The Queen of the Dead (16 page)

Vega wore a black shirt and gray camouflage pants that were too big from her, likely stripped from one of the corpses. She hadn’t taken a Kevlar vest; maybe she wanted to be burdened with less weight for quick movement. She’d been out here longer than Rose; it might be a good idea to follow suit.

“Amparo Vega,” Rose called out.

The mercenary and the man turned around with their handguns snapping into their hands; both of them assumed a crouching position. Vincent had to have some kind of specialized training, too.

Rose held her shotgun in the air, her other hand outstretched. “Friend,” she announced.

“Bullshit,” Vega said.

“You’re looking for James Traverse,” Rose said.

“Never heard of ‘em,” Vega said.

“Bob Fields, Chris Miles,” Rose dared, “where are they?”

“Come around the truck so we can see you. We’ve got too much company around here to dick around. Vincent, maybe you can protect our new friend. Crack some eggs while I talk to the chickadee.”

The two women met halfway, neither were willing to drop their weapon.

“You’ve got three minutes,” Vega said.

“I’ve got Intel on your whole crew. I’m here to help finish the job.”

“Are you killing zombies with curves?”

“You keep that gun pointed at me and expect to exchange pleasantries?”

Vega refused to lower the weapon. “Your name or your life.”

“We’re on the same team, Vega. I’m Rose.”

“Stop saying my name. I don’t know you. I’ve got a headache and Vincent keeps staring at my ass. You’ve got two minutes.”

Vincent was slamming the butt of his weapon into the heads of nearby corpses. He drew them back toward the center of the parking lot, dispatching the undead as if they were nothing more than still targets.

“They’re dead, aren’t they?” Rose asked. “This is what you have left. I’m supposed to look for you to pick up the trail, assuming there is one.”

“We think he’s headed for Selfridge,” Vega replied. “He might already be there. The base might be wasted, but you’re more than welcome to check it out yourself.”

“You won’t trust me. You don’t even know what you’re dealing with. Have you seen him? I doubt it, because he wouldn’t let you live.”

“Say something useful. I dare you.”

“Do you know what he wants? Don’t you know why they want him?”

“There’s a group who think Traverse is linked to this, or they would’ve sent the whole army after this guy, not a bunch of losers like us. What makes you think you’re special?”

Neither woman passed the test. She’d hoped Vega had seen him; she wanted to know if he was still alive, wanted to know beyond a doubt that he was just as dangerous as she remembered. Years had passed, but she waited for this. Waited for another chance to see him again.

Vega had no idea why she was supposed to find Traverse, and neither did Rose. Why was this woman playing tough?

“He trained me,” Rose said. “I’ve read your file. You’re an alcoholic Jesus freak with a bad temper. Why did you take the mission? Why would you still pursue him?”

“I never said I was.”

“I didn’t come out here to play games with you.”

“You know me so well, you can figure it out.”

“You don’t want my help. I know his style, and I know what he can do, but your ego’s getting in the way.”

“That’s right. And time’s up. Like I said before: he might be at Selfridge, he might not.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Rose said. “We’re supposed to bring him there.”

“Nothing makes sense,” Vega spat and lowered her weapon. “Did you volunteer for this? You came out here, knowing what you’re up against, for money?”

“No. But you wouldn’t have backed out, either. This is what you live for. This is what you’ve been waiting your whole life for.”

Vega shrugged. “Maybe it is.”

“You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

“Ask me if I give a shit. Have fun when you find him.”

Vega looked Rose up and down; she was deciding whether or not to kill Rose. Rose knew Vega’s life was defined by violence and battle-lust; she was considered “unstable” in certain battle conditions, which is why she was no longer employed without Fields or Miles with her to balance the woman’s thirst for combat.

The mercenary turned her back on Rose and nodded to Vincent, who was standing over three dead bodies, his fists clenched, and a platinum-toothed grin splitting his lips.

Not long after Rose was left alone, she found a soldier’s corpse and removed the pants and boots. Vega and Vincent hadn’t been looking hard enough; the dead man still had radio equipment.

***

The road became a blur marred by lightning. She was soaked to the bone but there was no time to feel, no time to contemplate her physical disaster. Her brain patterns became a jumbled mess as she fled through Detroit and ended up in a nearby suburban city. The map in her head was tormented by images; her method of living was tested, cognition overloaded.

Memories and fragments, shards haunting movement through the maze of festering corpses and flies, smoke clouds, and flame.

(
Jim standing over her with his arms crossed over his chest. Smirking and shaking his head. “I broke your wrist faster than a man can take a single breath. You must be able to do the same to me.”)

(Fighting on the steps of an ancient Mayan temple in a storm, rain slipping over the stone, Jim’s eyes not moving, his chest not rising, his tall body poised like a dancer. He waited for her to strike).

(Only his words remained in the darkness of sleep. “Those who must be broken must be known. Their fears. Their secrets. You must strive to know them better than they know themselves. Their terror is the poetry of their lives, and you must read it to them.”)

(“Now you have to seduce me,” Jim said while walking beside her in the Sahara, the sun in their eyes. Her lips were cracked and her face burned while the sun pounded her body. She walked naked while he wore black from head to foot, the water in the canteen in his hand sloshing around.

“You’re not interested in sex,” she said, feeling defeated.

“Correct. No matter the target or the environment, you must be able to function. To fulfill your purpose. Make me want you.”)

(Jim stood in front of the window, looking out at Beirut.)

Thunder rattled her soul and dragged her above the smoldering cityscape. How much further could she go before her limbs surrendered? Her body was in top physical condition, but she already braved several miles of bullets and corpses, fire and rain. Did she even have a mission anymore? What if Selfridge was already gone?

She stopped moving, her body seizing like an engine that had survived too many miles. She didn’t know these people, these undead; she was designed for specific situations, specific social encounters. There was no connection between her and the people the zombies represented.

Agent Rose sat on the street and watched the crowd approach her from all directions.

Hundreds of them. Some of them stumbling faster than others, each one eager for her body. The rain couldn’t wash away the gore, nor could it cleanse the murderous intent from their shambling gait. They closed in, their heads rolling between their shoulders, their stomachs open to reveal black holes where precious organs were once stored.

“Take my hand, child.”

When she looked up at the figure standing over her, she saw only the priest’s collar through the thick curtain of rain. A broad hand was extended, and she grabbed the rough fingers which lifted her from the ground.

“Today we’ll live.” His voice was strong and calm. His thick shoulders could hold mountains, his square jaw set beneath a crooked nose bordered by scars. His thick, black hair was matted by the rainstorm.

“Hold on to me.” He hugged her into his damp chest. “No harm will come to you as long as you trust me.”

He didn’t have to shout to be heard over the rain. His voice filled her ears and warmed the bottom of her stomach. She clung to him as he walked through the crowd of dead; the corpses moved aside, their fingers attempting to grab at Rose’s arms and hair.

(“But I cannot let you die,” Jim said, carrying her in his arms across the sand dunes. “You lasted longer than I did out here. You have seen death in the brightness of the sun. Your flesh has been burned away, and now you’re the soul of murder. The real you. This is the greatest mission I’ve endured. I will take you now in this sand while the evening settles. I will take you now and let your body know you’re still alive.)

Not a single corpse touched the priest.

They stopped outside of a gated retirement community where hundreds of zombies were gathered; the foul stench of the assembled mob caused her eyes to water.

“This’ll require a bit more effort,” the priest said, “can you work with me?”

She looked into his deep brown eyes and saw the pages of history dance through his thoughts. He was of Hispanic descent, but there wasn’t any hint of an accent in his voice. Rose could understand people very well, especially men. His confidence was absolute, and he believed in his plan; his faith would be unshakeable.

She nodded.

“I’m Father Joe Martinez,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Rose,” she said.

His eyes flickered to her shotgun.

“You’re not carrying much ammo in that dress of yours,” Father Joe noted. “Okay, so I’m going to have to use my hands this time to clear a path. If you keep your back to mine, we can do this. If I carried you on my shoulders, I could lose my balance if one of them grabbed you. We’ll have to move fast. Stay with me. I’ll pray for you.”

He didn’t say
us.

Father Joe pushed onward, shoving clumsy zombies aside. She found herself in a pit of dead flesh; crooked arms swung like wayward branches, lightning flashes arcing over their heads.

“My Father, have mercy on this woman now, in this hour of need. My faith in Your will remains strong in my heart…”

A zombie that was backed up against a wall of unmovable corpses was tossed aside by the powerful priest.

They were surrounded on all sides, dripping-wet mouths opening and closing, fingernails scraping Rose’s arms.

“… My adoration for You remains. Guide us now through Satan’s army. Lend us the strength and courage to overcome…”

Rose exploded the head of a zombie that was too close for comfort. She pumped the shell through the chamber. Two left.

“…My God, who is deserving of all my love…”

Not a single corpse touched Father.

She couldn’t blink. Her back was pressed against Father Joe’s as he maneuvered through the horde. When he moved, she moved with him. Inches separated her face from the dead; gas from their rotting stomachs burped through their mouths, causing the dead to moan while their bones creaked. Her stomach recoiled and she fought the urge to retch, as the burning-sewage smell seeped into her nostrils. She turned her face to avoid the greedy claws.

Her head was wrenched sideways and Father Joe whirled around and delivered a right hook to a zombie’s jaw. Her head was free for a split-second as more hands clutched at her throat and head. Her breath was cut off and the groaning dead replaced the sound of thunder, rain, prayer, heart, consciousness—

“JESUS CLAIMS VICTORY OVER THE DAMNED!”

Their grotesque hands were upon her body, groping and pulling while she felt herself rise above them. Father Joe hefted her over his left shoulder.

She pointed her gun and fired, unsure what she hit.

(“I will come for you after your first mission. I want to know how powerful you feel. I want to know how beautiful you feel. I want to know your strength as I know your flesh. Return to me.”)

“MY LORD, DELIVER US FROM THIS EVIL! DELIVER US!”

She was the golden calf. She was the icon of worship. Hands and groans. Eyes and mouths. All focused on her. Wanting her. Needing her. The unwashed, the fleshless, the mutilated. They were of every ethnicity, every age. The melting pot poured into a coffin, the velvet lining closing in, the lid dropping to seal forever the wide-eyed woman who knew not who she was, but what she was.

A skull randomly exploded in a shower of brain, face, and skull. Another skull popped. And then another.

She wasn’t pressing the trigger.

The shotgun was snatched from her hands.

She craned her neck to see them all, a swaying ocean of corpses weighed by the rain, shapes squirming and writhing against each other to find her flesh.

Waves of water and blood, gore and groans.

The masses are hungry. The masses are starving and they must be fed.

Rose disappeared behind veils of consciousness. Warm hands on her shoulders. A hulking figure standing in front of a door, his back to her, his fists clenched. She no longer felt the rain. Eyes drifted. She thought of a wet dog slinking through a dung heap.

(He stood in the doorway with his hands behind his back. She knew it was him, because he never left her. He was with her on every mission, his voice accompanying his fingers, the inches along her spinal column played like a piano, her breath sucked into his mouth.