Zombie Killers: AMBUSH: Irregular Scout Team One Book Six (Zombie Killer Blues 6) (11 page)

You got jokes?

              I walked slowly around the perimeter of the farm, watching the cleared fields for any hint of the undead. My rifle was beaded with dew from the fog that rose off the river, and I felt a chill in my bones. Twenty two hundred, time for me to switch out guard duty.

Normally, we relied on the fence to hold up anything long enough for someone to come out and pop it. The dogs had been barking, though, catching a scent on the wind, and I had decided to run a regular patrol all night. It had been years since the last big horde had been eliminated from this portion of the Upper Hudson River Valley, and I trusted the river to keep things off our island. Still, though, there were zombies, and things worse than zombies. A random night of patrolling couldn’t hurt, and a full October moon illuminated the fog.

“There’s nothing out here. Let’s go, Rocket,” I said to my mutt of a dog, and he took off running for the front door in a silent rush. I started to follow, knowing that our farm hand, Joe, was getting ready to come relieve me. There were few lights shining in the house. Candles were expensive, gasoline or diesel even more so. Brit had gone to bed an hour ago, and I was tired, the stump where my prosthetic was mounted aching in the damp. Bed sounded good.

Half way there, though, I stopped. In the moonlight, I saw a shadow silhouetted against a window, INSIDE the house. A horrible, shambling shadow, with the hunched shoulders of a zombie. Holy Crap! INSIDE THE HOUSE!

I started to raise my rifle, but the figure moved away from the window. Brit and the kids were inside, and that thing was in there with them! I slung my rifle across my back and drew the mace I carried on my belt. It was about a foot long, and topped with a round, studded steel ball, designed for smashing skulls and crushing brains in close combat.

The front door opened with a quiet screeeeeech and I cursed myself for not oiling the hinges like Brit had been on me to do. Rocket followed, tongue lolling in his stupid grin. What the hell was wrong with him? Usually around a Z he was all business. Stupid dog.

I crept quietly towards the noises I heard in the kitchen. Whatever undead was in here, I would hopefully be able to sneak up on it. The passage to the kitchen was open and in the moonlight, I could see the back of a ragged female figure, hunched over the counter. I raised the mace high in the air, and the figure turned …

Brit howled at the top of her lungs, and she lunged at me. Her face was covered in blood, and her eyes were red. I stumbled, swinging the mace wildly and then dropping it. Rocket barked furiously, running around Brit’s legs, and she raised her hands like claws. I back stepped and fumbled wildly for my pistol.

“TRICK OR TREAT!” she said, and burst out laughing.

“You … are …such … an… asshole!” I managed to gasp out, after laughing hysterically for a full minute. “You made me … almost … piss myself!”

"Happy Halloween, honey!" she said, and gave me a great big bloody kiss.

"Stupid jerk," I said, and kissed her back.

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Chapter 3
              The Great Hall was alight with a thousand candles, hanging from chandeliers and floating in the air above the dance floor. Even the four giant Copperwood trees that formed the columns at either corner of the room had frost fire running up and down them, blue and silver flames of Magelight provided by the Court Wizard, her Uncle. Together the colored flames turned the vast hall into a brightly lit ballroom. The wizard, clad in the green and gold robes of the Tuscana Royal Family, smiled warmly at Wilma from where he stood across the room. Even though he was her cousin, and second in line for the Tuscana throne, Kevin and Wilma had always had a good relationship, more like an older Uncle than cousin. He had chosen a different path in life, studying the magical arts, and tonight he was very busy. Tables of food were ranged along the sides, and her mother’s Advisors all sat at the great table at the head of the room, in front of the throne carved right from the living heart of the largest Copperwood of them all. The Queen held up her hands and shouted for quiet, then came over to Princess Wilma, who stood there, hands clasped over her mouth in joy.

“Welcome home, Wilma. We all missed you!” This was met with cheers and applause from the crowd, over a hundred of the most important nobles and commoners in the Kingdom. Seeing her daughter close to tears, the Queen turned to the crowd and shouted “AND NOW WE DANCE THE WILD DANCE!”

With a shout of glee, Wilma jumped up and led the Wild Dance, the traditional Tuscana whirl of celebration. For a thousand years, the tune had never changed, but was never really played the same. A smashing whirl of violins, heavy drums, bagpipes and horns, it recalled how closely the Kingdom and its people were connected to the fields and forests of their homes. The Queen, who was a horrible dancer herself, and didn’t want to embarrass her daughter, stepped aside and stood in the corner, secretly holding hands with Sir John, who had changed into his high collared black and green Ranger Dress uniform.

“You did well, Ana” he said, squeezing her hand. They both watched the Princess swirling across the dance floor, skirts twirling blue and silver in the Magelight, blonde hair flying out behind her.

“Yes” the Queen said, knowing that he meant not the ball itself, but her daughter. “She IS beautiful isn’t she?”

“Almost as beautiful as her mother” said Sir John, and he leaned over and kissed her, unnoticed by the crowd. The Queen blushed and the two of them walked back to the table and let go of each other’s hand. They pretended not to love each other, but it was the worst kept secret in the entire Kingdom.

On the floor, the tune changed to a calmer waltz, and Wilma found herself across from a boy slightly older than her, wearing the uniform of an Squire Ranger. He bowed low, and Wilma returned a curtsey, then offered her hand to him for the Waltz.

“My name is Duncan Perkins, m ‘Lady” said the boy as they wheeled around the other dancers.

“La-di-dah, I don’t care” said Wilma, deliberately ignoring him even as they danced together. His hand was sweaty from nervousness, and she noticed that he wasn’t a very good dancer, even if he DID look a little dashing in his uniform. Blue eyes tried hard not to look directly at her from beneath the clipped Squire haircut, and he was a head taller than her, even though he was only eleven. The hand that held hers was rough with calluses, from a life of hard work, even as a boy. The Northumberland part of her snorted “commoner”, but she felt a little ashamed even as she thought it.

“I’m in training to be a Ranger, and next year when I turn twelve, I can go on patrol” he said, desperate to try anything to keep her attention. They completed a full circuit of the dance floor, weaving in and out of the larger adults, before she even decided to answer.

“I don’t care” said Wilma again, putting on the airs she had learned at her father’s court. “You’re probably just a commoner anyway, from how rough your skin is!”

He dropped her hand and, blushing furiously, strode away, leaving her alone on the dance floor while the music continued to play. Her mother, who had been watching intently, signaled to the musicians and announced it was time for dinner. Wilma, calling herself a jerk inside, stomped over to her seat at the table. She felt guilty about how she had treated Perkins, but would never show it. He had returned to a far table where the other boys sat and didn’t look her way. Fine.

“Ugh, what is this stuff?” said Wilma, after they had sat down and started on the first course.  She tried to discretely spit a mouthful into an embroidered napkin.

“Fried frogs eggs in butter and olive oil. A great delicacy in my country, young Mistress” said a large man seated across from her. From his rough clothes, she could see he had been travelling, but he had a large gold chain around his neck, and another gold circlet held his dark hair back from a scared, blue tattooed forehead.

“What’s wrong with your face?  And this is disgusting.” She was in a foul mood, mad at herself at how she had treated the young man, even though she didn’t know why she had done so.

The traveler smiled, showing teeth stained black from chewing gratey nuts. “It is a delicacy that you have to grow up eating. And I’m assuming that you are referring to the tattoos on my face. Each one shows a man that I have killed in challenge to my throne.”

“Geez, that’s a lot. What land are you the king of? Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s not anything compared to my father’s!”

The man smiled at her, and nodded his head in approximation of a bow. “Yarl Koborg of Westheim at your service. We are but a small land, over the Western Sea, and I am here to talk to your mother about increasing trade between our peoples, and maybe an alliance.”

Wilma saw his eyes shift over to where her mother sat at the head of the table, and, with a daughters’ sensitivity, could see the desire in his look.

“Over Sir John’s dead body, I think” she said, looking to put him in his place.

He grinned at her and said “Hopefully not! He seems a fine servant, I would hate to kill him. But of course, I am merely here to discuss trade, and in your civilized land, a man must learn to stay his hand and get what he wants through words.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the Queen’s Agricultural Minister, who pressed Wilma to tell her about any details she could give her about that year’s harvest in Northumberland. Even as she tried to answer her with what little she knew, which wasn’t much, Wilma continued to watch Yarl Koborg out of the corner of her eye as he talked with Sir Franz, the Finance Minister. Koborg SEEMED pleasant enough, but she didn’t like the way his eyes flashed when he mentioned her mother, and how she caught him looking at the Queen. Wilma would make a point of talking to Sir John tomorrow at weapons practice. If anyone would know how to handle the foreigner, it would be him. Wilma loved her mother, but she could be so blind, sometimes.