by Louisa Lo
That was, until one Obsessed broke rank with the others and came loping straight for her.
Chapter Twenty-Two
A Woman of Her Word
The Obsessed in question caught up with Chelsea while everyone was too busy with their own fight at hand to notice or, in Day’s case, were unable to do anything about it. Still clutching that last lipstick in her hand, Chelsea knew she had only one shot at survival. She stilled her mind and focused on her would-be tormentor.
She waited until he was close enough for the perfect aim, but not yet close enough to grab the lipstick out of her hand. Once he was within range, she really should have gotten on with it, but something made her pause and take a closer look at him.
He appeared the same as everyone else, with dirty clothes, dirty face, hungry eyes. Except…
Wait, was that the remains of an Armani suit? The lapel pin on it was vaguely familiar. The middle-aged Obsessed had a round, stout figure, and a wild shock of Einstein-like hair. The wildness of the hair wasn’t all that surprising since all the Obsessed had pretty much the same disheveled appearance—it was practically a prerequisite of being a monster. But the familiar face staring at Chelsea, minus the dirt and grime, belonged to someone who had all that wild hair before the end of the world as they knew it.
It was a face she had known all her life. The face that, until now, had looked upon her with unconditional love since her very first memory.
“Daddy?” Chelsea squealed, finally recognizing the lapel pin on the Obsessed’s tattered suit. It depicted the royal coat of arms of her house. Her head was spinning. “I thought you died in that plane crash.”
Her daddy didn’t have injuries on him that would have been consistent with having lived through a plane crash. He had the bumps and bruises like all the other Obsessed, for sure, but nothing on that scale.
Had General Roland been lying to her, like he had lied about the refugees?
“Daddy, don’t you remember me? It’s Georgie,” Chelsea whispered. It killed her to have thought her father dead, only to see him living on in this miserable form. Her daddy was always big on hygiene—she hadn’t inherited her inner germaphobe from her mother.
The Eleventh Earl Spence of Darham looked at his daughter with no sign of recognition. He shifted until he was within five centimeters of Chelsea, but instead of attacking, he sniffed at the lipstick she was holding.
Almost of its own accord, her hand brought the tube up to his face like an offering.
Without hesitation his teeth clutched the one end of the lipstick that her fingers weren’t holding onto. She let go of the tube, and he swallowed the whole thing down with a big smile.
He might not have acknowledged her, but he didn’t seem inclined to hurt her, either. Could it be that on some level he did recognize her, or was it wishful thinking on her part?
A whirl of emotions came over her: the horror of what her dad had become, the joy of seeing him again, and the anger and confusion over what had really happened to him the day the Obsessed commenced their worldwide attack.
Out of the corner of her eye, Chelsea saw the gleam of metal. She turned and saw Anita coming towards her dad. It looked as if all the other Obsessed were dead, and he was the only one left.
Chelsea yelled, “No! Don’t touch him!”
Startled by Chelsea’s scream, her dad looked in Anita’s direction, hissed, then leapt off the truck and ran with no floundering in his steps.
Anita started running toward him, but Chelsea jumped off the truck and blocked her path in a speed that surprised even herself.
“That’s my father. Leave him alone!” Chelsea cried out.
“He’s your father?” Anita raised her eyebrow. The soldiers, including Day and Ruiz, took a collective gasp, the implication of what Chelsea had revealed clearly ricocheting through their minds.
“Yes,” Chelsea said, standing her ground and holding Anita’s gaze. While she was grateful for the woman’s tremendous help, she couldn’t let her go after her dad. The longer she could stall Anita, the greater the chance her father could get away.
“I’m, err, ordering you to stand down,” Chelsea said in as convincing a voice as she could muster. She wasn’t sure if she could actually order a civilian to back off, especially one with such a wicked sword. Besides, was Chelsea still the queen, if her father wasn’t truly dead?
Anita’s laughter carried throughout the open field. “No, Your Royally-Spoiled Majesty, it doesn’t work that way. Your general hasn’t succeeded in killing me with his thugs all this time, what makes you think you can order me around?”
Alright, so she knew who Chelsea was, and she wasn’t impressed with either her or the general.
“Well, I didn’t shoot you,” Day reminded her. “Even though I’d been given orders to do so.”
“I know.” Anita turned toward Day, her voice softening. “I remember you.”
“Then please don’t hurt Her Majesty’s father. Let him go,” Day told her. His eyes were clouded with pain. His injury and the subsequent hand-to-hand combat had been rough on him, but he pleaded on Chelsea’s behalf using what little bargaining chip he had. Chelsea would have kissed him again if she wasn’t in so much shock and despair.
Anita turned back to Chelsea. “Very well, I won’t hunt your father down. Not because of your title, but out of respect for your loyal guard’s request.” She paused. “And also out of respect for your mad aim. I saw it. It was incredible.”
“My mad—oh.” So Anita had witnessed her throwing those lipsticks. Chelsea replied gratefully, “Thanks.”
A convoy of trucks had shown up from the direction of the base, visible from a distance due to the flatness of the plain. The first truck carried a person in dress uniform. If Chelsea wasn’t mistaken, it was General Roland. Even from this distance his pose appeared rigid with rage.
At the other end of the field, Chelsea’s dad kept running. Heaven knew how he could run so fast, for he had been a nerd through and through all his life, but he had become a small figure on the flat plain by now.
The general would be here in no time, given the short distance he had to travel.
Chelsea wanted desperately to go to her dad, to see if there was a way for her to help him. But if she did that, she would bring General Roland’s attention to him as well. Who knew what the general might do? Would he destroy his former friend on the spot in order to cover up whatever it was he was trying to hide?
“I’ll track him,” Anita offered. When she saw the panicked look on Chelsea’s face, she held up a hand. “To locate him for you, not to hunt. To secure him, not to hurt him. I give you my word.”
Looking into Anita’s firm gaze, Chelsea nodded. She was taking a leap of faith, but somehow she knew that the sword-wielding warrior was a woman of her word.
“Are you really Anita?” Chelsea asked softly.
The woman smiled. “Yes.”
Anita took off after Chelsea’s father at a speed that was nearly impossible for the human eye to track. By the time the convoy carrying the general stopped before Chelsea, both Anita and Chelsea’s father had almost disappeared from sight.
Chelsea willed herself to stop looking in their direction, took a deep breath, and faced General Roland.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Circus
The general was furious.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve put us through, Your Majesty?” He spit out Chelsea’s title of respect as if it was an insult.
That certainly got Chelsea’s hackles up, especially given the lies she knew he had told her. But she reminded herself that this was neither the time nor place to confront him. She needed to do it privately. So she remained silent.
“Colonel.” General Roland turned to Colonel Martin, who had just jumped down from the vehicle to join him on the ground next to Chelsea. “Round up the civilians and get them back to camp.”
“Back to camp?” Chelsea broke her silence and said sharply, “They’ve bee
n through a lot. We should be taking them back to the base with us.”
“No, we aren’t going to do that. The civilians stay here,” General Roland said in a clipped tone. He was defying her order openly, in front of everyone. Up until this moment he had given her the courtesy of maintaining the appearance of her being somewhat in control. Not anymore.
Ignoring Chelsea, the general turned to Day, took in his injuries, then spoke in a wintry voice, “Get on the truck and take your punks with you, Captain. I’ll deal with you later.”
He wouldn’t even give Day the chance to find out if his sister was alright, although Chelsea was positive it was not an oversight, but rather a form of punishment.
Then General Roland’s gaze turned to Ruiz, and if it was angry before, it was now downright deadly. “You. I knew it.”
Before he could go on, Benner, who for some reason had come along for the ride, rushed to the general’s side and whispered something in his ear.
Whatever the protocol officer had said made him straighten up. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. It’ll be good PR,” Benner said with unconcealed excitement. She gestured to a man carrying a camera, beckoning him to come down from the second truck. “I’ll have Patrick here take a few shots of the dead Obsessed along with our troops. Do some editing, and voila, we’ll have a special broadcast of the government taking decisive action against the Obsessed that will inspire hope and confidence. Add that to Her Majesty’s speech and her posing with a few refugees, and you’ll see a whole new influx of recruits.”
“You mean you want me to pose with the refugees for a photo op, then just leave them here?” Chelsea said incredulously.
“Well.” Benner had the audacity to look unashamed. “Not leaving them here, just allowing their admission to be processed in due time.”
“No.” Chelsea said firmly. She was sick and tired of being the center of the media circus, especially now that she knew what she knew. Not only would the new recruits be attracted by those ads, but civilians, too. They would come only to find out that they weren’t actually welcome. It was false advertisement in its worst form, and she wanted no role in it.
The challenge in her eyes must have told the general that she meant business. But if there was a tiny part of her that expected him to back down, it was sadly mistaken.
“Colonel,” he said. “Please escort Her Majesty back to the base. She’s done here.”
Just like that, she was being dragged back to the base like a wayward child caught doing something naughty. Which was ironic, because she felt more independent and adult than she had ever felt in her entire life.
***
Chelsea traveled back to the base riding in the first truck with Colonel Martin. Neither uttered a single word during the ride. Day and his men followed in the second truck, and so did Ruiz. Meanwhile General Roland, Benner, and the rest of the soldiers who came with him did whatever they needed to do at the camp to make it a successful media event.
Once inside the base, Colonel Martin led her to the building that hosted the general’s office, while the truck with Day in it drove on. Chelsea hoped they would check on Day’s injuries before questioning him, but decided not to ask Colonel Martin about it in case she made matters worst.
Colonel Martin left her in the waiting room in front of the general’s office for well over two hours, without giving her a chance to clean up and get comfortable first. The intention, she supposed, was to soften her up for whatever the general had to say to her. Well, tough. He was mad at her? Boy, did she have a bone to pick with him.
By the time the door to the waiting room opened and General Roland walked in, Chelsea was still furious, but being calmer about it. She ached to find out whether Anita had found her father, and whether they’d taken care of Day’s wound. But those couple of hours waiting had given her some time to think with her head instead of her heart.
She stood up, not wanting to be in a weaker position for the upcoming confrontation.
General Roland entered and closed the door with a soft, ominous click. Then he turned around and showed her into his office. She followed wordlessly. The office was the same as the first time she visited him here, with the large mahogany desk and a Persian carpet. But now, instead of Queen Elizabeth, a portrait of Chelsea hung on the wall. Heavy blackout curtains were drawn. They blocked the view of the courtyard from within while preventing people outside from seeing inside, to bear witness to whatever the general was about to say to her.
He didn’t offer her the chair, and she wouldn’t have sat down even if he asked. So they just stared at each other.
“Well, well.” There was unrepressed anger on his face. “Is Her Majesty ready to be an adult?”
How dare he talk to her in such a condescending tone? At least she’d tried to make things right with the civilians.
She took in the sight of his hair, which had an unnatural glossiness that could only be credited to some hair mousse product. It would appear that he had already contributed his screen time for whatever propaganda material Benner had whipped up.
“Are you ready to stop the bullshitting and tell me some truths?” she retorted.
The general made a tsk sound. “Such language.”
“Screw you.” Yeah, it wasn’t appropriate language for a lady, let alone a queen, but he didn’t see her as queen anyway.
“Alright, what truths do you seek?” He crossed his arms. “Why the civilians are entering the base in a controlled manner? I have limited resources and I won’t apologize for my choices.”
“Even if they were under attack and could die from your lack of intervention?”
“Even if it comes to that,” he confirmed.
What Ruiz had claimed about the other camp being wiped out while the general did nothing must be true, then. Up until this point, a tiny part of her still wanted to give General Roland the benefit of the doubt for such a serious allegation. Now all she felt was rage and betrayal.
“You’re supposed to protect the civilians,” she ground out her words. “That’s your duty.”
General Roland regarded her for a long moment, then changed his tone, making it annoyingly sugary and patronizing at the same time.
“Your Majesty, you’ve been under the influence of a few unsavory characters, and I’m afraid that they’ve turned you against me.” He sighed. “I’m still, and always will be, a good family friend.”
He wanted to play the family friend card, huh?
“I saw my father,” Chelsea stated bluntly. Yep, just like that. Let’s see how he took it.
General Roland’s eyes widened and his jaw slackened. It took him a good long minute to recover, but he did.
“What silliness is this?” he finally demanded.
“I saw my father,” she repeated, her eyes never leaving the general’s face.
“Then you’re obviously delusional,” he huffed, but anxiety came through his feigned casualness. “I told you—he’s dead.”
“Yes, you told me many things,” Chelsea grit her teeth, “but I know what I saw at that camp today. I saw my dad.”
The general paused again. Chelsea expected him to voice more denial, but what he hissed out next turned her blood cold, “Listen, young lady, you have no idea what you’re talking about, so just drop it, okay? Know your place, do your duty, and shut the hell up.”
“What aren’t you telling me?” she demanded.
The general looked at her, then smiled. He actually smiled. “Alright, sit down, girl. Let Uncle Roland tell you a little story.”
Chelsea remained standing. General Roland chuckled, poured himself a drink from a nearby stand, and sat down behind his desk. He leaned back, his relaxed posture somehow no less menacing than his aggressive stance earlier.
“Once upon a time, a brilliant yet naïve young man got himself involved in a classified government project. You see, during that turbulent time, the national debt of every Commonwealth country was sky-high. Governments big and small
were close to bankruptcy. None of them would ever openly acknowledge a global-wide depression, lest it create mass panic, but that was exactly what it was. To find a way out, they gathered some of the brightest minds in economics in the world. They all said that if only consumer confidence bounced back and people started spending again, it would kick-start the whole economy. Then everything would be back to the way it was. But how do you get people to be confident about spending when there was nothing to be confident about? The governments could turn their propaganda machines up the loudest they could, but people’s general attitude toward money back then was to save every penny they could and put it under the mattress. So it wouldn’t have helped even if the governments poured trillions into the economy through stimulus packages. That spark needed to catch fire, so to speak, and they needed to start somewhere.”
“Where are you going with this?” Chelsea asked. “What does any of this have to do with my dad?”
“Patience, lass.” General Roland smirked. “Now, this young man, who just happened to be a neuroscientist, figured out that they needed to take a different approach. A scientific approach. So he created a type of nanobot—the first of its kind and quite ingenious, really—that was specifically designed to lower a human brain’s aversion to financial risk. These nanobots were derived from a natural parasite called Toxoplasma gondii, which is known to remove a rodent’s innate fear of cats, making it more likely to be eaten by them. In humans, studies have proven that this parasite could lead to an increase of traffic accidents as the test subjects became less risk-averse. The young man tweaked it so that instead of lowering the fear of speed, the nanobots lowered a human’s fear of financial ruin. The nanobots also targeted the pleasure centers in the brain, making it crave the instant gratification brought forth from the acquisition of material things, and decreasing one’s patience to wait and save before getting it.”
