by Jack Conner
“Well?” said Harry.
Cloire shrugged. He appeared just as tired and nerve-taxed as she felt, though she hoped it didn’t show on her face.
“Nothing,” she said.
“The speech is to be given in just over half an hour.” He glanced south, down into the Upper Courtyard and saw that the shades were arriving swiftly; minus their human servants, there must be ninety shades by now, all eager for Mauchlery’s words.
“Then let’s get busy,” she said. “To keep things interesting, let’s switch sides. You take the west towers and I’ll take the east. After we’ve done those, if we haven’t found Byron by then, we’ll do the far northern towers and meet at the middle.”
“That’s going to take more than thirty minutes.”
She clapped him on the shoulder. “Then hurry.”
He called over his shoulder, “We’re taking the east side, Lt. Meyers. And we’ve got a deadline.”
Without another word, he led his troops (Imagine that—a mortal leading fifty Castle soldiers into potential combat. The thought amused her as much as it dismayed her) around hers and headed for the first eastern tower.
As they shuffled by on the wide stone catwalk, Cloire marched Popescu and his soldiers toward the western side, and the search for Byron continued. This time a chill touched the air, and it was not the wind. Somewhere nearby, she could feel it, the zombie Byron lurked, and his nuclear missile with him.
Meticulously, she and the soldiers searched the first western tower, which proved to be a battlement like the fifth had been, with an open top and some heavy artillery. No zombies here, but the sight from atop the battlement gave her pause. She stared out at the near mountains and at the brightening night sky above, the moon barreling its way through space.
When she looked down from the battlement into the great chasm below, her voice caught in her throat. The void plunged sickeningly, black and deep. Suddenly she felt clammy and faint, a feeling only relieved when she glanced down to her left and saw the brightly lit balconies of the Blood and Stone jutting from the castle. Mirth and laughter drifted up.
Laughter born of killing innocents. This is why she’d swapped sides with Harry, to spare him this, but now ... staring down at those bright balconies, she wondered where her heart really lay. True, she’d fed at Rosie’s Din tonight and she knew the others in the death-squad, had they still been themselves, would joke and call her a Vegetarian for doing it. Harry had been proud, and relieved. But what did she feel?
“Cloire?” Popescu said.
“I’m here, Poppy. Your boys ready to go on?”
“Just waiting for you.”
“Fine. Let’s get this circus over with so I can go have a drink in peace.”
She brought the whole stinking entourage to the next tower, and the next. If Byron was around, he kept himself well out of sight. Eventually they found themselves at the tallest battlement on the Castle, tall and roofed, dark and forbidding.
Is Byron really that dramatic? Cloire thought. Then again, maybe the assholes who’d changed him had put him up to it.
The tower stood at the corner of the Northern Courtyards, and as such it could be called the northeastern tower. Little did she know that this was the place that Roche Sarnova, draped in his ceremonial robes, had intended to throw his oldest friend Francois Mauchlery into the chasm if the Ambassador hadn’t said what the Dark Lord wanted to hear not long ago.
If Byron was anywhere, she thought, he would be there. She felt it with all her heart, and at the same time denied it just as strongly.
She lifted her chin. “Let’s do it.”
They marched on the battlement and were quickly greeted by the sentries huddling near the door. There were more sentries here than there had been at the other towers—eight, in all. Alarms chimed in Cloire’s head.
“Roger!” cried one of the sentries and stepped forward to take Popescu’s hand.
“Smithy,” Poppy returned, smiling. Obviously the two were friends.
“Come to check our tower?”
“Yep. One of our last stops. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Hell,” said Smithy. “You’ve got a job to do, and we’ll not stand in your way. Just don’t steal any of our doughnuts, okay?”
They laughed, and Cloire shook her head. Shit, if Poppy didn’t notice anything different about his friend, maybe Smithy wasn’t a zombie. Maybe none of them were. The thought filled her both with hope and horror. On the one hand, she wanted to find Byron and end the threat to the Castle. On the other, finding the big Aussie would probably spell his doom.
“Help yourself to the coffee, though,” Smithy added.
“Thanks. You tower guys always get the good stuff.”
“Pop, it’s the one thing that makes this duty worthwhile.”
Again, they laughed, and the sound grated on Cloire’s nerves.
“On with it, already,” she said. “We’ve got about ten minutes before Mauchlery gives his stupid speech, so quit the chit-chat and let’s do this thing.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” Smithy said. “I beg your pardon.”
Poppy turned to his own men. “Come on, boys, let’s check this one out. By the way, you might want to try the coffee.”
Cloire gritted her teeth but managed enough resolve to push her way past the eight sentries and into the first level of the tower. Other than the fact that the stone was darker here and the diameter of the tower wider, it was pretty much the same as the others. Behind her, Popescu’s men jostled into the room and started searching the storage bin as they knew she would demand.
Without any warning, and just as she had foreseen it, they were ambushed.
Above, the guards on the second level leapt down from the landing to the staircase, rocket launchers and RPGs at their shoulders. Behind, Smithy and the other seven sentries, apparently zombies all, closed in and started firing.
The suddenness of it all stunned Popescu and his soldiers. Bullets zipped and missiles flared through the dark room. Explosions rocked the stone beneath Cloire’s feet and blew open half a dozen of Popescu’s men before they even realized what was going on.
Poppy and his men ducked for cover or were blown apart by missiles. The ones that maintained their cool raised their weapons and fired up at the rocket-wielders on the staircase, whose skulls erupted in gore. In seconds half of them were down. The cool-headedness of the soldiers cost several their own lives, as they were sitting ducks for the missiles. As Cloire watched, three rockets raced through the air, blasting into the chests of Popescu’s men and exploding bloodily. Bits and pieces of the three shades rained on the survivors even as they, spurred on by Popescu and Cloire, ran out from the storage shed and from beneath the stairs to join the battle.
“Retreat!” someone cried.
To several, it must have seemed like a good idea. They rushed toward the door, where Smithy and his men had been waiting. From somewhere, the sentries had procured rocket launchers, too, and the weapons ended any thoughts of retreat. By this time, a full quarter of Popescu’s troops was dead, splattered to bits and dripping from the dark cold stone of the walls. The whole place had become a slaughterhouse.
Cloire slipped up to Poppy, firing up at the staircase and trying to take out the last of the rocket-wielders there.
“Nice fucking friends you’ve got!”
Intent upon blowing apart the zombies’ heads, he didn’t respond.
A missile streaked over her shoulder. She leapt back as it tore into the stone floor and exploded, raining shrapnel and spreading its shockwave outward. The blast knocked her back. She struck Popescu’s backside and they tumbled to the floor. All about them, chaos reigned.
“They’re protecting Byron,” she said. “We’ve got to get to the top.”
He scowled, then nodded. As a missile streaked at them, they rolled apart, and the rocket detonated where they’d been lying. Cloire could only curse. When the smoke cleared, she saw Popescu on the other side, talking to two of hi
s top men and giving instructions. They ran off into the chaos to spread the word.
She climbed to her feet, pulling out her pistols as she did. Ready to kick some zombie ass.
Firing, she concentrated her aim on the row of sentries at the front door.
“Fuck you, Smithy!” she said as she blew open his skull. The zombie dropped to the ground, and she lined up for the next shot.
Within thirty seconds, the first level had been secured. All the zombies were dead, but this was, after all, the tallest tower—it had eight fucking levels—and there would be more above. The survivors of the ambush gathered around Popescu and Cloire, awaiting orders.
“To the top!” she cried, and lunged toward the stairs.
No one followed—at least, not until Poppy repeated her orders. Then the thirty surviving soldiers, headed by Cloire and Popescu, ran up to the second level.
Already, a row of zombies had gathered from the third level, their rocket launchers ready, and the second phase of the battle began. It was another slaughter, but the soldiers were prepared for it this time and they fanned out, taking aim at the zombie’s heads. Rockets destroyed four of Popescu’s men, but that was all. Within seconds, the deaders were dead.
“Grab their rocket launchers,” ordered Popescu as the soldiers ran up to the next level, stepping on the bloody bodies of their fallen foes as they went. The troops scooped up the available weapons and proceeded to the third level, which was blessedly empty.
“Ready yourselves,” Poppy said. “If they’re protecting Byron, he’ll be at the top so as to afford him the best aim at the Courtyard. They’ll be waiting for us there.” He pointed to a group of his men. “You, go downstairs and gather all of the rockets and rocket launchers we were too busy to get the first time. A bullet might be enough to kill a zombie, but I’d prefer to go at them with the same force they’ve been going at us.”
“Yes, sir!” The men ran off to follow orders.
Cloire crept over to an arched window and stuck her head outside for a breath of fresh air. It was just beginning to snow, and cold flakes settled onto her forehead and nose as she saw, from the other side of the Northern Courtyards, Harry leading his own garrison (headed by Meyers) toward Cloire’s tower. She smiled. He’d heard the explosions and was rushing to her rescue. My paunchy knight.
At that moment, from windows higher up in Cloire’s tower, missiles—she could hear their roar—struck straight toward Harry and his troops. The rockets drove right into the heart of the garrison, exploding brightly and killing a dozen shades.
Cloire’s heart leapt into her throat. Run, she tried to scream, but her throat had constricted.
Run Harry did, though, urging the soldiers to follow him. As more rockets blazed down on him and his people, the soldiers followed Harry toward Cloire’s tower. Jesus. He’d come to help her and had nearly died in the act—and still could.
“Cloire, we’re ready,” Popescu said behind her.
She turned. At least half of the surviving soldiers now carried rockets and launchers.
“Then let’s end it,” she said, her voice still raspy. She wanted to get this done fast, before Harry could follow her up to the slaughter that surely waited above.
As one, Cloire, Poppy and the soldiers trotted up the stairs to the next level, also empty, and the Lieutenant gave instructions to his troops as they wound their way up to the fifth level—instructions cut short by the ten zombies waiting at the far end of the room, rocket launchers at their shoulders.
As the lethal volleys began, Cloire drew out her pistols and fired, thinking, I’m killing the ones sent to protect Byron. Isn’t there something wrong with that?
By the end of the battle, the rockets had blown eleven of Popescu’s troops to bits that splattered the room and dripped from the walls. Red pools near the windows melted the snow gushing in, forming frothy crimson puddles of ice.
Poppy and his soldiers tried to keep their faces impassive, but they weren’t much for acting, Cloire could see.
“Come on, damn you!” she shouted in an effort to stir them. She pointed to the ten truly dead zombies on the other side of the room. “This level’s clean. On to the next. If you value your Castle, you gotta reach the top.”
The soldiers, who numbered less than twenty now, swung their gazes to Popescu, and he said, “Let’s go.”
On the floors below, Cloire could hear Harry and the survivors of his ragged crew enter the first level.
“And fast,” she added.
She darted toward the stairs. Behind her, Poppy and the others followed. She sensed their shock and grief turning into a thirst for vengeance, which was good, all things considered.
The sixth level turned out to be more full of zombies than all the others combined, but luckily there were also more rooms down here—storage lockers, barracks, a kitchen, etc.
Poppy’s shades quickly took cover, as the bullets and missiles whistled around them, but not before two were struck. They burst like water balloons, but it was bone and blood and guts that stained the walls and showered nearby soldiers.
The survivors dove for cover.
“Shit,” said Cloire.
The enemy’s missiles were blowing open holes in the barracks room, where she and Popescu and nearly ten others gathered.
“This is where they’re making their stand,” Cloire said. “But there’ll be more waiting for us above, in case we survive. We’ve got to get to Byron.”
“You have a plan?” asked the lieutenant.
“Yeah. Give me seven of your guys and we’ll make a run up the stairs to the next level, while you and the rest finish off the deaders down here.”
“Divide and conquer?”
“In a few minutes, you’ll be getting reinforcements from Harry and his team. I saw them from the window. They were being fired on probably by the same deaders that we’re up against now. Means two things: one, that these guys are running low on ammo; and second, that you’ll have help to deal with them in a minute. Enough to lend me some of your guys to let me do my part.”
Reluctantly, the tall Romanian nodded. He pointed to seven of his men and said, “Follow the lady and keep her safe. Now go.”
Cloire offered him a small smile as she gathered the seven. She poked her nose around the corner, saw that most of the rest of Poppy’s men were pinned down in the kitchen, but were returning fire just the same. The storage shed held the others. Only three, she saw, who were rummaging through the shed in order to find weapons. Likely their own ammo was out by now.
Suddenly another missile struck out. When Cloire saw where it was going, she felt her insides shrivel up, but there was no time to brace herself. The rocket plunged right into the shed. With all the rockets and ammo it held, it went up in a fireball so huge it knocked Cloire back into her protectors.
“Fuck!”
She picked herself up, spitting blood, then led the seven over to the staircase, bullets and missiles flying all about the place, and dashed up. Just as they were almost clear, a rocket caught the last soldier, a woman, in the side. She metamorphosed into a shower of a gore, and the shockwave knocked the other six soldiers and Cloire up onto the seventh level.
Eager zombies, five of them, were waiting, rockets aimed and loaded.
Cloire, the first one up, rolled into the corner as the rockets blazed out of their launchers. She lifted her two pistols and fired, bringing down a pair zombies. While the other three reloaded, she darted toward her protectors to see that only three of them were left. Fucking Balaklava.
As she aimed her pistols toward the last three zombies on this level, she noticed how rotten and just-dug-up they looked. Smithy and his boys had been just for show, she realized—just part of the whole trap Junger and Jagoda had engineered to protect their precious nuclear weapon.
She fired and fired and fired, emptying both clips of her guns into the zombies she’d killed on her opening shots. Reloaded.
Her three surviving protectors, one missing an
arm, limped over to her and helped her to her feet.
“You okay, ma’am?”
She looked at the stump that ended his right arm and almost laughed. “No, damnit. Are you?”
Below her, on the sixth level, she heard renewed fire and explosions and knew that Harry and his reinforcements had arrived to aid Poppy, if Poppy was still alive. Soon, if Harry and the others were able to clear the sixth floor, they’d march on up to the seventh. Then up still more.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s hurry.”
Her diminished group nodded and together they ran toward the stairs and up. Nothing there. They raced to the next level.
Four more zombies waited. Before she could form a plan, rockets were already in the air. One blew past her, striking one of her protectors. Another whizzed by, or at least she thought it did, until she glanced to her left and saw the rocket had taken off her forearm, and slammed into the chest of the one-armed man. Irony was a bitch.
His explosion pitched Cloire onto her face, but her gun, her one gun in her one hand, was up and firing. Behind her, she could hear her last protector firing the last launcher they’d brought along. The missile flared toward the zombies, blowing several apart completely and knocking the last one to its knees. The last zombie fired its own missile, killing the protector at the same time. Cloire shot the zombie through the head.
Bleeding and breathless, she rose sluggishly to her feet and looked around the eighth level, straining her eyes in the gloom until she realized that both tears and blood obscured her vision. Impatiently, she wiped the fluids away. She made out blood and bodies, big arched windows letting in the cold and the snow, a gigantic monstrosity of a missile launcher rolled up to one ...
She saw him.
Byron, just across from her, a large rocket launcher at his shoulder, aimed out the window toward the Upper Courtyard far below. Byron’s gaze wasn’t following the line of his weapon; he was looking, over his shoulder and quite soberly, at her.
Her pistol swung up to center on his head.