She had laughed at Bob when he had gore in his beard.
Half of Miles’s face was missing.
In the past, there had always been alcohol and tears. Bouts of raving prayer and forays into the night with men whose faces and names melted into each other. Later, there was Miles. There was God.
Another mirror after a shower. Wipe away condensation with a towel.
Her head pounded away. Her black hair was a tangled mess, her eyes hollow caves. She looked like a refugee escaping an internment camp where everyone who believed in the healing power of violence was segregated from the natural world.
General Masters stared back at her through the mirror with his broken smile. He waited for her in the future if she survived another day. She would be just like him.
It was time to weep, but she lost the sound of her tears in the sound of thunder, as the house vibrated with its power.
ROSE
Her knees against her chest, she lay curled against the brick while looking into the shards of glass near her hand. Raindrops formed tiny puddles along the concrete, where a thousand mirrors stared up into a dark heaven where no light could bend shadow into form. Nature inhaled; there was nobody to stare into the eye of a storm.
Platinum blonde hair with pink extensions straightened to a fine luminescence just beyond the earlobes, a tight black dress that accentuated every curve, a vertical zipper through the center of the outfit was the perfect tease. Large hoop earrings and enough makeup to make an Egyptian whore melt gave her the story she needed without needing to say a word.
Her weapon had already been ripped from her hands. All she had left was the wristwatch that contained the tracking data for the vehicles used in the mission.
Hostiles were everywhere.
She’d been dropped near the Stryker tank that had been stranded in the middle of a suburban street. The vehicle was out of gas, so she had to presume that whoever used it last might still be alive. The second vehicle had last been used a few hours before the first one she located, and it was parked in the middle of another suburban street only five miles away. Her best bet was to make her way to the asylum.
Thunder cracked overhead and shook Rose to her bones.
She removed the silly heels from her feet and grabbed a shard of glass. Scattered raindrops pattered on the concrete, and she walked through the alleyway and back onto the street. Corpses lingered everywhere in the smoky haze, their shapes indiscriminate, and their hunger absolute.
Jim was out there.
She was in a wilderness filled with thousands of cannibal savages. How could she hide from the entire population of a major metropolitan area?
How would she find a needle in a haystack?
Why was Jim so important?
He never came back for her because he was a liar.
She crouched low behind a car and picked out her target; a stumbling blonde college student wearing a Wayne State University T-shirt because she’d likely been hanging out at home, studying for an exam that would determine whether she was going to be a success or a total loser. The girl’s entire left side had been someone’s meal; exposed rib bones emerged through the tattered shirt and her arm was missing.
She slammed the shard into the creature’s eye and twisted it through the socket. Her hands were on the dead woman’s shoulder, and she watched as raindrops slipped over her cheeks like the tears the woman had shed out of fear and rancor, before most of her was devoured, along with her dreams and her past.
She robbed the corpse of its New Balance walking shoes. Her dress wasn’t going to cut it, but she couldn’t afford time to stop into a darkened store or strip down an entire corpse. The dead were silent and relentless. One of them might be just around the next corner, its body animated by a grotesque power.
Rose stared at the sky for a moment, frozen by thoughts that were supposed to have been cleansed from her consciousness. Mortal fear had been banished by her training and conditioning, but none of her training involved a world teetering on the brink of collapse. She was a stranger in Detroit, and for the first time in her life, she didn’t know her enemies.
They wanted her; man and woman, child and invalid, they wanted her. With twisted ankles and broken knees, they pushed through the debris to taste her flesh. They fell and clutched at the pavement with their fingers, ripping fingernails and strips of flesh in their moment of need without feeling pain. She watched them approach, helpless against the dread they inspired within her chest. The assassin backed against a brick wall, colored in the non-color of a bleak storm. Lightning cut jagged scars through the atmosphere and she saw their teeth and their eyes. Their bodies made the only sound until she could feel the thunder shake the dust from the windowpanes around her.
The thunderstorm was the funeral dirge for this race of mortals. There was only this moment. The past would remain scrawled on the walls to be unearthed by a greater race of men, or it would wither and die. It would all rot. The spiders crawling through the dust and steel would rule the world.
She would have to find Jim among the dead.
They expected her to bring him back alive, after he’d broken his promise to put his life against hers in a final dance.
***
Sheets of rain slanted through the spaces between cars, between buildings, between the clustered mobs. She could run from them. She could move faster than they could.
Guns were everywhere. She managed to find herself a shotgun and a handful of shells on a bloody passenger seat inside an Escalade. With the shells stuffed into the front of her dress, she climbed over cars and pushed her way through hundreds of reaching hands without firing a single shot. She knew what was at stake. If she stopped moving, she would die. If she stopped running, it was over.
The suburban streets were more manageable without the clutter of police cars and clouds of smoke. The undead were spread thinly between the houses, no matter which neighborhood she found herself in.
The Humvees scattered in front of Eloise Fields were surrounded by piles of bullet shells; the shells reminded Rose of flowers dropped down the center aisle by a flower girl at a wedding. She crouched behind a truck and watched the meandering corpses wander through the smoking wreckage of a helicopter that crash-landed in the middle of the parking lot; a pickup truck was wedged into the asylum’s front doors. Piles of corpses attracted clouds of flies, while puddles collected the blood and turned the parking lot into a lake of death. Stray guns littered the pavement, and dead mercenaries, clad in their heavy armor, lay face down with holes in their heads, their limbs chewed to the point of disintegration.
The wheels of a shopping cart clattered along the concrete and voices drifted through raindrops.
“Throw everything into this one and we’ll come back for it,” a woman said.
“Just drive it back,” a man suggested.
“Bring those things with us? You haven’t learned much, Vincent.”
“You load, I’ll protect you.”
“Protect me? I’m a helpless little girl all of a sudden? I think I’ll be protecting your ass.”
“It was meant to be a joke.”
The woman responded with mock laughter. Rose peered through the windows of a Humvee and found herself looking at one of the mercenaries who’d been dropped into this suicidal meat-grinder. Beside her was an African American man who had the doors of another Humvee thrown open so he could load it with guns from the shopping cart.
If they knew something about Jim, it was worth risking her neck. She was supposed to locate the mercs, but she’d be damned if they would get in her way.
Vega wore a black shirt and gray camouflage pants that were too big from her, likely stripped from one of the corpses. She hadn’t taken a Kevlar vest; maybe she wanted to be burdened with less weight for quick movement. She’d been out here longer than Rose; it might be a good idea to follow suit.
“Amparo Vega,” Rose called out.
The mercenary and the man turned around with their handgu
ns snapping into their hands; both of them assumed a crouching position. Vincent had to have some kind of specialized training, too.
Rose held her shotgun in the air, her other hand outstretched. “Friend,” she announced.
“Bullshit,” Vega said.
“You’re looking for James Traverse,” Rose said.
“Never heard of ‘em,” Vega said.
“Bob Fields, Chris Miles,” Rose dared, “where are they?”
“Come around the truck so we can see you. We’ve got too much company around here to dick around. Vincent, maybe you can protect our new friend. Crack some eggs while I talk to the chickadee.”
The two women met halfway, neither were willing to drop their weapon.
“You’ve got three minutes,” Vega said.
“I’ve got Intel on your whole crew. I’m here to help finish the job.”
“Are you killing zombies with curves?”
“You keep that gun pointed at me and expect to exchange pleasantries?”
Vega refused to lower the weapon. “Your name or your life.”
“We’re on the same team, Vega. I’m Rose.”
“Stop saying my name. I don’t know you. I’ve got a headache and Vincent keeps staring at my ass. You’ve got two minutes.”
Vincent was slamming the butt of his weapon into the heads of nearby corpses. He drew them back toward the center of the parking lot, dispatching the undead as if they were nothing more than still targets.
“They’re dead, aren’t they?” Rose asked. “This is what you have left. I’m supposed to look for you to pick up the trail, assuming there is one.”
“We think he’s headed for Selfridge,” Vega replied. “He might already be there. The base might be wasted, but you’re more than welcome to check it out yourself.”
“You won’t trust me. You don’t even know what you’re dealing with. Have you seen him? I doubt it, because he wouldn’t let you live.”
“Say something useful. I dare you.”
“Do you know what he wants? Don’t you know why they want him?”
“There’s a group who think Traverse is linked to this, or they would’ve sent the whole army after this guy, not a bunch of losers like us. What makes you think you’re special?”
Neither woman passed the test. She’d hoped Vega had seen him; she wanted to know if he was still alive, wanted to know beyond a doubt that he was just as dangerous as she remembered. Years had passed, but she waited for this. Waited for another chance to see him again.
Vega had no idea why she was supposed to find Traverse, and neither did Rose. Why was this woman playing tough?
“He trained me,” Rose said. “I’ve read your file. You’re an alcoholic Jesus freak with a bad temper. Why did you take the mission? Why would you still pursue him?”
“I never said I was.”
“I didn’t come out here to play games with you.”
“You know me so well, you can figure it out.”
“You don’t want my help. I know his style, and I know what he can do, but your ego’s getting in the way.”
“That’s right. And time’s up. Like I said before: he might be at Selfridge, he might not.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Rose said. “We’re supposed to bring him there.”
“Nothing makes sense,” Vega spat and lowered her weapon. “Did you volunteer for this? You came out here, knowing what you’re up against, for money?”
“No. But you wouldn’t have backed out, either. This is what you live for. This is what you’ve been waiting your whole life for.”
Vega shrugged. “Maybe it is.”
“You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”
“Ask me if I give a shit. Have fun when you find him.”
Vega looked Rose up and down; she was deciding whether or not to kill Rose. Rose knew Vega’s life was defined by violence and battle-lust; she was considered “unstable” in certain battle conditions, which is why she was no longer employed without Fields or Miles with her to balance the woman’s thirst for combat.
The mercenary turned her back on Rose and nodded to Vincent, who was standing over three dead bodies, his fists clenched, and a platinum-toothed grin splitting his lips.
Not long after Rose was left alone, she found a soldier’s corpse and removed the pants and boots. Vega and Vincent hadn’t been looking hard enough; the dead man still had radio equipment.
***
The road became a blur marred by lightning. She was soaked to the bone but there was no time to feel, no time to contemplate her physical disaster. Her brain patterns became a jumbled mess as she fled through Detroit and ended up in a nearby suburban city. The map in her head was tormented by images; her method of living was tested, cognition overloaded.
Memories and fragments, shards haunting movement through the maze of festering corpses and flies, smoke clouds, and flame.
(Jim standing over her with his arms crossed over his chest. Smirking and shaking his head. “I broke your wrist faster than a man can take a single breath. You must be able to do the same to me.”)
(Fighting on the steps of an ancient Mayan temple in a storm, rain slipping over the stone, Jim’s eyes not moving, his chest not rising, his tall body poised like a dancer. He waited for her to strike).
(Only his words remained in the darkness of sleep. “Those who must be broken must be known. Their fears. Their secrets. You must strive to know them better than they know themselves. Their terror is the poetry of their lives, and you must read it to them.”)
(“Now you have to seduce me,” Jim said while walking beside her in the Sahara, the sun in their eyes. Her lips were cracked and her face burned while the sun pounded her body. She walked naked while he wore black from head to foot, the water in the canteen in his hand sloshing around.
“You’re not interested in sex,” she said, feeling defeated.
“Correct. No matter the target or the environment, you must be able to function. To fulfill your purpose. Make me want you.”)
(Jim stood in front of the window, looking out at Beirut.)
Thunder rattled her soul and dragged her above the smoldering cityscape. How much further could she go before her limbs surrendered? Her body was in top physical condition, but she already braved several miles of bullets and corpses, fire and rain. Did she even have a mission anymore? What if Selfridge was already gone?
She stopped moving, her body seizing like an engine that had survived too many miles. She didn’t know these people, these undead; she was designed for specific situations, specific social encounters. There was no connection between her and the people the zombies represented.
Agent Rose sat on the street and watched the crowd approach her from all directions.
Hundreds of them. Some of them stumbling faster than others, each one eager for her body. The rain couldn’t wash away the gore, nor could it cleanse the murderous intent from their shambling gait. They closed in, their heads rolling between their shoulders, their stomachs open to reveal black holes where precious organs were once stored.
“Take my hand, child.”
When she looked up at the figure standing over her, she saw only the priest’s collar through the thick curtain of rain. A broad hand was extended, and she grabbed the rough fingers which lifted her from the ground.
“Today we’ll live.” His voice was strong and calm. His thick shoulders could hold mountains, his square jaw set beneath a crooked nose bordered by scars. His thick, black hair was matted by the rainstorm.
“Hold on to me.” He hugged her into his damp chest. “No harm will come to you as long as you trust me.”
He didn’t have to shout to be heard over the rain. His voice filled her ears and warmed the bottom of her stomach. She clung to him as he walked through the crowd of dead; the corpses moved aside, their fingers attempting to grab at Rose’s arms and hair.
(“But I cannot let you die,” Jim said, carrying her in his arms across the sand dune
s. “You lasted longer than I did out here. You have seen death in the brightness of the sun. Your flesh has been burned away, and now you’re the soul of murder. The real you. This is the greatest mission I’ve endured. I will take you now in this sand while the evening settles. I will take you now and let your body know you’re still alive.)
Not a single corpse touched the priest.
They stopped outside of a gated retirement community where hundreds of zombies were gathered; the foul stench of the assembled mob caused her eyes to water.
“This’ll require a bit more effort,” the priest said, “can you work with me?”
She looked into his deep brown eyes and saw the pages of history dance through his thoughts. He was of Hispanic descent, but there wasn’t any hint of an accent in his voice. Rose could understand people very well, especially men. His confidence was absolute, and he believed in his plan; his faith would be unshakeable.
She nodded.
“I’m Father Joe Martinez,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Rose,” she said.
His eyes flickered to her shotgun.
“You’re not carrying much ammo in that dress of yours,” Father Joe noted. “Okay, so I’m going to have to use my hands this time to clear a path. If you keep your back to mine, we can do this. If I carried you on my shoulders, I could lose my balance if one of them grabbed you. We’ll have to move fast. Stay with me. I’ll pray for you.”
He didn’t say us.
Father Joe pushed onward, shoving clumsy zombies aside. She found herself in a pit of dead flesh; crooked arms swung like wayward branches, lightning flashes arcing over their heads.
“My Father, have mercy on this woman now, in this hour of need. My faith in Your will remains strong in my heart…”
A zombie that was backed up against a wall of unmovable corpses was tossed aside by the powerful priest.
They were surrounded on all sides, dripping-wet mouths opening and closing, fingernails scraping Rose’s arms.
“… My adoration for You remains. Guide us now through Satan’s army. Lend us the strength and courage to overcome…”
The Queen of the Dead Page 12