In the end, it doesn't matter, and I have no way of knowing. But I was sickened then, as I am sickened now, by contemplation of his end. Because, indeed, the hands did seize him, pull him flush against the bars, bring him face to rotting face with the hordes that would not let him fall until every last edible speck had been devoured.

I imagined these things without wishing to-far more than I wished to, that much is certain-prey to the terrible empathy I ascribe to a still-functioning human soul.

But the Queen Mother had no such problems. Clearly, she had other things on her mind.

"Do get that cleaned up" she said, looking down at the body like it was so much dog feces.

"f.u.c.king b.i.t.c.h," the boy heard himself mutter, letting the bishop's words play vividly in his mind. The sordid and soulless atrocity of it confirmed every negative a.s.sumption he had.

It was tempting, at that moment, to break out and throttle the wicked old c.u.n.t, maybe snuff the whole lot of them. It was also, of course, impossible; so he look a deep breath and poured himself back into the journal.

There followed several pages of self-indulgent childhood musings, which the boy quickly skimmed right past. Looking for the next informative section. Which followed, quickly enough.

She is here!

The princess Sara Marie Hargrove of Norway arrived today, quite exceeding all of our possible expectations. She arrived via helicopter, which she piloted herself, in a stunning display of initiative and valor.

Evidently, she and her father, King Agar, had been living alone in the Valace these last few years. They had survived on their wits and cunning, with only a handful of servants in attendance; and they were thrilled when they received word that other Royalty still lived.

The most important thing, as Florence has repeatedly stated, is that the bloodline remain unsullied. It appears that she will get her wish, if anything, the Vrincess is far too impressive to imagine mating with Randolph under any other circ.u.mstances.

She is, in a word, stunning: red-blond hair cascading to either side of a face that, in a saner world, might adorn the cover of Vogue. When she emerged from the copter in her leather flight jacket, white blouse, and black slacks, I found myself smitten with not l.u.s.t, but envy for the l.u.s.t she instantly inspired in every other male attending.

It is the central absurdity of my sinful condition that I wished, not to have her, but to be her.

"Ah, ha" the boy said. No big surprises there. The Buzz swelled once again, huge in his head; still, he could not help but continue on.

And so, it seems, that the wedding will take place exactly as I hoped for. On Christmas Day. And I will preside, as is my duty: dispensing G.o.d's sanction on the union of souls.

But before I do, I must venture out once again into poor dead London. Searching, as ever, for my own counterpart-the one who will be mine, as she will be his. I will say that I'm merely charting the way to the Abbey; and, in a sense, I am.

If I die, they will have to pursue their G.o.dless course without me. If I fail, I will function as their guide.

But what if I find my beautiful boy'? What if my prayers are somehow answered? What if I find that I am wrong, and that G.o.d is listening after all?

As ever, I trust myself into Your hands. Though all my faith is vanquished. Though I curse You night and day.

I remain your faithful servant, in deed if nothing else.

There was only one more entry, dated November 24th. The boy was numb as he turned to it.

G.o.d save me. And G.o.d save the Queen.

I have found my beautiful boy.

Part Two The Royal Family

V.

Christmas day, and the wedding at last. After weeks of frenzied prep, the Royal Knot was finally fit to be tied. The boy had observed the preparations, numbed by the Buzz but still three parts attentive: those parts divided neatly between awe, contempt, and glee.

From his multiple vantage points, at room within the Palace, he was forced to conclude that he was not the only one losing his mind.

When the bishop had come back that night, with all of his terms and conditions, the boy had been most monosyllabic in expressing his consent. Part of it was his version of the dumb blonde act. Most of it was the fact that he felt thoroughly stunted when it came to actual speech. He could think a f.u.c.king mile a minute, and frequently did, through the psychic fog; but when it came to putting it out there verbally, he was just one and a half steps up from Kar-loff 's Frankenstein.

"Yes." "Thank you." "Sorry." "No." That was the bulk of the lexicon. "Yes, I liked it." "That was good." Phrases pretty much reserved for the bishop and bed.

The dumb-show had become less of an act as time pa.s.sed. He found himself staring at nothing for hours, gazing absently out the wide balcony window, and the sea of walking corpses would disappear into the background as his mind slowly erased itself.

He'd hear the echo of that thing from his dream; whatever called to those dream-zombies, he was sure it called to him now. It was faint, but each day he heard it more: a static with a voice, with an agenda that made no literal sense, but spoke with a surety that calmed him. As if his unraveling mind was puzzled, but the very cells of his body understood.

He shared the bishop's bed since that first night, and was surprised to find the arrangement not altogether unpleasant. True, the old cleric was somewhat grotesque: all wattles and flab and limp, watery eyes. On the other hand, he was very clean, and impeccably scented, by and large; and as most of their f.u.c.king was done in the dark, or with the boy blindfolded... well, one did what one could.

And then again, the bishop had some charming qualities. He was generous, gentle, respectful, compa.s.sionate. He was also full of stories he seemed desperate to tell: many of them scandalous, quite a few of them hilarious. He seemed always most gratified when he got the boy to laugh; and even just a smile was a delight to the old b.a.s.t.a.r.d, as the boy gave up so little of himself in that regard.

Hallam was, in all, a very complex man; and the boy respected that, even as his own complexity unraveled.

The servant's uniform served the boy well: he had become proficient, during his several weeks in the palace, at hiding in plain sight; at looking as though he belonged, yet remaining all but invisible.

And as the wedding drew nearer, the boy's non-s.e.xual duties gradually grew. He found himself increasingly used as a courier, shuttling hastily-hand-scribbled messages from the bishop to the various departments of the Palace apparatus. In that capacity, where questions demanding more than a "yes" or "no" answer were rarely asked, he found himself becoming somewhat familiar, while remaining essentially unknown.

He was, in that sense, almost beginning to belong.

Even so, he could not believe the bishop's audacity when he insisted that the boy ride in the carriage with him, as part of the wedding entourage. It was one thing to have him serve as an informal valet. But to have him at his side, accompanying him to the Abbey, seemed completely dangerous, given the caution the bishop had used up until then. If they were found out, what would the mad royals do about it? Have him shot? Hanged? Exiled? Or worse?

Maybe, in their madness, they'd choose to ignore the bishop's indiscretions. Maybe. But probably not.

At any rate, how could you second-guess the motivations of people like that: people so insane, so removed from reality, that they would leave the safety of Buckingham Palace, en ma.s.se, to stage their wedding amongst the dead?

VI.

Down in the courtyard, the air was thick with panic. Over a hundred brave soldiers were falling into formation, on either side of the processional vehicles lined up before the gate. To a man, they looked ready to s.h.i.t their pants.

The boy could not have empathized more.

This was the closest he'd come to the dead since the night he'd left the streets. And though he'd logged more survival time out there than the rest of these people put together, he still didn't relish going back.

There were literally thousands of them out there now. More than he'd ever seen in one place. Even at the height of it-pin the early days, during the riots that ultimately tore the throat out of the city-there was still enough doomed civilization extant to put some spread and balance into the equation. (50,000 looters and berserkers + 500,000 walking dead + 5,000 armed defenders of the Empire + 1,000,000 civilians caught in the crossfire = the flash-point, London watching its life pa.s.s before its eyes in the final moments before The End.) Hallam hustled the boy toward the last of the three open-air carriages information. It was-to the boy's stupefaction-horse-driven, as were the one's designed to transport the royal family. The horses were, of course, terrified; and the boy watched faithful Lewis comfort the poor three under his bridle's command.

There was an armored tank at the front of the procession, and another at the back. In between, flanking the carriages, were six jeeps, all bearing machine guns and flame throwers. This was, of course, all somewhat comforting; but despite the little macho displays of comraderie that flickered between them, there was not a man present who was not, at heart, crawling with dread.

"Come on," the bishop said. "Get in." And as the door was already held open, the boy obeyed, taking his seat by the right-hand window. Staring out at the soldiers who stood by now, so very still. Preparing to march to their deaths.

The bishop did not follow, but rather turned back toward the music that was even now beginning to blare (pre-recorded, as few musicians had managed to survive). The words Pomp and Circ.u.mstance leapt to mind, though the boy wasn't at all sure he was right; he had never been much up on the cla.s.sics.

And then, sure enough, came the Royal Family: slowly, slowly, as if someone had slipped G.o.d some 'ludes; as if they were thoroughly convinced that their terrified subjects, gathered here for this command performance, just couldn't get enough of looking at them.

There was the Queen Mother herself: Old Florence, that gnarled little gnome, her face a mazed city of wrinkles beneath a tidal wave of makeup, with hair twice the size of her head. There was Queen Margaret, only three-quarters as old and hideous; and with her was the doddering King, who looked nearly as shriveled and somnambulant as the dead.

Then came Prince Randolph, a tall, gangly man whose nose and ears were so large that his mouth and eyes seemed stolen from a substantially smaller person.

And beside him was the Princess Sara Marie Hargrove.

Two words sprang to mind as the boy looked at her. They were holy and s.h.i.t. In precisely that order.

She was gorgeous, and that was just the half of it. She was alive to a nearly alarming extent. The British Royals were already museum pieces; but next to her, they more resembled animate wax figures in some lurid Chamber of Horrors.

The boy could not stop staring as they advanced. Could not stop staring at her. Nor could the rest of the men there a.s.sembled. It was as if a common thought were pa.s.sing between them all: a thought so horrid that it screamed to be expressed, and so forbidden that it forcibly stifled the scream.

And the thought was: "Wait a minute! We're going out there, and facing death, so that she can marry him?"

And all the while, the dead were ama.s.sing: drawn by life, by the music, by the palace itself. Upping the voltage with every moment that the Royals dragged it out.

Until, at last, they were loaded into their carriages. At which point the bishop returned, taking his seat beside the boy. A servant handed the bishop a pair of semi-automatic weapons, then closed the door. The bishop carefully set the weapons on the floor: one for himself, and one for the boy.

"You're a survivor," said the bishop, still staring at the floor. "I thank G.o.d for that. And I thank you for being..." He swallowed hard."... here."

He looked hard at the boy, who returned the gaze, empty.

VII.

The gate guards were ready, machine guns in hand. At their commander's signal, they opened fire upon the crowd.

Vaporized cranium plumed from the front ranks, showering the dead behind with shrapnel. Faces imploded and pasted their sc.r.a.ps on the next wave to shatter, then onto the next. Aiming always at head level, with minor deviations for size, they gunned down a hundred in a minute or less.

It was time to open the gates.

The lead tank leapt forward, aiming straight into the breach. Its razored cow-catcher sliced meat as it plowed its way though the waiting herd. The gunners on top laid waste to the dead that stumbled in from either side. Clearing the way.

The horses whinnied-a frantic, heartbreaking sound-but did as they were told. To either side, the foot soldiers did likewise. And then the bishop's carriage, like the rest, was off as well. The boy watched the gate loom, crown, then recede.

As they pa.s.sed over into undead London.

And the rotting proletariat laid siege.

Almost as soon as the gates were closed behind them, soldiers began to die. There were too many bodies, in too close an area, with the entire procession moving far too slowly. Even under the deafening battery of fire, the dead would not stop coming.

The boy watched limbs cascade through the air, torsos empty, bones burst into flames. And still the dead would not stop coming. They tripped over each other, their fallen comrades. Got up. And would not stop coming.

There were five soldiers cl.u.s.tered to the right of the boy, keeping pace with the carriage as they fired and fired. A few of them had shouldered their rifles, drawing handguns for accuracy. But one of the men stood slightly out from the pack, moving sideways, a.s.sault rifle blasting away.

A nun on fire came at him from an angle, grabbing his barrel on the way to his face. He moved to shake her off, and a dead rugby player came in from the front. The soldier let go of the gun too late, hands raking his face as he fell over backwards. The nun and the rugby player met him on the pavement, tearing him apart as all three burst into flames.

"Keep it moving!" yelled the squad leader, firing his pistol into the crowd. "Keep it moving, slow and steady!"

Slow and steady? The boy stared at Hallam, thinking it so hard that the bishop flinched. Slow and steady?

To the left of the bishop's carriage, two zombies wrestled a fine young soldier back into the door. His jacket caught on the handle and stuck, dragging him along as they a.s.sailed him with their teeth. The soldier screamed and jammed his revolver into the left eye socket of the housewife at his throat. She fell as he fired, taking his larynx with her. Blood sprayed. The other zombie hung on, tearing off his cheek, working its way toward his lips.

The soldier's death-noises were unbearable. Bishop Hallam slid to the left door and stood: firing first at the zombie, whose skull turned to vapor; then at the soldier, whose did much the same.

"Give me a hand, here!" the bishop howled. Unsteadily, the boy obliged: taking the now headless soldier by the shoulders and hefting the carca.s.s free. Letting it drop, soon to be devoured.

And still the dead kept coming.

The boy could only imagine the Queen Mother up ahead, waving and shouting "Happy Christmas! Happy Christmas!" at the undead throngs that swelled toward them. As if they still remained her subjects. As if her subjects really cared. From what little he had seen of her, she was so far gone as to be without fear.

"Everything's fine," the bishop said, patting the boy's b.l.o.o.d.y hand with sweaty palm. "Everything's fine."

As another soldier screamed, feeding the bottomless hunger.

What saved the cavalcade was no more planned than wanted or imagined. As more and more soldiers fell, the zombies stopped and fed: as many as twenty or thirty converging upon one fallen man, and devouring what they could.

So as people died, and distance mounted, the attacking army thinned; and soon the caravan was under control, leaving behind a hideous trail of carnage and mutilation.

By now the bishop was fighting back tears, though he still convulsively patted the boy's hand. The boy tried not to hear the lingering screams of the young men being eaten alive.

There would be a wedding, but at no small expense. He pictured the Queen Mother, and felt his blood boil. This was her madness. She alone brought it on.

You miserable b.i.t.c.h, he thought to himself.

I hope to G.o.d you pay.

It took over an hour to arrive at and secure Westminster Abbey.

The army grouped outside, preparing for the return. It had started to snow, a surreal blanket of peace falling over the streets as the soldiers built fires and reloaded weapons.

Inside, the wedding had begun.

VIII.

That night, the bishop wrote in his journal: Today, I performed what I suspect will be the last royal wedding in human history; and I hope that this does not sound cruel.

But I pray that I am right.