Generation Z (Book 6): The Queen Unchained

by Meredith, Peter

  She was a poor liar. “No, tell me what’s wrong. Consider that an order.”

  His hard gaze was too much for her and in truth she wanted to tell him one way or another. She was too afraid of turning into one of the monsters to keep it in anymore. “I might have gotten scratched by one of them. When we were on the boat and the torpedo was coming at us, that zombie got my leg. But it doesn’t hurt. It’s just like a normal scratch.”

  This sent a spasm through Gunner’s chest. The pain was nasty and sharp, and drained all of the color out of his face. “For goodness sakes, why didn’t you tell me? Let me see.”

  She plunked her foot up on the desk, pulled up the cuff of her jeans and showed him the scabbed-over scratches. Peering in at the wound, he rumbled out a long “Hmmm” before he hawked up some black gunk, which he spat into a potted plant. “First off, they’re not inflamed, so that’s something,” he said, first touching the flesh around the scratches and then her forehead. “And you got these on the boat? That was a while ago, six hours at least. Children tend to turn early and you’re not even warm. There’s a good chance you’ll be okay. I know saltwater kills some kind of germs, and that zombie had been in the water a long time. His claws might not have been infected.”

  “Really?” She was suddenly smiling like a kid at Christmas.

  “I said maybe. How’s your head? Any headache? Blurred vision? No? Look at the light. Stare into it.” She didn’t flinch or squint. He leaned back, feeling the spike of fear that had sent his heart trip-hammering, recede by degrees. “So far, you’re good, but we’ll keep an eye on you. You know, I was scratched once. I thought I was a goner. I always thought that maybe I had cleaned the scratch quickly enough, but maybe some sort of immunity runs in the fam…” He caught himself just in time. “In certain people, that is.”

  She had forgotten that story until just then. Thinking that it was the end for him, he had gotten rip-roaring drunk and had come away from his near-death experience with the hangover to kill all hangovers. In the last few hours, she had felt that same sort of desire. Not to get drunk, but to lash out, to do something insane. Now that feeling was completely gone. She felt fine. Better than fine, in fact. She felt so good that she suddenly wanted to laugh and it came bubbling up out of her in a happy giggle that went on and on.

  A wide grin spread out across Gunner’s face as he reveled in the laughter. Sadly, the grin was temporary and a wet, hacking cough stole it from him and killed her laughter. She grabbed his good arm, gripping it tightly. “I really think you need to try Uncle Neil’s zombie virus thing. Just a little scratch, okay? You never know, it might help you. And he’s still mostly himself. He knows right and wrong, and he understands jokes and stuff. He’s also way tougher. Won’t you just think about it?”

  “No.” He pointed at his face with his stump of a left arm. “This is bad enough to live with. Besides, I need to keep my wits about me. We still have a real enemy to face. In the meantime, do me a favor and don’t mention being scratched to your mom. She’s got enough to deal with already.”

  As much to keep her from letting out her secret as to spread rumors about Gunner, he kept Emily running around the island for the rest of the day and then deep into the night. He had her demanding answers here, asking questions there, getting counts of people, sleeping bags, canteens, ponchos, tents, and so on. It was endless and although she grew tired and slow from want of food, her head never took on that terrible ache.

  There was too much to do to worry about the scratches. Once Gunner had his questions answered, there were battalions to be formed, and out of these companies, and then platoons were created. Each needed a commander, an executive officer and a bizarre array of majors, lieutenants and sergeants.

  And of course, everyone needed to be given the juicy gossip that the new commander was an actual soldier with combat experience and that he had an exciting, can’t-miss plan to destroy the Corsairs on land and on the sea.

  Emily was pressed by every person she passed for information on the plan, which made the concept of the nosiest among them being a spy a stiff competition with a hundred front runners. Many of her old friends even began following her around until it felt like she was leading a parade. She didn’t complain. Not only did they become her mouth pieces and help to spread the news of their coming victory far and wide, they also kept her safe. Now that her terrible fate had been averted, she felt the keenest desire to live.

  The parade of children and teens was exactly what the islanders needed. They had a fearless energy that spread around them, infecting the adults and, as Bainbridge took on a martial air with formations of men and women marching to the harbor and guns everywhere in sight, people began to believe in the possibility of winning.

  Of course, everyone wanted to know how they were going to win, to which Emily always answered: “It’s top secret. I wish I could tell you, but I can’t.” This did nothing to dampen curiosity and she had to dodge all sorts of prying questions. Late in the afternoon, Gunner told her to leak where they would be winning this great battle.

  “Gorst,” she told her friend Cindi, who was a notorious gossip and was certainly no spy. She hadn’t yet met a secret that she hadn’t blabbed.

  “Ah, Gorst,” she said as if she knew the relevance of the town.

  Gorst was a little town five miles away down the Sinclair Inlet. There was only one reason anyone wanted to go to Gorst and that was because it was at the head of Route 3, which ran directly to Belair. Belair sat on the bridge of land that connected all of the western part of the Sound to the mainland. The army that held Belair didn’t need a navy to attack Hoquiam.

  Cindi wasn’t alone in her ignorance concerning the significance of Gorst, which was proven when Veronica Hennesy came bursting into the dead quiet home of Gina and Eddie Sanders.

  “The army is really going to Gorst?” she asked in a blaring, brassy voice, that disturbed the still air and made Deanna jump. This was Deanna’s third stop in her search for clues. She had been to Norris Barnes’ house and Joslyn Reynold’s place, going through each from top to bottom, trying to find any clue at all and coming up empty. The Sanders house was different. She knew she was missing something vital and knew it from the moment she had walked in, she just didn’t know what it was. Whatever little fact or clue there was remained maddeningly just out of reach.

  “I’m upstairs,” Deanna yelled, dumping another drawer onto the floor. She began picking through Eddie’s socks and underwear, tossing them one by one into the immense and growing pyramid of shirts, papers, pants and whatnot in the center of the room.

  Veronica huffed up to the master bedroom and stared at the mess from the doorway. “Hey Dee, I got a bunch of stuff for you to sign. A lot of the shopkeepers are getting their panties in a bunch with what Gunner’s making demands for. They want everything in writing.” While Deanna scribbled her name on each paper, Veronica asked, “We’re attacking Gorst? Isn’t that a bit far with just the one boat, the one big boat, I mean? If even one of their ships show up at the wrong time, that’ll be that. They have torpedoes, Dee.”

  “I actually don’t know what the plan is,” Deanna told her. “Gunner said he had a plan to destroy the Corsairs, and made it clear it should be a secret. Hopefully you haven’t been talking to anyone.”

  “I haven’t, but Emily is talking up a storm. It’s a little late to do anything about anything at least about Gorst. Maybe you should talk to her about keeping the Belair part of the plan under her hat. She trusted me because I’m a friend of the family. Others though…with the spy around she should be more careful.”

  All of this was a great relief to Deanna; it sounded as though Emily was doing exactly what Gunner wanted. “I’ll tell her when I see her. Damn, I’m missing something here. There was something about this house that was important. I felt it the day I came to question Gina. But what was it?”

  “A note?” Veronica suggested. “You know, from the spy? Only you didn’t know it was a note until too l
ate. Like it was in code or something.”

  It wasn’t a note. “Maybe,” Deanna said, trying to be polite.

  Veronica snapped her fingers as an idea hit her. “You should retrace your steps. Come on.” Before Deanna knew it, she was being dragged downstairs. Veronica turned her around at the front door. “You walk in, and then what? What did you see?”

  “Gina holding her baby.” Gina had been puffy-eyed and weak, holding her baby like he was a shield. She had refused to let go of him and, as the questioning went on, she had found the strength to be defiant. “She was sitting on the couch right there.” In her place was Neil Martin, his head back, the edge of his scalp an ugly red line held by a couple of safety pins. He was snoring softly.

  Deanna tried to sift through her memory of that night, trying to find that one elusive element that was nagging at her mind. It wouldn’t come. “The problem is that the house is different. It’s been searched and searched. Nothing is exactly how it was. You know what I need? The pictures that Deberha took. Remember? She took pictures of everything. It was practically her entire investigation.”

  Veronica volunteered to go find what pictures she could of the house, but was sidetracked and never came back. Deanna was still picking through the mess when the sun went down and Andrea Cleary came to find her.

  “The boats are being filled up,” she said. “The first group is going to leave soon.” When Deanna only nodded, Andrea added, “Emily is with them.”

  “What?” Deanna didn’t wait for an answer and was off like a shot, running for the harbor, afraid that she would miss the chance to drag Emily back by her ear. Thankfully, the boats hadn’t left yet and were only half filled. She found Emily with clipboard in hand directing platoons to different boats. In the dark she seemed older than eleven.

  Deanna stared for a few moments, drinking in the sight of her daughter helping to lead her people. Without saying a word, she grabbed Emily from behind in a bear hug. “Are you really going out with the first group?”

  “Mom? Oh, no. We’re going out with the last one. You know I wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye. Though I did ask Miss Cleary to get you. I thought you should be here when the first company sets sail. I also thought you might want to say goodbye to Knights Sergeant Holt. By the way, you authorized some supplies and a small crew for him; no one we’ll miss. It was Gunner’s idea.”

  The tall handsome Guardian was standing off to the side and when Emily waved him over, Deanna went into Governor mode, thanking him and pledging the support of Bainbridge to the Guardians. The entire time she spoke, Deanna wondered if there would be anyone left to honor the pledge. He thanked her, shook her hand formally and then hugged Emily, making her blush and turning her tongue-tied.

  “You saved my life,” he said, “I won’t forget it.”

  A goofy laugh escaped Emily before she could stop it. “It was no problem. Oh, not that I’m bragging. It’s just…ummm.”

  “She means you’re welcome,” Deanna said, smoothly. He grinned and kissed Emily on the cheek. She didn’t even try to speak until he had leapt lightly onto the deck of the Harbinger.

  “This is by far the best day of my life,” she said, touching her cheek and watching as the one-time Corsair boat was pushed away from the dock. The harbor gate was opened and the black ship slipped silently out into the dark night. Now it was the fleet’s turn to leave. The fishing ships were crammed with men and gear, and were only waiting on the company commander to board the Dead Fish. Paul Daniels had been chosen and he stood to one side, scanning the sizable crowd. Pretty much the entire population of the island was there.

  “Where’s Veronica?” he asked as he shook Deanna’s hand and accepted his sealed orders from Emily.

  Deanna had been wondering the same thing and she too turned to look back as Emily reminded Paul not to open the orders until daybreak. “Yeah, I got it,” he muttered and stumped over to the gangway.

  There was a brief cheer as the sail went up. Deanna wasn’t among those cheering. She had a cold fear beginning to take root in her chest. “Let me borrow your gun,” she said to Emily. In response to her daughter’s look of concern, she added, “I have to check something out. It’ll be okay.”

  Emily had too much to do to follow after her mom as she made her way to the island’s one police station. It’s where Veronica would have gone for the pictures. It was dark and cold, and probably empty. Regardless, Deanna carried the gun openly as she approached the door. Its glass had been smashed in.

  “Damn,” she whispered, gripping the gun so hard that if the safety hadn’t been on she would have shot the building. She should have yelled for help or ran to get Neil, however the idea that Veronica was in there bleeding to death decided things. She went in alone. The building was empty…mostly. Veronica’s cold body was there in Deberha’s office. The back of her head had been smashed in.

  The spy had struck again. “No, the assassin had struck,” Deanna growled. She was angry now. The fire of her rage blotted out the fear completely. “I’m going to find you!” she screamed. And she believed it. Veronica had died because of the pictures. There was something on them, something that gave away the assassin.

  Chapter 22

  Strait of Juan de Fuca, Washington

  Knights Sergeant Troy Holt got his wish and more. The Harbinger was skimming along the light swell with the grace of a swan and the speed of a quarter-horse.

  “We’ll keep the spinnaker aloft for the rest of the night,” he told Emanuel Powers, the man on duty. The governor had not only given him the ship, but had also provided him with a five-person crew. Yes, they were all from the objector lists, and Sara Sullivan was older, and Curtis Owens was rather slow, and Emanuel was missing a foot and hobbled around in a special boot, but they were still fishermen and knew something about boats.

  None had been on an ocean-going vessel before and they were all suffering from seasickness to one degree or another. Because there were no secrets on board a ship that was exactly fifty-feet from stem to stern, they could not suffer in silence, though they did suffer without complaint. They were about as jolly as could be, under the circumstances.

  In their minds, they were flying from an un-winnable battle and, as they had already managed to escape the narrowest part of Puget Sound unseen, they had high hopes that they could make it to the Pacific without incident. They were currently far out of the normal shipping lanes found in the Strait of Juan de Fuca and were practically rubbing the southern coast of Vancouver Island. It was a great dark mass a mile north of them, and from almost any distance, the black ship was lost against the black background. They carried no lights and not even a galley fire, although it was a sharp, cold night.

  “Wake me if anything changes.” He went below and struggled out of his armor. His wound still gave him pains; taking a deep breath made him wince and it was murder to sneeze. This would be his first time attempting to sleep since the surgery, and he worried that the nagging pain would keep him up. He also worried about abandoning the people of Bainbridge in their darkest hour. They were clearly in need of help and he feared Gunner was not up to the task. When he thought no one was looking, the dying hunchback would slump, unable to hold himself erect.

  His biggest worry was for his own people. They had participated in a highly immoral act—that of not standing up for the weak. He was as much to blame as anyone and wished he had understood the larger ramifications of Jillybean’s crusade. She had not been after power, she had been after justice.

  “And I didn’t see it. The plank in my eye blinded me.” He named the plank pride and, as he lay there, he prayed for forgiveness. He also prayed for his people to see that they couldn’t just sit by while good people fought such outrageous evil alone.

  “The strong have a duty,” he said, in a groggy slur. “What you do for the least of your brothers, you do for me.” Though in truth, they were not that strong and he had to wonder what seven hundred men and thirty ships could do against the forces the C
aptain had on hand? Even teamed up with the People of the Bay, they were too weak to do more than—a huge yawn struck him—to do more than put up a desperate defense. And didn’t they have to do more than just survive? Just checking the power of the Corsairs wasn’t enough. They would return in greater numbers as soon as Bainbridge fell…in mid-thought, his mind went black, his exhausted body sagged limply and he slipped into a deep sleep.

  Three hours later, he was just this side of a coma and yet he instantly knew the feel of trouble. Quick feet thumping to the boom, heavy breathing with low curses, the feel of the Harbinger being turned into the wind, her sudden griping, and the whip-crack of the spinnaker. More racing feet and a light knock on his cabin door.

  It was Teresa Byrd, a stringy little person with thin lips and grey in her floppy hair. For too many years, she had been a slave and her will to fight had long been broken. “There’s lights out on the water. It’s gotta be Corsairs. Right?” She whispered this as if the Corsairs were in the next cabin over.

  “We’ll see.” This was his version of a lie. The Guardians never sailed with trawling lights or any other light if they ventured north of San Francisco; it could only be the Corsairs. Troy had stiffened up considerably. It was a struggle to get out of the bed and he winced as he tried to throw on a coat.

  “Let me get that,” Teresa said, lifting the back of the coat so he wouldn’t have to stretch.

  Thanking her, he hurried on deck where Emanuel was desperately hugging the spinnaker to keep it from making any more noise. Even in the dark, Troy could see his fear. It puckered his wrinkled face, giving it a hundred more lines that it had before.

  A quick glance to the south showed the distant lights; eleven of them. They were somewhere around three miles away, too far to hear sails luffing. “Teresa,” he turned and saw that the woman hadn’t followed him on deck. She and two others were huddled on the companionway stairs. “Do not be afraid. And Emanuel, that isn’t necessary. Let the sail go once I turn us back on course.”