The Undead World (Book 6): The Apocalypse Exile (War of The Undead)

by Meredith, Peter

  The little girl had noticed a change in Deanna as the days had progressed. Every day since her freedom from The Island, she had grown more and more beautiful, which was the opposite of the other ex-prostitutes.

  Veronica, for instance wasn’t a natural blonde and now there was a mousy brown stripe down the middle of her head three inches wide. Joslyn was sporting premature grey strips which stood out against her dark hair and accented the crow’s feet that were forming around her eyes. The rest of the women looked plain without their makeup and their hair styled, and they were frumpy in the baggy BDUs they had picked up in Fort Campbell.

  “I am not a queen,” Deanna said. “Nor do I want to be one, but thank you.” The pink in her cheeks at being singled out did nothing to distract from her natural beauty; it enhanced it. The effect did a number on the Duke, who leered at her, much to the discomfort of everyone else.

  Eventually, Neil cleared his throat. “Excuse me, sir? We were discussing fuel? We need three hundred gallons and, as I said, we would like to leave first thing in the morning.”

  “And like I said, the answer is no,” the Duke replied, forcing his eyes from Deanna. “How do we know you are who you say you are? Anyone can throw on a pair of BDUs and claim to be someone they’re not. And even if this man is from Colorado, how do I know his General will pay what is owed? Do you see my problem, Neil? You are asking me to take unacceptable risks. Judging by what little I see in front of me, I can only guess that someone like you was in business back before, so I’m sure you understand.”

  Neil’s scarred face contorted at the jab. “Yes, I understand about risks,” he said, dipping his head in a slight nod, “It’s elementary, clearly so since you have a grasp of the concept. And I understand that a premium can be charged in such cases where the risk to reward ratio isn’t optimum.”

  The Duke clapped his hands together and then rubbed them vigorously. “A premium, yes. But how much of one? That is the question. You will remain here for three days in which time I will judge you and your group as to your respectability. If I find you properly respectful then you will get your fuel—though at a sharp rate of return.”

  “How sharp?” Neil asked. His voice was low and yet heard by all. As if of one mind, the renegades feared the answer and were dead silent, even Eve.

  “Three gallons will get you one,” the Duke replied, placing an elbow on the arm of the judge’s chair, and stroking his beard. The group let out a collective gasp, which seemed to please him as much as the idea of a two hundred percent interest rate. “You see how your poor attitude has affected our negotiations? You have to know when to give, you have to know when a little sugar sweetens the deal.” This last he said while gazing with excessive fondness on Deanna.

  “I also know when to walk away from a terrible deal,” Neil said, with his jaw set. “We will not pay your fee and we will not wait three days. We will leave now by whatever way is fastest.” He turned to walk out of the room and there was a general stiffening of everyone. Each group was heavily armed and on a hair trigger.

  The Duke held up a hand and when that didn’t stop Neil he snapped his finger and said: “You can stop with the dramatics. You’re not going anywhere. It’s simply a fact that you’re now in too deep. You don’t have the fuel to make it out of my lands, which means you’ll end up walking and that’s a death sentence. You don’t have enough water or enough ammo, buuut…” He let the word hang in the air for a few seconds and during that time, Neil’s shoulders hunched and the renegades seemed to hold their collective breath as they leaned forward, hopefully—none of them relished the idea of walking the seven hundred or so miles left on their journey to Colorado.

  “But, perhaps there is one among you who might be better at negotiations. Perhaps someone who isn’t so prickly. Someone who is a tad more fair to look upon.” He was staring straight at Deanna.

  She took a step back, reflexively holding Eve closer. The baby clung, monkey-like with her legs, while one hand had a strong grip on Deanna’s white button-up shirt, pulling the fabric very tight across her full breasts. Her other little hand she had been using to play with Deanna’s long, blonde hair, turning it into little curls as she followed the conversation after the fashion of an infant.

  “Ok,” Deanna said, after time seemed to draw out and everyone was left breathless. “I guess I can negotiate, if it’ll help. Uh…first, I think, uh I think that three for one is a bit extreme. I can guarantee we’re good for...”

  Her words faltered when the Duke made a face as though her words pained him. “I’m sorry, but how about we discuss this in private over dinner?” he suggested. “This really isn’t the best venue for negotiations. No offence, Neil, but I tend to get my back up when I’m surrounded by so much hostility.”

  For the renegades, the conversation was a tennis match. Their chins went back and forth with each sentence, hanging on every word. Now, their eyes swung, not to Neil, but to Captain Grey whose feelings for Deanna were known to everyone. They saw his face go red and his eyes squint up; he looked within a word—a wrong word—of killing someone. That someone being the Duke, along with however many of his men got in his way.

  Deanna also looked to him and their eyes locked. She smiled a quick grin of pain and indecision.

  Their thought processes were beyond Jillybean—Deanna loved the captain, that was clear as day, and he loved her as well, nothing was more obvious, so what was the dilemma? She should say: Hell no and then figure out where to go from there. But that didn’t happen. After a few seconds Grey’s face lost its anger and he nodded, a little jerk of his head.

  Neil had watched both of them with an air of defeat, and absently rubbed his chest as if there was an ache beneath his breastbone. Reluctantly, he said: “Ok, I guess. I mean, if this is ok with all parties involved.”

  “We weren’t looking for your permission, Neil,” the Duke said. “We’re all adults here.”

  “I guess it’s ok,” Deanna said with a last look toward Captain Grey. “As long as it’s clear the dinner is simply a way to facilitate negotiations.”

  The Duke said something that was possibly mean, and Grey reacted in a glowering anger and Neil looked pained or confused, Jillybean didn’t know exactly which, because at that moment the other girl inside her exploded in pent up emotion. She screamed inside Jillybean’s mind: Whore! Slut! Cunt! The volume in her mind rocked Jillybean and she fell into Sadie and clutched at her black shirt. Sadie said something but that, too, was lost on the little girl, her mind was being torn in two.

  Sadie shook her and her dark eyes were at Jillybean’s level, boring in with concern and caring, but concern for what, Jillybean didn’t know. It was all she could do to maintain her own presence in her own mind. The other girl was so strong that it was like wrestling with a giant or trying to lift the ocean and, for a moment, their consciousness stood in conflict: Atlas versus the earth, God and the Devil, light against dark—and in each, Jillybean was the loser. Then for some reason, the other girl backed away, and that was confusion as well.

  Why didn’t she take Jillybean over and run her body? She had won, after all. There was no way Jillybean should have been in charge of her own body, unless…unless the other girl wished it so.

  People spoke; some moved in the herky-jerky motion of robots, and others made faces that seemed frozen in time, but these were only a backdrop in Jillybean’s experience as understanding struck. There was real danger in the room and it didn’t extend from Captain’s Grey’s jealousy, or Neil’s painful decision to give up control, or Deanna’s difficult choice to accept, on some level, a renewed prostitution.

  The danger was in Jillybean and both she and the other girl knew what it was. She couldn’t control herself. She knew she would say or do something very wrong. At a minimum, she would ruin their chances of making it to Colorado and there was the real possibility that she could say something that would have them back in chains.

  She hung back on purpose and allowed herself to be
buried in the deep black which was such a terror to Jillybean.

  “Let’s go,” Sadie said. “We have to warn everyone not to drink the wine.”

  The words were slow to penetrate into Jillybean’s mind and she blinked at them. Around her the renegades were whispering and pointing as Deanna handed Eve to Neil and walked, with her chin held high, to a side door that was being held open by the Duke. She didn’t look back to where Captain Grey stood like a statue of purest rock.

  “Yeah, sure,” Jillybean said, and allowed her hand to be taken by the older girl. “What just happened?” she asked.

  Sadie’s lips pursed and her eyes flicked to Grey. “I think we’re leaving in the morning.” That hadn’t really answered Jillybean’s question and yet she didn’t think any explanation would suffice just then. She was too groggy.

  “Out to the trucks,” Neil ordered, making a beeline for the door and tugging Grey along with him. Sadie and Jillybean tried to follow after, but there was such a press of people that they were separated and Jillybean couldn’t make headway against the crowd. Gradually, she was pushed to the back of the line. Even the guards stepped ahead of her and soon she found herself alone in the empty courtroom.

  Alone with her curiosity.

  She felt the need to know what had happened and, what was going to happen, and so, unable to stop herself, she turned from the door that led to the shops, and slipped on cat feet to the door through which the Duke had taken Deanna.

  Chapter 17

  Deanna Russell

  She didn’t know what to do with her hands. They wanted to tremble and did every time she didn’t have them employed in some fashion. The only problem was there wasn’t any reason for them to be employed at all. Duke Menis had escorted her to the second floor of the building, down a sweeping hall that was tiled in grey marble, and then showed her into his suite of rooms which had been, at one time, some county bigwig’s offices. Despite the electric lights, the room was dark and stern with heavy wood paneling on the walls and a somber maroon carpet.

  While he busied over a bottle of wine, Deanna continued to try to figure out what she was going to do with her hands. At first, she hooked her thumbs into the belt loops of her jeans, only that felt too casual. Next, she stuffed them into her pockets, only that was too odd; no one stood around like that unless they were cold, which she was far from.

  The Duke turned just as she pulled her hands out of her pockets and, feeling strangely guilty, as though her hands were some sort of secret, she gripped them tightly together. Of course, when he held a glass out to her she had to release them a second later. Now he was sure to see how nervous she was by how badly her hands were shaking. To distract him, she pointed at a picture on the wall and commented: “That’s an, uh, interesting picture.” It was a portrait of an old white guy with mutton chops and a heavy frown—it wasn’t at all interesting.

  “You like that? It’s yours.” He beamed at her, acting as though the gift of an ugly painting that had clearly been hanging on the wall since before the apocalypse, was some sort of great display of generosity on his part.

  “Thanks,” she said, taking a sip of the red wine. She had never been much of a wine drinker—there was always such a fuss about it: good years, bad years and which vineyards were the best and then there was the etiquette involved and the tannins, whatever they were, and all that whoopla, just to get a nice buzz going. It didn’t make much sense to her. She drank Cosmos mainly because they were good and a person would have to try hard to screw it up.

  The wine was only ok and already their conversation was stale.

  “So, a Duke?” she asked. “How did you get that job?”

  “My brothers and I formed the Azael and we decided early on, that we weren’t going make the same mistakes as the Founding Fathers by trusting the people with democracy. That was one of those roads paved with good intentions but which led straight to hell. So we set ourselves up as royalty and, I tell you, business is booming. People love it. They’d kill for a chance at being Sir that or Lady this. And who wouldn’t want to be a Duchess? The position is still open, by the way.”

  What? Deanna thought in a mental scream that bugged her eyes slightly. Was he really suggesting marriage? Or was he merely dangling the title in front of her face to see if she would bite? Deanna couldn’t think of anything to say and the silence drew out. To cover the awkward moment she brought the wine glass up to her lips again, but then remembered the baby growing inside of her. The glass faltered on her lower lip. She looked into the cup and saw only poison. “Well, uh, that is interesting,” was all she could manage to come up with as he was very close and he leered as though every rule of society was his to bend or break as he saw fit.

  “I’m glad it interests you,” he said, and drank from his glass. He smacked his lips, relishing the wine. “You should be flattered.” His right hand stretch out and caressed her shoulder.

  Alarm bells went off in her mind and her body stiffened. She had to rein in the panic. He’s just being an exceptionally forward man at this point, she thought. Nothing more.

  She slid away from him and went the curtained window and looked out; there was nothing to see. The bedroom had been lit by electric lights and the night was very dark in comparison. But really, what was there to see? Had her night eyes caught up all she would have seen was a dinky, rundown town. “Duke seems like a grand title for this little town. I don’t mean to be offensive but how many people do you rule? I don’t think I’ve seen over sixty people so far.”

  “A thousand or so,” he answered. “Most are out scavenging or protecting our borders. Why don’t you get away from there? There isn’t much holding the zombies back, just that little trench. If they see you up here, we’ll have them flooding through the town in no time.” His hands were on her again, gently pulling her back from the window. “So how are we going to take care of these negotiations? I have stuff you need and you have certain things I want. Why don’t we come to some sort of agreement for the benefit of our people?” The hand began rubbing her back.

  “Yes, I would like that,” she said, doing her best not to grimace at his touch. “Two hundred percent is really too much, even as an opening bargaining position. That would be like me asking for free fuel. That would be just stupid, right?”

  “I wouldn’t call it stupid. Free is an option...well free-ish is an option. You see, Deanna, three hundred gallons of diesel is a drop in the bucket for me. Did you see that tanker truck on the way into town? It’s full. I have ten thousand gallons in that truck alone. The tanks beneath the Shell station at the end of the road are full to the fucking brim. And ammo? My last count is a quarter million rounds. The theater is piled high with crates and crates, so yeah, I can afford to hand out a measly three hundred gallons of fuel, if I was in the mood to.”

  Now the hand stopped rubbing and gently pulled Deanna closer until her pert nose was inches from his banded beard. She couldn’t help but lean back; her lower lip started to quiver and she shut her mouth tight, but then her chin started to shake. He grinned down at her. “I could also be an ass if I wanted to. There’s no law saying I have to trade a single thing. If I’m displeased, you may find yourself walking out of my realm and I don’t think much of your chances of making it. The land is wide open and the stiffs can see for miles and miles.”

  “We wouldn’t want that,” Deanna replied with an unconvincing smile. She felt sick to her stomach and it showed. “So how about we compromise at, say, a thirty percent interest rate? That’s a number which should be more than acceptable to you.”

  “And what will induce me to agree?”

  She knew what he was asking but she tried to pretend otherwise. “I don’t know about inducements, but you are a duke. You are royal and noble and generous.” He shook his head, telling her: Nice try. “Ok, so flattery won’t work,” she said. “Will begging? Will it help if I got down on my knees and begged? I’ll do it if it means you’ll help us.”

  “Getting down o
n your knees would be a good start,” he said, wearing a wolfish grin. When she continued to look sick, he let out a short laugh, suggesting he’d only been kidding. “Why don’t you drink your wine and loosen up. Negotiations should never be a sober undertaking. You get angry then I get angry and then people get hurt. No, it’s best to relax.” She brought the glass to her lips and took the tiniest sip, though she held the glass there longer, hoping he wouldn’t notice that she wasn’t really drinking. He was too observant. “Something wrong the wine?”

  “No, it’s just...” She tried to think up some excuse and none would come to her fear-addled mind. Then she realized there was no need to hide the truth from the Duke. What would he care if she was pregnant? In fact it was her hope that the idea would turn him off from wanting her, sexually. “It’s just that I’m pregnant.”

  His hand came away from her shoulder and he lifted a heavy eyebrow as he looked her up and down. Then he gave a small shrug. “You still look good to me.” He advanced and she backed away, her hand landing on the butt of the pistol she had tucked into the waistband of her jeans. “What are you going to do with that? Shoot me? Please.”

  “I won’t be raped,” she stated, bluntly.

  “And I won’t rape you. Look Deanna, there’s only one way for you to get what you need to save your people.”

  There it was. Once again she was being forced to whore herself out, not just to save her own skin, but everyone else’s as well. It’ll be just one more time. One more and then we’ll be done forever, she said to herself.

  This was countered by another thought: It won’t be one more time. He’ll make excuses to keep us. He’ll keep fucking me until I’m used up and then he’ll fuck over everyone else by over-charging them or, if someone spills about who we are, then we’ll be sold back to the Colonel and he will probably be only too delighted to hang us.