The Undead World (Book 12): The Body [An Undead World Expansion] Read online

  The Body

  An Undead World

  Expansion

  Peter Meredith

  Copyright 2020

  Peter Meredith

  Copyright is what means Hands off!

  Yes, I’m talking to you, Buckaroo

  Fictional works by Peter Meredith:

  A Perfect America

  Infinite Reality: Daggerland Online Novel 1

  Infinite Assassins: Daggerland Online Novel 2

  Generation Z

  Generation Z: The Queen of the Dead

  Generation Z: The Queen of War

  Generation Z: The Queen Unthroned

  Generation Z: The Queen Enslaved

  Generation Z: The Queen Unchained

  The Sacrificial Daughter

  The Apocalypse Crusade War of the Undead: Day One

  The Apocalypse Crusade War of the Undead: Day Two

  The Apocalypse Crusade War of the Undead Day Three

  The Apocalypse Crusade War of the Undead Day Four

  The Apocalypse Crusade War of the Undead Day Five

  The Horror of the Shade: Trilogy of the Void 1

  An Illusion of Hell: Trilogy of the Void 2

  Hell Blade: Trilogy of the Void 3

  The Punished

  Sprite

  The Blood Lure The Hidden Land Novel 1

  The King’s Trap The Hidden Land Novel 2

  To Ensnare a Queen The Hidden Land Novel 3

  Dead Eye Hunt

  Dead Eye Hunt: Into the Rad Lands

  The Apocalypse: The Undead World Novel 1

  The Apocalypse Survivors: The Undead World Novel 2

  The Apocalypse Outcasts: The Undead World Novel 3

  The Apocalypse Fugitives: The Undead World Novel 4

  The Apocalypse Renegades: The Undead World Novel 5

  The Apocalypse Exile: The Undead World Novel 6

  The Apocalypse War: The Undead World Novel 7

  The Apocalypse Executioner: The Undead World Novel 8

  The Apocalypse Revenge: The Undead World Novel 9

  The Apocalypse Sacrifice: The Undead World 10

  The Apocalypse Origin: The Undead World Novel 11

  The Edge of Hell: Gods of the Undead Book One

  The Edge of Temptation: Gods of the Undead Book Two

  Tales from the Butcher’s Block

  The Body

  A quick note from the author— Ezekiel Cross:

  I have always felt that the fates have positioned me to be exactly what I am. I’ve never found myself in a spot where heroism was ever really necessary and thus, I’m not a hero. Wars always seem to be too far away or end conveniently before I arrive and so, I’m not a soldier. Death and suffering have fortunately occurred in the dark of night or over the next horizon, and as such my medical abilities have never been called upon.

  I’m too impatient for farming, too small-framed for smithing, and too likely to drown to be a fisherman.

  My greatest talent seems to be in finding myself in the presence of greatness, frequently when these great individuals are at their lowest. An axiom I’ve discovered is that almost without question, vulnerability leads to truth.

  And that proved true even with the Queen.

  I was on Bainbridge Island when the Queen finally made her second return. As has been written extensively elsewhere, her first return, at the head of a conquering army, was an awesome spectacle. This time she came back to the island alone, emerging from the fog on a small rowboat, oared by a nervous fisherman who half-expected her to slit his throat.

  She was older now, her famously wild hair, though still wild, was shot through with ribbons of silver. Her scars, those that could be seen, were fading, giving her a softer appearance. Where I saw her age more than anywhere, was in her hands. They had sprung lines and creases where once they had been smooth.

  The only part of the Queen that hadn’t aged a day were her eyes. They were still uncommonly large and startlingly blue. They were also just as keen.

  She picked me out of the crowd in a second...and dismissed me in that very same second.

  I might find myself in the presence of greatness, but that does not mean great people actually like me. I’m not offended. My job is not just to print the truth, it’s to do so in such a manner that sells the most books. This always means highlighting the more salacious details of a story at the expense of mitigating factors, which are usually downplayed.

  And yet, I had always played it straight with the Queen.

  This has a great deal to do with the respect I have for her as a person and partially because, as a source of material, I have barely scratched the surface. Also, I am still terrified of her.

  Age had not mellowed the demons inside her and only a fool would think she was any less dangerous now. No, I was sure that she was even more dangerous on the day she came back than on the day she left.

  What tricks had she learned in the years since I last saw her? What poisons sat plainly in sight? What new beings had taken up residence inside her skull?

  I have always respected her and understood when she turned away. She wasn’t here for me. I watched patiently as the new governing council met her with an armed guard. The Queen smiled radiantly and thanked them for the “ceremonial guard.”

  Two of the council members laughed at the wit, showing their intelligence. The rest glowered, showing them to be fools. A dozen men with guns were not enough to scare the Queen. There were not even enough of them to keep her amused for very long. The head of the council, one of the glowering men, stepped forward and publicly warned her that she was welcome only as a courtesy.

  “How kind,” she replied and then noted, “Bureaucrats aren’t known for their kindness.”

  The dismissive rebuke was heard loud and clear. Jillian had many regrets in her life but the arrest and execution of the “Bainbridge First Council” after her invasion was not one of them. Their trial, as well as her own actions afterwards, had given the people a firm slap in the face when it came to their leaders and reminded them, that at heart, they were still Americans.

  The Queen then simply left the council standing there and marched inland to the hospital she had built years before. Although there were a dozen patients that could have used her abilities, she was there for only one dying man.

  I tried to follow her in and had even laid out a healthy bribe when my name was leaked to the council. They had even less reason to like me than Jillybean and I was firmly booted from the building.

  Of course, I was undeterred in my desire to see the Queen again. Guessing that she had worn out any welcome on the island from her old friends, I booked her a room at the nicer of the two hotels on the island and sent word by way of one of the hotel’s little messenger boys.

  Then I went to the bar and waited, passing the time, chatting with the old-timers about “The Mad Queen.” Although the council had cause to fear her, she was something of a totem to the people. They would proudly look down their noses at a traveling oiler from Texas and say: “It must be nice to have them wells, course we have the Mad Queen.”

  And who could gain say that?

  I chatted and sold a few more books that night than usual, and even autographed a tattered old version of The Witch of Rippling.

  Dinner was being laid on the board when the Queen finally arrived. She looked worn and there was little spark in her as she glanced at the roast venison. When she saw me, she turned away.

  “Not tonight Mr. Cross, I’m not in the mood.”

  “Can I ask one question?”

  “No.”

 
I asked anyway. “How is he?”

  This stopped her. Over her shoulder, she answered, “I thought nothing could kill that man.” I saw a shiver go up her back a second before she walked straight for the bar. “I need a drink.”

  “It just so happens that I’m buying,” I told her.

  It was the Queen who picked up her whiskey glass, but it wasn’t the Queen who smacked her lips and set the empty glass down.

  “Do you need to talk?” I asked.

  Eve regarded me with those same disconcerting eyes. “Do I want to talk about him? Hardly. I spent half my life hiding from him. And Jillybean spent the other half trying to live up to his pathetic old-world expectations.” She barked out a sudden laugh. “It’s interesting that you’re here, right at this time. In fact, it’s more than interesting. Our little Miss Perfect has been keeping a secret for ages now, ever since we were kids. She made me swear not to tell anyone, especially him. She never wanted him to know and I guess he never will, now.”

  After teasing this, she refused to say another word until she had a bottle set in front of her.

  I didn’t wait for the barkeep but grabbed one myself.

  Ezekiel Cross

  ******

  1

  Jillybean knew there was trouble even before she cracked her eyes. She had survived as long as she had not simply because of her stunning intellect, but also through rigorous vigilance and purposely honed perception.

  And yet, nothing seemed immediately wrong as she surveyed her bedroom through slitted eyes. Of course, buried as she was in her blankets and cocked at an angle on her bed, she didn’t have the best view. As always, she listened intently before moving. Downstairs, Neil was attempting to make a stealthy breakfast. This was par for the course for when she slept late, which was most days.

  Although only eight, Jillybean did not have a bedtime. She was far too busy for things like bedtimes. Her studies, her experiments, her many projects did not allow her to follow any sort of schedule. If she was removing a section of intestine from one of her grey “volunteers,” and it took until four in the morning, then her bedtime was five. If she found herself eyeballs deep in an unstable chemical reaction, then she slept later, and likely for only a few hours before she was up again. Neil was used to this and had long since stopped trying to curb her.

  But Jillybean hadn’t been working the night before…not that she could remember. There had been a meeting at the governor’s mansion. She remembered that well enough: Gina Sanders had made apple cookies. They were still warm and soft when Gina gave Jillybean the largest of them after the meeting.

  She had slipped it to Jillybean on the sly, saying with a wink, “Don’t let Eddie see you with that one. He’s had his eye on it and if he knew I was consorting with the enemy, he’d blow a gasket.”

  With great solemnity Jillybean had promised to keep the cookie a secret and had even extended her pinky finger to make it an unbreakable vow—after all, pinky swears were never to be taken lightly. Everyone knew that. Gina had laughed and moved on with the plate. The cookie had been the high point of the night. It had been a contentious meeting concerning the building of a wall to replace the rolls of concertina wire that were currently in place around Bainbridge Island.

  The faction in favor of the wall was led by Deanna Grey and consisted almost entirely of “new” people. The new people, of which there were more every day, were extremely safety-conscious. Many of them had been fighting for their lives over the last few years and knew that only solid concrete was any proof against the zombies.

  Resisting her were the “Founders,” who, on the whole, liked the influx of new workers, of new weapons and more ammunition. What they didn’t like was change. The wire emplacements and the rickety towers had been difficult to put into place and had taken weeks of work. The Founders were quick to point out that an actual wall would be a hundred times as hard.

  The Founders were led by Governor Rowe but were championed by a dozen others, including Eddie Sanders, Norris Barnes and Jonathan Dunnam. The loudest was a former chemical engineer named Kevin Dunlap. He had a hundred reasons why a wall wouldn’t be feasible. To counter this storm of dissent, Deanna had Jillybean. The little girl, sitting primly with a bow in her untamable hair, had swatted down the naysayers like gnats—intellectually, of course. She remembered the lessons her parents had taught her about showing off in front of adults, and she had been demure, asking simple, honest questions that had eroded what little foundation on which her opposition stood. Even with her Ps and Qs in place, she had managed to rankle Dunlap, whose responses amounted to little more than Because, that’s why.

  Jillybean was just picturing the man’s red face when she sat up and saw a drop of maroon red on her bed sheet. Blood. The sight of it froze her in place. By itself, one drop of blood could’ve meant anything or nothing. Only just then, Jillybean felt a sudden cold fear in the pit of her stomach. She and the other refugees from Estes Park had been on the island for only few months, and she was still waking with night terrors.

  Too much had happened to the little girl for her not to take an unknown drop of blood to mean anything other than terrible trouble. The blood held her transfixed, but as she sat up and saw more blood, the fear spread from her stomach and swept over her. She began shaking.

  Looking down, she stared in horror at her hands and wrists, which were covered in old, flaking blood. More of it was clotted in her wild hair. Her pillowcase was an ugly mess as was her top sheet. She jumped up and a large kitchen knife fell from her blankets to clunk on the floor. Seconds ticked by as she stared at it without comprehension. Then, “Eve, what did you do?”

  Jillybean had been taking her pills religiously, and lately the evil little girl was now only a whisper in her mind.

  Eve let out a delighted hiss. Her voice, muted by the pills, was a soft, You are in trouble. Deep, deep trouble and only…

  “Jillybean?”

  It was Neil. The soft tread of his Crocs as he padded up the stairs came to her. Quickly, she grabbed the knife and yanked the covers over her. A second later, he tapped on the jamb lightly and stuck his scarred face in the doorway. His warped smile made less sense than his teal sweater vest.

  “Hey, I’m making breakfast. It’s just some of the salmon we had from last night. I was going to try to make a broth out of… you okay? You have some blood on your cheek.”

  By reflex her hand started to come up. She pulled it back down and held it down under the covers as she choked out, “I had a bloody nose.” The lie hung suspended between them like a pus-filled balloon.

  “Oh,” Neil answered with a shrug. “So, what do you think? Salmon, day two? Trust me, it’ll be better today than trying to make something out of it tomorrow. As a rule, left, left, left-over salmon is not something for the faint of heart. Too bad I don’t have Eddie’s luck. He was across the Sound first thing and came back with two rabbits and eleven bullets…are you sure you’re okay? You look a little pale.”

  A shiver racked Jillybean, twerking her shoulders as she wondered, Was it Eddie’s blood?

  It could’ve been. It could’ve been anyone’s and that made it a thousand times worse. As far as she knew, she didn’t have enemies. She’d once had enemies. Many, many enemies. They were all dead, a great number by her own tiny hand.

  She might not have had any enemies, but Eve was another story altogether. Everyone was a potential enemy to her and there had been a time when she had killed for sport, or fun, or because your name ended in two Es.

  “I don’t think so,” Jillybean answered. “My stomach is a little iffy and old salmon doesn’t sound good.” This wasn’t a lie. It had just occurred to her that there could be a body lying under her bed in an ever-increasing pool of blood. She had to fight the urge to peek over her blankets, afraid to see an advancing red tide. The image had her on the verge of puking.

  “More for me, I guess. Botulism, table one.” He laughed at his own dad joke as he shut the door.

  Jilly
bean waited until she heard his crocs on the stairs before she climbed slowly out of bed. She was in the same flowered dress that she had worn to the meeting the night before. It was bloody but not drenched in gore as she feared. Quickly she checked beneath the bed and saw only a sock.

  When she stood back up, her head wobbled and her eyes went in and out of focus.

  “Eve!” she hissed. “What did you do? Eve?” The only answer was a pounding in her temples.

  With sudden guilt eating her up, Jillybean ripped off the dress and stuffed it in her backpack. The big knife, sheet and pillowcase went in as well. She then jumped into a pink warm-up suit and darted to the bathroom where she scrubbed her hands, noting the lack of blood beneath her fingernails.

  “Eve didn’t play,” she said, gazing with intent at her hands. “Does that mean she killed for a reason? Were we attacked?” For the first time in her life, she prayed to see some sign that she’d been abused or molested or anything that would justify murder. She lifted her shirt and gave herself a close inspection. Other than a few minor bruises that seemed like the ordinary wear and tear for an eight-year-old, she was perfectly fine. She was still staring at herself when she heard someone outside.

  “Morning, Deanna.”

  2

  Jillybean slunk to the window and saw Deanna exchanging pleasantries with Neil’s neighbor, Mrs. Mead. The lady was not much taller than Jillybean and compared to Deanna she looked like a sparrow in mom jeans. “Would you care for a cup of tea? I’ve crafted a blend from juniper berries and cinnamon.”

  Deanna Grey stood tall and strong, her blonde hair spilling across her shoulders, pink in her cheeks from the cool of the new morning. “I wish I could but there’s an issue at hand.”

  There was clearly more than simply “an issue” at hand. Jillybean raced from the bathroom and sped down the stairs on cat feet. She was just slipping out the back door as Deanna let herself in through the front.

  Without looking left or right, the little girl speed-walked up the block, her eyes darting from side to side, afraid she would see men with nets coming for her. It was a ludicrous image in her mind—after all, when had she ever seen men with nets? Still, her mind was reeling with guilt and fear and confusion: whose blood was it? What had happened? And why hadn’t she hidden the evidence?