“A nice subdivision like this, too bad they didn’t prep for doomsday. Anyway, back to this ‘heaven’ thing.”
“What, you’re wondering if maybe we should have stayed at Promiseland with Reverend Ingram? With the Army and the FEMA supplies and electricity?”
“No way. Once Ingram made everybody get tattoos, I was out of there. I just mean, once you’re dead, people like to say you’ve been set free. But is that true, if you really think about it?”
“Look, I don’t know what happens to people’s souls once they become zombies. I guess technically they’re dead, since their hearts aren’t beating. But their brains still work, sort of.”
“Right. I guess Dr. Perriman would have a theory on it. So you have to kill a zombie twice—dead, deader, deadest. But now it looks like the deadest can come back one more time. Where does it end?”
“So what does that have to do with heaven and prisons?” Sydney brushed back a strand of her long blonde hair. She was pretty in the candlelight. She was pretty all the time, even under the stress and filth of the apocalypse.
If all hell hadn’t broken loose, Arjun would’ve never gotten to know her. She would just be that apartment neighbor that he barely ever spoke with.
“Let’s say you’re a believer and that your soul goes to heaven,” he said. “Well, it’s not like you can ever leave heaven. So it just becomes a bigger prison, right?”
“Hold your nose,” Sydney said, grabbing the refrigerator handle. “I’m going in.”
The smell washed over the room in a tidal wave of sour cottage cheese and rancid sausage. Unlike the first two houses they’d searched, this one was free of rotting bodies and was otherwise relatively hospitable. But with the power being out, most of the food in the fridge had spoiled. Sydney salvaged some vegetables from a lower bin, half a bottle of apple juice, and a jar of pickles before slamming it shut again.
“We should have enough to feed everybody,” Arjun said, waving his hand in the air to disperse the stench. “Anyway, I’d just as soon be a deader as go to heaven. Forever’s a long time. Can you think of anything worse than being aware of how stuck you are?”
“Yeah,” Sydney said, slamming cabinet doors. “Not having any beer is worse. Were these people holy rollers or something? I don’t even see a bottle of cooking wine.”
“Getting drunk might not be the best idea right now.”
“Sure, Downer Boy. Tell me about all the things I have to look forward to with Armageddon happening.”
Arjun confronted her, awkward in her personal space. “This will all be over one day, and we’ll get back to normal. Maybe not the old normal, but we’ll adapt.”
Sydney studied his eyes, waiting for him to avoid her as he usually did. But he stayed with her, daring her to blink first.
“You’re right,” she finally said, opening the jar of pickles and pulling out a dill spear. She crunched it between her straight white teeth. “Could be worse. At least we got some free food out of the deal.”
Arjun shook his head. She refused to take him seriously. Or Armageddon seriously. Or anything, really.
But maybe she was the genius. She wasn’t invested in any particular outcome. She would adapt faster than most because she had no expectations.
Sydney held up her half-eaten pickle. “You might say I’m relishing these.”
“Ugh. I’ll check on Sonia,” Arjun said, leaving the kitchen with one of the candles, careful not to burn himself on the dripping wax.
Sonia Thorpe was standing watch in the living room, posted by the picture window where she could survey the entire front yard. She was a North Carolina Public Safety director, probably the highest-ranking state official left. She could’ve stayed at Promiseland and held a position of authority at the emergency shelter, but she’d opted to help escort Dr. Perriman to a research facility instead. In truth, Reverend Ingram’s odd behavior and the cultish devotion of his followers had scared her just as much as it had Arjun and Sydney.
Arjun found Sonia at the front door, peering out into the violet dusk. “I hear Hannah,” she said.
“Good. I’ll feel better when we’re all safe behind locked doors.”
Sonia carried a revolver that Rocky had requisitioned from his outfit. Arjun felt a little emasculated without a weapon, but she was far more competent than him. Plus she was standing sentinel while he was messing around in the kitchen. He privately vowed to learn more about guns. He harbored a wealth of academic knowledge about weapons, researching them for use in videogame scenarios, but he had almost no experience with them.
The bobbing headlight of the motorcycle illuminated the long needles of rain as it approached. Hannah eased back on the throttle when she came within fifty yards of the house. Arjun had to give her credit. She was smart enough to minimize the noise that might attract deaders.
They were all adapting fast.
The ones who were still alive, anyway.
“She’s got a passenger,” Sonia said. “Looks like the boy.”
Arjun set the candle on a coffee table and pulled his flashlight from a rear pocket. He flicked it on and muted the beam with his free hand. “I’ll help them.”
He slipped past Sonia and out the door, a faint orange fuzz of light leaking between his fingers. He didn’t know how well the zombies could see. If he’d have designed them for a game, they would’ve had a slight touch of infrared perception, allowing them to detect body heat even in the dark. But these real ones seemed to operate primarily on scent and auditory stimulus.
Hannah coasted the Kawasaki up alongside the porch and Arjun stepped into the rain to help Jacob dismount. “Where’s your mom?” he asked Jacob.
The boy waved into the darkness. “Back there with Rocky.”
A sharp crack sliced through the hammering of raindrops, the tinkling of water in the downspouts, and the low throb of thunder. “Did you hear that?” he asked Hannah.
She pointed to her helmet and shrugged.
“Sounded like a gunshot,” Sonia said from the doorway.
“Mom!” Jacob cried.
“I’ll go,” Hannah yelled, working the throttle on her motorcycle. Hannah had a revolver she’d found scavenging a convenience store, but the group’s firepower was weak overall. Arjun wished they’d searched more houses. They probably could have found more weapons if he wasn’t so afraid.
“Stay here,” Arjun said to Sonia, not waiting for her to make a decision. The group had ceded to her authority and made her leader, but Arjun told himself no vote had been taken and he was free to do what he wanted. It was a weak rationalization at best, but he jumped on the bike behind Hannah and told her to hit it.
The motorcycle was already roaring down the street, rain stinging his eyes, when he realized he’d abandoned Sydney. At least she’d be safe, and maybe she’d be impressed. But he could already hear her voice in his head: “You don’t even have a gun. This isn’t a videogame, Downer Boy.”
Hannah weaved in between the abandoned cars, leaning left and right to balance her weight. Arjun initially resisted, feeling like the bike was going to topple over, but he soon relaxed and trusted Hannah’s experience. But he wished he still had his protective skateboarding gear.
He squinted into the misty murk ahead, his bones vibrating in sync with the powerful engine. At first he didn’t believe what he was seeing—his vision was blurred by rain and wind—but Hannah must’ve seen the same thing, too. She clamped on the brakes and the bike went into a sideways skid, foot pegs scraping asphalt. Arjun’s left knee nearly touched the ground before he let go of Hannah and slammed onto the wet road bed, rolling to reduce the impact. She stayed with the bike as it careened into a pack of zombies, scattering them like bowling pins.
Her leather pants and jacket protected her as she slid along beneath the bike, but some of the deaders fell atop her. She fumbled for the revolver in her pocket, and Arjun wished he’d asked her for it. It would’ve made sense, because his hands were free and hers were occupied,
but he’d been too hesitant. And now she was going to die.
He debated fleeing back to the protection of the house. He was sure he could outrun the zombies, at least over such a short distance. But then what? Tell Sydney he’d left Hannah?
So he did the stupidest thing imaginable. He let out a howling screech and sprinted toward the mob of deaders that gathered around Hannah as if a cook had rung the dinner bell.
A couple of the zombies turned toward him—mission accomplished, at least partially. But he didn’t know what his next move would be. He was winging it.
And then a wonderful, terrible thing happened. He just imagined that he was a heroic protagonist in a videogame and that he was invincible. He even kept up a running commentary in his mind, complete with a driving electronic soundtrack.
Arjun Sharma, star of the hot new franchise, Avatar of Vengeance. Sent by the gods to battle the living dead, power rating off the charts, lethal hand-to-hand combat skills, black-belt holder in four martial arts disciplines. Primed for action, and this time it’s personal.
He leaned forward and dove between the two zombies standing near the rear of the motorcycle. He extended his arms as if he were tackling two football players at the same time. The closest he’d ever come to football was beta-testing a soccer game, but the Avatar of Vengeance had been an all-American college fullback recruited by the CIA.
His shoulders slammed the two zombies in the guts, knocking them onto the pile that Hannah’s bike had created with the slide. He lay atop the writhing mass of arms and legs, punching and screaming and calling Hannah’s name. Something cool and wet slid along one of his wrists—a tongue?—and he pushed himself up and stomped on the pile, moonwalking toward Hannah.
She was flat on her back, legs kicking at the deaders moving in to feed. One arm shielded her face, and a zombie’s twisted mouth was latched onto her leather sleeve. Its head worried the sleeve back and forth, growling loud enough to be heard over the motorcycle’s hiccupping engine. Arjun kicked the zombie in the head, but still it clung tight.
“Move back,” Hannah said, swinging her free arm forward and slamming the revolver against the thing’s skull.
THWACK THWACK THWACK, three blows in succession, and finally the dead thing sagged and released its grip.
The Avatar of Vengeance didn’t wait for the next deader to take a chomp. He grabbed it by the back of the shirt collar—Bonobos Daily Grind Wrinkle Free, classy business wear for the apocalypse—and drove the creature’s face into the upturned handlebar. The throttle entered its eye socket with a soggy sloosh, gore and juice flying. But that wasn’t enough to slake the Avatar of Vengeance’s bloodlust. He held the skull in both hands like a cantaloupe and shoved down until the throttle met the back of the skull.
He tried a couple of corny lines—“Keep an eye out for me” was the best—but it came out in Arnold Schwarzenegger’s voice instead of the narrator’s. Arjun released the dead zombie and drove his elbow into the neck of the nearest attacker. He’d succeeded in drawing most of the zombies away from Hannah and onto him. Half a dozen flailed and clawed at him, their weird eyes glinting reflected lightning and their gaping mouths clacking together in hunger.
BLAM.
The first shot startled him. A deader dropped, and before it even hit the ground, a second shot rang out. Then came more shots, and these weren’t from a revolver. Zombies shivered, juddered, and collapsed as if they were wired on ecstasy and raving to industrial techno music.
The Avatar of Vengeance danced with them, kicking at their bullet-riddled bodies. One female deader, wearing a sodden bathrobe that was parted to reveal her mottled cleavage and abdomen, raked a hand along his thigh. It had been shot in the lower spine, disabling the legs, but the arms and neck still sought warm flesh.
The Avatar paused just for a moment—he’d been raised a gentleman and his CIA training hadn’t dulled his sense of decency—and then kicked it square in the mouth. A few of the teeth broke off and bounced away like shards of chalk.
The Avatar of Vengeance is facing long odds, but his survival means nothing when it comes to fighting evil. If tonight is the end, let him go out with honor. Hit GAME RESET and play on, fellow travelers.
He leapt into the air and tucked his legs under his butt, then drove down with all his weight. The soles of his shoes crushed the thing’s head against the pavement. The Avatar nearly lost his balance, but utilizing the skill he’d earned through gridiron glory, he repositioned himself and jumped again.
The second blow cracked the skull. The Avatar gave a final kick for good measure, almost oblivious to the semiautomatic volley going on all around him.
Another deader gripped the Avatar’s shoulder, and he balled up a fist and swung—
—only to have the blow caught by Rocky, who held an M16 in his free hand, the barrel steaming from the heat of rapid fire.
“Easy, dude,” the specialist said. “What was that all about?”
Arjun blinked and looked around at the slew of twice-slain deaders littering the road. “What was what all about?”
“You were ranting like a crazy person,” Hannah said, who was dragging bodies off of her motorcycle. “Some ‘avatar of vengeance’ nonsense, like you were talking in the third person.”
Arjun looked at Dr. Perriman, who was equally confused. “Did you get bitten?” she asked.
“No, I…” Arjun didn’t know how to explain. He stepped away from a corpse, horrified by the blood on his shoes.
“You didn’t even have a gun,” Rocky said. “What were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t. Do you think I would’ve done this otherwise?”
“Well, it worked,” Hannah said. “Thanks. You bought me enough time to get to my revolver.” She flexed her forearm. “Going to have a bruise tomorrow, but the bite didn’t penetrate the leather.”
“Let’s be sure we have a tomorrow,” Dr. Perriman said. “I hear we’ve got a house.”
CHAPTER THREE
Promiseland was thriving in the midst of devastation.
The U.S. Army had fortified the megachurch and its surrounding walls, FEMA had established an emergency shelter with food and medical equipment in the complex’s gymnasium, and the church sanctuary had proven to be a living testament to the power of God’s love. The army had even managed to clear the undead demons from the vicinity and expand the perimeter of the haven. The terrible storms had prevented further airlifts of reinforcements and equipment, but the church had withstood the worst of the tornadoes, hailstorms, and fires that ravaged the city of Raleigh.
God’s wrath is a wonder to behold, the Reverend Cameron Ingram thought as he surveyed the ruins from his office window on the fourth floor. God had spared the church, further proof of His blessing. And Ingram took that as a sign of his own righteousness. He was, after all, an agent of the Lord.
Col. Benton Hayes, Army commander of field operations, had not yet come around to acknowledging Ingram’s divine authority, although he’d certainly ceded to Ingram’s political power as the president’s “zombie czar.” Officially Ingram had been promoted to Special Director of Homeland Security and given control of all shelter operations in the country, all because Ingram had survived a zombie bite without showing symptoms of infection.
Some people accepted miracles at face value, while others, like the colonel, had to be convinced.
Or ordered.
“Have all your soldiers been marked, Colonel?” Ingram said without turning from the window. He could see the colonel’s face reflected in the glass.
“We’re working on it,” Hayes said. “You’ve only got five tattoo artists and our unit has nearly two hundred soldiers. Not to mention maybe five hundred civilians in the shelter.”
Ingram glanced at the site of the original bite on his hand. The eye-shaped scar was punctuated with what looked like a numeral 3 in the center, and Ingram had adopted it as the mark of the elected. Those who wanted protection would bear the mark, which would allow Ingram to sepa
rate the believers from the demons in disguise. All zombies were demons, but so were many of the human survivors who had not yet accepted the truth.
This had all been foretold long ago. And God always kept His promises.
“How is our infrastructure?” Ingram asked Hayes.
“We’ve established a network of gennys, which should keep us in the running unless we get another one of those shitstorms. FEMA has a team working at the power company’s substation in hopes of lighting up this area. That will get the water flowing again. Sewer plant might take two or three more days. Of course, when we turn on the power, we might jumpstart a bunch of electrical fires in all these damaged buildings.”
“Just make sure you establish a safety zone around Promiseland. We’ll have more refugees soon.”
“We’ve already got more than we can handle,” the colonel said. “Even with turning some of them away. Some of them refuse to get marked and others are sick.”
“Any signs of infection among those already inside?”
“Not since the outbreak.”
FEMA and Hayes’s unit had established screening procedures for refugees. All noticeably sick people had been turned away, and some were terminated after a zombie outbreak erupted at the shelter. “Those who take the mark are immune from the Klondike Flu,” Ingram said.
“Not if they get bitten,” Hayes said, a tone of challenge in his voice. The officer resented Ingram’s sudden ascension to power.
Ingram finally turned from the window to face the colonel. “Your job is to keep that from happening.”
“We’re pushing as far as we can, and teams are out on scouting missions around the clock. The air strikes did a good job of erasing the downtown area, but the birds are grounded until this weather clears. Right now it’s almost door to door, so it’s going to take some time.”
“We have a thousand years,” Ingram said.
“What do you mean?”
“Are you a believer, Hayes?”
Revelation: A Post-Apocalyptic Zombie Thriller (Arize Book 2) Page 2
