The Queen of the Dead

by Vincenzo Bilof

  Rose exploded the head of a zombie that was too close for comfort. She pumped the shell through the chamber. Two left.

  “…My God, who is deserving of all my love…”

  Not a single corpse touched Father.

  She couldn’t blink. Her back was pressed against Father Joe’s as he maneuvered through the horde. When he moved, she moved with him. Inches separated her face from the dead; gas from their rotting stomachs burped through their mouths, causing the dead to moan while their bones creaked. Her stomach recoiled and she fought the urge to retch, as the burning-sewage smell seeped into her nostrils. She turned her face to avoid the greedy claws.

  Her head was wrenched sideways and Father Joe whirled around and delivered a right hook to a zombie’s jaw. Her head was free for a split-second as more hands clutched at her throat and head. Her breath was cut off and the groaning dead replaced the sound of thunder, rain, prayer, heart, consciousness—

  “JESUS CLAIMS VICTORY OVER THE DAMNED!”

  Their grotesque hands were upon her body, groping and pulling while she felt herself rise above them. Father Joe hefted her over his left shoulder.

  She pointed her gun and fired, unsure what she hit.

  (“I will come for you after your first mission. I want to know how powerful you feel. I want to know how beautiful you feel. I want to know your strength as I know your flesh. Return to me.”)

  “MY LORD, DELIVER US FROM THIS EVIL! DELIVER US!”

  She was the golden calf. She was the icon of worship. Hands and groans. Eyes and mouths. All focused on her. Wanting her. Needing her. The unwashed, the fleshless, the mutilated. They were of every ethnicity, every age. The melting pot poured into a coffin, the velvet lining closing in, the lid dropping to seal forever the wide-eyed woman who knew not who she was, but what she was.

  A skull randomly exploded in a shower of brain, face, and skull. Another skull popped. And then another.

  She wasn’t pressing the trigger.

  The shotgun was snatched from her hands.

  She craned her neck to see them all, a swaying ocean of corpses weighed by the rain, shapes squirming and writhing against each other to find her flesh.

  Waves of water and blood, gore and groans.

  The masses are hungry. The masses are starving and they must be fed.

  Rose disappeared behind veils of consciousness. Warm hands on her shoulders. A hulking figure standing in front of a door, his back to her, his fists clenched. She no longer felt the rain. Eyes drifted. She thought of a wet dog slinking through a dung heap.

  (He stood in the doorway with his hands behind his back. She knew it was him, because he never left her. He was with her on every mission, his voice accompanying his fingers, the inches along her spinal column played like a piano, her breath sucked into his mouth.

  “We must submit to each other,” he said. “I want to be imprisoned by your arms, and I want to listen for long silences while you sleep beside me.”)

  ***

  “…Because she lost a lot of blood. Can’t believe she survived.”

  Silence.

  “You did it again, Father. Fuckin’ did it again. A miracle worker.”

  “Faith isn’t miraculous, Frank. Faith is real.”

  “Did you see how many I hit, Father? Did you see?”

  “You’re a good shot, Macon. I’m proud of you.”

  “Your hand, Father…”

  “Nothing that hasn’t hurt before.”

  “She’s coming to.”

  Wrapped in layers of blankets, Rose opened her eyes and found herself in a crowded apartment. A freckled boy of about ten with a camouflage hat and a hunting rifle sat by the window. An old man in a madras shirt rested in a wheelchair with his hands poised on the wheels. A middle-aged woman with bright green eyes and blonde, shoulder-length hair stood over her. Father Joe sat in an armchair across from her, his hands folded on his lap, a smile on his weathered face.

  “Rose,” Father nodded at her, “this young man here is Macon, this is Frank, and that’s Kathy. Kathy sewed up your scratches. They got you pretty good out there, but nothing you can’t handle.”

  Kathy sighed. “A miracle, luck, whatever.” She shook her head, packed up the sewing kit, and walked out.

  “Always moody,” Frank grumbled, “always fuckin’ moody, that one.”

  Father chuckled. “Frank swears like a sailor, but he’s a nice enough guy, once you get to know him.”

  “Fuck you, Father.”

  “You’re not wearing a lot of clothes,” Macon said to Rose.

  “No goddamn manners, these kids,” Frank said. His lower lip trembled with each spoken word; his bony hands gestured and returned to their resting position between the armrests of his chair, fingers intertwined over his midsection. His red, rheumatic eyes focused on the blank sky outside. “Father brings a slut up here to my room, gotta wonder what gets into his goddamn head.”

  Father sighed. “How do you feel, Rose?”

  She couldn’t feel anything. The last few hours tumbled through her skull. Running, killing, running, killing. The rain. Thunder. Thousands of faces. Pieces of memory. The mission locked in stasis, something rendered meaningless by the moment.

  “Alone,” she swallowed.

  She wouldn’t feel this way if she was supposed to find anyone else but Jim. The pressure she felt in her chest arrived only when she remembered her mission, when she remembered his smirking face.

  Father Joe stared at his blood-encrusted shoes until Kathy returned.

  “This is what remains,” Father said. “You’re not alone, Rose.”

  “Here we go again,” Kathy rolled her eyes. “Cut the crap, Father.”

  “You saw it!” Macon shouted. “He’s been out there twice! Nothing happens.”

  “Zombies don’t eat pedophiles,” Frank muttered.

  “I’ve had enough,” Kathy said. “I’ve had enough of your shit, Frank. I’m sick of waiting here, waiting for Father to get back, wondering if he’s still alive. We’re stuck here and he goes out and brings back a… Well, look at her. What was she doing out there looking like that? A whore.”

  Father’s eyes moved away from Kathy as if a terrible sadness possessed him. He sat back and regarded Rose while Kathy seethed. The entire room seemed to be waiting for an implosion.

  This was conflict Rose understood. This was something she knew.

  “The pantries were raided,” Father said. “The elderly were slaughtered and Frank… lived, somehow. I can’t take you out there unless we get help.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?” Kathy asked. “What kind of help.”

  “Take the boy and go,” Frank said. “I told you a thousand times, you son of a bitch—take the boy and go. Leave me here with this witch so we can rot in hell together.”

  “You weren’t supposed to bring someone else back…” Kathy shook her head.

  “Every life—”

  “No!” Kathy stomped her foot and clenched her fists. “You… you don’t get it! We’re stuck here! They’re coming for us and we’re stuck here! What’re we supposed to do? What’re WE SUPPOSED TO DO? We’re not like you, Father. We’re not… I can’t even… oh God… God…”

  “He is listening.” Father shrugged as if her plight was a joke.

  “My parents are both sick,” Kathy brushed her finger across her runny nose. She breathed through tears which shook her. “You were supposed to find help, Father. Find a way for us—find a way to get home. You said you wouldn’t come back unless you found help. We thought you were dead. We waited and thought you were dead. Kim and Ronnie went out looking for you. They’re gone. They’re gone, I just know it… I just know it.”

  Father rose from the chair and seemed ready to reach for Kathy and embrace her, but she turned from him. “Not this time,” she said. “No, Father. I can’t. You can’t bring anyone back. Not like they were before. I… I can’t…”

  Frank’s bulbous, bald head shook as he pointed his
crooked finger at Kathy. “Two sons I lost to Vietnam. Two sons I buried…”

  “I got them,” Macon whispered, “knocked ‘em right down. Heads just blowed up.”

  Kathy attempted to regain her composure. “Macon, dear, why don’t you come with me and help change Frank. We’ll get something to eat, too.”

  Macon jumped down to the carpet, still holding the rifle that was almost as tall as he was. “I thought Ronnie took it all.”

  “We’ll see,” her eyes shot Father a hard look. “Let Father have a moment with Mary Magdalene.”

  She wheeled Frank out of the room with Macon in tow.

  Father didn’t seem affected by the confrontation with his group; instead, he offered his friendly smile to Rose. “May I sit next to you?” he asked.

  She moved aside and brushed her wet hair away from her face; she hadn’t looked over the stitches, which had bound several long gashes on her arms.

  “You’re very brave,” Father said. “To be out there alone… there’re a lot of people left alive. They’re waiting it out. Hiding in their homes. I was turned away at gunpoint by many.”

  She’d been dropped into the middle of a city with an impossible mission she wasn’t conditioned for, and her senses suffered for her. Her ability to reason had been compromised.

  “We’ve all seen horror… things we cannot speak for fear of losing our hearts to pain. My own courage has wavered, but I know what I must do. I know what I have to do, for Frank, Kathy, Macon, and you. Anyone who wants to live.”

  “You still have your faith, even now?”

  Father chuckled. “Of course, my love for Him is absolute. If I could share His strength with you, show you His love, this… all this around you, would seem as nothing more than another challenge for the soul.”

  “Have you ever thought maybe you’re the one who’s insane?”

  He sank down into his chair again. He withdrew a rosary from his pocket and fingered the beads.

  Kathy and Macon wheeled the Frank into the room. Kathy seemed more composed, but Rose knew the tension was high between these survivors. Kathy was disenchanted with Father; they were waiting out a storm without an end.

  “How long do we wait?” Kathy asked Father.

  “I don’t know what you’re waiting for,” Father said. “If you decide we should all leave, I’ll go with you. There’s nothing to wait for.”

  “Oh, you know, just waiting for a miracle. Maybe a light in the sky. All those things just to drop.”

  “You want to feel safe,” Father said. “I don’t know if you’ll feel safe again. You want me to give you answers, but I don’t have them. You’re tired of my answers.”

  “You have a barricade?” Rose interrupted.

  Nobody answered, as if they were weighing whether or not she was worth their time, or if she could be trusted with a secret.

  “Tell her,” Kathy said, “go ahead. The same bullshit you told us.”

  Father smiled, though he knew Kathy wanted him to talk to show how much of a fool he was. “I’ve got a blessed crucifix over the doors in the lobby. The dead people don’t come in.”

  “And now tell her why we don’t all have our own, so we can just go out there and be like you. Tell her.”

  “She already knows the answer.”

  “I believe!” Macon said. “The zombies can’t get me because I believe in God!”

  “You see this man?” Kathy pointed to Frank. “He’s about to croak—ask him if he believes. Let’s put on a show for our guest, Father.”

  “I can’t stop you from being upset—”

  “You’re supposed to have all the answers,” Kathy turned to him, her face red with anguish. “Your little experiment with Pete and his wife didn’t work out so well, did it? They said they believed, and they didn’t get three goddamn feet before those things took them. And all you can do is apologize and pray. What if those were Macon’s parents? What if you take him out there with you next time?”

  Kathy straightened, and Macon closed his eyes. Father was poised to jump out of his chair and go to the boy, whose parents were probably already dead.

  Frank farted and licked his lips. “You done?” he asked the room.

  “If God can protect you, if God’s real, then He fucking did this to us,” Kathy continued, “and just like Him, you’re a piece of shit without a plan. You wanted God to punish the world… How does that make you feel?”

  “I can’t burden myself with the world’s tears,” Father said.

  Kathy turned her back to them and sobbed with her hands on her hips, her head high, her body shaking from sorrow.

  Rose glanced at her tactical watch.

  One of the Humvees was on the move.

  ***

  After Father Joe left, Kathy fell asleep in a chair and Frank dozed in his wheelchair.

  Rose thought about going back out with Father, but he had his own reasons for leaving. Kathy and Frank chased him away with guilt, but Rose knew he would come back. He would save everyone he could, even if that meant bringing a thousand people to the nursing home—a prison for Kathy.

  The inside of the building was quiet enough for Rose to hear the occasional gunshot drift through the open windows. Kathy and Frank weren’t impressed with Father’s odd ability to keep the dead at bay, but Rose respected it. He could be useful, and it was important to keep him alive. It was stupid to let him go out by himself—a tactical mistake.

  Macon followed her into an empty room. He sat next to her in the dark and watched her play with the dials on the radio she salvaged from the asylum. If it occupied his mind to watch her try to call up Selfridge, then it was good for him to watch. With his rifle in his hand, he watched without making any noise.

  She tried the signal and had no idea what to expect, or what to hope for. Just a voice over the other end, someone to tell her it wasn’t a waste of time, or a waste of her life.

  Macon sat with his chin on his forearm, watching her play with the dials. He was a cute boy and she wondered what he’d witnessed, but soon it might not even matter.

  It wasn’t every day that a pretty girl winked at him and ruffled his hair. He sat up and smiled at her. Maybe it wasn’t sinking in yet. He had his shit together, and she wasn’t about to rock the boat.

  “Thanks for being such a good shot,” she said.

  “You should see how good I am at Call of Duty,” he smiled. “I’ve got an awesome kill-ratio.”

  “I bet you’re one of the best,” Rose said.

  There was an emergency broadcast from the base that suggested they were overrun. The transmission repeated itself, so it was likely old. She tried another channel and asked if anyone was out there.

  A voice shattered the moment.

  “I knew they would send you,” Jim Traverse responded over the radio, “over.”

  Rose didn’t want to keep the conversation going. No matter how many times she rehearsed it since Jim left, all the emotions and words evaded her.

  She had to distance herself from her actions. It was another job, another target. “What’s your status at Selfridge, over?”

  “You want me to speak, but you don’t want to hear my voice. I’m touched you remember me; they wouldn’t have sent you otherwise. Drop the pretense. Speak to me as you will. I can hear the pain in your voice, and I want it.”

  A sigh shook her body.

  “You already know everything I’ll say,” Rose looked at Macon when she spoke to keep her mind focused. “You know I’m coming for you, so whatever it is you can do to help all these people outside, is more important than anything we can say to each other, over.”

  Jim chuckled. “I’m already here. I’m waiting for you, actually. What if I told you I’m doing this to see you again? What if I told you I did this to bring you to me? I never forgot my promise, over.”

  “I’ll see you at Selfridge then, over and out.”

  Turning off the radio felt like she cut across her wrists with a knife to bleed out. His words
were the narcotic she craved, an addiction she couldn’t overcome.

  “Is that your boyfriend?” Macon asked. “He sounds like a dick.”

  Rose laughed. “No. He’s not my boyfriend anymore. And yeah, he’s a dick.”

  GRIGGS

  Sergeant John Charles grilled hamburgers on a George Foreman grille they stole from a nearby house, while Griggs snacked on a bag of Doritos and scanned through his lawyer’s cell phone. The guy must’ve been dead. Would they have won their case? The state of Michigan owed him an apology, because thousands watched Mina videos without a single cent going into his pocket. But that was the past. Vega and the thug were out looking for some fresh clothes and a few other supplies. Because of Vincent’s rampage against the neighborhood’s population of corpses, it was easy to lay low if they didn’t make any noise. Griggs flipped through text messages from someone named Bella.

  He watched several videos and newscasts on Youtube while browsing the web on the smartphone. He read news articles and blog posts. He read eyewitness accounts on Twitter. He read the prayers of a million people who confronted death and discovered God.

  “How bad is it?” Sergeant Charles asked.

  “Bad,” Griggs replied.

  “My CO thought it was going global. He seemed to know more than we did.”

  “You know what it is now?”

  John thought about it. “No. They never paid me to think. And when the money didn’t matter, nothing else did either. There was nothing for me to spend it on. But the rules changed.”

  “So you’re not married anymore.”

  “How’d you guess?” John looked at his wedding band and adjusted it on his finger.

  “You got the ring but money doesn’t matter. I figure it didn’t matter to your wife, like it didn’t to mine. But I stopped giving a shit, anyway.”

  The sergeant folded his arms across his chest. “I used to look at this ring and think about why I do it. I was going to put my daughter through college. All part of a plan, you know. So I still do this because it’s a habit.”

  “It happens when you see a lot of blood,” Griggs said, thinking about his own realization, the sudden instinct that gave him cause to blow Nikki away when he needed to. “I don’t have problems with money. Pays for pussy and booze.”