Empire (5 page)

    "Oates - our resident plumber - he leads supply runs every week. Everyone stays together out there." Palmer touched Weisman's arm and lowered her voice. "Why are you asking these questions?"

    "There- -" Weisman was cut off by the appearance of Oates, followed by a tall balding man in a trench coat. Nodding to Weisman, the bald man showed his ID to the reverend. "Senior P.O. Voorhees. We're checking up on Midtown residents now that the military's left us." Voorhees took Weisman's position in the doorway. He made a not-so-subtle display of the firearm beneath his coat. "You're Reverend Palmer?"

    "Yes. What is this about? Is this about the supplies we've taken? We only go into abandoned buildings."

    "No," Voorhees responded, loud enough for everyone to hear. "It's about a rapist. He's been roaming Midtown for weeks. We think he may have come to the Harbor from out West. My communication with neighboring towns is limited, but there have been similar reports out there." Locking eyes with the sneering Wheeler, Voorhees said, "It ends here."

    "Shouldn't y'all be playing escort to Senator Moorecourt right about now?" Wheeler asked. "What does it matter if we're raping and killing each other? There's an honest-to-God statesman gracing the Harbor with his presence!"

    Weisman interrupted Voorhees' reply. "The Senator never arrived."

    Wheeler groaned. "I knew it. Bastard was never coming."

    "Officer Weisman and I are going to want to speak with each of you individually." Voorhees said. "Reverend, would you get everyone together please?"

    She nodded reluctantly and headed down a dark hallway. A serial rapist in Midtown? None of the women would be going on supply runs anymore. Oates would have to stay here, he was the toughest...no, no, no. She couldn't let their simple way of life be turned upside-down by this. If she showed fear or weakness it would spread to the others. Except Wheeler - if he saw her limping at the rear of the pack he'd pounce.

    She rapped on a restroom door. "Al? Still in there?" Al had been sick for days since she'd discovered he was still using. The restroom floor was a terrible place to detox, but there was nowhere else. Palmer pushed open the door.

    Al was sitting in the far corner under the window. The window was broken. It had been intact last night. She moved closer and realized he was dead. The needle was still in his arm.

    Reverend Palmer sat down beside the cold body, pulling Al's discarded jacket over his chest, over the needle, closing his bleary eyes. She whispered a prayer. It was a little late, but what the hell.

    She left the room and shut the door quietly behind her. Death stood beside Al's corpse. It was not infected, and would not rise again. The dying flame of Al's candle would not swell at the last second with a cold blue light. It was as it should be.

    Two blocks from the homeless shelter, Club Fetish was similarly boarded-up, windows covered with the splintered remains of tabletops and flooring. The main dance floor was all colored lights, no longer aglow. The light and sound riggings hanging from the ceiling were equally useless and their creaking made those in the club nervous. The bar had been cleaned out long ago and the consequences had clogged every toilet in the joint. The air was musty. It was dark. A tiny giggle escaped from behind the bar.

    Jenna O'Connell awoke with a start. The tinny laughter increased in volume. She found an empty bottle at her feet and chucked it over the bar. "Fuck you, Syl!"

    Lauren poked Jenna's arm. "Don't let him get to you."

    "It's past getting. He's already gotten to me. I hate the prick." Jenna ran her fingernails through her golden hair. Lauren had thick red hair that now reached her waist; she actually looked better than she when they'd first arrived in Jefferson Harbor with their entourage of makeup artists and stagehands. Jenna could feel her hair becoming more brittle by the day. Her eyes ached from straining to see. Her stomach ached from hunger. And there was no longer anyone here to wait on her, no one except that gruesome photographer sitting on the dance floor. What was his name, Duncan? Mark Duncan. Even now he was still playing with his digital camera.

    Lauren had been the band's drummer, and Jenna the singer. They hadn't known the rest of the band that well; this whole thing had been cobbled together at the last second as a morale-booster for the troops out here. The troops that had pulled out the day Jenna arrived.

    And Duncan. What the hell was he following the tour for? The only publications that got any attention were sensationalist rags about the zombies. They were mostly full of bullshit about religious prophecies and supposed cures, alongside Duncan's daring close-up images of shambling undead. So why document a rock tour? She put the question to him. Duncan's eyes lit up at the attention.

    "People are getting tired of zombie stories," he said, dry throat croaking a bit. "They want to see people living. They want to pretend that celebrity tabloid trash still matters in their world."

    "Is that what this is?" Jenna gestured around the shadowy room. "Tabloid trash? The life of a celebrity? Everything's a fucking zombie story."

    Duncan put the camera down and stretched his legs. Before he could begin opining on his so-called career, club owner Sylvester Silver vaulted over the bar, slipped in something and smacked his head on the floor. "God DAMN." He muttered.

    "Are you high?" Jenna asked. Rhetorical question. Silver said something unintelligible but surely vulgar in response. He got up and stumbled around a bit. "Z!"

    He was whining for Zaharchuk, his dealer. The greasy little sleaze hadn't been here in days. In fact, Jenna had reminded Silver of that fact on several occasions. "Z!" He cried again. A leather vest and pants barely clinging to his emaciated body, he staggered toward one of the windows. "Oh, shit," Duncan said.

    Jenna got up, slapping Lauren's hand away, and chased after Silver. The man grabbed at the boards covering the window. "Fuck this! I'm leaving! Fuck this place!" Jenna grabbed his shoulder and he swatted at her. "Fuck YOU! You never played one fucking lick! Bitch!"

    Duncan joined her behind Silver. "Get away from the window, man."

    "I don't want to live here!" Syl bellowed, and he began choking on tears, or snot, or both. Jenna rolled her eyes and punched him in the back of the head.

    He caught her in the mouth with an elbow. She went flying and, just as she'd dreaded, Duncan ran to her. "Stop him!" She snapped. Silver tore a board from the window. "I'm out- -"

    A hand came through and took hold of his ear. Syl immediately exploded into hysterics. A second hand grabbed the vest, and blood streamed down his neck as several ear piercings were tugged through cartilage. Syl beat weakly on the two arms, which obviously belonged to the same body, and he howled as his head was pulled out into the open.

    Jenna and Duncan ran back and grabbed the waist of his pants. If he wasn't bitten - it wasn't too late- -

    Outside, Syl felt hair being torn from his scalp and threw his head back, banging against the boards. He was stuck. He was looking into the yellow eyes of an undead. Then his head was forced back down and teeth dug into the skin behind his ear.

    "Let go!" Jenna yelled. Duncan did, watching silently while Syl Silver's legs kicked and his shrieks became garbled. He fell back into the room. Sans head.

    Duncan puked on the ragged stump of Silver's neck. Jenna spun away, Lauren catching her, both screaming. An old man stared through the window, gnawing on the severed head's cheek, then he sent his fist crashing into the remaining boards.

    "Christ!" Duncan spat bile and grabbed a nearby barstool. "We've gotta cover it back up!" Jenna thought he'd take a shot at the zombie, but instead he shattered the stool over the bar. Good thinking. Attacking the zombie was pointless. Better to fix the window before more showed up. She busted a second stool and told Lauren to find the hammer and nails in Syl's office.

    Duncan brought the seat of the first stool down on the undead's prying fingers. Jenna joined him. "Lauren!!"

    "Coming!" Lauren dropped the box of nails halfway across the room. "Just grab some! Hurry!" Jenna yelled. She felt her feet dragging through Syl's spreading blood and steeled herself against vomiting. Lauren drove a tenpenny nail through the seat of Duncan's barstool. Through the tiny gap between the two seats, Jenna could see that the zombie was no longer interested in the window. He thrust a hand into Silver's head through the open throat and yanked out a handful of tissue. The undead walked away from the club, chewing.

    "We've got to get out of here." Jenna said.

    "We're still safe. This building is safe." Duncan argued. "We're right in the middle of town."

    "There's no food." Jenna shot back. "I haven't had anything to eat in days except dry noodles and apple schnapps. Do you want to feel safe or live, Duncan?"

    He backed away from her, allowing Lauren a better angle to hammer from, and sighed. "There's a Kagen's at the west end of town. Not a store but a distribution center. I guarantee it's already been raided."

    "It's worth a shot." Jenna peered outside again. "It's not like the streets are crawling with zombies. We just need to stay sober..."

    Gene Pastore spat Syl Silver's hair from his mouth and hooked his fingers inside the head's nostrils. Nightfall was fast approaching. He didn't remember how he'd gotten to Midtown from the landfill, but it didn't matter. What mattered was right now, and right now was hunger. Meat fell through the hole in his cheek. He stooped to retrieve it from the ground.

    There was more inside the head but he couldn't get to it. Shaking it over his open mouth, Gene grunted. He remembered something - shovel - that could have been used to get to the meat. He didn't have the shovel. He hurled the head into the curb and heard bone crack like a gunshot.

    Gene sat on the curb and fished the brains from the fractured skull. They tasted sweet.

    They left at midnight, going through the recently-damaged window and crossing the street to the Donner Convention Center. Streetlamps flickered and made clicking noises. There was no other sound.

    Duncan was fiddling with his camera. "Why did you bring that?" Jenna whispered harshly. "It's got a night-vision mode," he replied. "Not much, but it'll allow us to stay in the shadows." He pressed his eye to the viewfinder and searched the Convention Center parking lot. "All clear."

    Lauren pushed her sleeves up to her shoulders. She was clutching the leg of a barstool; the girl was small but those drummer's arms were strong. She'd fended off enough unruly fans (and some of them wanted to bite her too), so the rotters were no worry.

    "Four blocks west to Kagen's." Duncan said. He crept along the wall, holding his camera like a weapon. Jenna wondered what it was like to photograph the undead at close quarters. Maybe looking at them through the camera made them seem somewhere far away, made Duncan feel safe. Maybe he was just crazy.