GENERATION Z THE COMPLETE BOX SET: NOVELS 1-3

by Peter Meredith

  “No,” Stu answered forcefully. “He only has about thirty people with him and most of them are women. And on this side, we…Jenn, you have to understand it’ll be a frontal assault. It’ll be a head-on attack with no cover. We don’t have the kind of people who could carry out that sort of attack.”

  Jenn knew her people’s weaknesses and cowardice had always been the most glaring of them. They had always been content to let “someone” else step up when anything truly dangerous needed to be done. That hadn’t stopped Jillybean, a voice in Jenn’s head noted.

  It was true; Jillybean had been able to do the impossible and Jenn was sure that if she were here, she’d be doing something other than waiting for the Corsair’s next blow to fall—even if it meant sacrificing lives.

  “Sacrificing lives was what she did best,” Jenn said, under her breath. “But she still got results.” There was no denying that Jillybean had mounted a spectacular defense with very meager assets. Could Jenn mount an offense with even less? “I don’t think we have a choice, Stu. Once the sun comes up, we’re screwed. You know it as well as I do. We need that scope. With it, we can clear out both islands and drive away the boats. With it, we stand a chance.”

  He snorted, “Jillybean rubbed off on you. No, don’t get your feathers in a bunch. It’s a compliment. She had this way…” He stopped and shook his head. “I just meant that you’re probably right about the scope. But it’ll be a huge gamble. An attack will use up most of our ammo. And if we fail, that’ll be it. We’re done for.”

  “Then don’t fail,” Jenn said. When Stu left, she found Aaron Altman waiting for her. “How are they?” she asked, jutting her chin toward the patients.

  He wouldn’t look her in the eye as he answered, “Not so good. Mister Brewster died, and I don’t think that Sacramento lady is doing so great. She fell asleep and I can’t get her to wake up.”

  “She just needs more medicine,” Jenn lied. More morphine would kill her. Her breathing would go slower and slower until… Jenn’s shoulders did a little dance. “Why don’t you give her five more milligrams, it’ll help.” Lying and murder in one sentence. Jenn realized she was becoming more like Jillybean with every passing second.

  Chapter 9

  Stu Currans

  A lone zombie sent up a howl that echoed over the black water. Seconds later, a hundred more joined in. The zombies were worked up. It had been a busy night with battles raging all around the bay as the Corsairs fought each other, though no one knew why.

  One battle had just ended near Alcatraz. “Maybe they’ll all just kill themselves,” George Parry muttered. “Anyone think about that? Maybe we don’t need to attack at all.”

  Stu had gathered thirty of the toughest men and women left, but none were exhibiting any toughness whatsoever at the moment. They were all agreeing with George. Stu gave George a sharp look before saying to the others, “Don’t listen to him. It’s probably a power struggle or something like that. It’ll shake itself out and whoever comes out on top will then turn their sights on us. We’re the prize they’re after.”

  “I heard a rumor about the old Queen,” Rebecca Haigh whispered. “I heard from that lady in the med-building that she could see the future and that she saw all this coming.”

  “Then why didn’t she see her own death?” someone else asked in a high and shaky voice. “That’s what I don’t get about all these so-called visionaries. What’s the point if you don’t see how you kick the bucket?”

  A number of people crossed themselves at what could be seen as blasphemy. Rebecca squared up on the speaker with arms crossed. “You don’t think she saw what was coming when she blew up a boat packed with bombs? She knew she’d die and she still did it to give us a chance. But if she knew some dimwit would ask a daft question like yours, she might not have.”

  Stu, who had been reliving the fiery explosion that had killed Jillybean, was slow to realize how quickly the argument was escalating. He jumped between them. “Stop it. This is not the time.”

  “Yeah, and besides,” George assured everyone, “Jenn, the new queen, can definitely see the future. I was there when she predicted the horde that started this whole thing. She said, ‘something bad’s gonna happen’ and bammo the shooting started. And Mike told us how she guided you guys right to Seattle, using only signs.”

  George turned and looked toward Treasure Island, which was only a vague series of black humps across a hundred yards of open water. “So maybe this might work. You know, if it’s like a real vision guiding us. Was it, Stu?”

  “Uh, yeah,” Stu lied. Although he had seen Jenn make some startling revelations, he was still on the fence about any vision being an actual real thing as opposed to a lucky or timely guess. But if telling a little fib got his team moving in the face of gunfire, then it was a lie he could live with…or die with. He was fairly certain he was going to die since he planned to lead the charge across that open space. Dying was okay with him. Maybe even more than okay since he was partially to blame for the entire battle. If he happened to catch a bullet it would be exactly what he deserved.

  “See?” George said, showing a wide grin which was about the only thing about him that Stu could make out properly in the dark. “We got this. We’re going to be a-okay.”

  “Just as long as Gerry comes through,” Manny Lopez snorted. Manny was a perennial drunk and almost always wore a cloak of alcohol fumes about him. Stu guessed that the only reason he hadn’t run off with Orlando Otis and his few friends was that he’d been passed out at the time. Without the least hint of hypocrisy, he added, “That guy’s always been a gin-soaked ballroom queen.”

  Rebecca looked confused until George explained, “It’s from an old song and it’s ‘barroom’ queen, Manny. And you’re one to talk. The rumors about you stretch all the way across the water.” This was what Hill People said when they meant that someone was frequently the center of gossip.

  Before Manny could say anything, Stu groaned, “Just please stop. We’re supposed to be a single group now, so start treating each other right, or I will have something to say about it. Am I clear?” No one wanted to mess with Stu so the grumbling ceased.

  Stu figured he’d be going from one headache to another as he picked up the radio. “Gerry, this is Stu, over.”

  “Stu, I think we might have to postpone, over.” The radio in Stu’s hand made a creaking sound as his knuckles turned white and his grip grew fierce. He didn’t say a word, but only waited for Gerry’s excuse which wasn’t long in coming. “It’s just we got children with us. Five of them and I think they’ll break. They’ll give us away, Stu.”

  “Leave them behind with an adult. Once we get new batteries in that scope, we’ll get them back safe and sound. Any more lame excuses?”

  There was a long static-filled silence and when Gerry came back on, he was whispering. “They won’t do it, Stu. They’re too afraid. You don’t get what it’s like over here. They’re all around us. We can hear them. They got a hold of Patty Smiles. I thought she was dead, but she was only faking, and they…” Gerry took a long time to resume. “They’re doing stuff to her, Stu. It’s, it’s terrible.”

  “You know that’ll be you if you get caught, Gerry. You have to try.” Stu waited for an answer with growing anger. When a minute went by, he hissed, “Gerry? Tell them we’re going to leave them. Tell them we’re going to make a try for one of the boats that keep prowling around and we’re going to the city and we’re going to leave them, and whatever they’re doing to Patty is going to happen to them.”

  These were cruel words that stunned everyone there. Manny Lopez said, “Daaaamn, you are cold, Stu.”

  “Shut up.” The dark hid his glare, however he was such a menacing figure that Manny shut up. The group waited in silence. They couldn’t wait much longer since the thirty of them carried all the ammo left on Yerba Buena. The rest of the island had only a handful of crossbows to defend themselves with.

  Eventually, Gerry came back on. “I-I
think we’re in. Just promise us, Stu that you guys are really going to attack. You’re not just using us as a diversion or something.”

  It was something Jillybean would do. “We’re going to attack, trust me. We’re going to get as close as possible, so watch who you guys are shooting at. We’ll be kicking off in two minutes, so be ready.” Without much enthusiasm, Gerry said he would be. There wasn’t much enthusiasm among Stu’s group, either. They all knew they were gambling everything on getting the thermal scope. And they had very little left to gamble with.

  Each of them carried only ten rounds of ammunition. Ten rounds to fight a battle with was nothing. It was a pittance; it was insane.

  “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Manny said. “This is suicide.”

  Everyone agreed, including Stu, although he didn’t much care if he got shot. With his heart breaking as it was, and with his intense exhaustion, he didn’t think he would even feel a bullet.

  He went ahead of the others, moving first along the thin line of trees that ran next to the street bridging the two islands. Then, with forty yards to go and with the others cringing behind him, he ran out of trees and was forced to scamper along the shallow gully on the left side of the road that ran across the causeway. George came right behind him, followed by the rest of his team strung out in a long line. A minute before, Stu had been worried that they would bunch up and be easy targets, now he worried they were too far apart and that half wouldn’t even be in the fight when the time came.

  And the time was fast approaching. He was already most of the way across the causeway. Ahead of him was a strange half-circle building that had once housed both the Treasure Island Museum and the San Francisco Police Department’s Behavioral Science unit; a strange combination.

  Now, it housed Corsairs. Sleeping Corsairs apparently. Stu made it all the way across and crouched down next to a low wall. “Okay, that was easy,” George said. “Now what?”

  “Spread everyone out. I’m going to find out where Gerry is.” Taking out his radio, Stu whispered, “Gerry, we’re across. Key your mic if you can hear me.”

  Instead, Gerry answered, “We’re really close to Avenue D. No one seems to be around. Ha-ha.”

  A minute later, Stu saw Gerry’s group about sixty yards away, slinking in the shadows along the road that ran right down the western edge of the island. He wondered at the idea of “slinking” in the middle of what was now enemy territory—in the dark they looked like the very definition of suspicious and Stu knew it would take only the wrong set of eyes seeing them and all hell would break loose.

  That hell came quickly.

  Just as Mike Desouza filled in the spot along the wall that George had just vacated, someone to their front called out in confident, carrying tones, “Stop right there. You’re surrounded.”

  As the slinking group turned into a perfectly still group, Gerry whispered over the radio, “Stu? Do something.”

  Do what? Stu couldn’t even see who had spoken. He couldn’t see anyone besides Gerry’s people, and they looked like little more than dwarfish, hunched bushes. “Wait here,” he said to Mike and then leapt over the wall. Figuring that slinking would arouse more suspicion, he walked boldly toward the unfolding situation. Passing an old mailbox, he jumped as he found a man crouched behind it.

  “Damn, you scared the…” the man started to say. Then, in midsentence, he realized that Stu was not one of his fellow Corsairs. His gun was half-pointed Stu’s way and now he brought it the rest of the way around, firing at the same time.

  Stu didn’t have bullets to waste. He couldn’t simply jerk off shots; he had to be extremely deliberate and that meant he had to be far slower than he wished. As the Corsair fired, missing badly with his first two shots and then narrowly with his third, the hot lead tickling Stu’s left ear as it passed, Stu took the time to aim.

  When he finally fired, the bullet from his gun blew out the man’s eye and punched a ghastly hole through the back of his head, spraying pink brain all over the mailbox.

  After a day of intense fighting, Stu’s ears went instantly numb and the screams and gunshots that suddenly exploded in the night came to him muffled and without any sense of urgency. Bullets no longer “ripped” or “hissed” past him in anger. Instead, they were like thin lines that creased the air; there, one moment and in a blink, were gone, leaving nothing trailing after it, not even fear.

  The man behind the mailbox flopped over, his gun bouncing on the cracked cement with a strange, innocent-sounding plastic rattle, almost as if the gun was a toy. Stu bent to pick it up, but as he did he felt something pick at his arm.

  Turning, in what could only be called a casual manner, he saw the flash of a gun coming from over the back of an old car. Someone else was shooting at him. Okay, he thought, still unable to generate any true emotion, not even fear. He didn’t even consider ducking, because what would be the point? He couldn’t duck faster than a speeding bullet, and there was no telling where the shooter’s bullets were even going. For all Stu knew, he could be ducking into the path of a bullet.

  And, what was worse, he couldn’t shoot back. He had nine bullets left. If Stu shot at the person from this distance and under these conditions, he would miss and then he’d have only eight bullets left and be in exactly the same position. Nor could he run away. All the reasons he and his team were there were still just as valid; turning tail would just postpone their deaths a few hours longer.

  No, he had to fight, he just couldn’t afford to miss and that meant he couldn’t shoot from this distance. He had to get closer. With his twice-operated on leg, growing ever more stiff and weak, running and dodging were out of the question, so Stu headed right at the old sedan.

  His lack of urgency seemed to confuse and frighten the gunman who began to shoot wildly from behind the car.

  Those creases in the air picked up and a few came very close, opening seams and poking holes in his jacket. Regardless, Stu stalked deliberately right up to the car. The shooter started cursing and with every unhurried step of Stu’s, the man’s voice went higher and higher. As well, his aim grew increasingly worse even though Stu became ever clearer, ever more distinct.

  And frightening, too Stu supposed since it was the shooter who turned and ran, tripping over a curb and going face-first into a bush. The curses became screams of terror as Stu came on without saying a word, appearing in the dark like some spirit of vengeance. The shooter twisted violently, lacerating his face and neck on the smaller branches, and nearly tearing out his own eye in the process of trying to get his gun around in time.

  Stu stopped three feet away, so close that he couldn’t miss. The man made a sad sound that was somewhere between a gag and a whimper that went on longer than Stu wished. The man was dying slow.

  “Sorry,” Stu grunted, as he went down to one knee. It was exceedingly odd that the only emotion he could generate within him was for an enemy, and one who had been doing everything he could to kill him not ten seconds before.

  Although he was dying, the Corsair tried to reach for his rifle; Stu pulled the man’s hands back and laid them firmly on his wound. “Don’t,” Stu whispered. “I won’t hurt you anymore if you remain still.” The man coughed blood onto the arm of Stu’s jacket. He gave it a melancholy glance then went through the man’s pockets, finding twenty-two more bullets. Though he took them, they meant little to him.

  They were thirty seconds into their effort to save Gerry and his team and already there was no hope. The shooting on both sides was wasteful and ridiculous. Bullets were whizzing in all directions with few being aimed with anything more than a rushed peek from behind a wall or tree. This might have worked for the Corsairs, but Stu’s team couldn’t afford any misses and it sounded like that was all they were doing.

  In the middle of it all, Stu stood straight up and gazed around him. Gerry had been caught out in the open and was surrounded. Half his people were dead or wounded and the other half were doing everything they could to give
up. Weapons were thrown to the ground and hands were stretched high—and still they were being shot at by the Corsairs, who couldn’t tell exactly what was happening.

  With a concerted effort and a fantastic display of bravery, Stu’s own force of thirty could have saved them. Perhaps even a single charge pushed to its limit could have done it. He saw there was very little chance of that. They were already cowering or hugging the ground, and he knew that once someone found a safe spot in the middle of a battle it would take a lot to get them to move.

  It would certainly take time that Stu did not have.

  “I’ll do it myself.”

  A good part of him understood that he was seeking death in battle as an alternative to actual suicide. And he was okay with that. If Jillybean could go out in a blaze of glory, killing the leader of the Corsairs, then Stu could do the same saving his friends.

  “Everyone up!” he roared. “Cover fire on the right! Center on me and…CHARGE!”

  He did not exactly run forward, but rather lumbered and limped at the Corsairs, firing his M4 from the hip. About six people on the right began firing faster, while two people in the center, Mike Desouza and George Parry actually followed after Stu.

  All three went down in seconds. An unlucky bullet right between Mike’s eyes punched his ticket, while George caught one in the arm and spun him nearly in a complete circle. Nothing so heroic happened to Stu. He tripped.

  His bad leg was too weak to clear a gaping pothole. It was bigger than himself and had looked at first like a strangely dark shadow. Down he went with thirty or forty bullets tearing up the empty air just above his head. He had missed his chance at death, but only for the moment. After all, he was lying out in the open, the waters of the bay lapping against the rocks just a few feet to his left and most of a wide street to his right. A bullet would find him soon enough.

  It would’ve been sooner except that he’d had the wind knocked out of him and he was only slowly getting control of his diaphragm back. After a few seconds, he found he could draw enough breath to get up and finish his charge and put this life behind him. But before he could move, the water splashed a few feet away.