Generation Z (Book 4): The Queen Unthroned

by Meredith, Peter

  Troy sucked in a breath. “With permission, I still would like to try…not the lying part. Just the talking part. All day the congregation has prayed for a blessing and perhaps now one has come.” He gestured to Colleen. “We have always been taught that the Lord works in mysterious ways.”

  Bishop Wojdan nodded thoughtfully, his lips pursed. Next to him, Walker scowled his face into dark crags. Father Amacker spoke into the silence with a voice as wavering as the candles in the room. “The Jillybean I knew had a sister. She was a turned around sort of girl. Why, I don’t know, but she always dressed in black like a Satanist and yet she had the sweetest soul, always so protective of the little girl. It’s too bad she died and poor Jillybean thought she was haunted. It was…”

  “I think maybe you should get a little rest, Father,” the Bishop said. “Perhaps you should take a nap or a…”

  “Hold on,” Colleen said, speaking right over him. “Was the sister’s name, Sadie?”

  Father Amacker smiled. “Yes, it was.” Colleen felt a strange chill go through her as the old priest went on, “They came out of Colorado after all this started. That little girl was smart as a whip. She built a little tank out of a Honda…or was it a Toyota? The details, you know, they just slip the mind. Either way, she was a little firecracker that one. She could weld and work all that old technology. I remember when she escaped from three grown men. No, it was six of them. I forgot Sheriff Woods. She got away by using this tiny bomb…”

  Colleen had heard enough. “Sorry, Troy. You’re not going. He is.”

  Chapter 41

  There was no way Knights Sergeant Troy Holt would allow the eighty-five-year old priest to go alone into an enemy camp. He wondered if the old man had the strength to even tackle the hill by himself; Father Amacker was frail and uncertain on his feet on the flattest of ground. During the processional at the start of mass he would go from person to person using each as a crutch and would always lag far behind the Bishop. On rainy days, he would arrive at the altar well after the opening hymn had ended and in the silence, he was sometimes heard whispering to himself: “Almost there. Not much further.”

  It didn’t help that instead of wearing the simple black clergy outfit that priests frequently wore in day-to-day activities, he decided that night to go “all out” for the occasion of meeting with the Queen. He wore an ankle-length white alb with a white and gold stole that hung to his knees, and a wide, loosely tied belt of gold cloth. The array was striking, though hardly conducive to hiking.

  In stark contrast, Troy wore his usual battle gear and was covered, neck to knees, in camouflaged tactical armor. He carried only his spear. With the dark descending on them like a veil, he hoped to get to the Queen’s camp before she started lighting off her fireworks, knowing that if he failed to get there in time, his M4 wouldn’t be enough to save him and the priest.

  Unfortunately, time was not on their side. As he helped Father Amacker across the moat, a far-off horn blew. It was a deep brassy sound and was answered by a second horn which was much closer. It could only mean one thing: the Queen was preparing to unleash her horde of zombies.

  “Did you hear that?” Father Amacker asked, sounding confused. “That wasn’t me was it?”

  “No, Father. It wasn’t you,” Troy said, taking him by the arm and guiding him toward a small opening that had been made in the ring of zombie corpses. “That was Jillybean. We’re going to go talk to her, remember? We don’t have a lot of time, so we’re going to have to hurry.”

  “Oh, yes. Hurry, hurry. People always hurry these days. Time is one of those strange things that is beyond our understanding and so many people think they can control it. Back in the day, people would say: time is money, or time is precious. It’s all poppycock. Life is precious! That’s what I…used to…”

  They were past the mound and the slope was already getting to the old man. He began wheezing.

  Another horn sounded. It was a long, lugubrious note. An ominous note. If it was meant as a warning that the battle would soon be upon them, Troy took it to heart and tried to rush Father Amacker along even faster. It was a failed attempt as the priest did not have a fast speed or even a second gear. He was either at a complete standstill or plodding slowly forward.

  The horn brought him to a halt. He stared up the hill. “Now, what is she up to? You can’t go about blowing horns at night! It’s a sure way to summon those awful demons. Tell me Troy, how sure are you that we’re going to see Jillybean? The girl I knew would never blow horns at night. She was smart as a whip. Did I tell you that?”

  This was the fifth time that he had. “Yes, Father. We’re supposed to be going to talk some sense into her.”

  “Well, okay. It does sound like she’s in trouble if she’s blowing horns and making a big hullabaloo. But we can’t be too rough on her. She’s an orphan, the poor little thing. Did I tell you she had this sister? She was a turned around sort of girl that I was certain was a Satanist since she always went…”

  Troy’s hand clenched around his spear until his knuckles were white. Time was zipping by. Already the bright beacon of Venus was lost among the night stars crowding the dark sky. “You did indeed, Father. Now, we have to hurry. Please.” He managed to get the priest going again and they went for quite a while, until, halfway up the first hill, Amacker broke into a coughing fit and had to rest again.

  As they waited, they saw the first flare. It was a little golden light, small and innocent appearing and yet filled with such dreadful implications that Troy sucked in his breath at the sight of it. Desperation clawed at his insides and as the flare sunk behind the far hills, he whispered, urgently, “I could carry you, Father. On my back or in my arms. Please. It’s important that we get to their camp as soon as possible.”

  Father Amacker gave him a reproachful look. “Oh, that wouldn’t do. How would it look if we showed up like that? Me being carried like a baby! No, Troy, we must appear strong.”

  Troy didn’t have time to explain to the priest that once ten-thousand zombies were set in motion there would be no stopping them. The horde would rampage and kill without mercy. He wondered if Amacker was beyond understanding even if he tried to explain. “Yes, Father,” Troy replied, taking his arm again. “We should appear strong.” The priest’s skin had the consistency of parchment paper and his bones were like not particularly firm straws.

  They made it to the top of the hill and saw another larger one ahead of them. They went down quickly enough, but at the bottom, Father Amacker needed another short rest. It was almost too much for Troy. He wanted to scream: We don’t have time!

  When the old man finally got going again, Troy placed a hand on the small of his back and propelled him up the hill without listening to the old man’s excited squawks of: “Careful now. That’s fast enough! Please, slow down.” The Knight didn’t dare slow. The horns were echoing and the flares were in the air nonstop. Worse than all of that was the soft rumbling coming from the east; it was the sound of an army of zombies on the move.

  For a moment, Troy doubted. It was a strange feeling for him. His life choices, guided by the Bible, had always been so clear to him, and the dilemmas faced on the field of battle had always been cut and dried. Now, he stumbled spiritually. It was obvious he would never find the Queen in time to stop the horde, and yet to turn back would mean a valiant, but ultimately useless death.

  It seemed that for the time, his trust in the Lord would end in failure and slaughter. He was at a loss and didn’t know which way to turn. Normally, he would have gone to a priest for advice. Unfortunately, the nearest priest was doubled over, barely able to breathe.

  I’ll have to carry him, he decided. Though which way he would carry him Troy still didn’t know. Forward to throw themselves on the mercy of an evil being or back to accept their death with what dignity they could manage. At least with the zombies it would be a quick death. The Queen would likely torture them first—nothing would ever change his mind about the Queen. She was a Co
rsair.

  This thought made the decision for him and he was about to pick up the priest and go back, when he was startled by a new and completely unexpected sound. A frantic buzzing, like that of an enormous wasp came to them out of the night.

  Troy had never heard anything like it. He swept his spear up, ready to kill, thinking it had to be some sort of monster transformed by the Queen. And it was in its way.

  It was a strange, alien thing with four protruding arms and a red eye. It flew in the air! Troy made a jab at it with his spear as it came whooshing at them. He missed as the thing suddenly seemed to hop in the air and shot over them. With the spear again at the ready, Troy spun around to keep himself between the priest and the machine, for that was what it was, he decided.

  Machine was one of those “old” words that had fallen out of use. He had been seven at the time of the apocalypse and could vaguely remember how televisions used to have movies in them in the same way that radios once held music. There had been many machines back then, but now they were all dusty relics—except for this thing.

  “Do you think this is the drone she mentioned?” Troy asked.

  “I dare say it is.” The priest raised a withered hand. “Hello there. We would like to speak to your queen, if it’s not too late.”

  Embarrassed, Troy gently pulled his hand down. “What are you doing? That thing can’t talk to you.”

  “Actually, it can,” the machine spouted in a staticky voice. Although it cut in and out, the voice was that of a growling Corsair and not that of the Queen. “Did you two want to be the first to die? Is that why you’re here?”

  “No. As I just said, we need to talk to the Queen,” Amacker answered.

  There was a quick burst of static, which was followed by laughter. “She can’t come to the drone right now, she’s doing her hair.” This was spoken in a high falsetto and was followed by more laughter.

  “This is not a joking situation,” the priest snapped. “You do realize that if the zombies destroy us, you’ll get nothing out of the deal. Nothing at all. Did you do all this work just to watch us die? I doubt it, so hop to!” Troy looked at the old man with surprise. This was how Father Amacker had once been: smart, wise, and tough when he needed to be.

  He had also jolted the Corsairs. The laughter died and for a few moments there was only silence. Even the drone seemed to lose energy from the statement. It started to slide down and to the right. At the last moment, it jerked upwards to avoid crashing. It sat in the air about five feet from them and as more seconds ticked by, Troy felt the urge to jab it with his spear, stomp it into the earth and get out of there.

  Just when he was getting fed up enough to give in to his desire, the drone whispered static at them and then said, “Follow the drone.”

  Troy hesitated; however, Father Amacker seemed to be flush with sudden energy. He took Troy’s hand as if he were grasping the hand of a schoolboy afraid to cross a busy street. The priest’s new-found energy didn’t last and soon he began to cough again and his feet began to stumble. Troy threw Amacker’s arm over his shoulder and then grabbed him around the waist, holding on to the wide gold belt. It felt somewhat like Troy was in a three-legged race. He carried almost all of Amacker’s weight and still the priest sagged and coughed.

  As the hill grew steeper, Troy began to tire. Then came more flares, closer flares, erupting in the sky. He had his head cocked to the side and was watching one drifting gently off to the south, carried by a stiff breeze, when the two were accosted by an actual person.

  “Drop the spear! And get your hands up where I can see them.” Shadows draped across the hill before them, making it impossible to see who had challenged them.

  Troy did not drop his weapon. He straightened and set Father Amacker on his feet. “We’re here to talk to your Queen. You may take my spear but you will be responsible for it.”

  A man with so many facial tattoos that he seemed part smurf hurried forward and took the spear from Troy’s grip. Another ran his hands over their bodies, looking for more weapons. When they found none, the two Guardians were shown through a fence made of barbed wire that hadn’t been there earlier that day. The fence stretched out further than they could see and was guarded by hundreds of people, including women, and men who were obviously not Corsairs.

  One of them rushed forward. “I’ll take them.” It was Donna Polston looking frantic and sounding out of breath. She pushed one of the Corsairs away. “I got this. Please, get back to your positions.”

  Someone whispered, “What a bitch,” just loud enough to be heard. A few men nearby snorted agreement.

  Donna pretended not to hear. She marched up the hill, casting sidelong glances at the two of them, but mostly at the priest. “Maybe it should just be one of you who goes inside. Perhaps you’d like to wait in the Comm Tent, Father? It’s warm inside it.”

  “Hmm? I think you might be mistaken, Miss. I’m the one she’ll want to see. We go way back. She was just a little thing when I knew her, but still smart as a whip. There was this one time that she outsmarted…” Troy nudged the priest. “Hmm? Right, save it. Of course.”

  Donna’s stomach turned over, afraid that she had heard him correctly. “We already had a priest talk to the Queen. She’s, uh, not easily persuaded by faith and God and that sort of thing. So, if you could, you know, wait outside, it might be for the best.”

  Amacker tut-tutted her. “I have faith enough for both of us, don’t you worry about that.”

  “That’s not what I’m worried about.” She was worried that she was staking her life and the lives of a thousand people on this tottering old man. It was going to be a disaster. The Queen would rip him apart. “If you both go in. Just remember to be very, very polite. Start by kneeling out of respect. That’s how you should look at it. It’s respect for a different culture…”

  “We only kneel before God,” Father Amacker stated, giving her the same friendly smile, he would if he were turning down an offered cup of coffee. “Oh my, is this her?”

  Two enormous zombies were making their way along the side of the hill, pulling one of the modified campers along behind them. It was the same camper Troy had been in the day before.

  “Whatever you do, be quick,” Donna hissed. “If you can’t change her mind in five minutes it won’t matter whether it’s Eve or Jillybean in charge, your town will be destroyed.” She made a wide, fearful loop around the two zombies, went to the door and after wiping her sweating palms on her slacks, knocked twice. “Your Highness? There are two emissaries from the Guardians who wish to make a last-minute plea.”

  High laughter erupted from the camper. “Last second is more like it.” The door flung open. As always, the Queen wore black from the collar of her leather coat to the heels of her knee-high boots. With red light pouring out from within the camper, Troy thought she looked like the devil. Her eyes passed right over the priest and settled on him. “Look who’s singlehandedly bringing sexy back. Were you coming for a little fun in the sack or did you want an upfront view of the slaughter? Either way, come inside.”

  “No, thank you,” Troy answered. “I’m only here to keep watch over Father Amacker. He says he knows you.”

  The Queen sneered, “Do I look like an altar boy? I don’t know any priests. Unless you got some good sacramental wine under those robes, Father, you’re not invited to the cool kid’s party. Sorry. Maybe Donna is more your speed.”

  Donna tittered nervously while Father Amacker squinted up at the Queen, a smile spreading across his face. “It is you, Jillybean. I can tell by the eyes,” he told Troy. “She always had the most marvelous eyes.” He hobbled forward with his gnarled hands out. The Queen shrank back; her look somewhere between loathing and confusion. “It’s me, Father Amacker. Don’t you remember me?”

  She shook her head, however there was doubt in her eyes and her right hand was fiercely gripping the doorknob of the camper.

  “Yes, you do,” he went on. “You came through Colton with that s
weet sister of yours. Sadie. Her name was Sadie. It’s funny, I can’t remember what I had for lunch and sometimes I can’t remember if I put on my socks in the morning, but I can remember the day I met you like it was yesterday. You were friends with little Corina Woods and Anita Nelson. They thought the world of you. When you left they both started trying to build a tank like the one you…”

  Amacker went on in a long ramble with many exclamations and sighs, but the Queen wasn’t listening. She stood in the doorway of the trailer with her mouth hanging open, her eyes vacant blue globes. She was somewhere else. She was deep, deep inside of herself in the middle of a tremendous, towering cave. It was a cave of her own making though she couldn’t remember ever having made it.

  Hanging over the cave was a piercing globe; it sat behind bulging, pale grey clouds, the kind that looked as though they could drop a blizzard at any moment.

  The walls of the cave were painted with an endless mural that showed a town in suburban Philadelphia. It was always Christmas morning in that town and there was always fresh snow gilding the trees and frosting window ledges. It was an idyllic town, peaceful and picturesque, and in its center was a home that was as unreal as anything in the world had ever been.

  The people who lived in it day and night lived a life of unchanging utter perfection. One was a mommy who loved to bake and wrap presents and cuddle, while the other was a daddy who read bedtimes stories, got into tickle fights and was strong and tough as iron.

  There was also a little girl who dressed in pink, frequently drew outside the lines, and could never imagine ever leaving the perfect world she lived. It was certain she would never voluntarily do so. She was five and a half—a magical age for most children, though for her it was even more so. Every morning she woke to the sound of Christmas music and her mother’s laughter, to the sweet smell of pine trees and the even sweeter smell of cinnamon rolls. She woke to bristling excitement filling, not just the air, but also her heart.