The Queen of the Dead (39 page)

Jack was allowed into the room at his brother’s insistence. Zombie Jack was hungry and there was so much to eat. Mina understood his hunger, but Jerry had already subdued him by tying him to a chair of his own.

It was all a game.

“You’ve no right to torture us,” Ed began. “Whatever you want, whatever evil you want to be a part of, it has nothing to do with us. Just because a lot of people are dead doesn’t mean morals have been thrown out the window.”

Jim chuckled. “Who said anything about morals? Or law? You’re all about to die a terrible death. There will be a lot of pain, and it will be quite wonderful. You’ve never felt anything like it, nor will you again. Savor it.”

“Listen to me,” Ed continued, “just listen for a minute, please. I know you. You’re a sociopath. I bet you’re not even a real priest. This isn’t even fun for you; you’re just curious. You want to see our reactions. You want to be a part of our suffering because you can.”

Jim frowned and walked around the captives. “You believe you understand me, but I’m just a priest. Who’re you to pass judgment on me? Only God can judge me…”

Jerry, from his corner of the room, laughed. “Listen to this asshole. How desperate he is. Let him keep talking.”

“You have nothing to do with God,” Ed focused on Jim. “You believe in God, but you feel like you’ve been betrayed. The Devil has taken over and you don’t want to be on the losing side. Maybe you believed God would save us all, or maybe you always believed the human race deserved something like this.”

Jim put his hands on his hips and seemed interested in what the man had to say. “The Devil, you say? You offer a philosophical argument? I think it’s a bit too late for that. The Devil is far older than God, but it’s not the Devil you purport to know.”

“You can’t give up on people,” Ed was doing his best to stay calm, to match Jim’s demeanor. “We can rise above this because we’re better than we think we are. We’ll realize the goodness we’re capable of, and we’ll prevail over evil. This is an opportunity to be better people, to combine our strength and our hearts.”

“This is already tiresome,” Jim frowned. “If you believe me to be a sociopath, or a corrupt man of faith, then you already know you can’t appeal to me. You’re trying to talk to Jerry.”

Jack’s twin brother straightened as if he hadn’t been listening and he was now called upon to react. He looked around the room at the captives—maybe thirty of them crowded into the room, Mina estimated—and back to his zombie brother, as if he were to blame.

Mina watched Jim through Jack’s dead eyes. He paced around the room with his finger beneath his chin, deep in thought, or pretending to be. Mina knew he had better showmanship than Patrick did; Jim reveled in his power.

“Jerry here’s a sociopath,” Jim nodded, pretending to figure things out. “I found him hacking two people to pieces outside. I asked him if he wanted help, and he denied me. Said he was having fun. He’s quite the damaged individual, and you believe he might have some control over his humanity. You know, if I’m driven by a divine or unholy power, then I don’t have control.”

Ed twisted against the restraints. “You’re going to feed us to that damn thing.” He motioned with his head toward Jack. “Some kind of blood sacrifice?”

The rest of the crowd’s protests rose again to a fever pitch. Their eyes darted between dead Jack, his twin brother Jerry, and Jim. They damned the priest or provided a rationale why they deserved to live.

Jim raised his hands to silence them, and their voices stilled; sobbing and whimpering persisted among these unfortunate survivors.

“This man speaks for you,” Jim pointed to Ed. “Tell us your name, to give your death more meaning. Make it memorable for me.”

The universal “fuck you” for a man who couldn’t use his hands was the wad of spit Ed fired at the ground.

Jim sighed while the red-faced, puffy faces of the crying victims of The Artist’s latest masterwork once again resumed their mad chorus of longing.

If she could speak through Jack’s mouth, she would start asking Jim the questions, and it would all be over. She would find Father Joe and… she wasn’t sure what she would do with him, only that he was important. He was the opposite of whatever was inside of her.

We have been here forever,
the voice reminded her.
Our coming was inevitable. Your birth, your life, has always belonged to us. You were made for us. Your bloodline runs into the ancient sands and touches the prayers of the forgotten. You are us, and we are you.

“What’re we waiting for?” Jerry asked. “You said we were gonna bleed ‘em. If we’re just standing around, priest, I can do it myself.”

Jim pursed his lips and looked at the tips of his shoes as if he were reflecting upon a sad occasion that had changed his life. His cold eyes roved around in his skull until they locked on Jerry; his head was still dipped low between his shoulders like a predatory bird, and the homicidal Mender brother swallowed and averted his eyes.

The Artist smiled and closed his eyes as if he inhaled the scent of a dozen roses and savored the experience. “Why do you want to kill them so badly? What makes them deserve it? They seem like nice enough people. Innocent, perhaps. They’ve done nothing to you.”

Mina wanted to grasp on to the disconnected ideas floating around in Jack’s subconscious, but all she could see was the memory of his death, replayed over and over again, with his brother’s hands wrapped around his neck, and the little girl hidden away.

She already knew what was going to happen to Jerry. It was just a matter of how.

“Fucking priest,” Jerry shook his head. “These little pigs are the shit-swimmers, the mass-market zombies who’re burning down their own pig pens. And you’re a slave to a God that doesn’t exist, and if He did, he wouldn’t give a shit about your child-molesting ass.”

For the first time, Jim’ smile broke over his bright, perfectly-straight teeth. “Nothing like a stereotype to highlight ignorance.” He turned to Ed and shared the smile. “Do you think all priests are bad? Aren’t they supposed to represent something pure about the human race? Everyone here sure trusted me enough…”

“Just get it over with,” Ed grumbled.

The false priest gave his melodramatic sigh and began to wring his hands together. “It truly is full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. So then, Jerry, we’ll start with you to set an example. You’re about to die. This is an absolute. Tell me how you feel about it. What’s on your mind?”

Jack charged like a bull toward a red flag, his head lowered, no plan turning in his head, chemical lust for violence replacing logic and strategy, not that there was a lot going on in his head to begin with, anyway.

A precise chop to the throat, a kick to Jerry’s shin, a backhanded slap that was more of an insult than an instrument of pain.

The lead singer of
Coincidental Genocide
twisted on the floor, holding his neck and coughing while his body surrendered to violent spasms.

“It would’ve been better for you,” Jim said to the crowd, “if he lived. Unfortunately, it’s difficult for him to talk now, so I won’t hear what’s on his mind. Oh, well.”

But he could hear what everyone else had to say as they struggled against their restraints. He approached Jack; he had already planned this.

The man’s ego couldn’t get any bigger.

He understands the path,
the voice said.
We have no use for him beyond this mortal realm. The man must live for now, but he cannot be allowed to take what he desires.

“Has anyone noticed this dead man?” Jim untied the restraints binding Jack. “He’s a bit smelly to begin with. Name’s Jack, and he was Jerry’s brother. Turns out, Jerry killed him. Twisted, huh? Twin brothers, and one kills the other. No idea why, but it doesn’t matter, does it? But this zombie has been calm for a while… hasn’t been fighting the restraints. It’s been
watching.
”

Don’t be surprised,
the voice told her.
This is years in the making. It’s kept him awake at night. This is his moment as much as it is yours, until we’re done with him.

Jim brushed a lock of hair away from Jack’s face. It would be so easy to reach for him and take a bite, but she knew Jim was faster; besides, he would tell her everything once she made it to the base.

“I’m glad you’re doing the right thing, Mina,” Jim whispered.

Mina/Jack rose from the chair. Hysteria and delirium collided, melting into the spill of tears and urine. These people had survived for this long. They’d survived the attack on Selfridge. They came to the base seeking hope and salvation, and they were the last ones left. The priest was supposed to help them, keep them safe.

“Give them a show,” Jim said while gesturing to the dying twin.

There was no emotion in Jack because he was dead. There was no true recognition, only memory. Current reality didn’t exist. Mina couldn’t find a way to provoke a response from him other than a delayed command of his motor skills.

Jerry looked up at his dead brother with wide eyes. He knew what was coming. He kicked his fat legs and gurgled through his maimed throat. The hunger meant everything, of course, but it might be fun to see Jerry suffer for a few seconds. Jack’s hands raked down the length of Jerry’s face, tearing the skin like an unwanted color of paint scraped from a house’s walls. Blood seeped into the curves of Jerry’s face, blinding his eyes and slipping into his gasping mouth. Rapid breaths through his nose puffed the nostrils and blood flared while flesh ripped.

The dead twin, Jack, the man who used to sit behind the drum kit, leaned down and captured Jerry’s nose between his teeth.

Through all the screaming around her head, she heard Jim’s mild-mannered voice say, “I wonder if you’ve ever seen any of your movies.”

A door slammed, and Mina/Jack looked with Jerry’s nose sloshing around in the zombie’s mouth.

When the television monitor in the conference room showed the amateurish video half-shaded in gloom, she recognized the redheaded, pale woman in the sheer white gown lying on a bed next to an old man.

Jim’s face was planted against the glass on the other side of a door. The smirk was tattooed onto his face. He could watch everyone die without seeing the video himself.

Ed’s protests were the loudest. “What is this, you
coward
? Come back in here. Untie me and kill me yourself.”

They thought they were going to be killed by Jack.

She couldn’t help them. There was no time to save their lives, but Jack’s last living memories contained the moment in which Ed had trusted Jack; his daughter, Alexis, would be safe. She was on the base somewhere. If Mina/Jack tried to untie Ed, he wouldn’t have a chance against Jim. The Artist would have his moment of pain and suffering; he might even make it worse for the poor guy.

The zombie bent down to its meal before the flesh cooled. The heart already stopped pumping, and the legs were at rest. Jerry might’ve choked on his own blood.

She already knew what would happen next. There was no need to watch these people suffer.

Ed’s eyes found the dead gaze of Jack. There was hope there. There was trust; maybe Jack had done the right thing. Maybe Alexis would be safe.

No. Mina would make sure of it. Jack would want that.

ROSE

Mina was barely awake for the walk, but at least the zombies left them alone. They hefted her over their shoulders and carried her.

Close now. After all this time.

Jim.

Selfridge was a wasteland composed of blood and smoke. While walking beside the undead crowed across the corpse-strewn tarmac, she found herself a katana embedded in the neck of a large black man with his stomach and everything that was supposed to be in it missing. She removed the blade from the dead man’s neck and promptly blew off his head by pumping a shell through the shotgun. It was an odd order to do things; it was almost like thanking him for the weapon after she swung it about her head to test its weight.

The edge was sharp enough. Some idiot just didn’t know how to use it.

Agent Rose had been trained to use melee weapons. Jim taught her the importance of being able to use the bed sheets, a cell phone, a shoe. She could kill with anything, but a true blade was a gift. Although the weapon she had now was a cheap replica sword, it could still cut through living flesh well enough.

The mission was over for her, maybe before it even started. This was about Jim’s promise to her, and they would have their fight. She would die by his hand or kill him. There might not be missions for her after this, anyway.

She heard it, and she wasn’t surprised. The familiar sound of a Chinook’s twin blades, unmistakable in the eerie silence of the dead world. They were coming because Jim had called. It was preordained. Whatever Jim had to do with this, it was a carefully-orchestrated plan that would be foreseen until its conclusion.

How did he know she was close by?

The assassin’s ego already seized control over her methods; she was a slave to the idea that the world ended because of her and for her. She was aware of this weakness in her mortal code but was helpless against the slow-moving poison of mindless worship.