Ex Fide Absurdo
CHRISTOPHER L. SMITH & BRENT ROEDER
David Pascoe approached the door with resignation, blowing the sweat from his upper lip. He shifted his plate carrier slightly, allowing some air in between it and his saturated long-sleeved shirt. The summer heat was early this year, as though God thought the Lone Star State needed more time in the Heavenly Oven.
“Less than a minute out here, and I feel like I just stepped out of the shower,” he said over his shoulder. “I still don’t see why I have to be the one on point, Taylor.”
His partner, Alden Taylor, grinned behind his mirrored sunglasses.
“I’m the better shot,” he said, “so I’m overwatch.”
Pascoe slammed the wooden door with the butt of his shotgun, drowning out his muttered comment. If there were any infected inside, they’d know in seconds. He waited a few moments, listening carefully, then repeated the motion. This time, there were definite sounds of movement—slow, shuffling noises, a low groan, and scratching. Pascoe tightened his grip and flicked the safety off. Taylor nodded, set his feet, and scanned the perimeter. If there was a nest inside, there was a good chance there’d be more nearby. Standard procedure for a nest was to get them bunched up around a choke point, kick the door in, and service the targets. So far, it had been like shooting fish in a barrel, or fishing with dynamite. So far.
More scrabbling and groaning from the other side. Pascoe rapped on the door one more time, took a step back, and tensed.
“Goddammit,” came a male voice from the other side. “You trying to bust it down?”
Pascoe relaxed. Zeds didn’t answer a knock, and certainly didn’t gripe.
“What the hell you want?” A shadow passed over the fisheye as the man inside continued. “If you’re looking for trouble, I ain’t got nothing to lose, and jail ain’t an option.”
“Sir, I’m Census Agent Pascoe, and this is my partner Taylor,” Pascoe said calmly. “We’re from the government, and we’re here to help you.”
“Ha! Nice try, boy. Ain’t no government, and if there was, I’m damn sure I don’t need its ‘help.’”
“That’s why we’re here, sir. Can you open the door so we can discuss this face-to-face?”
“How do I know you ain’t raiders?”
“Do raiders usually knock?”
“These days, it wouldn’t surprise me.”
Pascoe sighed. “Do they usually have long conversations after they do?”
“Hmph.” After a several second pause, Pascoe heard various chains, latches, and bolts disengaging. The door opened a crack, revealing a bloodshot, rheumy green eye. “You got ’til I need to piss, boy. Get to it.”
Pascoe ignored Taylor’s soft chuckles behind him.
“You’re right, sir. That’s why we’re here. To establish a legitimate governor of Texas, we need to know how many surviving constituents there may be.”
The door opened a bit more, revealing a leathery, clean-shaven face. The man stood slightly taller than Pascoe, wearing clean khakis and a polo shirt.
“Uh-hunh.”
“Before we get to the main questions—age, name, etc.—let me ask you the important one. Do you own firearms?”
“Lost ’em all in a tragic boating accident last week.”
Pascoe couldn’t help but grin. The nearest coast was about fifty miles away in Corpus Christi, and the only visible water was a small pond or tank roughly three hundred feet from the house. He’d seen the sun glancing off it as they’d approached.
“That’s unfortunate, sir,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder as the door began to close. “However, it’s your lucky day. If you look behind me, you’ll see a truck parked nearby.”
The old man followed Pascoe’s thumb with narrowed eyes. Behind him, he knew the old man was studying the late-model white and silver Chevy. Under the camper top, in the bed, were neatly arranged boxes of scavenged weapons and ammo.
“We have quite a few different types, calibers, etc., as well as body armor and ammo. If, as you say, you don’t have any weapons, we’re authorized to supply you with at least one rifle or shotgun, and a pistol.”
“You shitting me?”
“No, sir. You’re free to choose what you’d like, except for Moe the two-forty.”
“Moe?”
“Moe Dakka. Our nickname.”
“I don’t get it.” The man shrugged. “Anyways, who am I voting for?”
“We’re not there just yet. The emergency council is wanting to make sure all Texans who can vote are able to survive long enough to do so.”
“Humph.” The old man rubbed his chin. “All right, son, I’ll tell ya whut—let’s just say you don’t have to worry about me none, either way.”
“Understood, sir. We’ll put you down as ‘A. Nonomous, declined armament, unconfirmed weaponry.’ We’ll leave you to your day, thank you.”
“You boys seem like nice folk. Be careful out there. It ain’t the zeds you need to worry about much, these days.”
“Oh?”
“Yup. Rumor has it there’s a group running ’round and causing trouble. Seems like once the main danger passed, them fellas got to sowin’ some oats. Heard they was out near Bishop, and movin’ this way.”
“Good to know, sir, much obliged.”
“Yup. Take care now.”
“What do you think?” Taylor opened the center console, pulling a map from under their stash of grenades. “Should we head towards Bishop and do some reccy?”
“Why do you want to go look for trouble?”
“Don’t. Not really. But the council wants to know what’s happening, right?”
“Well . . . ”
“And,” Taylor continued, “seems to me that whoever is out there needs to be counted.”
Pascoe shot him a dirty look. Taylor grinned.
“You wouldn’t want to be lax in your sworn duty, would you?”
“Oh, sure, play that card again.”
“Worked last time, didn’t it?”
Pascoe shook his head. “Last time” was really “first time,” referring back to when he’d met the now ex-con. Taylor had kept him from going catatonic by doing a fair impression of every drill instructor, ever. It had given Pascoe something to cling to, in the middle of events that should have overwhelmed him.
He knew, unfortunately, that Taylor was right, but dammit, this was supposed to be a cushy, low risk job. Even though the infected “zeds” were less common, due to the harsh winter, severe flooding in spring, and current drought conditions, they were still out there. Pascoe and Taylor had been lucky so far, for various values of “luck,” in that they’d only run into a handful of nests. Additionally lucky, since those nests had been small, isolated, and unable to effectively swarm.
He shuddered, thinking of the reports he’d heard on “Devil Dog Radio” about clearing ocean liners. He admired the Marines and what they were doing out there, but he had no desire to follow in their footsteps, thank you very much.
“I see that look in your eyes, bro,” Taylor said. “But these are actual living people. All they can do is shoot us, not turn us into slobbering, naked cannibals, right?”
“That’s your idea of ‘reassuring’?”
Taylor chuckled.
“Fine,” Pascoe said, climbing into the truck. “But I’m going to bitch about it the whole time.”
Pascoe drove carefully along the four-lane road, keeping an eye out for any major obstructions. They’d been lucky so far—the rural highway had been under construction in several places last year, and it appeared that had kept traffic to a minimum. There were very few abandoned cars, unlike the interstates and urban areas. Most of the heavy machinery was along the shoulders, though, leaving the road itself navigable.
“Thinking back,” Pascoe said idly, “I should’ve known this was going to happen.”
“What was going to happen?”
“This.” He gestured vaguely at the horizon. “Fall of society, cannibal zombie things. The last ten months or so. This.”
“Okay, I’ll bite,” Taylor said, turning. “How come?”
“Paid off my truck. Should’ve just bought ammo.”
Taylor snorted.
“You know what’s worse than that?” Taylor asked, as they drove up a small incline. Pascoe risked a quick glance at the other man.
“What?”
“Do you realize we’ll never get to see those new Star Wars movies they were going to make?”
“Oh, man, that’s just cruel. I bet they’d have been awesome.”
“Tell me about it. After the prequels, they only could’ve gotten better.”
“Unless they did something dumb, like making a knock-off Vader, or bringing back the Emperor.”
“Ooh, or killing off Han Solo.”
“They’d never do that though.”
“True. Luke, maybe, but they’d have to make it meaningful, like Obi-Wan.”
A flicker of motion caught Pascoe’s eye. Off to his left, about three hundred yards away, a group of cars approached the intersection of a smaller road. The dust clouds made it difficult to see exactly what was happening. He slowed, waiting to see which direction the pack would turn.
“Oh, hell yeah. Luke in full Kenobi mode. How cool would that be?” Taylor paused at Pascoe’s raised hand. “What’s up?”
“Up ahead, could be trouble.”
The newcomers turned at the junction, heading away from their position.
Pascoe sat, hands on the wheel of the idling truck, as Taylor scanned the scene with his binoculars. From the top of the slight rise, he had a clear view of the divided highway, and the events playing out.
“This is some Mad Max shit right here,” Taylor said, handing over the binocs. “Check it out.”
Pascoe took them and focused on the group ahead of them. Four cars, armored with various types of sheet metal and spikes, appeared to be in pursuit of a beat-up U-Haul. The truck was badly dented along one side, and spewing thick blue exhaust.
“Looks like they raided every hardware store in the county,” he said. “The worst part is what they did to the new Chargers. That warrants killing on its own.”
“Yeah, looks like they’ve been busy.”
Pascoe watched as the group flanked the truck. The driver didn’t seem to be panicking, maneuvering purposefully to counteract the others’ tactics.
“Must be from Houston,” Taylor muttered.
One of the pursuit cars broke left, hopping the median and crossing into what would’ve been the oncoming lane. Deftly avoiding a few abandoned cars, it accelerated through a clear stretch, pulling ahead of the truck. After a few seconds, the driver angled back across the median, in an attempt to ram their quarry.
The truck driver was prepared, however, accelerating and steering away from the incoming Charger. The move opened up just enough space to where the attacker undershot, fishtailing in behind the truck, and subsequently slamming into one of the other cars.
Both armored cars, locked together, careened onto the shoulder. The cut-off driver’s car broke away only seconds before the other slammed into a concrete divider. Pascoe watched as it went airborne, simultaneously flipping and spinning, to land on its roof, belching smoke.
“Whoa! Nicely done, dude!” Taylor slammed his hand down on the dashboard. “If that guy’s still alive, he’s definitely going to feel it later.”
The smoke thickened, flames creeping into view.
“Hunh, well, never mind.”
The pack crested the next hill, taking them out of view. Taylor punched him in the arm.
“Well, come on, man, you waiting for an invitation? This is better than Indy.”
Pascoe sighed, dropping their truck into gear. He gave the burning Charger a wide berth, just in case it decided to get energetic. As it appeared in his rearview, it experienced a rapid unscheduled disassembly.
He slowed down as they came to the top of the small rise, just in case there was more carnage on the downslope ahead of them. His luck held—the group had made it another mile ahead before stopping their prey. Pascoe brought their pickup to a stop again.
“Okay, let’s see what’s happening now,” Taylor said, as he focused the binocs. Pascoe watched as the ant-sized figures surrounded the truck. “We’ve got some rough-looking dudes . . . lot of leather and denim . . . moving towards the cab . . . ”
Pascoe strained, but gave up at the first sign of a headache.
“Oh, hell.” Taylor’s whisper barely carried. “They’re pulling someone out of the passenger side.”
Taylor’s hands tightened briefly, his face going blank. He handed the glasses to Pascoe, who took them and sighted the group in.
“New plan,” Taylor said, releasing his seat belt. “Drive, slow, until we’re halfway there. Let me out, then get up on them. Buy me some time to get set.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No.” Taylor’s voice left no room for doubt. “It’s a priest.”
Pascoe watched silently for a few moments. It was difficult to tell, due to the men moving around, but after a few seconds, he saw what Taylor was talking about. The man on the ground had a black long-sleeved shirt with a white collar.
Taylor got out, moved to the back of the pickup, and opened the camper. Pascoe could see him rummaging around briefly, before closing up and coming back with a scoped Barrett.
“Let’s go,” he said, closing the door. “Nice and smooth, while they’re preoccupied.”
“You want me to do what, exactly?”
“Do the census thing, tell ’em a story, dress in drag and do the hula, I don’t care. Just stall them for a minute.”
“This isn’t our problem, Taylor . . . ”
“Yeah, it is, OFFICER Pascoe,” Taylor hissed, glaring. “We’re doing this.”
Pascoe nodded, realizing nothing he said would convince the man otherwise. He put the pickup in gear and made his way forward, keeping the speedometer just under thirty.
“Here,” Taylor said, after a minute. “Edge closer to the culvert there. Don’t stop, just slow down.”
Taylor waited until they were at a crawl, then opened the door and rolled out in one smooth motion. As Pascoe accelerated again, the door swung closed. His next few moments were spent trying to figure out what he was going to say, as well as watching the men ahead of him react.
As he hit what he figured was the two-hundred-yard mark, the sound of his engine caught the men’s attention. Three of the six visible had turned to watch his approach—the two with rifles keeping them slung at a low ready position—while the others crowded around their victims, using rifle butts and kicks to keep them subdued. At one hundred feet, he stopped the truck, put it in park, and got out.
Plastering what he hoped was his most innocent—and most importantly, harmless—“hey guys, I’m just doing my job” smile on his face, he got out of the truck and started forward. The other members of the gang had now turned to see what was going on, watching him with a mix of wariness and curiosity. Pascoe stopped after ten steps, grinning and waving like an idiot.
The armor on the Chargers made it impossible to see into them from his angle, but their doors appeared to be welded shut. If there was anyone inside, they were a low priority threat. Two of the raiders kept a foot each on the beaten and bleeding occupants of the U-Haul.
Pascoe took a deep breath.
Showtime.
“Good day, gentlemen,” he said, still smiling. He held up his clipboard, hoping that its fabled powers of persuasion and access held true, even outside of a military installation. “My name is Pascoe, and I won’t take up too much of your time. I can see you’re busy.”
“Whatcha think you doin’ here, man?” The speaker, one of the first to notice his approach, was the only man not carrying a rifle. Instead, he carried two holstered pistols, slung low like an old west gunfighter. The tattoos visible along his neck and cheeks identified him as someone who had done time.
“I’ve been instructed by the Emergency Council of the State of Texas to perform a census in this area. What we’re trying to do is make sure that all eligible voters are accounted for, and have the ability to defend themselves during the current crisis.”
Several of the others traded glances, chuckling.
Come on, Taylor, Pascoe thought.
“Like I said,” he continued aloud, “I just need to get some basic info, and I’ll leave you to your business. Shouldn’t take but a moment.”
“You got some stones, pendejo,” the leader said, “I’ll give you that.”
Pascoe kept his grin in place and looked over the other man’s shoulder. He used the clipboard to point at the two standing over the priests.
“I’ll start with you two, so you can get back to what you were doing,” he said, then indicated the others in turn. “Then you, you, and you.”
“Ain’t no one telling you shit.” The leader scowled, taking a step forward. “You got five seconds before I gut you and leave you bleedin’.”
“No need for hostility, my good man,” Pascoe said. With his arms out, he spread the fingers on his left hand. He folded in his thumb. “I’m simply trying to—”
“Time’s running out.” Another step forward. Pascoe stepped back as he curled two fingers.
“Three.” The two men flanking the leader adjusted their rifles.
“I’ll just put y’all down as ‘capable and armed’ . . . ” Pascoe retreated as he talked, now showing only his pinky.
“Two.”
“I’m from the government, and I’m here to help you.” He made a full fist. Nothing happened.
“One.”
Pascoe brought his right arm across his chest, kept it parallel to his left, and swayed his hips. After a second, he reversed the pose.
“Aloha, oe . . . aloha oe . . . ” He sang, still dancing backwards. The raider’s faces all showed confusion, and the leader paused a few feet away.
“What the fu—”
One of the men over the priests dropped, his chest exploding into crimson. A moment later, his buddy next to him fell as well, his body armor disintegrating. Two more of the raiders dropped just as the crack of the shots caught up.
Pascoe drew his pistol, putting three rounds center of mass on the leader before turning his attention to the man at his two o’clock. He fired just as the other man’s rifle barked, his first two shots on target, but his third going wide as his breath exploded from his lungs.
He and both of the bandits hit the ground simultaneously, neither of the other men moving. He winced at the pain in his chest, but fought through it to pull at his armor and inspect his torso. His relieved sigh ended with a gasp. The close-range shot hadn’t penetrated, just hurt like a son of a bitch.
At the bandit leader’s groan, Pascoe ignored his own discomfort and made his way to the other man. He too was wearing a vest, but it seemed one of Pascoe’s shots had gone through. Pascoe relieved the man of his weapons, just to be safe.
“Hurts, don’t it?” He punctuated each word by stepping on the man’s chest, allowing himself some satisfaction as the other paled. “Figure those priests didn’t like it much either.”
“Now,” he continued, “What are we doing out here, besides harassing men of the cloth?”
“Fu— AH!” Pascoe applied pressure before the word finished.
“Let’s try that again.”
“Alacrán is coming,” the bandit gasped, “He’ll know where we are.”
Pascoe grunted, putting all of his weight on one foot. The man screamed, then passed out. Macabrely satisfied, Pascoe moved over to the priests.
The younger man was clearly dead, his wide, unblinking eyes still showing shock and surprise. The older priest lay still, but his chest rose and fell weakly. At the sound of Pascoe’s footsteps, he managed to turn his head.
“It’s okay, Father,” Pascoe said, soothingly. “I’m not here to hurt you. Wait one second.”
One of the fallen bandits had a camelback. Pascoe removed it, struggling slightly with the man’s dead weight, and brought the spout close to the priest’s lips.
“Take it slow, sir.” He waited as the man took a few careful sips, then said, “Can you tell me what happened?”
“The Cathedral. Ave Crux, spes unica.” The priest coughed, bloody foam splattering the ground around him. Pascoe couldn’t tell if it was from his busted lips, or internal bleeding.
The sound of a gunshot behind him grabbed his attention. He turned to see Taylor walking towards him, pistol at his side.
“You left an enemy behind you alive,” he said, breathing hard. “Not a good strategy these days.”
“You okay? Seem to be a bit winded.”
“Yeah, been a while since I humped a bitch like this,” Taylor said, stroking the Barrett. “But you’re worth it, baby, you know I love you.” He stopped and nodded at the priests. “What’s the situation?”
“Not sure, was just getting to that.” Pascoe turned back to the priest to see him motioning for him to come closer. He put his ear next to the older man’s lips.
“Moving relics . . . ” he gasped. He held out a leather-bound Bible, wrapped in a rosary.
Pascoe waited until the next coughing fit subsided, then tried to give him some more water. The priest shook him off with more violence than he’d expected, knocking the camelback out of his hand.
“You must hear the Call of God,” the priest said, pressing the Bible to Pascoe’s chest. As Pascoe took it, the priest let go, signing the cross as he did.
“In Hoc Signe Vinces,” he gasped, slumping back. “Corpus Christi Cathedral, the Ghost protects.”
Pascoe closed the man’s eyes gently as a final breath rattled through his chest.
“What did he say?”
“Something about relics, the Call of God, and something Latin. Also that a ghost is protecting the Corpus Christi Cathedral,” Pascoe said. “That mean anything to you?”
“Hm. Maybe he meant Holy Ghost?” Taylor rubbed a hand over his head. “I guess he meant the Holy Spirit was protecting the cathedral.”
He moved over to the back of the truck. Pascoe followed him, stuffing the Bible in a cargo pocket.
He moved over to the back of the U-Haul.
“Let’s see what they were so desperate to take there.”
The rear was secured, but not locked. Taylor disengaged the latch and heaved, rolling the door up. Inside, the space was dominated by a huge brass bell, with other, smaller items haphazardly arranged around it.
“Whoa, looks like someone cleaned house.”
“The Father there said ‘moving relics.’”
“Hell of a haul, that bell must weigh hundreds of pounds. All of this other stuff is pretty high end too. Look here.” Taylor hefted a box full of silver and gold chalices. “Must be thousands here, in precious metals alone.”
“Someone went to a lot of trouble,” Pascoe said, nodding. “We should get it off the road. Map says there’s a small town up ahead. We could find somewhere to stash it.”
“Yeah . . . ” Taylor said, eyes distant. He shook it off, rolled down the door and re-secured it. “We need to take them with us, give them a proper send off. Help me get them in the back of the pickup, there’s room.”
It took a few minutes, but after rearranging the crates of guns and ammo, they were able to gently place the two dead men in the bed of the truck. For good measure, they stripped the raiders of anything useful, as well. When they finished, Taylor closed the tailgate and camper cover, then walked toward the priest’s van.
“I’ll take this one, you get ours. Find a service station we can park in.”
One of the raider’s radios crackled to life. Pascoe couldn’t follow the rapid fire Spanish. Taylor apparently could, though, and stopped moving. After a few seconds of silence, the voice came back. This time, Pascoe recognized a word.
“Alacrán,” Pascoe said, as Taylor’s face grew dark. “That’s what the leader told me when I questioned him.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“‘Alacrán is coming.’ That mean something?”
“Maybe,” Taylor grunted, “probably nothing. Let’s get moving.”
Pascoe shrugged, and climbed into the Silverado. Something in the side mirror caught his eye—a quick flash, but when he turned to look, there was nothing. It was possible the camper’s back window had caught the sun just right, playing tricks on his still-wound nerves. His time in the sandbox had taught him to never ignore his instincts, though, and they were screaming that something wasn’t right. He’d take the rear slot and keep his eyes open.
The moving van coughed as Taylor tried to start it, finally grumbling to life on the third try, belching thick black exhaust. With a wheeze and some screeching, it rolled forward. Pascoe gave it some room, then followed.
It took an hour to arrive, locate, and sweep a suitable location, an old service station near the small town’s main street.
It was only a matter of minutes, and some heavy exertion, to get the roll-up door open and the van inside. He pulled their Silverado around behind the building while the fumes from the van’s exhaust cleared, and checked the perimeter. The station—and several other businesses near it—had been closed long before the current situation started, Pascoe realized. It had been stripped of anything remotely useful—everything remaining was either built into the structure, or bolted down.
That didn’t mean precautions were unwarranted, however. He hadn’t seen any signs of pursuit, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. The raider’s radio squawked a constant stream of agitated Spanish from Alacrán and his men during the drive, doing nothing to alleviate his paranoia. Pascoe took one last careful look around before straining to pull the doors back down again, the stubborn pulley mechanism sending out a shower of red flakes with every turn.
“That’s one way to see if the town’s clear,” Taylor said, sliding out of the driver’s seat. “Every zed in the county could’ve heard us coming. Any movement out there?”
“Not that I could see, but we’ll keep an ear out just in case.”
“All right, what’ve we got here?” Taylor looked around the shop and nodded. “Nice. Homey. Could see us making a nice life for ourselves here.”
“Oh ha ha. Now really, we need a plan here.”
“Been thinking about that,” Taylor said, rubbing his chin. “Way I see it, we owe it to the priests to finish the job.”
“Owe it to them? Taylor, we stumbled across these guys in the middle of nowhere. If we hadn’t been near, we’d never know about this. Why is it now our responsibility?”
“God works in mysterious ways, bud.”
“So does your thought process.”
Taylor ignored him.
“This old girl ain’t going anywhere fast, if at all,” he said, kicking the van’s tires. “Repairs are out of the question. I could feel the tranny skipping as we drove. Burning oil, too. Piston rings are likely shot, and it was knocking like a coked-up Jehovah’s Witness. Could throw a rod any moment.”
“Okay, so we leave it here, see if anyone that cares is still alive, and come back later.”
“No.” Taylor shook his head. “I don’t think this is a ‘do it when it’s convenient’ kind of thing. We’re being tested.”
“I swear if you say ‘We’re on a mission from God’ I’ll shoot you myself.” Pascoe paused, shaking his head at Taylor’s grin. “You were totally going to say that, weren’t you?”
“Maybe. We’ll argue about this later. For now, let’s find some place to bury the priests.”
“There’s a patch of grass around the side that should work,” Pascoe said. “I’m serious, Taylor, this isn’t our problem.”
Taylor started towards their truck. “One thing at a time. There’s an entrenching tool in the back. Why don’t you see if there’s anything else to dig with?”
Pascoe finished hammering the crude crosses into the ground, and stepped back.
Taylor kept staring at the cross at the head of the older priest’s grave, his hands folded in prayer.
“Hey,” Pascoe said gently as he pulled the Bible from his cargo pocket. “You want me to read something, or do you want to say a few words?”
“We can’t leave it.”
“Leave what?”
“You heard the priest. We need to hear the Call of God,” Taylor said, turning to face his partner.
“Why is this so important, Taylor? You can’t tell me that these trinkets are worth the trouble.”
“Yeah, they are. Not monetarily. Well, not just monetarily. Sure, there’s some gold and silver here, but it’s more than that.”
“What they represent is more important than just the money? I get it.”
“Yeah. But no. These items were donated, or the money was donated by parishioners to buy them. Their value isn’t just the money, it’s the spirit in which they were given. The people in that congregation wanted to be proud of their church. To show God that they would give what they could to make their place of worship beautiful.”
He jerked a thumb towards the garage.
“A copper chalice isn’t fancy, or expensive, but it’ll last for generations. It’ll tie great-grandchildren to their ancestors. We can help keep these items in a community that will respect that connection, not just use them for money or trade them for terrestrial power.”
“You don’t think that the Church saw them as a financial investment? A rainy day fund, if you will?”
“Sure, but the difference is the congregation would benefit from it, not some rando who only sees the melt value. Take the bell. It’s a couple hundred pounds of bronze. Not exactly a wealth of metal, even these days. But, it has a history. Deaths, births, marriages—history. Church bells have called the faithful, and more importantly, called to them. Let them know that God was there, even in their darkest hour. They gave people hope, when there was nothing else that could.”
Pascoe studied his friend carefully.
“It’s deeper than that, isn’t it?”
Taylor opened his mouth, paused, then snapped it shut. Pascoe knew he was right.
“Should’ve stopped running my damn mouth,” Taylor muttered, shaking his head. Pascoe maintained eye contact for several tense seconds until Taylor said, “Guess it’s time we had that talk.”
He seemed to consider his words carefully, before starting again.
“You know why I got popped last year? It wasn’t because I was sloppy. Hell, I smuggled more dope from Matamoros to San Antonio than you could imagine, and the border boys been none the wiser. So why this time?”
Pascoe thought for a moment. “Someone tipped them off.”
“Bingo.” Taylor tapped his nose. “Any guesses as to who?”
“Shit, that list could be a mile long and two wide. A girlfriend’s angry husband, jilted ex—”
“Nope,” Taylor said, smiling. “I’ll give you a hint—he’s tall, muscular, very handsome, shaved head . . . ”
“No way. You?”
“Had to make it look convincing.”
“Okay, hang on now. You gave yourself up? For what?”
“Needed to get closer to some folks on the inside, follow the threads, cultivate some assets. Not to mention, time on the inside for a small potatoes bust would help my cred.”
Pascoe sat back, contemplating his friend. Taylor was roughly mid-thirties, and from what he’d seen, highly trained. During his tours overseas, Pascoe had made friends with some special forces guys. They’d come and go without notice, seemingly able to disappear into the local population with little effort. Taylor carried himself similarly.
“You were undercover. DEA?”
“Secret Service. Counterterrorism. These guys weren’t just buying new cars and guns. A lot of that money was getting funneled back to the middle east. I’d been working my way up through the ranks, but hit a small snag. It was time to go in deeper.”
“Okay, so you were a Fed. How does it all tie to this, though?”
“I’m getting there.” Taylor’s shoulders slumped as his eyes grew distant. “You were in the service, Pascoe. You know what it’s like when you doubt the mission, and what you tell yourself to keep going.”
Pascoe nodded. “The Greater Good.”
“Yeah. That’s what I told myself. ‘I’m changing things for the better. Saving more than I’m hurting.’ Whatever the rationalization was for that day.”
“Like you said, you were looking at the big picture.”
“That big picture gets harder to justify when you see some kid swallowing balloons of smack, and you’re keeping your head down so you can build a case. One of those balloons busts open in his gut, well, that’s just a small price to pay for that fish on the other end.
“It scratches at your soul, man,” Taylor said quietly. “Every time, that darkness gets a little more hold on you. But you can’t tell anyone, relieve yourself of that burden. That’s how you get pulled off duty, retired early, or killed. Only person you can talk to is God, and hope he’s listening.
“I’d hear the bells,” he continued, waving a hand towards the truck, “and they gave me hope. They brought some light back into the dark parts. This was a sign. God listened. He heard me beg for a chance to make up for all that shit. I got a long way to go to balance the books. This is one of the steps.”
“One of them?”
“Heh. You think this is it? Hell no, man, this path started when I met you. I realized it when that girl came at me in the trailer. You think Leyva would’ve stuck by me? Sumbitch was trying to sell me out. Damn well wouldn’t have stopped that rabid prom queen until she’d finished with me.”
“Who knows, he might’ve.”
“Maybe, but I guarantee you he wouldn’t have felt bad about it. Not enough to have nightmares.” Taylor stopped as Pascoe shot him a look. “I hear you at night, bud. It’s not every night, but I know when it hits you.”
Pascoe looked down at his feet.
“God put a good man in my path. He showed me the journey wasn’t going to be easy, but I’d have help. He felt I was worth saving, and I’ll damn sure do my best to earn it.”
“And you think this is it?”
“Yeah, I do,” Taylor said softly. “We can deliver some hope. Some light in the dark, for others out there.”
“Fine. Fine!” Pascoe said, throwing up his arms. “You do know that means we have to move all of the stuff into the truck, right?”
“No one said he had to make it easy.”
“I think we have a problem,” Taylor said, carrying a load from the back of the van.
“What, another one?” Pascoe didn’t look up from consolidating crates of weapons. With how much room the bell would need, he was concerned they wouldn’t be able to carry everything.
“I thought I saw a zombie in the distance.”
“How’s that a problem?”
“I think they’re wearing clothes,” Taylor answered.
“And you don’t think it’s a regular survivor, do you?”
“After our run-in with the others, no.”
“Well, we’re not ready to go here unless you want to abandon some of this stuff.”
“I’ll go scout it out,” Taylor said, as he started pulling gear. “If there’s a threat I’ll deal with it, or slow them down if we need more time.”
“Of course we need more time,” Pascoe snarled. “We still have to move that stupid bell.”
“Don’t insult the bell, it’s our mission.”
“Our mission is heavy and I don’t want to have to move it alone.”
“Come to me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest,” quoted Taylor.
“Spare me the sermon and help me out.”
“I’m going to head out the back and try to sneak up on them,” Taylor said, grabbing a submachine gun out of a crate. He disappeared around the front of the van.
Pascoe felt his temples throb as he stared at the bell and muttered, “Well, fuck—”
With everything out, there was now room in the bed of the truck. What hadn’t occurred to either him or Taylor was that the tailgate was about six inches higher than the floor of the van’s cargo area.
“Damn it.” Pascoe scanned the repair bays, hoping to find something useful.
There were lifts, but with no power, they were out of the question. Any floor jacks had disappeared long ago. Pulling out a flashlight, he started rooting around through the detritus in the corners, desperate to find something. A flash of reflected light caught his eye.
He moved the various greasy rags, papers, and discarded bottles of motor oil. Underneath, he found a worn, but seemingly sound, wheeled mechanic’s sled. It looked just tall enough to get the bell level. The next problem would be moving the bell inside the camper. There was just enough room for it to fit height-wise, but he didn’t think he’d have enough raw power to shove it forward by himself.
Motor oil on the other hand . . . Things were always easier with lube. Each bottle he found had a little left in it, less than an ounce in most cases. Fortunately, there were plenty. In short time, he had scrounged up most of a quart.
“It might just do the trick, if I’m careful . . . ” he muttered to himself.
Pascoe climbed into the van, and after several minutes of creative cursing, managed to get the bell firmly on the sled. A few more minutes of effort got everything lined up with the tailgate. With a satisfied grunt, Pascoe climbed into the truck to prepare the bed.
And watched in horror as the bell rolled away from him, slamming into the cab of the moving van.
“Oh, come on,” Pascoe snapped. He noticed that the back of the van floor was a bit warped, probably from the battering it had taken during the chase. The ammo crates would be too bulky to wrestle into place while trying to hold the bell. He needed something to wedge under the wheels.
After getting the bell back into position, he cleared his pistol, jammed it behind a rear caster, then carefully let go. Everything stayed put. With a sigh of relief, he once again climbed into the truck to spread the oil.
With a groan, one of the front casters gave out. The sled leaned forward, bringing the edge of the bell just below the tailgate.
It took everything he had to not scream. Instead, he sat down heavily, sinking his head into his hands. Something poked him in the ass.
“Of course. Can’t just have a moment, can I?” he said quietly, digging around in his pocket.
The cross of the rosary-wrapped Bible had turned the wrong way. Pulling the book out, he cocked his hand back to heave it at the source of his frustration, then stopped.
After a few seconds eyeballing both the gap and the book, he stood up.
“O Lord, you are my rock,” Pascoe said, looking up towards the sky. “With your help I can advance. I hope you understand.”
Finishing the prayer, Pascoe stuffed the top of the Bible under the caster, bringing the sled back to level. After a brief pause to make sure the bell wasn’t going anywhere, he opened the motor oil.
“All right, let’s get greasy.”
Pascoe wiped his hands on an oily rag, and admired his work. Once the bell was in place, everything else was easy.
“It’s a miracle,” he said, chuckling.
With a crackle, the bandit’s radio in the cab came to life, spewing Spanish. While he’d worked, he’d occasionally heard idle conversation, but nothing that had sounded urgent. This time, the voice on the other end was agitated, the words punctuated with what he recognized as profanity.
As if in response, he heard several gunshots in the distance.
“Oh Christ.” After slamming the tailgate and camper closed, he moved towards the cab.
Pascoe’s head snapped around at the sound of his name, followed by something unintelligible. In the distance, Taylor was running straight at him, arms pumping in effort. Pascoe hopped into the driver’s seat, and started the truck. He pulled out, heading towards Taylor.
Taylor wasted no time, climbing into the passenger seat before the vehicle had stopped.
“Floor it, we need to get out of here,” he gasped.
“What’s going on?”
“They tracked us, it’s a trap.”
“Shit.” The truck’s engine roared as Pascoe stood on the pedal. Just as they got up to speed, a tricked-out car came around the corner in the distance. Pascoe slammed on the brakes. “Dammit, they’re ahead of us.”
“Flip around!” Taylor leaned out of the window, firing rapidly at the other vehicle.
“Working on it!” With the extra weight, the Chevy handled like a pregnant hippopotamus. By the time Pascoe finished the three-point turn, the other car had closed the gap. Taylor’s suppressive fire kept them at bay as they approached the service station. “Who are these guys?”
“They’re . . . ” Taylor’s explanation was cut off by Pascoe hitting the brakes again. “What now?”
“Cover me!” Pascoe put the truck in park and bailed out, sprinting towards the moving van. He’d left the Bible wedged under the mechanic’s sled. In seconds, he’d retrieved it and made it back to the truck.
“Almost forgot it,” Pascoe explained, dropping the truck into gear. Several more cars had appeared behind them.
“You’re trying to get us killed over a Bible?”
“Well, you’re trying to get us killed over a bell!” Pascoe tossed the Bible on the center console. Taylor ignored him, hanging out the window to fire at their pursuers.
“I’ve got an idea,” he said, coming back in. Grabbing the Bible, he opened the console, and removed some grenades before shoving the Bible inside. After slamming it shut, he leaned out and tossed the frags. Five seconds later, they heard the explosions.
Pascoe risked a quick glance to see the lead car in flames. The others swerved to avoid it, as well as the telephone poles crashing down across the street.
“Damn, I’m good,” Taylor said. “That’ll buy us a little time. Make use of it.”
“‘We’ll go take down some names.’ ‘It’ll be easy. What could possibly go wrong?’” Pascoe muttered. “Now we’re being pursued by bandits.”
“They’re not just bandits,” Taylor said. “They’re cartel. My cartel.”
“Oh this gets even better. And the Alacrán guy?”
“He was in too. Started sniffing around, digging into my cover. I thought I’d taken care of him when I set myself up. Made sure only he and Don Cortez knew where I was crossing.”
“That’s Machiavellian. I’m impressed.”
“Yeah,” Taylor said. “Apparently not permanent. I imagine the world going haywire at the time gave him some opportunities. Too bad.”
“Think maybe you should have mentioned him before this?”
“Probably.” Taylor checked his rearview. Satisfied, he continued, “If we get out of this, Pascoe, I promise I’ll make it up to you.”
“If.”
“Keep the faith, my friend. We’re on a mission from God.”
Pascoe glared silently at the road in front of them.
Pascoe stopped the truck in front of the steps of Corpus Christi Cathedral.
“Check the door! I have overwatch,” Taylor said as he hopped out of the truck. He grabbed Moe and a box of ammo from the back seat, then climbed onto the truck’s roof. Pascoe slid out of the driver’s side.
After running up the front steps and peering through the padlocked door’s barred windows, Pascoe yelled, “It’s abandoned!”
“It can’t be! The priest said to come here!” Taylor responded.
“I don’t see signs of anyone, and this place is sealed up.” Pascoe rattled the heavy chain. “Look at the boards over the window—whoever did this took the time to screw them in flush to each other.”
“The priest told us to come here.” Taylor’s voice carried a hint of desperation. “He was coming here. Why, if there weren’t people?”
“Did he know, or just hope?”
“You’re the one who talked to him,” Taylor responded. Pascoe shook his head, and ran towards a building on the other side of the complex.
Behind him, the two-forty chattered as Taylor engaged . . . something. Shortly after, he heard the squeal of tires and what sounded like a severe crash. Hoping that his partner could keep things under control, he continued towards what he assumed was the rectory.
The building, also boarded up, made it clear that no one was inside, and hadn’t been for a while. Snarling in frustration, he ran back towards Taylor. As he rounded the corner, he slowed to take in the scene.
A hundred yards out, one armored Charger sat smoking, another abandoned—both surrounded by multiple bodies.
“They’re catching up! We need a plan,” Pascoe said, running back to the open driver’s door. “We’re almost on empty, and we don’t have anywhere to go.”
“This has to be it! The priest said that God was protecting this cathedral!” Taylor lobbed a grenade. “Frag out!”
“He didn’t say God. He said the Ghost.” Pascoe opened their map.
“Same thing.”
“No,” Pascoe said. “He didn’t say the Holy Spirit, or the Holy Ghost. He just said ‘the Ghost.’”
“Is this really time to argue about the Trinity?”
“Not Holy Ghost, Blue Ghost! The USS Lexington!” Pascoe pointed to the map. “She’s anchored just across the bridge. What if the Blue Ghost is protecting them because they forted up inside it?”
“Hell, let’s give it a shot.” Taylor said, firing. “Not like we could make it anywhere else.”
Shoving the map into the back seat, Pascoe looked down at the open center console. “Where’s the Bible?”
“What?” Taylor asked. “I think we have more important things to worry about.”
“We can’t leave without it. I almost made that mistake once,” Pascoe said as he started to search the cab of the truck. “What did you do with it? It was with the grenades!”
“I don’t know,” Taylor snapped. “I just tossed it out of the way.”
Grabbing their last grenade, Pascoe pulled the pin and hurled it at their pursuers.
“They’ll have more, it’s not important!” Taylor jumped down as Pascoe ran around to the passenger side.
“It was to the priest,” Pascoe said, searching the ground. “Got it!”
“Can we get out of here now?”
Tossing the Bible onto the dash, Pascoe slid to the driver’s seat and slammed the truck into gear. As they sped down the street, Taylor yanked open the glove compartment, threw the Bible inside, then slammed it closed.
“Check the map,” Pascoe said. “I need to know where to go.”
“Aim for the big ship.”
“Have you ever been there?”
“Well, no,” Taylor admitted.
“So. Check. The. Map.”
“All right, all right,” Taylor said, wrestling with the half folded, half crumpled paper. “Freeway is ahead, get on it.”
Pascoe nodded, dodging a few cars here and there that had been abandoned in the streets. Most of the cities had been under strict curfew before everything fell apart, and as a result, travel had been minimal. After everything went to hell, there weren’t enough survivors to cause a fender bender, much less a traffic jam.
“Our Lady of Blessed Acceleration, don’t fail us now” Taylor said, crossing himself.
“Shit!” Pascoe hit the brakes. Taylor snapped his head up and at the sight of the cars blocking the road ahead of them.
“This don’t look like no expressway to me!”
“I think we can get through, there’s space between them,” Pascoe explained. “This isn’t a traffic jam, it’s deliberate.”
“I hope you’re right,” Taylor said. It sounded like a prayer.
“We’ll know in a second.” Pascoe started forward, aiming for the first break in the formation. Whoever had set it up had given just enough room between the rows to make a tight turn, and had staggered the breaks. Agonizing seconds crawled by as he made his way through the ranks.
As they crested a slight rise, he could see that the obstruction only extended another hundred yards.
Pascoe sighed with relief as they cleared the last vehicle. The truck shuddered as he accelerated towards the bridge. He risked a look behind them. The bandits had made it to the blockade, and were filing through it. Taylor kept a running commentary.
“Six bogeys, first one’s through.
“Next one. They’re forming up.
“Here they come.”
“That’s our exit.” Pascoe pointed ahead of them.
Fortunately, this ramp was clear. He took it at speed, not slowing until they approached ground level.
“There’s a crossover just ahead,” Taylor said, studying the map. “Take it and head back the other way.”
Pascoe cranked the wheel, skidding over the grass median and onto the road next to it in a tight U-turn.
“That works too,” Taylor said, dropping the map on the dash. “Now aim for the big ship.”
“I see it,” Pascoe answered. The truck fishtailed as he accelerated through a turn.
“I hope you’re right about the church,” Taylor said, checking behind them. “We’re still ahead, but our friends are catching up.”
Pascoe grunted in response. They were close, but still needed to navigate through the small retail community near the ship.
“Tattoo shops, beachwear, jet ski rentals,” Taylor said, as they sped by. “This place has everything.”
As they rounded what Pascoe hoped was the last corner, he swore. Ahead, several cars, an anchor, and an airplane blocked the entrance to the pier.
“Damn, that’s blasphemy,” Taylor muttered. “Practical, but blasphemy.”
“Shit!” Pascoe yelled, pulling up in front of the barricade. He pounded on the steering wheel with a fist, then climbed out of the truck. He stood there, studying the blockage. After a moment, his shoulders slumped.
“And I don’t see anyone moving around,” Taylor said, at his shoulder. “You’d think that they would react to people rocking up on them. They must have been overrun.”
Head down, Pascoe walked back to the cab and grabbed the map. There had to be somewhere—anywhere—they could go.
“We need,” he started, but was cut off by a shriek of tires. Across the small parking lot, half a dozen modified cars and trucks came to a screeching halt. Armed men piled out of the vehicles and took up firing positions.
Pascoe grabbed a rifle from the back seat, slapped in a magazine, and hunkered near the truck’s tail lights. Taylor had armed himself and moved behind the engine block. When no one started shooting, Pascoe carefully looked at the bandits.
A man approached the front set of cars, carrying a megaphone. Unlike the others, he was in a neatly pressed suit—jacket worn open over body armor.
“You are both very brave, and very stupid to steal from me,” he said, amplified voice carrying easily over the distance.
“We stole,” Pascoe scoffed.
“These things belong to the Church, not some two-bit mojada, Alacrán!” Taylor yelled. “We won’t give them up. We’re on a mission from God!”
Alacrán looked startled, then squinted, studying them. After several seconds, he spoke again.
“Is that you, Taylor?” After no response, he continued, “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised un pinche traidor chuppa verga like you survived.”
Pascoe watched as Taylor grinned, winked, and shouted something in Spanish.
“Open fire!” Alacrán yelled. The truck rocked as bullets tore into it.
“Jesus Christ, Taylor, what did you say?”
“I told him his Abuela’s tamales were dry and tasteless.”
“Dear God, man.”
Pascoe waited for a break in the incoming fire before retaliating with unaimed shots of his own. With any luck, it would at least get the cartel thugs to take cover. Suddenly, a voice boomed from behind him.
“THIS IS A PLACE OF SANCTUARY. CEASE HOSTILITIES OR WE WILL FORCE THEM TO CEASE.”
The cartel force replied with another volley.
“YOU AT THE TRUCK, STAY DOWN.”
Pascoe crouched, head covered, as Hell rained down in front of them.
Ears ringing, surprised to be alive, Pascoe surveyed the area. Alacrán’s men had fled in any vehicle still operational, leaving their dead behind.
Pascoe walked around their truck, surveying the damage. The side panels and camper resembled metallic Swiss cheese, and several different fluids leaked from under the engine block.
“Damn,” he said, patting the fender. “You served well, faithful servant.”
In response, the Silverado sank on its shocks with a wheezing sigh.
Movement on the pier caught his eye. Two men in black shirts approached warily from the Lexington. As they got closer, Pascoe could make out the starched white collars. He carefully slung his rifle.
“May God be with you, gentlemen,” the older priest said, striding forward. “Sorry for leaving you out there, but we wanted to get an idea of who we might be dealing with. We saw you on the bridge and knew there was trouble, but couldn’t tell who was the cause.”
“Well, we appreciate the help,” Taylor said. “Would you happen to be from the cathedral?”
“Why yes, I am,” the priest said smiling. “I am Monsignor Gallardo, Vicar General of the Diocese of Corpus Christi. And, for now, the diocesan administrator.”
“Does that mean you’re in charge?” Pascoe asked.
“Yes, my son.” The priest’s smile grew. “That means I am in charge.”
“Well, have we got a surprise for you,” Taylor said, grinning.
Monsignor Gallardo cocked an eyebrow, and followed him to the back of their truck.
With a flourish, Taylor opened the camper shell. It promptly fell off its hinges, smashing to bits on the ground. Without missing a beat, he yanked on the tailgate’s handle. The whole panel came away from the frame, landing next to his feet.
“Ta dah!”
“Oh, my.” Monsignor Gallardo’s eyebrows shot up.
“I see you came across Fathers Jimenez and Nguyen,” he continued, frowning. “They didn’t make it back last year. We assumed the worst. How are they?”
“I’m sorry, Monsignor,” Taylor said. “They didn’t make it.”
“The younger of the two . . . ” Pascoe began.
“Father Jimenez.”
“Father Jimenez,” Pascoe corrected, “had passed by the time we got to him. But Father Nguyen told us to come here. He was very adamant.”
The monsignor crossed himself and quietly said a prayer. Pascoe shot a glance at his partner.
“They were very dedicated men,” the monsignor said, after a moment. “Both to God and what they felt was their duty,”
“Well I’d say they accomplished it,” Taylor said. “They were able to get these relics into safe hands.”
“Yes, yes. Of course you have our thanks for returning everything,” Monsignor Gallardo said, frowning. “But the confusion comes from why ‘everything?’ While the crosses and gilded chalices are nice, they aren’t necessary. The bell, though, that is quite the surprise.”
“Church bells bring hope, Monsignor. They were there for me when I needed guidance, a way through my own personal darkness.”
“This bell in particular?”
“Well, no, but some like it.”
“Ah, I see now,” Monsignor said. “But, my son, those were different times. Now, the bell’s silence brings that hope, for its song brings the infected.”
“Then why go through the trouble of bringing them all this way? Why did Father Nguyen take the chance and go after them in the first place?”
“Only God knows, my son. As the end approached, we had our parishes group together to store these things. Why they took the truck with everything in it? My only guess is that it was due to expediency. As to what they were going after, well, that I can explain. Our church was blessed with a gift of pieces of the One True Cross seventy-seven years ago. While chalices and bells are nice, they are things that can be replaced. That relic is not—it’s a reminder of what Jesus did for us so many years ago. It’s unfortunate that Father Nguyen didn’t find it.”
“The pieces of the cross, Monsignor,” Pascoe said, “Um . . . what would they have been stored in?”
“Well, before all of this madness began, they were displayed proudly and prominently at the altar. To preserve them, they were encased in glass, along with other indulgences. The glass itself was embedded in a silver disk, mounted inside a golden cross.” He grunted as he lifted an item from the back seat of the truck. “This one, actually. But as you can see, the relic is missing. Father Nguyen must have hidden the Cross in another location, which he carried to the grave.”
“There’s one more item, Monsignor,” Pascoe said, feeling his cheeks flush. “It, um, wasn’t exactly handled with care, though.”
He walked to the passenger side, and opened the glove compartment. After a few seconds, he pulled out the greasy, scuffed-up, rosary-wrapped bible. He handed it to Monsignor Gallardo.
The monsignor took it, brows furrowing. Then his face broke into a grin.
“Oh, Father Nguyen, you sneaky genius.” Looking at Pascoe, he said, “You never thought to examine this?”
“Not really, Monsignor. I didn’t think there was anything special about it. I thought it was Father Nguyen’s Bible, and I brought it along because it seemed important to him.”
Monsignor Gallardo unwrapped the rosary, opened the Bible, and flipped quickly past the first third.
Chuckling, he said, “Important, indeed.”
With a smile, he tipped it so Pascoe could see. Nestled inside was a small glass vial. Within it, three slivers of dark, petrified wood.
“My friends, you have truly done God’s work. Thank you for bringing this treasure home.”