His shadow now fell upon every movement she made; every breath was dedicated to him, as if she owed him her existence. In a way, she did—he made her. Designed her as a remorseless killer, the memories of her past and whatever led to him scrubbed out of her memory like a computer program scanning and deleting files at will. She was an extension of him, a child born of his flesh, crafted by his fingers and molded by his words.
The calm voice, low and deep, the resonance drifting through years past the faces of the people she’d killed. Nothing mattered save for his calculations, his philosophies. The dogma of James Traverse kept her feet upon the pavement and led her to this base, to this moment.
If he asked her to fall on her knees and beg him to kill her, she would do it.
This was his world, unmade and remade in his image. His poetry and his terror was inscribed upon the exposed bones of the meandering corpses, twisting and crawling over each other, a trail of death that led only to him and him alone.
The sun’s appearance made the gory scene seem like nothing more than a bad painting in which the artist lacked the ability to illustrate an identifiable face. Protrusion of bone, figures not displayed in the stigmatic depiction Americans loved to see, but like broken dolls, bags of meat thrown onto the pavement.
She saw them; those that hadn’t twisted their bones in the rush to obey Mina’s unexplainable power over them surrounded Base Operations. There might be more of them coming from miles away, but what if this was it? All that was left of the undead?
There were still hundreds of them gathered around the building, and they parted for Rose and Mina. The dead set Mina down; the cannibal-woman groaned, her body practically unresponsive as if she might keel over and die.
After she was done with Jim, nothing else would matter. The girl would get a bullet between the eyes.
Instincts that would’ve saved her life on any number of moments were gone; a gun was pointed at her head when she stepped into the lobby.
Amparo Vega.
The need to smile was irresistible for both of them.
“Think I forgot about you?” Vega pointed a Sig Sauer at her skull. An M16 was wrapped around her semi-naked body; the woman’s stomach growled, her ribcage revealing rows of muscle that were the last line of defense against vitamin deprivation, hunger, and fatigue. Sleeplessness. Vega looked insane, her black hair the ratted fur of a scalp that looked worn thin beneath skin that was prematurely paling. Her lips were blue and shaky, her eyes traced in red. The large tattoo of Mary looked like a drunken attempt at poetry.
“You don’t look so hot,” Rose continue forward, heedless of the gun. The merc wasn’t about to waste her. She had something to say, or else the bullet would’ve found her already.
“What’s with the girl? Where’s her boyfriend? A total motherfucker… you had to have seen him.”
“Your first question is about someone else,” Rose batted her eyelashes and circled. Father Joe stood behind her, his shoulders rigid, waiting to die for Vega. “These people did something to you. You care about someone. You’re weak. And cracking.”
“We’re on the same team,” Father Joe said. “We all want something good to happen. We heard the helicopter. Help’s on the way.”
“Help for what?” Rose asked. “Why would they suddenly show up? They already took off once, and now they’re back? You’ll be killed just for surviving this long. They think they’re going to beat this thing, and they’re going to kill anyone who came close to it. Wipe the slate clean. You won’t save anybody.”
The blood was already dripping over the stairs, but in a moment of tension, a moment that needed to remind them where they were, it went unnoticed. Vega was distracted by it easily, her body on hyper-alert, the synapses remaining those of a savage animal that was trapped in a burning cage.
“Now I don’t feel so well,” Mina’s faraway voice spoke. “We’re tired, and Father… please, hold me. Please.”
Rose easily disarmed Vega by spinning the katana around under-handed in a fanning motion. Her overhand swipe was slower than she thought it was—it was an easy follow-up strike. Rose couldn’t be tired, or a step slow. Not now.
Father Joe stepped right into her blade with his big hands, pushing Vega forward with his bulk. The blade sliced between both palms, taking away flesh from the top of the pinkie finger down to the wrist, opening up blood that spotted Rose’s lips.
And this time they all turned around. They all stopped, and their breath was halted.
For a moment, all of them could hear the helicopter outside.
At the top of the stairs.
Moth-eaten, worn cadavers that seemed ancient, and other worldly beings drowned in the dark tombs beneath the surface of a blood-burning cold. Worms and spiders crawled over their bodies, the flesh having melted from the majority of their bodies. Cobwebbed necks and bones that had been rendered unbreakable by a force beyond human understanding, a force composed of nightmares and invisible blood, a sensation that violence is an emotion, an absolute truth that delivers pain unto the universe at will.
Rose recognized them: they were people who’d watched a video with the redhead. A sex video in which she would eat someone and slather herself in blood. She’d seen Mina do it live, murdering a man that could’ve been the one Vega asked about, and nothing happened to her.
She almost didn’t see him.
Running ahead of the shambling creatures, dressed in the mirror likeness of Father Joe, Jim held on to the banister with a heavy limp; but he was still fast. He slid down the banister with a Benelli shotgun, but he hadn’t fired. He could’ve killed them already, but he didn’t.
Smoothly, without pausing to threaten them, he rolled forward from his fall and tackled Mina, tangling himself in her hair while getting to his tip toes, and then dancing on those toes to the right, twisting, Mina’s hair blanketing him.
He was through the doors before they knew what was happening.
The decrepit creatures still shambled down the stairs, seemingly intent on coming for them. They weren’t going to ignore the vulnerable flesh.
They’d all experienced the strange invincibility, but now the spell was broken. She already knew Father Joe didn’t interest them, and Vega wasn’t a saint, so that meant the dead had been affected, directed consciously. Mina’s power was far stronger than she could’ve guessed.
Father’s hands bled into his sleeves. He brought them close to his chest and squeezed them, almost pleased that he’d been cut.
All three of them dove through the doors.
***
It was strange to expect the sun to remain in the sky. The sound of the Chinook was much closer, but waiting. It was expecting the runway to be cleared.
This was a rescue mission. Jim had been wanted alive, but the chessmaster manipulated the game to get what he wanted out of it. Jim was being helped, somehow, someway. His actions were encouraged, otherwise, they would’ve asked Rose to erase him.
The dead were closing in. Jim was lost in the encircling fiends.
The women instinctively put their backs to each other and opened fire. Rose put something stupid between her teeth—the katana. It was easily the silliest stunt she’d ever tried, just so she wouldn’t have to drop a weapon that might be useless against the dead. She wanted it for something else, and she couldn’t fire the shotgun with one hand. This was her moment with Jim.
He would want to take her along.
He wanted her to follow.
Shells pumped through the shotgun, the sun nearly blinding her, the glint of light almost too much of a distraction. She couldn’t play this moment like a romantic sonnet being read alongside the sound of a lyre; he wasn’t in love with her if she was supposed to fight for every scrap just to see him again. He said he wanted her here, because she knew his ego: he’d always wanted to make sure he could murder the person who was supposed to replace him.
But she was already out of shells. Vega had dropped her M16 and was double-fisting her nines.
Father Joe was gone. Slipped away through the crowd. Did the dead still ignore him?
Both women had to reload at an inconvenient time, but another noise, something louder, something
newer
and
closer,
thumped onto the scene, causing the ground to vibrate.
Rap music. Very loud rap music.
Rose knew what people listened to. She knew all the latest hits in several countries at any one time, because any mission could dictate she require pop culture knowledge to keep the conversation going. If you could get someone to talk about movies or music, you’ve got something special going with the target.
2 Chainz. Loud. Thundering nearby. Halting the onslaught of corpses in the brief second it took Vega to reload the spare clips she probably found on the runway, because there was no telling how many rounds were left; there could be one, there could be nine, or they might not be the best caliber for the weapon; Vega had to reload again.
The dead parted for a moment.
The man she’d seen with Vega earlier, Vincent, stood through the sunroof of an old, black Monte Carlo set to drive in neutral. He was dressed in a tailored silver suit and white shirt, sunglasses over his eyes, and a semi-auto weapon in each hand. He’d also attached extensions to his hair to make him look like a gun-toting thug from the Caribbean. A man who was more powerful than he was supposed to be, and confident enough to do whatever the hell he wanted.
He abandoned Vega to dress up and get a car. What an asshole move.
This was about him, too. He might as well go out the way he wants to.
His face was nothing more than a shadow when the sun slipped behind the clouds. Bullets sprayed from his guns added to the sound of war; rap music and a helicopter pounding alongside firepower unleashed at will upon the dead.
Let him have his fight.
Rose darted through an opening in the crowd, and she ducked her head beneath the bullet shower. A part of her was impressed by how many Vincent was hitting; corpses were falling all around them, their faces caught by his bullets. He stopped and reloaded like a machine. They were drawn to the Monte Carlo on its huge wheels with spinning chrome rims.
The Chinook was landing.
Jim stood waiting with Mina. The priest was heading for them; he couldn’t be allowed to come close to Jim, even if the former boxer could be he handled easily.
Her feet were swept up from beneath her. Momentum carried her forward and the sword slipped away; she caught herself and managed to tuck into a roll and flatten herself out. The reflexes were still good; she pushed herself up by her hands and kicked her legs out, springing out of the ground with feet that hit Vega squarely in the chest.
Jim had turned around to face the priest. She knew that look on his face.
With Mina thrown over his shoulder, Jim put his hand up to stop her, his way of acknowledging her.
Father Joe wasn’t harmless. His collar was missing, and he was crazed by testosterone and a rage that simmered beneath that big grin.
“You walked right through them!” Jim was impressed, appraising his opponent and finding him worthy of a few last words. A gesture of respect.
“Why’re you doing this?” was all Father Joe seemed to have the strength to say.
“For power, of course!” Jim said as if he were addressing a student who was overstepping his boundaries. “Why else would anyone do anything?”
“At least give this to me,” Father Joe cracked his bloody knuckles.
Jim’s shoulders sagged. “History repeats itself. I’ll honor your request, but only because I admire the metaphor.”
He set Mina on the ground as the Chinook landed a few yards away.
She couldn’t hear anything else that was said, only that there was a pause as the men met halfway, and Jim spread out his hands to invite the priest to hit him. Father Joe stepped into a right hook that fired out of a cannon; the sound of his fist against Jim’s was the sound of exploding eggs.
Jim dropped to Father Joe’s feet.
Gunshots were still coming from somewhere or from everywhere. She charged forward; a sharp pain in her hand followed by blood popping out of her palm were enough to tell her she’d been shot there.
A gamble. Father Joe was hesitating to shoot Jim outright. Instead, he knelt beside Mina and picked her up. She wrapped her arm around his shoulder and drew him close. In another moment, she’d have him in her mouth.
Vega was upon her again, this time moving much faster, more savagely. The woman was out of control, but it was easy to kick her beneath her chin. Vega’s head snapped back, and Rose punched her hard in the chest, sending her back to her ass.
The Chinook’s door was opening.
VEGA
At least Vincent was okay. It was good to see him one more time, kicking ass like a professional. She admired his decision to die on his own terms. He’d already disappeared, but she could still hear sporadic gunfire.
The dead weren’t ignoring them. The more ancient crowd of dead people who’d been inside the command center were now shambling toward them, and the rest of the crowd seemed to part.