Cyrus was nowhere near as famous as Reverend Ingram, and hardly anyone outside of the upper levels of government knew he was Vice President, so he moved among the refugees unnoticed. He overheard a few conversations about Ingram and the shelter and was pleased at the expressions of adulation and gratitude. All of them proudly bore their Eye and Three marks as committed followers of Rev. Ingram.
Outside, he spotted Col. Hayes near the main gate, overseeing a patrol of three Humvees. Cyrus joined him, curious about the morale of the ground troops.
“Mister Vice President,” Hayes said, snapping to attention. The soldiers in the Humvees had no idea what the colonel was talking about.
“At ease, Colonel,” Cyrus said, not used to such deference. He’d achieved some mid-tier success as a mixed-martial arts fighter, but the niche sport didn’t afford much celebrity. As a junkie, he’d only been important to his dealers, and then, only when he had cash. If only his mother could’ve lived to see him now. His father, the scumbag who ditched them when Cyrus was eight, could burn in hell if he wasn’t already.
Cyrus asked to join the mission, and Hayes insisted on coming along as well. “The Reverend would never forgive me if I let anything happen to you.”
“Only God forgives.” Cyrus liked that line. He decided it worked for many occasions.
With Cyrus riding shotgun in the lead Humvee and Hayes seated behind him, the patrol rolled east on a newly cleared route. The driver was a fuzz-faced kid barely out of high school, decked out in body armor and combat boots. They passed work crews patching the street, filling in potholes and moving junk cars out of the way. Others repaired damaged buildings that might become usable in the near future. Snipers perched on those buildings that still stood, and sandbagged outposts were spaced at every intersection.
“This is a ZFZ,” Hayes said. “A ‘Zombie-Free Zone.’ We keep sentries posted just in case, but we’ve not had any attacks here for days.”
Half a mile farther, the road was bumpier and the work crews less frequent. The damage from the cataclysmic storms and the air raids was evident, and Cyrus imagined it might take years before this section of the city was rebuilt.
“We’re about to hit No Man’s Land,” Hayes said, offering Cyrus a sidearm.
Cyrus showed the Glock he carried in a concealed shoulder holster. “And no man better mess with me.”
This drew a dry chuckle from Hayes and a side-eyed gaze from the driver. They passed Lowe’s Foods, where workers loaded scavenged goods onto a utility truck. A few soldiers stood guard, which didn’t seem like enough if a horde of deaders attacked.
“How come we don’t have more soldiers out this way?” Cyrus asked.
“We’re stretched thin as it is. Our ranks were hit hard by the Klondike Flu. It may look like we’re up to speed, but we don’t have enough bodies to protect every civilian. We’re under standing orders that soldiers are not to take any unnecessary risks, even if it means we lose a few workers.”
“So their lives are expendable then, even if they took Ingram’s mark?” Cyrus wondered who’d approved the order, and then realized it must have come from Gen. Ridley himself.
“Our soldiers took the mark first,” Hayes said. “We had a few deserters because of it, but your typical soldier believes in a moral code or they would never enlist in the first place. You don’t join the military because it beats digging ditches or swinging a hammer.”
“It’s a calling, much like my work.”
Cyrus glanced in the side mirror and he could no longer see Promiseland’s high white cross. The road was thicker with vehicles here and the Humvees had to weave their way through the metal obstacle course. Decomposing bodies lay scattered along the streets and sidewalks. Now they were truly in the wilds, beyond government protection.
Out here, God was the body armor.
“We’re splitting up the patrol here,” Hayes said, getting on the radio and passing along the order. The road branched to the left and right and the two following Humvees each took one of them.
“We’ll hook up on the return trip,” Hayes told Cyrus. “We’re likely to get some action out here. Are you ready for it?”
“If it means I get to put down some zombies, then my prayers have been answered.”
“I’d ask that you remain in the vehicle, sir.”
Cyrus turned around in his seat and looked the colonel in the eye. “If we’re going to win this war, we’ll all have to do our parts. Satan’s not just going to lie down and surrender.”
“No, sir, he isn’t. But getting bit doesn’t help, either. I’d rather keep you on our side than turn you over to theirs.”
“Colonel!” the driver said, slowing the Humvee as it rumbled across the cracked pavement. This had been a commercial district, with rows of burned-out shops, warped and sagging billboards, and poles dragged to the ground sprouting loose utility wires. A block ahead, four people fled from a building enclosed by a chain-link fence. Judging from the wreckage, Cyrus figured it might’ve been a mechanic’s shop, salvage yard, or recycling center.
One of the people turned and fired a pistol in the direction from which they fled.
“Incoming at two o’clock,” Hayes said. “Move in.”
The Humvee rolled forward over shattered glass. A pack of deaders emerged from the building, giving chase in their staggering lope. Their movements were simultaneously awkward and graceful. Watching them, it didn’t look like they were moving fast, but they managed to cover a lot of ground in a hurry.
“No worries,” the driver said. “The civilians are outrunning them. We can take out the deaders, no sweat.”
“I have the Deuce,” Hayes said, climbing into the gunner’s turret to man the fifty-caliber machine gun.
But as the Humvee approached the fleeing group, another pack of deaders emerged from a crumbling garage, cutting off the people’s escape. Hayes ordered the driver to stop and swiveled the turret toward the first pack, which was closer.
“Colonel,” the driver shouted. “The civilians don’t have marks.”
Hayes muttered a curse and slid back inside the Humvee, slamming the turret hatch. “Let the fuckers die, then.”
“You’re going to let the zombies go free?” Cyrus asked, watching as the two packs of zombies surrounded the group and closed in, even while the lone armed civilian emptied his magazine into them. Another survivor waved at the Humvee for help.
“Don’t want to waste ammo. It’s too scarce. Scarcer than heathens, anyway.”
Cyrus wondered if those people even knew about Promiseland. Without the Internet, phone, and broadcast media, they might not understand the value and significance of the Eye and Three. The first of them, a slender young woman in a ragged T-shirt, was dragged down by two larger deaders, her mouth open in a scream that didn’t carry over the roar of the Humvee’s engine.
The man with the gun slammed his empty pistol against the head of a zombie, but as it reeled away, a second took its place and latched its teeth into the man’s forearm. Then the horde swarmed the last two survivors and a feeding frenzy erupted in the broken street, blood and bits of gore flying into the air as the zombies gobbled and snapped and tore.
What would Reverend Ingram do?
“That just means there will be more zombies later,” Cyrus said. “When these turn and come back.”
“Not if the deaders pick the bones clean,” the driver said.
“Put them down,” Cyrus said to Hayes. “All of them. That’s an order.”
He wasn’t worried about ending the suffering of the victims. Christians had a duty to carry the message of Christ’s salvation, and perhaps these people hadn’t been offered the opportunity. Sure, no doubt they’d had plenty of chances to save their own souls before the outbreak, but modern society had offered too many distractions.
What use was Jesus when videogames, sports, politics, unlimited streaming movies, free pornography, legal opioids, around-the-clock alcohol sales, social media, and the stock ma
rket offered more distractions than was possible to pack into a dozen lifetimes, much less one?
Cyrus was fortunate to have embraced that second chance when Reverend Ingram rescued him from wickedness. The least he could do was offer mercy to those who didn’t have that chance.
Hayes resisted for only a moment, no doubt due to his perception of chain-of-command. Hayes wasn’t used to politicians giving him orders, and Cyrus was so new to the game, only the force of his physical stature projected power. Then Hayes opened the hatch and slithered back up into the turret. A moment later, the M2 roared to life, the belt-fed heavy machine gun ripping fat, hot rounds through the feasting horde.
“In the End Times,” Cyrus said to the driver, “there are no miscarriages of justice. Only the wrath of the righteous.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Attention,” boomed the voice over the loudspeakers installed around the compound. “All scheduled work crews must now meet in the sanctuary for morning prayers.”
“I guess that’s us,” Bill said to Kit. They’d managed to secure cots in the gym after undergoing a quick medical screening. The orderlies, half of them civilians, didn’t examine them closely enough to notice their marks had faded a little, nor did they check their body temperatures or take blood samples. Apparently, once you were inside, you were considered more or less acceptable.
Bill gathered up the few items he’d kept after turning over his belongings at the distribution table. He’d had to show his driver’s license to a registrar once, and Kit was recorded as “Kit Flanagan,” giving Bill’s address to the clerk. Bill was glad he was old enough that familial resemblance didn’t matter. She was cute and he’d never been cute, and the last of his hair was too short to compare to her jet-black mop.
“You new here?” asked their neighbor, a young black woman who tended an infant.
“No,” Bill said. “We’ve been coming to the church for years. Lucky to be close by when it all happened.”
“That’s mighty funny,” she said. “You hardly knew where the bathrooms were, you didn’t know you had to line up for cots, and at dinner, you went to the government line instead of the refugee line.”
“All these people,” Bill said, waving his hand at the bustling activity around them. “It gets confusing.”
“Or maybe you’re pretending to be a little bit addle-brained. Taking advantage of being old as Methuselah.”
“He’s lucky I’m here to take care of him,” Kit said above the murmuring crowd. “He’d wander off naked if he wasn’t tied down.”
“Thank God,” the woman said with a grin. “Nobody wants to see that.”
“I’ve had my moments,” Bill said. “I’m Bill and this is Kit.”
“I’m Sharice.” She lifted her hand in greeting and Bill saw her mark had been inked with bright green to make it more visible against her dark skin. She rocked the infant in her arms. “And this is Tyrell, Junior.”
“Hi, Tyrell.” Kit made a little cooing sound with puckered lips. The baby was nodding into sleep, though, and ignored her.
“Where’s Tyrell, Senior?” Bill asked, hoping such a question didn’t lead to painful memories for her.
“He was called up to active duty. Seymour Johnson Air Force base in Goldsboro. I haven’t heard from him, but every time I hear a jet fly over, I think of him.”
Bill wondered if Tyrell Senior was indiscriminately dropping bombs on his fellow citizens. “I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but I can’t help notice there aren’t many…”
“People like me?” Sharice grinned again. “Women with kids? Beyoncé fans? Kia drivers?”
“Don’t mind him,” Kit said. “He watches too much Fox News.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “I’m wondering the same thing myself. The Reverend’s goon squad hasn’t exactly selected minorities out, but I noticed not many of us have been admitted in the last few days. Good thing you’re white, since you just got here.”
Bill started to repeat his lie, but the woman pointed at his mark. “Your Eye and Three looks like a child scribbled with crayon,” she continued. “You’re passing, aren’t you?”
Bill looked around to see if anyone around them had heard the accusation. But most people were already on their way to the sanctuary, leaving a smelly, disorganized clutter on the gym floor.
“Settle down,” Sharice said. “I won’t tell.”
“Thank you,” Kit said for the both of them. “We’ve been outside, and it’s not pretty.”
“It’s getting plenty ugly in here, too. It’s hard to keep track of all the comings and goings, but I swear some people who go out on work crews don’t make it back. And all the talk of God has changed to ‘Reverend this’ and ‘Reverend that.’”
“Why did you come here if you thought this might happen?” Bill asked. “Aren’t there other shelters?”
“Are you kidding? You think the government’s going to give unlimited resources to a black preacher?”
The loudspeaker again announced the imminent service and repeated the summons to the sanctuary. Bill stood with Kit and headed toward the line leading out of the gym.
“I don’t work since I have him to tend,” Sharice said. “But you two be careful out there, hear?”
“Good luck to you, too,” Bill said. “And I hope you see your husband soon.”
The sanctuary was packed, with people standing in the aisles and around the cavernous space. The pulpit was occupied only by soldiers standing in a phalanx along the front edge of the platform, and the lectern was empty. Instead, all eyes focused on a massive flat screen television monitor that descended from cables. Reverend Ingram’s face filled the screen in an eerie still image even as his words flooded from the speakers.
“My followers,” Ingram said. “We’ve faced many trials together and still have many more to go through. As you go forth in service, please keep in mind the reason we keep fighting. Satan is loose in the world, and his reign is written in the Book of Revelation. God promised suffering, destruction, and death as the punishment for wickedness, and now we must repay the debt that humankind owes.”
The whispers that had echoed around the sanctuary gradually died away, until all that remained was Ingram’s sonorous voice. Bill couldn’t tell if the people around him were paying attention, or if they were just faking it like he was. Judging by their rapt, blank faces, they were either Oscar-caliber actors or else drugged by the heady nectar of Ingram’s message.
“You are the elected, those whom God has chosen to perform His work until Christ returns and finishes the job. Though God will be with us in the end, today He leaves the battle to us. And God has granted unto me the leadership of this fight. I need your loyalty to fulfill that which is written.”
A few people muttered Ingram’s name, and then more joined in until the chorus rose in a chant: “In-GRAM, In-GRAM, In-GRAM!”
Bill wasn’t sure whether Ingram’s sermon was recorded or delivered live, but either way, the message paused until the chant faded. Kit took Bill’s hand and gave a squeeze as if to acknowledge the creepy vibe in the church.
“Now let us pray,” Ingram continued.
The crowd immediately fell silent. Bill closed his eyes halfway and bowed his head along with the rest of the congregants. He noticed the soldiers didn’t bow but instead surveyed the crowd carefully.
Bill decided it was best to just blend in. Kit kept a tight grip on his hand.
“God,” Ingram intoned. “Grant me the strength to wield the shining sword of righteousness. Let evil fall before me and let my enemies taste the fire of our faith. Bless those who carry my mark, because they are with me. Amen.”
The crowd repeated, “Amen,” and returned to whispering to one another, some of them starting up the chant of “In-GRAM” again. They were so deep in their fervor that none of them appeared to notice Ingram’s prayer had been all about self-aggrandizement and delusion. Where was the humility and subjugation that Bill had always associated wit
h spirituality?
The strident, authoritative announcer who’d earlier given directions came through the loudspeakers again: “All workers now assemble at the main gate to be organized into crews. Work will set you free.”
No one seemed to notice the phrase that had once been mockingly posted at the entrance to the Auschwitz and Dachau concentration camps. The crowd pressed toward the exits, urged forward by the soldiers. Bill put an arm around Kit and insinuated through the mass of bodies until they were outside the sanctuary and in the bright spring sunshine. After the ominous, suffocating experience in the sanctuary, Bill felt as if a storm had passed.
“I think I need a shower,” Kit said. “Yuck.”
“I wouldn’t joke about that after all the Nazi bullshit they pulled.”
“You’re just paranoid, Bill. That was just run-of-the-mill holy-roller stuff.”
Bill held up the mark. “Perfectly normal.”
“Dude. Zombie apocalypse and Armageddon. What do you expect?”
They didn’t have much of a respite as they were herded toward the main gate, where people were sorted into different groups. Bill tried to determine the criteria for selections, but none of them seemed to display uniform characteristics. Male, female, black, white, frail, strong, all fell in where they were told. Bill and Kit were loaded into the open bed of a truck in which shovels, picks, and other hand tools were piled. After the truck was filled with maybe thirty people, a soldier climbed aboard and sat on the tail gate.
“Is that for protection, or to make sure we don’t escape?” Bill asked Kit.
A plump, oily-faced man with a black hair sprouting from a cheek mole cast Bill an odd look and then turned away. Most of the others lapsed into a drowsy, meditative state as the truck thundered out of the compound and out into the wastelands of Raleigh. Bill studied their surroundings, trying to orient himself with what he knew of the city, but most of the landmarks were reduced to rubble.
Revelation: A Post-Apocalyptic Zombie Thriller (Arize Book 2) Page 16
