Zombies - Encounters with the Hungry Dead Part 49

And, as he settled in, the sorting-out began.

Behind the Buzz was infinite flow, information careening through infinite s.p.a.ce. What it said was perhaps less important than the simple fact that it spoke at all.

Because what it said was everything, spoken with every conceivable voice. What it described was the hollow, the husk, and the animating spark, in all of their particulars. Emptiness, when viewed as such, was no less a thing than the coalesced matter that marked it off, the flying impulse-data that defined its boundaries.

This was no less true of the dead than of the living.

All of it was here, and now.

The universe was huge and hungry, boundless in its phylum form. Species, spectrums, realms, dimensions rose in flickers, collapsed into voids. G.o.d was a dancer in infinite drag, and a voyuer esconsed on a pivoting throne. Watching. Watched. Devouring. Tasting. On-and-offing, in a binary code.

He would see all this, and then pull back: a boy in a body surrounded by corpses.

Then the Buzz would resume its song.

And, sated, he would return to the royal halls.

Occasionally, he ventured downstairs to the kitchen, in order to scavenge a personal treat. Increasingly, it was raw meat he craved: taken from the walk-in freezers, then thawed in the ovens until the blood flowed warm.

The kitchen staff had considerably thinned, mostly due to suicide. In the absence of judgment or opposition, this arrangement worked out just fine.

The Princess Sara's advanced pregnancy did nothing to slow their love-making; she'd announced the zygote with some fanfare in mid-February, and was now almost due. But still she craved s.e.x with him, taking him sometimes three times in one day. Which was, again, perfectly fine with him. She'd descended into her own strange fantasy world-again, totally par for the course-and the bigger she got, the deeper she wanted him. Eventually, he wound up strapping on toys. (Some borrowed from the bishop, and some of her own.) And just when that was no longer enough, Prince Randolph came back into their lives.

For the longest time, Randolph had stayed away from her bedchambers altogether. A few more fitful attempts, in the early days, had left him so thoroughly humiliated that he retreated to his own quarters entirely.

Though they were polite together at daily meals and other social functions, they'd not spent a private moment together since February.

With regards to her extracurricular coupling, both she and the boy a.s.sumed that Prince Randolph was either clueless or apathetic. He certainly seemed to revel in her pregnancy, and seemed quite excited about "his" child, apparently disregarding the fact that he'd never been inside her.

But then, one night, after an hour of frenzied f.u.c.king that had left her unable to climax, she bemoaned out loud her h.o.r.n.y state.

And at that moment, Prince Randolph stepped in through the balcony curtains. He had, evidently, been there all night, observing every thrust.

Sara screamed, and the boy had to admit that he was a wee bit stunned as well. He rolled off the Princess and stared at Randolph, shuddering despite himself.

The Prince held up a silencing hand as he stepped deeper into the room. He was wearing his robe and slippers. "Did you think that I didn't know?" he said. "Honestly. I have known for some time. You're a very talented couple, and I've enjoyed watching you very much; but really, darling, you should always check the balcony before taking such risks."

His calm was unnerving, as was his relative good cheer. "Actually," he said, "I've given this much thought, over all these many months. It would seem that I have two choices." Holding up that many fingers. "One: to have the boy shot..."

Sara jumped, clutched the boy to her. "No!"

Randolph waved her off. "But... the second is better. Much better." A wide smile played across his face. Casually, he began to untie the robe's sash. "You see, it would seem that watching the two of you rutting has... solved my little problem."

His robe fell open, revealing an erection that was actually quite impressive.

Sara looked at the boy, then back at her husband. The range of expressions on her face was marvelous to behold. She was shocked and scared and embarra.s.sed and angered and more than a little bit turned on.

The boy, in that moment, almost loved her.

But the Buzz welled large.

Then the Prince, unexpectedly, turned away from the bed and headed for the chamber door. Confusion trailed him, Sara and the boy exchanging a glance that was rife with the stuff. Randolph reached the door and threw it open, then turned around and grinned.

"I don't know if danger works for you," he said, "but it certainly does for me."

That night, the Bishop Hallam penned his final entry; hours later, in the aftermath, the boy would find it. The penmanship was shaky, and the ink was blotched where a trio of tears had slipped free of their defenses, exploded upon the page.

Nonetheless, his last words were duly noted, for all those generations to come...

My dean.

The end, at last. After what I have seen, there can be no doubt.

And G.o.d, you malevolent p.r.i.c.k: grant me if you dare the wherewithal to describe it, before I go.

Spent hours today in council with the raving Florence, who, in my eyes, cannot die badly enough. Nothing new said. Such a huge surprise, there. Just more spinning of lunatic dreams that will never come to pa.s.s.

Then, just now, as I paced the corridors-emulating, I suppose, my sweet cuckolding boy-I found myself drawn to the corridor where the Princess Sara's bedchambers lay. Antic.i.p.ating, as ever, the sounds of f.u.c.k.

Not expecting the door to be open.

It was not within my power to withstand the temptation. As many hours as I'd spent shamelessly masturbating there, I could not resist the urge to see for myself what I'd always imagined.

But when I saw the three of them together, as if spotlighted by the hallway's glare, it was as if some final threshold snapped within me. My c.o.c.k went hard, and I loathed it more than I ever had before.

Because I could have waddled in, and inserted myself into Randolph's a.s.s; and no doubt, I would have come. A jolly time had by all.

But the stink of decay, more profound than the dead, overcame my DNA, It was the crotch-rot of civilization, the ultimate betrayal of G.o.d by the flesh.

And then the boy, r.e.c.t.u.m stuffed, turned back to look at me, his eyes empty and black as the eyes of the dead.

And so help me G.o.d, he blew me a kiss.

Thanking me.

And saying goodbye, I made it almost all the way to my rooms before vomiting. Three cheers for me, I have endured more betrayal than anyone should; and if I pa.s.sed it back on, then more's the pity.

In a couple of minutes, I will go to see Lewis. Engage in idle banter. Just enjoy him, one more time.

The bullet that I place in his brain will be clean and instantaneous.

It is the last act of kindness of which I am capable.

There are only two guards at the gate tonight, if I am swift and capable, they should expire just as discreetly.

As for me, I antic.i.p.ate agony.

But there it is. if there's an epitath, I would suggest that it be this: "The Bishop John Hallam was a walrus in a frock, albeit one anointed by the mighty hand of G.o.d. He l.u.s.ted after boys. Was that why he was punished?

"Who f.u.c.king knows?"

"Who f.u.c.king cares?"

If anyone survives in this h.e.l.l, I leave you now, just as I began.

Beauty has always been my downfall.

For G.o.d's sake, don't let it be yours.

XIII.

The boy was deep in the Prince's a.s.s when the gunfire in the courtyard erupted. A total of three shots in all, but it was enough to disrupt the uber-coitus. The Prince and Princess, face to missionary face, caught themselves abruptly staring at each other in panic.

The boy continued thrusting.

And the Buzz went crystal-clear.

"Oh my G.o.d!" screamed the Prince, and it was plain from his quiver that he was just about to come. First time in a woman's c.u.n.t; and last, as it all turned out.

She grabbed his hips and felt him flood her, propelled in midspasm by the still-humping boy. And all at once, a moisture huge blew out of her, washing the Prince's s.p.u.n.k away.

Water sloshed the length of the bed, soaking the mattress from her a.s.s to her feet. There was a moment of complete abstraction.

And then the first contraction hit.

The Prince pulled out, as if fired from a cannon. The boy slid out of him, as well. The men fell back as the woman howled and writhed on the bed in anguish.

A yell from the courtyard was met with a clipped staccato burst of gunfire.

Then the moan of the dead, heading back to the balcony. The curtains closed behind him. The boy looked at the bed.

Blood and water were staining the sheets.

Outside, the bishop began to scream.

And then the boy was off the bed, parting the curtains and staring down at the open gates in the courtyard flooding with the shambling dead. The bishop was pieces of wriggling red, detatching in stringers of shredding flesh. His mouth was a black hole that filled with fingers. Then he vanished altogether, and that was that.

The Prince stood at the balcony, gripping the railing with white-knuckled hands. His naked shoulders and neck and back were exposed to the boy who advanced now, transforming.

The Buzz blew into a sonic flare that flensed him of ident.i.ty. In that moment, the boy was reborn, and instinctively knew what to do.

Veins popped as teeth sc.r.a.ped bone, and the Prince shrieked as his neck tore open, but the boy had pinned his arms back, and so there was no way to fight. The boy spat meat, with quite a bit left to swallow, and the world stung red as blood sprayed in his eyes.

There was struggle galore. Then the boy bit again, coming up with a mouthful of soft shoulder flesh. It came away hard, its structural integrity fighting, resisting the damage, to no avail. The Prince's knees buckled. He hit his head on the rail. Perhaps he blacked out, or just gave up entirely.

The boy flipped him over and took out his throat. Then his tongue. Then his eyes. Then his big flappy. Let him wander around like that for a while.

Let him wander around till the end of time.

There was gunfire resounding, but it sounded half-hearted. The last soldiers were dead, and they knew it. The boy listened to the shouting of names, of men entreating each other to survive. But all of them ended in screams; and fairly soon, the guns stopped firing altogether.

There were noises, then, inside the Palace: some of them living, but not nearly all. Sacred icons were breaking; the walls shuddered with violence; and the last of the staff was being turned into chum.

But there was one scream that went on and on.

The boy turned from the balcony, re-entered her bedroom.

There was very much blood there now. It called to him, but there was much still left to do.

She called to him, as well; but it was no longer him that she was calling to. He had ceased to be that person: not dead, but no longer a man.

Into the hall he went. It was, as yet, vacant. But soon. Very soon. There was a bend at the end of the hall, and he took it, took it further, until he reached the wing where the last of the Royals were quartered. He imagined tea and bisquits, and, surprisingly, laughed.

The King and the Queen were still together. Or, rather, the King was all together. The Queen was mostly parts. Evidently, he had pa.s.sed on in the course of the night, then reconnoitered with both his flesh and her own.

So much for that. The King eyed him blankly as he moved resolutely toward Florence's chambers.

At this point, a small mob joined him; but he felt no dread as he advanced toward the door. They saw him; they noted him; it was very much like the dream, except that they deferred to him in the strangest way. As if he were Royalty itself.

The boy was the first to reach the door; and as such, the first to reach the cowering Queen Mother. She was so tiny, in those final moments-such a creeching, piteous thing-that it was more than anti-climactic.

He simply tore her open.

And then let her people in.

"Happy Christmas," he muttered as he headed for the door. At least it felt like he had said that. Who f.u.c.king knew anymore.

All the way down the corridors, a huge contingent mounted. They were following him; that much was clear. And the Buzz was a fanfare of static distortion: real life, hideously sampled and then blared back at reality in ruins.

Maybe G.o.d had reformatted badly. Or maybe there was just a scratch in the record. Maybe Hallam was right, and Elvis had simply left the building, leaving the needle to scratch away at the smooth grooves at the end of Earth's record, forever and ever.

Whatever. He followed the Princess's screams, which grew louder and louder with every step. Hearing a new voice that keened as hers faltered: high-pitched and wailing, ringing out through the night.

The room was full when he arrived, but n.o.body was feeding. Indeed, it was flush with reverence: a rare thing, in this place of barren symbol.

The Princess was barely alive. With its teeth, the newborn had delivered itself. There was blood everywhere, but the dead still held back, instinct reined in by a dictate that was wholly religious.

The crowd parted as the once-boy stepped forward, and the Princess's eyes flared up. The last impulse of light, in a world that had fallen. She was truly a beautiful woman. It was a shame, he guessed.

Ah, well.