Saint Pain (Zombie Ascension Book 3)

SAINT PAIN

Zombie Ascension Book Three

Vincenzo Bilof

PRAISE FOR VINCENZO BILOF

AND

THE
ZOMBIE ASCENSION
SERIES

“A violent femme fatale mercenary, a burning city and a war hero - when Bilof does zombies, he does 'em good. Another slick, fast-moving zombie thriller, with an edge which might just cut you if you don't turn the pages ever so carefully…”

–Sean T. Page, author of
Meta-Horde.

“
Queen of the Dead
is rip-roaring post-apocalyptic zombie fiction. It doesn’t get much better. Bilof’s writing is clean and engaging, and his insights into his characters are genuine. Violent, gory, and yet startlingly human—I would recommended this to all fans of the genre.”

—Aaron J. French, author of
Up from Soil Fresh
and
Aberrations of Reality

"
Queen of the Dead
is an action-packed, character-driven, vividly detailed stunner of a zombie tale. This is apocalyptic fiction at its finest! With lively, outrageous characters and a story with depth, Mr. Bilof has created an undead fan's dream!"

—David Bernstein, author of
Machines of the Dead

“Reading is supposed to be a pretend environment, where we are really safe to enjoy a situation that fills us with dread and shivers, and to meet great characters. 
Queen of the Dead 
both 
is
 and 
is no
t that. Yes, there is dread and shivers and downright fear; there are captivating characters as well. The issues is that Bilof's work never 
feels
 safe and cozy because I suspect that he's simply relating the future to us and he has seen what is to come...and trust me, his vision is horrifying. What a great story this is! Dare to read if you can convince yourself it isn't real. Keep repeating: ‘
It's isn't true
.’”

—Catt Dahman, author of
Titanic: QED
and The Z is for Zombie Series

“Philosophical and self-aware, Vincenzo Bilof is the Pablo Neruda of horror-genre fiction writing a bonafide master of prose and versification, He probes familiar tropes in a way that, to my mind, NO one has done before—or could hope to emulate. Bilof shows zombies and werewolves in the same respect Wordsworth showed wandering clouds. His books are always well-researched (without ever being turgid), violent (while still being intuitive of nature’s austere beauty) and maintain a healthy vein of satire and humour throughout. One of my favorites…”

—Chris Kelso, author of The Black Dog Eats the City

“Vincenzo Bilof's writing is an awesome mixture of chilling narrative and state-of-the-art details and inventions. Once you've begun the book, it is impossible to put down—it is like inserting both fingers into a power socket while standing barefoot in a puddle of water.”

—Seb Doubinsky, author of
Song of Synth

“Vincenzo Bilof's writing is like being beaten to death in an alley by Samuel Delaney and Chuck Palanhiuk with Robert Bloch occasionally coming over to kick you in the nuts. His darkly funny and extremely gruesome style makes him one of my favorite authors of the horror genre.”

—Konstantine Paradias, reviewer at
Albedo One

“The truth is that if you don’t read all of Bilof’s books you won’t really get to know the tortured, twisted soul that creates all of this most wonderfully deranged fiction. A true master of the written and printed word.”

—Jim Dodge, editor at Zero Signal Magazine

ALSO BY VINCENZO BILOF

The Violators
(forthcoming)

Dark Rising

Japanese Werewolf Apocalypse

Nightmare of the Dead

The Horror Show

Mother, I’m Not an Android (I Promise)

Confessions of the Impaler

Gravity Comics Massacre

Vampire Strippers from Saturn

The Zombie Ascension Series:

Necropolis Now

Queen of the Dead

This book is dedicated to Detroit, Michigan

(and 2Chainz, of course)

INTRODUCTION

The story behind the story is sometimes one of the most fascinating aspects of any narrative; learning about the struggles involved, and some of the ideas that brought the idea to life, are just as interesting as the characters we fall in love with. Over the past three years, I have journeyed with the characters in this novel, and here, their journey has come to an end.

I have come to understand how my work may be perceived; rest assured, I do not “try” to use “big” words, nor do I “try” to infuse poetics into my narrative. This is simply my vision. When I watch a television show like
American Horror Story
or
True Detective,
it gives me hope that there is an audience out there that enjoys delving into the twisted lives of characters who are not “good” people. The imaginative way these shows were filmed is just as important as the story itself; film directors are very careful about the language in a film’s scene—by language, I mean to say the images themselves—and I believe that authors do the same thing.

When I began writing
Necropolis Now,
I understood a lot of things that many readers have mentioned. First, the characters are haunted and damaged, and a lot of them are sociopathic. If the intention is to craft an entire trilogy, then I never expected these characters to transform, or change, in a single episode of the series. My characters write the stories. My characters die when I want them to live. My characters take the story away from me. This is their story, not mine.

Secondly, each book in this trilogy does have a specific “theme.” I felt a little guilty after completing the first book, because I knew it might seem like a rather cheap ending, but I also realized it was a lengthy book, and the books were only going to get longer. While I felt bad, the story was finished. The theme was finished. Vega, Vincent, and the others sought redemption through violence. They had been around violence all of their lives, and in this apocalyptic scenario, it was the only way they knew how to cope, the only way they could possibly find a way to survive.
Queen of the Dead
focuses heavily on faith, insanity, and another kind of redemption. I think the book is a bit deeper, and in some ways, more simplistic.

The final chapter in this series focuses heavily on the effects of PTSD and survivor’s guilt. We return to Detroit one year after zombies started eating people.

Okay, I know—it seems like a lot of people hate the word “zombie” these days. I really don’t understand why we need to invent new names for them. I don’t know about you, but if I saw a dead person get up and attack others, I would call it a zombie. I wouldn’t think too deeply about it. Although, there is a rationale for giving them different names.

But see, I grew up on Italian zombie horror and George Romero. Zombies are supposed to be scary, not video game caricatures. As an extremely vivid dreamer, I can tell you that a real zombie scenario would be pretty damn frightening.

Yes, several of the “good” characters who we’ve met in this trilogy are dead. There is a reason for that. They got themselves killed. I don’t think it’s any simpler than that. Vega and Vincent are hardened survivors who have made difficult decisions throughout their entire lives; they are not strangers to death.

I always refer to my series as a “reverse
Walking Dead.”
In the popular television show and comic book series, a lot of the characters are virtuous and demonstrate high moral character when the story begins, but we begin to see the damage it does to Rick Grimes and the others. Living in a post-apocalyptic world would dramatically change the way a person thinks and the way a person feels. As overused as it sounds, Rick and the others are, in a sense, “dead”. They are, quite literally, the walking dead. My characters are “bad” when
Necropolis Now
begins, and through this apocalyptic scenario, they attempt to learn how they can become good people, even though so many horrible incidents have occurred.

A lot of these things are obvious to fans of zombie fiction, which, in my opinion, should not be a sub-genre; I always felt that zombies were part of the horror tradition, and so, I wanted to write a horror story. If I wanted a story about zombies blowing up, I would watch teenagers play
Call of Duty.
You have made it this far with me, and you already know what you’re getting into.

And for that, I thank you. I thank you for taking a chance on this story. For walking with Vega through the ashen streets of a dead city. For witnessing the deaths of several characters and continuing to brave the rest of the journey without them.

What is there for the characters to win? Civilization has fallen apart. In
The Walking Dead,
was Rick Grimes supposed to somehow find a cure to a zombie virus and save the world? How does one “save the world?” Everyone who died… are they supposed to return to life, and the world become exactly what it once was?

What then, is left for Vega? For Vincent? For Mina? Father Joe?

What’s left for Jim Traverse?

No matter how bad things are, there is still an opportunity for us to be good people.

Vincenzo Bilof

December 10
th
, 2014

PROLOGUE

The demolition expert examined the ancient wall and shook his head. His name was Rakesh Suirabi, and he clicked his tongue while assessing how much effort he would need to bring the wall down.

The other man, Jim Traverse, was displeased by the idea that most of his ammunition had already been wasted on this mission, though he was infatuated with the idea that he had met a challenge worthy of his experience and skill.

“This won’t make a difference,” Suirabi said, pointing at the wall. “We go through this, we meet what’s on the other side, we die like the others.”

Traverse shrugged.

Suirabi kicked the wall. “Fuck this mission! They want us to die here, in this godawful place. Nobody will find us here. They sent us here to die, and for what?”

Jim was not impressed with Suirabi’s outburst. It was a wonder that Suirabi had attained the status necessary to have been assigned the mission in the first place. Their team was composed of the world’s most efficient assassins; Suirabi had been able to engineer suicide bombings and other “terrorist” attacks to ensure the continuation of a conflict that could never end.

Suirabi was supposed to be a professional. But as Suirabi paced in front of the wall, cursing up and down in his native language, Jim lost the final shred of respect he had for this man. Running his fingers over his shaved scalp, Suirabi kept turning back to the wall while adjusting the straps on his camouflage backpack.

Suirabi was afraid.

“It was your idea to separate,” Suirabi pointed a finger a Jim. “They do not pay me enough to die in shitholes like this. I was against splitting the team up from the start. And now we are here, at a dead end!”

Instead of replying, Jim watched Suirabi’s frantic fingers, his wide, roving eyes. They had wandered deep into this forgotten tomb on a fool’s mission; every man to this squad was expendable, and Suirabi, a professional, should have known better. All he had do to was blow up this wall; what did it matter if death lay beyond?

Jim sat on the old steps, a stairway seemingly carved forever into the structure of this timeless tomb in the middle of Egypt. Jim and the rest of his team had already expended the majority of their ammunition on the ghastly creatures that had murdered two members of their team. Bullets meant nothing to those creatures.

From where he sat, he could hear the distant howls of strange monstrosities, as if their voices were nothing more than a cold wind blowing through the cracks of the cavern walls. Jim listened closely for screams. He had anticipated that everyone on this team would die on this suicide mission with perhaps one exception.

Him.

“You know something about this, don’t you?” Suirabi approached aggressively, his forehead a wall of sweat. “You know what those things are. You didn’t even touch your weapon when they attacked. They came, and you did nothing!”

Jim smirked. “Indeed. I did nothing. It was just as effective as what you are doing now. I implore you to destroy that wall so we can may continue with our task.”

“That is all you have to say? That is it?”

The blood of a dead soldier had dried beneath Suirabi’s fingernails. A man responsible for hundreds of deaths—a man who had helped incite war—did not know what to do.

The demolition expert was right: Jim had watched. He had been impressed by the hungry violence their foes demonstrated. Jim and company had disturbed the slumber of dead kings, and they had arisen from their sarcophagi, their bodies carefully wrapped and preserved. Two soldiers who had worked for the great powers of the world to facilitate the political power games that made a mockery of civilization were ripped apart, their limbs torn from their bodies as if they were made of cardboard.

Like the other survivors, Jim had retreated.

“That is all I have to say,” Jim Traverse said to Suirabi.

Suirabi threw his hands over his head and stalked back to the wall. “Bah! Who am I kidding? I expected you to be useless. Your file talked about a man obsessed with poetry and acting out of strange principles that only you understand. You’re supposed to be a deep man, a philosophical man, a stubborn man. You are a pain in the ass. And you are useless.”

Jim had known who Suirabi was and didn’t need to read his file. He knew everyone on their team, and he had assumed they all knew who he was, too. These men competed with each other for mercenary work but not for money. Money represented nothing more than a principle. The dollar amount was simply a gesture of respect. These men had been trained, their minds ordered and compartmentalized, to become perfect killing machines. Suirabi and the others all exhibited sociopathic tendencies well before they were selected for training.

Jim Traverse was no exception.

Arguing with short-tempered Suirabi was a waste of time.

“I will not dignify your behavior with comments of my own,” Jim said. “Destroy the wall, please.”

“You don’t get it. You don’t see what’s happening. Is there no soul in you? Those things are not real! And do not tell me I fear death. Do not tell me I am afraid, because I do not fear men. Traverse, we are not wasting breath. We will not escape from this place. Yes, we were sent here to die. But we were also sent here to be afraid. And those things are not men. Those things are worse than we could ever be.”

The veteran mercenary was rambling; Jim recognized the death speech of a man who was faced with doom. Suirabi might confess to some long-buried crime or share a wistful memory of a lost romance. Jim had heard it all, and Suirabi had, too. They were professionals, after all.

“The wall,” Jim said.

“You have not seen what I have seen! You have not seen what happens when we get out and what will come with us! I do not fear men. I do not fear death. I do not fear—”

Jim stood. The distant howling behind him had grown louder, a tremulous echo in this forsaken place. Jim and his team had been assigned a task: retrieve an ancient book that had supposedly been left in this underground tomb for untold ages, with the understanding that a simple archaeological team wasn’t going to prove successful. Many people had journeyed to this accursed place, and none had returned. Its existence was something of a myth among the locals; Jim knew he had been sent here to die with Suirabi and the others. An entire army or task force could just as easily retrieve whatever artifact might be buried in the tomb—it didn’t matter. This tomb was a proving ground, a dungeon from which only one man was supposed to prove victorious, and to the victor goes the spoils.

Victory meant life.

And there was something else here, a purpose Jim could only guess at. There were many ways to kill an entire squad of mercenaries—Suirabi could have been assigned to kill him, and vice versa. But no, there was something else, something in the tomb.

Suirabi was two steps below Jim. Surely, the demolition expert recognized Jim’s intentions.

Before Jim could move, Suirabi stopped babbling. His head slowly inclined, wide eyes looking beyond Jim, and finally, above him.

After all these years, Jim was about to be surprised. This was his only thought as his heartbeat accelerated beyond his comfort level, a refreshing and warm feeling of excitement coursing through his veins. He knew he was excited because it was the only emotion that made sense, the only emotion he had been searching for since the day he became a killer.

Jim was violently shoved aside, his body thrown into the cavern wall. From where he lay he could see the lumbering, monstrous shape of the mummified pharaoh holding Suirabi by the neck, the demolition expert’s feet dangling above the ground. Jim preferred to watch; this was an opportunity to study his enemy and a chance to witness a beautiful murder.

Suirabi was thrown into the wall that Jim had asked him to destroy. The demolition man’s body burst against the wall like a watermelon that had been smashed with a sledgehammer. A spray of blood misted through though the cavern; detached limbs flopped onto the cavern floor; intestines coiled at the bottom of the wall as Suirabi’s torso stuck against the wall, rib cage pushing through flesh as if the skeleton were being jettisoned from this body’s remnant. Blood rained from the ceiling, pouring onto the floor and creating large crimson puddles that shone in the glare of Suirabi’s flashlight, which remained connected to the crown of his skull; eyes hung from their sockets, resting against the dead man’s cheeks.

“Interesting,” Jim said.

The wall suddenly burst over Suirabi’s mutilated body, and an ethereal orange glow filled the entire chamber. Ancient stones tumbled over the pile of broken bones and congealing viscera that had once been the mercenary. The space once occupied by the wall had become an opening, and the chamber beyond was filled with several mummified lords, all of them stiffly attentive, standing as if they had been locked in that pose forever.

Jim felt they had been waiting for him, killing Suirabi so they could have him alone. He did not believe in atonement, or karma, or redemption, nor did he think an exclusive destiny was his. Death had always been a certainty for his mortal lifespan despite all of the government projects he had been invested in. Looking upon these dreadful pharaohs, he saw nothing more than opponents that must be destroyed so that he would continue to live.

But Suirabi was dead, and he remained alone with these creatures. Against such odds, a lesser man would wither.

They had waited for him to move. They had singled him out from Suirabi as if they wanted him to exhaust all of his strength in a doomed struggle against them.

He lay there, waiting for them to approach. Traverse was not in a hurry. Let them come to him.

A shape darted through his perception, a man moving at accelerated speed; Jim’s first thought was this person must have been a member of their team, and he admired suck quickness, but he checked himself—nobody was faster than him, and this person had nearly fooled him. Jim watched the figure aggressively attack the undying pharaohs, and his eyes struggled to adjust to the shape’s quickness; he couldn’t identify the person, and this bothered him.

The figure began a flurry of strikes, and Jim recognized the style of attack, the variance in stances, the posture.

Impossible. Nobody else was that good.

Jim sat up, his attention riveted. He was aware of his own heartbeat’s acceleration and an unfamiliar shortness of breath. He was uncomfortable and interested at the same time.

Nobody could move that fast. Nobody but him.

As the stranger moved through a sequence of well-coordinated strikes, the mummies barely moved. They did nothing but put up their forearms and defend their ancient bodies as the attacker moved between targets. They were unfazed, unmoved. The stranger might have been attacking statues. Clouds of dust burst into the air as he lashed out, the mummies jostled only slightly by the force of each blow.

One dead lord reached out with its hand and seized the attacker from behind, and just as Suirabi had been so easily lifted into the air, so the attacker’s feet dangled as a mummified pharaoh held him up with only one hand. Jim was amazed at this display inhuman strength.

The pharaohs closed in, and Jim could see that the attacker was a man, and this man did not cry out or scream.

Jim looked closer.

The swarthy face and lean body type were familiar.

Jim was not aware that he stood, nor was he aware that he moved closer to the crowd; the stranger was a man, and Jim was compelled to look at him, to know him. The pharaohs did not pay attention to him, but were focused on their victim.

As he approached, he listened for the man’s cries, for the sound of his desperation. Surely, he was afraid. What did this man think about now that he saw death approach? Jim had always wondered these things. He enjoyed looking into the eyes of his target before they met their end at his hands.

Here was someone who could have met his match.

The pharaohs ignored him.

While the circle of dead kings closed upon the man, Jim caught a glimpse of the man’s eyes, and the twinge of familiarity pricked at him. The pharaohs continued to ignore Jim, just as the mummified lord that had killed Suirabi ignored him.

There was a legion of dread lords, their numbers uncountable, and still they ignored him.

Inside the circle, the stranger’s fleshy face became clear.

Jim froze.

He could feel his blood run cold. All of his training—his carefully ordered mind—dissolved in that instant.

The man was him. The attacker was a mirror image of himself, short black hair swept to the side, lean figure, stoic eyes uncaring even now, as the pharaohs closed in. A carefully wrapped hand reached into the mirror image’s mouth, and then another hand; two hands pulled his cheeks, and pair of fingers entered his nostrils, yet another rank entering the lower part of his mouth and grabbing the bottom of his jaw. The mirror image choked, eyes rolling to the back of his head.

Jim was being ignored.

He grabbed one dead king’s shoulder and wrenched it around to face him. The lower half of the dead king’s face was uncovered, and there was nothing there. A vast, black nothing hid behind the wrap.