Saint Pain (Zombie Ascension Book 3)

by Bilof, Vincenzo

  “You can’t tell me anything new?” she said, her eyes locked on the altar.

  “I can tell you many things. I suppose there’s a difference between what you want to hear and what you need to hear.”

  She squeezed his hand and smiled. “I guess, Father. Before, I was just a punk trying to stay out of jail. I was supposed to be in a gang, but it wasn’t enough. I tried it out. Didn’t like the politics. Didn’t like the politics in the army, neither. But I had the training, so being a merc was good enough for me.”

  A broken woman who lived on the outskirts of a killing field. She found meaning in violence and pain; not thrills, but meaning. Purpose. Every time she killed, she killed the woman she could have been.

  “I think I was close,” she said. “I think I almost made it. Almost found a way out of my head. But I need to go back out there among the animals. It’s where I belong. I think I came to say goodbye, and good luck.”

  They sat together for a while, and she leaned against his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her and rubbed her arm.

  “Do you want—?”

  “No,” she said. “No prayers. No blessings.”

  He kissed the top of her forehead. When she walked out of the church, he kept telling himself he hadn’t failed.

  ***

  An evening in the confessional that gave him nothing but silence and time to think. Father Joe couldn’t stop thinking about Vega and whether or not he should have done more to change her mind. Did he fail her in some way?

  Someone slid into the booth.

  The ritual began.

  A man with a smooth, calm voice began to speak into the box.

  “In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. I have never been to Confession before.”

  Father Joe had a passage of scripture memorized; many who populated the rebuilding neighborhood hadn’t found God until everything had been taken from them.

  But he paused.

  The man’s voice had stopped him; the sarcasm, the hilarity, was obvious. Someone had come to mock him.

  “What’s wrong, Father?”

  The scripture. He forgot what he wanted to say.

  “Did you think I could forget you, Father?”

  He didn’t recognize the voice, but he should have. This was someone who knew him, who wanted to torment him.

  “You’ve got one hell of a right hook,” the sinner said. “Speaking of hell, you’ve been cordially invited, but I have to kill you first.”

  “That will certainly earn you a ticket to the party,” Father Joe said.

  In his experience, any number of hard rogues would step into the Confessional and begin toying with him just to get off. Especially before he left Mexico; he was the holy man who had once killed someone in the boxing ring. Everybody knew who he was, and they wouldn’t let him forget it.

  There was only one person in recent memory who had suffered the impact of his right hook. Father Joe puzzled it together, but he knew it was better to play along with the man’s ego than to jump through the Confessional and bow down to violent hysterics. Better to let this man feel that he was in control.

  The man on the other side of the Confessional was a killer.

  “I would like to hear your opinion on something I found in your favorite holy book,” the man said, his voice filled with mockery. “I thought of you when I came across this, Father. I thought you would appreciate it the beauty in it mystery. The Bible is a rather poetic tome, is it not?”

  “Get on with it. You don’t need my permission.”

  “The beast that thou sawest was, and is not; and shall ascend out of the bottomless pit, and go into perdition: and they that dwell on the earth shall wonder, whose names were not written in the book of life from the foundation of the world, when they behold the beast that was, and is not, and yet is.”

  “Heavy stuff.”

  “The beast concerns me, Father. Have you seen the beast that was, is not, and yet is?”

  Enough was enough.

  “If you came here for another shot at the title, I’d be willing to give you a rematch.”

  They had met only briefly, and Father Joe brought him down with one punch. This man who was the bane of Vega’s existence. A man who helped bring the world to its knees.

  “You’re an intriguing man,” Jim Traverse said. “I’ve thought about you often, and I hope you’ve been thinking of me.”

  No use running. This was a mass-murderer with a carefully orchestrated plan, and he’d been looking forward to this moment.

  “You came here to gloat or for revenge?” Father Joe asked.

  A low chuckle. “A bit of both, I think. Do you blame me for everything that happened?”

  “Maybe you know how it started, but you didn’t start it. You’re an opportunist. I wouldn’t give someone like you too much credit.”

  Another chuckle. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”

  “I know you’re a deluded egomaniac. You’re not exactly original. I forgot about you, but if I hadn’t, I would have predicted this. Of course, you would come back.”

  Predictably, Traverse stepped out of the booth. Father Joe exited, and another sharp stab of pain reminded him that he probably shouldn’t be doing too much heavy lifting.

  Tall and lean with a swath of hair over a smooth forehead. Thin lips, calm eyes. Traverse could have been on display in a wax museum.

  “We have seen the beast because it has always been here, Father,” Traverse said. “We cannot see the beast because it is inside us. A plague that we carry with us. Rather poetic, I think, that we envision Hell as something that man has not created, even though man is its creator.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I’d like a rematch,” Jim said.

  Father Joe shrugged. “Okay. Why not?”

  Sangriento Joe they used to call him. He’d killed a man with a punch, and he fled into the opens arms of the church.

  Traverse backed up and allowed him a chance to assume a boxer’s stance. The feet remembered. The body remembered. His fists remembered, but he was older. Slower. He hadn’t boxed in almost two decades. He had tagged Traverse at Selfridge because the man had been cocky.

  Father Joe blinked, and his shins buckled. Burning pain laced up his legs, and he gripped the edge of a pew. Traverse had kicked him hard in both shins, and Father Joe hadn’t even seen the man move.

  “I should apologize for last time,” Traverse said. “I don’t know why I should apologize, but I think it’s fair.”

  Traverse slapped him across the face; more mockery. Another slap. Father’s bottom lip was cut.

  “I should apologize too,” Father Joe said. “I’m sorry I have a conscience. I’m sorry I didn’t kill you.”

  Traverse crouched down, the smirk on his face never wavering. “Do you know how I found you? Do you know why your little village was attacked? You’re wounded, Father. The wound is a beacon in the dark for the beast, and the beast has found you. You’re the reason why so many people died here yesterday. Does that please you?”

  Impossible. How could Traverse know? Maybe Bill Bailey was working with him all along and had given him the information. Father Joe couldn’t believe that he had unknowingly caused yesterday’s slaughter.

  But it made sense. Father Joe had been selfish with his need to go out and be a tough guy every day, running around and beating up zombies with his bare hands. His selfishness had already caused people to lose their lives in the past.

  If he blamed himself, all would be lost. Traverse would break him, defeat him if he allowed the doubt to creep in.

  Father Joe felt the cool perspiration on his forehead. The humidity in the church stifled his breath, and he felt like he’d been dipped in a pool of his own sweat. His black clothes were soaked through, and he hurt in a thousand places.

  “You got what you came here for,” Father Joe said. “I’m all yours. Bell’s about to ring, time for round three.”
>
  He couldn’t differentiate between delirium and faith.

  Traverse broke his ribs. Both arms. Shattered his ankles. Cracked his jaw.

  Father Joe was impressed with himself for taking so much punishment before passing out. Before he faded, he thought it wonderful that Vega had a chance. Traverse was alive, and he was in Detroit. If she knew, if only she knew.

  VINCENT

  Vega didn’t say anything while she packed her bag.

  Women didn’t leave him—he left them. But that was a long time ago, wasn’t it? Almost a different world. Maybe it was a different world, and he was a different person. Ruthless, unforgiving, greedy. Powerful, in charge. A man of respect. A man who gave orders and made demands that were carried through. A man who ordered that people die. A man with more than one house, more than one operation, more than one woman.

  There was only one woman now.

  And she was leaving. Packing guns and water and crackers and canned vegetables, stuffing it all into a backpack.

  What should he say? Accusations came to Vincent’s mind. What could she be blamed for? Why would he want her to stay? Did he want her to stay?

  There were no words. There was nothing to say from the man whose words meant life or death to people on the street. A man whose kingdom had disappeared into the dark, devoured by the dead. By ghosts. By walking ghosts.

  “Take a cell phone,” he said.

  She didn’t answer him.

  “Why?” he asked.

  He asked her why because he was supposed to.

  He asked her why because it was the right thing to do.

  She didn’t look at him. She hadn’t looked at him since the attack.

  “You want me to beg you to stay,” he said.

  “Go ahead,” Vega said while stuffing her pack full of supplies.

  “Please stay.”

  “That’s a lot of begging. Very emotional. I’m compelled to stay.”

  There was more for him to say, but he didn’t know how to do it. He forgot how to talk.

  “You’re not coming back,” he said.

  She stopped for a moment and pretended to stare at the bag.

  “I get it,” he said. “They would have called this shit PTSD. Would have been sitting in rooms with shrinks. Would have been put on meds. Maybe kicked out of the service. Hell, I got kicked out for being right in the head. They keep the crazies on the field sometimes.”

  She took a deep breath.

  “There ain’t none of that left,” he said. “No army or nothing. Nobody to tell us we’re crazy or sane. Nobody to tell us we’re right or wrong. And everyone wants to be told. They want to be told what’s white and what’s black. They want someone to be in charge of this.”

  “Is this your attempt to get me to stay?”

  “No. You’re leaving. I know you’re leaving.”

  “I think I’m supposed to be pissed you’re not trying harder to convince me.”

  “Convince you of what? You know what’s best for you. I’m not going to fight to keep you trapped in here. In this cage.”

  “Nice to see how much you give a shit.”

  Vincent laughed. “Okay. I get it. You want another argument. You want me to fight with you. This is the shit I never did. I never needed anyone to tell me what I think and what I feel is right. I let women walk out all the time. If I need to convince them—”

  “It’s not about convincing, it’s about fighting. It’s about fighting for something you care about. It’s about not giving up.”

  He didn’t spend his days thinking about what he did wrong or what he could do right. He did what would work; he did what he needed to do because he knew the people in power made their own rules as they went along, and so he made his own rules.

  He made up his rules, and he lost it all. His crew. His women. His wealth. It didn’t make a damn bit of difference. He was stuck here where he started, in the ghetto, but he was surrounded by guns and anger.

  “I couldn’t pick up a gun,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “I wanted to. I kept thinking of reasons not to. I kept thinking of reasons why I shouldn’t do anything.”

  She finally looked up from the bag, and he saw the tears in her eyes.

  “I have to do this. I want to apologize, but I…”

  “Yeah.”

  She slumped into a chair and wiped her eyes. “Father Joe is out there. I know he could be anywhere, and I don’t have a lead. And… I’m afraid of those things, and they’ll always be part of my life.”

  Vincent sat down across from Vega. He should comfort her, wrap his arms around her, bring her close. Try to get her into bed again, strip her down, let their bodies talk. But the idea didn’t seem real.

  “I want to be with you,” he said. “I’ll never stop thinking about you. If I was next to you, I wouldn’t stop thinking about you. Worrying about you. I’d get myself killed for you.”

  “But you didn’t do anything when they came here for us.”

  Of course, she was right. Mortality wasn’t the issue, but guilt was. They had never lived normal lives, because their version of normal involved violence and bloodshed. After everything they had seen, they lived on the fringes of a warzone, and the war could come to them at any time. Still, he didn’t protect her. How could he protect her outside of their house full of guns?

  He didn’t want the violence anymore. It was all he could do to pretend like everything was fine, that the past hadn’t affected him. Being with her was the escape. Making her laugh was going to heal him. More than anything, he needed her damnation, because compared to her, he was very less damaged. That’s what he told himself. She needed him. He protected her. He had a purpose.

  “I thought it was over,” she said. “I thought we would just sit here and waste away. They were supposed to be rotting, falling apart. But they came here on purpose. Father Joe said Mina was linked to them, that she was still out there. He said she wouldn’t come for us, like she could direct them.”

  Mina had been a strange woman. But when he thought about the church where he met her and Traverse the first time, he thought about Shanna. About the girl he could have saved if he tried. If he hadn’t run back to his guns.

  Griggs had been right about too many things. The bastard was probably dead now, and his gun was proof enough. That former homicide detective knew what it took to stay alive. He had the balls to keep himself in check, and keep others in check.

  “If you find Traverse, you’re still not coming back,” Vincent said.

  “You’re right. I’m not coming back.”

  Vega stood and walked to him, then sat on his lap. There was a tenderness in her; she wanted to be cared about, and she wanted to care, but she was afraid of getting burned. She had wanted to save a little girl she knew nothing about, and it hurt to fail. She told him about the partners she lost, and it hurt. She was beautiful, and her existence was something poetic, as if she could be two different women, and she wished that she could be one.

  “I never said I didn’t want you with me,” she said.

  It felt wrong to touch her. He could taint her, corrupt her.

  “I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he said. “I can put the tough guy aside and tell you that I feel for you. I want to be with you. I could say I don’t deserve you, but the truth is I don’t know what I deserve. I don’t even want to apologize to you. I don’t feel anything. Not a damn thing.”

  Their eyes didn’t meet. They both stared at the pack with her supplies.

  “Shells for the magnum,” she said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I got something for you. Saving it for a special occasion.”

  “Special occasion?”

  There was no telling what that special occasion might have been, but he really was trying to save it. They weren’t supposed to be out there fighting zombies, and giving it to her was like admitting they were going to out there again, shooting and running.

  A long time ago, when he
was a high school hoodlum, he tried to give a girl he liked a ring. He had picked it out at JC Penny’s at Eastland Mall after saving up several of his McDonald’s paychecks to buy it. Turned out she just wanted to be friends, and that was the last time he ever bought a gift for a girl and cared whether or not they would like it. Since then, there had been many gifts to many girls, but never with much sentiment.

  When was the last time he had ever felt nervous like this? Yeah, nervous. He was just giving Vega a gift, nothing more. Still, he hoped she would like it. He hoped it would protect her, keep her safe.

  The large black case was heavy, and he set it down on the kitchen table to a show of Vega’s wide eyes and a whistle through her teeth.

  “Jewelry never comes in a suitcase that big,” she said.

  When he cracked it open, Vincent was confident she stopped breathing altogether.

  “Holy. Fucking. Shit.” Vega gently lifted the Bushmaster ACR rifle out of the case. “I’ve played with some nice hardware in my time, but a fully-modified ACR has to be at the top of the list.” She put the gun up to her chin, one of her hands testing the forward handgrip, her gaze trained through the scope sight. “The flashlight is a nice touch, too. And the suppressor is outright gaudy. You really do know how to treat a lady.”

  Vincent could feel the blood rush to his cheeks, and he looked away.

  “You sure you don’t want Patrick’s gun as a trade?” she asked.

  “Keep it. I ain’t going anywhere. Funny thing is, the sword is missing. You remember that sword you found, the one you used on that girl at Selfridge? It’s gone.”

  “Useless, anyway.”

  “I know. Still.”

  Vega’s lips curled inward, and she sniffled while slowly placing the gun back into the case.

  “We had a good run,” she said.

  “You’re going to find him.”

  “I know it.”

  They didn’t speak again. He gave her the ammunition, and she walked out of the house. There was nothing else to say.