Surviving The Zombie Apocalypse (Book 3): Salvation (17 page)

That
would be nice, very nice. I got up and met the group halfway.

“Found
some bodies,” said Terrance, “lot of bodies. Yes, we did.”

“Lots
and lots?” asked Mary.

“That
right,” he confirmed, looking rather uncomfortable. “You need to see.”

We
followed him to the hillside where I entered the cavity. It was maybe twenty
feet deep and fifteen wide. At the far end I noticed some open spaces, likely
portions of the cavern that had not completely collapsed, and taking a closer
look I noted there were indeed numerous bodies scattered about. Most were what
we came to expect, filthy men and women wearing denim jackets covered in
revolting patches. But there was also a gal wearing a dress – that was
unexpected – and the detached arm in the corner belonged to a child.

“We had
to kill a zombie,” said Terrance. “Only one. Most have squished or broken
heads.”

“Keep at
it,” I said, motioning for more to come and help. We were almost in. “And be
very careful.”

*
* *

We broke
through, reaching the cavern proper, five hours later. It was a small opening,
and the air within was foul, preventing me from examining it in more detail.
Captain Briggs, who had flown in to see our findings for himself, suggested
setting up some fans. Those were quickly rounded up, plugged into a generator,
and placed beside the hole. After enough fresh air was blown in to allow a
person to breathe comfortably, I scrambled inside.

“Oh,
no.” Mary covered her face and quickly exited.

Lizzy
and the captain remained with me. The twins had followed as well.

“Well,”
said Briggs, “we found their families. Looks like they were all here.”

“No
way,” protested Lizzy. “They had several thousand people, had to from what we
saw when they were living in Salt Lake City. This can’t be more than three or
four hundred.”

Some of
the bodies were crushed or mutilated, but most didn’t have a mark on them, save
a bullet to the head. A good number were self-inflicted, particularly if the
person happened to be wearing a jacket. The wives, girlfriends, children,
parents, and all the others… They were mercy killings.

“There’s
another collapse over there.” The captain pointed. “The cave keeps going down.
I bet that leads to even more space and that if we kept digging we would find
additional people.”

“Even so,”
I said, “we don’t know for certain. And, if they are all behind that other
collapse, what if they weren’t put down like these folk? Maybe there are
hundreds of zombies waiting for us.”

“That
would fucking suck,” declared Lizzy.

“I’ll
check the maps and guidebooks,” said the captain. “A cave this big will be
listed, and we’ll be able to find out if there is more to it or not without
endangering ourselves. I should have done so sooner, but it didn’t occur to
me.”

“You’ve
been just as busy as us.” I shook my head. “We’ve been at this for too long.”

“It’s
over now,” said Lizzy.

“I don’t
know about that. We killed their families. As far as the raiders are concerned,
we trapped them so they could die slow. They are not going to let that go. No
way. We have to track the last of them down.”

“Fuck.”

*
* *

The
official charts showed that the cave was indeed quite large and could have easily
held thousands in relative comfort. There even used to be guided tours, way
back before the world fell apart, and a gravel road leading to a tiny visitor
center. The road was gone, overgrown. The building we found, but it had burned
to the ground sometime before.

I was
not happy having killed all these innocents, particularly the babies and
toddlers. It had me thinking of Asher. Granted, he’s going to grow up to be a
fine, upstanding man, while these had been the next generation of butchers.
Yet, that was the fault of the parents, not the children themselves. The whole
thing was terrible. I was going to be having nightmares, as if there weren’t
enough visions of horror flashing through my mind every time I closed my eyes.

The crew
of the Cobra took it particularly hard. The pilot was in a depression, and the
gunner had committed suicide. He slit his wrists and was discovered in his
cabin the following morning. There was a service, and he was buried after
having a spike driving into his brain to prevent him from coming back.

Interlude – Marcus’s Story

“What do
you think they’re doing?” asked Arlene.

Marcus
and his three companions were locked in a series of adjacent cells. The small
rooms, each less than ten by ten feet, were composed of heavy timbers with a
bare concrete floor. The vaulted ceiling, which was well out of reach, appeared
to be constructed of thick, overlapping wood planks. There was a single window,
far too small to squeeze through, overlooking an open space surrounded by a
seven foot wall. Finishing out each cell was a sturdy door, the center of which
had been cut out and covered in bars so their captors could see whatever might
be happening inside. These opened into a hallway, the far end of which was
secured by another door, this one of steel.

“No
clue,” he admitted. “I got nothing.”

“Whatever
it is, you know it won’t be any good,” said Tyler.

Marcus had
been the first to wake. He supposed it was due to his greater size rendering
the drug less effective. Maybe for some other reason. He didn’t know. Hell, he
didn’t even dwell on the matter for more than a minute or two. It wasn’t all
that important. The others came around shortly thereafter.

There’d
been no response to their cries for help or subsequent demands for an
explanation. Only a single man appeared, sometime around noon. He slid a plate of
food and a water bottle through a slit on the bottom of each door. Nothing was
said, nor did he give any indication he was paying attention to their words. For
all they knew, the man might have been deaf.

“Just
keep yourselves ready for anything,” continued Marcus. “We’re going to get out
of here. Don’t worry about that.”

“We are
not getting out,” protested Alan. “Those cultists have us caught – you know
it’s them – and they’re going to do something bad. We wouldn’t be here
otherwise.”

“We
don’t know anything,” pressed Marcus, “so calm your ass down. We’ll find out
when we find out. They might be listening too, so watch what you say.”

“I say
they’re fucking assholes,” declared Tyler, “and I don’t give a shit if they
hear that or not.”

“Tyler,”
warned Marcus.

“He’s
right,” interrupted Alan. “I’m not playing goody goody for their benefit. They’re
fucking assholes.”

“Guys, keep
it together,” said Arlene. “Really, don’t start fighting. That’s not going to
help. We need to keep our heads on straight.”

There
was some muttering, but the woman had a point. For his part, Marcus was glad
she’d intervened. He was about to go off on both Alan and Tyler, which would
have accomplished nothing, probably just made the situation worse.

*
* *

Two days
later, they received their first actual visit, excluding those of the silent
jailor. Four men, all burly and heavily armed, unlocked Alan’s door.

“What
the… Oww!”

A loud
pop was followed by the sound of a body striking the floor.

“What
did you do!” demanded Marcus. “What happened to Alan!”

“Just a
tranquilizer gun,” replied Dennis Alongi. He passed in front of each cell in
turn, briefly examining the occupants. “It’s easier to prepare people when
they’re out cold. Don’t worry. He’s perfectly fine.”

“What
are you going to do to him?” Arlene kept her eyes on their companion. Alan was placed
on a gurney, loosely secured with a pair of straps. “Where are you taking him?”

“You’ll
find out. Not too much longer.”

*
* *

“Guys,”
called Arlene, “out the window.”

Marcus clambered
off the uncomfortable metal cot. It was the only piece of furniture in the
chamber, although there was a latrine of sorts, a hole in the floor leading to
what he hoped was a septic tank. The thing stank terribly, could not possibly
be healthy, but there wasn’t a whole lot Marcus could do about it. At least he
had someplace to piss.

“What
are they doing?” inquired Tyler, speaking to himself.

Alan
appeared semi-conscious, at best. He was also completely nude, having been
washed and shaved. Men in white robes where attaching shackles to his wrists.
This done, he was fastened to a chain that ran over a long crossbeam secured by
two sets of timbers bound together to form inverted V’s. Hoisted into the air,
he was left dangling a few inches off the ground. Marcus suddenly found himself
comparing these men, with their telltale robes, to the raiders who were never
without those dreadful denim jackets.

Assembling
in three lines, the men and women began to chant, the words too soft to make out.
While this was going on, one of the party lifted a silver bowl from a small
table and dipped his fingers inside. The oil, glistening in afternoon sunlight,
was dabbed on Alan’s forehead, chest, upper arms, and thighs. This was followed
by the inscription of a symbol on his left cheek with a tiny brush and blood
red ink. A hand was raised, and the others fell silent.

“The
Divine has decreed an ending. We bless the Divine.”

The
words were repeated.

“The
Divine has decreed a beginning. We bless the Divine.”

“It’s
like a totally fucked up church,” commented Tyler. “Can you believe this shit?”

Marcus
continued to peer through the window, his large hands grasping the lower edge
tightly.

“We beg
the Divine for a messenger. We bless the Divine.”

“I don’t
get it,” said Arlene.

“Me neither,”
replied Marcus, as the chanting resumed. “They’re way more ornate than Father
Nicholas, and I thought you couldn’t beat him.”

“Way crazier
too,” declared Tyler. “Our priest doesn’t tie naked people to poles and draw
fucked up things on their faces.”

The
speaker made a sign with his hand, and two of his followers vanished into
another building. They returned a few minutes later with a zombie in tow. The
monster was bound to a pair of long poles, each with a noose on the far end
which was wrapped tight about the thing’s neck. It repeatedly lunged at the men
controlling it but couldn’t come anywhere close. Stumbling and fighting, the
zombie was guided toward Alan.

“God,”
began Arlene, “you don’t think they’re going to…”

Marcus
didn’t answer. Tyler increased his swearing, coupled with a plethora of threats
and dark promises.

“Grant
us a messenger, we implore. We bless the Divine.”

The
final prayer given, the robed figures spread out, forming a large semi-circle
so all could observe as the zombie was brought close. Their friend didn’t see
the creature approaching, but the sensation of teeth sinking into his shoulder,
tearing away a chunk of flesh, broke the drug imposed stupor. His eyes flew
open, and Alan let out a shriek of agony.

Entering
the short lived mind blank all zombies experienced immediately after tasting human
flesh, the shambler became non-violent and was easily returned to its pen. The
handlers quickly hurried back and watched with interest as Alan squirmed
against his bonds. With his feet dangling, he lacked any sort of purchase or
leverage. Soon he grew weak, and the flow of blood from the wound slowed. An
hour later, his head slumped forward.

“Is he
dead?” asked Arlene.

“Still
breathing,” said Tyler, “but that’s a lot of blood. I don’t think it’ll be much
longer.” Another round of curses followed.

No one
mentioned that the bite alone was a death sentence.

*
* *

Alan
re-animated sometime later. Their watches having been taken, Marcus was
incapable of keeping track, but it couldn’t have been long. Nor had their
friend regained consciousness, a blessing.

“What
are they doing now?”

“Arlene,
I don’t know,” he answered. “Praying, looks like.”

There
were repeated pleas to the Divine, coming in unison from the half circle of
robed figures. These suddenly ceased, and the leader stepped close to the newly
risen zombie. Alan regarded him with mucus stained eyes and attempted to jerk
free. The desire to feed was all powerful.

“We ask
the Divine for a message. We bless the Divine.”

Nothing
happened.

“Brothers,
sisters, now is not the time. We bless the Divine’s wisdom.”

After
yet another bout of prayers and chanting, the group broke ranks and departed.
Their work was done, and the failure sadly acknowledged. Dennis waited until
the last had filed out of the courtyard before leaving his place by the far
wall. He headed for the pen where he shot the caged zombie in the head. The
body was quickly removed, soon to be replaced by the thing that had once been
Alan.

*
* *

Tyler’s
turn came three days later. The essential process was the same, save the man
did not succumb to the tranquilizer immediately. He managed to rush his captors
and land a few blows, going so far as to knock a couple of Dennis’s teeth loose.
That gave Marcus and Arlene some small satisfaction, which was erased a few
hours later when they watched this friend die as well.

The days
then began to pass by without interruption. The pair occasionally heard bells
in the distance and briefly glimpsed what might have been a procession. It
appeared that men and women were marching on the far side of the wall
encircling their compound holding icons of some sort high in the air. Marcus
didn’t know what to think, but he was glad of the respite. Using a piece of
metal taken from the underside of his cot, he had begun scratching through the
thick timbers that formed the walls. It was slow, tedious going. One cell over,
Arlene was attempting to do the same. They had come up with the plan together,
whispering as softly as they could in case anyone was listening. The building
had no electricity, and they didn’t think anyone had bothered to install cameras
or microphones. However, low tech surveillance, such as having a person stand
just out of sight, was always a possibility. Barring that, they should be okay.
The position of their cots concealed their efforts.

*
* *

“Bet
you’re glad to see me,” said Dennis. His face was still a little puffy from when
Tyler had decked him.

“Not
really,” replied Arlene. “Correction, make that a fucking no, I’m not glad to
see you.”

He
unlocked the door. The woman seemed resigned to her fate and didn’t try to duck
or dodge when the man with the tranquilizer gun swung it in her direction, nor did
she demean herself by begging. It would do no good.

“Bastard,”
hissed Marcus. “You think those prayers are going to be answered, for whatever
it is they want?”

Dennis
paused. “Boy…”

Marcus
bristled at the word.

“…they
take care of the community’s spiritual needs. Myself, and others, worry about
day to day matters. We may not be suited to the monastic life, but that doesn’t
mean we aren’t on the same wavelength. To oppose the Divine is to embrace hellfire.”

“You
believe their shit?”

The
trucker was having difficulty with this. There were always a few crazies, anywhere
you went, but an entire town? Then again, the raiders were a unified group,
each and every last one a psychopath in the extreme. Was this the future of
civilization? That was a distressing notion.

“The
Divine rules all.” Dennis was firm in his words. “And once we find the
messenger, the dead will speak.”

*
* *

Marcus sat
in that cell for nineteen days before he finally cut deep enough to permit him
to kick through one of the timbers. Arlene had perished two days earlier,
mercifully never regaining consciousness. Zombified, she showed the same lack
of awareness as every other shambler on the planet, and like their friends
before her, she ended up in the cage until the time came when she would turn
him.

The
Brotherhood again demonstrated disappointment in their failure, but there was
nothing to indicate they would cease in their insane search for that special
zombie who could magically relay a message from this Divine they worshipped.
Whatever this being was supposed to be, it had nothing to do with God, and
Marcus was planning on sending them to His rightful judgment as soon as
possible.

The gap
he created was perhaps three feet long and a little over eighteen inches wide.
It was a tight fit, even with the pounds Marcus had dropped due to the less
than heartening meals his captors provided, but he managed to squeeze through.
It was late, the sun having set hours earlier, and no one was around. Rising to
his feet, he scanned the courtyard. Nothing beyond what he’d come to expect.

Marcus carefully
peered around the corner of the building. A short distance away was the gate, a
single guard sitting nearby, rocking back in his chair while fiddling with a
flashlight. He looked bored and wasn’t paying the slightest attention to his
surroundings. Marcus moved to the side, keeping in the shadows and coming up
almost directly behind the man. The fellow was of small stature, and Marcus
found it surprisingly easy to slap one hand over his mouth and chin and grab
the back of his skull with the other. A sharp, powerful twist resulted in a
crack and some feeble spasms. Having gone limp, Marcus quietly set the guard on
the ground, taking his pistol and the flashlight.