Generation Z (Book 4): The Queen Unthroned

by Meredith, Peter

  Walker let out a grunt as he glanced briefly up at the sky cowboy which was pitched well over, practically lying on its side. “Nope, not long,” he said, shortly. He didn’t have time for stargazing when there was still so much to get done. “If you don’t mind, your Excellency, I have…”

  “What do you think, Christian? Will they attack as soon as the wall comes down?”

  “I have no idea,” Walker answered, honestly. “It’s what I would do, but with her, there’s no telling.”

  The Bishop sighed and placed his soft hands behind his back. “She is devilishly tricky, that one. I think we can only plan for the unexpected.” He smiled up at the tall commander, expectantly.

  A scowl bent Walker’s brows down—did Wojdan want him to start spitting out wild guesses as to what the Queen was going to do next? By their very nature, unexpected attacks were purposely vague and, although he knew next to nothing about this queen, she had already proven to be just as the Bishop had said: devilish.

  Walker was glad the dark hid his scowl. He had as much respect for the Bishop as anyone; perhaps even more. Walker had been with him since the beginning, back when he had been Father Wojdan, back when the zombie hordes had roared across the earth in unstoppable masses. In the midst of all that terror, Wojdan had not only never lost faith, he had used it as a shield to protect his flock. He had singlehandedly held the community together. Whenever things had looked their darkest, the priest would intone: “God will provide,” with complete assurance, and God had provided.

  “Whatever her plans are, we are limited in our responses.” He was curt, hoping that the Bishop would leave, to make his rounds among the people. The man had a calming influence which was needed among the civilians.

  Walker’s Knights were another story. They needed to be amped; they needed to have righteous electricity running through their veins. He needed them to be an extension of God’s right arm, smiting without let up or mercy, until that time in which mercy was called for. With Corsairs, mercy was a flexible concept. The war that had been thrust upon the Guardians had been expected for some time and it was thought that to shorten it and saves lives in the long run, sadly vicious actions had to be more than just condoned, they had to be a part of their strategy.

  But were such actions needed against this Queen? Devilishly tricky or not, when the wall came down, she would still have to mount a frontal assault against trained fighters, who would have their backs to a moral and metaphorical wall. His Knights would not run away and they would not surrender. They would sell their lives at a dear price.

  How many casualties would the Queen or her army endure before they broke? Walker guessed that it would be far fewer than the Queen was anticipating. Twenty percent was a high guess. Historically speaking, ten to fifteen percent casualties would suffice to stop practically any attack. Those were numbers he could guarantee even if there were more surprises.

  The wall groaned again, this time sounding like it was in pain. “Not long at all,”

  Walker said, under his breath. He felt an odd sadness overcome him, almost as if an old friend was dying. “Excuse me, your Excellency. There are some last-minute things I have to attend to in person.”

  The Commander walked down the length of the new trench, nodding to his men as they hacked at the earth. A few saluted him, while others threw themselves even harder into their work. Only a handful let their fear show. Next, he inspected the new “fortification” that was being hastily prepared behind the trench.

  Dirt from the moat was being piled up, patted, wetted, and smacked with shovels in a doomed effort to form a new wall. The best that could be managed under such short notice was little more than a squat, sloping mound which was wider at the base than it was tall. Regardless, Walker smiled and praised the workers as if it were the equivalent of the Great Wall of China.

  It will provide some cover at least, he thought to himself. It was better than nothing and if the Queen was telling the truth about not using explosives then the mud wall could make all the difference. “Didn’t she also mention not firing a shot?” he muttered.

  “It’s a trick, Commander,” Keith Treadwell said. He had come hurrying up, his armor clacking and his chest heaving. “She probably meant that she wouldn’t fire a shot. You know what I’m saying?”

  Walker hadn’t thought about that. “I wouldn’t put it past her,” he answered. “What’s the word on the wall?”

  “That’s what I came over to tell you, there’s water coming through on our side of it. It’s not going to be long before it comes down.”

  “That’s what everyone’s saying. Have you cleared it completely?”

  “Yes, Sir. Just like you asked me. I walked through it myself from end to end, not twenty minutes ago. It’s empty.” Treadwell sighed. “Empty and a little sad. I’m going to miss her, you know what I’m saying? She’s been around for so long.”

  Walker thought it interesting that he had just been thinking the same thing. “We’ll make the next wall even stronger. And we’ll put the moat on the other side of it.”

  Treadwell started to grin at the little joke, only the wall groaned again, an immense, deep sonorous sound that filled the air and vibrated up through the ground. Everyone stopped what they were doing to stare as the front section of it slowly began to lean further and further away. The groan took on a high-pitched wail as the intertwining lattice of rebar which connected the entire structure like a skeleton, began to stretch like taffy.

  The wall stood, improbably tipped for close on a minute before it suddenly collapsed. In the dark, it was impossible to see the destruction completely; it could only be felt and heard. It started with a vast, deep rumbling that grew to a frightful, thundering roar, which faded to echoes that carried on and on like the distant sound of thunder.

  When the echoes finally ended, the entire community stared about in shock. Save for what looked like stunted wings on either end, the wall was gone—just as Jillybean had sworn, she had torn down the walls and the Guardians were indeed vulnerable—suddenly the little ditch and the thigh-high mound of dirt seemed terribly pathetic, even childish.

  “What’s that?” someone asked, in a high, strained voice. Everyone had been standing with their ears cocked, expecting the Queen’s attack to commence right away. Instead of the sound of boots and gunfire, there was the innocent gurgle of water as the Queen’s river trundled over the remains of the walls, washed gently down the fifty yards of open ground, and began filling the ditch.

  To a man, the diggers began to leap out of the moat as if it was acid pouring over the side instead of cold, dark water.

  Walker frowned at the display; it smacked of cowardice. Dropping to one knee, he made a show of drinking the water. Although it was gritty and unpleasantly earthy, he smacked his lips. “Not bad, not bad. The Queen has been kind enough to give us a new source of fresh water. Once we destroy her army, we’ll have to thank her.”

  The Knights laughed at his show of bravado and a few tasted the water as well, to demonstrate they weren’t afraid, either. Walker smiled on them with easy benevolence before turning to Treadwell and calmly ordering: “Get everyone to their battle stations and have Melinda check out the remaining parts of the walls. Unless a feather could knock those parts down, I want some of the reserves up there pronto.”

  Treadwell saluted smartly before hurrying to bellow and bark at the company commanders, who in turn bellowed and barked, and in some cases, shoved their people into their new positions. It was a mad, jumbled scene, with men throwing down their shovels and snatching up rifles as they ran here and there, looking for their helmets or their rucks, or the right section of the low mound they were to defend.

  There was Jennifer Edgerton giving out last minute instructions to a group of reserves, and Denise Woodruff, who was rushing the nursing team back to the three-bed hospital. He saw his daughter, Ryanne holding Ida Battenburg’s hand as they and the other small children walked in a two-by-two line to the church.
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br />   They marched past the four priests who had taken up positions at intervals behind the mound. Each had a nun and a deacon in attendance. Behind them were the older children who would act as ammo runners, and the middling teens who would become stretcher bearers. Even the very old and the lame took part in the defense. Some kept watch over the approaches to the harbor while others braved the remains of the wall. They carried only crossbows but were deadly with them.

  During the chaos, the Bishop found Walker once more. Wojdan fell in beside him as he marched behind the low mound. “I wonder if she will actually attack,” the Bishop remarked. He was so utterly devoid of fear that he might have been commenting on the weather. “She did say she would compel our surrender without explosives or firing a weapon.”

  This same sort of question was being asked up and down the line. It seemed it was all anyone could talk about. In Walker’s opinion, anyone who believed it was being foolishly optimistic.

  “She’s going to need to shoot, alright,” Walker said, speaking louder than necessary, knowing he would be overheard. “Unless she’s got some new trick up her sleeve, her Corsairs are going to have to come at us right down Broadway.” He stuck an arm out, pointing due east to where the gate had once stood. “For all her smarts, she wasn’t able to destroy the entire wall and with our flanks secure, she’s going to have to attack into the teeth of our defenses.”

  The long pile of earth didn’t look as if it had much in the way of teeth, Walker would be the first to admit that. Still, there was a tremendous advantage in firing from cover in a stable position.

  “And you believe the remains of the wall will stand?”

  Walker fought the desire to shrug. “It almost doesn’t matter. What matters is if she thinks they’ll stand. If so, she won’t risk a flank attack. And if she does, we’ll meet the attack and tear it apart.”

  “I wonder,” the Bishop said again, stepping forward to inspect the moat which was already half-filled. “I fear we have only caught a glimpse of what’s in her bag of tricks.” He did not have to wait long to be proven right. A few minutes of tense silence passed before an orange light shot into the air from behind the hills, causing the entire town to gasp in unison. It went up a good two-hundred feet and then seemed to hang in the sky, pulsing strangely.

  “That’s a flare!” Treadwell shouted from far down the line. “It’s time! Get ready, Knights!”

  The Knights were as ready as they could be, crouched down behind the mound or lying across it, their rifles at the ready. But it was not time. The one flare slowly settled onto the ground where it burned itself out. Within a second of its landing, another was shot into the sky and it too took a minute or so to drop to the earth. After that the flares came at steady intervals—when one went out or hit the ground, another was sent up.

  “I don’t get it, Commander,” Treadwell said, walking over, his body partially turned toward the latest flare as if he were afraid to turn his back to it. “If those are signal flares, where’s the attack? And what kind of signal is that, anyway? One or two flares is a signal. Different colors is a signal. Just shooting the same ones up, over and over again isn’t a signal. Is she just messing with our heads?”

  Walker didn’t understand the flares either. He too didn’t see the point in them as a signal and nor were they at all effective in lighting the battlefield. They were far too small and looked somewhat like floating chandeliers. Despite their apparent uselessness, they made him nervous, especially as they were fired on trajectories that steadily brought them closer to the edge of town. Essentially, they made him nervous because he couldn’t figure them out.

  The Bishop seemed to be able to read his mind. “It’s almost as if she sees us as primitive men with a primitive man’s fears. Do you see how she plays upon the fears of the uncivilized brute in all of us? We fear the dark and she works in the dark. We fear what we don’t understand, and she gives us puzzles. We fear the unknown and her actions are hidden and unknowable.”

  This didn’t sit well with Walker and it didn’t help that those men and women who were close by had crossed themselves at the mention of the unknown and were nodding along with the Bishop. Walker trusted in God as much as the Bishop did and yet he also believed that God helped those who helped themselves. “What we don’t fear are queens, Corsairs, and mind games,” Walker stated, a little more gruffly than he meant to. He gave an abbreviated bow and added in a softer tone, “Your Excellency.”

  For some reason, Treadwell also bowed before saying, “Of course we aren’t afraid, but maybe we should think about sending out one of the recon teams. You know, because of the unknown and all. Forewarned is forearmed, right?”

  Walker hated giving in, even to the specter of fear, and yet the flares were drawing ever closer and the entire point of the recon team was to discover what the enemy was up to. “Fine,” he grunted. “Send out Holt and his men.”

  Chapter 29

  As always Troy Holt carried his spear and had his rifle strapped across his back. Before saluting the Knights Commander, he dropped to one knee and kissed the Bishop’s ring. Wojdan drew the sign of the cross on the young man’s forehead and told him, “The Lord God will be with you and protect you on your mission.”

  Troy grinned, his teeth white against his freshly blackened skin. He and his five-man team had daubed their faces with ash in preparation for the mission. “Amen. Thank you, your Excellency.”

  The Knights Sergeant then stood at attention and snapped off a salute. “Holt reporting, Sir.” Beneath the ash and the camouflage, Troy was clear-eyed and apple-cheeked. At nineteen, he was the youngest of the Knights. He was also the bravest, which was no small feat, as the men around him were known for their bravery. He put his complete trust in God.

  Walker pointed up at the latest flare. “I want you and your team to find out the purpose of the flares. We need to know what the Queen is up to. Chances are it’s her way of prepping us for an attack. She might think she’s getting under our skin, I don’t know. Your job is to find out. Do not engage if you run into heavy opposition. Evade and assess, only. Do you understand?”

  Troy answered with an exuberant: “Yes, Sir!”

  “Be a good lad, and have your men blessed before they leave,” the Bishop Wojdan said.

  “They’re with Father Amacker now, your Excellency.”

  The Bishop beamed. “That’s fantastic. I’m sure you and your men will do us proud. Now, off you go.” Walker watched him go with a heavy heart. Wojdan read the worry on his face. “You’re afraid that you promoted him too quickly. You fear that he trusts too much in God, if such a thing is possible. And you are full of doubt that you missed some step in his training that will lead to his death.”

  “Yes,” Walker, sighed.

  “Heavy is the weight of leadership. Young Troy and I are fortunate. Our steps are chosen for us. Ours is simply to do and die. You, on the other hand, must assign the dangerous paths on which your men walk. It is a burden, though in this case, I feel you have not chosen wrong. He is the very essence of Christian chivalry.”

  Despite his deep faith, Walker looked for more than Christian chivalry in his Knights and doubly so in those who were in leadership positions. So far, Troy had passed every test set before him. He had faced cartel pirates out of Diablo Canyon, and Mendota hill bandits, as well as zombies by the score.

  He was quick and agile, both mentally and physically. He was also patient and calm when the situation called for it, which, more than his vaunted bravery, was why older men put their trust in him. Not that he led men who were all that much older.

  The oldest man on his Recon team was twenty-four-year-old Justin Regis. He was tall and rangy, and never seemed to tire, no matter how hard Troy pushed the pace. The next oldest was Shamus McGuigan, with his beak of a nose and his habit of painting flowers on his M4. Then came Eric Gothier with his trademark slouch that made even his armor seem relaxed. Stocky Bob Duckwall was one of the strongest men among the Knights—he li
ked nothing more than wrestling men twice his size and bending them into human knots. And finally, there was Chris Baker, who hummed instead of speaking, as his tongue had been cut out by a hill bandit eight years before.

  The five waited quietly in the dark and were unsurprised by the orders Troy relayed.

  “They are weird,” Shamus remarked, giving the latest flare a glance as it floated lazily along. The ash on his nose was marred, showing his skin. He was overly sensitive about his long nose and had a tendency to touch it frequently.

  “You know what I think?” Eric asked. “I think it’s a sleep thing. You know, like deprivation. Her people are probably snoring away while we’re here frightened of a few lights. I bet it’ll be drums next and then a few gunshots. Then tomorrow they’ll act like they’re just about to attack and then pull back. A few days of that and we’ll be going batty. That’s how you win without firing a shot.”

  Baker hummed in agreement; however, Regis shook his head. “Not this queen-chick. She’s got Corsairs working for her, so you know she’s evil right down into the pit of her stomach. Here’s what I think: I think she’s going to poison that river. Easy-peasy. No shots fired.” He wiped his hands together as if brushing away dirt.

  “Then what’s with the flares?” Eric demanded.

  Before Regis could answer, Troy interrupted, “That’s what we’re going to find out, if you guys will stop arguing. Now, since this is so straightforward, we’re going to travel light.” Normally, they carried equipment and supplies for at least three days but with the flares puffing into existence almost over their heads, Troy figured they’d run into trouble fairly quickly.

  “We’re not taking spears, are we?” Regis asked. “If there’s any dead around, they’d be going after the Corsairs.”

  Troy hesitated. The ten-foot long spears were bulky and would slow them down, yet if they ran into even one zombie, they would be forced to use their rifles and ruin the element of surprise. “Take them.” Along with their spears, each man took only his M9 bayonet, ninety rounds of ammunition and an M4 carbine.