Empire's End

by David Dunwoody

  “It’s the one who attacked me,” Adam whispered to the woman in white. “You have to get out of here.”

  “You said something else was driving him,” she breathed. “What did you mean?”

  “I mean he’s not like the others.” Adam edged toward the door leading to the hall. “There’s something inside him, controlling him.”

  “Adam.” She caught his shoulder and turned him to face her. “Sometimes the dead are angry. Sometimes they don’t understand why it was their time. They blame God, or they blame themselves... sometimes they blame Death.”

  Just as he began to realize what she was saying, the Omega leapt through the front window with a horrendous crash, landing right behind them. Icy air blasted their faces as they whirled to face him. The woman spun, fire blooming in her open hand; the Omega swung his shovel down and hacked it off at the wrist.

  The woman screamed. Adam swung the scythe into the Omega’s leg. The rotter responded by slamming his shovel into Adam’s gut. He kicked his legs in agony as he was lifted off the floor. Pulling the scythe free, he slashed the rotter across the throat. Black blood sprayed from the ragged wound.

  With her remaining hand, the woman grabbed the Omega’s head and sunk her fingers into his left eye. He shook his head frantically, losing his grip on the shovel. Adam fell, prying himself off of its blade.

  The rotter turned on the woman in white. Raising the shovel over his head, he drove it like a spear into her breast. She sagged, eyelids fluttering. He was killing her.

  The scythe exploded through the Omega’s ribs. Adam turned the blade sharply to the right and raked it through the rotter’s black guts. Ichor spewed from the undead’s mouth. Throwing the Omega into the wall, Adam fell upon him, hacking flesh away from bone, the rumble in his throat building to a roar that blurred his vision. All he saw was his blade coming down again, and again, and dark chunks of meat spattering the walls.

  Adam collapsed in a heap, exhausted by his rage. The Omega was a ruin. The rotter gnashed his teeth, staring at the ceiling as he tried to gather his spilled guts. As Adam watched, the thing’s trembling hands fell motionless.

  He crawled over to the woman in white, lying on her back, eyes barely open.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, touching her face, her beautiful face, looking into her glistening dark eyes. He felt something welling up in him, and choked; his vision blurred again, this time from grief, and he felt wetness spreading beneath his eyes.

  His tears fell on her cheek. She blinked and looked up at him. “Adam?”

  “I’m so sorry,” he wept.

  “Don’t be.” She took his hand, his ugly, charred hand, and said, “I love you.”

  He buried his face in her neck. She sighed, and then he was alone. Snowflakes swirled around their prone forms.

  Adam staggered to his feet and crossed the room to where the Omega lay. He knew it was still in there; the blue spark of undeath still resided in those rotten bones. He was still in there, while she was gone.

  Adam drove the scythe through the rotter’s face and into the floor. He fell to his knees and screamed, “WHY HER?” He forced the blade deeper. “WHY? TELL ME WHY!”

  There was no answer from the Omega. It was just a rotter, after all, dead and dumb. Just a rotter that had killed a woman.

  He pulled the scythe out and sat back on the floor.

  Lily.

  Something about the woman in white had reminded him of Lily. He couldn’t place his finger on it. He only knew that he wouldn’t—couldn’t—let the same fate befall the child.

  Twenty-Eight / Memory

  There was a knock on Voorhees’ door. He dragged himself out of bed and limped across his quarters.

  He’d already started to get used to the blindness, at least as far as mobility was concerned. He knew the layout of his place and could move about with confidence. He’d tried counting his steps at first, but it was easier just to trust his gut.

  How much longer would he be a cop? Casey was being supportive now, but Voorhees suspected the man didn’t have a strong sense of loyalty. He was part of the problem. No, Voorhees would be out on the streets soon enough—Meyer’s streets—and what prospects did he have then? He’d been a cop as long as he could remember. A damn good cop, even blind, but they wouldn’t see it that way.

  Goddamn you, Killian.

  He leaned against the door. “Who is it?”

  “Halstead.”

  He opened the door, and she took his arm. “I need you to come see this.”

  See. “What is it?”

  “Stir-fry and rice.”

  She led him to her place and sat him down at a table in the front room. The smell was mouth-watering. He heard her pouring something, and she placed a wine glass in his hand. “Two thousand California merlot. Just uncorked it a few hours ago.”

  “This is illegal, isn’t it?”

  “Hence why it’s in police custody. Try it.”

  She guided his hand to his fork and napkin. “I figured stir-fry would be easy for you to eat. Might be a little messy, I guess. Don’t sweat it.”

  “I didn’t know you cooked, Halstead.” Voorhees carefully lifted a mouthful to his lips.

  “My dad taught me to cook,” she said. “He made sure I could take care of myself. That was life in the badlands.”

  “Tucson.”

  “Right. I had a big family. My folks and I lived with two uncles and aunts and three cousins. We actually used to play outside. Can you believe that? Huge fenced-in yard with a clear view of all the roads. If any rotters appeared on the horizon, one of my uncles would be sitting on the roof and blow their heads clean off. He’d call down to us whenever he spotted one. ‘Two o’clock!’” She laughed softly. “Those were the best years of my life.”

  “What finally brought you north?”

  “Same reason as everybody else,” she said. “I lost everything.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have to say that. I know.”

  They ate in silence for a few minutes. He heard her refilling her glass. “We were attacked one night,” she said. “From a distance, they looked like badlanders—they even carried torches. They had a caravan drawn by dead horses. They surrounded the house, lining the fence. By the time we realized they were undead they’d already thrown the torches. The house was on fire.

  “They just waited. They could have brought the fence down and stormed the house, but they smoked us out. Then they came for us.”

  She sighed, long and loud; trying to hold back tears. “My cousin and I were the only ones who got away. My cousin Will. We managed to survive for a few weeks in the desert before the infection took him.”

  She drained her glass again. “He was the first rotter I killed.”

  “Sor—” Voorhees stopped himself. Instead he asked, “It was a caravan. You mean like the old King of the Dead legend?”

  “It’s no legend,” she said quietly.

  Another moment of silence. Voorhees scraped his plate to make sure it was clear. “Well, I can’t eat any more.”

  “Neither can I. But I could use another drink. You?”

  “Sure.”

  She topped off his glass. “Here’s to looking forward instead of back.” And she clinked her glass against his.

  Suddenly he remembered going out the window; shards of glass tinkling in mid-air, Killian flying away from him. He remembered thinking it’s a cop before he hit the street.

  He remembered he hadn’t thought it was Killian.

  Killian, like Casey, like Blake, like all the others, believed in the system. No, he had only one sympathetic ear when he complained about the state of things.

  He reached his left hand across the table. She touched it gently. He seized her fingers, and she gasped in pain.

  “Did I break any of them? When I hit you with the baton?” he asked.

  She rose from her seat and he rose with her, snatching her other arm and pulling her to him. He wrapped her
in a cruel embrace. “And you must have hurt your back when you fell. Did you?” He shook her roughly.

  She cried out. “Stop!”

  “Was it worth it?” he shouted. “Was it worth killing Blake and framing Killian? Was it worth blinding me? Did you get what you wanted? Huh?”

  She tried to break free, but he held her like a vise. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone else!” she said. “I tried not to hurt any cops—you know that!”

  “I know you fucking failed! Miserably!” He threw her to the floor and swept the dishes from the table. “What’s it all about? Destabilizing the government? Throwing the people into a panic? Destroying Gaylen? Is that how you’re going to fix things? You goddamn fool!”

  “You don’t understand!” she cried. “There are people all over the city preparing for this! People in every city! We’re going to bring down the Wall and give America back its resources—it’s about saving the rest of the country, Voorhees!”

  “You’re out of your mind!”

  “Undead like the King are going to flourish out there if we just seal ourselves up in here and pretend the badlands don’t exist! They’ll come for us! They’ll be the ones to bring it all down—do you want that?”

  “I WANT MY FUCKING SIGHT BACK!”

  She was backpedaling across the room, toward the door. He broke into a run. She screamed and swung a fist into his jaw. He didn’t feel it. He didn’t feel any of his aches or bruises. He was on fire. He grabbed her, and she tore at the bandages on his head. He slammed her against the door like a rag doll. Finally, they both fell, entangled in one another.

  “You don’t understand! I can show you!” she was wheezing.

  “You will show me,” he growled. “You’re under arrest. And you’re taking me to the others.”

  He pulled the handcuffs from his belt and snapped them tight on her wrists. “Do you have a gun?” he asked.

  “W-what?” she stammered.

  “Don’t give me any bullshit. Do you own a gun?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want it. And I want your radio.”

  * * *

  Adam pulled the woman in white’s cloak over his shoulders, the hood over his head. He stood in the shattered front window of the cottage and stared into the snowy wasteland that awaited him.

  With her cloak and his blackened flesh, he looked like a negative image of his former self. He felt just as different. With his growing sense of identity came confidence.

  He looked back at the woman’s body, covered by a blanket, cold and still. I’ll honor you.

  Then he climbed outside.

  Twenty-Nine / The Good News

  The British were coming.

  They had agreed only to send one plane, carrying an assessment team, but it was enough. Gillies only hoped that the weather wouldn’t get any more severe.

  The airfield was close enough to completion. The workers had been sent home, and the plane would be touching down at dawn. The senator already had his affairs in order, and was ready to bid farewell to the Great Cities.

  He’d always known that collapse was inevitable, with the military having lost the war in the badlands and the undead multiplying every day. They had maintained the cities long enough to get the airfield done and get the British on their side. And Britain was the Promised Land.

  In their radio communications, the Brits reported that “the others” were all but extinct, and though the casualties had been steep, they’d won their war. So they would send their team across the Atlantic to see the so-called Great Cities, and the senators would return with them to Britain, under the premise of studying their strategies against the undead.

  Then they would seek asylum. Forget about America. Leave it to the rotters.

  He loved his country, he did, and by God he had tried to save it—but that was just it, wasn’t it? By God, by His will, a nation of sin and excess had been condemned and there was nothing any man could do about it. On to greener pastures.

  “We’ll be leaving on the plane tomorrow,” he told Ian Gregory as they rode to the airfield in an armored Humvee. “I should like you to accompany me. You’ll be the only member of my detail to do so.”

  Gregory stared at him in confusion. “Leaving... ?”

  “It’s over here, Ian. You and I are men of God. We understand. You do get it, don’t you Ian? He’s already left. Anyone in their right mind would. Our work, yours and mine, isn’t done.”

  “We’re going to England? We’re staying there?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What about the cities? The people?”

  “A day won’t go by that I don’t mourn them,” Gillies intoned, hands clasped. “But I’m not going to sacrifice myself for a failed cause.”

  Gregory sat back, a frown creasing his brow. This didn’t make sense, not at all. To run from the battle... it went against every instinct in his body. He couldn’t do this. Yet he felt he had no choice; he was already hurtling down the course, hurtling towards a dark end.

  * * *

  Halstead knocked on Tripper’s door. Voorhees pressed the muzzle of her .45 into her back.

  Tripper opened the door. “What are you doing here?” Then he saw the balled scarf gagging her mouth.

  “Inside,” Voorhees said, revealing the gun, and pushed his way in.

  He slammed the door shut, holding onto Halstead’s arm, then positioned himself behind her and pressed the barrel of the gun into her throat. “Don’t try anything. Either of you.” He’d heard a chair scrape when they entered, meaning there was a second person in the room; and as Tripper said, “Okay, okay. Stay there Cam,” Voorhees knew his bluff had worked. They didn’t know he couldn’t see. He’d be goddamned if he couldn’t still do his job.

  “Calm down, man,” Tripper said. “You a cop?”

  “That’s right. And who are you?”

  “I’m nobody,” Tripper said.

  Voorhees scowled. “Are you the one behind this? Or are you just another hired killer? Answer me!”

  Halstead struggled against him. He pressed the gun hard into her neck. “TALK!”

  “Mister Voorhees?”

  The girl. Lily. What... ?

  He was distracted for only a second, but it was all Halstead needed. She slammed her elbow into his ribs and spun away from him. Grabbing the gun with one hand, she tore the scarf from her mouth with the other and spat “He’s blind!”

  They fought for the gun. She slugged him in the head. He groaned, crashed against the wall; then the gun slipped from his grip. He threw his hands out and yelled, “No!”

  Halstead clipped his temple with the butt of the pistol. He slumped to the floor.

  “No! Don’t hurt him!” Lily again. It was the last thing Voorhees heard before fading out.

  * * *

  The Humvee stopped at the fence surrounding the airfield. A plainclothes guard nodded to Gillies and waved them through.

  A cadre of vehicles was already gathered at the edge of the landing strip: the other senators, all having abandoned their posts to await escape.

  As Gillies got out of the Hummer, he saw a young man and woman walking across the tarmac. He didn’t recognize either of them. Security? No. Trouble.

  “Senator?” The man extended his hand. “Jack Calvert.”

  “How did you get in here?” Gillies snapped.

  “I was part of the construction crew,” Calvert said. He hugged the woman against him. “This is Molly.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Well Senator, see, the thing is—I know why you’re here. I know there are planes coming. And we’d like to go too. We have credits—ninety-five hundred credits. Our savings.”

  The Calverts looked hopefully at the Senator; a young couple trying to make it in a brutal world, willing to surrender all they had for a second chance.

  Gillies laughed.

  “You must be joking. Credits don’t mean a thing where we’re going.”

  Jack Calvert’s face went
white. “But...”

  “Have you told anyone else about the airfield?” Gillies asked.

  “No, no!” Jack insisted. “It’s just me and Molly.”

  Gillies nodded and turned to Gregory. “Kill them.”

  “What?” Gregory held out his hands. “Senator—”

  “Somebody kill these trespassers!” Gillies shouted. The other senators and their people looked over. Jack and Molly Calvert began to back away, sputtering. “We’ll go. We’ll just leave. We won’t tell anybody.” Jack shook his head frantically. Molly was clinging to him, wide-eyed.

  One of Senator Cullen’s bodyguards drew a gun.

  “Run, Molly!” Jack screamed.

  They took off across the tarmac, hundreds of yards from the fence, nowhere to hide, just running and screaming, still begging for their lives even as the first bullet punched through Jack’s leg. He kept running, told Molly to keep running, saw her head jerk forward and blood arc through the air.

  He broke down in sobs as he limped past her, straining every muscle in his body, and still hundreds and hundreds of yards from the fence.

  Jack turned. He started back toward Molly. He cried her name, though he knew she was dead. He just wanted to pick her up and take her away from this. He wanted to undo it all. He’d take poor Lily back, he’d go home. He was willing to take it all back—couldn’t he take it all back?

  The guard shot him in the throat. He slumped to the ground and crawled toward Molly. He could no longer speak her name. His strength was leaving him in gouts. If only he could touch her again, her face, her hair. If only he could tell her he was sorry.

  He almost made it.

  Thirty / Dead to Rights

  It was nightfall and the snow was still coming down. Dalton was climbing down from his post on the wall, rifle slung over his shoulder. The dogs had started baying inside the guard post. They’d been in there for a few hours and were probably going mad from the confinement. But he didn’t want them running around in this weather at night. They’d just have to put up with it; but at least he could give them some chow and calm them down for a while.