Storm Horizon: A novel of the zombie apocalypse (Haven Book 3)

by Brian Switzer

  One

  * * *

  It was good to be the Queen.

  Pastor Kayla Weigle sat on her throne and looked out over her throne room at the many subjects attempting to curry her favor. I could order anyone of them flogged, she thought, and the others would be so grateful they weren't the one in my crosshairs they'd happily follow my command.

  Of course, she wasn't a queen, didn’t sit on a throne, and didn’t have a throne room. That her bootlickers would fight to be the first to carry out an order to flog one of their own, though- of that she had no doubt.

  At one time, the room where she sat had been a suite of nine offices; then the demons came and changed the nature of things. When life breaks an egg, winners make an omelet, Kayla’s dear Daddy used to say.

  After she consolidated power and arranged the untimely deaths of those that might challenge her rule, she had the suite remodeled into one majestic space, one fit for a woman of her stature. Most of the 1600 people who lived under her protection and attended her church services- the peons that toiled in her fields, patrolled her grounds, or otherwise kept her safe, fed and happy- had no idea the room existed. They would revolt if they discovered the same woman who preached to them on Sundays about ‘thrift’ and the ‘Godliness of sacrifice’ spent her time in such opulence.

  It was a huge room- ninety feet long by fifty feet across, featuring an aircraft carrier-sized mahogany and cherry wood desk at the far end. She placed veneered birch accent tables on each side of the desk and then set the desk and tables on a six-inch platform so they dominated that side of the room. Soft, recessed lights arranged in strategic spots in the ceiling bathed the carpet around the desk in a warm glow.

  Scores of peons died or turned into demons on mission trips to the toniest neighborhoods in Carthage and Joplin to ransack deserted million-dollar-homes for furniture and decorations to fill her office. (She arranged for the quick death of the six that survived the mission to acquire her desk. Couldn’t have them talking, could she?) A stockbroker who lived by the country club contributed the bone-white Italian leather couches: an orthodontist for the children of Joplin’s movers and shakers donated the exquisite gold brocade drapes. The warehouse of a construction company that specialized in building homes that sold for seven figures kicked in the marble and Spanish pearl flooring. (A number of the tiles came off the truck with scratches, and did the peons responsible for that suffer before they died? Yes, yes they did.)

  Kayla knew just where to direct the mission trips for her fineries; before the demons came she moved in the same circles, played golf on the same private courses, and ate at the same country clubs as the wealthy people who left them behind when they turned.

  Until his untimely death three years before the outbreak, her husband owned a wildly successful company that manufactured components for the rail and automotive industries. He had been a man who believed in being prepared, and at the time of his death Kayla found herself the beneficiary of a life insurance policy that paid her ten million dollars. In addition, his will stipulated she receive twenty-five percent of the company’s profits. So as she designed and decorated her office space, she searched her memory for a particular piece of furniture or wall-covering she liked. She’d draw a map to the piece’s location, write a detailed description of its appearance, and order a mission to retrieve it. The trick was to spread the missions out among the peons so no team made a trip twice, and to include the trip for her furnishings along with several others for needed items like food, coal, and weapons.

  Her minions were aware of the luxuriousness of her surroundings- they came in and out throughout the day. But the minions didn’t care. Their only concern was keeping the extra rations and protection that came with being in the inner circle and not being held responsible for bad news. Most lived in constant terror of her, as well they should. Her legendary temper and the creativity of her punishments were topped only by their savagery.

  Less than a week into the new year Kayla sat on a couch adjacent to her desk, rubbing her bare toes in a plush area rug. She was a striking woman of fifty-two years, one of those rare women whose beauty time proved effortless to derail. Her shoulder-length blond hair was thick and layered. She wore it parted on the side with the bangs brushed to the side in a casual and carefree manner that took time and effort to achieve. Her ice-blue eyes and lush lashes had captivated men for as long as she remembered. Her full, sultry lips were painted ruby red; they set off a set of teeth so perfect it was evident they cost her husband tens of thousands of dollars.

  She had put on a few pounds over the years but she could still make a pool full of men flex their biceps and suck in their guts when she wore a bikini. Her large breasts were full and firm, her waist a perfect setting for a man’s hands. She was partial to the colors of royalty- reds, purples, and golds- and had a closet full of Versace, Armani, and Brunello.

  Right now she wore a gold satin blouse with the top two buttons opened and a pair of tight denim jeans. Her legs were crossed at the knee; she petted Pesphia, her white, long-haired cat, running the tips of her blood-red nails the length of the purring animal’s back. A light scent of Coco Chanel Mademoiselle wafted through the air and the sounds of Debussy tinkled in the background. It all had the desired effect on the man sitting across from her. He breathed through slightly parted lips and his tongue flicked like a snake’s in an attempt to keep them moist. His nostril flared and a sheen of sweat glossed his brow, though the temperature in the room was cool.

  Kayla studied him over a glass of merlot. “It seems you are using a lot of words where two would suffice- I failed.”

  The man’s name was Clay Nichols, and he took umbrage at her summation. “I didn’t fail. As I said, the guy I sent never got a chance to finish the job. I saw the whole thing. He ran into some dude in the tunnel- the one you said would be empty- and the dude got off a lucky shot that killed my guy.”

  She sipped her wine, then ran her tongue across her top lip in a slow, languid fashion, as if savoring the vintage. Clay pulled at his shirt collar and wiped his brow. “I apologize, Clay. Are you hot?”

  “No ma’am, I’m fine.”

  “Splendid. Not to be repetitive, but you say you didn’t fail.”

  “Correct.”

  She waved an envelope in the air. “But this note tells me otherwise. It tells me- “

  He interrupted, gesturing at the envelope. “I find it offensive that I have to defend myself against some stranger. How did you know the letter would be there, anyway?”

  Kayla froze and glared at him, her eyes cold with anger. “Someone who has my unabridged trust placed it there. Who always succeeds at the tasks assigned them.” Her tone grew even colder, and disdainful. “Someone who knows that to interrupt me is to risk watching as the swine enjoy your tongue with their slop.”

  Clay turned pale and sat stock-still. “I’m sorry, Ma’am.” He bowed his head and stared at the floor. “I meant no disrespect.”

  Kayla pursed her lips and clicked her nails on the armrest. “I trust you’ll not forget yourself further?”

  “No ma’am.”

  “See you don’t.” She raised the envelope again. “This says your man dispatched a mercenary, a newcomer to their happy little group. You were to do away with one of their leaders, more than one if the opportunity arose. In as brutal a fashion as possible, I might add.”

  That’s when it happened- Clay gave up. She relished the signs as his shoulders sagged and he pressed his lips together. He blew out a big breath. “You’re right, ma’am. I didn’t get the job done. I put too much f
aith in my guy and we both failed you. I apologize and ask for your mercy.”

  Kayla’s red lips curved upward. “Then by all means, my mercy you shall have.” She paused a beat, then cocked her head. “Shall I show you to the door?”

  Clay jumped to his feet and wiped his palms on the legs of his jeans. “No ma’am, no need.” He gave her an awkward little bow that almost made her laugh and started the long walk to the other end of the office.

  She waited until he made it halfway to the door. “Clay?”

  He stiffened. “Ma’am?”

  “Never fail me again. I’m not merciful to people that fail me twice.” She rose and walked toward her desk, turning her back on him, before he could respond.

  Two

  * * *

  A soft knock on her office door interrupted Kayla's thoughts. "Come," she called; her extravagant heels clicked on the tile floor as she walked toward her desk. The door opened and a prim-looking woman in her early twenties entered the room. Her name was Olivia, and she served as Kayla's assistant.

  Olivia had jet-black hair that hung straight to just below her shoulders. She had mousy features and favored solid-colored cowl-necked blouses and pleated skirts. Before the outbreak, she worked as the personal assistant to a bigwig at Jasper County’s biggest manufacturer, a Fortune 500 industrial company. She excelled at her job and was one of the few people whose slow, painful death Kayla had never contemplated.

  She bowed her head a few degrees in greeting, then stood ramrod straight while Kayla poured a new class of wine. Her training taught her not to speak until her employer met her gaze. Finished, Kayla set the bottle aside and peered at Olivia.

  She spoke in a soft and cultured voice devoid of any accent. "Mr. Magnus is here to see you."

  Kayla's pulse quickened; maybe this day would turn out interesting. "Very well. Wait two minutes before you send him in."

  Olivia gave the same bow. "Yes, ma'am." She turned and walked toward the exit.

  Kayla called out to her assistant as she left the room. "Olivia?"

  "Ma'am?"

  "Is he… does Magnus have anyone with him?"

  The corners of Olivia's mouth turned up a fraction. "No, ma'am. No prisoners today."

  Kayla dismissed her and sat down behind her desk. Magnus Roberts, her go-to man for difficult and often bloody jobs. And one of the only men in her empire that wasn’t scared of her.

  She fished a small mirror from one of the desk drawers and checked her reflection. She arranged a few locks of hair, pulled her lips back to check her teeth and gums for foreign objects, and applied fresh lipstick. A bookcase to her right held a row of thick binders. She pulled one from the shelf and opened it to a random page. She looked at the words on the page without reading them and clicked the tips of her nails on her desktop while she recalled the last time Magnus had been in her office.

  On a dreary afternoon three weeks ago, Kayla watched a light snow falling outside her windows when Olivia announced that Mr. Magnus was here. He had appeared unannounced and unbidden, dragging another man along with him.

  Magnus had his mystery guest bound, gagged, and blindfolded. He shoved the man to the floor in a heap and raised both arms above his head in a gesture of victory. "Ta-da!" He exclaimed, gesturing at the man as if he had performed a difficult act of magic.

  At the time, a problem Kayla could not solve plagued her realm. Chickens kept coming up missing.

  They disappeared from their coop at a rate of two to four a week. She tried to solve the mystery first with dogs and then closed circuit cameras pointed at the entrances. When neither of those worked, she ordered armed men to guard the birds. And still, they disappeared.

  Kayla was on the verge of pulling her hair out when Mr. Magnus showed up that day with the thief in tow.

  "How did you figure it out?" She asked him, amazed.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Simple. I watched the only place you didn’t already have eyeballs on."

  As it turned out, the thief nabbed the birds from inside their coop after the peons bedded them down for the night.

  A latticework of underground tunnels — dank, cramped, and poorly lit passages that Kayla refused to enter — crisscrossed her domain. The thief had determined which tunnel ran closest to the coop and dug himself a short path from that passageway to a spot just beneath the chicken house.

  He entered through a hole in the corner of the coop, pushing away the bales of hay that covered it. He worked at night, and the broody chickens didn't fuss when he shoved them in an old grain sack. No one outside had any idea he was inside. Later, he sold or traded the birds in town.

  The thief's ingenuity secretly impressed Kayla, but not enough to spare his life.

  A brisk knock sounded. "Come," she said, her voice steady and strong. She didn't look up when the door opened, continuing instead to scan the information in the binder. Magnus stood at the other side of her desk, waiting for permission to be seated. She counted to thirty and looked up, pretending to be caught off guard to find Magnus standing there.

  "Mr. Magnus! How wonderful to see you." She gestured at a pair of tufted leather club chairs on the other side of the desk. "Have a seat."

  "Thank you." He beamed at her and chose a chair. He didn't sit so much as coil himself like a tautly-wound spring. His average height and weight were deceiving- he was taut and wiry, and his strength was legendary. She spied on him through the window one day last fall as he split firewood to stockpile for the long winter. He was shirtless, and his arms and chest looked like marble stuffed with tight rings of rope.

  Kayla pushed a candy dish across the broad expanse of her desktop. "Would you like a piece of candy?"

  Though it seemed impossible, his smile grew even broader. "Would I?" He pulled the bowl to him and searched inside. "Your butterscotchies are the only reason I come up here." He found a butterscotch disc and held it up as if to prove his point. Kayla eyed him as he pushed the bowl back and unwrapped the candy. He wore his thick and luxurious black hair tousled in a way that begged to have a woman's hands run through it. He had a large, bumpy nose atop a wide mouth full of gleaming white teeth. His pale green eyes sparkled and danced when he was happy and were flat and cold when he was not.

  He leaned forward and banged out a drum roll on her desktop, finishing with the whack of an imaginary high hat. "KSSHH! So- what's the news?"

  She sat back in her chair and steepled her fingers in front of her. "Well, it seems our friend Clayton wasn't up to the task."

  He raised his eyebrows and gave a mocking chuckle, a rumble much like boulders rolling down a hill. "I told you that before you ever sent that fool over there. He failed?"

  She pursed her lips and gave her head a listless nod. "He failed."

  Magnus was prone to grand gestures and comic overreactions. He pinwheeled his arms in mock disbelief. "Then why did he come back alive?"

  "It's a long and rather dreary story." She sighed. "The short version- he wasn't ultimately responsible for the actual wet work. He guided and spotted for a man who he declared competent to complete the job at hand. They ended up running into one of their people in a tunnel-"

  "One of their leaders?" He interrupted- an action that was sure to receive a reprimand when committed by anyone else. However, Kayla had long since given up on breaking Magnus of the habit. He was simply too energetic and impetuous to help himself.

  "No, a mercenary, I believe. Anyway, they struggled, their man was mortally wounded but before he died he shot Clayton's man. Clayton feared-"

  "Feared the shots alerted everybody, so he ran like an alley cat with a bottle rocket up its ass."

  She raised her eyebrows and shoulders in a 'what are you going to do' gesture.

  "Do you know what your mistake was?" She bristled at the idea she'd made a mistake and he must have sensed it because he corrected himself before she took offense. "Do you know what I'd have done differently?"

  "Now that you've mentioned it, I'm dying to find out.
"

  He leaned all the way back in the chair and spread his arms out wide. "I'd have sent a man that doesn't run away. Ever." As he spoke he curled his arms and pointed at himself with both index fingers.

  "I want you to put a plan together.” She scooted forward and laid her forearm on her desk. With her top two buttons still undone, it was a move guaranteed to display a copious amount of cleavage- but if he took notice, she couldn't tell. “A solid plan, guaranteed to succeed.”

  "When do you want this perfect plan completed?"

  She stood, a move made to ensure that he would stand up as well. "Have it on my desk in a week."

  He gave her a mock salute. "Anything for you, boss." He shot her an exaggerated wink and sauntered toward the door.

  As she did with Olivia, Kayla waited until he was almost there, then stopped him.

  "Mr. Magnus."

  "My Queen?"

  "I want two plans. One to clear them out of the tunnels in a way that ensures I'll never see them again, as we discussed."

  "And the other?"

  "A plan to go over there and destroy them all."

  Three

  * * *

  That afternoon found Kayla standing on the church roof, looking down at the action on the ground two floors below. A crew of peons led a cluster of demons from a holding pen and put them in the back of a recommissioned bread truck. The report came in that morning- squatters had taken up residence on her land to the east. The peons would set lose ten or twelve of the dead in the squatters front yard three days in a row. Hopefully, that would convince them to move on or come forward and become tithing members of the church and contributors to the empire, and thus welcomed and protected; otherwise, she would order them shot.

  The peons moved the demons with eight-foot poles that had long, leather straps looped around one end. The loop went over the demons head and the peons guided them with the polls to where they wanted to be.