Of Royal Descent (35 page)

I needed to see Addy.

I found her where Stephen had indicated.  I stood in the door frame, watching her sleep.  Her hair fanned out over the pillow, and her hands made fists under her chin.  Her normally pale, milky skin was marred with the tell-tale signs of crying herself to sleep.  Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed.  I was incapable of feeling physical pain; therefore it was sadness that filled my heart at the sight of her misery.

I closed the door softly and slid into bed next to her.  She stirred, drawing the blanket around us both and
laying her head on my shoulder.  I kissed the top of her head and wrapped my arm around her, stroking the soft skin of her arm.  She exhaled contentedly and nuzzled into my side.

I wanted to thank her for saving my father's life.  I wanted to ask her about the syringe Bradbury suggested she had stolen.  I wanted to have hot zombie sex.  But her breathing evened out as she fell back asleep
, and I knew it could wait.  It could all wait.  Holding Addy was more than enough, despite what my instinct screamed.

I closed my eyes in an attempt to prepare for what came my way tomorrow.  Whatever it was, I knew I was going to have to be rested.  The lives of three people I loved hung in the balance.  The
government was, more than likely, after my family.  Edgar Bradbury's whereabouts and intentions were currently unknown.  Addy's viral syringe needed to be found and destroyed.  The royals had been loosed upon the world.  Oh, and of course, at some point, I was going to have to tell Addy about the origin of my safe word.  I cringed, wondering if that would trigger a different kind of apocalypse. 

Eventually exhaustion won out over the stress of facing a new day
, and I began to fall asleep.  In the crossing between realms, the fog rolled in, and Addy beckoned to me from across the valley.  I smiled.  After all, there surely could be no harm in doing as I pleased in my dreams… right?

1

Rain splattered against the windshield in large, heavy drops.  The gray clouds darkening the sky overhead made the afternoon feel later than it really was.  A flash of lightning momentarily brightened the horizon, and I tensed, waiting for the inevitable aftermath or resounding thunder.  I didn't have to wait long.  The rumble was deafening, and I was reminded, yet again, of how little I had control over. 

I slid the over-sized gray hooded sweatshirt over my head and tossed it onto the empty front passenger
seat.  Opening the rusty driver side door of my recently acquired 1980 Ford truck, I stepped out into the torrential downpour.  The cold beads of rain struck angrily at my flesh.  I slammed the door to the truck and left it parked on the side of the road as I jogged to the edge of the woods.  The drumming of the rain silenced my footsteps as I slipped into the cover of the trees.  I began to sprint.

Six weeks ago, I had been blissfully ignorant of the details surrounding my existence.  I
’d had the audacity to believe I was a normal and productive member of society.  Six weeks ago, the world as I knew it began to crumble.  My name is Doyle Hawthorne, and I'm the newest member to the line of zombie royalty.

I began to pick up speed as I blazed up the side of the mountain.  The scenery became a blur.  As the foliage became
denser and more difficult to maneuver, I catapulted myself up into the trees.  The branches scratched at my exposed flesh as I leapt from one tree to the next, leaving a trail of red and gold leaves to descend to the forest floor beneath me.  I pressed myself to go faster, jump further.  I needed to put distance between me and the facility.

For two weeks, I had stood by helplessly as my best friend died a slow and painful death.  Chuck had been injected with higher doses of morphine than I had
received during my first shading, and yet it seemed to have little effect.  I watched as day after day, his strength and his sanity gave out until all that was left was a convulsing shell of a man.  It would have been brutal to watch any man die in such an inhumane way, but this was Chuck Johnson.  And it was all my fault.

I slowed to a stop and leaned against the trunk of the tall white oak where I had landed.  I inhaled sharply and tried to gauge how far I had run.  Not that it really mattered.  Nowhere would have been far enough to outrun what I had done.  Icy rain instantly cooled the hot tears that slid down my cheeks as I began to come to terms with what had just happened.

Stephen had warned me, but I had chosen to have selective hearing.  So the possibility that Chuck had been dying - as in, without hope of coming back again - had not been something I’d prepared for. 

It wasn't supposed to go down like that.  I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my forehead against the bark of the oak.  I could see Chuck
lying there, his body finally lax for the first time in days.  Stephen, Russell, Gretchen, and I had been positioned outside of his cage, waiting for him to wake up.  The minutes had turned into hours, and eventually my adoptive mother had been the first to speak up.

* * *

"I should probably phone Eliot... and tell him... something," she spoke quietly.

"No.  He's going to wake up.  It'll be fine," I said firmly.

By her facial expression, she had been unsure of how to proceed.  Stephen had been quick to jump in.

"Yes, he absolutely could still awaken.  The longest reanimation process on record was eight hours.  Chuck still has time."

I nodded appreciatively to Stephen for allowing me to remain happy inside my own little, deluded world for a while longer. 

After a couple more hours, Gretchen excused both herself and Russell, stating it wasn't good for him to be up this long while he was still recovering from his bullet wound.  As they passed, my adoptive father patted me on the back but withheld words.  My mother kissed my cheek and then left Stephen and
me to wait for Chuck's second shading. 

Eight hours came and went when Stephen finally spoke.

"Doyle, I know this is hard to accept, but Chuck isn't showing any signs of shading.  We should begin to make arrangements."  His voice had been low and respectful, but his words struck me as if he had punched me in the gut.

"No!" I yelled, fighting the instinct to shade to royalty.  "He's going to wake up!"

I continued to stare at Chuck's lifeless body, determined my sheer will could force him to shade. 

"Okay," Stephen said softly.  "We'll wait longer, but you need to eat."

"I'm fine."

"No, Doyle, you're not."

"I said I was fine."

"I know you're upset
, but do I need to remind you that it would be Addy who would be in the greatest danger if you didn't eat?"  He stared at me wide-eyed, as if to drive home his point.

I sighed.  "Okay, but then I'm coming right back."

Stephen nodded, and I had made my way down to the feeding grounds within the facility.

* * *

Remembering the savory taste of fresh, raw muscle tissue produced involuntary shading on my behalf.  I ran my long, darted tongue over the tips of my jagged, predatory teeth and eyed the rain-soaked ground beneath me. 

There was little animal movement in the forest thanks to the weather, but fortunately, royals possess a special skill set that allows them to hunt in even the most undesirable conditions.  The scent of game carried to me on the breeze
, and I swiveled my head in an attempt to get a bead on the creature.

A coyote was slowly making its way through the underbrush when it stopped suddenly, ears pricked up.

Even more than I needed to eat, I needed to release the anger and violence I had been holding in.  I needed to tear something apart in the same way my life had been torn apart. 

I watched in silence as the coyote raised its hackles and crouched lower to the earth.  And in the next moment, it was gone, bolting across the mountain.  With graceful, acrobatic flair, I leapt from the white oak and pursued my prey.

* * *

"There, satisfied?" I asked Stephen, returning to Chuck's cell door and leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind me. 

Stephen acknowledged my presence, and I reclaimed my previous seat as together we continued to wait.  Another hour went by.  And then another.

"Doyle," Stephen began. 

I turned to stare at him ominously.  He sighed.

"Chuck's not entering the second shade.  It's time-"

"He will," I spoke flatly. 

"It's no longer a matter if he will.  The
fact is, he didn't.  I'm sorry.  I know it's hard, but we need-"

"Get out!" I screamed, sending my chair flying as I stood and turned to face him.  Stephen rose calmly from his seat and returned my gaze.

"This is not your fault," he said.  I rushed him, pinning him against the wall.

"Get out!" I screamed into his face, concentrating on my safe word so I wouldn't shade and make it that much harder for me not to rip him limb from limb.

"Or what?  You'll kill me?" Stephen choked out.  "I'm your friend."

I loosened my hold
, and Stephen's feet once again touched the floor.  I staggered back and stared down, helplessly.  There was nothing I could do to make it right again.  There was nothing I could do to bring back Chuck.  Grief overwhelmed me, and I sank to the floor.  My chest felt tight, and I struggled to breathe.

"This is not your fault," Stephen repeated.

"I... I have to get out of here," I managed to spit out as I clambered up off the floor. 

"Doyle, wait.  Don't leave the facility in this frame of mind.  It's dangerous."

"I'll be fine," I said, jerking open the door to the hallway.

"I meant to others," came Stephen's response before the heavy door thudded closed behind me.

* * *

Coyotes are fast, but royals are faster.  I finished my meal and then smashed in its skull with my fist, per Zombie Feeding Habits 101.  I closed my eyes and centered on my sixth sense, as I had grown accustomed to practicing the last couple weeks.  Sensing no danger, I stood and shaded back to human form.

I had been waiting for the ball to drop ever since the showdown between the colony and Anomaly.  We all had been.  Once Russell had regained consciousness following his brush with death, it became a hot topic at the figurative dinner table.  You know, because zombies don't actually... never mind.  Anyway, the general consensus was to expect Uncle Sam to be relentlessly tracking down all parties involved and either executing or containing the threat.

And yet, I had sensed no discord in the zombie force in the last two weeks.  If they were indeed stalking us, they were either doing a piss-poor job, or they were biding their time.  Whatever the reas
on, my sixth sense had detected no threat, and I was free to move as I pleased in and out of the facility.

Another flash of lightning sparked across the sky
, and the following clap of thunder came immediately behind.  I raised my face to the downpour and proceeded to scrub away the last of the coyote blood.

The sprint back to the Ford seemed short, but then I wasn't exactly in a hurry to go back to the clinic.  I pulled my sweatshirt over my head and threaded my arms through the sleeves.  I cranked the engine over and turned on the windshield wipers.  My foot remained on the brake.  I wasn't ready to see Chuck yet.  I couldn't look him in the face and know that he was gone because of me.  I tightened my grip on the wheel and inhaled sharply.  What I needed was a distraction... one big ass distraction.

I eased my foot off the brake and swung out onto the country road that led me back to Knoxville Highway in the direction of Oak Ridge. 
Between here and there, surely I would be able to find something to delay my return to the clinic.
  I pulled open the glove box and pulled out my mp3 player.  Shoving the ear buds into my ears, I cranked up the volume to Linkin Park's "Roads Untraveled" and did the best I could to steer into the approaching nightfall as the blue-tinged tears began to fall.

I found my answer quickly enough as I maneuvered along the streets of the town of Oliver Springs.  I let the Ford slow to a stop in the tiny parking lot of Junior's Juice, apparently the local bar.  Pulling the ear buds from my ears and drying my eyes with the cuff of my shirt, I began to wonder if alcohol would
affect a royal the same way it did humans.  I desperately wanted to get wasted, to dull the pain for a few sweet moments. 
What's the worst that could happen?
  Okay, bad choice of wording I suppose, since my own imagination was picturing a resulting mushroom cloud. 

With scary, homicidal powers,
comes butt loads of responsibility.  I turned over the engine, and put the truck in reverse, but that's as far as I got.  I knew it wasn't the safe or responsible thing to do, but at that moment, getting drunk was far more preferential than driving back and watching the orderlies cart away Chuck's body for shipment back to Maine.  I swallowed and put the Ford in park.  Tomorrow I would face it like a man, but tonight I would allow myself this moment of weakness.

The rain was falling softer now, not as angrily as it had been
, and I splashed down the sidewalk to the entrance of the bar.  Inside, the lights were dim but bright enough for me to survey the entire room.  I'm not sure what I’d been expecting - maybe a band of miscreants scattered throughout the room with knives drawn, perhaps a biker or four engaged in fisticuffs.  But whatever deviant and seedy behaviors I had been envisioning were not present.  It was a college-aged kid’s hangout.

Modern country music blared overhead while the bar's patrons, in varying degrees of intoxication,
appeared to be enjoying themselves.  A couple people glanced my way before returning to their conversation.

I walked to the bar and took a seat.  The bartender nodded at me and waited.  I was never overly interested in alcohol
, and Chuck had always done the buying. 

"I'll take a beer.  No, wait. 
Vokda, give me vodka," I spoke loud enough to be heard over the stereo, recalling the only time I ever drank and got bombed.

"Vodka?" the bartender raised a single eyebrow
, and I nodded.  "I need to see some ID."

I pulled my wallet from my cargo pocket and slid out my license, handing it to the man behind the counter.

"Coming right up, Mr. Abrams," he said, handing back my fake ID and retrieving my drink.

Gretchen had not wasted any time in delivering my new pseudo identity the morning after the colony was freed.  I stared down at the very legitimate-looking license.  I mentally snorted.  If Chuck were alive, he would have found great amusement in the name my mother had picked out for me, Link Abrams. 

The bartender placed my glass in front of me, and I tossed it back.

"Again," I spoke pleasantly as I
reholstered my ID and slipped out a twenty before returning my wallet to my jeans.