Zombie Ascension (Book 1): Necropolis Now

by Vincenzo Bilof

  When the MP25 responded with a dry click, she reloaded and immediately remembered Miles, who surrendered his life in the midst of infinite carnage. As long as she pressured the trigger, she could kill something. More than anything, she wanted it, craved it.

  Kill them all. Every one of them. Kill them again, and again, and again. Reload. Repeat.

  She was no longer watching the crowd to see if she had managed to draw the dead away from Eloise Fields. The path to victory no longer mattered, because it was choked by the tide of rushing blood. Maybe some of them were still alive. Maybe they were just in some kind of trance.

  Just in time, she turned her head to see Bob trip over a fallen body as he made his way toward the doors. He hadn't forgotten his goal; he had left Miles to die, and he could easily leave Vega to the hungry dead if it meant getting to Traverse. He didn't call out for her, and he didn't try to redirect her. For him, there was only Traverse, even if thousands of people needed to die.

  Bob had fallen on his back, and he pumped a shell right into a corpse's skull, disintegrating brain matter that had once been the engine of a man. The headless body fell atop him as the crowd began to converge, twitching their way along the concrete, dragging their twisted ankles and opening their greedy jaws.

  It was time to leave him. Traverse was likely dead already. Crater was probably already dead, too. She could find Shanna out there in the ruins by herself. She didn't need Bob anymore, because he obviously didn't need her.

  She released the trigger and found that her lips were moving beyond her will. She was reciting the Act of Contrition, and it satisfied her trembling hands as she helplessly watched Bob sit up on his elbows and pump shell after shell through his Benelli. Blood colored his gray beard and hair, and his eyes were alight with the desperation of a man who stared into the abyss where his own doom waited.

  "Fuck it," she slapped another clip into the submachine gun.

  It was easy to run over, grab a dead shoulder, and jerk an entire body around. It was easy to shove her gun right into a wide jaw and pull the trigger. The dead bastard collapsed at her feet, and with a surge of unreal strength, she held the gun with one hand and fired into another looming face while she grabbed the uniform of a massacred, blood-encrusted soldier; she yanked him in front of her and blasted him in the head. She pivoted and fired.

  Rotate, scream, pray, spray.

  Bob reached up with his free hand, and she knelt beside him, but there were so damn many of them. Without a second thought, she grabbed her last grenade and held it in her fist.

  "One hell of a plan, boss," Vega said. "Distract them, you said…"

  Another corpse dropped onto Bob's legs, and another fell alongside Vega. She had stopped firing, and she could feel the hands all over her flesh again, those needy, desirous hands that wanted nothing more than to rend the flesh from her bones.

  She closed her eyes as blood washed over her face; heads disappeared, and bodies fell all around her. The warm rain of gore, with skull and brain, lips and noses, eyes and chunks of scalp, splashed her gear.

  "Get your asses over here!" someone shouted.

  It was time to get her shit together. She pushed aside corpses and wiped the detritus of the dead out of her eyes and hair. Bob's face was completely red; they were both surrounded by fragments of their foes. She helped him to his feet, and they could see the clear path right to the doors, where a bald-headed, middle-aged soldier waved them forward.

  "Crater," Bob growled. "You took too damn long."

  Crater stopped them in front of the doors. "Either one of you bit?"

  "What?" Vega asked, suddenly confused. "Let us in, you fucking idiot!"

  "Have you been bit?" Crater brought his M16 up.

  Several corpses made their way toward them.

  "Don't think so," Bob replied. "Drop it and let us in."

  "You need to make damn sure," Crater demanded. "This isn't a joke. Did they bite you?"

  Vega aimed her MP25 at him. "You're right, it isn't a joke. I'll waste you, brother. I don't know you."

  Crater's eyebrows furrowed for a moment while he regarded both of the bloodied mercenaries standing in front of him. "You must be Amparo Vega. That hard body of yours matches your attitude. Take off your clothes and I'll think about letting you in."

  "Stop horsing around!" Bob shouted. "They're still coming! We don't have all damn night."

  Crater dropped his gun and waved them inside. "Always a party-pooper, Bob. Just want to lighten the mood around here. It's not like she has a whole lot left to take off…"

  He didn't move aside, but kept his eyes glued to her, and she was sure his hand brushed against her hip while she tried to pass.

  When he finally shut the door behind them, Vega stopped breathing.

  It was enough to make her realize she was still alive.

  Crater didn't matter, and neither did the mission. She listened closely to the sound of her own heartbeat thundering against her ribcage, and she saw herself for what she really was: a broken mess.

  She looked up at Bob and stared at him for a long time. He still held the shotgun in his hands as if he would pivot and fire one more time, and his entire body was tense. They were both professional soldiers, but nothing had prepared them for this. They had run through hell to get here, and somehow, they were both alive.

  There was only one thing she had the strength to say while she looked at the man who almost left her for dead.

  "There's a… piece of brain… in your beard…"

  He blinked at her several times. "What?"

  "Your beard," she pointed. "There's brain in it."

  When Bob brushed away the bloody piece, she couldn't help but erupt into laughter. His own body shook from a round of chuckles, and he stepped forward and wrapped his big arms around her. He picked pieces of bone out of her hair while they held each other and laughed.

  Their emotions had come full circle.

  "We're still here, United Nations," he said. "You didn't let me down."

  "Just wish I knew my kill-count," she said as they drew back from each other.

  He looked her up and down. "You look great. A work of art. Mona Lisa would finger-bang herself if she took one look at you."

  "Thought you'd have a heart attack out there," she punched him in the arm. "And we made it, too! We're here! Killed a bunch of zombies… I mean, how awesome is that?"

  They both laughed again, and they finally noticed Crater standing there with his hands on his hips.

  "Glad you could join the party," he said.

  Crater's presence served as the harsh reminder that their reality was hardly comedic. She didn't want him to be there; he'd interrupted a moment of sheer joy that might never come again. His eyes seemed to crawl over the flesh that was exposed through dozens of tears in her fatigues, and she instinctively clenched her fists.

  "You're still a dick," Bob said while his laughter tapered off. "Where's Traverse? Where's the rest of your crew?"

  Crater licked his lips and shook his head. Vega saw the red tinge that stained his eyes and realized that he was terribly drunk.

  "Yeah," Crater looked down and shuffled his feet. "Well, you're still funny, Bob, after all these years. This isn't exactly an official mission. Not for anybody. I've lost… shit. They didn't exactly prep us for what we'd see down here. Might have been easier to move with just a handful of us. I got six men left. Why don't we… let's have a seat and compare some notes. We're waiting for the satellite uplink. We've got zero Intel. My team wants to pull out, but I can't get anyone on the horn. We just... there's too much shit… just too much. We're the black ops of black ops, remember? Not enough cops on the ground…" Crater paced back and forth as if pouring out the frustrations that boiled within him while waiting for Bob.

  "Traverse," Bob's face became deadly serious.

  Crater ignored him. "They only sent us in. I mean, our target is a VIP, but only a few stiffs in Washington agreed to send in anybody in the first place. And T
raverse told them… he told them all about this… here we are…"

  "Where is he?" Bob demanded.

  "Our old friend?" Crater guffawed. "Slipped right through our fingers. He's out there, waiting for us. And I waited for you. Don't know why. No way out of this, now, Bobby. It's just a matter of time…"

  "He was right here!" Bob seethed.

  Crater suddenly put both hands on Bob's shoulders and stared right into his face. "This is war, Bob. We can’t win this war. It's fucking global. You hear me? It's fucking global. And I don't have it together! There isn't shit I can do. I don't know how to fight. I've lost it…you can help…you can…"

  When the soldier buried his head on Bob's shoulder, Vega understood, at last, that everything had fallen apart at the seams.

  MINA

  Jerome was an interesting enough guy, though he didn’t seem to be aware of half the things he said. He asked her if she was "holding" drugs three times because he apparently kept forgetting that he asked at all. Right before he passed out, he confessed that he was disappointed because his brother Desmond was supposed to live forever.

  He didn't care about Mina's explanation about their escape from Eloise Fields. Jerome absorbed the information while sweating profusely and rubbing his face with tight-fisted hands. All he cared about was a fix. Mina shared with him, and he didn't seem to hear a word, right up until he finally passed out.

  As an hour passed, Mina's didn't feel the same adrenaline crash' she didn't feel exhausted at all, and she dared not see what horrors lie in wait for her in dreams. Eating the soldier in the Humvee was supposed to chase the bad dreams away, but she still feared the hyper-reality of their situation might provoke more nightmares. If she fell asleep, the church might fall apart around her and the dead would rip her to pieces.

  A part of her welcomed the idea.

  Rhonda and Jim reappeared in the church first, talking amicably about their chances as if they might be casually discussing the weather. Rhonda seemed to be at ease with him, taking comfort in his subtle flirtations. Mina knew his scheme all too well. Jim's low, calm voice often forced people to listen closely to his words, and he could simply change from the subject at-hand to a physical compliment that would always prove flattering. Back at the hospital, Jim had a knack for sending personable messages through Jake Wells about "the beautiful way the light struck her hair in the evening"—comments that would seem cheesy and ludicrous coming from someone else. But Jim portrayed the manner of a suffering poet whose lips could go no further than a smirk.

  When Rhonda laughed politely, her eyes flickered to Mina for a moment as if wondering if she were trespassing. While the dead ate the living, natural instincts and motivations remained alive and well.

  "We might be safe here," Rhonda explained to her. "The others are eating some vanilla wafers they found in a snack closet for the Sunday school kids. We can wait this thing out a few more hours."

  "We've made some decisions," Jim added. "Our position doesn't seem to warrant any additional fortification. The creatures outside seem easily distracted. They aren't interested in what they can't see. They can't smell our flesh like wild animals might be able to catch the scent of prey in the wild. Locking the doors is sufficient as long as we remain quiet."

  Rhonda added, "We watched them through a window. They like to congregate in groups, but as soon as something else comes along to distract them, they drop everything they're doing." When Mina didn't say anything, Rhonda seemed unsure of herself for a moment, and then resumed. "Well, uh, we're going to stay here for the night, at least. Shanna started coming out of her shell a little, but she isn't saying too much, you know. Anyway, I can see Jerome's asleep."

  Mina looked at the sleeping drug addict for a moment and looked back to Rhonda. There was nothing for her to say, but she tried anyway.

  "You left us here for a while, but we weren't too afraid because the zombies stopped banging on the door a while ago."

  Mina stood up for the first time in hours. Soon, Jim was going to butcher everyone in the church. She only hoped he helped her find Patrick.

  "It's a pretty large church," Jim said, his voice lightening a little, though she recognized the strained volume for its false attempt to portray humanity. "There's a kitchen, a classroom, an office, and a bathroom. Everything still works. Vincent found the priest in his office. The poor man blew his own brains out while reading the Bible. And here I thought God didn't approve of suicide."

  Rhonda sighed and looked Mina up and down, judging her malnourished, emaciated body. "Why don't you get something to eat? We're going to keep watch up here while the others hang out near the back door. We might… we're thinking about making a run for it when the sun comes up. Jim thinks maybe the worst will be over by then, and the army will be coming through here with tanks."

  "I already ate," Mina said, "but I'm okay with whatever you decide. I just keep thinking about my boyfriend. His name's Patrick and he makes movies for a living. I'm his number one star. He's such a creative genius, so I think he'll find a way to keep himself safe. He always thinks of something."

  Rhonda nodded. "This is hard on all of us. We just want to get home, and we're cut off from the world." She paused for a moment and then produced a sheet of paper from her pocket.

  "The priest left a note. I don't know… I just found it to be… touching. You should read it. I mean, there are some things people never want to hear, or think. For a man like this to just admit defeat…"

  Rhonda handed her the letter. Mina really didn't care, but she could see the woman was affected in a profound way by the priest's last words.

  Dear Reader,

  I've devoted my entire life to loving God and doing His will. I've spread His word by thundering from the pulpit, and I've made the sacrifices necessary to put love and hope before everything else. It's been hard, here in Detroit, to make a difference. Children murdered in their homes, children murdering their parents. Yet, because of Him, I've been able to endure. I've witnessed several miracles in the name of God, and His glory has filled my soul with love and adoration. We've fed starving boys and girls, and provided asylum for those in need. We've restored the faith to souls that were lost. For thirty-four years, I have stayed the course.

  My struggle against evil and suffering has not been in vain. Even now, my faith remains unshakeable. But I have lost the war against Satan, and rather than give myself to the hellions outside, I will deliver myself unto judgment and take what is not my right to take.

  The faithful Sister Beatrice, who has served this parish for over twenty years, was attacked outside on the church steps by a young man she tried to help. He bit her in the throat, and Sister Beatrice bled each liter of blood her frail body contained. I tried to call for help, but the phone lines were busy.

  If you're reading this, you've already seen what I've seen. You know what I know.

  Father James, a dear friend of mine, understood what was happening before I could admit it. I've always stayed in touch with popular media, and I've always wondered why the human race has been obsessed with its own destruction. Allow me to forego the philosophical and theosophical diatribe, for time runs short. I can hear the war outside of this office. A war against Hell.

  They're called zombies by popular literature and media. I thought Father James a fool for saying it, but I've always believed that the human mind can bring its sense of horror, its greatest fears, into the realm of the real. Just as man has dreamt of flying, the human race can accomplish its own masochistic desires.

  Where is the human goodness?

  God gave us the power to destroy ourselves. As I speak, murder, rape, and looting are actions committed by the living, not the undead.

  I argued with Father James. It's just a riot, I said. He pointed to the walking dead, ambling around outside in the street, and I refused to believe him. Father James hefted Sister Beatrice over his shoulder and walked her down into the storage room. I begged him to let me try to call one more time. Father James
was aware of the world around him. He knew that Sister Beatrice was already dead. I followed him down into the storage room, where Sister Beatrice opened her eyes.

  You already know what happened next. But this has nothing to do with God. This has everything to do with Hell. Eve made the decision for us a long time ago. God gave us another chance, but instead, we killed His only son. Jesus was not sacrificed, but murdered by our lust for violence.

  I refuse to live in a world that burns with truth. I'm a man on an island, now. Alone with my decision to disobey, to rebel. I was given the ability to choose, and I've done the best I can. But I cannot live with failure. The world outside is my failure.

  I hear the crowd as Christ heard the crowd. I know how to turn off the safety on the gun. There is only one bullet, because I've looked forward to this moment. I bought the gun and the bullet because I knew, somehow, in the throes of vanity and pride, that He would one day give me the choice. The choice is my reward.

  Father Frank Cassidy.

  Mina handed the note back to Rhonda. "It's nice. He sounded drunk."

  Rhonda looked at the suicide letter for a moment and then re-folded it and returned it to her pocket. "I grew up Catholic, so reading this is kind of hard for me. You religious?"

  "Um, I'm not sure… what that means."

  Jim put a hand on Rhonda's shoulder so he could resume playing the role of an empathic human being. "I think a man's last words are beautiful. He shared his epiphany, his death, with complete strangers. I only wonder how painful it was for him to condense it to a few paragraphs, when surely, in his moment of desperation, he wanted to describe what words couldn't. This reminds me of Fyodor Dostoevsky, who nearly went to the scaffold to hang and was pulled out of the line at the last minute. He was waiting for his death, and he saw divine truth in a moment of clarity, right before they took him away. He watched men die, and he believed in his heart that his time was up. Needless to say, he went on to explore the human imagination and soul with his literature. The priest is no different."