I was still too close to Sanctuary for comfort, but the rain was getting harder by the second. The water hitting my face was ice cold, almost sleet. I needed somewhere dry to hole up until morning. Hopefully by then the rain would ease up.
Harwood would have cleared anything of value out of the mall—it was probably where most of Sanctuary’s supplies came from—but even if I couldn’t find food or weapons, there must surely be somewhere safe to hide out until dawn.
The gloom and rain restricted visibility enough for that optimism to hold out until I’d almost reached the building.
A fire had gutted the entire mall. Two walls were still intact, but they were blackened with soot. The other walls and the roof had collapsed into a tangled mass of rubble and metal. Here and there, remnants of the past protruded from the wreckage—the arm of a shop dummy, the remains of a television.
Another mound stood in the parking lot in front of the mall, ringed with a handful of cars. I was almost on top of it before I realized what it was—corpses.
There must have been fifty or more of them. Like the mall, the bodies had been set on fire. The flickering lightning illuminated a river of thick, greasy liquid that wound across the parking lot to a metal drain fifty feet or so away. The rain had dampened the smell, but the stench of burned meat still lingered.
I checked out the cars. There were eight of them, all big SUVs apart from one—a black Humvee with chrome hubcaps that spun when I pushed them with my feet. It was a strange tableau, and I wondered why Parker hadn’t had the vehicles brought back to Sanctuary yet. They were big, ideal for getting everyone out of town in a hurry if the need arose. Surely, she’d want them close at hand. Unless Harwood hadn’t told her about them.
I checked the first vehicle, and the driver’s-side door was unlocked. The keys were missing, and there were no supplies inside. The thought that the scene might have been set as a trap struck me. I took another look around at the remains of the mall, but it was impossible to tell if I was alone.
The rain and the possibility I was about to trigger some sort of ambush discouraged me from investigating the rest of the vehicles. I’d check them out in the morning once the storm had passed and I could see any threats that might be lurking around.
Leaving the mall and its odd circle of vehicles behind, I walked back out to the main road.
A stream of water ran along the gutter. Just past the church, clogged drains had created a lake that filled the junction. Another flash of lightning bathed the street in pure white. The thunder followed less than a second later. A shiver ran down my spine as I headed toward the church. I’d seen it before. The ice cream truck was still parked on the lawn out front.
The church’s main entrance was boarded up. Half a dozen wooden planks were nailed across the door, sealing it shut. The wood was heavy enough that I could freeze or die of hypothermia before I managed to break in, so I headed around the back. It was a small church, the sort of classic whitewashed wooden structure that movies loved to use as venues for dramatic wedding showdowns. Shutters hung over the windows, and the small bell tower was covered with some sort of white plastic sheeting.
The back of the church opened up onto a small graveyard. The sight of a few dozen gray tombstones gave me pause. I’d never stopped to think about what might happen to the dead who were already buried. If the interred had been brought back to life by the infection, they hadn’t managed to claw themselves free of the ground. At least not here. The graves were undisturbed. Still, I gave them a wide berth as I walked past.
The rear door had been sealed, too, but there were just three planks nailed across the opening, and they were smaller and less securely fastened. I pulled on them a few times then found an off-cut of wood nearby and used it to pry off the top plank. The remaining ones came away more easily. The door was still locked, of course, but the boots Melissa had given me were heavy. A couple of hard kicks, and the doorframe splintered and broke.
I smelled the dead as soon as I cracked open the door. It wasn’t strong, just a subtle hint of rotten meat lying below the must and mildew. I took a step back, ready to move on and find somewhere safer, but then a thought struck me. If the church had been sealed, Harwood’s men might not have cleaned it out. There might be something inside I could use.
Wind blasted along the street. A thick sheet of ice-cold rain hit me and forced me to take a step back toward the church as if the elements themselves were encouraging me to go inside.
I pushed open the door and swept the flashlight across a tiny entrance room. A thick tweed jacket hung from a hook on one wall, next to a rake. The door to the rest of the church was closed. I stepped inside, bringing the wooden planks with me. I almost wedged the door shut behind me then realized I might need to get out again quickly and leaned the planks against the wall instead.
There was a small pool of water beside the inner door, and rain dripped from the ceiling. I pushed the door open a few inches. It was warped, and it scraped noisily across the wooden floor. I waited for a couple of minutes, straining to hear the moans of the living dead before finally poking the flashlight through the gap.
The beam played across the interior of the church, illuminating a simple wooden pulpit. Beyond it lay a pair of thick velvet drapes. A statue of Christ nailed to the cross hung on the back wall. A large wrought iron candelabrum stood in one corner.
Tensing, ready to retreat at the first sign of any threat, I rapped my knuckles against the door. The sound echoed through the church. Nothing responded. I repeated the exercise three more times but got no response. I pushed the door open completely. If my hammering hadn’t disturbed the church’s inhabitants, the harsh grinding of the door scraping across the floor would.
I saw what had happened immediately. A pair of trestles sat at the front of the church. Beside them on the floor lay a coffin. Blood was splashed across the inside, dark against the white silk lining. Its lid was also on the floor a few feet away beside a second candelabrum, which had been knocked over.
There were eight short pews, four on either side of the church’s central aisle. The front two benches on the far side of the room were askew, while the bench nearest me had been completely knocked onto its side. I could see an arm hooked over it. Blood coated the fingers and had spattered the floor.
There were two more corpses in the aisle—a man in a business suit, presumably the coffin’s inhabitant, and a young woman in a black dress. She’d been wearing a veil, but it had been torn away and lay on the floor nearby. Her head was twisted around. Shards of bone protruded from her neck.
I wasn’t taking any chances. I placed my knife against the side of the man’s head and hit the hilt with my hand. It sank into his skull. I did the same to the woman.
Either the man from the coffin hadn’t been very popular, or most of the mourners had managed to get out alive because there were only two more bodies.
The first was by the door. It was a portly man in black pants that despite his bulk were a couple of sizes too big. He was resting facedown on the ground, his hands reaching out toward the door as if he’d been trying to get it open. The nails on both his hands were torn and bloodied. He was wearing a shirt that might once have been white but was now mostly red—soaked in blood from the ragged tear in his shoulder. More blood surrounded his body—from the wound and the small bullet hole in the side of his head. I used my knife to make sure he was dead, too.
The last body was crammed into the room’s corner, her back wedged against the wall. Like the man by the door, she’d been bitten, but her wound was on her leg. Her dark-blue dress was pulled up to reveal a circular bite wound on her thigh. She, too, had died by gunshot to the forehead, this time self-inflicted. The gun she’d used was still in her hand, resting lightly across her lap. I drove my knife into the side of her head then took the gun. It was a small revolver of some sort. There were three bullets left in it. I carried the gun in my right hand, keeping the knife in my left.
I circled around
the pews then headed back to the velvet drapes behind the pulpit. They were heavy and covered with a thick layer of dust, but I stood as far away from them as I could as I pulled them back.
The room beyond was small and dark—a vestry. A priest’s robe hung from a hook on the wall next to a long black winter coat. I hadn’t seen anyone wearing priests’ attire in the rest of the church; presumably, they’d made it out, even if not all of their flock had.
A mirror took up most of the wall opposite the robe, while a simple wooden dresser held a comb, a couple of books that looked like Bibles, and a carafe of water and an upturned glass. After sweeping the room’s corners with the flashlight, I picked up the glass and poured myself some water. It was musty but refreshing.
I checked the vestry then went to the rear entrance and wedged the wooden planks up against the door. They held it in place, maybe even well enough to convince someone the door was locked. If not, they’d make it hard to get in without making any noise.
I went back into the church. The bodies were still dead, and the front door was still locked. Rain hammered on the roof, and here and there water dripped from the ceiling or trickled down the wall. Every couple of minutes, the church was bathed in a stark flash of lightning. At first, the thunder was loud enough to shake the church itself, as though I were living through an earthquake, but gradually the storm began to pass and the gaps between lightning and thunder grew longer and longer.
The noise made it hard for me to concentrate, to think. The rational part of me knew I was still too close to Sanctuary. Harwood and his militia would come looking for me. They might already be out there despite the storm. I should get as far away as I could. There were caves and tunnels all over this part of the mountains. Once I was outside the town, I’d be impossible to find. I just needed to find somewhere dry to rest and make my plans.
But another part of me, a part I didn’t quite understand, wanted me to go back to Sanctuary. My stomach was a heavy roiling mass, and emotions fought inside me—anger, confusion, frustration, and an odd sense of loss all vying for control of my actions.
I could feel the shadow, too. It was crouched there, at the back of my mind, watching, waiting. It brought its own emotions with it. I recognized those. Opportunity. Excitement. Power. To the shadow, the people of Sanctuary were prey, and I was the hunter.
A hunter that had killed Nancy Bailey?
In itself, the murder wasn’t the problem. That would be just another in a long line. It was my inability to recall whether I had that concerned me.
The beginning of another headache was forming behind my eyes. I sat down on one of the upright pews and pressed the tips of my fingers against my temples. I pressed harder and felt the flesh give as though my fingers were about to sink into my skull. Then my fingertips met the resistance of bone. I let out a deep breath. I’d stay here, get some rest, and leave early in the morning. If Harwood’s cronies came looking for me, I’d deal with them. One way or another.
Something wet dripped onto the back of my hand. I looked up, half expecting to see a bloody corpse suspended from the ceiling. There was no corpse, just a crack in the roof and the rain it was letting in.
Another drop of rain tumbled from the crack and splashed on my neck. I shuddered. A bone-deep weariness hit me, mingling with the headache and the roiling of my emotions. I shifted along the bench, out of the way of the dripping rain. The wooden floor beneath my feet was scuffed and worn after years of worship.
My eyes grew heavy. I closed them, just for a second. My head dipped, snapping me awake. I considered sleeping on the wooden pew, but it was narrow and hard, and I felt exposed out there in the church. The vestry would be a safer option.
I stood, the wooden pew creaking as though it were protesting my leaving. I walked around the church four times, checking the corners with my flashlight, testing the shutters over the windows, the locks on the door.
When I’d convinced myself the building was secure, I pushed past the velvet drapes and into the vestry. I grabbed the robe and the coat, stretched them out on the floor, and lay down. It was almost as hard as the pew, despite the cushioning of the clothes, but at least I wasn’t going to roll off it during the night.
I tossed and turned for a few minutes, trying to find a vaguely comfortable position, then closed my eyes and listened to the rain pounding on the roof above me until sleep finally came.
The heavy boom of thunder woke me. I couldn’t tell how long I’d slept, but from the ache in my limbs and the stiffness of my back, it must have been several hours. I stretched, and my bones popped and crackled.
Still half asleep, I got to my feet and pulled aside the thick curtains covering the vestry entrance. It was light outside, and enough sunlight managed to find its way through the cracks and missing boards of the church for me to see. The air in the church was full of dust. It caught in my throat, and I coughed. Something was bugging me, something about the church or the light.
Wood creaked, and my sleep-addled mind finally caught up. Half of the church’s front door was missing. An explosion had torn it apart, scattering chunks of wood across the church. A few fragments had made it as far as the raised area at the front of the church. The wan early-morning light was coming in through the blasted door.
A shadow moved outside, and then a zombie clambered into the church. I could hear the guttural moans of the dead now, too—their droning reverberated around the church like a swarm of flies. Three more zombies appeared in the opening, and there were more shapes beyond them—dozens.
The first zombie tripped and fell. A second threw herself into the church. She hit a splintered chunk of wood. It tore through her stomach, impaling her. She writhed and moaned, but her movements just drove the wood deeper.
The first zombie struggled to his feet again. The left side of his face sagged like molten wax. Crimson veins and shredded muscle hung from a deep gash in his right calf. He moved with surprising speed and managed to halve the distance to me before I could react.
I reached for the gun I’d found, but it wasn’t there. I figured I must have left it in the vestry. I grabbed my knife instead. The tip of the blade caught on the edge of the sheath as I pulled it out. I fumbled with it, and by the time I got the knife back under control, the zombie was almost on top of me.
This one stank of decay and worse, the smell so thick it was stifling. He let out a deep-throated groan. Bile, green flecked with black, burst from his mouth and flowed down his chin like a putrid waterfall. The smell of rot grew stronger.
I slashed the knife across the zombie’s face. It was a delaying tactic to buy me some time to pick my attack, and it caught him across his nose. The flesh split, and black blood joined the waterfall of bile.
He lunged for me. I ducked under his arms and rammed the knife into his throat. He let out a garbled, choking cry. I drove the knife deeper and pushed. As the zombie staggered back, I yanked the knife free and then kicked him, sending him backward into another zombie that had made it over the barrier. The two fell to the ground in a tangled mass of flailing limbs.
I started toward the fallen zombies to finish them off. The remains of the church door gave way, and a tide of zombies poured into the room. There were over a dozen—a rotting, stinking wave of the dead, all of them scrambling to get to me.
I ran back up the church, crashing through the door into the tiny entrance room. The zombies’ moans echoed around me. Wherever they’d come from, they’d probably been attracted to the front of the church by the explosion. Which raised the obvious question of who exactly had blown in the entrance. I kicked the planks away from the door leading outside and opened it.
I had time to notice it was still pouring with rain outside, and then there was a blur of movement, and something hard slammed into the back of my skull.
Chapter 49
Changes
I woke suddenly, my head drenched with ice-cold water. I spluttered and gasped for air. My lungs felt locked in iron for a second. The
n they were free, and I was dragging deep, gulping breaths into them. I shook my head in an attempt to shift some of the water that was soaking my hair. Then I coughed and blinked hard, trying to clear my eyes.
Santos stood nearby with a bucket in her hand. Water dripped from it onto the carpet of a living room I recognized as Ling’s. He was there, too, standing by the door as though he was guarding it. Not that he needed to—my hands were tied to the back of the wooden chair I was sitting on, my ankles to the legs.
Harwood was sitting opposite me in the armchair Ling had been in when I attacked him. One hand was on his chin, his forefinger tapping his lips. My knife lay in his lap, still in its sheath.
He had a perturbed look on his face. “I really had hoped we could be a team, Marcus. Ling here says you’re quite the fighter. Scrappy but stubborn.”
I wiped my mouth on my shoulder. “Sorry to disappoint.”
Harwood snorted slightly, and one corner of his mouth curled up. “It doesn’t really matter. Not in the long run.”
“That change still coming, huh?”
“Oh no,” Harwood said, his tone artificially serious. “It’s already here.”
I frowned.
“Let’s just say your escape has proved to be extremely timely.”
“And now you’re going to capture me and parade me around to show everyone how good you are at protecting the town?”
Harwood gave a soft laugh. “No. You’ve outlived your usefulness, I’m afraid.”
“So now you can let me go?”
Ling snorted. “That again.”
“Oh,” Harwood said, “don’t worry. We know what we’re going to do with you. At least, Ling does.”
The words sent a chill running through my veins. I subtly tried to flex my wrists, but they were bound tight. My feet were going numb.
“And the depth of your stupidity finally sinks in,” Harwood said.
Serial Killer Z: Volume One Page 51