Empire's End (14 page)

Voorhees was posted at the front entrance of
the Gaylen City Administration Building. Halstead was in back. Two
of the other officers, Ernie and Gulager, were upstairs with
Senator Jeff Cullen.

“Voorhees.” Halstead’s voice came over the
radio. “You asleep yet?”

“Nope, just freezing.”

“Just you and me on this channel. Wanna talk
dirty?”

He smiled and answered, “If you don’t mind my
chattering teeth.”

“Kinky,” Halstead laughed. “You’re what,
Voorhees, sixty?”

That was a mood killer. “Somewhere up there.
I forget,” he cracked. “I suppose it’s still a crime to ask a
woman’s age.”

“You’ve got about fifteen years on me, old
timer. Be glad—you’re that much closer to retirement.”

“I plan to die on the job,” he said. “Where
would I retire to?”

“I used to live in a town called Tucson. A
little hot, but beautiful.”

“I’ve seen about enough of this great land of
ours, thanks.”

“But you’re not happy here, are you?”

“Where else is there but here?”

“I’d like to go back to Tucson someday. See
if my house is still there. It’s not that far-fetched.”

“Government’s given up. If Tucson wasn’t
already a wasteland, it will be.”

“I thought you had more fire in you,
Voorhees. I thought you were gonna shake things up.”

“I’m tired,” he sighed. It was true. He’d
planned to work himself to death, and that didn’t seem too far off
these days.

“How far back do you remember?” Halstead
asked. “What’s your earliest memory of the rotters?”

“My dad killed one on the front lawn when I
was six. Chopped it up with an ax. Then he brought me out to help
him build a fire for it. I cut my teeth early. That’s how Dad
wanted it, and frankly I’m grateful. That’s why I don’t understand
the people around here—how they can act so nonchalant. Everyone has
come face to face with it at some point. Everyone gets it.”

“Your dad made you tough,” said Halstead.

“Yeah, he did.”

“And he’s passed away?”

“Long time ago. Infected.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. That’s life—that’s my point.”

Voorhees scanned the streets. It had been
snowing all evening, and there was nary a footprint to be seen.
People were all huddled around ovens or heaters or fires somewhere,
huddling together, thinking
at least we’re safe
.

“I had to shoot him,” he said, into the
radio.

“How old were you?”

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t think being younger
or older would’ve made a difference. He had told me, a long time
before, that the way things were going I was going to have to put a
bullet in him someday. Kill him before he turned. Burn the remains.
Become a man.”

“Is that why you never raised a family?”

That was a leap. But she was dead on.

“If someone has to kill me,” he said softly,
“it’ll be a stranger. Not my own son.”

Halstead was silent. Voorhees pulled his coat
around himself and shook the chill from his body. The radio
crackled, then silence again.

“Come again? Halstead?”

No reply.

He switched channels and called, “Ernie?
Gulager? Have you—”

A shout blared from the radio. “
Backup! We
need back—
”

Silence again. By then Voorhees was running
inside.

Down the hall, up a flight of stairs, kicking
open a door to find Gulager and Ernie both lying prone in a
corridor. Voorhees ran to the door beyond labeled SEN. JEFF
CULLEN—CITY ADMINISTRATION. Someone shouted from within. The door
was locked.

Voorhees whipped out his baton and smashed
the knob to pieces. Rearing back, he kicked the door down and saw
Cullen behind his desk, trying to get through another door. After
him was a man dressed in black: gloves, coat, hat, even a stocking
covering his face. In the killer’s hand was a knife carved from
bone.

Voorhees’ baton spun through the air and
clipped the killer’s hand, sending the knife flying. The stockinged
assassin looked at the cop: surprise? How had he missed the guy
standing out front? Must have come through the back, taking out
Halstead. Voorhees hoped she was only knocked out.

For this guy’s sake, she’d better be.

Cullen scrambled through the door behind his
desk. The killer retrieved the knife and sprinted after him.
Feeling no pain in his adrenaline-fueled body, Voorhees vaulted
over the desk in hot pursuit.

They were heading upstairs. Feet clattered
loudly in the narrow stairwell, Cullen’s screams bouncing off the
walls. Why had he run through the damn door? No way Voorhees could
catch up while on the stairs.

They hit another corridor, and Voorhees
surged after the killer. Cullen was tugging at locked doors in
hysterics. The killer closed in—

Then spun to swing a fist into Voorhees’ jaw.
He sprawled out across the carpet and shouted “STOP!!”

The killer edged toward Cullen. “You’re not
gonna get out of here,” Voorhees said, sitting up. “Give it up now.
Don’t get another senator’s blood on your hands.”

The killer tilted his head slightly, as if
considering. Then, in a grand leap, he cleared Voorhees and went
for the stairs.

Voorhees snagged the killer’s ankle. He went
over with a cry

A female cry

But recovered and was off down the
stairs.

Voorhees gave feeble chase. His mind was
spinning. A woman? That it was a female wasn’t a shock; it was that
it narrowed his field of suspects considerably.

He found Ernie and Gulager sitting up and
rubbing their heads. “Cold-cocked us both,” Ernie muttered.

Voorhees continued down the hall and located
the rear entrance. Steeling himself, he opened the door.

Halstead lay in the snow, almost peaceful,
her hair matted with blood. He knelt over her and checked her
pulse. She was good.

Her eyelids fluttered. “What are you doing
here, Voorhees? Stop him.”

“Her,” he said. “And she’s gone.”

But she wouldn’t get far.

* * *

Patricia Morgan and Finn Meyer didn’t exactly
seem surprised to see four cops walking into their office. Feet
perched on his desk, Meyer called, “What’s the occasion?”

It was Voorhees who saw the bandage on
Morgan’s right hand. Where he would’ve hit her with his baton.

“What happened there?” he asked mildly, then
grabbed the hand and yanked her to her feet. “I fucking burned it!”
she snapped. “Let go!”

“You’re under arrest for murder,” Voorhees
said. “And you, Finn, for conspiracy. And why not treason?”

“What in the hell are you talking about?”
Meyer growled.

“We know it was Morgan. I busted her hand
with my baton,” Voorhees said.

Morgan snarled and ripped the bandages free.
She exposed a blistered, pink patch of flesh. “
Burned
it,
asshole!”

The air was sucked from the room. Voorhees’
stomach dropped into his shoes.

Meyer cocked his head. “You don’t look happy,
friend.”

Voorhees turned and stormed from the
loft.

* * *

Around four in the A.M., Senator Gillies was
alone in his Chicago office, watching the snow fall. The city
looked lovely in white, he thought.

There was a click and hiss from behind him.
He turned to see Finn Meyer lighting a cigar. “You don’t mind, do
ya?”

“What are you doing here?” Gillies
snapped.

“I’ve seen some interesting things the past
few days, Senator. Did you know they’re building an airfield
outside my city?”

Gillies smiled. “Now Meyer, you didn’t think
we weren’t going to tell you, did you? Of course, you would have
found out anyway.”

“Hmm.” Meyer took a puff and held the smoke
in his mouth. He spoke through a cloud. “You’ve got planes coming?
Do I get a window seat?”

“Your seats are reserved, Meyer,” Gillies
assured him. “I have to tell you though, I don’t appreciate you
coming out here like this.”

“I like to handle things face to face.”

“Meyer—what do you know about Manning’s
death?”

“Just that it was a shame. Damn shame.”

“I mean it.”

“Me too. I hate to see a beautiful woman go
rotten like that.”

Meyer stepped closer with a grin. “Maybe I
know something, maybe I don’t. But I’m on your side. Just let me
know when those planes are due... Of course, Ill find out
anyway.”

With that, he disappeared into the shadows,
leaving only the spice of his smoke as a reminder.

Ian Gregory stepped out from the darkness. He
had been less than a foot from Meyer, ready to take him down if
necessary.

Gillies clenched his fists. No matter, he
told himself. He had ways of dealing with bottom-feeders.

“The pain that I take from others, when I
heal them—I’ve learned to channel it through my body and direct it
like a weapon. But only for protection.”

The woman in white sat atop the roof of her
cottage with Adam, watching a hazy sunrise. She’d given him some
men’s clothes to wear—not that it really mattered, but for the sake
of appearing human. As he gazed at her, he found himself wondering
what was under her cloak.

She caught his eye and smiled, a bit slyly.
“It takes time for it all to return, but it does.”

“What does?”

“The soul.”

“But... I don’t have a soul. I never have.
Like you said, I was made a Reaper.”

“Remade, really—reborn, Adam. It’s
complicated. I’m not trying to be cryptic. I just don’t think you
can handle it all at once.”

“I appreciate your confidence.”

“Sarcasm.” She beamed at him through the
gentle snowfall. “I like that. That’s good.”

“I dreamt about her again.”

“The girl?”

“I see her covered in frost. She’s terrified.
I have to reach her soon.”

“There’s some of that power I was talking
about,” the woman said. “The power that still exists in you. The
bond you’ve forged with her is unique.”

“Do you think she dreams of me?”

“I think she might.”

“I hope she knows I’m looking for her.
She—”

“Damn.” The woman in white grimaced.

“What?”

She pointed toward the sun. There were a half
dozen rotters standing out in the snow.

“They come from that town, sometimes.”
Rising, she shook the flakes from her cloak. “This is your forte,
Adam, not mine.”

“I’ll get the scythe.”

Wearing a sweater, slacks and winter boots,
Adam exited the cottage and stood on the white lawn. Though his
pain had been eased considerably, he was still blackened and
cracked. The clay of his flesh was hard at the edges of the yawning
fissures that covered him from head to toe. He hadn’t seen his face
yet, but he suspected it was the same: he no longer possessed a
pale, benevolent countenance but a patchwork of angry scars.

Because of them.

The rotters were a few hundred yards off. The
cold seemed to have slowed them a bit, but it would not stop their
hunger, and they did not yet know that they were dealing with
something as inhuman as themselves.

Adam readied the scythe and beckoned.

We’re not just clay. There is still power
within us... it’s just a matter of channeling it.

What power resided within this broken body of
his? She said his dreams were a sign of it. How could that help him
against the undead?

The first pair came at him. He sank the
scythe into the side of one’s head, kicking its companion back
before yanking the blade free and positioning himself for another
strike.

The first rotter slumped to the ground. The
second took a step back. Now it knew.

It lurched at him. He threw his left arm out
to knock it back, but it caught the arm and sank its teeth into
him.

He shook his head. “No good.” Split its face
from crown to chin.

Four more and they were coming fast. He could
try and take two out with one shot. He crouched, tensed.

The rotters suddenly stopped and looked up. A
brilliant light swept over Adam and engulfed the undead. He saw
them briefly frozen, as if enclosed in a bubble outside space and
time, jaws agape—and then they simply blew away, turning to ash and
dissipating before his eyes. Just like that, all four were
gone.

He looked up to see the woman in white
standing at the edge of the roof. “I couldn’t bear to keep
watching,” she said.

“What do you mean?” he snapped. “You took
pity on them?”

“You can’t let hatred drive you,” she
said.

“You don’t understand,” he retorted. “You
didn’t have to serve through this nightmare. You didn’t have to see
all that I saw.”

“I’ve seen all of it and worse,” she shot
back. “Do you know how old I am? Do you have any idea what I’ve
witnessed? I have walked this globe a thousand times and I know
things you may never learn. And I know you aren’t going to last
through this if it’s nothing but anger driving you.”

“I’m not just angry!” he roared. “
I’m
afraid!
”

They both stood in silence.

“It’s her,” he whispered. “I don’t want them
to get her.”

“They won’t,” said the woman. “You won’t let
them. Because that’s who you are now. I’m coming down.”

He waited on the lawn for her, staring into
the gray sky. She touched his shoulder. “‘And you are but a
thought.’ It’s a line written by my favorite storyteller, a man
named Mark Twain. And it’s true. But we give our own lives meaning.
She is your purpose.”

She was right.

“You go through so much in these first years
after the fall,” she said. “But I think love is already overcoming
anger.”

“Then what?” he asked. “After I’ve found
her?”

“That’s up to you.”