Generation Z (Book 4): The Queen Unthroned

by Meredith, Peter

  “Shut up, for God’s sake,” Jillybean whispered, sticking a pinky in her ear, and giving it a wiggle. Eve often felt like an itch in her brain that she couldn’t quite reach with her nail and, every once in a while, she considered jamming a pencil in there to end the irritation once and for all.

  What do you know of God? You can read all the bibles you want, we both know the Pearly Gates will be shut tight when you finally…

  “Leney!” Jillybean snapped, cutting Eve off. To drown out her hated twin, she had been unnecessarily loud, or so it seemed to the superstitious sailors crowding the decks. The ocean was being gentle that day and they didn’t see the need to get her riled up. “Do a turn around the fleet. I want to see how they’re bearing up.” In truth, she wanted her ex-Corsairs to see her, to know that she was always watching. She also wanted to be doubly sure that no one tried to skate out of formation.

  “What the hell is Beggar Tim doing?” Leney snapped, watching the Night Arrow creeping up a line of ships. “Tell him to get back in formation,” he snapped to his signalman. Flags were sent up the main mast and the Night Arrow drifted back into position.

  Jillybean, who was not interested in the moment-to moment running of the ship, decided to head to her cabin to check on her belongings, and to set a few strategic traps. The incident with the canteen made her realize that she had been too sloppy by half. She had not expected an actual assassin to infiltrate her troops, and the shock of her near miss had left her edgy and paranoid.

  Only a soft, grey light managed to filter down below deck, which was teaming with men. Everyone except the Queen was hot-bunking it. Even on a sixty-foot ship there was precious little space. There were only seven actual bunks, so most of her crew slept on a thin layer of blankets strewn on the floor. A few of the lighter hands were able to string hammocks in strategic locations and swayed gently as the ship nudged over small waves.

  She tip-toed through the men, only because she didn’t want to step on any of them. There was no sense trying to keep quiet; most of the men were snoring with such exuberance, it was as if they were in competition with each other. Worse than the snoring was the unexpected stench; already the stagnant air stank like a hog pen. It wrinkled her nose.

  None of that really compared to the idea that there was an assassin among them. It made sense that he was somewhere on board. Anyone with a modicum of intelligence would have realized that she would almost have to take the Queen’s Revenge as her flagship. Every few steps she would pause and gaze around, expecting someone to be staring at her, and there was.

  The gun was halfway out of her pocket before she realized it was only Troy Holt. She didn’t bother to hide it, letting the bore track across his belly as she turned. He didn’t flinch and even that was disappointing in its way. “Are you following me?”

  “I was told to protect you,” he said.

  “I’m going to the bathroom. I think I’ll be okay.”

  He gestured to the gun and she shrugged. “I heard that sometimes big boats like this have rats. Bilge rats they’re called. I’m not a fan.” He didn’t believe her lie, since it was an especially poor one. Thankfully, he didn’t give her a sermon on the perils of sinning and, even better, he didn’t leave. He crept along behind her until she came to her cabin where he waited outside her door.

  Although a true assassin would make short work of him, she was glad that Troy was there.

  As far as she could tell, her things were untouched. “Now to make sure they stay that way,” she whispered. She had neurotoxin and needles; the two would make a lethal combination when placed strategically. “Eve, how would you do it?” Death was her area of expertise, after all.

  As if only partially summoned from hell, Eve was a mere shadow on the wall. She stretched her arm out until it was seven feet long, her flat black fingers pointing at Jillybean’s trunk. Clip a needle and glue it here in the trunk’s release. The long arm twisted and spread across the far wall, aiming for the bed. Use three or four razor blades under the seam of the mattress, here and here where someone would most likely lift. The shadow then fell along the floor to a small closet where it snaked inside. I’d use a needle on a spring in your med box. Smaller needles along the handle of your dresser and…

  Jillybean cut her off. “That should be enough. I have to live here, you know.” The shadowy arm retreated back until it was once more a thin, wavering thing behind Jillybean.

  She went to her stock of poisons, thinking she would have to come back down every four hours to reapply the toxin. It tended to dry quickly and lose most of its effectiveness. She had meant to experiment using different oils to make the potency last longer, but things kept getting in the way.

  “Like world conquest,” she muttered as she worked, boobytrapping her own cabin. “No one appreciates how much time it takes to conquer over the world.”

  It’s a very involved process, Ernest agreed. He too was a shadow, whispering from the darkness in the closet. I would also think about roughing up the edges of those needles. It’ll give something for the fluid to adhere to.

  “Smart.” She used a whet stone and was happy with the result. She was just stepping out of her cabin after placing her traps, when she realized that she had forgotten something. “Hold on,” she told Troy. “I really do have to use the bathroom.”

  Troy had heard the whispering and although he knew about the Queen’s mental illness, he still glanced past her into the cramped room, half-expecting to see someone else. “Take your time,” he told her. She didn’t take her time. She felt trapped in the cramped spaces below deck. There was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. She felt hemmed in with only a very thin door between her and two dozen men who would like nothing more than to rape her to death.

  Being on deck was a slight improvement. The ocean didn’t scare her and the light gave her comfort. She could see into the faces of the people around her. In the light, it was hard to hide guilt. But it was not impossible.

  Troy gave her comfort, as well. He trusted no one without being burdened by paranoia. There were scant few people he trusted on board and from his vantage point at the bow, he was able to watch everyone. They were all vermin in his eyes with the exception of Donna Polston and Gerry the Greek. He was told by the Queen that he could trust Nathan Kittle; however Troy didn’t like his nervous laugh and his quick eyes when it came to Jillybean.

  That night, after an unappealing dinner of dried fish, Troy discovered that he had been correct about Nathan. They found his stiff, contorted body on the floor of the Queen’s cabin.

  As always when she went below deck, Jillybean had her gun in hand. She whipped it out and dropped into a crouch as Troy searched the room. It was empty. “Leave us,” she said, “and don’t say anything about this to anyone. Though I don’t suppose you will. You’re quiet. I like that in a man.” He reminded her a lot of Stu Currans. They were both long and rangy; they were both quiet, and they both hated her.

  She was wrong about Troy being quiet. Normally on board a boat he was fond of singing, despite having only an average voice. And he was quick to laugh and make jokes. Surrounded by enemies, he would do neither.

  He left to stand outside her door. Inside the cabin, she was alone with the dead and the croaking shadows. Kneeling, she inspected the body, whispering, “Nathan, damn it. What were you doing in here? Please tell me you were you a thief and not an assassin?”

  I know which I was, only I’m ain’t tellin’ nothing,” Nathan whispered through unmoving lips. Y’all gonna die here soon enough. One of us is gonna get you and make y’all scream…

  Jillybean punched him savagely in the mouth. “Shut up,” she hissed and then punched him again.

  Nathan growled through slack lips as she went through his pockets, hoping to find something that would let her know one way or another. She wanted him to be an assassin, that way she could relax. What were the chances there were two assassins on board?

  There might could be a dozen of us comin’ after y�
��all, the body said. It was as if the sound was coming from something croaky and wet within him.

  “Trust me, Nathan, I’ll get you all. Make no bones about that.” She stood, pulled out her .357 and shot the corpse twice in the chest, making it jump. At the thundering gunshots, Troy burst into the room, the entire boat came awake while all around them. She shook her head at Troy’s confusion, warning him not to say a word.

  “Any more assassins among you?” she demanded, stepping over the twice-dead body and stalking into the narrow galley. Her heart was racing and she had the copper taste of fear in her mouth. But she couldn’t let them see that she was afraid. All that kept them from rising up and doing unspeakable things to her was her mystique.

  “Deke?” she asked, pointing the gun at a thick-lipped Samoan. “Do you want to try me? You want to try your luck?” At the sound of the gunshots, he had instinctively reached for the Beretta next to his blanket. He glanced at it with a flick of his eyes. Jillybean smiled. “You want to, I can tell.” Slowly, she tucked the .357 into the waist of her black pants. It was within easy reach.

  “How about now?” she purred, her blue eyes daring him to make a try for his gun. She knew the ex-Corsairs. They did not love her, not yet at least. However, they did fear her and she had to keep that fear ramped up if she was going to get them to face the Black Captain.

  “No, your Highness,” Deke answered, dropping his eyes, and pulling his hands well away from the gun.

  “Anyone else?” Her eyes roved among the sailors. None would look up. “Excellent,” she said, suddenly all smiles. “I knew I could count on you men. Together we’ll…”

  “Sail ho!”

  The shout came from almost above her head. Jillybean forgot the assassin for a moment as she charged for the stairs. “Where?” she asked in a high voice. Ten hands pointed northward. “Glasses!” Binoculars were thrust into her hands. At the edge of her sight, something perfectly black was framed against the distant stars.

  “Give chase, Leney,” she ordered. “Who’s running the flags? Wet-neck? Signal Steinmeyer to keep the fleet in position and prepare for battle. Gerry, where are you? Give Troy a hand and dump the body overboard. And everyone else not on watch, clear the deck!”

  Chapter 51

  When the world was as empty as there’s was, a thousand bandits and half that many zombies felt like an immense army. Everywhere Stu, Neil, and Gunner went in the city of Olympia they ran into one or the other.

  Frantic to get away, Gunner used every trick in his arsenal: false trails, fire, smoke, sound traps—anything to confuse his pursuers. Against him were bandits who made a living hunting humans. They had seen it all and gradually the cordon they threw around the trio grew tighter.

  Since he couldn’t outsmart the bandits, Gunner had to wear them down. He detoured, swinging far out of his way, hoping to circle the bandits entirely. More zombies in their way changed the plan and they found themselves going deeper into the city than they wanted. When they ran up against an arm of Puget Sound, they were forced to double back at a run. Because of his twisted body, Gunner was a shambling spectacle who looked more like a zombie than Neil.

  By luck, the three found a seam through their pursuers and escaped—heading in the wrong direction.

  Wasted hours and long miles passed before Gunner tried again to find a way through, only to run into more bullets and smoke. The sound brought the undead down on them like a grey wave, forcing the three to crawl through gutters and sewers to escape. For an entire day they zigzagged back and forth, hounded by bandits with forked beards or shaved heads or symbols burned into their faces. And, of course, what seemed like endless numbers of zombies.

  The little group was stumbling away from a new dawn when Gunner finally allowed them to stop. This was only for Stu’s sake. Gunner seemed able to subsist without rest and Neil had a zombie’s ability to go on forever.

  Stu piled onto an unknown bed in an unknown house in an unknown part of the city. He was asleep as soon as his head hit the dusty pillow. Three hours felt like three seconds and he was red-eyed and dull of mind when Gunner shook him awake. The only thing to eat was a handful of pain pills and water scooped from a hot tub. It had a yellow tinge and tasted like leaf soup.

  Their abbreviated rest proved useful in more than one way. The bandits and the zombies had washed over the neighborhood they were in and were now searching for them a few miles away. The men were able to slink out of the city and soon they were lost in the rolling hills where food became plentiful. They ate old brown apples and old soft cherries and old squash they hacked out of the frozen ground.

  Although not the most appealing fare, it kept them going for another marathon stretch. They had lost a day and all three were afraid they would be too late by the time they reached Grays Harbor.

  On the march north it had taken three days to cover the distance; now Gunner wanted to cut that in half, and he set such a grueling pace that even the rangy Hillman found himself barely able to keep up. He even began to find himself jealous of Neil, who walked in a trance. When someone called his name, he would look around as if just waking from a deep sleep.

  Their one saving grace was that the land seemed to have emptied of enemies. It was just them, a few squirrels and hill after hill, and mile after mile.

  Twenty hours passed before Gunner allowed another stop. Stu didn’t remember lying down, but he woke in a bed with pink sheets and a unicorn blanket. Gunner gave him another handful of pills and more brackish water. The sun rising made it seem to Stu that had gotten a full night’s sleep when it was really only another short three-hour pause in their journey.

  “Almost there,” Gunner lied.

  Four hours of marching passed before Stu caught his first whiff of the sea. It was another two before they crested a hill and saw a grey haze on the horizon. An hour after that, a gull flew past, cocking a curious black eye at them. Things went quicker then. The land sloped down and gravity pulled them along to their fate.

  “She’s still here,” Gunner said.

  “She?” Stu had been close to sleepwalking in a perfect imitation of Neil and was only just realizing they had stopped. In front of them was a hidden pond and there was The Wind Ripper, laying half on her side, covered in limbs and branches.

  Stu was staring blankly at the ship when Gunner said, “I’m going to go scout the harbor. You two get her ready to sail.”

  He was gone before Stu could whisper, “Yeah, we can do that.” Stu was so tired he didn’t know if he actually could. Bleary-eyed, he waded into the icy water only to stumble over a submerged log that lay half-buried on the muddy bottom of the pond. His road-weary legs lost a feeble fight for balance and he went right under.

  Gagging and spluttering, Stu splashed to the surface. “Great. This is just great.” Now, he was freezing as well as exhausted, but at least he was awake. The water was strangely refreshing. It was like taking a shot of caffeine.

  The water worked to bring Neil back to life, as well. In his mindless stupor, he fell over the same logStu had, and when he came up, he asked, “Is that the boat?”

  “It is.”

  “Good. I was tired of walking.” The two waded and half-swam to the back end of the boat. They got their shoulders up under it and heaved it into the center of the pond where the water was deeper. Free of the muck, The Wind Ripper righted herself and bobbed back and forth, shedding most of the branches herself.

  Neil climbed up first. He was like a toddler who had never seen a ladder before. Stu had to guide his hands and feet for him. Then, when he got to the deck of the boat, which rocked gently beneath him, he fell over, cutting his forehead. “I’m just a bit wobbly. Once I get my sea-legs under me I’ll be right as rain.” He looked like a newborn giraffe trying to stand for the first time. His legs shook and he held tightly to the wheel, which wasn’t the smartest thing to hold. When it spun, he went with it and crashed once more on deck. More blood sprinkled the deck.

  The third time was the c
harm. He finally struggled to his feet and by the time he did, Stu had cleared the deck and was about to pull the boat out into the river. “Do you need help?” Neil asked.

  And watch you fall into the river? Stu thought. He wasn’t about to perform mouth-to-mouth on a zombie. “No, I got this. You, uh work on getting your sea-legs back.”

  At thirty-three feet, The Wind Ripper wasn’t large and Stu was able to manhandle her into the river by himself. He tied her off and then climbed slowly aboard. Neil was standing with his feet splayed and his hands out for balance.

  “Do zombies get seasick,” he asked, his face grayer than it had been.

  Stu didn’t hesitate. “No. It’s impossible.” It was bad enough Neil’s infected blood was everywhere, he didn’t want his vomit as well. He had no idea if zombies could get seasick, but he didn’t think so. Then again he was certain they wouldn’t be affected by the power of suggestion, either. “Let me get you a change of clothes. Just stay right there. Don’t move.”

  Mike would kill Neil…again if he messed up his beloved deck any more than he had.

  There were plenty of clothes to be found in the cabins below. Stu wasn’t the easiest to fit, while Neil could make do by rolling up his sleeves and pinning his cuffs. When it came to color, their choices were black or camo. Since they were now in the land of the Corsairs, Stu chose black for both of them.

  Neil changed right out in the open and Stu found himself staring. For such a soft, mild little man, Neil had many old scars. His lifeless grey flesh was crisscrossed with them. He’d soon have more. The bullet wounds he’d suffered were already sealing themselves in what looked like a black crust.

  “Where’s Gunner?” Neil asked.

  “Scouting,” Stu answered, though he did so with a touch of fear. Gunner had helped them just as he had said he would. The question Stu had, was Gunner now helping himself? Was he off telling the Corsairs exactly where they could pick up the Queen’s adopted father and her ex-lover?