging it back to his laboratory in the basement.
The doctor was actually a scientist type doctor, not a doctor type doctor, working in the University of Minnesota’s virology laboratory. He was borderline genius and had been on a fast track career, maybe even becoming the Regents’ Professor and head of the microbiology department. That was before the accusations of moral ambiguity and situational ethics caused such an uproar in the virology community that he had been publicly terminated and then quietly sidelined to the basement of the hospital. Out of sight, out of mind. He was much happier here, there weren’t so many prying eyes judging his experiments or his methodology. They didn’t ask questions in this small, but well-funded laboratory, and he didn’t answer to anyone. His only contact with the University was a quarterly visit from a man in a suit who seemed more of a government bureaucrat than a member of the scientific community. They didn’t care if some of his experiments were unconventional, they kept him with a steady supply of rhesus monkeys and were unconcerned about how many of them died. The lab had its own incinerator.
The doctor had three other zombies’ strapped and tied to gurneys and was pulling samples of cerebrospinal fluid out of their heads, the only thing that was truly still alive in their bodies. He’d been awake for days, too excited about his discoveries to sleep, ecstatic to share them with other survivors. He hadn’t seemed to care that everyone was dead, he was working on the greatest mystery of all. He was going to find out how the dead remained mobile, animated, and vicious. A beneficial arrangement was reached and months later Scarlet realized her dad was already plotting his rise to godhood, even during those first chaotic days.
When he led them through a series of underground flood control tunnels and dried out sewer passages, they started to believe even stronger in his message. He claimed he’d had a vision, showing him the way.
Ricketts had supplied him with a map.
As the weeks, then months, went by, they kept finding survivors and making them converts to the new religion. Those that resisted visited the good doctor and never returned. It didn’t take long for the mostly starving people they rescued to
start believing. He had concentrated his efforts on pulling people out of the city. Survivors in apartment buildings, surrounded and cut off. No water. No electric. No food. They saved hundreds the first month but by November, those in the city had succumbed to starvation, dehydration, or their hurriedly constructed defenses finally collapsed. They expanded the search, pulling in people from the countryside. Most of them had to be forced, they didn’t need rescue and didn’t want to go live in the underground.
They were doing just fine.
Thanks, but no thanks.
The Scientist demanded new test subjects every day. He kept telling them he was close to a breakthrough, so they no longer asked people they found if they would like to join. They took them by force. It was all for the greater good.
The last of the braids came out and the servants starting running brushes through her hair, getting the tangles out. It pulled and her scalp hurt, despite their care. Never again, she thought for the hundredth time. Next ceremony, if there is one, I’m wearing a wig.
She stared out over the dead landscape and could see the outlines of darkened structures by the moonlight. Theirs was the only building with lights, the casino generators quietly humming in the basement. It was one of the tallest in the Two Rivers area, built on a corner of the tiny Chippewa Blue Earth reservation, just on the outskirts of town. The wastewater and flood control tunnels tied the casino to the rest of the little city and for the first few months, they had stayed hidden and warm from the roaming hordes. As the Anubis army came together, the roughest of the men volunteering to be fighters, they had lured most of the undead away in armored cars taken from the bank. Another team had blown the bridges over the Minnesota and Blue Earth Rivers after the horde passed over chasing the trucks. Once the majority of the undead were gone, the roving patrols kept the smaller swarms under control. Ricketts and Scarlet would round up the most preserved specimens, the freshest, and bring them back to the lab for Stevens to run his experiments. They kept him a secret at her father’s behest. The believers didn’t need to know about him, he said. It would bring discord and cause dissent among the people. He was right, and once the doctor started requesting living patients to test his vaccines, they saw the wisdom of the decision. The devout didn’t need to know how the sausage was made, it might tear their whole community apart before it had a chance to become strong.
Zombie Road: The Second Omnibus | Books 4-6 | Jessie+Scarlet Page 7
