Empire's End

by David Dunwoody

  “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.

  Twenty-Three / The Stuff of Being

  “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.”

  Her face grew serious. “There is one thing, however, that you must do after falling, and I don’t think you have done it. You must decide on a replacement.”

  “I thought—wouldn’t God just... make one?”

  “That’s not how it works, no. Like I said, you were reborn into this form. The stuff of your being was changed, rearranged, and you entered into your role as Reaper with no memory of what came before. But you were once human.”

  Adam could only stare at the woman in white. Human? It wasn’t possible. How?

  No, not how—why?

  “I don’t know how to answer your question.” The woman just shrugged. “The agents who watch over mankind are culled from humanity itself. We rise—and then, some of us fall back down. Seems to be our nature.”

  “But I’m not human now. What am I?”

  “If you live long enough, Adam, you might come closer to reclaiming your humanity. You’ve already begun the process.”

  That was why she was so different from him. So real... so human.

  “How long has it taken you?” he asked.

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s different for each of us.”

  “Is there anything I can do that I haven’t done?”

  “Decide on your replacement, Adam—and live.”

  He paced in the snow. “How do I know who?”

  “You’ll know when you know. And they’ll bee ready and willing.”

  He asked quietly, “So it was you, wasn’t it... you picked me.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you gave me faith in Man,” she said, and went into the house.

  Twenty-Four / Break

  Voorhees walked into the hotel that served as police department and P.O. housing. He had been thinking of going upstairs and catching a few hours’ sleep, but he decided to spend the afternoon in the squadroom.

  There hadn’t been any leads in the Manning case. They now knew beyond any doubt that someone was targeting senators for assassination, including Jeff Cullen, who had been moved to an undisclosed location. Murder by infection. It was the cruelest M.O. Voorhees had ever heard of. It said something about the killer and her agenda. Her targets may have been political, but there was a personal edge.

  He entered the squadroom.

  In the aisle between desks, Casey’s wheelchair lay on its side.

  Voorhees drew his baton and made his way back to the S.P.O.’s office. He peered inside: empty.

  Heading out into the hall, Voorhees exited the department and headed for Casey’s ground-level living quarters. The building was deathly silent. He wondered if any of his colleagues were upstairs. Dammit, he’d set his radio on his desk before spying the wheelchair. No time to go back for it. For all he knew, Casey was already dead.

  It had to be her. He knew it in his gut. First the senators, and now cops. Likely feared they were closing in on her. But the killer had had the opportunity to kill three cops at Cullen’s office, and didn’t...

  The door to Casey’s place was barely ajar. Voorhees eased it open and stuck his head through.

  The killer’s back was to him. She had Casey trussed up in a desk chair and was gagging him with a towel.

  Voorhees took one slow step, then another, across the room. The killer remained hunched over Casey, unaware, tightening the ropes that bound him.

  The bone knife flashed into view. She raised it over her stockinged head.

  Voorhees knocked it from her grip with a sharp blow, then brought the baton down over her head to lock her in a chokehold. She pushed off of Casey’s chair and drove Voorhees back into the wall. He held firm, and heard her gasping for breath. “It’s over,” he grunted in her ear.

  She stomped on his foot. The pain knifed through his leg, but he refused to let go. Instead, he tightened his grip. She was going to go to sleep.

  Casey toppled over in the chair, trying to turn his
head to see what was happening. The killer continued stomping and thrashing, but already she was growing weaker; and finally went limp in his arms.

  Voorhees relaxed his grip.

  She sprang to life. Stupid!

  She slammed an elbow into his sternum. Suddenly his baton was in her hand and she cracked him across the face. The world was red. He stumbled wildly, flailing his arms. Another blow to the back of the head.

  He caught the baton on the third strike and seized her arms. “Stop! It’s over! Give up!”

  They stumbled across the room together, colliding with the overturned chair, and they went through the window in a strained embrace.

  Voorhees heard a noise like the world being torn in half as glass shattered around his head. The curtain whispered over his face. Then he was free falling, the killer sailing away from him.

  Still falling. But we’re on the bottom floor. Then, in a final thought, he remembered.

  The road behind the hotel slanted sharply downward, below ground level. Kids often played there. They were safe there, in the shadow of the police department; it was into that shadow that Voorhees fell, and just before he hit, something clicked in his mind. It was a hunch, a half-formed idea. A collage of memories that resolved into something brilliant, and though it was only a hunch, in that split-second before impact Voorhees knew he was right. It’s a cop.

  Then he hit.

  * * *

  “P.O. Voorhees? Can you hear me?”

  It was dark. His head felt thick and heavy. Drugged. But it was Dr. Zane’s voice, and that meant he was in the hospital. “I thought you were the medical examiner,” he croaked.

  “I do a lot of things.” Zane’s hands prodded his stomach. “Any pain there?”

  “No.”

  “All right, your nurse and I are going to help you sit up. Your right wrist is broken, so don’t try to prop yourself up. Let us do the work.”

  Zane listened to Voorhees’ breathing. “What’s your birthday, Officer?”

  “August seventeenth, twenty fifty-two.”

  “And what’s your full name?”