“So who’s the ‘King of the Dead’?” he asked Thackeray. They were both glad, as it turned out, to change the subject.
“He used to run a traveling circus in the badlands. I know people who saw it—he would perform tricks with undead animals. People too. They say he was infected, and he’d let the rotters take bites out of him One night he kissed one and it tore his lips off. That’s what they say.
“They say that he eventually turned, but not alone. He talked his performers into turning with him. They were willingly infected—most of them anyway. I’ve heard of people committing suicide by infection but this was different. They celebrated their deaths. And when they came back, they kept traveling—kept performing, kept entertaining, audiences none the wiser until the next morning when the circus was gone and so were their children.”
“I don’t think such a thing is possible,” Adam said. “I’ve spent more a century among the dead. I’ve seen undead capable of frightening, lifelike things—but for ferals to work together, like a pack? That’s beyond their grasp. Their only drive is self-preservation.”
“Fair enough,” Thackeray replied. “Just remember that things change. You changed.”
“I did,” Adam said, “but by choice—and they have no will.”
He passed under the lizards hanging from their branches and gave the men a wave. “Be safe.”
“The East Coast!” Thackeray called. “Remember!”
Adam didn’t look back.
Six / The Wall
“The Wall” actually referred to the security wall surrounding the entire Great Cities region. In addition, each city had its own type of barricade set up around its perimeter. In the event that the outer Wall was breached, citizens could rest easy while troops swarmed the “dead zone” between cities and cleaned out the rotters, be they man or animal. But such an incident was thought impossible by most, because the Wall was the pride of the Cities.
The work of two generations of Senators, it was three stories tall and five feet thick, concrete poured over a steel skeleton with roots buried deep in the earth. Every thousand yards there was a guard post, where soldiers would ascend a ladder or stairs to the walkway atop the Wall and monitor the badlands. It was understood by all that if badlanders approached the Wall seeking asylum, they could be taken in. But if they refused to undergo the standard quarantine procedure, they were assumed to be infected and would be shot.
There were two or more men for each guard post, and more at the gates that appeared every few miles; but there was one section where only one man kept watch. Neville Dalton preferred his solitude and made no secret of it. He had lobbied the brass for weeks to allow him to work with his dogs instead of other soldiers.
Rottweilers, the dogs had been trained privately, by Dalton, for months prior to his Wall assignment. They could sniff out a single rotter hiding in the night. At least that was what he told the brass. All he knew was that the dogs were simple, straightforward companions who knew their place and didn’t complicate everything the way people did. They would walk the Wall inside the dead zone from dawn to dusk while he sat perched atop it, sniper rifle in his lap.
Most of the other troops were scared of his Rotties. Even Major Briggs had refused the opportunity to meet them, although they fell into rank at the sight of him. So Dalton had finally gotten his way, and the arrangement was quite comfortable until the afternoon when he heard a Jeep pull up, and the nagging cough that could only mean Tuck Logan.
“How’re you doing all by your lonesome?” Logan asked with a filthy grin as he ascended the ladder. “They just wanted me to come out and check on ya. Don’t worry, I won’t tell ‘em anything. But you should know that Senator Gillies might be coming out to see the dogs.”
Dalton arched an eyebrow. “That might be interesting.” He tried to ignore the flies buzzing around Logan.
They both had been part of an elite unit known as Hand of God. Led by Ian Gregory, a stalwart Christian, the unit had exclusive membership requirements that would’ve raised a shitstorm if any limp-wristed civilians had known about it. Yes, even Logan was a God-fearing Christian, though he behaved like an apostate these days. Ever since the withdrawal he’d become more and more... unusual. The flies were evidence of that. He was on one of the burn teams that were called in to put down rotters, once they’d been marked and paralyzed by a sniper’s bullet; and he seemed to enjoy most the responsibility of carrying the charred remains off to be buried. Dalton suspected that Logan spent a little extra time with those remains. His greasy, unwashed hair and darting eyes were overlooked by his supervisors, but Dalton had a keen eye, a sniper’s eye, and he saw into Logan and knew that he was fucking them, wasn’t he, rutting in a pile of ash and rotten meat like some sort of animal. Worse than an animal. Logan meant trouble.
“So,” Dalton muttered, “they sent you to check up on me.”
“For the Senator,” Logan said. “They want to know that your dogs are as well-trained as you say.”
“Well, climb down.”
“What?”
“Climb down and I’ll call them in.”
Dalton plucked a whistle from his shirt pocket. Logan started down.
Dalton watched him standing there at the bottom, staring dully; he almost wished he had the guts to sic the Rotties on him. He blew soundlessly into the whistle
They came running from either direction, keeping a tight formation alongside the Wall. They saw Logan and quickened their pace. The man fidgeted, glanced up at Dalton. “Are they—?”
They surrounded Logan and stood frozen, staring up at him. He saw their legs trembling, saw them fighting to restrain themselves. They smelled the dead on him. He was terrified.
“Break!” Dalton called.
The dogs settled on their haunches and let their tongues hang from their jaws. Logan was still too scared to move.
“Let him go, boys,” Dalton said as he came down. The dogs sat about him and waited patiently while he checked each for injury. Satisfied, he sent them off to play.
“The Senator ought to be impressed,” Logan said breathlessly.
“I should think so,” Dalton said. He gave Logan a smile. It was chilling.
* * *
“Sergeant Gregory?”
Gillies was ruggedly handsome and fit for his age. A man of sixty, he carried himself well, and his pressed suits made him look like he was from another time—he didn’t belong in the living Hell of this world. But here he was, talking with Ian Gregory atop the Wall like it didn’t mean anything.
“My entourage is down below, touring the facilities,” Gillies said. “The reason I’m up here, though, is to make you an offer.”
“Me?”
“Absolutely. You studied at Seminarium Vita, didn’t you?”
“Yes sir.”
“As did I. Glorious institution. Tragically, I hear it’s burned to the ground. We are its legacy, men like you and I. Do you remember all you learned there?”
“I believe so.”
“And you implemented those teachings in a rather controversial way. Hand of God.”
“I did what I felt was right.”
“Of course you did. I admire that. Too many men forget their faith the second they step onto a battlefield. You never did. Even though you, yourself, lost men out there.”
Gregory lowered his head. Not just men.
Barry had been a devout believer and a woman whose beauty was not diminished by her tough demeanor. They had fallen in love quickly, and he might have proposed but for the fact that she would have been forced to leave his unit. So they lived in sin for a while, but those were the circumstances they had to live in. God wanted them together, both were sure of that.
And he’d sworn to himself that his love would never interfere with the unit’s operations. And it never did, until—
“I’d like you to lead my personal security detail,” Gillies said. “What say you?”
Gregory didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know wh
at he wanted. He spent most days atop this wall just staring down, wondering what it would be like to fall and never wake up.
But, again, he knew what was right, and he saw the Lord at work in this situation.
“Yes. Yes sir.”
Seven / The Beat
“I’m assigning you to the lake district,” Senior P.O. Casey told Voorhees. “It’s blocked out in red on the big map.”
The hotel which had been converted to a living quarters for Gaylen’s Peace Officers also housed the department itself. Killian had explained that Gaylen’s original police precincts were all destroyed during the original outbreaks. Overrun by infected and people looking for shelter or arms, most police stations and military installations were lost early on; same for hospitals and airports. Of course there were no airports anymore. Every nation in turn had closed its borders and grounded all flights, domestic and international, in hopes of slowing the plague. Like everything else, it proved pointless.
Voorhees followed Casey across the squad room to the “big map” plastered across the wall. Casey was in a wheelchair, both legs gone below the knees. He probably hated his desk job. And here Voorhees was being put out on the street again after a decade as a senior officer. He’d done plenty of beat work in his S.P.O. role, but he’d also had control and respect with whomever he interacted.
He supposed that he had failed in Jefferson Harbor, and maybe he deserved to start back at the bottom.
“Social Services sent over your cleaver,” Casey said, “but we’re going to have to retire it for the time being. God willing, you’ll never have to use it again.”
He meant Voorhees’ widowmaker, a military-issue blade used in close combat against rotters. He’d decapitated more of them than he could count. The weapon an extension of his arm; now he was going to have to settle for a baton. Not even a gun. The Great Cities kept guns out of the hands of all civilians. He wondered how long that would last.
Another officer walked over and introduced himself as Blake. “I’m Killian’s partner.”
Up until that point, Voorhees had thought he might be paired with her. She had a mouth on her but was easy on the eyes. Voorhees didn’t look forward to another male partner.
“You’ll be with Halstead,” Casey said, reading Voorhees’ expression. “She’s out until tomorrow, as is Killian, so you and Blake’ll patrol the lake district this evening.” Casey turned his chair to face Blake. “Be sure you talk to Meyer about those kids he roughed up the other day.”
“Ready to head out?” Blake asked. Voorhees grabbed his overcoat from the back of his chair. “Why not?”
* * *
It was cloudy, as it had been for days, and the city was a hundred shades of gray. People’s faces were hardened slate. As they passed him by they looked away, some at their feet, others at the sky. One muttered something about rain, but she was only talking to herself.
Lots of people in the street. Everyone walked. Shuffled past one another without so much as a word. Patrons in a vegetable market rummaged quietly through bins. It was like a citywide awkward silence.
Blake slapped Voorhees’ arm and led him into the market. “My girlfriend owns it,” he said. “Her brother-in-law runs the biggest farm in Gaylen.”
A petite brunette smiled and stepped away from her counter to hug Blake. “Becca, this is Voorhees.” He looked to Voorhees as if expecting a first name. The man was silent.
“... Well, he’s Emily’s new partner, and I’m giving him the grand tour.”
“Call me Becks,” the girl said. “This one keeps forgetting. Oh, Blake, you oughta take him by the amphitheater. Jeff Cullen’s got a new play for next month. I just started reading it.”
“So you’re in it?” Blake leaned against Voorhees. “My girl’s an actress.”
“It’s just something to do,” she said, blushing, “even if Cullen thinks it’s high art.”
“What are the plays about?” asked Voorhees.
“Life before the plague,” Becks said. “So who knows whether it’s accurate or not. But I guess it’s how we’re supposed to live now, now that we’re safe.”
Safe. Normal. None of it rang true to Voorhees. If this was normal—everyone just going through the motions and trying to forget about the real world—he didn’t want any part of it. He was starting to feel claustrophobic and imagined that the living zombies in Gaylen’s streets felt exactly the same way.
Zombies. There was a fitting metaphor. Gee, I’ll bet no one else has thought of that.
Soldiers... Soldiers carried guns and widowmakers. Soldiers dealt with the undead. Maybe that was his new calling?
“We’d better get going,” Blake said. “You heard what Casey said about Meyer.”
“Who?”
“Finn Meyer.”
* * *
“They weren’t kids, they were grown men,” Finn Meyer said in his thick Irish brogue. “And they knew what was gonna happen if they crossed me.”
He was a stout man with a pudgy scarred face and sausage fingers grasping at the lapels of his suit. It was a nice suit, the sort no one made anymore. And he was talking to P.O. Blake with such unbridled arrogance that it took all that Voorhees had in him not to knock the bastard upside his head with that baton.
“Seventeen-year-olds aren’t men, Meyer,” Blake said, “and besides, I thought we had an understanding about the hands-on business.”
The tone of this conversation made no sense to Voorhees. Blake had told him that two boys with a laptop were running a dice game near the lake district. Players were able to wager credits, provided they could prove said credits existed. And the losers were billed for what they owed, by all appearances a legal transaction. It was a legit practice, although the kids were hacking the network to transfer credits. The real problem, however, was that Finn Meyer claimed exclusive rights to the game. So he’d had a couple of thugs smash the laptop and knock the kids around a little. “That’s business,” the Irishman said.
“You’re liable for the cost of that laptop,” Voorhees snapped. “And I don’t know why you aren’t in cuffs already, but at the very least you’re going to be cited for assault.”
Meyer had a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. “Mister Blake, maybe you oughta educate the new guy about how we do things.” His glassy eyes fixed on Voorhees, Meyer added in a low growl, “You know what happened to the gentleman you replaced?”
“All right, enough of that,” said Blake. “If I have to come down here again because of you pushing people around, we’re going to have a conversation with Cullen, you and I. Because that’s how we do things in Gaylen.”
Meyer raised his hands in mock surrender. “Whatever you say, boss. Just trying to make a living.”
Voorhees started to say something, but Blake pulled him away from Meyer and out into the street.
“What in the hell was that?” Voorhees yelled.
“There are some things you don’t understand,” Blake said grimly. “Our job is to maintain a balance in Gaylen—there are some elements that can only be contained, not cut out.”
“Are you saying—”
“I’m saying, let’s go grab some dinner and I’ll lay it out for you.”
It was probably going to rain soon. Voorhees’ sixty-year-old joints were aching, and he didn’t feel like arguing any longer so he shut his mouth and went along with his partner.
Eight / Lily
“How come you get to drive a truck?” the girl asked.
Jack Calvert looked away from the road and said, “It belongs to the company. Sometimes I have to haul materials out to the job site.”
Sitting in Molly Calvert’s lap, Lily twisted to make the seat belt fit more comfortably. “Are you allowed to take us into the city?”
“Of course,” Jack replied. He was a man of thirty with bright eyes and a lopsided smile that meant he knew a lot of jokes. He was good at making Lily laugh, even if some of his jokes were too silly. But she was only thirteen—or fourteen, she
wasn’t sure—and it was excusable.
“Anyway, I’ll drop you two off downtown, then I’m gone until four in the morning,” Jack was saying to Molly. “You’ll make it home okay?”
“So long as it doesn’t rain,” Molly sighed. She was pretty, with long dark hair just like Lily’s. She really could have been the girl’s mother, except Lily knew her parents were dead.
“Did you have a nightmare last night?” Molly asked Lily. “I heard you saying something in your sleep.”
Lily couldn’t explain to her new guardians that they weren’t nightmares—that Death was her friend, that he’d saved her life more than once. He had a kind, gentle face. His doll-like eyes made her think of a baby, innocent and unformed. In a lot of ways, he was like a child; he didn’t seem to understand a lot of things, like feelings.
But he and Lily had still gotten along. He’d held her while she wept for her parents, and he’d saved her from the house in the swamp where her brothers and sisters were undead. She longed to see him again, and somehow knew that she would—that he was searching for her right now, at this very moment.
“What are you building today?” she asked Jack. Sometimes he was reluctant to talk about his job, but other times he had funny stories. This time he only shrugged. “I can’t say, exactly. I can tell you we’re laying a sort of asphalt right now. We hope it doesn’t rain either.”
He couldn’t tell her about the airfield project—hell, he wasn’t even supposed to tell Molly, but he had. It was a secret that only the Senators knew about.
The firm he worked for had restored most of downtown over the past five years. It was a huge company, but only a select handful were chosen for the airfield. He had no idea what they intended to use it for—did they even have planes?—but he was starting to form a theory.
Empire's End Page 4
