Zombie Ascension (Book 1): Necropolis Now

by Vincenzo Bilof

  Griggs suddenly knew exactly where he was going, and it didn't matter how much blood was all over the inside of his truck.

  He had to get back to his apartment to grab his cache of videos and his treasured gun, the Desert Eagle .50 that he'd always wanted to draw on someone. Now, he would get to kick some serious ass with it.

  Then, he was going to pull Mina out of that hospital.

  JEROME

  Jerome knew he was alive, but he didn't understand how.

  Or why.

  Desmond was dead. Those bastards had devoured him, bringing him to his knees upon the concrete with their mouths embedded in his flesh. While trying to save the others, he couldn't save himself.

  Jerome's left eye burned from the bone fragment that struck him. He sat against a wall inside the church and brought his knees close to his chest. An unintelligible argument broke out amongst the refugees.

  He didn't care what their problems were. He didn't care about anything.

  Jim and Mina stood near one of the church aisles and listened intently to the battle that raged between Vincent and Rhonda.

  Rhonda waved her shotgun around, the front of her blouse clinging to her sweaty skin. "We could have gone back out there! That man is dead because of us!"

  Vincent pointed his gun at her head. He held the weapon sideways, and when he spoke, his platinum-coated teeth flashed in the church's lights. "Bitch, I'm about to send your stupid ass back out there with them motherfuckers."

  He could hear the ghouls pounding on the heavy church doors. The battle for supremacy of the streets was already over. There was no more gunfire, no more screams—there was only the dead, and they were hungry.

  Vincent stomped around the church doors. Jerome was surprised he was so unglued, considering he had the reputation of a cold, ruthless killer and a shrewd businessman. The corn rolls on his head and tattoos on his exposed, slender arms were part of his signature look, but the ranting and the threatening were signal enough that his composure was completely lost.

  "You see that?" Vincent shouted. "That nigga's dead! They ate him! You know what they are? We need to bring some heat and go to war!"

  "Sit down," Rhonda said. "Just sit down and shut up for a little while. We need…" she looked down at the ground, rendered speechless by the horror she relived in her recent memory.

  Vincent paced back and forth while mumbling to himself.

  A number of corpses were lying in the pews, their brains blasted out of their heads when Vincent and Rhonda attacked the church. Derek was in the back near the altar, huddling in the shadows with Shanna holding him tightly.

  "We're here," Derek began, "so we need to figure this out…"

  Vincent protested, "Ain't no way I'm sitting here just waiting to die…"

  "We'll stay here!" Derek shouted over him. "We can't keep running. No matter how desperate we are, we'll run out of steam. We'll make bad decisions and we’ll get ourselves killed."

  Mumbling to himself, Vincent sat dejectedly at the end of a pew with his elbows on his thighs, the gun dangling from his hand.

  "The doors will hold," Jim announced.

  Rhonda shook her head several times. "I don't know about you, but I've got one shell left."

  "I'm dry," Jim confirmed that he was out of ammo for the M16. He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. He seemed intent on watching the other survivors as if their discussion was a reality TV show scene.

  "Vincent's right," Rhonda added. "We can't just sit around. We have no way to defend ourselves. We haven't checked the whole church, and if Vincent's telling the truth, he might have more weapons we can use."

  "He's telling the truth," Derek added. "He's got more than enough guns. You never heard of Vincent Hamilton? Murderer… drug dealer… thief… gun smuggler…"

  Vincent's shoulder sagged. "Nigga, fuck you."

  "It's suicide to go back out there," Derek said. "Desmond died for us, so we could be safe."

  "So we stay here on principle?" Rhonda challenged him.

  Vincent laughed hysterically. "You hear 'em out there? Some of them niggas was part of my crew." He threw his arms into the air and cackled.

  "You can stop saying that word," Derek growled at him. "We're civilized human beings, not a bunch of savages."

  Jim's face remained expressionless, and Jerome couldn't help but stare at him.

  Mina lay against the wall, and Jerome thought she might be asleep.

  Desmond died for us.

  It was true, wasn't it? But that was always his way: there was always some greater ideal, some idealistic reason to keep fighting the good fight. Because of his selflessness, there would be no more trips to the cabin, no more pity money, no more lectures on the purpose of life and the ramifications of failure.

  Desmond was dead. Like Vincent said, they ate him.

  Jim put both of his hands up. "We're all in this together, it seems. Each of us wants to survive, and we may need to depend on one another to achieve our common goal."

  Vincent didn't look up from the ground. "Y'all want to play games…y'all want to pretend…"

  "You can't shut up for one minute, can you?" Derek asked.

  "Fuck all y'all," Vincent waved his gun at them. "I was in my garage with my crew. We were getting twisted, you feel me? Those things just started walking down the street. Now, cell phones don't work. We ain't got no food, no water, no candy. I got my gun, but there ain't enough bullets. Shit!"

  Derek nodded at Rhonda. "We don't know what's happening, so it might be best to lay low, bide our time and think…"

  "I know what's happening!" Vincent stood up. "My whole crew was out there, and they're still out there, but they ain't on the same team. You feel me? That's Hell out there!" He picked up the axe and pounded his chest, the gun in one hand and the axe in the other. "I'm ready for war! Let them bitches come in here!"

  Jim turned his attention to Jerome. He stared back at those cold eyes, and it felt as if he were looking at the picture of a man rather than a living, breathing, person.

  "That was my brother out there," Jerome choked. It was all he could say.

  Vincent added, "That nigga's dead. They ate him… chewed his shit right up."

  Nothing more needed to be said. They were all shocked by one man's act of bravery, and Jerome wanted to tell them it wasn't a surprise.

  What was the point? Jerome had no illusions about his life; he was a burned-out, jobless junkie. He had no future and no family except his brother. He dropped out of school and didn't have a single job skill worth penciling onto a fast-food restaurant résumé. He was useless, and yet, a highly educated lawyer with a bright future died so that he might live.

  The silence in the church was awkward, as each refugee from the cataclysm pondered how their lives suddenly transformed for all time.

  Jerome had seen the church before, but he'd never been inside. Where was the priest? It seemed that they could use some hopeful words of encouragement. How come they were the only ones to make it inside the church?

  Rhonda crumpled beneath the weight of the moment. She placed the shotgun across her lap. "You didn't see what I saw, or else you wouldn't want to stay here, either. If we stay here, it's over for us. Those things out there are already dead. I know it doesn't seem right… I know…"

  She sighed again and attempted to tell her story. "I teach at a charter school here in the city. I live in Roseville, and I had to stay late at work. I was on the freeway, heading back home. I remember that everything just stopped completely. There was a helicopter flying over us, and I tried to call home, but the Phone was dead, like Vincent mentioned. Traffic was diverted off the freeway, back into the city. I thought it was just a detour, you know? No big deal. But we were caged in. Everywhere I looked, there was the army and the cops. Hundreds of cars were bumper-to-bumper. Citywide gridlock. There were people getting out of their cars, running. The radio said we were under quarantine, I mean, they kept saying there was a state of emergency, an
d nobody was allowed in or out. They wouldn't say what it was. Thousands of people locked into Detroit. I just wanted to get home. Just... God… I'm sorry. You've seen it. The fire. Those things. I'm sure… you miss someone. Outside, that man who saved you. He died for you."

  She turned to Jerome. "I'm sorry about your brother. I'm no good with this gun. I found it in a police car, with some bullets… and, um, I just… I'm sorry. I haven't stopped until now. I can't even cry."

  Vincent chuckled to himself. "You're sorry to be alive. That's funny shit."

  "Listen to me!" Rhonda stood back up and pointed at Vincent. "There was nowhere for me to go, but I ended up here, in the ghetto! There won't be any rescue. What makes you think anybody gives a damn about us? That's why we have to leave. We can't stay here!"

  Derek stood in his shadowed corner. "I was in front of Comerica after the Tigers game. It's just like Rhonda said—everything fell apart all at once. I got separated from my wife somehow…" his voice began to shake, and his gaze sought refuge in the shadows. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I was in Hart Plaza with hundreds of National Guardsmen. The cops were there. SWAT. The fire department. But I didn't see any of those things. There were just people, running around, breaking into stores, but nobody was doing anything about it. People were fighting, screaming. I still haven't seen those things. They're not real. This is something else. We can't just sit here and say those are dead people… I… damn it!"

  Jerome listened to the dead pound against the doors. He couldn't shake the image of his brother from his mind. There was Desmond, shouting at him, imploring him to run for his life into the church.

  He needed a fix. It was the only way to make the world disappear. He wished that Desmond hadn't come for him—he'd already be dead, having been cannibalized into a blissful, ignorant demise. He would never have known the horror.

  He would never have seen his brother die.

  "We can't stay here," Rhonda repeated. "There has to be a way out..."

  Vincent laughed. "You're like a broken fuckin' record. There ain't no more rules, ain't no more laws. It's all gone to hell. Nothing matters, anymore."

  The church shook from a nearby explosion and dust rained down upon Jerome's head. He watched the redheaded woman's vacant expression. She seemed incredibly stoned. Was she carrying anything that could alleviate his suffering? His eye still burned, but his vision was slowly returning to full strength.

  Could Mina help him?

  Vincent shrugged. "It don't matter how it happened, or why. I do what I got to do to put a smile on my face. I've been in the joint, and here I am again, but this time there ain't no key, and there's plenty of bitches."

  He started to hum and rap while dancing around the room. Vincent wanted to be in complete control of the situation; although it was obvious, he never had complete control over himself.

  "We'll trade," Jim said. "I'll give you Mina, if you give me that axe behind you."

  The redhead glanced up, but otherwise, she still seemed to have removed herself entirely from the scene. Derek's bloody axe had been left to rest against the wall beneath a stained-glass window.

  Vincent threw his head back and howled. "You ain't about to give me shit! I take what I want!"

  "You're all mad!" Derek denounced them.

  While Vincent fumbled with the belt that hardly held his jeans around his waist, he danced toward Rhonda, who leveled her shotgun at him.

  "What you gonna do?" Vincent spread his arms out wide.

  "Don't come any closer, asshole," Rhonda bit her bottom lip and took a step back.

  "You want the axe, whitey, it’s yours! You keep the rest of these niggas off me while I take care of this. Ha! Ain't no way out of this prison. This is the way it's supposed to be."

  "Please," Mina looked up then, as if realizing for the first time she was alive. "I want to be held. You can do whatever you want to me, but hold me afterward, like Patrick used to."

  Vincent paused.

  "Show some decency!" Derek shouted at them. "Get your act together, man! Do the right thing, for once in your life!"

  Vincent seethed with new anger. Jerome expected bloodshed; he'd seen too many fights end this way. A tense silence fell upon them while all eyes were glued to Vincent.

  "I'll hold you," Jerome said to Mina. "I don't want to fight. I just want to sit and wait. I'm tired, and there isn't… I'm an addict. You see these track marks?"

  He bravely showed them his arms. He was past the point of no return. They were complete strangers, yet, he might die beside them. His troubles were far away and silly, the problems a child might have.

  "You can't trade anybody's life for an axe," Jerome said to Jim. "Not when that's all we have. Life, I mean. A few minutes or seconds. We're still lucky enough to have this, I guess. Desmond would have wanted me to live, or else he wouldn't have done it. Died, I mean. I'm going to hold Mina, and maybe I'll sleep. It doesn't matter where we are. Nobody's going to let this whole city just burn to the ground."

  Vincent dropped his hands. "Whatever, man. Being in the house of God and all, I can keep myself in check. I wasn't gonna do nothing, anyway. I ain't no animal."

  Vincent sat down in the pew again, his eyes dropping to the floor. Jerome had appealed to the sense of shame and morality within the man, and the gamble paid off. Bravado in the face of fear was all Vincent had, and he relied on it to keep himself alive.

  "I'm not going out alone," Rhonda said resignedly. "We'll wait here. I can't face them. They might be slow, but there's thousands of them."

  Derek said, "There has to be a bathroom around here. We're going to look around. There might be some food here, too. Maybe blankets. Something."

  "I'll go with you," Jim said.

  "You're kidding, right? You just told Vincent he could rape the girl if he handed you the axe. I don't trust you, man. And everyone in here better think about what almost happened a minute ago. Really, think about how sick and twisted it all is. We have to be better than those things out there. This isn't an episode of Survivor. This is the kind of reality where people die."

  Vincent put his hands up. "I'm sorry. I was just kidding, you know. It's just so fucked up, but I got this shit under control. I'll walk with you."

  Derek stared at the ragtag group of survivors for a long moment while the little girl, Shanna, held on to him as if he were a beloved toy. He was short but thick with muscle that had betrayed him and became fat instead, though he clearly took good care of himself. He brushed the dreadlocks away from his face and regarded them, and decided whether there was any value in placing his trust in these strangers.

  "We'll all take a walk," Rhonda stood up with her shotgun. A little bulky around the waist, she wore brown dress slacks and a white blouse. Jerome could easily see her in a classroom with kids. He was curious to know if she had a family of her own to worry about. She was doing her best to stray strong—she clearly understood that crying about her plight wasn't going to help her.

  "We need to make sure the building is completely secure," she said.

  "I'll stay with Mina," Jerome said. "I'm not, uh, feeling well. You know."

  Jim was clearly slighted, and now the questions would begin. They were going to rely on each other, and everything that must have been running through Desmond's head would start to figure into the survivors' thoughts. They didn't see Jim and Mina in a Humvee, and Desmond overlooked it to make sure they could get to safety. Jim and Mina would have to explain the blood on their hospital gowns, and then of course, they would explain the gowns themselves.

  Desmond believed in the goodness of the human heart. Was he expecting Jim to help save him out there in front of the church when there was still a chance? Did he think someone would save him, just because he was willing to risk his own life for others out of obligation to a moral code that may have belonged to him alone? Jim had been right to call him a "crusader" in the garage where they watched a woman cry over her child's dead-again corpse.

  It was
Jim who shot the boy in the head without even flinching.

  While the others left the room to look around, Jerome sat next to Mina and put his arm around her. She shivered uncontrollably, although it was incredibly humid, almost airless, inside the church. Beneath the gown, her body felt frail and weak. Her skin was even more pale up close, and too much blood had stained the lower half of her face. How did the blood get on her lips?

  He wasn't confident that he could take on the role of his brother and ask the important questions. Their little group of survivors seemed to be made up entirely of leaders who would argue and bicker with one another over contingency plans. Jerome recognized the recipe for disaster among the powerful egos.

  "Thank you," Mina said softly.

  "You're so cold."

  "Yes. Cold."

  Her irises were dilated completely, and as they began to shrank, the green, crystalline orbs shone. For a moment, Jerome thought he recognized her. She was a little too thin and pale to be the same girl who used to appear in those porn videos with the cop—the ones that went viral after the actress killed and ate parts of her unfortunate co-star. There was certainly something familiar about her. Her pupil dilation might have been caused by some good drugs.

  He listened for a moment to the carnival of torment outside, which included random gunfire, the emergency broadcast siren starting back up again, loud, window-rattling bass from enhanced audio systems, and screams.

  Jerome's twisted imagination presented him with the image of his brother's body, a bright, red island of organs and bone. Dead people walked around Desmond while chewing like toddlers that enjoyed their snacks—gratefully, with a sense of exultant satisfaction, their cheeks puffy with meat that took a long time to chew. Bloody hands stuffed more pieces into mouths that labored to keep up with the juicy morsels. They were just people with an appetite for flesh and organs. They had hair and eyes, noses and mouths. They wore fashionable clothes and carried wallets and purses. Some of them wore basketball shorts or sweatpants. They were the consumers; the fast food, credit card swiping, taxpaying citizens who now preferred to eat people. Like Desmond. Of whom nothing was left except his ripped-open torso, every piece of him available to be enjoyed at the leisure of the adoring, needy public. Desmond never wanted to surrender to them. He'd vowed to fight them until the day he died.