Saint Pain (Zombie Ascension Book 3)

by Bilof, Vincenzo

  They left her to sit alone in a booth, to rest her eyes, to reflect. She could hear their conversation.

  “What’re we supposed to do?” Desjardins asked. “I’m trying to help, trying to give her what she wants…”

  “Maybe you’re not,” Bill said. “I suggest you have a seat, and keep your voice down. Hang out for a bit. Or you can leave. Nobody said you got to stay.”

  The scientist wasn’t trying to convince Bill to leave with him. Obviously, he wanted Vega to come with him, to Sutter. Whoever Sutter was, he was the magical axis upon which the scientist’s world spun. It would have been easy for him to leave; Vega wasn’t going to tilt the turf war in Sutter’s favor all by herself, especially if she knew little to nothing about Traverse and the whole Hell-nightmare-Mina connection.

  Maybe a year ago she would have put a bullet into his face. Maybe.

  “Both of you are fucking crazy,” Desjardins said.

  “In your opinion,” Bill said.

  “I try to help, and I get guns pointed at me, my life threatened. I’m the bad guy here?”

  Bill was good with people. To think: he was going to be a football player. He probably had enough experience in front of cameras and around people to know how to deal with assholes who didn’t want to buy into the “team” concept.

  “To hell with both of you,” Desjardins said. She could hear him spit on the floor and walk out the back door.

  Bill expected her to say something. She could feel him waiting.

  “Killing him won’t make me feel better,” she said.

  “You would know.”

  He might have damn good vision in the dark, or he could tell where she sat by the sound of her voice; he slid into the booth and sat across from her. A hint of light—maybe moonlight—from outside was enough to reveal the blinds over the window next to them.

  Everything that came next would be predictable: Doctor Desjardins was running to Sutter, picking his way through the ruins. Sutter would come looking for them, and he would probably find them. If Sutter was a flesh-trader, Bill might be expendable, unless they could force him to work. Unless Bill betrayed her. What loyalty did he owe her?

  Loyal. The word reminded her of a dog.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “Getting rid of Doctor Death.”’

  The man probably made Bill uneasy, considering everything he said. There was no reason for him to stick around, but he survived a day with her. He survived a day with her in the wasteland and didn’t have to kill anyone.

  It was still early.

  There might be something clever for her to say, but she couldn’t think of it; the headache was making her eyes hurt.

  She parted the blinds slightly with her fingers and peered into the vast nothing.

  “I can stay awake a long time,” Bill said.

  “I’d give you a medal if I had one. Or a beer.”

  “I would take the beer.”

  “Good choice.”

  They had a lot of gear between the two of them: she had the Desert Eagle and her Bushmaster, along with a Glock and a couple knives in strategic places. Bill carried a shotgun and a 9mm.

  Desjardin would be back with his buddies if he didn’t find a place to hide out for the night or get himself killed on the way.

  When he came back she would have to fight for her life or become their trade-bait. As for Bill? He might be screwed.

  She wasn’t in a hurry to get up and leave, and neither was Bill.

  “Knew a girl like you once,” he said.

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Nah. I remember thinking of her like a wild horse.”

  “I assume you’ve had a lot of good luck with women.”

  “Yeah, a regular outlaw I was, wearing a uniform to Bible school and all that. She was there, and she wasn’t like nobody I knew. Wasn’t friends with her or nothing. I think we were like, fifteen I think. Maybe sixteen.”

  “There’s a point to your story.”

  “I guess. Maybe not. I remember she always had her sleeves rolled up. Wore her hair down. Minded her own business for the most part, except when she heard talk of people getting pushed around. You know what I mean. They call it bullying now, or they did, but back then it was what we did. Hell, I ain’t innocent. Got a midget or a queer in the hallways, or someone we thought was a queer, we pointed him out, got our kicks, said what we had to say. But she’d have none of it. Picked a fight once with the biggest guy in the school, friend of mine named Joe D. A good ol’ boy, real cowboy. Don’t even know what it was about. I remember standing there, and she just walked up and got in his face. He laughed about it. Didn’t want to hit a woman. I remember him saying that. She said there wasn’t no difference between hitting a woman and calling her a whore, or something like that, I can’t remember. One thing led to another. Just a bunch of words. After school we were in the field out by his uncle’s place, sitting in the back of the pickup, drinking beer, up to no good. We see this little thing coming across the field toward us. Thought the damn thing was a rabbit. Got closer. The sun can screw up how you see things sometimes, and when we figured it was a person, we kept talking about how they were too small to be Joe D.’s uncle. You know where this goes. She don’t say nothing to us; just hopped into the back of the truck and slapped the beer out of Joe D.’s hand. Beer all over his shirt, his lap. We’re laughing it up, but we know what’s coming. We knew he was about to get pissed at us, but I think we were laughing for another reason. Wasn’t sure what the reason was, still not sure. But he stood up and pushed her out the truck. He hopped down and stood over her, and they were saying shit to each other, talking big. She stood up and kicked his nuts, put a knee into his nose when he was hunched over. We were still in the truck, laughing, spilling beer, hollering. The sun was up real high. Real bright. I remember it was real bright. She could have walked away, could have left him there, but she got on top of him, had to prove her point. He’s got these big hands, just wrapped them around her neck. Had her like a doll, stood up, and she was kicking, and you could see her eyes bulge in the back of her head. He hit her in the gut, and the boys hollered louder. I was there, hollering, but I wasn’t sure why. I ain’t making an excuse. Well, he hit her in the mouth with his fist, smashed her jaw up good. Dropped her onto the field and told us to toss him a beer. She was on her hands, trying to get back up, but he got down and poured the beer all over her face. Then he took off his belt and whipped her with it. Across her chest, her neck. She didn’t cry out, not once. We weren’t hollering no more. We jumped down off the truck, and I think we were in a daze. Just watching. Didn’t really know what we were seeing.”

  Bill’s voice cracked. She could hear him swallowing a lump in his throat.

  “Took his pants down, took hers down. We all stood there. She didn’t cry out. She tried to claw at him, but he wouldn’t have none of it. When he got off her, he told us to give it a try. That’s what he said. Give it a try. We all looked at him for a minute, and she was just curled up, spitting blood out her mouth. We just seen Joe D. really mess this girl up. I don’t know who took their pants off next. I don’t know. I just stood there. I remember she got turned over onto her stomach. She grunted, but didn’t scream, didn’t say nothing. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to. I was hoping it wouldn’t get to be my turn. The guy before me said she was all slick, all filled-up, and he didn’t want to get no diseases. Said he was saving himself for God. Joe D. laughed, laughed like a dying bird or something, kind of wild. He poured more beer onto her, threw the can at her head. Kicked her in the ribs. Told her to walk home. So we watched her crawl for a bit. The sun wasn’t so high anymore. We watched her crawl until she stood and walked away. Didn’t look back, didn’t run. Just walked back on down the field. Nobody said nothing. Not another word the rest of the night. I didn’t sleep. Just kept seeing that girl in the field, walking away, getting smaller and smaller. I used to think she was hoping it would happen. Because the nex
t day she went into his house with a double-barrel and killed his mom, his dad, his little sister, and then him. Then she took herself out. I didn’t go to the funerals. Heard it was all closed casket.”

  He sniffled.

  “I ain’t never told nobody this story.”

  She waited for him to clear his eyes, his breath stuttering. His voice had weakened, and he seemed to want the strength to finish it. There was something he needed to say, something he didn’t know until now. The reason why he shared this story, the reason why he remembered.

  “I was a coward. I know that. I put it out of my head. Didn’t talk to the other guys. Not ever again. Didn’t even look at them. A couple of them moved away. The whole thing—it was all over the papers. She could have left a note or something, could have written about who she saw, could have named us. She didn’t do none of that. And I just kept on. I was already playing varsity ball, already had scouts looking at me. Football just took my life over.”

  He cleared his throat. “You ever seen a grown man cry?”

  “I can’t see shit in here,” she said.

  “Yeah. Me neither.”

  That was all he needed to say. The story wasn’t over; he might have buried that moment in his past, but it followed him here, to the end of the world. Was he waiting for retribution from her? It wasn’t going to come. She couldn’t kill the man who she had every reason to blame for helping kill millions of people, and she didn’t feel a shred of pity or loathing for Bill. Like everyone else who stayed alive, he was trying to find penance, or peace, in this place where peace was no longer possible. Peace was a dream, a dream of silence.

  VINCENT

  Only one of his knees had been shot, but he felt useless now, moreso than before.

  “This isn’t personal,” Taylor said to him. “I mean, not completely.”

  They had nine people in their crew, leftovers from the neighborhood that had become a graveyard. Taylor and eight other men, and they brought with them the walking corpse of the woman who had been his companion for almost two years, a woman who died trying to find him. Chanell.

  Vincent limped awkwardly with a tourniquet on his leg, and he remembered Sergeant John Charles; the soldier had sacrificed himself to save others. The man had been stupid; driving toward a burning building to save a bunch of fools from themselves, from their “end of the world” party. And there was Griggs. The fight in the park. The girl whose head Griggs exploded with his gun. The sergeant had been bitten, and he didn’t waste his last few moments alive.

  Now Taylor pushed Vincent through the city, and he could feel a familiar angst, a clear energy he could recognize, filter into his lungs, his mind, his heart.

  Taylor and eight men.

  Chanell, rotted and stiff, a damaged machine of a woman. Beyond her, touching the sky, old structures that would have been attractive in the opening credits to a 1980s soap opera. Beneath the blue sky, Chanell, dead and crumbling, led like a dog on a chain, collar around discolored flesh that looked rubbery.

  The world he used to know.

  He never was a morning person, and Taylor had insisted they strike out early with their small group of rogues. The sun was lost behind a bright haze, the humidity making the wind-rifled trees move slowly, languidly.

  “Remember me, nigga?”

  Vincent turned and saw the guy who had tattooed Vega’s hands; the same guy who brought him to the house where people had watched Mina’s video for the hell of it.

  “Suede,” Vincent said.

  “You a busted nigga, now. Been waiting a long time to see this. Ain’t money at the end of this rainbow. I get something better. I get paid my wildest dream.”

  Suede licked his cracked lips. He knew Suede used to work on a crew for him, but he had never been closely acquainted with him. He always figured Suede hung around because he still wanted to hold onto Vincent as a figurehead for a life that had once been normal for him, a life now gone.

  Just another asshole with a score to settle. Everyone thought they were owed something just for being born. Suede was no different.

  Vincent looked up at the sky, felt sweat drip over the bridge of his nose while he labored to keep his leg going.

  “Don’t you want to know what it is?” Suede asked.

  Vincent didn’t answer. Better to keep walking. He wanted to look over his shoulder and get a look at Taylor, see the look on that crusty old cop’s face. As much as he had hated Griggs, he wished that mouthy fucker was still around with something clever to say.

  “Hey, you listening?”

  Suede shoved him forward, and Vincent tripped; he couldn’t stop himself from grunting in pain as he landed on his face, his knee surrendering again. They had only just grazed him with the bullet and had missed the bone, but it still hurt like a bitch.

  “Used to work under Louis,” Suede said. “You remember him? He worked hard for you. Kicked up a lot of cash. Wouldn’t let me have a taste. We busted our asses, and I see your girl over here—she’s dead. Man, she is really dead!”

  Dirt in Vincent’s mouth, he said, “Get on with it.”

  “Louis stayed back for you and waited. Chanell stayed back and waited. I didn’t know you from a hole in the sky, never even met you. But I was tight with Louis. Used to have pimps paying us for protection. Used to have bitches on dial. I had three gold watches. I owed it to him. You abandoned his ass. And you know what I’m doing to your ass once Sutter gets you?”

  “That’s enough,” Taylor said.

  Vincent could feel the spittle on the back of his neck.

  “Goddammit,” Taylor said.

  Vincent could hear footsteps. The others were standing over him, and they all took turns spitting on him.

  “Savages,” Taylor said.

  But he wasn’t doing a thing to stop them.

  “I’d like to get there sometime today,” Taylor said. “The sooner, the better.”

  “Who the fuck you think you are?” Suede asked the old cop. “You think we need you to make the deal with Sutter? We found Sutter first—”

  “And I made the deal,” Taylor said. “Pick him up, and cut the shit.”

  A long time ago Vincent had watched a movie about Jesus; he had been a young man then, and he had watched Christ carry a cross while the people who were supposed to love him were spitting on him, cursing his name. Strange to think of it now. He was hardly anyone’s hero, but these people had looked up to him, depended on him, secretly wished they could be like him someday.

  There wasn’t anybody to feel sorry for him. That’s the way it should be. He deserved this, and he could give a shit less.

  His guns had killed children.

  Sutter wanted his guns, right? No. Everyone wanted his guns. He was the richest man alive.

  Taylor, Suede, and Sutter; they could choke on his guns.

  They picked him up, pushed him forward. Sweat in his eyes, sun in his face, dust in his mouth.

  He didn’t know who these people were. The haze was everywhere, and the corpse of a dead girlfriend was walking beside him. Girlfriend? He bought Chanell a lot of nice things, took her to dinner, but there were more than few women who were treated to limousine rides on his dime.

  A part of him wished a horde of walking corpses would attack now, finish the misery. Was he ready to die? Detroit was silent and bright; sunlight revealed every imperfection, every broken window, every bloodstain, every forsaken teddy bear. The city spread out and forever, a sprawl of steel ruin, like a painting of an apocalyptic nightmare. He deserved to die here, all of the murder and money laundering and tax evasion pointless. All for nothing. Just to bring him here, to this end. What difference did any of it make if it led to this conclusion?

  A zombie might appear from around a corner, and there would be another behind it, and then another, and another. In those rare moments where his fatigued body surrendered to sleep, the dead would never let him escape. No matter how hard he fought or how far he tried to run, they would be there, waiting for h
im.

  But where were they now?

  They had attacked the neighborhood. What provoked them? Why had they waited? Was there some kind of purpose behind them, some kind of design?

  Vincent had enjoyed the peace. He had enjoyed wallowing in his own filth, going several days without bathing, doing nothing but making sure Vega didn’t flip out and kill herself while she waited for him to make his own attempt.

  Chanell. Did she deserve this? Nobody deserved this. Her remains defiled, chained up, walked like a dog on Taylor’s leash.

  They walked down suburban streets that had been plowed; the city council had made a concentrated effort to clear out some of the blighted houses and left nothing but fields of grass and weeds, cracked concrete and rusted vehicles. On this street in particular there had been a few crack houses when Vincent was a kid, and now they were gone. There was nothing here. One or two houses remained standing. A boarded-up store on the street corner.

  Daylight. The afternoon.

  “You were an asshole,” Suede said to Vincent.

  “Was?” Vincent shrugged. “I lost my touch.”

  “I busted my ass for Louis,” he said.

  “What’s your government name?”

  The man called Suede pushed him forward with the butt of a shotgun. “I saw Fireball go down. Where were you at?”

  Vincent smiled. Fireball. Loyal to the end.

  Taylor gestured toward the ruins ahead of them and shared his delusion. “You mean a lot to us alive. You’re going to be a hero. You get to save the city, make it yours again.”

  This man wanted to hear himself talk. Let him talk. Let him keep on rambling.

  “Mine?” Vincent asked. “I was just a thug. Your people were in charge, not mine. Right?”

  “We don’t have to pretend anymore,” Taylor said. “We have an opportunity to make this right. Look at this place. I spent thirty years here, and nothing has changed. Not a thing. You were probably the most responsible person in the entire damn city. We admired our operation. I used to wonder what this city would look like if someone with a shred of competence were in charge.”