The Lies (Zombie Ocean Book 8)

by Michael John Grist

Another time.

  She ran her brittle fingers down her speech, so heavily rewritten by Witzgenstein. Every now and then she looked at it, but didn't really read it, just like the Bible.

  My name is Lara, and for thirteen years I have led you astray. I did this with the help of a demon named Amo. But that demon is now gone, and we are all free.

  I annul my relationship with Amo, the self-styled Last Mayor of America.

  For all that time, I believed that what I was doing was right. I now accept that everything we did only led us to the place we are now, with our home destroyed in an act of holy retribution.

  I annul my relationship with the place once known as New LA.

  In all these thirteen years, I have attempted to be a good mother, but I see that I have failed. In my very mother's milk I passed along the sickness of my possession, and there is only one way now to recover.

  I annul my relationship with my children, and with the infant I am now carrying.

  I hope one day to serve as an example to you all. I hope one day to be trusted amongst you all. Until then, I pledge my allegiance to the New United States of America, and to President Witzgenstein, and to you.

  I beg you. Please. Forgive me.

  They were just words. They were a way, and through them, if she showed how stable she could be, maybe she would see her children again. She stroked the paper, and held it close, and felt the insidious worm chewing its way into her. Distantly, in a faint and meaningless way, she could feel changes working on the hydrogen line all around her.

  Ever since the explosion on Drake's stage in New LA, things had been changing. The line had felt heightened somehow, charged with possibility, like the air before a storm. There had been changes in her to match, pieces of her mind shifting into new positions, but she'd been too occupied with her constant escape to consider them.

  Now she felt Witzgenstein's thoughts touching her. From a distance the smothering touch of her righteousness coated her like a kind of bridle, so that no matter how much she scrubbed with the damp towel, she couldn't get it off.

  It explained Crow. It explained this fog she felt.

  She found herself standing naked in front of the dark windows, long after dusk fell, looking at herself in the reflective glass. She had no memory of taking her clothes off, of the sun sinking, but none of that mattered. The feel of Witzgenstein was thick in the air, musky and cruel. In the glass she appreciated her own figure; a beautiful woman, still, if wasted by weeks of near starvation. Her hair was lush. Her breasts were full. Her swelling belly had a beauty of its own.

  She stroked her hands over her stomach, then down to the scratchy warmth between her legs, then up to cup her breasts. Her reflection mirrored her perfectly, a perfect twin. She ran her fingers through her hair, and gasped as the Lara in the mirror did the same.

  In all this, she felt scarcely more than a passenger. She watched from within as her body seethed in the dark. A viper, a snake in the grass, a dark delight. This was like reading from her speech, and accepting her hair being stroked, and becoming a stable person beneath Janine Witzgenstein's rule.

  When the door opened quietly, and Janine herself slipped into the room, Lara felt a strange kind of inevitability. Of course, this was where the world had led her. This made sense. After all the rest it was a natural culmination.

  Janine came over shyly. Her blue eyes shone with guilt and excitement. Her blond hair, usually tied so stiffly back in a braided ponytail, hung down around her shoulders. She came closer until she stood behind Lara, so the reflection of her body was covered in the dark glass by Lara's naked frame. She shivered, and reached out her hands to hover an inch above Lara's upper arms. Lara felt the tingle of her promised touch on her bare skin. Witzgenstein slid her fingers through the air over her shoulders, stroking the idea of Lara, never daring to touch skin, until her hands came to tangle in her hair, and tug.

  "Oh my," Witzgenstein whispered, her voice thick. "You have possessed me."

  Lara felt her own hands cup her breasts. Behind her Witzgenstein's breath raced, leaning in so close that her lips almost touched the nape of Lara's neck, burrowing through her hair. Lara hadn't been able to wash it properly for weeks, but the smoky, oily scent only drove Janine wilder. She breathed in deep lungfuls of it like it was a drug. Her hands strayed closer, circling tentatively round toward Lara's breasts, until-

  The slap came not in the real world, but in Lara's mind. Still she reeled with shock and pain. Now she was on her knees, and Witzgenstein stood above her, trembling with passion and rage.

  "Harlot," Janine whispered, relishing the word. "Dark whore."

  Lara gasped, and her thoughts stung, and she began to understand.

  "Temptress," Witzgenstein whispered, growing feverish, "sordid seed of the devil."

  Lara bowed her head. This, then, was the truth. This was stability. If she did this, and played her role well, then perhaps she would see her children.

  She nodded, accepting the insults and the guilt, accepting what had to be done. The desire there was plain, sweating off Witzgenstein and steaming into her. There was no choice now, and perhaps there never had been. There was only forward. She reached down to the hot place between her own legs, and began to gently work her hands, and began to moan. Witzgenstein gasped and took a step backward.

  "Foul deceiver," she muttered hungrily, "spirit of Satan, halt!"

  Lara looked up now, meeting those sparkling blue eyes, and saw the control in them gutter in confusion, in lust restrained for a decade, perhaps a lifetime. Yes, there it was.

  Lara moaned as loud as she dared, rolling her shoulders back, spreading her thighs, and Witzgenstein backed further away, muttering and hissing, making signs of the cross and calling her a witch, a bitch, a gypsy, until finally she bolted out through the door, leaving Lara alone.

  Kneeling there naked in the Lincoln Bedroom, her hands on her knees, beaten down and humiliated, Lara began to cry, and then to laugh. Wild laughter burned a fresh trail of madness in her mind, starting off quietly but growing louder, as she saw that this was her path to emancipation. She laughed so loud that Witzgenstein would certainly hear, ripe with mockery and madness, and she was glad of it, because this was a power too.

  For the first time in weeks her head cleared of the fog that had filled it. All that time Witzgenstein's influence had been growing, creeping up in her like a cancer, making her weak-willed and uncertain. Now she saw what had to be done. She was the handmaiden, now, but every scrap of power she had, she would use.

  The bridle was there still, sputtering away in Lara's head where the line touched her, but now she saw it and studied it like a bug on a sample board, pinned in position with the memory of that hot lust in Witzgenstein's eyes. A lifetime of hunger, waiting to be tapped.

  She was equal to this.

  The apathy fell from her, and she saw a new way forward. It was not what she ever would have expected, nor what she could be proud of, but it was what she had. She leaned back and laughed loud, letting the rich sound chase Witzgenstein back down the hall to her lonely bedroom, in her lonely chambers at the far end of the White House, wrapped in her own secret sense of shame.

  Lara was going to get it all back. She would save her children and her people from this mad dictator, would take them away from Washington before a second missile could fall, and this was how.

  This was how.

  She stood, and went to the desk where her speech lay. Being naked didn't bother her any more; it was only another tool, and what were her clothes anyway? They weren't hers, they'd been given to her by Witzgenstein, on her mercy, so to be naked felt more free. She picked up her pen and began to write.

  9. KISSES

  The night passed and the morning came.

  There were no clocks, no alarms, so Lara rose slowly, languidly, in stages. Her every movement became calculated, with lingering touches, long slow gazes, seemingly inadvertent moments when she touched herself in innocent, alluring ways.

>   Witzgenstein was not there, but she was. Her bridle was everywhere.

  The sun rose, and Lara stood naked again before the windows, stretching like a cat. She went about her ablutions with her bucket and bottle of water with a self-possessed, shimmering grace. The change in herself was clear, and she embraced it.

  At the desk she read her speech again. Small changes, but mighty. The time would come.

  A knock came at the door, and she answered it naked. Crow stood there, holding a formal summer dress in his arms. When he saw that she was naked, he blanched. Even through him, Witzgenstein was watching. Some part of her had spread into everyone and everything.

  Lara smiled at him, but it was for Witzgenstein.

  "You can't walk around naked like that," he said. "It's immoral."

  "My President gave me no order to dress," she said, letting her voice sigh out like a serpent's warning hiss. "I live to serve."

  Crow reddened, and averted his eyes. "You must dress," he said through a tight throat. "Now. Here." He held out the summer dress. It was white silk, with streaks of color slashed across the chest and stomach. "I brought it."

  "You brought it," Lara repeated. "Thank you, and it is beautiful, but I can't wear it."

  Surprise made Crow look at her again. "What? You can't speak to the people naked."

  Lara laughed, letting the sound bubble up from her throat. She'd done this all the time, back in her barista days in New York, trolling for extra tips. A laugh, a smile, and the punters all wanted to be Mayor.

  "No, you misunderstand me, Crow. Of course I wouldn't go naked. I mean I can't wear this."

  His cheeks reddened. A hint of anger lurked underneath. Lara looked deep into his eyes, just as she hadn't dared do with Witzgenstein the day before. "Why not? Are you too good for it?"

  Lara put her hand to her chest, offended. "Of course not. No. I mean I do not deserve to wear such a beautiful dress as this. Crow, you must understand. I cannot appear to the people unashamed, not after all the crimes I have committed. I cannot attempt to vaunt myself in their eyes. I must be downcast. I cannot wear such a fine dress as this. I deserve something ugly. I deserve sackcloth and ashes."

  Some of Crow's composure returned. Even good humor, as he finally understood. "I don't believe we have sackcloth."

  "Then give me a sheet to wear. Give me a curtain. Anything but this."

  He frowned. "A curtain?"

  "There are curtains here." Lara pointed behind her. "Give me scissors, a needle and thread and I can make something fitting."

  "I don't know…"

  "So let me try. If it is not to my President's taste, I will wear whatever she deems fit."

  Crow frowned. He thought. He shrugged.

  "I'll have scissors and thread sent to you."

  In ten minutes she had them, delivered by a blank-eyed little girl, who handed them over and said nothing. "Thank you, my child," Lara called softly after her. Then she set to work.

  With the scissors she cut rough squares out of the heavy, beautiful golden curtains. She'd never made a dress before, and had no intention of doing so now. All she needed was an accentuation, wrapped in an ugly, penitent robe.

  She began by wrapping a long strap beneath her bust, lifting and firming her breasts, then worked to sew a wrapping of sorts about first her torso, then her hips, stretching down to touch the floor.

  She cut the fabric to rise roughly up to her throat. She made amateur, baggy sleeves that stretched down beyond her wrists. The hem of the dress dragged along the floor when she walked. In the mirror, she looked ridiculous. But she made special attention to ensure the fabric wrapped tightly around her hips. She tightened and loosened in the right places. There was nothing sexual about the strange golden robe she finally produced, except for the way her body swelled beneath it.

  She wore no layers underneath, no underclothes of any kind, so any stray chink in the amateurish design showed honest strips of dark skin. Her arms and rib cage flashed as she walked. A strip round her back and down her thigh peeked open. A sliver above her breasts occasionally slit wide. When it was done she sat at her desk and looked out over the grounds, thinking about what was to come.

  In time, a knock came at the door, and she opened it to see Crow, flanked by three others, who looked at her with smug satisfaction. Alan was there. George was there. Frances was there. The men wore elegant black dinner suits, sweltering already in the morning heat, while Frances wore a bright silk dress. Dressed for a coronation.

  They smirked when they saw her, dressed in her bunches of gold and torn white inner liner. That was all right, mockery was for lesser creatures. None of them would ever be holier than her, not in Witzgenstein's eyes.

  "Good morning," Lara said, bowing her head and opening the door to admit them.

  "You weren't lying, Crow," Frances said, looking her up and down. "Jesus, she's really cracked."

  "Let me review your speech," Crow said. She handed it over, then Alan brushed past her, strolling into her room as if he owned it.

  "We'll have this done up for you nicely, Lara," he said over his shoulder. "You shouldn't be staying in a dump like this. A little more gold, perhaps?"

  Frances laughed, following him in. "Bedroom of honor for the defeated Queen. Though I think she'll be happier in one of the basement rooms, don't you think? Closer to her Kingdom. Windows are so passé."

  "You've changed this," Crow said, holding the paper out, anger in his eyes. "You can't read it like this."

  Lara hung her head lower. "So strike the words. You can't strike them from my heart."

  He frowned. "What?"

  "Did she just say 'strike them from my heart'?" Frances asked, and cackled. She'd always been unpleasant, even in New LA, ready to throw a cruel barb at the first sign of weakness. In the past Lara had dismissed it as poor attempts at humor, but now it was clear it was more than that. Lara didn't answer, just hung her head, which she knew would only antagonize her further.

  It did. Frances stepped closer. "Listen, bitch. You'll read what we tell you to read. You'll believe what we tell you to believe."

  Lara took a breath, then raised her head and looked into Frances' eyes. Frances had always been a follower of Witzgenstein's. In the trial of Amo back in Maine she'd been one of the first to stand up and cheer for his exile.

  "I'll read whatever my President tells me to read," Lara said slowly, carefully. "I'll believe in her first above all. Don't you agree?"

  Frances's face froze in mid-snarl. Perhaps she'd expected a broken woman, easy to taunt, easy to crush, and this was not it. Instead there was this angry, burning pride, and Frances stared, feeling the moment simmer as the others watched.

  "You c-" she started, and swung a hand up to slap Lara, but Crow caught her by the wrist.

  "It was a mistake to bring you here," he said sharply. "Go, all of you."

  Frances jerked her hand away, then snapped at him, seething. "Who are you to order me? I've followed Witzgenstein for over a decade, and what are you, a disciple of but a few days? I'll do exactly as I want."

  Crow stood there impassively.

  "How dare you lay a hand on me!" Frances went on, pumping herself up, looking to the others for support. Alan stood at her back, stiffer than Lara had seen him before, while George just watched impassively. "I'll have you put in the stocks for a week! You'll see what that gets you."

  "So put me in the stocks," Crow said easily. "Take it to Witzgenstein. Tell her I stopped you striking her prisoner, moments before the inauguration."

  Frances faltered at that. Lara dropped her head humbly, looking back to the ground. Alan bustled over and took Frances by the arm before she could say any more.

  "Come on now, we'll deal with her later."

  Frances let herself be led. "Did you hear that little slut?" she said loudly as they went through the door. "'We'll deal with you later."

  Crow closed the door behind them.

  "Making trouble already, Lara," he said, showing a ti
ght smile. It was almost a piece of the old Crow, but filtered through some new directive. "Be careful."

  "I'm faithful," Lara said. "That will have to be enough."

  Crow took her by the arm firmly. "Let's hope so. President Witzgenstein can see your speech. She can decide."

  * * *

  Lara waited meekly in the Chief of Staff's Office in the West Wing, while Crow took her speech in to Witzgenstein in the Oval Office. She crossed her palms sweetly across her thighs. Her legs were together. She sat stiff-backed and alert. There was nothing sexual about her intent at all, though she could feel the dress doing its work.

  With each breath her breasts heaved up and down. The hourglass shape of her figure was there plainly, if hidden by the ruffs and furls of fraying, badly cut fabric. Flashes of her skin showed through in tiny crease-like lines.

  The door opened.

  "You may read this," Crow said, handing her the paper back. She immediately clutched it close to her chest as if it were sacred. Crow passed back into the Oval Office and his discussion with Witzgenstein continued, in low tones Lara could not make out. People came in and out of the room through the side door to the colonnade, behind her.

  Pilgrims, come to pay their respects.

  In her head Lara prepared. Crow had been elevated quickly, to something like Witzgenstein's Chief of Staff. It wasn't surprising; he'd always been one of the most competent in New LA, and most under-used. Amo had taken Keeshom and Feargal with him, plus Drake's doctor and engineer, while Anna before him had taken their scientists and fighters. What had that left?

  The cyclists. The knitting circle. The people who'd helped her with the harvest, helped her build the John Harrison coffee shop, helped her run water pickups. Helpers, followers, without a leader or instigator amongst them. Witzgenstein's closest followers were perhaps even worse, following her edicts to the letter. Anna had reported as much from her trip up to the Willamette Valley a year back. Maybe only Cynthia had any spark in her, but she was getting very old. Drake's people were likely the same; the followers of a dictator who'd been crushed by his cruelty and his whims.