Zombies! (Episode 5): Sinners and Saints

Zombies! Episode 5 - Sinners and Saints (but mostly sinners)

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 by Ivan Turner

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***

What has come before.

While investigating what they anticipated to be a routine homicide, Detectives Johan Stemmy and Anthony Heron discovered that their world had been invaded by zombies. Stemmy was bitten and subsequently died from the infection.

A week later, while being evaluated for cancer treatment, Heron was forced into action when the ER was besieged by zombies and forced into lockdown. The incident sparked the authorities into action. Heron was named chief of the Zombie Task force and he chose Francis Culph as his second in command. Culph was a brash young officer whose personal life was far more checkered than his professional life. While fighting zombies exhilarated him, the job poured venom into his soul. He brought that venom home and doled it out on his girlfriend. Afraid for her safety, she left him.

Shawn Rudd, a high school senior, had discovered the first zombie and been arrested for destroying it and murdering its bite victim. Heron had been able to get Shawn released from jail under questionable circumstances. He had made Shawn promise to investigate and report anything that included both teenagers and zombies. Though Shawn had made the promise, his boyfriend, a twenty three year old man named Marcus, was suspicious of the deal.

Marcus, though he did love Shawn, was lying to him about his own life. Since learning of the zombie plague, he had come up with his own idea for making money. He had secured an abandoned warehouse in a desolate portion of the Bronx and recruited some men to help him collect zombies as part of the plan.

***

"I know why you're here," Father Ohara said to Michael Higgins.

"Is it true then?" Michael asked, desperation creeping into his voice.

Father Ohara didn't answer right away. True, he had known Michael for a long time. Twenty years, in fact. Michael was a church regular, a good Catholic. But the times were trying. Even someone as close to the church as Michael needed to be handled with care. But Father Ohara had performed the Christening for Michael's son. He'd delivered his Communion. He knew the boy even better than he knew the father. And, after all, the boy was the crux of the matter.

After a moment, the priest nodded ever so slightly.

This was all that Michael needed. The bit of encouragement had him looking around the room, trying to get answers without asking the questions.

"Michael," Father Ohara said.

Michael stopped looking around, but not without delay and not without a strong surge of will power. "I need this, Father. Tim...please."

Ohara sighed, knowing what he had always known. That he would acquiesce. "Follow me."

He turned away, marching out of the gathering area and into the back behind the stage. Michael waited, suddenly unsure of himself. But the Father did not return so he followed. As he stepped into the back, a familiar area to him as a member of the church for so long, he caught sight of Father Ohara heading toward the basement. He was talking, orating.

"…since I was a boy," he was saying. "Do you know how old I am, Michael?" Michael shook his head but the priest had his back to him and didn't see. It didn't seem to matter. "I'm fifty two years old. Not an old man by any stretch. But not a young man either. I've been leading this congregation for twenty two years now and I've had to make some difficult choices. Choices that stretched the fabric of my duties as a clergyman. Choices that stretched even the fabric of my own beliefs. But never anything like this. I don't know what to make of this."

"What
do
you make of it, Father?" Michael whispered, his voice gone hoarse. Father Ohara opened the basement door and led Michael down a flight of stairs. The stairs were uncovered wood, creaky and old. But the lighting was good. This basement was heavily used. There was a kitchen down there and two bathrooms. They used other rooms for socials and child care. Along the walls downstairs were pictures that were drawn by some of the younger parishioners. There were bulletin boards with notices and photos. Michael had noticed church involvement dwindling over the last few years. And while it had saddened him that so many people were losing touch with their faith, it buoyed his spirits to realize that those who still believed did so strongly.

Father Ohara didn't answer Michael's question. What could he say? With a left turn, he just moved on. And Michael just followed. They moved through the kitchen and into the storage room at the back of the church. It was cold here. It was November and the chilly weather was there to stay. At this time of night, it wasn't more than forty degrees outside. The storage room was in an older part of the church, walled in brick and free of heating. The cold seeped into the stone and stayed there. It even somehow stayed cool in the hottest days of summer. In the back of the room was a door which led to a staircase which led up to the courtyard. Father Ohara went straight for this door but, instead of opening it, he pulled aside the mat that was laid out on the floor in front of it.

"Did you know that this church was used as a safe house for runaway slaves before the Emancipation?" he asked Michael.

Michael was stunned to see a trap door hidden under the matt. "No, Father."

Father Ohara nodded sadly. "Men hid and lived down in that subbasement," he said, indicating the trap door. "During prohibition, the church stored liquor down there for the gangsters. Well, many of them were Catholics and very generous with the church. This was a very safe place to store the alcohol."

"I had no idea."

"Neither did I until about a month ago." Father Ohara pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and unlocked the padlock on the door. Setting the lock on a storage bench, he pulled open the door. There was no creak and no dust. The door was well oiled and well used. "Do you remember Esteban Estrella?"

Michael thought for a moment. The name was familiar but he hadn't known him that well. "He was a member, right?"

"He stopped coming to church almost a year ago. His wife had died of cancer and his faith had died along with her."" Father Ohara took two steps down into the hole beneath the trap door and sat down on the ledge. Michael didn't move. "He came to me a month ago and he was very sick. He said he had fought a man on the street and the man had bitten him. He called the man a ghoul but we know the truth now, don't we?"

Michael swallowed.

"I wanted to call a doctor, but Esteban made me promise I wouldn't." Father Ohara shook his head. "Tough choices," he muttered.

"Did he die, father?" Michael asked. "Did he turn?"

Father Ohara looked him squarely in the eye, then. "Are you sure you want to see this, Michael? Are you really sure?"

"I have to," Michael whispered, knowing it was true but wishing it wasn't.

Father Ohara motioned toward one of the shelves. "Grab those two flashlights, would you? There's no electric down there."

It was almost like adding insult to injury, piling fears one on top of another like that. But, as he'd said, Michael didn't really feel as if he had a choice. He grabbed the two lights and, passing one forward to the priest, started his descent.

The staircase leading into the subbasement was brick underneath but had been overlaid with wood as reinforcement. The steps were slick with the damp and Michael felt his foot slide a couple of times while his guide was completely sure in his motion. Father Ohara had taken this route many times.

The stairs ended in a short alcove that led into a much wider room. They had gone down
at least
two stories, the light from above fading quickly away. The flashlights provided good, if not great, light. Michael was able to see that the staircase didn't wind and took them back toward the front of the church. Still, based on the direction and perceived distance ahead, the subbasement clearly ran on well past the property line.

Without hesitation, Father Ohara led him forward. The darkness closed about them. Even the flashlights couldn't penetrate the gloom. Michael grew more and more apprehensive as they went. The wide room fell away and they were surrounded by a narrow stone passage. The Father led on, silent now.

At last they reached the end of the passage. There was a bend to the left which became a short hall that ended in a reinforced wooden door. A sturdy chain ran through three eyelets on the door, through the handle, and through three more eyelets fastened into the wall. A padlock, much larger than the one on the trapdoor, secured the chain. Along the wall opposite the eyelets was a row of short slots. Each slot had a knob so that the cover could be slid to the side. Father Ohara motioned to these.

Sweating despite the chill, Michael stepped forward and opened up one of the slots. Behind the cover he was presented with a rectangular opening about eight inches wide and three inches tall. Even before he leaned in, he was assaulted by the most offensive odor. It smelled of rot and excrement, worse than the oldest curdled milk he had ever had the misfortune to dig out of the back of his refrigerator. He recoiled. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he covered his nose and mouth and leaned in to view the room beyond.

It was worse than he had imagined. Of course, it would have had to have been. In his experience, Michael had never dreamed of anything like what he was seeing and there was no film in existence that did it justice. It was death. Only death. There were dozens of zombies inside. The room was large but still crowded enough so that they were bumping into each other. Some were damaged, having fought zombies and been bitten. Others seemed unmarked and yet they were splattered with gore here and there. Their clothing was visibly dirty, their hair matted. It was hard to tell where the filth ended and the person, what was left of the person, began. But the worst part about it was that the majority of them were teens. Just like Michael's son. These idiots had gone out
hunting
zombies as if it was some glorious sport. And look what had happened to them.

"Do you see your son?"

It was difficult to angle the flashlight so that he could see the whole room, but he managed. Kyle was at the far end of the room, slouched as he shuffled about. Michael's opening of the view slot had disturbed them. Some of them had sort of homed in on the source and were milling around close or moving in his direction. Others, like Kyle, were just meandering about. Kyle was stuck in a loop where he would walk face first into the wall, bounce back a few inches, and then do it again. Michael began to cry. He was overtaken by shuddering sobs and sank to the floor with his back against the wall. The handkerchief dropped from his grasp.

Father Ohara knelt beside him and took his hand. "When Esteban came to me, he told me that he understood the disease. He said he'd been foolish to give up his faith and that this disease had reopened his eyes. It was not a sickness of the body but of the soul, which is why the body withers from within. He didn't call it Judgment Day but he didn't have to. Michael, he said that he would find a way to free his soul, cure it so that he could move on. Only then would the body just lay down and properly die. But he needed me to protect his body while he did so. He
begged
me, Michael, and he was so
sure
.

"You're the sixth person I've brought down here, the sixth parent. That's how you knew, isn't it? Other parishioners told you? When Kyle disappeared, you went looking for answers and found them. I'm so sorry, Michael, but I promise to protect his soul until he and Esteban and all of the others can find a way to free themselves."