He looked up to find himself alone. It was starting to snow.
* * *
Upon arriving back at his office—a warehouse basement downtown—Meyer was informed that he had a couple of sellers sitting upstairs. He liked to handle this end of the business personally. He removed his coat, smoothed his suit and headed up.
The couple was sitting in a small windowless room, isolated from the goings-on in the rest of the building. Entering with the lieutenant who had summoned him, Meyer shook their hands warmly and said, “First things first. How much are you asking for?”
The woman looked at the man, who cleared his throat and said, “Ten thousand.”
Meyer clapped his hands on his knees and laughed. “Well, this must be quite a filly! Ten thousand? Let’s see her. Where is she?”
The lieutenant opened a narrow door into a smaller room, where a few toys—dolls, blocks, crayons—were scattered about on faded carpet.
Lily looked up from her place against the wall, arms and legs crossed, and said “When do I get to go home?”
Meyer licked his lips. He looked back at the couple. “How old is she?”
“Twelve,” Jack Calvert said.
“Come on now,” Meyer said in scolding tone. “I’ll need to see papers on that.”
“She might be thirteen or fourteen. We’ve only had her a few months.”
Meyer said to Lily, “Just another minute, sweetheart,” and closed the door to the smaller room. To the Calverts he asked, “Why ten grand? You must know how steep that is.”
“Yes,” Jack said, “but we’re in debt—we owe people and they want it all now. Or else.”
“I see.” Meyer crouched in front of them and said, “Maybe you should refinance with me. Wouldn’t that be better than selling off the girl?”
Jack and Molly looked anxiously at one another. “You’re not really in debt, are you?” Meyer smiled coldly.
Jack stared at his feet, clearing his throat again, trying to find the right words to say. “Just tell me the truth,” Meyer said. “What are you into?”
“You must know about the airfield,” Jack said. Meyer frowned. “Airfield?”
“They’re building an airfield east of the city. The Senate. I think they’re going to have planes come from somewhere and take them out of here. We just—I need to buy seats for me and my wife. We have to get out of here. The girl—Lily—we only took her in for the government support check. We can let her go. We just want the money.”
Meyer stood in silence, staring at them while he sucked on a piece of candy. The room seemed to grow even smaller to Jack and Molly, pressure building behind their eyes, hands trembling... finally he spoke.
“Seven thousand credits.”
Jack nodded immediately. He’d probably expected a lot less than ten. He put his arm around his wife and said, “Yes. Seven. All right.”
“Give this man here your account number. Expect the transfer within the hour. It’ll be entered in as a tax refund. Understand? You were never here. In fact, you never had the girl—I’ll take care of it. All of that clear?”
They both nodded. They looked like they wanted the hell out of there. Meyer decided to suck his candy and let them stew a few more minutes.
What sort of person would sell their child, even a foster child, into sexual slavery? Of course Meyer could make it right on his end, but how did they live with themselves? Heartless people. At least she’d be taken care of now. And she’d be loved... oh, his clients would love little Lily with her budding breasts and long dark hair. S.P.O. Casey would really love her.
“All right. Give my guy your account and walk out of here, and then forget all this,” he said. They scuttled from the room like spooked roaches.
He opened the door to the smaller room. Lily looked a bit more apprehensive. She hadn’t figured it out yet, but she soon would.
“My name’s Finnegan,” he said. “Want some candy?”
She shook her head.
“That’s good. You don’t take candy from strangers. But soon I won’t be a stranger, and then when I offer you candy you’ll take it. Okay?”
He knelt in the doorway like he was talking to a puppy. “Jack and Molly can’t take care of you anymore. They want you to stay here for now. There are lots of other girls here. You’ll like it.”
She drew into a ball and whimpered, “I want to go home.”
“You are home, sweetheart.”
Thirteen / Runners
A light dusting of snow had given the earth a corpse-pallor which was matched by the night sky. A black shape broke the monotony of lingering clouds and headed north.
It had been ages since Dalton had seen a bird in the sky. There was one high above him now, a hawk, circling over a shadowy patch of earth beyond the Wall.
What was the hawk stalking? Based on its behavior it seemed likely that it wasn’t infected, that it was after a small mammal. An infected raptor wouldn’t look outside its own species for prey. But Dalton had orders, and he sighted the hawk through his rifle’s scope and fired.
It was true that people had become infected through contact with animals. If you cornered one, forced it to bite, you’d signed your death warrant; Dalton had seen too many soldiers infect themselves by catching and eating plague-ridden rodents out in the field. There were so many ways that the nightmare could begin—so the military demanded every safeguard enforced. So he fired.
The hawk plummeted to earth, out of view. Dalton needed night vision goggles. The pair he’d owned had been “requisitioned” by a burn team for their evening sweeps. The lights on the Wall just weren’t enough, but they’d have to do. He heard generators humming to life as they came on.
No rotters today. Fewer and fewer each week. But wasn’t it only a matter of time, some would ask, until the hungry dead clustered in the badlands ventured north in search of food?
No, the scientists said. Field studies indicated that the dead stayed close to the communities from which they originated. They didn’t think like people, nor like animals; they didn’t think at all. If they sensed meat nearby, they went after it. Otherwise they just stood and rotted.
Dalton knew it was bullshit. He’d seen a newly-dead soldier shoot at human prey. He’d seen rotters that had felled small trees to block a road and then laid in wait for the next Army patrol. Most of them, he believed, retained some scrap of intellect. If you believed the stories about regeneration, maybe it was possible for rotters to get even smarter.
Don’t worry, the scientists said. Even if it was true, their food supply was dwindling. They were starving out there in the badlands. Someday, Americans could live outside the Wall again. Maybe even in Dalton’s lifetime.
He didn’t buy it. Because he knew that the apocalypse wouldn’t just fade away. He was a man of God and he’d seen the signs. He’d seen the Reaper.
What did the scientists say when confronted with dozens of accounts of the rider on his pale horse? Post-traumatic stress disorder. Psychotic break. Those who openly spoke of seeing the Angel of Death were flagged and relegated to menial jobs: quarantine watch, processing center clerk, orientation aide. Their personnel files had extra forms with red ink. They were called in periodically to chat with a counselor. And hey were always asked: do you still think you saw Death?
Dalton had seen him riding his white steed in the burning remnants of a Louisiana town called Jefferson Harbor. Like many towns, including the Great Cities, Jefferson Harbor had its own wall. It hadn’t made a damn difference.
Bigger walls. More soldiers. More work for the undead, but hardly a deterrent. There was no deterrent. They were zombies.
A runner came into the light. Stumbling toward the Wall, clothed in bloody rags, jaw hanging slack, fingernails black with old gore—the rotter streaked into view and right toward Dalton.
The hawk must have been circling him. It had alerted Dalton to the enemy’s presence, and he’d rewarded it with a bullet.
It wouldn’t make things right,
Dalton knew, but he went ahead and put two rounds through the top of the runner’s spine, nearly severing its head from is neck. Then he grabbed his radio.
“Section nineteen. One rotter down.”
His dogs were asleep in the guard post. They were probably awake now, even with his gun silenced. Assured there were no other undead coming, he climbed down to see the Rotties.
At least Logan hadn’t made any more excuses to come by. He was probably busy in Gaylen, anyway. The night made it easier for him to go about his disgusting business.
* * *
“I’m looking for a date,” Logan said to the woman in the doorway of the apartment building. She tossed her dark hair back and looked him over. Already back? her expression said.
The transaction was completely under the table. No credits. Just bullets. Two full clips.
She led him down a dark hall. Campbell was well-built, firm and leggy and all, but she was also tough as nails. At least around her clientele. Logan had thought a few times about asking her out, getting the both of them away from this ratty dump of a tenement, but he quietly laughed the idea away. After what she’s seen me do?
Campbell led him down a well-lit flight of stairs with a murderous-looking black guy watching Logan’s every move. It was the walk of shame, that hallway, these stairs. All for a few seconds of pleasure. But his heart was already pounding with anticipation and he felt himself stiffening.
Down one last hallway, one with several doors and a man guarding each one. Sometimes Logan forgot just how dangerous this was. If the P.Os or the brass ever found out, they’d burn the place to the ground. He’d be discharged, maybe sent away to some awful place where the unwanted were sent. But he told himself: They aren’t women. They’re things. Like a pinup or something. It’s not unnatural.
Campbell opened the last door in the hall and tapped a scarlet nail against her cheek. “Same girl, right?”
He nodded at the floor as a man patted him down. Campbell pulled on a glove and tugged at his pants. The man who’d searched him shone a lantern’s light down there. Logan shut his eyes tight, feeling himself go soft in her hand, resisting the urge to push her away and leave and forget all about it. Finally satisfied, the girl stepped aside and allowed him into the dark room.
There was a candle burning beside the door. Once that door was closed, it was the only light. But it was a soft, small light and it helped with the fantasy. It helped hide some of the sores and the rot, if there was any, which there almost certainly was. The air was thick with a flowery scent. That helped with the odor that occurred once things got going.
And then there was her, splayed out on a mattress with hands heavily bandaged and chained to the wall behind her head. She still had nice legs. They kicked, and the teddy shifted, revealing her in the candlelight.
It was a thin, loose bit of lingerie, easy to pull up over her hips and down past her breasts. Her skin looked clean; she was checked frequently for any signs of blood or open wounds. Occasionally someone would get in with a knife and cut a girl up. Depraved. Guys like that were beaten to a pulp out back and banned from the joint. Perhaps more depraved were those who tried to fuck a girl in the mouth and got it bitten off. They were taken out back, too, but they didn’t return to the lights of the city.
Yeah, at least he wasn’t one of those guys. He knelt before his girl, holding her legs apart with his knees, and undid his pants. There was a bowl on the floor with wrapped condoms from some other decade. He hated that. He and she had both been checked out, so why not let them both feel it? Yes, he still believed that she could feel it, and that it felt good. He knew she would get wet when he touched her. Part of her wanted him.
But still, not a woman. Not rape. Just a thing.
She was heavily made up. He couldn’t tell what she really looked like under there. Just as well.
He pulled the teddy down, and her marbled breasts fell free. Her head started to move. She looked at him with yellowed eyes.
Her teeth were gnashing. They left the teeth in to dissuade kissing. She tossed her head, blonde wig falling in front of her eyes, and she ground her teeth and bucked her hips. She wanted him all right, but not in the way he believed. Logan put that out of his mind and entered her.
She made low rasping sounds. Her hips continued thrusting, and he slowed his rhythm to match hers, as if they were making love. He stared into her face and kneaded her breasts, pinching her nipples to harden them. The hair fell out of her eyes, and she glowered at him, mouth wide open, just waiting for him to make the wrong move and come close enough for a bite. He kept himself propped up and rocked against her, whispering: “I love you. You feel so fucking good, I fucking love you.”
She tugged at her chains and started shaking her head. He knelt to kiss her breasts, keeping his scalp away from her teeth. Moaning, Logan thrust deep into her, sitting up and spreading her legs wide, and he came staring into her defiant dead eyes.
Pulling the condom off with a wet snap, he tied the end and held it between his fingertips. He’d have to take it out with him. Buckling his pants, he turned away from her, not wanting to see her now as the monster she was. Not wanting to acknowledge that he’d fucked it.
Another walk of shame, another night of trudging through the streets and trying to justify it to himself. Eventually he’d smoke some pot and go to sleep, but then the dreams would come, dreams about teeth and tearing and Logan loving it and he’d awaken in the morning in a film of sweat.
* * *
There was something very wrong here.
The other girls had too much makeup on, and they looked miserable. Lily sat in the long room and watched as the children in neighboring beds trembled or rocked or just stared blankly at the ceiling. When the man named Finnegan entered, they all flinched and tried to make themselves invisible. He walked from bed to bed, looking each one over. “Is that a bruise? You’re getting too thin. Start eating. I mean it.”
He came to Lily and smiled. “I’m going to take you to meet someone.”
“Who? A new mom and dad?”
“No, not like that. A new friend.”
He reached his hand out, but she ignored it, getting off the bed by herself and pulling on her shoes. “I don’t have any of my stuff,” she told him.
“You’ll get new things,” he replied curtly.
He led her out of the warehouse and into a side street, where he stopped to talk to someone. Lily stayed at his side, not wanting to make him angry like the other girls had. They must have made him mad for him to do whatever he’d done.
Glancing up at the sky, she saw s tiny silhouette in an upstairs window. Another girl, about her age, staring down. Lily waved. The girl didn’t wave back.
There was something wrong with the way she looked; as Lily stared. She began to make out the girl’s features, and the girl turned slightly toward the light in the window and Lily saw that a smile had been carved into her face.
She turned, shaking, to look at Finnegan. His back was towards her, and he was digging candy from his pocket while he snarled at the other man. Lily started to back away.
Finnegan glanced over his shoulder. “Hey, you stay put.”
He saw the terror in her eyes.
He knew that she knew.
“Come here,” he barked, turning toward her. She broke into a run. “Goddammit!” he yelled, and barreled after her.
She ran into an alley filled with carts, some kind of market, and she bolted behind the carts but kept moving because he would find her if she stopped. She could never stop running, not as long as she heard his puffing and cursing in the distance. She had to keep running.
Fourteen / Tripper
Boyish good looks could only get you so far. Tripper had gotten his hands dirty a few times, but he strove to live by the code he’d learned up north: honor the living and fuck the dead.
He pulled his tattered jacket around his thin frame and reclined in a broken couch, seated in a garishly-lit alley in deep downtown. Not eve
n Meyer’s boys bothered coming around here. What was there to be gained? This district was a hovel for bums. Strange people. Tripper had known a guy with a CD player once. He had The Best of the Doors and that was all he had, played it incessantly. Humming to himself, Tripper fished a lighter from his pocket and patted himself down for a joint.
“People are strange, when you’re a stranger...”
Tripper was undocumented. He’d snuck across the Canadian border during Wall construction. As far as Gaylen was concerned, he didn’t exist. And he wasn’t the only one.
Strange people. Lots of ‘em.
It was a lot better to live off the grid, outside the system. Especially one as fucked as this. He wouldn’t be tied down when the ship started to sink. Honor the living... well, the people around here acted like they were already dead. He supposed they might as well be.
“Over here sweetie.”
Campbell led a small girl into the alleyway, closing a chain-link gate behind her. Tripper sat up and asked, “What’s the haps?”
“I found her a few blocks over,” Campbell said gravely. “I think she’s running from Meyer.”
“Shit.” Tripper beckoned to the girl. “It’s okay. We’re nice people. What’s your name?”
She wouldn’t speak. Tripper looked to Campbell, who nodded and knelt beside the child.
“My name’s Cam. Will you tell me your name?”
“Lily.” The girl looked up slightly, almost meeting Cam’s eyes. “I like your voice.”
“I’m from Australia,” Cam said with a smile. “Do you know where that is?”
Lily shook her head. Tripper got up off the couch and sat on a box beside his girlfriend. “Where are you from, kiddo?”
Empire's End Page 7
