Zombie Ascension (Book 1): Necropolis Now (3 page)

"What's wrong with you?" Desmond swallowed, unsure what he was doing. "You're scaring those boys. Get back in your car, buddy!"

With gnarled fingers and a mangled body, the wounded man fixated on Desmond and took slow, deliberate steps toward him.

"Are you okay? You want me to call an ambulance?"

His words seemed idiotic, but he knew they were the right things to say.

A voice shouted through a megaphone from the helicopter above. "A curfew has been implemented in the metropolitan area. Please seek shelter and remain calm. A state of emergency has been declared, and the National Guard is cooperating with other military and municipal departments to keep you safe. A curfew has been implemented…"

The loud noise above him distracted the odd man, and he looked into the bright light above the bridge. Behind him, the rear door of the Sebring opened and a blond-haired boy stepped out. The man seemed to know it was happening. He turned around while the boy looked at him with wide, teary eyes.

The boy was too afraid to scream.

"…in the major metropolitan area. Please seek shelter and remain…"

The man grabbed the top of the boy's head and lifted him from the concrete. The woman leapt out of her car and punched the man in the chest several times, but the boy didn't drop.

"…calm. A state of emergency has been declared…"

The boy's legs kicked the air with the swiftness of a practiced, neighborhood bicyclist, while his screaming mother pounded on the man uselessly.

Without another thought, Desmond rushed forward and grabbed the man's shoulder, whipping him around quickly. The boy dropped to the cement, while his brother, who'd been hiding in the back seat, leapt out of the car and helped his brother to his feet.

"…and the National Guard is cooperating with other military and municipal departments to keep you safe."

The man's mouth opened, and a hand reached for Desmond's hanging necktie.

"A curfew has been implemented…"

He was jerked forward, and Desmond immediately recognized his life was in danger. He batted the hand away, and found it oddly cold to the touch.

Strips of flesh clung to the curved bones of the exposed rib cage.

"Shit," Desmond said and took a step back "I didn't… uh…shit…"

The megaphone droned on.

He sprinted back to his Cadillac, quickly slid back into the driver's seat, and locked himself in. The sick man, or whatever he was, followed him, oblivious to how much it should hurt to be missing so much flesh.

What the hell was going on? He could easily escape through the passenger door and make a run for it, but he couldn't leave the Cadillac, which was the reason why he retreated to it in the first place. He impulsively thought about his cell phone and he wondered if he should text or call anyone. What would he say?

The wounded man slammed his wrists against the driver-side window.

Desmond's mouth hung open, his fingernails punching tiny crescents into his palms while his elbows quivered.

The helicopter's bright beam of light fell upon the man. He jerked forward, as his chest exploded outward with a loud
boom!

Desmond's heart leapt into his throat.

He watched as the man was
supposed
to fall forward onto the concrete. Erratic, twitchy movement from the mangled hands revealed that the man had survived the powerful blast.

Desmond could see the other side of the bridge through the hole in the man's chest. Nobody could've survived such a wound. What kind of drugs was this guy on?

The man's pale lips opened to reveal rows of yellow teeth, and the face came closer to the window.

Whoever shot the man was going to do it again. Desmond ducked and put his hands over the top of his bald head.

Boom!

Shards of glass rained down upon his fingers.

All of his thoughts seemed to stop at once. His racing heart confirmed his existence. Slowly, he lifted his head and found clumps of hair and dried blood on his dashboard, chunks of skull near the pedals. A mess of fluids dripped from the steering wheel.

The spotlight disappeared, and Desmond blinked his eyes several times.

He needed to call Bella. What was going on? He had to slow everything down and take control. He needed to pull his head out of his ass and figure it out, before it was too late.

His hands shaking from the sudden realization that he survived a near-death experience, he grabbed the cell phone and hesitated. The man outside of his car meant to harm him, and the gunfire from the chopper could have killed him, too. His thoughts were scrambled, and breath eluded him.

He took the keys out of the ignition and stepped out of the car. The woman and two boys had fled from their car, leaving the Sebring doors flung open. He thought about an old Japanese Godzilla movie, where the monster's presence caused the citizens of the doomed city to scurry through the maze of streets.

Heavily armed commandos flooded the bridge, shouting at people to seek shelter elsewhere. They pointed their assault rifles at fleeing civilians.

Desmond looked down at the corpse at his feet. He looked at the Cadillac and cursed, knowing he would have to leave it behind.

He patted the door. "Don't go anywhere," he said as hundreds of soldiers raced between the stalled cars.

He might not be able to get to Windsor, but he would be damned if he would let anything happen to his brother, Jerome. As helpless as Jerome was, he was still blood, and if the entire city was being locked down, the danger was real.

It would take an army to keep him apart from his flesh and blood. 

Just beyond the river, Windsor's blinking skyline seemed to belong to another world.

VEGA

With the window open on their upper-floor hotel room in Toronto, Amparo Vega stretched out on the bed and listened to the silence. Her thighs were slick and sticky, and beside her, Chris Miles radiated heat from his own sweaty body.

"Fucking savage," he gasped. "Turn on the goddamn air conditioning."

In her bra and panties, Vega crossed her hands behind her head and looked over her battle-scarred body. Christ's mother, Mary, was a guest on her muscular abdomen, a tattoo Vega bought when her mother died. The gold crucifix she wore around her neck was cold against her chest.

Vega rolled to her side. "Turn it on yourself."

"Ruin the moment," Miles replied.

"What moment? You think there's a moment? I was bored an hour ago and I'm still bored."

"Damn adrenaline junkie." Miles sighed. Tiny curls of black hair forested his sweaty chest.

Vega didn't argue. More than anything, she hated extended breaks between missions. She was the best at what she did and what she was: a soldier. She wasn't afraid to admit she was a mercenary, a warrior without a cause or country. She often worked for different PMCs—Private Military Companies–without second-guessing the job, although she only agreed to long-term security jobs if she was desperate.

Right now, she would be more than happy to work for a security detail.

Chris Miles was a good man and a good teammate. He was ex-U.S. Special Forces, having spent the majority of his career in the Rangers. His relationship to his home country was terminated after he broke an officer's jaw with a left hook. Miles had a problem with authority, but he loved being a soldier. Like Vega, he spoke three languages; his black curly hair, and a state of perpetual stubble, made him seem more Lebanese than American. He had a good sense of humor and kept a cool head under fire.

Three years ago, in Afghanistan, he risked his ass to pull her out of a firefight, and she refused to thank him for it. It was a memory that always seemed to bring a smile to their faces.

"What's so funny?" Miles asked.

"The numbers were in my favor," Vega said, remembering, "ten to one, I think. Maybe twenty to one."

"Afghanistan? Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart."

"Plenty of ammo. Two grenades."

Miles laughed. "You want me to feel bad that I deprived you of your battle-high? I'll give you a pity fuck just because I care about you."

"They've all been pity fucks."

"Speaking of getting fucked, Bob sent me a text message and asked if we were together. He also wants you to answer your damn phone. His words."

Her mood brightened. "A mission?"

"We can assume. Bob doesn't hang out. He's not exactly our friend."

"Then maybe we should get someone else to get your contracts for you."

"
You
like getting shot at, but not me. I like the money." Miles had discreetly divided a pile of cocaine on the nightstand into four distinct, thick lines. This was his habit: they would screw and he would snort. She was willing to overlook his disgusting habit because he was a better alternative to her own dirty habit: coming back from missions and screwing anonymous, drunken nobodies, just to punish herself with sins enough to make Christ weep.

Vega sighed. "You really want to get wasted before he gets here?"

Miles grew agitated in the way that only a junkie could when denied his poison. "Who're you to criticize? You've got your vice, and I've got mine."

"What vice do I have? I'd love you to share your infinite wisdom."

"Do I really need to say it? Are we doing this right now?"

"Right now."

Miles didn't hesitate. "I've seen you smile after killing…"

"What makes you the expert? We're teammates, nothing more. You don't know shit about me."

Miles nodded cynically, "You're right. Teammates. And you know what? You can use someone else to make you feel sorry for yourself, because I'm done with this shit. You're addicted to guilt, and you'll get yourself killed over it."

"Nice to know you're a licensed therapist." She stood up and marched to the bathroom.

"You're not going to cry now, are you?" He called after her, and he attempted to sound playful once again. "Come on now, United Nations, we don't have health insurance, so we
can't
see a combat therapist!" He sang his words. "All we have is each other!"

He was referring to her nickname, which she hated. Her father was a half-black, half-Spanish Catholic who married an Arabic diplomat. Vega's mother converted to Catholicism from Islam.

Whenever she thought about her parents, her father's majestic presence came to mind. His wife had been so madly in love with him that she renounced her faith and converted to his. He was a man who inspired revolutions.

Amparo Vega was four years old when her father spoke to her about her future.

Her father, Javier Vega, was going to an important meeting, as he often did. Dressed impeccably in his white suit with a black silk shirt beneath the jacket, he called to Amparo, who was in the living room combing her plastic doll's hair.

His thick fists were decorated with gold rings, and gold hoop earrings dangled from his ears. His shoes were neatly polished, and his coal-black forehead shone in the bedroom's light. When he sat down on the edge of the bed, it sank beneath his weight. At nearly 250 pounds, Javier kept himself in excellent shape, because he loathed seeing fat on his body, referring to it as a sign of weakness and gluttony.

"Come, Amparo," he said in Spanish. His forearms rested on his knees, and he folded his jeweled hands into one fist.

She hesitated. He never invited her to sit with him in a private setting. She spent more time with her mother because he was always so busy. Though as the man of the house, he always inquired about Amparo when they ate dinner as a family—which was every night, a ritual he considered to be of the utmost importance.

"I won't bite you," he smiled and motioned to a space on the bed beside him. When she finally walked to him, he lifted her up onto the bed.

He smelled like cologne and sweat. "You're a big girl, Amparo. God is very proud of you. Big girls take on more responsibility around the house. Would you be willing to do that for God?"

She nodded quickly. She knew better than to question His desires.

"You must always remember to keep the Sabbath day holy," he cleared his throat. "The Commandments must be obeyed." He stopped for a moment and looked at her, estimating her ability to understand anything complex he might say.

Finally, he said, "God's plan for each of us is a mystery." He cleared his throat again while she nervously played with her fingers on her lap.

"I will always love you," he said with newfound confidence. "Our time on this Earth is short compared to what we'll have in Heaven. Eternity awaits us, but here we must choose one of the paths before us. I chose to be a soldier for God. I fight the infidels and the Jews who corrupt the word of God and make a mockery of His will. If we aren't fighting for something, we're dying. Millions of people in this world are soulless puppets, consumer-parasites, television addicts, fried-food consumers. You must choose your own fight when the time comes."

He gently patted the top of her head and kissed her forehead. "Tell your mother I must speak with her."

The little girl didn't understand her father's words, but her chest felt tight. In the living room, she played with her favorite plastic doll, combing its hair obsessively. The doll's wide eyes seemed to be mocking her with an unmentionable certainty, as if the plastic toy knew Amparo's future and hid it from her.

She said her prayers with her mother beside her bed. Mom tucked her in with the doll, and for several hours, Amparo stared at the ceiling, thinking about her father's words. Why did he seem so strange? Was he going to take her to
L'Aquarium de Barcelona?
Daddy always held her hand while he pointed at all the different fish and named them for her. He always kept her safe and happy.

She liked to think she was just like the doll: a perfect little girl who would always do her best to please Daddy and God, who seemed to be one and the same to her.

The next morning, her mother solemnly came into the room with the dawn and sat down on the bed.

Daddy had died in a car accident.

Javier was a careful man and he couldn't possibly be killed in an accident. God wasn't finished with him; Daddy always said there was too much work to do.

Her father's death didn't become a reality until the closed-casket funeral.

She brought her doll with her to the funeral parlor, and in a fit of tears and rage, she bashed it against the casket several times in front of grieving friends and family. Her mother dragged her out of there, kicking and screaming. The doll was left beside Daddy's casket.

She wasn't going to the aquarium with him, and would never go to an aquarium ever again.

It didn't take too long for her to learn her father had been assassinated.

After his death, her mother took her to live in the U.S. with family, and she learned to find comfort in violence.

In the bathroom, she splashed cool water on her face and wondered how many people she killed. When the Spanish military kicked her out for botching a hostage mission in Afghanistan alongside other NATO soldiers, she was desperate for work, and was picked up right away by a PMC. Now, she made her living as a mercenary.

She stared at her slender, well-toned body with its caramel color and hundreds of scars. Her nest of black hair fell just above her shoulders, and her wide, mousey eyes seemed too big for her face. She'd been shot twice beneath the left breast. The sad face of Mary stared back at her over a canvas of chiseled abs, a reminder that long time ago, she had broken her promise to keep the Sabbath holy, but she always kept room in her heart for God.

She knew it was stupid to think about her father and the past, but this always happened to her between missions. The guilt of her own religious hypocrisy used to turn her into a puddle of tears while she begged for God's forgiveness.

Vega was a sinner of the lowest order.

"Come out here and look at this shit!" Miles called.

"You know I don't watch cartoons," she replied to Miles from the bathroom.

"I'm watching the news. Get out here!"

She stepped back into the room and sat back on the bed beside him while spun a combat knife in the center of his flat, open palm. "Fuckin' unbelievable," he pointed at the TV. “In Detroit, a sick man walked inside of a bank and bit a security guard's face.”

"So what?" Vega asked. "Turn this shit off."

But she didn't move. Instead, she watched as the news reporter claimed the attack was the catalyst which provoked a round of riots in Detroit.

Miles chuckled. "Well, we get to watch the whole thing on TV. Why don't we cuddle and watch the riots together?"

She sat on the edge of the bed and looked into his cocaine-addled eyes. "I'm bored, and you're high."

"What's your point?" his voice came from behind her as his rough hand moved along her shoulder blade.

Vega tilted her head slightly to expose her neck, and she could feel him slide in closer behind her. The edge of his pursed lips brushed against the curved flesh that joined the shoulder to the neck.

She shut her eyes and listened to the surreal, rambling newscast.

A Detroit Tigers baseball game had been interrupted by the violence, and the city of Detroit was on fire.

Miles's lips inched upward along her neck. Her muscles instantly relaxed, and she drifted backward into the sheets, her senses suspended in freefall. Her legs curled beneath her until he moved them aside. She became his doll, and she was posed at his whim.

Vega could hear the disordered reports of looting and violence. She heard about children who disappeared. Her eyelids fluttered open briefly, and she saw the picture of an African American girl with a bright smile appear on the screen. The girl's name was emblazoned beneath her picture.

SHANNA.

IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION PLEASE CALL THIS NUMBER.

She closed her eyes as more names were recited as part of a litany of shattered innocence, victims lost in the violent struggle for control of the city's streets.

Why should she feel bad for a little girl? Nobody came back to rescue her when she was young. Daddy sacrificed himself for some obscure political cause, leaving her to a world of ghosts and war. Out in the desert, she always turned her back on the screaming children and their teary-eyed mothers. Fuck them.

After the two soldiers melted into a sweaty mess in the sheets, Miles shut his eyes and dozed, while Vega continued to watch the news. The little girl with the big smile seemed to linger on the screen, and the tired mercenary thought she could hear her father's voice somewhere, calling her into his bedroom to say goodbye.

***

Their brief nap was interrupted by a knock on their hotel room door.

A Beretta M9 appeared in Miles's right hand, and he was as alert as he'd been, and it was as if he'd never fallen asleep at all. "We weren't that loud, were we?"