Empire's End

by David Dunwoody

  “And my name is Adam.”

  * * *

  A mob of rotters looked up to see a pale horse standing in the middle of the road. Astride it was a dark man with a gigantic blade made from bone, joined to his arm like an extra appendage.

  Before they had the time to blink, he was bearing down on them.

  The scythe plunged into zombie after zombie, slicing clean through them, splitting decaying bodies in half and sending gouts of gray entrails into the air. The horse tore through the snow at a frenzied pace, driven by the kicks of its rider, and the scythe cut trough air and flesh alike without resistance.

  Adam turned at the end of the road and started back. The remaining undead were scattering, flailing their arms and moaning at the futility of their last moments. He skewered heads, severed arms, sent torsos flying. Adam rounded a corner and streaked down a side street to meet a new pack.

  The Siamese was at the head of it. Scuttling forward, it roared in twin tongues and made to tackle the horse. Adam pulled back, causing his steed to rear up—and he swung around its body to meet the Siamese mid-charge and split the twins from sternum to waist. The thrashing halves of the Siamese tumbled into the snow and lay still.

  A torch struck Adam’s head. He fell from the horse and rolled quickly to his feet. It was the Fire Juggler; the rotter hurled another pair of torches at Adam. He spun aside, avoiding both, and leapt to engage the monster.

  A pike spread his abdomen. He snarled and turned to see the Fakir drawing long needles from its throat. “Try this,” Adam said, and slammed the scythe through the rotter’s heart.

  The Juggler caught Adam by the arms and hurled him to the ground. More rotters crowded at the Juggler’s back. Adam tried to lift the blade, but the undead pressed all his weight down on Adam’s arm.

  He made not a sound in his struggle; it was eerily silent as the undead closed in and fell upon him.

  Then they exploded outward in a wave of fractured bodies, Adam rising up like a phoenix and sending the scythe screaming through the horde. He caught the Juggler on the tip and sent him crashing into a brick wall. Slumping down on one of his own torches, the Juggler groaned. Fire spread across its torso, and its pickled meat ignited like the wick of a candle.

  There was an animal cry from the far end of the street. Looking up, Adam saw the King of the Dead standing there, clutching his cane and howling like a banshee.

  You underestimate me, beast, Adam thought. Never again. He was more than a man, a force of nature, and he would cleave the unnatural into pieces until there was none left.

  Eviscerato vanished from sight. Another two dozen rotters took his place.

  “Come to me,” Adam growled, and climbed atop his horse.

  Then he went to them.

  The battle raged on beneath an ever-darkening sky, with flames rising over the tops of buildings and the smell of burning death no longer just a grim omen.

  Forty-One / Feast

  The buildings around Gaylen’s perimeter had united in a single inferno, a new wall made from fire that struck defiantly upward into the snowy sky. The storm had not relented, yet Jeff Cullen didn’t feel the cold; bathed in the warmth of the city, he watched without emotion as those who managed to make it through the fire were gunned down.

  As the shots rang out and bodies pitched forward, other survivors were forced to turn back, to turn inward, where the city’s festering core was clotted with undead; throngs dragging the bodies of slain citizens to the amphitheater. There, the corpses were being piled twenty deep in anticipation of the great feast. The rotters could scarcely contain themselves as they looked over the sea of flesh; but the King’s guidance had brought them this far, and they would wait.

  Those survivors still barricaded in buildings were either smoked out or pulled from safety, necks broken, limbs torn off, and their remains joined the rest. There was no shelter to be found from the undead.

  Those with guns began committing suicide.

  Dozens of gunshots rang out in the city center. Others, families trapped atop apartment buildings, leapt to their deaths, plummeting into the waiting arms of the predators.

  Adam was working outward as he hunted down the undead. He missed the amphitheater entirely.

  At dusk, the feast began.

  Eviscerato stood atop the mountain of corpses and roared. His cry was picked up by ravenous followers, and one by one they threw themselves into the meat.

  Nickel dragged a warm child to the stage where Eviscerato was perched. Taking the body in his arms, Eviscerato closed his lipless jaws over the child’s blue lips.

  Outside the amphitheater, the Petrified Man looked up to see a new group approaching. Thin, desiccated rotters with a peculiar gait, exposed bones coated with frost, joints cracking as they shuffled through the snow.

  The undead at the head of the pack nodded to the Petrified Man. “Good evening. Or morning, as the case may be,” it rasped in a hollow monotone. Reciting the speech that it had practiced for radio—for Senator Gillies—the Brit said, “On behalf of Prince George and the Prime Minister—”

  The Brit paused and leaned forward, scrutinizing the Petrified Man. It lifted a monocle to its shriveled eyeball and, realizing it was addressing a zombie, said, “Hmm. Right.”

  The Petrified Man knocked the Brit’s head off with an annoyed grunt. Then it set upon the other intruders.

  * * *

  Huddled in the church pulpit, Lily listened intently for any sign of her friend’s arrival. All she heard were faint booms, and the occasional scream.

  Please let him be all right.

  A window shattered.

  Lily pulled her knees to her chest and froze, refusing even to breathe as glass tinkled gently on carpet, and tiny footsteps pattered across the floor.

  The Dwarf leapt into view and splayed its little claws with a venomous hiss.

  Lily shrieked and drove both feet into its chest, sending the rotter tumbling head over heels down the steps into the pews.

  Lily threw herself at the back wall, searching frantically for a door. She didn’t want to run away where Adam couldn’t find her—as she had with Cam and the others—but she had to get out of here! There had to be a room where she could hide. She found only locked doors.

  The Dwarf hobbled toward her, shaking its head vigorously. Eviscerato preferred the young meat, the soft virgin flesh—but this was all for the Dwarf, its own little feast.

  Stumbling back from the rotter, Lily ran for the pews. She dove into the second row and began pulling herself along the floor, under the seats. She’d have to throw the monster off her trail, moving from row to row as it searched for her, and then double back to hide in the first row. Then it would give up, leave in search of easier prey... she hoped.

  Adam! she silently screamed.

  Broken fingernails scrabbled over carpet. She heard a soft grunting at her back, and chanced a glance: the Dwarf was crawling after her beneath the pews. Its horns scraped the undersides of the seats as it strained to reach her feet.

  Lily kicked its hands away and got to her feet. She climbed atop the nearest pew and leapt to the next. She was going to have to leave. She had to get to the doors. I’m sorry Adam!

  She leapt to the next pew—and the Dwarf rose up right in front of her, colliding with her and sending both of them kicking to the floor.

  Lily screamed and thrashed about in the darkness. She felt its hands on her legs. Teeth snapped. She flailed her arms and caught one of its horns in her hand. The Dwarf squealed. Lily slammed its head into the seat of the pew, over and over again until she heard a wet squelch with each impact. Then she let go and ran for her life.

  The Dwarf was right on her tail. It shook blood from its eyes and jumped at her, swiping at her ankles, making horrible little noises as it pursued her down the center aisle and finally snagged one of her feet. She crashed into the doors and fell still.

  The Dwarf turned her over and straddled her, wrapping its tiny fingers around her throat.
Lily murmured softly, eyelids fluttering. The Dwarf waited for her to look up into its pinched face.

  She seized its ears in her hands and threw the Dwarf aside, rolling over and climbing onto it and smashing its head into the floor with a nightmarish scream. The Dwarf’s neck snapped, skull cracking, blood and pus spewing from its splitting skin as its head came apart and spat curdled brains across the carpet. Lily Stood up and leapt into the ruin of the Dwarf’s face with both feet, stomping it into oblivion. Its arms and legs continued to wiggle; she stamped on its wrists, shattering them, then twisted its ankles until they broke with a satisfying snap.

  The Dwarf’s torso spasmed quietly. Lily wiped sweat from her brow and walked back to the pulpit. Her heart pounding in her ears, she didn’t hear the footsteps at her back; and, settling down in the shadows, her back was left to the approaching figure as it reached out.

  “NO!”

  “It’s me, Lily!”

  Adam scooped her up into his arms. “Let’s go.”

  “Did you kill them all already?”

  “I can’t find the rest. It doesn’t matter—the city’s on fire. Let’s get you out of here.”

  “What about my other friends?” she asked.

  “Who?”

  “Cam and Tripper and Officer Voorhees. We can’t leave them.”

  “All right.” He helped Lily onto his shoulders, and headed for the doors. “But time is short.”

  As they exited the church and mounted the horse, Nickel watched from an alleyway. He watched the way that the young one clung to the aberration’s neck and the gentle way he bore her onto his steed.

  Rusty gears began turning in the zombie’s head.

  Forty-Two / The Condemned

  With Dalton leading the way, the survivors headed into the subway system.

  Lily was simply nowhere to be found and, as Dalton had kept reminding them, they had only a brief window until their only means of escape was cut off.

  He prayed that he could count on the sergeant. He didn’t count on the undead.

  Dalton dropped to one knee and raised a fist in the air. The others fell silent behind him. He peered through his scope and saw a couple dozen rotters ambling through the tunnel.

  “We can take them,” Tripper whispered.

  “I don’t even have a gun,” Zane complained. Cam handed him the Colt Python. “It’s got a kick to it.”

  “Stay behind me, Eugene,” Halstead said to the old man. He nodded.

  Dalton opened fire on the rotters.

  Their heads jerked up at the sound of gunfire, only to be sent snapping back as his lead found its mark. With skulls blistered and yawning wide, the undead kept coming.

  Tripper emptied his Uzis and drew a pistol. He could barely see down here! He only hoped the others were faring better. They didn’t have to take every rotter down, just enough for them to get past.

  Halstead’s gun clicked: empty. She pushed Eugene against the wall and flattened herself beside him. Terror seized her as the undead drew closer.

  CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! Dalton shot his targets through the spine. He only hoped the sergeant hadn’t seen any rotters crawling around. He might blow the tunnel—

  Reality’s bottom seemed to drop out for a moment, everything blurring, a low roar building in the air. Then the light from the explosion around the bend lit up the tunnel for a split second—before being squelched by the collapsing ceiling.

  “Goddammit!” Dalton screamed. They’d sealed the tunnel! There was no way out!

  “No!” Rhodes ran at the undead and was swallowed in a cloud of dust. Blinded, he spun in a wild panic. Undead brushed against him. He fired into the cloud. “No! No! Dammit no!”

  Jaws closed over his shoulder. He wrenched himself free and turned to fire. Another rotter caught him in an icy embrace and ripped into his neck.

  “Stop shooting!” Dalton was yelling. “We’ve got zero visibility!” The dust had enveloped them all.

  Logan’s chainsaw came to life. “I’ve got it!”

  Rhodes fell at his feet. He gaped at the dead man, watching numbly as a slavering rotter pulled the man’s intestines from his belly and stuffed them into its maw.

  Cam slammed the butt of her machine gun into the rotter’s skull. “We’ve gotta get the fuck out of here!”

  “Goddamn you!” Dalton screamed into the darkness. Had the sergeant hesitated at all before giving the order? Had it even been his call? They’d never know. They’d never know who had doomed them all.

  A zombie grabbed the barrel of his rifle and jerked it from his grip. Another went for his face. Dalton fell back and yanked a combat knife from a sheath on his thigh, slicing into the undead’s throat.

  “Where is everyone?” Zane cried. He turned in the dust and wiped grime from his eyes. “Talk to me!” The Python was heavy in his hands. He didn’t dare use it for fear of killing one of the others. Maybe it would be better to use it on himself—

  A teenage rotter lurched into view, grabbing his forearm and tearing a chunk of flesh away. Zane screamed in anguish.

  He shoved the rotter back and placed the Python’s mouth beneath his chin. “I regret nothing.”

  The shot tore through the tunnel like a peal of thunder. Shaking off a decapitated corpse, Dalton fumbled through the dark. Someone grabbed his hand.

  “It’s okay!” It was Cam. She and Tripper hauled Dalton to his feet. “Where the hell do we go now?”

  “I don’t know,” he gasped. “We’re dead. We’re all dead.”

  “That’s what I’ve been saying all along.” Logan lowered the idling saw and, through the dissipating clouds, pointed to his right. “I think the passage we came through is off that way.”

  “Halstead!” Tripper yelled.

  “Yeah!” She headed toward his voice with Eugene in tow.

  They found the entrance to the smaller passageway and left the subway tunnel. Visibility was still pitiful. Dalton glanced over his shoulder and asked, “Who did we lose?”

  “The two guys who were with you,” Cam muttered.

  “At least we’ve got old Eugene,” Logan offered.

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  Making their way back to Meyer’s bootlegging tunnels, the group looked for another way out. They couldn’t just go up into the street. If anything, the fire was probably concentrating the undead in the center of the city. And, of course, the soldiers would be waiting beyond that point to gun down anyone in sight.

  “Ladder.” Dalton hustled forward and found himself peering up a narrow shaft. “Must go into some building.”

  “Inside, outside, what’s the difference?” said Logan.

  “If you don’t give a damn about your safety, you can take point,” Dalton snapped.

  Logan shrugged and started up the ladder.

  All was clear. The building was small, filled with crates and miscellaneous junk. Shelves upon shelves of tattered yellow books rested against the walls. Dalton thumbed through them: mostly Bibles. “I think this was a library, once,” he said.

  The walls were lined with windows, but the glass was frosted over. So no one could see in, either; just the same, Dalton started moving shelves to block the windows. “Give me a hand here!”

  Eugene tugged on Halstead’s arm. “What is it?” she asked.

  “Have you seen him? The Reaper?”

  She wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that. She just patted his back and said, “You sit here and rest. I’m going to help the others.”

  There was thumping at the main entrance. “Fuck. They heard us,” said Cam.

  Dalton and Tripper lugged a shelf over to the locked double doors and leaned it against them. “Get those crates,” Tripper called to the others. “Hurry!”

  More pounding. More fists.

  A window in the back shattered, and undead hands scrabbled at books.

  “Cam, take care of that!” Tripper yelled.

  “Let me,” Logan said. “Save your bullets for yourselves.” Walking
leisurely to the back of the room, he fired up the saw and plunged it into the grasping fingers.

  Suddenly, from outside the front of the library came a squeal of tires; something crashed against the wall, shaking the entire building. Then they heard shotgun blasts.

  “Somebody’s got wheels!” Halstead cried. “Oh, thank God!”

  One of the front windows shattered, and a man pulled himself in. Dalton and Tripper quickly moved a shelf to block the hole.

  The man rose. “I’ll be damned,” Dalton said.

  “Soldier.” Ian Gregory nodded curtly to him, a twelve-gauge in each hand. “Need a lift?”

  “How did you know?” Halstead exclaimed.

  “I saw them congregating around this building,” Gregory told her. “Sure sign of fresh meat.”

  “How about that?” Logan wandered over. “It’s a Hand of God reunion. Hey boss.”

  “Logan.” Gregory turned toward the sound of pounding. “I ran a few down but you’ve got another thirty or so out there. It’s gonna be tough clearing a path to the Hummer, especially with more on the way.”

  “Tough or not, we’re doing it,” Tripper said. “Like we have a choice.”

  Forty-Three / Abattoir

  A series of ear-splitting booms shook the library. For a second, Tripper thought it was all going to come down on them. “What the fuck is that?”

  “Rockets,” said Logan. “They’re using the rockets. Jesus, this is really it. The end.”

  The doors groaned as the undead continued their assault. Then there was a clattering on the roof. Falling debris? Running to the center of the room, Tripper peered at a boarded-up skylight and listened to the rhythmic sound: clop-clop-clop...

  The skylight exploded. Wood and glass rained down on him.

  A man, shrouded in white but blackened and burned underneath, dropped into the room. He held a child in his arms—Lily!

  “You’re all right!” Halstead cried. She took a step forward, then narrowed her eyes at the man holding the girl. “Who are—what are—”