"I'm going up to my place," Griggs said to Frank.
"Cool. You want to smoke a joint? I got some pretty good shit."
Griggs looked down at the corpse. He thought he could finally make out a tuft of white hair escaping out of the mashed puddle of blood, bone, and teeth that used to compose a face.
The woman on the lawn was still trying to escape her husband, who'd climbed onto her back. A nude man ran along the length of the street, screaming as he pumped his arms. A zombie seemed interested and started to walk slowly toward him, but then seemed to notice the struggling wife, and decided to help the husband eat his wife.
"I'll be back in a minute," Griggs said. "I need to get some shit together, and then I'm going to go find my girlfriend. You alright just sitting here?"
The corpse's hand was draped across Frank's thigh. The hand twitched for a moment, and the corpse tried to lift its head while grabbing Frank's leg for support. Frank brought the hammer down upon the face two more times, splashing blood across his face and shirt.
"I'll be alright," Frank replied."Going up in a bit, though. Getting hungry."
Griggs stepped past him and walked into the apartment building. He was amazed at his ability to tune out the horror. He used to kneel beside dead bodies while camera bulbs flashed and reporters milled around outside of the murder scene. In the beginning, he would remind himself that the victims had been people, and it was appropriate to express loathing for the perp. The first time he approached a homicide victim, too many people at the scene remarked about his detachment, because it was expected of him to display "humanity" and vow to find the killer, whoever or wherever they were. As a rookie, he was expected to show revulsion, to feel sick to his stomach, to become nauseous and ask thousands of questions he shouldn't be asking. Instead, he approached the scene in the manner of a surveyor, taking notes on a little pad of paper and nodding his head whenever new information was given to him. He gave orders and made suggestions. He was already an expert in the game of death, and for each murder case afterward, he pretended to care deeply about the victim.
Griggs was surprised to find the electricity still working—the lights were on all over the apartment. The collision of sound and terror made it seem like the volume on every television in the building had been turned up full blast. He stood in front of the mailboxes to retrieve his mail.
At the bottom of the stairs was a grotesque pile of bodies. Twisted ankles, knees, and necks combined to create a tangled menagerie of limbs. Waving hands opened and closed. Blood-drenched clothes soiled by open wounds added to the metallic smell that permeated the air. When four pairs of eyes looked up at Griggs, the corpses attempted to unlock themselves; they writhed and slipped against one another. Griggs watched them struggle, and considered putting a bullet into each of their heads with his 9mm.
It was a waste of good ammo.
In his mailbox was another notice from the court. They wanted to remind him that he was behind on his child-support payments. Like any good father would have done, he dropped the notice right onto the twisting corpses and stepped over them. He walked past open doors that smelled like human waste. In one living room, a pack-and-play sat open with Sesame Street playing on the little television.
Inside his apartment, it didn't take him long to recover the .50 Desert Eagle magnum, his favorite weapon. He bought the weapon with his own money five years ago after one of his old police associates let him fire it at a gun range. He loved the feel of its power in his hands; for him, it was the perfect death-dealer. He'd never used it on a live target before, and this was the perfect opportunity.
He strapped on a black tactical vest and loaded the pouches with ammo for both of his guns. He spoiled himself by throwing on an old sport coat and combing his hair in front of the mirror.
The former detective had been rushing, and in his haste he neglected to close the door to his apartment. He looked up and realized he had company.
Standing on the threshold of his apartment was another neighbor, a broad-shoulder black man named Devon who worked construction during the day and legally sold pot to those who "needed" it, like Frank.
"Hey, Devon!" Griggs called out to him. "Come on in! Anything I can do for you?"
Devon took one step forward, and Griggs watched his hands open and drop bloody, human remains from his fingers. His face passed through the light in the hallway, and Griggs could see that half of his teeth were exposed where there should have been flesh, while one eye had been ripped or torn from a much larger hole than the socket originally was.
Griggs took aim with both hands. "Thanks for coming over to hang out, Devon. You're a great neighbor!"
The gun rocketed upward and he managed to hold on to it. In that confined space, the explosion from the gun caused his ears to ring. Devon was lying against the opposite wall in the hallway, smoke rising where the top of his head should have been, bloody chunks of face and hair sliding down the length of the wall and staining the threadbare carpet.
Griggs couldn't stop the smile from spreading over his face. "That was pretty damn cool. I feel like I should tweet that." He pictured himself spreading his social media poison over his network of followers, many of whom had pirated his films.
His entire investment, everything Modern Fantasy Films ever accomplished, was backed up on an external hard drive. He grabbed it out a drawer in of his measly self-assembled particleboard desk. He could always come back for everything else, but just in case, the external hard drive was his most important possession.
Mina's last video was on there.
She had begged him to make sure that he never watched it. She wanted it destroyed, but Mina had been an investment. Even if the last video involved her eating another man alive, it still meant something. He could find the market for snuff films, if he played his cards right.
But he always listened to her last request.
Until tonight.
Richard had watched it. He also gave a copy to his lawyer, Desmond Hunter, who was just as desperate for a client as Griggs was for representation. But still, he had never seen it with his own eyes. Didn't Desmond mention something about giving it to a doctor who lived in Grosse Pointe for a second opinion regarding Mina's sanity?
He vaguely recalled some mention of violence in Gross Pointe sometime this afternoon, something brutal and bloody. He was too busy preparing his script for the doomed movie shoot with Nikki and Richard... could the video be connected to it all, somehow? That was too damn stupid, too far-fetched. But he was never supposed to watch it. She wanted him to destroy the video.
Griggs stepped back into the hallway and made his way back outside. He discovered the halls weren't as empty as they were before.
Standing in front an open door, a toddler stood with his arms hanging at his sides, staring at the wall in front of him. A little boy with a navy blue Detroit Tigers shirt hanging over bare knees, his mouth and shirt crusted with spaghetti-stains that were likely something else. Purple bruises around his neck told the story of his death; he'd been murdered in order to be saved.
The boy's head slowly turned to find Griggs at the other end of the hall.
He'd already murdered Richard in cold blood, and he arguably performed a favor for Nikki. The boy was different. The antics of Bert and Ernie on Sesame Street no longer amused him—he preferred chomping on eyeballs and fingers instead.
He could feel a sluggish line of sweat form at the apex of his brow and slide along the length of his face, tracing the edge of his nose. He inhaled deeply and flexed his fingers along the magnum's icy grip.
The lights flickered. The boy turned to him and took a step forward. Griggs brought the gun up and bit his bottom lip. There was no going back now. No overrated sense of morality or valor would help him survive.
The lights died completely, leaving him alone with the boy in the dark.
Griggs flattened himself against the wall. The undead couldn’t possibly be imbued with incredible powers. Since he couldn't se
e the creature, he had to assume he was just as invisible to the boy's dead eyes.
With his back pressed against the wall, he quietly took tiny steps forward, hoping he would be able to find the banister so he wouldn't fall and end up in that pile of creatures near the mailboxes. The stench of blood was so strong he could taste it on his lips. He tried to slow his breaths, but he worried the corpse-boy would hear his heart hammering against the inside of his chest.
Most of the screaming inside the building had stopped.
The porn studio magnate's stomach growled. He shut his eyes tightly and thought about praying. He took another step along the wall. And another.
His hand found the banister, and he carefully dangled his foot over the space where the floor dropped off to the thin steps. His breath shuddered and he licked the sweat from his lips again. He searched for each step with his foot, every hair on his body standing on end. Any moment, he expected to be grabbed from behind. Teeth would sink into his flesh. He would scream and fall down the stairs.
One more floor to go.
Something tumbled down the stairs behind him. Griggs was careful not to let the sigh of relief escape from his lips too loudly, lest he draw attention to himself. He was incredibly alone in a void of silence. He slipped through phases of darkness, as meek light filtered in through the windows in rooms that were still open. Griggs preferred the darkness to the light.
A car alarm suddenly exploded into life outside, and the former detective's heart skipped a beat. He stopped against the wall for a moment to recover his wits.
Flame from a burning car cast shadows through an open doorway, creating a wild dance of light along the corridor. The steps beneath the banister were visible. He was close.
He could feel a presence in the dark, and he stopped. He bit his lip and waited.
"Come on, motherfucker," he whispered in the dark.
Hands dropped upon his shoulders and he whirled around with one hand on the banister. The smell of warm vomit mixed with spilled blood nearly made him choke, and he fought down the remnants of a Little Caesar’s pizza he ate for lunch. He blindly shoved his gun forward, and pulled the trigger. Something wet and sticky splashed him in the face.
As soon as he lost his footing and felt the air beneath his back, he realized how stupid he was to fire a Desert Eagle one-handed while on the stairs.
His fall was short-lived, and he landed on something soft and wet. He knew exactly where he was, and he wrestled through the reaching arms with a panicked yelp, careful not to drop his gun. The blood-slick bodies beneath him wrapped their fingers around his ankles and his wrists. He could feel himself sinking.
"Fuck you!" he shouted and fired his gun at something underneath him, as more blood splashed across his clothes.
He disentangled himself and stumbled back to the stoop outside, where Frank still sat dejectedly, the gory hammer in his fist. The corpse beneath him continued to twitch, with feet that rubbed against each other like a frustrated captive.
Breathing heavily, his nerves afire, Griggs stood beside Frank and planted his hands against his thighs. The woman on the lawn who'd tried to escape her husband had become an open carcass, a large herd animal brought down by a pack of savage beasts; four corpses were sitting around her bleeding body Indian-style, casually stuffing pieces of the dead woman into their mouths. The husband chewed noisily, his mullet smeared with his wife's blood.
"What a night," Griggs said.
"Dude," Frank said simply. "If you're going out, could you bring me back some Taco Bell? I'm starving. I feel like I'm the only one not eating. Can't take it, man…"
"You got cash on you?" Griggs replied absently, hardly understanding why he responded at all.
Frank reached into his pocket and withdrew a few wrinkled bills. "Surprise me. I ain't picky. Just get whatever."
Griggs took the money and folded the bills into a pocket on his blood-stained sport coat. "Sure. Whatever. Your wife want anything?"
"Nah."
"See you in a bit," Griggs walked away and headed back to his dented truck.
When he slid into the driver's seat, he set the gun down beside him instead of placing it in the holster. Deep down, he understood that he was in total and complete shock. He was covered in blood, and was afraid whatever was happening might be a virus that was easily transmitted through bodily fluids.
The stains all over his clothes were going to be difficult to get out.
His fingers paused over the keys in the ignition. For a moment, he thought about his ex-wife and the two kids she'd taken from him, children who were disgusted by him; they were embarrassed to carry his name. They wanted more from him. More money.
But he was doing it all for Mina. She was the only one who still cared. The only one who understood him.
Just as he turned the key and checked his rearview mirror, he caught a glimpse of Frank running toward the truck, waving his arms so Griggs would wait for him. Griggs put a hand on the magnum and slid the transmission into reverse, but he kept his foot on the brake and waited.
Frank, out of breath, looked into the truck with wide eyes. "Hey, man, you can get whatever. It doesn't have to be Taco Bell. Did I give you enough to get a drink, too? Orange pop would be great."
Griggs removed his hand from the Magnum. "Sure, Frank. You'll be taken care of. Smoke one for me while I'm out, will you?"
Frank flashed a yellow-toothed grin. "You know it, man. Hey, be safe, alright? Lots of crazy people on the road this time of night."
VEGA
Vega still wasn't comfortable—Nick Crater was a slime ball. His eyes kept looking her over, and she began to grow impatient. What were they waiting around for? Jim Traverse wasn't just going to come to them.
The six surviving members of Crater's team had already blocked the exits with desks, tables, and chairs, but the windows were another matter. Thankfully, there weren't many, considering that Eloise Fields was a hospital for the deranged. They closed off the few offices that had windows and hunkered down in the lobby near the front doors. Most of the lights had been turned off, and the halls were slick with blood and corpses.
Their meager fortification wasn't going to hold for long if the dead came in force. Most of the ghouls outside were uninterested and simply stood in the silence outside with hundreds of dead lying on the cement. The flames from burning cars flickered weakly while the horizon pulsed from the ethereal glow of a burning city. The edges of the sky were starting to turn blue.
Dawn was approaching.
But she didn't want to wait around all night. It was time to go. Shanna might still be out there. It didn't occur to her that in all that chaos, the little girl might not have survived. Vega couldn't think that way.
"They’re not interested if we don't draw attention to us," Crater whispered while rubbing the top of his baldhead thoughtfully.
They wait, and watched, but nobody knew what or why. The soldiers spoke to each other in hushed tones and passed cigarettes. A couple of them wiped down their guns. One man cried.
What would the daylight reveal? These men had watched their fellows die, and they could only guess when their time would be next. Were their families safe? Would they ever get out alive to protect them?
Bob and Vega had a chance to wash some of the blood off their faces. They visited Traverse's old cell, but it was nothing more than a curiosity; it was confirmation that the man they chased did in fact exist.
While sitting in the lobby, Crater continued to lament their situation.
"This should have been a full-scale op," he said. "They didn't take Traverse seriously. They still think this thing outside is biological." He looked up at Bob as if his old partner might be able to validate his complaints.
"Can’t do anything about it now," Bob pointed out. "Nobody believed Traverse, and now, we're here. Did you believe him at first?"
Crater laughed. "Who would? What kind of question is that? Our mission was to find him and bring him in. The story was shit."
/>
"So what're you crying about?" Bob asked. "Picking up Traverse again is a desperation move. They only sent us in because they didn't know what else to do, no matter how ridiculous the whole thing seems. The suits in Washington will still operate as if they can cure it, or reverse it somehow."
Vega was lost. "So it's not biological?"
"We don't know," Bob stroked his beard.
"Bullshit," she said. "You have some idea what’s going on, or you wouldn't be talking about it."
"You going to put a muzzle on her?" Crater asked Bob. "You let her run her mouth like that? A woman's mouth is good for only one thing. I don't want to hear her speak."
Vega immediately got right in his face. She was taller than he by almost a foot, and his eyes were staring right into her chest.
"What's my mouth good for, Crater?" she dared him. "Why don’t you tell me?"
The soldier smiled. "You're going to show me, little girlie."
"Enough!" Bob shouted. "Sit your asses down."
They separated, and Crater began to address all of them.
"If you die, you become one of them," Crater explained, using broad hand gestures to accompany his words. "This isn't exclusive to Detroit. We have to assume everybody and everything is cut off. Not even the military servers are up and running, so we can't access the internet. It's every man, woman, and child for themselves. "
Crater's words didn't seem real, or possible. His eyes flashed to her, and she stared him down until he looked away and refocused.
"We're spread thinly," he continued. "You think there's enough manpower to fight this battle all over the country?"
Zombie Ascension (Book 1): Necropolis Now Page 18
