Zombie Ascension (Book 1): Necropolis Now

by Vincenzo Bilof

  Vega unloaded on several creatures that were standing on the hoods of cars surrounding Vincent. They were in a junkyard of smoldering vehicles, her aching, booted feet crunching on glass as she took another deep breath and inhaled smoke.

  She stepped in a puddle of blood and kept firing.

  Vincent jerked backward and seemed to realize what was at stake. He charged out of the fray and still managed to slap a fresh clip into his weapon. Neither he nor Vega saw the hand reach out over the top of the car and seize the rolls of hair on the top of his head. He slipped and fell hard on his back, and Vega made short work of the corpse, exploding its face all over the car with a short burst from the M16. Eye-viscera and flesh melted onto the cement. To his credit, Vincent immediately rolled to his stomach and resumed firing over the tops of his sneakers.

  Vega picked him up from the cement and whipped her head around in time to see the little shape jump out of a car and run into the smoky corridor ahead.

  "Shanna!" Vega's heart leapt into her throat. She knew it had to be the little girl from the newscast, the girl whose smile haunted her through the rain of tears, blood, and bullets, a maelstrom of torment. Shanna would release her from that pain.

  "This way!" she pulled on Vincent's shirt. "I see her! SHANNA! Stop! Please stop!"

  She didn't know if he followed her. She kept her eyes focused ahead on the wide street of shattered businesses. Once again, Vega could taste the ash upon her lips, and she struggled to keep her eyes open through the wafting smoke and dust that fogged the thoroughfare. She lost the little girl through the riotous haze.

  "SHANNA!"

  The bright morning sky was obscured through the dark, and she half-wondered if she was still stumbling through the streets with Bob—did they ever leave the burning city? She glanced over her shoulder and found Vincent following closely behind, his face and shirt soaked in sweat. She felt like she would be running through the labyrinth of violence forever, chasing some goal that would somehow determine the fate of nations.

  But there were no more countries. There was only Shanna, a little girl who needed her.

  "Can't see," Vincent stated the obvious.

  "Stay close to me," she said. "We have to find her."

  He coughed several times. "We're surrounded. I can see them."

  "Just keep walking! Take shallow breaths."

  Her advice sounded foolish to her ears, as both of them struggled to keep their breath after narrowly escaping the dead only a moment ago. And still, they kept coming. Nothing would ever stop them. They would not retreat, no matter how many were destroyed. Their will was predicated on the relentless pursuit of flesh.

  Footsteps beat against the pavement, and Vega thought she could see a tiny girl rushing toward a tear in the fabric of smoke that wove its way around the street—Shanna raced for the light.

  Vega chased after her, but another one of Vincent's screams stopped her. Four corpses had emerged out of the smoke to surround him once again. He frantically pushed them away, but he was shoved to his back while heavy fists pounded on him from all sides.

  There was no hesitation in her step. She didn't know the man, but he fought beside her. The choice was an easy one to make while she dropped to one knee and took careful aim at the creatures, but rolling smoke obscured her view. Cursing, she shot back to her feet and ran into the melee.

  She tackled a wet bag of flesh and tumbled along the concrete. Her first thought was her head; she might still be suffering the lingering effects of a concussion.

  There seemed to be so damn many of them surrounding her and beneath her, she could see only the red, rheumy eyes and the snapping jaw. Her M16 was ripped out of her hands, and she was pushed forward onto the concrete, her face scraping against scorched paper that had floated through the miasma of debris and ruination. Her head was slammed against the ground twice.

  No. She was so close.

  Her fingers found her sidearm and she struggled to draw it as sudden weight collapsed upon her back. She grunted as pain flared up her spine, and a round of gunfire spelled the end of several corpses. Vincent was still alive, and he was already pushing one of the dead off of her.

  He helped her up, and said into her ear, "I ain't no busta. I been here before. Stay on your feet and keep moving."

  Forward through the war. Blood trickled into one of her eyes, and her worst fear seemed grounded in the reality that threatened to drag her down into the pit with all the souls she had sent there herself. She felt for the MP25 that still dangled around her shoulder while she weakly gripped the Beretta. Her feet dragged along the pavement.

  "Shanna…"

  "It's under control," Vincent said. "We'll find her or we'll die trying. I promise. Stay awake. Keep your eyes open."

  For such a thin man, he was incredibly strong, and in his voice, there was no false bravado, nor the hint of a promise he would break. Gone was the thuggish mentality that he seemed to use as his self-defense mechanism against the world which had likely bred in him the disposition of a killer.

  She tore herself away from him. Nothing was going to slow her down.

  The light of the empty sky blinded her momentarily, and she looked out across an abandoned parking lot that was overgrown with weeds. A lone, rusted, wire shopping cart lay overturned without its wheels, and the shopping center sat dormant, untouched by the madness, though the graffiti on its walls and the tree limbs which reached through the windows had marked it as a building that had died long before the living dead awoke. Just beyond was a row of trees that seemed to mark the edge of the world.

  She sprinted across the ghostly lot, her head swimming with pain and the tumult of gunfire which seemed to be rattling against her eardrums, the agonizing echo of battle.

  Her ears rang. Her lungs burned. A thousand needles had been pushed into her skull, and she clenched her jaw shut.

  There, behind the lot in an overgrown field of grass, a little girl stood alone in the halo of sunlight.

  "Shanna!" Vega shouted breathlessly across the distance. "Wait for me! I'm coming!"

  The girl turned and ran into the weeds, a line of trees at the edge of the shattered land swaying slowly, touched by a breeze that could not be felt, a breeze that might not have existed at all. Vega didn't feel it. She felt only pain.

  There were hundreds of them, materializing seemingly out of the darkest reaches of imagination. She didn't see them a moment ago—where did they come from? She wiped more blood out of her eyes as a dizzy spell twisted her sense of balance.

  The dead were everywhere, and Shanna was running into their embrace.

  "No!' Vega screeched. "Please, stop!"

  The dead slipped through the trees and stalked through the long grass. Vega ran beyond the derelict shopping center, past a skeletal truck that rested on cement blocks and a rusted fence. While the girl who might have been Shanna disappeared into the brush, Vega realized the field was much larger, much wider, than she initially thought.

  Her knees ached and threatened to buckle beneath her tired body. She kept running, as the dead tirelessly converged. Her vision blurred, and she forced breath through her lungs.

  She repeated Shanna's name over and over again. She asked God to forgive her, to give her one more chance to do something right. She promised that she would retire. She would never take another life.

  A shrill scream sent birds scurrying out of the treetops.

  Vega crashed through the weeds and found herself splashing through puddles, her boots slipping through mud. She thought about Miles and the television in the room they had shared. She thought about the girl's beaming smile, and the name that ran through her head so many times while Miles whispered in her ear.

  She lost her balance and stumbled through the mud of a destitute sewer. She could smell the human waste through which she slogged. Her vision twisted and contorted, and stars danced in front of her eyes.

  "Shanna…" she sobbed weakly. “Please wait for me. I'm coming. Just wait."

&n
bsp; Lifted high above the earth, a sacrificial offering to the all-powerful sun, a little black girl screamed wildly, and her limbs flailed in vain.

  Vega reached. The girl was several yards away, and she became invisible as she fought against the hundreds of hands that held her aloft in the halo of sunlight.

  "MAMA!" the girl screamed. "IT HURTS!"

  "I'm right here," Vega sobbed. "Right here…"

  Footsteps crashed through the brush around her. The dead had found her, at last. It was over now, as it should be. Shanna had been the only thing worth fighting for. But it couldn't be over. It couldn't be…

  One gunshot. And then another. And another. Loud, thunderous shots that echoed throughout the empty world. Every muscle in Vega's body burned, and tears flooded her eyes as darkness pulled at the fabric of her consciousness.

  Invisible hands pulled her upward, and her head rolled on her shoulders. The MP5 was gone, lost somewhere, but she still clung to the Beretta. Blood filled her ears, and her entire head seemed submerged under fathoms of water.

  After blinking her eyes several times, she looked up and found the detective looking down upon her. She kicked her legs frantically, and the last vestiges of her strength were expelled in one final, horrible scream.

  "SHANNA!"

  "It's over," Griggs said. "All over, now."

  "Stay awake," Vincent said from somewhere.

  "She's still alive!" Vega attempted to wriggle out of their hands. "Bob! Help me! We have to get Shanna!"

  "He's gone!" Griggs growled at her. "Traverse shot him! It's over!"

  She didn't understand. How could Bob be dead? How could Shanna be dead? Everything was spinning out of control.

  Smoke lifted into the sky.

  She witnessed another hallucination borne from her concussion, or her fragile mental state. The Stryker sat in the shopping center's empty parking lot, the engine idling while the .50 cal on top swiveled back and forth. Somehow, the tank had survived, even though Bob had predicted that it would have been a death trap.

  "We have to save Shanna," Vega moaned. "It's God's will. Set me down!"

  "We have to pull her up over the front," Griggs said. "They’re all over the damn place."

  "Put me down!" Vega writhed in their hands.

  The Stryker was surrounded by corpses, just as everything else had been—just as Shanna had been while she screamed for mercy. Hundreds crowded around the tank, some of them clumsily scaling the vehicle.

  "We can make it!" Griggs decided for them. "Keep your feet moving."

  Somewhere within her mind, Vega could still hear Shanna screaming.

  MINA

  The car could take them no further. The streets had become impassable, yet, while they stood on the overpass together and looked across the fiery devastation, she couldn't help but feel complete.

  She hugged the dead priest to her tightly. It had been a wonderful day. She was tired, and a part of her was still conflicted over her decision to remain with Jim. She still liked Patrick, but she had found her true purpose in the world, at last. Besides, it was obvious that he was just as much to blame for this catastrophe as she was.

  All he had to do was destroy that video.

  Beside her, Jim sighed. "This is what I have dreamt about for years. In a matter of hours, a million more people will be dead. The carnage is a testament to mankind's savage nature."

  "I don't know," Mina shrugged.

  "You're still worried about the detective," Jim rubbed his jaw. "I suppose I can't blame you. I'm still reeling from Bob's sacrifice. He had no plan to bring me back. He was so doomed, and so incredibly beautiful. I'll never forget him."

  Below them, the bumper-to-bumper traffic jam was complemented by legions of figures that stood looking up at the sky. They should have been enjoying their morning coffee and preparing for the commute to work, or they should have been at home with their children. They should have been playing with their cell phones or committing petty crimes. They should have been buying things and reviewing things and they should have been breathing, eating, and shitting.

  But they were not.

  "You will tell me about the video," Jim demanded. "Before we go to Egypt, I must know what our chances are. I need to know what to expect, and what it will take to inherit the power I have been promised, dear Mina. The cities shall drown in the blood of the living, and I will become the patron saint of pain."

  "There was… a voice," Mina began. "When I ate the man, the recorder was running, and the voice spoke to me from everywhere, and then I saw a scary face…"

  Read on for a free sample of Hamsikker: A Zombie Novel

  PROLOGUE

  “Thanks for coming, thanks a lot. Please, go on in.” The words came out of his mouth, but he’d said them so many times over the last thirty minutes they had lost all meaning. It was like he was regurgitating a prayer, over and over, like some deranged priest.

  “Mrs Danick, thank you for the flowers. Please, head on in. Thanks a lot for coming.” She had aged a lot since he’d last seen her, but she still had a wicked glint in her eye, and he remembered all the trouble he’d caused his neighbour over the years when he was growing up with Janey. He watched Mrs Danick accompany a frail, elderly woman into the church, their arms linked and their feet shuffling slowly.

  As he shook another hand, kissed another cheek, and handed out another tissue to wipe the tears away, he wondered if he had slipped into a parallel universe. Wasn’t he the one who was supposed to be in mourning? How come everywhere he looked people were crying, holding each other, supporting each other with words of kindness and recalling memories of happier times? Why was he the one standing by the church gate, handing out condolences and hymn sheets like some kind of admin assistant?

  There was a brief respite at the entrance as Mrs Danick entered the church, and he realised he was probably getting sunburnt. The back of his neck was hot and itchy, the thinning hair on top providing no cover for his head. Using a wad of hymn sheets, he fanned himself, knowing only his father would’ve died in the middle of a heatwave. It was as if the old bastard was having one last laugh at his son’s expense. Jonas reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled navy blue kerchief. He dabbed his moist forehead before shoving it away, as a family approached the church gates. Putting on his best smile, he prepared himself for another clammy handshake from yet another distant relation he hadn’t seen in twenty years, and prepared to repeat the speech he had given everyone else.

  “Thanks for coming. Please…”

  “Jonas Hamsikker, how’re you doing?”

  Jonas looked at the large man facing him, and was momentarily thrown. This was not a friend of his father’s, just another acquaintance, or an old uncle; this was a face he knew well. It had been a long time since he had looked into those piercing blue eyes, and the red hair was unmistakeable. Thick sideburns grew down the man’s cheeks like a lava flow, filling in the burly man’s creased skin and crow’s feet. Jonas gripped the firm hand he was offered, and shook it enthusiastically.

  “Erik? Jesus, man, how long’s it been?”

  The two men embraced quickly and then Erik introduced his family.

  “Hamsikker, this is my wife, Pippa. These two role-model citizens are Peter, my son, and my daughter, Freya.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Jonas as he shook their hands in turn. Freya giggled as she shook Jonas’s hand and then slid shyly behind her brother.

  “I heard you were back in town, and of course I heard about your father. Sorry, man. I hope it’s okay we came. I wanted to pay my respects. Seemed only right, given how your old man looked after me back then.”

  “Of course, of course,” said Jonas, pleased he was finally able to talk to someone he knew. He still couldn’t believe Erik Lansky was standing in front of him. He might have aged twenty something years, and added twenty pounds, but otherwise, he still looked like the same Erik he used to goof around with at school.

  As more people filed into the chu
rch, Jonas shoved hymn sheets at them as they passed. It was almost time for the service to begin, but he didn’t want to miss out on catching up with Erik.

  “Pippa, go on in with Peter and Freya, I want a quick word with Hamsikker,” said Erik standing to the side so the others could take the path into the church.

  “Sure is a hot one,” said Jonas.

  “And it’s only spring. You forgotten that glorious Kentucky sun already?” asked Erik. “I hope going out west didn’t turn you into a pussy.”

  Despite his awkwardness, Jonas sniggered. It felt good to see his old friend again. Erik looked tough and given his larger-than-life stature, he could scare off people before they’d even spoken to him. But he was a kind man, always ready with a joke or a line. That was what made him such a good cop.

  “Say, I wanted to ask how long you’re back for. This a permanent move, or what?” Erik dabbed at his sweating forehead with a hand and then wiped it on the back of his suit jacket.

  Jonas frowned. “To be honest, I’m not sure. I’ve a lot to sort out now. There’s a whole heap of things I need to do, and Dad’s place is a mess. He was a hoarder. You want a stack of newspapers from the nineties?”

  Erik slapped a hand on Jonas’s back. “No thanks. Look, old collections of newspapers aside, I’m here for you, man. Where are you staying? At your father’s? You’d better not tell me you’ve shacked up in some downtown motel. You know we can find a room for you, no problem. Pippa would be glad to have you over. I’m serious.”

  An ambulance suddenly sped past, and it turned its sirens on just as it rushed by the church. It was swiftly followed by another, and Jonas wondered where they were off to in such a hurry. Jeffersontown was a quiet place, and without the sounds of the speeding ambulances, the only audible sounds had been the faint tweeting of a cardinal, and his own thoughts. The ambulances disappeared taking their warped sirens with them. Jonas looked up into the blue sky. There was not a cloud anywhere. He saw the trace wisp of a plane’s vapour trail, a fleeting line of white arching across the sky.