Generation Z (Book 4): The Queen Unthroned

by Meredith, Peter

  When they had ditched all their gear led, except for two coils of rope, he headed toward the tiny, rock-strewn inlet which doubled as their harbor. It was surrounded by sharp, slick cliffs and Troy knew that if they could escape the town without being seen by any of the Queen’s spies, it would be there. Getting down to the harbor itself was easy. The Guardians had built retractable ladders especially for the purpose.

  Once on the craggy beach, Troy began to sneak south, picking his way through the rocks and trying to keep as close to the looming cliff as he could. What little noise the six of them made was drowned out by the endless crashing waves, breaking not far from the low tide mark. Sometimes, with the last of their energy, the dregs of these waves would wash over the toes of their boots and at other times they waded through waist deep water.

  After half a mile, Troy began to look for a place to climb the cliff that wasn’t so steep. Had this been a training mission, he would have chosen the hardest spot he could find. Just then, they couldn’t afford to take any chances.

  When he found a favorable spot, he unslung one of the lengths of ropes and handed it to Duckwall. Although he was the shortest of them, he was easily the best climber. His hands were so incredibly strong that he could hang by the tips of his fingers for minutes at a time. Without breaking a sweat, Duckwall worked his way to the top, tied off rope and dropped the loose end down to Troy, who climbed up, going hand over hand. The six spears were hauled up next, then came the other members of the team, one after another, without incident.

  “Here’s where it may get hairy, so keep sharp,” Troy warned. “God be with us.”

  The six had trained and fought together for the last year; they did not need any more instructions than this. Each man knew his place and position. Each knew what to do if they ran into enemy fire, and each knew what their fellow teammates’ reactions would be. As always, Troy went first, moving slowly, his eyes and ears straining to catch the slightest indication that the enemy was nearby. It wasn’t easy since the night was dead black, and when he could differentiate between shadows they were in constant motion as the wind swept unceasingly off the ocean. The wind also masked every sound except their own, or so it seemed.

  Troy barely heard the rock kicked by Regis, and Eric’s light cough, and when Duckwall accidentally let the butt of his metal spear scrape the ground, the clank it made seemed to radiate to the far corners of the earth.

  “Sorry,” Duckwall mumbled.

  They went straight east at first, but after a few hundred yards, Troy turned directly north, directly towards where the flares were being fired. He expected to run into Corsairs at any second, so he slowed to a crawl. It wasn’t a literal crawl, though it was very close. He moved in a crouch, his M4 now in his right hand and his long spear in his left.

  Gradually, he moved closer and closer to where the flares zipped up into the sky with a rush of sparks and zzzsswwwwiissh sound. They reminded him of something, but he couldn’t remember for the life of him what it was. It was something from before the zombies had come. He had been seven at the beginning of the apocalypse and felt that he should have remembered far more of that time than he did. Almost all of his memories were shrouded or strangely choppy; a face here, a scene of a boy running, a ball bouncing, a tree lit with thousands of lights.

  This memory was annoyingly just out of reach. It wasn’t until one of the flares malfunctioned and burst into flame on its way up that Troy remembered. “Independence Day,” he whispered. It all came back to him in a flood: the parades, the picnics, the hamburgers cooked over charcoal—“Never gas,” his dad had always said. There had been pies and three-legged races and baseball and fireworks. He should have remembered the fireworks. They had been spectacular.

  When the flare exploded, Troy dropped to a knee in the waist-high brown grasses, and in the light, his smile could be seen. It was a child-like smile as the memories flooded in. It faded when the flare hit the ground a hundred yards away. For just a second, right before the fire went out he had caught a glimpse of a figure hurrying toward it.

  It had been a big figure.

  “Was that a zombie?” he whispered to Shamus.

  “I think so, but it doesn’t make any sense if it was. How’d it get past their guards?”

  “How did we get past them?” Troy asked, looking around. “We’re awful close to where they’re shooting those flares off. Wouldn’t you post a defensive perimeter further out than this?” The flares were being shot off from the next hill. In the dark, it was hard to tell how far it was, though Troy didn’t think it could be more than eighty yards.

  Shamus stood up slowly and turned in a slow circle. When he slunk back down, he said, “I think you’re right. We gotta be within their perimeter.”

  Eric crabbed over, hunkered low. His sharp ears had picked up the conversation. “Or, what if they don’t have a perimeter at all? Remember what I said about the sleep deprivation? Maybe they just have a few guys here while the rest are a few miles away sleeping like babies.”

  “Either way,” Shamus said, “I think we should go after them rockets. If it’s like Eric says, then maybe we can turn the tables on them.”

  Troy tapped the cold metal of his spear as he considered his options. “Our orders are to discover what the Queen is up to with the flares and I was told not to engage the enemy. I think in this case we can’t do one without the other.” Shamus’ eyebrows shot up and he nudged Eric, who grinned. Troy gave them a look. “Hold on, you two. First, we have to find out if it is really just a few of them.”

  He meant to accomplish this by splitting his team in two; Regis would take his three-man team east around the back of the hill, while he took Eric and Chris Baker around the front. He figured his route would be more dangerous because of the zombie and because if there were guards, they’d be more alert and trigger happy the closer they were to the town.

  It turned out that it wasn’t one zombie he had to worry about. There was a whole slew of them. After the team divided, Troy hadn’t gone fifty feet before he heard the first low, grumbling moan. His team dropped down into the dead grass and watched as an immense shadowy beast emerged from the darkness. It lumbered along without seeing them and passed between Eric and Baker.

  “That was freakin’ close,” Eric whispered. “It almost stepped on my hand. How many zombies are we gonna run into?”

  Troy put a finger to his lips as another zombie stumbled into view. Seeing three zombies one after another was rare this close to the town. It was part of a Knight’s training to hunt them, and each twelve-man squad was required to make a spear kill every six months. Troy demanded much more from his team. He and his five men hunted every month.

  “The Corsairs must be attracting them,” Troy answered. “I think we should go white, just in case.” Each of them pulled out white “scarves” and attached them to their spears just below the foot-long bladed tip. The scarves were used to distract zombies long enough to allow a teammate to attack from the flank or the rear.

  As tough as his recon team was, Troy hoped they wouldn’t have to put the spears to use. Fighting a zombie in the dark was one of the most dangerous things a person could do. All the training in the world couldn’t overcome the slightest misstep on a steep hill.

  Troy had just affixed his scarf when Baker hummed in a low register. Another zombie was coming. This one fell down the hill, rolled past them in a wild jumble of grey arms and legs, and stopped only when it thudded heavily against the stump of a tree. Before it even stopped rolling, another could be seen as a colossal shadow some ways off.

  “If the Corsairs had a perimeter, it’s being overrun by the dead,” Eric said. “I think we should make straight for the rocket…”

  An echoing roar interrupted him. It had come from the back end of the hill where Regis was. Without a word, Troy ran towards the sound with Baker and Eric right behind him. They crossed a shoulder of the hill and stopped. Off to their left was a twenty-foot long, windowless, dark box on wheels;
the flares were being shot from the back of it.

  There was no time to give it more than a glance. Right in front of Troy was a zombie, a smallish seven-footer with a strangely out of proportion huge, shaggy head, while farther down the hill were half a dozen more surrounding Regis, Shamus and Duckwall.

  The shaggy-headed beast was half turned away and didn’t see Troy or his ten-foot long spear as he swept it in an arc. The head of the spear resembled a great double-edged dagger and when he slashed the blade across the back of the beast’s knee, it sheered through one of its hamstring tendons.

  It added its roar to that of the others as it turned about to face Troy. Before it could; however, Chris Baker caught its attention, jabbing his spear into the thing’s face. He aimed for an eye while the scarf attached near the end flared, further distracting it. This allowed Eric to slash at its knees. In seconds, it was down and clawing after them as they raced into the real battle, which had been desperate from the very start.

  They could see Regis was down, with three of the beasts fighting to eat him alive. Shamus and Duckwall were dodging and weaving, flashing their spears around trying to save him and themselves, simultaneously. So far, their speed and training kept them just out of reach of the long arms. From an outsider’s point of view, it would have made more sense for both of them to run away and leave Regis to his fate. Although he was lying face down, he had not screamed or cried out in any way, which meant there was only a tiny chance that he was alive.

  None of the three charging down the hill had much hope and yet they would never leave a man behind if there was any chance of saving him. Troy was the fastest and he swept through the fight, slashing at the throat of one beast and drawing black blood. In a blur, he was past the first and jabbing at another’s face; aiming for the eyes. A blind zombie was the next best thing to a dead zombie.

  Then he was onto the beasts surrounding Regis. They were on their knees pulling his body in three directions at once. Troy used the spear as an axe and swung it for the back of one tree-trunk-sized neck. Had it been a real axe, it might have taken the thing’s head clear off. As it was, it bit hard, went three inches deep and stuck.

  The zombie jerked and nearly wrenched Troy off his feet. Since playing tug of war with a 600-pound monster would only end in his death, he had to give up his weapon. It was no matter. Regis’s spear was lying on the ground not far away. Troy jumped for it, snatched it up and then backed away quickly, spinning it like a baton. The flashing metal in the dark confused the two zombies who had been charging him. One reached out a clawed hand and tried to touch the flashing spear. As Troy stopped the spin and raised the spear tip high, both of the creatures tried to grab it.

  This practiced move allowed Chris Baker to attack them from behind, once more going for the vulnerable soft spot behind the knee. It had long been known that zombies were not magical creatures. Their bodies were essentially human and operated along the same set of natural laws that normal human bodies did. Without tendons attaching muscles to bone, the bones would not move.

  Unfortunately, normal tendons are exceedingly tough which meant that zombie tendons were like steel cables. Baker’s slash did nothing except draw the zombie’s attention. But it was slow and he was fast. He was already attacking another zombie by the time it turned around and when it did, Troy hacked at the same knee finishing the job. Its leg buckled and down it went.

  Reversing the spear, Troy drove it through the neck of the closest zombie, with all his strength. He then wrenched the haft of the weapon to the side as hard as he could, turning an inch and a half wide hole into a huge, gaping wound. Hot black blood gushed down the spear as he yanked it out. The creature lunged for him, not realizing that it would be dead in seconds.

  Troy began twirling his spear again when Duckwall ran past. The stocky Knight was rushing to attack one zombie from the rear while being chased himself. Troy aimed the blade of his spear for the chasing zombie’s knee. He connected; it was like taking a full swing at a brick wall with a baseball bat. A shiver of pain ran through his hands as his spear sprang out of his grip and bounced away. Troy ran for it. He scooped it and spun expecting an attack, but not knowing from what direction.

  “My Lord!” he cried at what he saw.

  His team wasn’t fighting six zombies, as he had thought, they were fighting sixty zombies!

  They were everywhere, charging from all points of the compass.

  In that second, it dawned on Troy what the Queen’s plan really was. The flares weren’t a signal at all; they were being used to summon the zombies from as far as the eye could see. She really wasn’t going to beat them by firing a shot; she was going to let the zombies do her killing for her.

  Chapter 30

  “Retreat!” Troy bellowed as he unslung his rifle. Despite the cry, he walked in the opposite direction of safety, firing the gun, half-blinding himself with every pull of the trigger. It didn’t matter much if he could see or not. Although he would have loved to kill every one of the monsters, his main reason for shooting was to get them focused on him so his men could escape.

  But they weren’t escaping. They were unslinging their own guns. “No!” he yelled. His ears were ringing already and he couldn’t tell if he was screaming loud enough to be heard on the moon, or not loud enough to be heard over the dozens of roaring zombies. “Run! Now, before it’s too late!”

  He could only hope they were following orders as he marched forward, firing as he went. He would run as well, just as soon as he checked on Regis. The man had been cast aside and lay unmoving; he was missing an arm and his neck was stretched as if he had just been pulled from the gallows.

  There was nothing Troy could do. With his left hand, he drew the sign of the cross in the air and then ran up the hill, firing at the zombies that got in his way until his magazine ran dry. With practiced hands, he switched in a new one and fired just as an eight-footer with half a face blundered up. Two headshots dropped it at his feet and yet it was not wholly dead. A steel grip closed on his ankle just as he was getting to run again.

  He was down in the dirt and before he knew it, he was being dragged toward the beast’s great bloody maw. Troy’s bullets had blown out the thing’s teeth so that when it bit down on his boot, it was more disgusting than deadly. Still, he was in a dangerous situation, which he remedied by sticking the hot barrel of his M4 against the thing’s head and pulling the trigger.

  In its death-throes, the huge hand wrapped around his ankle spasmed, and for a moment, the grip on his leg was like someone was crushing his ankle with a vice. A groan escaped him as he kicked himself free and tried to stand, only to nearly fall again. He could barely stand, though it hardly mattered. Running was out of the question. When he looked around, he saw that he was completely surrounded by a wall of the undead. They had turned from chasing the shadows of his men and were completely focused on him.

  “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” He fired. “He maketh me lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside still waters.” He fired again and began limping forward up the hill, toward the ocean, towards home. “He restores my soul and leads me in the paths of righteousness for His name's sake.”

  Troy didn’t count his shots. When he ran out, he ran out. For him there was no saved last bullet; there would be no suicide.

  “Yea, though I walk in the valley of the shadow of death. He reloaded and fired again. “I will fear no evil for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.”

  Now the zombies were coming so thick he only had time to shoot, and shoot, and shoot, and reload, and shoot…

  Sometimes the beasts got so close their diseased hands would knock him back or twist him around. Still, he fired, building a mound of bodies around him. There were so many zombies that only a miracle could have saved him. He knew that no hand of man had a chance. His people were too far away. Even if his team came rushing back, it would be in vain. And the only other men nearby were the Corsairs, whose evil could not be
doubted.

  No, only God could save him. The question in Troy’s mind was he worth saving? Had he been righteous enough?

  The M4’s bolt shot back—he was out of ammo. Throwing aside the rifle, he pulled his bayonet. It was deadly sharp and yet, compared to the size of the zombies, it might as well have been a baby spoon.

  “Just one,” he whispered, hoping to take out one more before he died. He got lucky because the closest of the zombies tripped over the pile of bodies surrounding Troy. He raised the bayonet and just as he did, the box on wheels shot up a flare unlike any of the others it had sent up.

  It was a true flare that blossomed into painful brilliance a hundred yards over head. Every zombie within half a mile turned to stare into the piercing light. They were brainless beasts. Troy didn’t have that excuse. He also stared, but only for a second before he came to his senses.

  This was his chance to escape. The zombies were blind but wouldn’t be forever. He had minutes to find somewhere to hide before the flare died and they regained their ability to see. The problem Troy faced was that the hills were barren—other than the hundreds of zombies there was nothing but grass…and the box-like vehicle.

  Despite the pain in his leg, he grinned, thinking that he could hide beneath it until most of the zombies had moved on. “And then I’ll burn it,” he growled around the grin. There was enough old dead grass within arm’s reach to cook a full-grown elk and if he bundled enough of it into small bales he was fairly certain he could torch the Corsair vehicle.

  If he were lucky, the heat would set off the remaining rockets and hopefully draw the zombies away from the town.

  It was a good plan and he began limping towards the vehicle as fast as he could. It was the strangest sensation to pass among the dead like that. They were huge, grotesque statues cast in an amber light that made them even more disgusting than ever. Seeing them like that made it hard to believe they had ever been human. They were so terribly warped and bloated and savaged that they were more like demons from a nightmare.