Faith In The Apocalypse Pt 02

I wrote part 1 of this story for myself and posted it just for the hell of it. I didn't expect so many people to like it, especially since there's no sex in it. There's been a high demand for part 2 and some people even left insulting comments because I haven't posted the next part fast enough to suit them.

Writing is work. It doesn't always just flow. It takes time and effort, especially since I want it to be good. I also have no one I trust to proofread my work, so the writing and editing process is time consuming and tedious. Also, I have a life and writing doesn't always fit neatly in it so there may be long periods of time when I don't have the opportunity to bang away.

For the record, I really like this story. The idea of a smoking hot girl, a fat old hermit, and a demonic evil infected living in this zombie world I created is exciting and interesting to me. It'll be a while before I work on part 3 so be patient.

For now, here's part 2.

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Faith in the Apocalypse

Part 2

by st0rmbringer

-- Faith --

Faith waited in the parked vehicle with her little brother and sister. They watched the old man inspect the gate, cursing under his breath.

She turned her gaze to the cabin, expecting to see movement inside, but it was dark and silent. Ominous in the deepening gloom.

"Stay in the car," said the old man. "I'll let you know when it's safe to come out."

She refused to think of him as "Scorn," as he'd first introduced himself to her earlier that day. It didn't seem right... didn't fit.

She watched him close the gate and get back in the cargo van. He edged it in until its nose was tight against the gate doors, effectively sealing them shut since they could only open inwards.

He fed shells into his shotgun as he walked towards the cabin. He pumped the handle, chambering one, and fed one last shell into the magazine tube.

Faith turned to the kids.

"Stay in the car," she said.

She grabbed her new Benneli pump action shotgun and followed behind the old man as he carefully made to enter the small wooden cabin with the butt of the weapon tucked into his shoulder.

He turned to her with a frustrated expression on his worn, white bearded face.

"I said stay in the car, goddammit!" he growled.

Faith ignored him and edged close, pointing the weapon's muzzle away from the old man but still towards the house.

"I know what you said," she replied stubbornly.

He stared down at her for several seconds, looming over her like a giant, but she didn't budge. She stared right back at him fearlessly.

With an irritated grunt, the old man turned back to the house.

"Fine. Follow close."

He paused a beat, glancing down at her.

"And don't fuckin' shoot me," he whispered hoarsely.

He paused at the threshold... waiting, listening, sniffing the air.

The door was smashed in. It rested crookedly on twisted hinges. The doorknob, shards of wood, and bits of the lock mechanism lay scattered on the worn wooden floor.

Faith waited behind him. She couldn't see beyond his massive broad bulk. He completely filled the doorway.

They could hear the refrigerator's steady electric hum and faint groans and clicks as the small house shifted in its foundations, the way most houses did.

There was no movement. No out-of-the-normal sounds came from the inside, but the reek of a vile unclean human body and the sickly-sweet stench of rotting meat lingered in the air... the man in the gray suit. It was his stink.

Faith remembered that smell clearly from her nightmare run through the forest with the monster keeping pace behind her, whining and reaching out to her with jagged-nailed, clawlike hands.

She shuddered and waited behind the old man, glancing around the glade.

"Keep an ear out," the old man whispered to her over his shoulder. "If the insects stop singin' that fucker's around."

The crickets chirped. Nothing but normal forest sounds.

But that didn't mean there wasn't anything in the house.

The sun was nearly down, and the house was as dark as a pit.

Faith heard a faint click, then a bright light speared into the house like a lance... a nice new flashlight from the gun store.

The old man leaned forward and aimed the bright beam into every nook and corner, sweeping it slowly back and forth, pausing here and there.

The front living space was a disaster.

The fiend in the gray suit, the Ravager, had rampaged through the living room, ripping the two recliners into shreds and smashing the low coffee table into wooden shards.

The doors to the bedroom and bathroom were still shut and the kitchen was untouched. From the look of it, the monster hadn't been there long enough to cause more damage.

"Stay here," the old man grunted. "Don't follow me. You'll just get in the way."

Faith stayed put and watched as he stepped warily into the house. He held the flashlight in his left hand which also held the weapon's forestock. His hands were big enough that he was able to hold both comfortably at the same time.

Back and forth, the light swept, illuminating every corner. Wherever the weapon's muzzle went, that's where his eyes were.

Eyes... muzzle.

The old man walked carefully around the house, grunting angrily at the ruined furniture. There were no infected or undead anywhere.

Faith leaned in, looked around the edge of the doorway at the wall and flipped the light switch.

The overhead lights came on, flooding the cabin with soft artificial light.

The old man flinched in surprise, turned to glare at her for a beat, flipped off the flashlight and lowered the muzzle of his weapon. He looked around his destroyed living room, his face flushed with anger.

Faith heard him mutter, "Motherfucker!" under his breath.

The house was empty.

Except for the creature's vile stench, its fading aura of evil, and the broken furniture, the house was the same as when they left it earlier that day.

"Alright, let's unload," the old man said tersely, satisfied there was no danger.

He slung the shotgun and Faith stopped him as he made to brush past her.

"Wait," she said, stepping in front of him.

"What's your name? I know you introduced yourself this morning when we first met, but I don't remember it."

He stared at her for a moment then hesitantly thrust out his hand, unsure if it was the right thing to do when introducing himself to a young woman.

"I'm Robert Scornell," he said uncertainly. "Call me Scorn."

Faith stared up into his face. He looked ancient, wrinkles turned into deep valleys by the failing light of day. In the gloom, his snowy white hair and beard seemed to almost glow.

She could tell her scrutiny made him self-conscious. He wasn't used to being around people, he looked nervous and fidgety.

She decided at that moment that she'd never call him "Scorn." That word meant to feel contempt and she didn't like it, especially after everything he'd done.

He saved her life the night before and helped her find her family earlier that day. Her mind reeled away from her parents. That wound was too raw, too recent, too painful.

"I'm going to call you Robert if you don't mind," she said, gripping his enormous hand firmly and giving it a hearty shake. "Scorn sounds... negative."

She held on to his massive hand a few moments longer then looked down at the ground.

"Thank you for everything you've done," she whispered, tilting her head up to look into his eyes.

"For taking care of my parents... and for taking us in."

With those words, she released his hand, turned away and shimmied her siblings out of the vehicle.

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-- Scorn --

Scorn stood staring after her.

His eyes were unfocused, but his whirling brain still registered the beauty of her retreating form... the mesmerizing sway of her wide hips, the shape of her slender back, the way her jeans hugged every delicious curve of her young athletic body, the swing of her red gold ponytail.

He knew what he had to do, but it terrified him.

He stood gesticulating, muttering to himself.

After decades alone, he was so used to arguing with himself he wasn't even aware he did it.

*I HAVE to let them into the bunker.*

He didn't know when, but at some point in the past few hours, he decided he was going to protect this little group with his life, to take responsibility for them.

No matter what.

*They'll never be safe as long as that monster in the gray suit's out there.*

He swung a hand in a quick chopping motion.

*I have to hunt that fucker down and kill him, but I can't do that if these kids ain't safe.*

He focused his eyes on the two young women and the two children. They stood staring at him curiously, frightened and uncertain what to do.

*First things first, though. We need to unload our new haul. Some of that stuff can't stay in the trucks. The meat needs to go in the walk-in freezer and fridge below.*

*I might as well get it over with.*

It was time for Scorn to surrender his inner sanctum.

He paused.

*DO I have to, though?*

He focused on the small group again. They stood next to his Bronco, whispering among themselves.

*If I'm to keep them alive, I have to get them into the bunker.*

*The dude in the gray suit scares me.*

He pictured that twisted fuck knocking the beautiful strawberry blonde to the dirt and tearing into her soft pale belly. The thought made him sick to his stomach.

Still...

*Nobody but dad and a few of my Nam buddies have ever been down there. It's MY fucking place, dammit!*

Again an image of Faith being savaged by a raging infected flitted through his mind.

*NO! I HAVE to let them in. It's only way to keep HER alive and safe.*

He turned away and took a few paces, combing his thick fingers through his greasy white beard.

*I owe it to HER to take care of them. ALL of them.*

The two young women and two children watched him muttering to himself, arguing, but they couldn't make out his words. They stood clustered together without a clue what to do next.

Scorn needed to go out again the next day to get materials to fix and improve his gate.

His mind flitted from one thought to another, sometimes going back, sometimes moving ahead.

*What if they stay in the cabin for part of the day tomorrow?*

He looked up into the night sky. The sun had set and the stars twinkled merrily.

*Faith can keep my Bronco parked nose-in against the gate and she can move it out of the way when I get back.*

*That's it. That's what we'll do.*

*We'll pile everything in the garage then when they're sleeping, I'll lock it and take the meat and anything else that can spoil down to the freezer and fridge. They won't suspect a thing.*

He nodded to himself. That's what he'd do.

*Tomorrow, after I fix the gate, I'll go to Home Depot and maybe I'll find an automatic gate opener. One of those fuckin' things in front of a rich asshole's house that slides open and closed when you push a button on a remote.*

Scorn drew a deep breath, squared his shoulders and ushered everyone into his cabin to tell them the plan and get things organized.

He didn't bring up the bunker.

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-- Faith --

"No!" Faith said stubbornly, raising her voice.

"No! You can't go out there by yourself."

She stood defiantly, dainty fists on flaring hips and head tilted back, looking up angrily into his face.

"I'm coming with you."

Robert stood glaring down at her with his massive arms crossed stubbornly over his chest.

His ruddy face was flushed dark in frustration, the edges of his mouth were downturned severely, and his tangled bushy white beard seemed to almost bristle with the intensity of his irritation and helplessness.

"Goddammit, NO! You need to stay and keep an eye on them," he rumbled, jabbing a thick finger at the two children and the Vero to emphasize his point.

Vero stood watching, not understanding a word, but she babbled in Spanish, wanting her opinion heard too.

"You gotta fix the gate, don't you?" Faith asked, lowering her voice.

"While you do that, I can teach Vero how to fire a shotgun."

She paused, staring up at him stubbornly, completely unafraid of him. His towering bulk usually intimidated people, especially women, but it didn't seem to affect her one bit. She was magnificent in her fearlessness.

"Afterwards, we'll ALL go out together. Nobody gets left behind," she said. "What if the man in gray comes back?"

"Goddammit!" he grumbled. She could tell she'd just made a good point.

"I'm faster alone," he said, lowering his voice as well and trying to sound reasonable.

Faith jabbed a slender finger at his face.

"What do you think will happen to us if you don't come back?" she asked, dread flooding her at the thought.

"HUH?" she asked, tapping an impatient foot on the ground.

Scorn grunted in frustration.

"You think we'll make it out here on our own without you?" she continued.

He turned away and looked up at the sky, his mouth working as if chewing on something bitter.

Faith waited. She'd made her point, and it was a good one. If something DID happen to him, they'd never make it. Not with that monster in the gray suit out there somewhere.

She stared up at him, frightened green eyes pleading... waiting.

The old man was massive. At least six and a half feet tall and wide and round as one of those big wine casks at a winery she once saw on TV. His hands were so big, they made the shotgun he wielded so proficiently look like a child's toy.

He was old too. The parts of his ruddy face not covered by his tangled white beard were as dark and wrinkled as old, tanned leather. His skin looked even darker against the shock of tangled white hair on his head and face.

He had deep-set kind brown eyes, and his voice was a deep raspy bass that rumbled like a distant avalanche in her ears. His wide, expressive mouth seemed to be permanently set in an expression of sour disapproval.

Faith had watched him throughout the long day. He might be old and fat, and though he couldn't run fast, he was enormously strong, agile and fast on his feet. He was intelligent too, quick-witted enough to assess a situation and instantly come up with a way to deal with it.

There was also bitterness, but mostly, she sensed a deep well of kindness and sentimentality in the old man.

She knew she could probably manipulate him, but she suspected he might not be as much a pushover as she assumed. From the way he looked at her, Vero and the kids, she also sensed he'd protect them all with his life. She didn't know how she knew... she just knew. She saw it in his eyes. Ancient eyes filled with loneliness and gloom... and strangely, hope.

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-- Scorn --

Shaking with frustration, he looked down at the beautiful girl standing defiantly before him, taking in every detail.

His eyes gleamed in appreciation.

The girl was absolutely, unquestionably, wholly and utterly magnificent.

She was defiant, angry, and scared. What bothered him most was that she was also right.

He sighed and swallowed a terrified lump in his throat.

He had to tell them about the bunker. He couldn't bring them all with him back to town. He had to be able to function without worrying about them.

Scorn turned and took a few steps towards the kitchen then spun back around suddenly.

"I have something to show you," he graveled.

He bent an ear, noting the crickets chirping and frogs croaking uninterrupted outside.

He led them to the garage and waved at a massive rectangle made of thick steel plates welded together. It was about eight feet wide, ten feet long and about two feet thick. It crouched on the concrete on the left side of the two-car garage, nearest to the kitchen door like a dark metal gate to a dungeon.

A round spoked wheel was at its center, like something from a ship or submarine's hatch. A block and tackle pulley dangled from the ceiling above the metal door.

He knew Faith saw it when he opened the garage to take out the Bronco earlier that day.

Scorn still found it hard to believe so much had happened in so little time.

The monstrous dull metal hatch weighed several tons, but it was mounted with a huge cylinder counterbalance at the end furthest from the garage doors. It was designed to swing up and was so well constructed and balanced that a child could pull it open with hardly any effort.

But there was more to opening it than turning the wheel and pulling it open.

Scorn bent and went through the process of opening the blast door, turning then yanking down on a lever on either side, cleverly hidden beneath the door's lower lip. He found another lever on the end closest to the garage door, turned it a quarter turn counterclockwise and pulled up.

"We designed it so you have to do everything exactly right and in sequence or it won't open," he explained.

He turned another lever, pushed down and then spun the wheel counterclockwise for four and a half turns.

There was a hiss of escaping pressurized air from the edges of the metal hatch.

Scorn grasped a handle on its lower edge and gently pulled the massive metal door up. It swung silently up, slowly and smoothly like the maw of some great hungry metal beast until the thick metal cylinder that acted as a counterweight came to rest gently against the concrete floor with a light metallic tap.

A huge dark opening, black as pitch loomed ominously before them.

Suddenly, automatic lights flickered on within the dark maw revealing ladder rungs leading down to a clinically clean concrete room.

The three-car garage's concrete floor was the room's ceiling... six feet of steel-reinforced concrete.

There was a line of two sets of two metal mesh football lockers at the room's far right. A long wooden bench squatted before each set of two. The lockers were tall, wide, and had a series of cubbies, some tall and wide, some small and square and some rectangular. Several mysterious dark bundles filled some of the spaces.

Two of the lockers had a well-hidden secret latch. They were actually a secret door designed to swivel outwards.

The hidden room was Scorn's armory.

It was filled with a collection of weapons, from hunting rifles to shotguns, from pistols to even an old and battered U.S. Army M249 Squad Automatic Weapon (SAW). He also had a couple of wooden crates filled with M26 fragmentation grenades packed in musty straw. The room was ten feet deep and stretched 20 feet to the left of the secret entrance.

There were racks, cabinets and weapons hanging from pegs on the far wall and wooden crates filled with military hinged-lid, metal ammunition cans. There was also a high, well-lit table and comfortable stool where he cleaned his weapons, worked on them, or made reload ammo.

He wouldn't tell them about his armory... not yet.

To the left of the ladder rungs was another hatch and what looked like a service elevator. The second hatch was round and not as big as the main entrance, but it was still large and almost as daunting.

There was a stout shelf built into the wall not far from the rungs with a large dark bundle in each of the six large nooks. A wide bench was next to the shelf with several enormous boots neatly arrayed next to it.

There was what looked like a shower stall sectioned off in the room's far right corner.

Scorn climbed agilely down the ladder rungs and helped the rest of their little group down into the room's cool interior where they clustered together uncertainly.

"My pop and I were expecting nuclear war to end the world. Not a disease," he rumbled, his deep raspy voice echoed ominously in the large, windowless concrete room.

He waved a massive hand at the wide space.

"This is the decontamination room," he explained.

He looked at Faith and pointed at the lockers.