Vega drew one of her Sig Sauers and put a bullet through his head.
The hole in the general’s head was a red eye staring at her. The general was dead. He dedicated his life to this moment, and he was at peace. He found his peace in war. The old man didn’t die alone; he died for love.
Vega shot him again.
“Get it together,” she heard Vincent say, “keep your shit in order.”
A third round punctured the back of the general’s head.
Maybe he would get up again and laugh at her. Share his philosophy of war and country, talk about his undying love for an idea that could be felt. She and Miles used to watch American troops talk about hunting and women, beer and music. It would drive her mad. There was nothing to talk about. They came from a world she didn’t understand, and she hated them for it. Or maybe she was the alien.
Her hand shook.
“Move your ass,” Vincent said.
Instead of doing the smart thing and moving, she turned and watched John Charles stumble through the door on his wounded legs, balancing himself against the door.
The first thing she wanted to do was ask him how he was doing.
The second thing she wanted to do was look to Vincent to find out if she was nuts. But she didn’t have to.
John Charles didn’t make a sound when he took another step toward them. His uniform was covered in so much blood it looked like he was wearing a red jumpsuit.
He was dead. Yes, very dead.
It would’ve been easier simply to blow him away with the gun in her hand, but she felt like holstering the 9mm and picking up the rifle. As if he was owed John the conclusion only an awesome weapon could provide.
An explosion of glass and the grind of metal pushing itself through dry wall and brick dropped dust into her eyes. The lights disappeared.
Hands grabbed her gun and she stepped back and tripped over the dead general. John Charles landed on top of her and she could smell the blood, as his body writhed against hers. Gunfire flashed from Vincent’s guns, but he wasn’t aiming for the dead man atop her.
Too many times she’d been in this position. Wrestling with the dead—she could hear the sergeant’s jaw snapping at her, blood and saliva dripping onto her face. It would be easy to let the dead soldier have his way with her.
Nothing was easy.
She bucked him off, stood, planted her boot against his neck, and destroyed his face with a three-round burst from the rifle. There was enough firelight through the window to see the sergeant’s existence end once and for all. A chunk of hair matted to skull stuck to her boot.
When Vincent stopped firing, she could hear a man’s agonized scream through the walls of the counseling center.
“Is Griggs still here?” she asked Vincent.
“Fuck do I know? Do we care?”
For a moment, she saw Crater straddling her hips and heard the blast that sounded like an M80 firecracker. Griggs had saved her life.
And Vincent had saved his.
If they left now, she would be leaving a man behind. As much as she loathed him, he was part of their crew. Her twisted version of morality and God-guilt had backed her into a corner, but there was one thing she knew, one thing that made the decision easier.
“He chose his path,” she said. “If we bail his ass out, that won’t mean he’ll come with us, and this path is mine alone. I didn’t ask you to come along, but you’re here. You made a choice, and so did he. Let’s go.”
***
The trail of bodies might lead them to the priest. With the lightening sky, Vega thought about Shanna again and the fight to save her in the early hours of a new day. Dead bodies on the pavement, slumped over the hoods of cars, lying atop each other in parking lots—General Masters had come this way.
Hundreds of zombies made their way to the counseling center, following the path of destruction. Many of them were on fire, their flesh melting and sizzling like sausage on a grille. Pop, pop, the flames sounded like an orchestra that used bubble wrap as its primary instrument.
An explosion added to the chaos, and more followed. A chain reaction set off by rupturing fuel tanks. There was a war going on without any combatants. Bodies covered nearly every inch of the street as they approached a wall of fire that looked like it had been used as a barricade. Burning cop cars and other emergency vehicles were at the center of the conflagration.
Jeremy, the general, the priest, and the sergeant, walked these streets to save strangers. John Charles and the general were both wasted. Jeremy was a nice enough guy, but being nice wouldn’t save him. Maybe he and the priest made it?
“The barricade was a distraction,” Vincent said while they weaved through zombie traffic. “John would’ve been up there, drawing those things away with fireworks so the priest could get away.”
Even though he was stating the obvious, it needed to be said; their suicidal plan may’ve worked. Vega couldn’t remember the last time she went to a concert, but the crowd in the street reminded her of a dispersing audience leaving the venue. There were just as many dead-again people lying in puddles of blood. Water from the rainstorm drained into the sewers.
The water was red.
Her feet had to keep moving. They were closing in, hundreds of them. Grannies in their bath robes and slippers, people whose crotches and chests had been ripped out, skin peeled from their skulls. Heads rolled, and they drooled blood. Crooked fingers without skin, skeletons charred by fire with bright eyes squirming in their heads. Pale blue skin, black, bright white; they were rotting. Some of them moaned, a low prayer by a crowd of people devoted to the consummation of flesh.
Their hands reached for her; adrenaline kept her moving. It seemed they were endless. She couldn’t catch her breath. Her body twisted through them, slipping through stretching arms; she had to keep her balance, or she’d fall right into them. They closed in; her heart told her she was on a rollercoaster ride, but her mind told her fire was following her footsteps.
There was a break. They were spread apart, and she inhaled.
Vega shoved them aside, pushing through them without wasting a bullet. They were spread apart, but she lost sight of Vincent and felt her pulse race. Her neck stiffened, and her knuckles turned white on the grip of the rifle. Where the hell was he?
As soon as her feet stopped, a pair of gooey hands cupped her chin from behind her. She darted out of the creature’s grasp and slammed her rifle into the face of another. It didn’t matter what they looked like, or what they used to be.
But where was Vincent? No gunfire and no scream.
“Vincent!”
And no response.
She looked over her shoulder. The sky was pale and the cloudy ceiling threatened to break apart. Her heart would stop racing if she heard his voice, or heard the sound of his gun, or at least a scream. Would he leave her? Would he just take off?
The gate to the retirement center was wide open, and she walked through a parking lot with a dense population of undead, a scattered group of old people crawling because their bones hadn’t worked properly in years.
Another glance over her shoulder. Look left, then right. Back around. Where the hell was he?
But she couldn’t stop. She was finally alone. Bob, Miles, John, and now Vincent. Everyone was gone.
Legs moved in tune with her heart, beating furiously against the pavement. She had wished the priest managed to accomplish his goal, but now she hoped he was inside one of these buildings—which one? Where would he be?
“Fuck,” she exhaled her word.
She almost ran past them, but she looked twice at the man who sat with his elbows resting on his thighs, his fingers entwined in a fist. Behind him was an elderly man sitting in a wheelchair. The priest didn’t look up when she stopped; he could have been dead, but when the elder cackled, Father looked up.
“What the hell are you doing?” she asked, huffing and puffing.
“Hell,” Father said, his sad eyes staring at the blood-soaked step
s. He sighed and started again. “I suppose Hell has everything to do with it.”
“What’re you talking about?” Vega approached. “You’re just sitting here. I lost Vincent. I don’t know where he is! Are you listening? John and the general are dead. Is this it? Is this all that’s left?”
“Listen to this bitch,” the old man said.
Vega lifted Father up by his collar and held him close. “Goddamn you, what is this? Everyone’s DEAD! Are you listening? Are you waiting for God to send you a fucking message?”
She dropped him onto the steps.
What a waste. She looked back at the parking lot; she wanted Vincent to be safe. No—she needed him to be safe.
“Jeremy…?” Father started, looking up at Vega. When she didn’t reply, he said, “There were more of us. A woman, Kathy. She’s lying over there, and a boy… I think Rose is still alive. She came down here a minute ago, and I told her where you were. She said she knew you. I don’t know which way she went.”
“Blonde?” Vega asked, hoping she was wrong. The woman bothered her, and she wasn’t sure why. “Pink highlights?”
Father nodded. “And this is Frank.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. When he stood, he towered over her.
“I thought it was faith,” his jaw clenched. “The zombies won’t touch me. I had a crucifix over that door and they wouldn’t come in. Kathy had it in her hand, and it didn’t make a difference. But those things don’t want Frank, either. So here we are. And yes, it’s my fault. I killed everybody. God has nothing to do with it. I’m a man, and this is what I’ve wrought.”
“You’re an idiot,” Vega said.
“You shouldn’t have let Mina go,” Father said. “I’ve seen what she can do. They obey her… I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”
“You’ve seen lots of bullshit with your eyes, I’m sure. You can blame me if it makes you feel better, but we don’t blame God, and we don’t blame ourselves. It’s not faith, Father. I know it’s not faith…”
Frank laughed. “Dumbasses.”
“I don’t have time to care what the zombies want or don’t want,” Vega said. “We’re not going to have a debate here in the middle of Armageddon. Your best option is to stay here, if they won’t hurt you. I’m heading for Selfridge, and there’s something that might be… worse than zombies.”
Through the desolate parking lot, crippled dead people struggled forward, but Vincent was nowhere to be seen. One second he was there, and the next, gone. No final spray of bullets. No last-minute bravado. He killed for her and put his ass on the line to save a doomed little girl. He had to kill a man who’d been loyal to him to the bitter end. He saved Griggs, and he fought to help Jeremy and Stacy escape the hellish party.
A gust of wind whipped her black hair in front of her face. The rifle felt heavy; she wanted to drop it and run. Father Joe stared at her because he knew she wanted to talk, but she didn’t know what to say anymore. Warriors earned their deaths in this wasted place, and it waited for her, too.
Her first instinct was to bat his hand away when he reached out, but she let his big, gnarled hand rest on her shoulder. His voice was deep and soothing, and she wanted to hear him talk. “If you’re going there, it’s for a reason. A good reason. You don’t have to go alone. I made mistakes, but I acted because I believed I could do something worthy, something good. If three hundred thousand people die so I can save a million, I must accept it.”
“We had our chance here,” Vega whispered, unable to meet his gaze. “We screwed this up. We’re still alive because we’re assholes, Father. God made this world for assholes. And here we are.”
She could feel him smile. “Speak for yourself. Frank, you ready for a walk?”
“Do I look like I’m ready for a walk?”
“Yeah, you do,” Father replied. “The highways were shut down when Detroit was quarantined. We might have a clear shot from here to the base. It’s worth it to try.”
The day’s arrival quickened, the pale sky shredding apart to allow blue spaces to occupy Earth’s canvas. The breeze felt cool as the humidity fled with the storm.
If she waited long enough in the silence, maybe she would hear a gunshot. Maybe she would hear Vincent call out for her.
Trees waved their leaves to applaud the arrival of a more bearable heat.
“It has to be now,” Father Joe said. “They died for us. Maybe we’ll find Jeremy or your friend out there, waiting. Rose might be out there. But now, there’s only Selfridge.”
She looked into his dark eyes. “There’s only Selfridge.”
“I have to piss,” Frank said, “and someone has to help me do it. Unlucky fuckers.”
GRIGGS
After Mina was done with her feast, Griggs tossed her the wet lingerie she’d been wearing beneath the bunny costume. After she dressed, he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. Her eyes were half-closed, her lips trembling. She looked like a drunk vampire.
Carrying her semi-conscious body past the truck and through the shattered wall, he stepped over rubble while a group of zombies waited for them.
“Nice going, Griggs,” he said.
“Walk,” Mina said through a weak groan.
The zombies didn’t move. They wavered on their feet and watched as Griggs walked by.
Maybe he heard a gunshot a few moments ago; Vega and Vincent probably had to fight their way out. They could be dead by now, so it was no use looking for them. Those two seemed like they wanted to die—hopefully, their wish had been granted. It was too bad about Vega, though. Waste of a tight body.
Life would be easier if he didn’t have to carry Mina. It might be better just to leave her, but that would be a waste, too. She was the key to everything. Without the external drive with the video, he still had his star, and she would make another video.
As long as she lived, the dream lived with her.
Two rows of zombies stood on either side, forming a corridor of dead flesh. Griggs stopped, his 9mm in his fist because there was only one bullet left for the Eagle.
Feces and vomit, blood and dust. The smell of the unwashed, the dirty cement where a chalk outline would replace a person. He’d duck under yellow tape, smash a cigarette beneath his heel, and step into a room filled with flies and conclusions. The smell never left him. He was surrounded by it, and the dead watched.
If he looked closely enough at their faces, he might find the guilt he always wanted, the sadness that should accompany morality. He would want to deliver justice to a killer rather than apprehend, because it was the job. Chasing blood through abandoned houses and streets where men sat on porches with shotguns. In the faces of the dead, he might find the ghosts of the murdered, the people who didn’t haunt him, the people who didn’t ask for deliverance from whatever universe they were exiled to.
But he couldn’t see any faces. He couldn’t remember any of the victims he swore to avenge beneath the nimbus light of badge and paycheck. He used to go straight home and ignore his wife and their mewling babies. He would hide behind skin mags and videos of black women getting drilled by a gang of hairy men who sweated and grunted. When his kids grew older, he had the internet, and when they were gone, he had Mina.
He didn’t move and the dead watched.
“You belong to us, cocksucker,” Mina said.
Mina never sounded so sure of herself. The withdrawals were breaking her down.
There was no way around, no way to go back or forward. Morning was being summoned by time and gravity, a cool breath of wind carrying the taint of rot heralding a colorless dawn. The dead stood at attention, waiting for him.
“They’ll let you pass,” Mina said. “We own your soul. You’re fucked.”
He laughed at Mina’s outburst. “Of course you do,” he said. “I already knew that, I guess.”
But he still didn’t move. Their clothes had been shredded, threads hanging with slices of flesh. Hair scalded by fire or ripped off with departed scalp, eyes missing from t
heir sockets, noses chewed away, rows of crooked teeth revealed in fleshless faces, veins dragged from throats, heads hanging askew, empty rib cages sitting atop thick, fleshy thighs.
“This is nothing new, people,” Griggs said to them. He needed to say it. They were dead, and he was familiar with them. They didn’t have the power to judge him. They were weak; they allowed themselves to be killed. Maybe they did something stupid like run out into the street to fight back. Maybe they were at the wrong place at the wrong time. Tough luck.
To hell with it.
He carried Mina through the aisle of corpses without giving it another thought. Being afraid of the dead was for losers. He never would’ve survived on the force if he was afraid of dead people.
Nobody moved.
When he reached the end of the line, he heard Vega’s wild shout. “Vincent!”
Maybe the bastard was about to die. Maybe they were both going to bite the dust. Good for them.
He turned around, holstered the 9mm, and showed the zombies behind him a middle finger. “Suck on it,” he said, unable to contain his laughter.
They wanted nothing to do with him. Maybe they knew he tasted like shit.
More zombies milled about in the street, but he couldn’t see his old friends. Neither of them fired their weapons; weren’t they supposed to go down with guns blazing?
Since nobody felt like eating him, he lowered Mina to the pavement. She belched, and Jeremy’s blood dribbled from her mouth. Her eyelids fluttered like moths in the throes of seizures. Without the hard drive, he needed her now more than ever. A smart businessman modified plans and took risks. A smart businessman protected his greatest assets.
The crowd was still watching him.
He traced the line of Mina’s jaw with his finger. She was a pretty creature who nearly slipped through his fingers and into the grave, his precious commodity stolen by a horrorist, the only woman who truly knew him and gave a damn, a woman whose brain was saturated with his identity. His name was on her lips and she would please him on the rocky shores of Mars near the time-murdered riverbeds; she would please him on a melting glacier and on the street in the middle of a revolution. There wasn’t anything she wouldn’t do to make him smile.
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