The Baron was standing with Phyllis along the front wall near the window, where they’d listened to both the Zombie and Malik swaying the hearts of men. He held the Zombie’s bowler over his own chest, hiding his thundering pulse behind its shield.
Relief and disgust mixed within him. The Pact would be respected, but Malik was unwilling to bend on the fundamental conceit of his occult campaign. Everyone else could die, even his own mercenaries. If the Baron wanted Phyllis, Barilla, Martin, and the street gang to survive, then they still needed help from the Anastasia boys.
How long had it been since they’d made the call? Likely mere minutes had passed, but the exact passage of time was lost to him. Violence distorted everything. Dread pulled every second taut, until they seemed to fill the length of an hour.
“Jesus Christ,” Phyllis muttered. “Who is Malik?”
“A Soviet cultist,” the Baron answered. “That’s their idea of a mercy killing.”
She gave him a look as if he were a disgusting man.
“It’s what they’re thinking,” he noted.
“That’s monstrous.”
“If you can’t imagine the desperation that makes monsters…”
“I can, but that’s men like Jacono.”
Jacono the psychopath. The Baron knew these people were different. They were victims of blackmail and felt death was better than a lifetime of shame and castigation. It was Malik who shaped their psychopathic behavior. His orders and threats drove them to commit atrocities, because he took the choice out of their hands and claimed the responsibility for himself.
The Zombie jogged over from the front door. He offered the radio to the Baron, and the Baron offered the bowler to the Zombie. As they exchanged these tools, he said quietly, “It won’t be long now. Schuler, CPUSA. They’re out of options. Almost out of time.”
“Are you certain?” the Baron asked.
“No, but they must know there’s a limited window to get this done.”
Phyllis scowled. “I was hoping they’d back off after hearing from the Zombie.”
“They’re former Communists,” the Baron reminded Phyllis. “They don’t have a choice. They’re being blackmailed by a Bolshevik.”
“Why though?” she asked.
“I told you, they want Barilla. He knows secrets.”
“What does he know?”
“I shouldn’t say—”
“What do you know, boss?” she asked Barilla.
Barilla grunted, standing with his street gang. “Where this artifact is, a little stone cat.”
Phyllis squinted for a moment, trying to imagine why the Soviets would bring a veritable platoon of native soldiers to exterminate Americans over “a little stone cat.” Then it struck her right in the adrenal gland, a flush of fear and eyes widened with stress.
The Cat o’ Nine Lives was listed in Apostasy as one of the great ancient artifacts of the world. It had played an instrumental role in the eventual destruction of the London Cult, keeping multiple Russian cultists alive through a pitched occult battle.
“The Cat o’ Nine Lives?” she asked quietly.
Barilla shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Everyone, listen up,” the Baron addressed the gangsters. “If you repeat what we’ve said here, you’ll make yourself a target. Don’t repeat a word of this to anyone.”
“He’s telling the truth boys,” Phyllis added. “Mum is the word. I don’t want you to end up like Bobby or Stubs.” She pointed at the boy whose throat had been shot open. He was pale. “Someone cover his face, please.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the youngest gangster, who removed his dress shirt and handed it to another boy. They quickly veiled the miserable gaze of the recently dead. It was a mixed expression, appearing angry and envious of the living.
“What do we do next?” Barilla asked the Baron, not seeking advice but criticizing the leader by asking unanswerable questions.
The Baron never shied away from these challenges. “Nothing has changed. We wait here until the rest of Anastasia’s crew arrives. It’s the best option.”
“It really is,” the Zombie agreed.
“So you’re saying we’re fucked?” Barilla asked. “Because I know what I heard, and I’m with the Zombie. They’ll attack soon. They’ll sweep this place out, everyone but you.”
“I still have prestige,” the Baron replied, “and the Zombie is invincible. We can wait it out.”
“We can try,” the Zombie muttered softly.
Barilla huffed. “Sure, you’re protected, but me, Martin, Phyllis, the boys? We’re fucked hard. The only thing you have to risk is our lives.”
“That’s not true,” the Baron said.
“Convince me.”
The Baron played for time. “What do you mean?” he asked, even though he knew exactly what Barilla meant. Why should the Baron care about their lives? What could he say to a cynical man to make him believe in the Baron’s leadership?
“Why do we matter?” Barilla pressed.
The Baron sighed. “For a practical man, you need a practical answer.”
“Spit it out.”
“You know where your son is, Barilla.”
“His son?” Phyllis asked. “What does… did he feed—” Her words rose nearly to a shout, but the woman stopped just before revealing the truth to everyone present.
“That’s right,” Barilla said, “the only valuable thing in this entire equation is me.”
Somewhere on the street outside, a vehicle engine rumbled into life.
“All the more reason to stay in cover and wait for backup,” the Baron said. “If we’re going to fight, we’ll need firepower. It can’t be long, can it?” he asked Phyllis.
“They’re not police,” Phyllis said to the Baron. “They aren’t waiting on patrol. They have to collect men, weapons. They’ve got to group up before coming here.”
“So we got two options,” Barilla said. “We wait, or I bargain for everyone’s release.”
“We can’t bargain with Malik, not without the threat of mutually assured destruction, and the Zombie won’t lift a finger for anyone but me,” the Baron said.
“Baron,” the Zombie called.
“He’ll at least help you to help us, won’t he?” Barilla asked.
d’Holbach held up a hand to finish his thought. “He can’t guarantee your safety.”
“Baron!” the Zombie repeated, louder.
He glanced at his friend. “Yes?”
“It’s that panel truck down the street—” the Zombie began.
Somewhere in the distance, a patrol of fully automatic guns ripped into the air. If the Baron didn’t know better, he would’ve sworn they were strings of firecrackers on the 4th of July. A moment later, rifles snapped like shattering stones, and the truck’s engine roared above the din like an ascendant lion, bursting from the brush, an ambush. Tires screamed as they left rubber on pavement. Louder, rushing the building.
The Baron didn’t have time to think, but intuition cried out for action. He bolted for the side wall, roaring at the top of his lungs, “Move!” The volume of his voice and his burst of motion argued convincingly. Everyone but the Zombie moved, and barely in time.
There was a tremendous bang, two tires bottoming as the half-ton panel truck struck the curb exactly one heartbeat before it crashed into the building, and the front brick wall erupted into a calamity and a spectacle. Mortar failed, windows vanished into glimmers, debris flowed into a clay-red plume of dust, and a hundred bricks clapped together in a violent ovation, tumbling, pouring, spilling off the long curved hood of the panel truck like a wave crashing over the prow of a battleship. One of the factory tables was swept away, swallowed by the sudden onslaught of momentum. Children screamed, covering their heads. Adults shouted.
The Zombie, still too close, whooped with joy as a shockwave of bricks threw him backwards onto the floor. The Baron’s mind focused on that detail. His champion was out of commission for the next breath, and he wasn’t the only figure moving in the plume.
Stones fell. Dust thinned enough to see. “Strength!” shouted a man, and out of a pile of collapsing bricks, a clay-red arm jutted, casting aside a layer of fresh wreckage like a blanket. That was enough to tell the Baron everything he needed to know. Meister Schuler, the Diviner of New York, the Wizard of the East, had been literally driven back on the cattle guard of a heavy panel truck and rammed into a brick wall, and he’d survived.
The Zombie recognized it too. “Schuler!” he yelled joyously, flailing to shed his own layer of wreckage. His bowler was in his hand, waving away clouds of choking particulates.
“Zombie!” the Baron yelled, slapping the bare wall beside him. “Break us out! Here!”
Figures stirred in the panel truck, barely visible behind the shattered windshield and bent truck doors. A driver unbuckled. A passenger threw aside a damaged hunting rifle and pulled a sidearm from a holster. Somewhere in the back, the rear doors of the truck were banged open. Troops were unloading. An assault was underway, a pitched battle against a legendary enemy.
With his back to the ground, Meister Schuler whipped up his legs above the rubble, folding them back over his head and flexing his spine like a professional gymnast. It was an absurd sight for an older man in a damaged cassock, whose chest and belly were painted with inhuman quantities of dark blood and bright clay dust.
Then throwing his legs forward, Schuler kipped up onto his feet and landed with his hands against his knees. Chunks of brick threatened to undermine his footing, only to crumble beneath his shoes like they’d vanished beneath the treads of a tank.
The passenger aimed his sidearm expertly.
“Bullets!” Schuler wished, implying everything else with a wave of his hand. Heedless of any further danger, he leaned down, searching around his feet as the man in the truck unloaded a 1911 pistol from one end of the magazine to the other, eight bullets singing an ode to wild panic. Rounds punched through a wrecked windshield and bit into the bricks on the ground behind Schuler. Little puffs of red dust celebrated each improbably missed shot.
Children shrieked again. Phyllis was yelling something at the Baron, but his brain couldn’t process it. He could only understand Schuler’s unfair strength. Skilled Diviners were capable of envisioning the world with intentions sharp enough to cut concepts out of thought alone. Meister Schuler didn’t need to vocalize his desires. He was able to convene with the gods in silence, though he famously preferred to wish with a gesture and a word.
“Baron!” Phyllis roared. “We need a way out!”
Shocked back to life, the Baron yelled again: “Zombie! Now!”
The Zombie pushed to his feet, following orders without question. Instantly sprinting, he arced towards the wall next to the Baron, who leaned away, expecting another crash.
The Zombie struck the brick—and stopped dead.
It’s sometimes said that comedy is time multiplied by distance, but everyone was seconds away from death, and no one was laughing. In general, everyone’s sense of humor had died five minutes ago along with two children.
Schuler finally bent down, picked up the distorted mess of his crushed bifocals, and said simply, “Glasses.” With a shake of his hand—in that moment where human vision couldn’t trace any motion—his bifocals were restored. Lenses glimmered in lustrous copper frames, and with open eyes, Schuler stood, set his glasses on his dust-caked nose, and frowned at the man who’d shot at him. The man who’d just finished reloading his pistol.
Schuler scooped up a whole brick, saying, “Strength.” Then he whipped his arm in an overhead pitch with enough speed to audibly cut the air. The brick tore through the glittering angles and cracks of the safety windshield, finding them no more substantial than a gossamer web, and it buried itself in the passenger’s sinuses like a stone in thick mud. Thock. A human being was reduced to a second-rate Dick Tracy villain. Nothing resembling a face remained. A ruddy complexion of cracked brick and fresh blood slumped forward onto the dashboard.
The Baron could hardly understand it. Had Schuler made both himself and the brick strong enough to crush a human skull?
The Zombie took three steps back, then threw himself at full force into the wall again. Bricks shifted and mortar shattered to prevent injury, but the wall itself only bent far enough to catch his displaced mass with a pillow soft impact. “Fuck!” the Zombie yelled with frustration, bouncing back from his own crater.
“Get us out of here!” Barilla roared at the Zombie.
“Get ready!” Phyllis yelled, waving the boys forward. She expected the Zombie to break through. The Baron ought to turn away, to be ready, to think of what they’d do next. Where they should go. Out of the alley? Into the building next door? He ought to think.
Instead, he watched the greatest occult threat on the continent, killing secular soldiers.
Schuler calmly wished, “Rifle,” and he gestured towards the driver, who was lifting up a Garand. The rifle dutifully launched out of the merc’s hands with enough force to break fingers, knocked down the remains of the windshield, and lazily flipped through the air to Schuler, who darted forward onto one foot and caught the weapon by its stock.
The driver shrieked, clutching mangled hands to his belly.
“Crush,” Schuler added, closing one eye and lowering his free hand like he was visually squishing the truck’s cabin beneath his palm. The vehicle’s frame groaned under sudden pressure, then snapped with a series of tremendous bangs. Unsupported, the roof collapsed like the weight of the truck itself was coming down on the cabin, and the driver screamed as the falling metal folded him over with all the lethal contortions that implied.
Phyllis touched the Baron’s elbow, staring at Schuler alongside him. She quoted from Apostasy in awe: “Lost in madness, a divine innocent can act and forget in the same breath.”
The Baron understood. That murder was a Diviner special. It was impossible to directly wish harm on a living soul, but it was technically allowed for a wish to accidentally hurt someone. Of course, the average person could never do the mental gymnastics necessary to crush a man inside a vehicle while forgetting their own intent to do so, but Schuler wasn’t an ordinary man.
The Zombie launched forward again. Bricks cracked again but didn’t fall.
Schuler handled the Garand swiftly, putting its stock to his shoulder. At that moment, a merc with a Thompson poked his weapon around the near edge of the panel truck.
“Collapse,” Schuler said with a tip of his head, and hundreds of pounds of brick wall suddenly slipped free and slumped against the side of the panel truck, burying the man with a single gush of red dust. As the rubble settled, the Diviner inspected the Garand’s safety, then the magazine. A smile danced across his face like he’d met an old friend. Then he rolled his neck to loosen it, swept the rifle around the room for targets, and spotted the Baron.
That smile upgraded to a friendly grin, and the barrel of the weapon tipped towards the rubble at his feet. “Baron!” he cried jovially. “Good to see you again!”
“Good to see you too,” the Baron muttered.
“Friends, friends!” Schuler yelled happily. “Don’t stand there! Run for your lives!”
“Of course,” the Baron said, as if he were receiving mere advice.
“See you later!” the Zombie called to Schuler.
“Later, devils!” the Diviner cried back.
The Zombie threw himself into the wall one final time. Bricks crumbled beside the Baron, spilling the Zombie onto the alley road. “I’m through!” he yelled triumphantly.
Meister Schuler sloughed through the brick piled near the front of the truck, wishing aloud, “Strength, thunder, and neutral gears!” Something clunked in the vehicle’s machinery, and the tires settled, already rolling. Schuler planted one foot on the cattle-guard of the half-ton panel truck, and with only a little strain, he shoved the entire vehicle back through the gap in the wall. Then he shouted, and his voice was painfully loud, echoing out over the whole neighborhood. “Gentleman, prepare your souls! Today, you meet the gods!”
“Now!” Phyllis urged the Baron.
Schuler ran out after the rolling vehicle, and the twinned bonds of fear and fascination were finally broken. The Baron turned to look through the hole in the wall.
The Zombie was standing in the alley, peering along a limestone gravel path between the factory wall and the dusty brick facade of the neighboring cannery. He put his hat back on his head, then smiled at the Baron. “I see Malik’s car. Sea green windows. Instructions?”
“We don’t have time to chase him,” the Baron said.
The Zombie shrugged. “I can always find him later.”
The Baron leaned out through the hole in the wall, glancing towards the waterfront. It was clear all the way to the dockside pavement. He pulled back in, waving at the others clustering near him. “Everyone, out! Run to the waterfront! Single file, keep the Zombie at your back! Go, go, go!”
Barilla ran out first, holding the 1911 in hand. Martin went second, bearing his pilfered Garand, and the street gang rushed out on the guard’s heels. Phyllis went out directly behind them, and the Baron last, emerging into the sunshine on a cool spring day. The sounds of gunfire behind them were obscene, better suited to a World War than a half-empty wharf district.
The Baron glanced past the Zombie’s shoulder. At the front end of the alley there was a sedan, four doors opened, with men in suits prone beneath them and one laid out against the rear window, holding his rifle across the trunk lid and firing towards the front of the factory—presumably towards Meister Schuler’s battle.
The windshield and window glass were a pale sea-green. There weren’t any plates on the vehicle, but there were clean rectangles where they’d been recently removed.
The Zombie idled in front of the Baron, standing bow-legged and loose-armed to increase his surface area. That really was Malik’s vehicle, though the Soviet wasn’t visible. He must’ve moved to a more secure location, given the dangers of the firefight.
“It’s good that I’m taller,” the Zombie said casually.
“Yes,” the Baron agreed.
“Handsomer too. Didn’t you hear that they always shoot handsome men first?”
Even at a time like this, the Baron couldn’t help himself. “You’re not much of a comfort.”
“What?”
“I don’t need to be told I’ll die first.”
“You won’t die at all,” the Zombie insisted, jerking a thumb towards the back of the alley. “Time to move. I’ll walk on your heels, keep you in cover.”
The Baron turned away, putting the thunder of battle at his back. Phyllis was a few steps ahead, scowling at him. He’d been going slowly; they both knew it. Maybe it was a flaw in him, a bad habit learned over decades. The Baron was used to his own safety. Barilla, Martin, and the street gang were halfway down the alley, nearly at the empty steel dumpster that’d been pushed up against the factory’s wall. The Baron jogged to catch up to Phyllis, and the Zombie dutifully matched his pace. Dress shoes crushed old limestone gravel underfoot.
Barilla called back at them. “I know this area! At the corner, go left. Then we can duck into the cannery, hold up in the front office till the boys roll up.”
“Yes, sir,” said one of the gangsters.
“Got it boss!” Martin added with a little more verve.
Beyond the battle at their backs, they could hear another sound rising, a deep rumble like gunning engines. If those were the Anastasia gangsters, then their vehicles were about a minute out. “Backup is almost here!” Phyllis called.
As if responding to her voice, three CPUSA mercenaries jogged around the corner at the end of the alley, weapons in hand, expecting a clear path and finding two armed men with a column of people behind them.
For a long instant, everyone stopped—Baron d’Holbach included. The exchange of bullets, far behind them, was the only active conversation. Yet there was a common understanding in their own silence, a wordless desire to survive. Barilla and Martin were close to escaping the battlefield; the mercs were far from the meatgrinder of Schuler’s magic. Here, on the edge, everyone still lived. Still, a hand twitched on a merc’s Tommy. Barilla twitched too.
“Calm!” the Baron shouted, even as the Zombie darted around to stand in front of him. “Remain calm, and stay where you are!”
Hands jerked down, lowering barrels. Gunfire continued behind them, the birdsong of mass death, but everyone listened to the Baron’s cry.
“Clear the alley!” Phyllis hissed, waving the boys towards the factory wall.
The Baron followed her logic, moving towards the shadow of the dumpster. The riflemen at the front of the alley were still firing towards Schuler’s battlefield, and while it was unlikely for anyone to take a shot at the Baron, it wasn’t impossible. He ducked down with his back to the steel dumpster, waving Phyllis and the kids into place. The Zombie side-stepped to keep himself roughly between the new mercs and d’Holbach’s position.
Paranoid eyes followed their movements, but nobody complained. For the mercs, all that mattered were the men in front of them, the guns in their hands, and the invincible monster in the alley.
“I command the Zombie!” the Baron reminded them. “If you fight, he will kill you! Remain calm, and you will live! I can promise that!”
The Zombie let out a disappointed chuckle, then stage-whispered to the Baron, “I don’t like being anybody else’s shield, but…” A sigh. “You are my conscience. Orders?”
“Go forward, get their guns,” the Baron said quietly. “Then they can walk.”
If the Zombie had feelings, he would’ve been upset. These orders would require him to open some distance between himself and his friend. Nevertheless, if a firefight started in this alley, they might end up with shots coming from both sides, and the Zombie didn’t want to try busting through another wall, only to randomly fail when it mattered most.
He had to follow through. He marched forward in a straight line, approaching the gangsters and the mercs where they all stood, facing each other down in terrified silence. One errant twitch, and both sides might open fire with nowhere to run. The Zombie expected none of them to remain calm, but he trusted in their shared fear of death.
Then he passed between Barilla and Martin, and he stood in front of them, smiling genially. “Mercenaries.” He tipped the brim of his bowler towards them. “Your lives will cost you two things. First, I need to know if there are any more of your men along the waterfront.”
“Get them to surrender too,” Barilla whispered behind him.
He held up a hand for silence. Barilla let out a small snort of frustration but didn’t speak further. Then the Zombie spoke calmly to the mercenaries: “Second, I need your guns. Then you may go where you like, so long as it’s away from my people.”
One of the mercs with a Tommy glanced sidelong at his peers. “Can we talk first? Come to, uh, an understanding?”
The Zombie grinned. “About what? There’s no negotiation.”
“There’s conditions on our services,” the merc said softly. “Our families.”
“Christ!” Barilla stepped forward, pushing his chest out and arraying himself beside the Zombie. He waved the 1911 around vaguely, not quite at the mercs but with a degree of carelessness that ratcheted up everyone’s nerves. “You comply, or you die. Simple!”
The Zombie put out a hand in front of Barilla. “Please, Barilla—”
“Lower your hand, freak.”
“I almost never say this, but your life matters—”
“Lower it!”
The Zombie lowered his hand but didn’t stop speaking. “Stand behind me. These men are afraid, and I am cover.”
“No, you’re listening to them, and they’re wasting time.” Barilla waved the pistol past them like he was swatting away flies. “They need to surrender now.”
There was a beep on all the radios in the alley. One in the Baron’s hands. Three on the hips of these mercenaries. Malik’s voice emerged, quavering but forceful. “All bands emergency broadcast. Spotters place Cosa Nostra backup at thirty seconds, so these will be your final orders. Kill everyone but Baron d’Holbach and the Zombie, or die trying. If anyone survives a lost battle, then I guarantee the complete ruin of their families. It’s victory or death—these are your only options. Good hunting, comrades. Over and out.”
The Zombie’s smile fell away. The mercenaries stared back at his impassive face. Malik had put an impossible amount of pressure on them. Their survival instincts were fighting against their love for their families. In their hearts, death was becoming a gift to their wives. To their children. Yet the Zombie was truly terrifying; he’d carved a bloody lesson only minutes ago, and transmitted by screams, it’d taken hold in their hearts. They hesitated in front of him.
“Put down your guns!” Barilla shouted at the mercs, raising his pistol.
The merc with the Tommy winced, and in that single motion, the Zombie knew that negotiations had failed. Barilla’s machismo had ruined them. “Don’t, gods damn it!” the Zombie barked, even as the merc raised his weapon and made his final, miserable choice.
A finger on the trigger; thunder between brick walls. Bullets danced across the Zombie’s chest as he lunged forward, throwing ricochets around the alley—one bullet flicked right into Barilla’s temple, knocking him a half-inch sideways—and the Zombie’s punch landed with sledgehammer force, knocking the merc’s head back hard enough to instantly break his neck and throw him off his feet. Two bodies thudded on the gravel at once.
The other mercs turned tail, sprinting out of the alley because they were about to die. The Zombie glanced back towards the Baron, past the fallen Barilla, beyond a shocked Martin and a gaggle of horrified women and children.
“After me!” he roared.
Then he sprinted as swiftly as death itself, giving chase to his enemies.
Heedless of any possible threat at the front of the factory, the Baron burst up and into a sprint, shouting loudly, “Run!”
Phyllis and the children leapt up after him, following down the alley.
Ahead, Barilla was as good as dead. Muscles were seizing; blood was spurting out of the hole in the side of his skull, leaving spattered lines across the white gravel. Likely, he was unaware of how he’d died, only feeling that his body had suddenly lost control, dragging him down into darkness.
Martin was staring down at his boss, dumbstruck. He’d failed to protect him.
The Baron slapped the guard on the shoulder as he passed, yelling again, “Run!”
Martin threw himself into motion, following orders.
The Baron wished that the Zombie could clear the way for their escape, but no amount of prestige could fill that desire. Only chance and violence could change what laid ahead.
The Zombie sprinted up a tarry ramp onto pavement and shot out of the alley, angling to the right. The waterfront spread open before him, breezy and bright. A dockside road bordered itself with the debris of dying waterside industries, blue skies swept over dark water, and gulls circled in flight. Parked in the middle of it all, the enemy readied for a final battle. Three CPUSA vehicles bristled with mercenaries, all standing in open doors while loading firearms.
The two running mercs were approaching a sedan, screaming, “Zombie! Zombie!” The car’s engine roared into life, and the Zombie accelerated, grinding away shoe soles as he propelled himself across the pavement like a reckless driver. His hat flew loose, forgotten. He jumped, throwing his body into the air and twisting around ballistically, and he struck the hood of the revving car with his spine in poor form.
By the will of the gods, he became a meteor plunging into a sea of shrapnel. Metal collapsed beneath him, crushing the entire front of the vehicle into itself, only to have the material bounce back and explode up and around him like someone splashing a gelatin dessert with a baseball bat. The roaring engine flew to pieces, tossing rods and pistons like shotgun slugs. The running mercs went down, swept over by shrapnel.
The Zombie’s momentum had been multiplied many times over, expressed through the evacuation of ripping, exploding metal. By the time he came to a stop, the remnants of the engine block, sputtering and smoking, were thrusting through the dashboard, crushing the driver in his seat. A tire—freed in the impact—rolled past the Zombie’s view, just beyond a man-wide trench of metal and smoke. One vehicle of three, incapacitated.
He struck the engine block with his elbows, bouncing up and out. A tattered sleeve snagged on something, tearing off cleanly, and he was stumbling onto his feet, coming out of the wreckage of his landing. Mercs were scattering in every direction like cockroaches in the light; some were already opening fire, thudding rounds through the Zombie’s clothes.
The Zombie ignored them for the span of a victim’s racing heartbeat. Two blocks down, a pair of trucks roared out of a distant alley and onto the waterfront road. Half dozen people were loaded up in each bed. At the sight of armed mercs, they lifted weapons and leaned out, two vehicles suddenly bristling with firearms. A second later, the Zombie recognized dock workers, laborers, and other criminal elements. The Anastasia crew was rolling in to make war.
The Zombie chose to help. He turned away and sprinted towards the next CPUSA vehicle, the next merc that wasn’t already fleeing for safety. A man screamed, firing uselessly as the Zombie tackled him into the side of a panel truck, crushing all of the man’s ribs at once. So satisfying. The Zombie would murder his enemies, again and again, until there were none.
Paul-Henri Thiry, Baron d’Holbach burst out of the alley himself, glancing right and seeing the wreckage of a vehicle and the Zombie colliding with another man, crushing him to death against a panel truck; then immediately, the Baron cut left, heading across the cannery’s facade towards the open warehouse doors that Barilla had mentioned earlier.
Phyllis, Martin, and the kids hesitated when he changed directions, but they quickly adjusted and followed him out. Gunfire blindly urged them forward, heedless of anything but a desperate need to reach the safety of cover.
Ahead, two trucks bristled with dock workers holding Tommy guns, Berettas, and revolvers. Several barrels turned to face them. The Baron threw up his hands and waved, even as he darted for the cover of the cannery’s open warehouse doors.
Martin was their saving grace. He saw the oncoming vehicles and stepped out further, throwing down his Garand and roaring, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! Women and children!”
The children hesitated, unsure if they should follow Phyllis or join Martin in the road. The guard noticed a fraction of a second later. “Get to cover!” he roared to the pausing gangsters. “With Phyllis! Get out of the road!”
The Baron paused just inside the cannery doors, waving Phyllis and the children in. Outside, both vehicles shot past Martin, mafioso looking grim as they prepared to deploy at the back of the factory. The battle was entering its final, most violent stage.
There was a sound like someone blowing up a bomb some distance away. Martin flinched, shouting, “Mother of Christ!” Then he charged for the safety of the cannery.
“What happened?” the Baron yelled.
“They dynamited the Zombie?” Martin reported, unsure of whatever he’d seen. He stumbled to a stop next to Phyllis, breathing heavily. “Jesus. He really is invincible.”
“He is,” the Baron said.
Out on the waterfront, the Anastasia crew opened fire. It was one long burst—not the sound of a battlefield, but of a firing squad, gunning down targets for five long seconds.
Silence followed. No mercs were shooting back.
A couple of shots pierced the silence like questions.
“I’m with you!” roared the Zombie some distance away, answering them.
No further shots followed on this side of the block, but the sounds of the firefight on the far side were intensifying.
“What’s happening out there?” Phyllis asked the Baron, just a few feet further into the shadows of the cannery warehouse. He turned to face her, standing protectively in front of a whimpering pile of street gangsters, leaning in against the cannery wall. Martin was amongst them, hugging the youngest boy against his chest and whispering something comforting.
“Everyone is dying,” the Baron answered truthfully.
“Except for us,” Phyllis noted.
“Yes. Mostly thanks to the Zombie.”
An instant later, said Zombie sprinted into view outside the cannery, one sleeve of his dress shirt missing from the shoulder down. He fell over on purpose, flipped over once in a tumble of limbs, and landed on his ass, laughing. “What a day!”
The Baron frowned at him. This wasn’t the time for cheer.
“How can you celebrate? Barilla is dead!” Phyllis shouted, treating the Zombie’s gaiety like he was embarrassing himself at a funeral.
“Yes, yes he is!” the Zombie roared with mirth. “I told him to get back!”
“What?” Phyllis gawked. “What does that mean?”
The Zombie scrambled up onto his feet, passing beneath the shadow of the cannery to join them in cover. “I told him to stay behind me! He chose otherwise. That’s his fault!”
Phyllis squinted up at the tall man. “Don’t you care?”
“Not really?” The Zombie shrugged. “I cared a little when I could still save him. Now? Not so much.”
She sighed and faced the Baron instead, dismissing the madman for a slighter saner figure. “Earlier, you told me you’d tell me something about Barilla’s son. Is it the Cat? Does he have it?” Worry was etched into the folds of her face. Gray hairs were beginning to unwind from her beehive hairdo, but she didn’t look out of control or disheveled. She only looked pissed.
The Baron grunted. He’d promised to tell her if they survived, and now that Barilla was dead, they might need her help—especially if she knew where Barilla’s son lived. He waved her closer, and after a long moment, she sighed and stepped into his personal space.
The Baron leaned forward and whispered into her ear, “Yes, he has it.”
She couldn’t help but shout, “That ignorant asshole!”
The Baron agreed, but he didn’t say that out loud. He didn’t know Barilla well enough to feel comfortable badmouthing the recently deceased. Instead, he gave the conclusion. “You need to lead us to him as soon as possible. The fate of the free world depends on it.”
Phyllis closed her eyes in frustration. “Apostate, fuckin’ save me.”
Author’s Note:
Apostate, save us all. We’ve reached the end of some truly hectic violence, but the case beckons us forward.
As always, thank you to the beta readers for helping with this chapter!
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