Empire's End

by David Dunwoody

  “Joseph Thomas Voorhees.”

  “Good. In case you were wondering, by the way, your eyes are bandaged. You busted your head pretty good in that fall.”

  “Fall?”

  “Do you remember the fall, Officer?”

  “The last thing I remember is... I was going home. Where did I fall?”

  There was low muttering, then Casey’s voice spoke up. “Voorhees, you ran across the killer. She was getting ready to stick me when you showed up.”

  “I don’t remember that t all.”

  “You both went out the window. She got away.”

  “Now,” Zane said, “we don’t yet know the extent of the damage. You’re all put back together, but it’s very possible that there was deeper trauma. Trauma we’d be able to scan for if we had a facility like Chicago’s, but around here we’ve got jack shit.”

  “Can we send him there?” Casey asked.

  “He’d be on a waiting list. Might as well work with him here. Once you’re up and about, Officer, we can do some basic tests and make sure you’re functioning all right.”

  “The fact that I can’t remember...”

  “Oh, I would’ve expected that. For now the amnesia’s not a problem.”

  It smelled so sterile and dry. He was uncomfortable in this little bed. And he needed painkillers, lots of painkillers. He really just wanted to go to sleep.

  “The others will probably stop by later,” Casey said. “You get some rest. You’re a hero.”

  He heard Casey leave. Zane was messing with something beside his head. “Think we can increase my morphine?”

  “As soon as some gets here,” Zane replied. “Right now you’re not on anything. I’m giving you something so you can sleep through it. I guess there’ll be a guard posted outside, so you can relax.”

  It hadn’t occurred to Voorhees that he might be a target now. Somehow he didn’t think so; the killer was... she was...

  Off to sleep.

  * * *

  Tow days later, the bandages came off his eyes.

  “They’ll likely be very sensitive,” Zane told him. “Fuzzy too. Now, I’m not going to release you back to duty, but so long as there aren’t any problems getting about we’ll probably send you home.”

  Voorhees felt the cool air reaching his eyes. He blinked. They ached terribly, as did his entire head, but it was tolerable. At least he’d no longer be an invalid.

  He waited for the final layers of gauze to come off. Zane paused. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “How’s your vision?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Fear seized Voorhees’ heart. He reached up to his face. “Oh my God. Oh dear Christ.”

  “What is it, Officer?”

  “I can’t see. I can’t see anything.

  “I’m blind.”

  Twenty-Five / Bad Dream

  “Security’s extra tight because of the assassination,” Logan told Tripper. “It’s all right though, you’ve got some pretty girls down there already.”

  The only way to get anything undead into Gaylen was for it to be brought in by the military and delivered to the lab beneath the hospital. Very rarely, a whole rotter was requested. That was Logan fudging his copy of the requisition forms. Then, when his team delivered the materials, Tripper would be waiting, and the rotter would vanish—as if it had never existed.

  And so a new girl appeared in the tenement that many knew about but none spoke of.

  It was part of Tripper’s “honor the living” philosophy. A prostitution racket was very profitable, especially when one dealt directly in bartered goods rather than imaginary credits. But he refused to exploit human women or, worse, children. That was Meyer’s game.

  “So we’re out of luck for a while, eh?” Tripper sighed. “Well, keep me posted. Couple of the girls are starting to look pretty rough. I need some new faces.”

  As Logan left the warehouse where Tripper ran a soup kitchen, a young woman P.O. could be seen approaching. “Shit,” Tripper muttered under his breath.

  “My name’s Killian,” the cop said. She handed him a piece of paper. “Have you seen anyone matching that description?”

  Tripper read it over. It was Lily.

  “Nope. Sorry.” He handed the paper back.

  “Who runs this place?” Killian peered over his shoulder, hand on her hip all businesslike. Tripper quickly said, “The church on West Avenue. This place was condemned ‘til we fixed it up.”

  Killian nodded slowly. “Mind if I ask around about the missing girl?”

  “Be my guest,” he said. As soon as she was out of his face, he trudged out into the snow. It was really starting to pile up alongside the buildings and curbs. The Army wouldn’t be bothered to bring a plow truck through until after Christmas.

  A few blocks from the soup kitchen he quickened his pace. Ducking into a nondescript office building, he ran up the stairs to his and Cam’s place.

  * * *

  Lily was asleep in the back bedroom, and dreaming...

  She found herself in a dark cave, its length seemingly infinite, with small black candles set into recesses in the walls. Though each burned with a brilliant light, their glow did not fill the tunnel; each cast only a small halo about itself. Lily walked in an uncertain blackness.

  The tunnel widened, and the walls smoothed, leaving the candles behind; now an eerie phosphorescence emanated from the blue stone surrounding her. The ceiling rose as the tunnel expanded into a great hall lined with pillars. It was freezing; she hugged her arms across her chest and proceeded forward despite a growing sense of dread.

  Shadows between the pillars resolved into great bronze statues. She saw a horned, demonic thing with yawning jaws and bat-like wings; an angelic form scarred with deep cuts across its face and chest; a nude figure wrapped in chains, its expression pure malevolence. She saw a bearded man with his hands held out as if to embrace her. And finally, at the end, she saw the last statue: the Reaper.

  Robes billowing about his crouched form, he clutched his scythe and peered out from under his hood with blank eyes. Lily reached out to touch his face.

  The bronze cracked loudly. She jumped back, looked at her fingers; blood trickled down her palm. The fissure in the Reaper’s cheek widened, and smaller cracks webbed out from it, covering his face and spreading over his body and cloak. The statue groaned. Lily stood rooted to the floor and watched.

  The Reaper buckled, knees shattering, bronze splinters flying out and making tiny cuts in Lily’s cheeks. The scythe cracked and fell apart, crumbling to powder. The Reaper’s eyes caved in, and then his head collapsed into his torso and then the entire statue went.

  It crashed to the floor with a horrific sound. Lily spun away from the shower of jagged shards. They scored her arms and legs and clattered like bits of glass on the stone floor.

  He was gone. Shattered.

  Lily stumbled through the remains and stood on the spot where he had been. She picked up a piece of his face. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  A long shadow stretched down the great hall and engulfed her. Lily turned, sobbing, hands trembling, and looked into a hateful, rotting face, a face hauntingly familiar; and then the shovel came down.

  She awoke with a scream. Cam grabbed her, saying “It’s all right, just a dream,” and cradling her, even before Lily started to cry. “My friend...” she wept. “He’s in trouble.”

  “We’re all in trouble,” Tripper muttered from the doorway. “The cops are looking for you, hon.”

  “What should we do?” asked Cam.

  “I’d say disappear, but we can’t. Thackeray needs us here.”

  “How do we know that his plan is even being carried out?”

  “You herd about Manning. It’s happening, babe, as we speak.”

  And Tripper was fulfilling his role. He had storehouses full of goods, ammunition, supplies. They’d be ready when it all came down.

  Cam got up and rummaged through a dress
er beside the bed. Glancing over, Lily saw something tattooed on the outside of Cam’s thigh. “What’s that?”

  “Oh, that?” Cam tugged up the hem of her shorts, revealing the image of a skeletal green face, with one bulging eye and strange hair that stood straight up in the middle of its head. “It’s from a talking picture,” Cam explained, “called Return of the Dead or something.”

  “What’s a talking picture?” Lily asked.

  Cam smiled. “Poor kid.”

  “Cam’s real serious about her zombie shit,” Tripper said, grinning.

  “Language,” Cam scolded.

  “Sorry, sorry.” Tripper sat on the edge of Lily’s bed. “I’ve seen this girl kill more rotters than I can count. That’s why I hang out with her.”

  “Yeah, that’s why.” Cam wiggled her ass at him, then pulled a blanket from the dresser drawer. “Here sweetie. It’s getting extra cold in here.”

  “Thanks.” Lily let Cam bundle her up, then sighed. “I hope my friend is okay.”

  “What’s his name?” Cam asked.

  “Death.”

  The two adults glanced at one another. Then Tripper shrugged. “Fair enough.”

  “I guess we’re all pretty well acquainted with death these days,” Cam mused.

  “Yeah,” Lily said. “He let me ride his horse.”

  Twenty-Six / Awakening

  “Too bad about your eyes, friend,” came Finn Meyer’s voice.

  Voorhees sat bolt upright in his hospital bed. He heard Meyer sauntering across the room. “I hear they don’t expect you to recover. Shame.”

  “Get the fuck out of here,” Voorhees snarled.

  Meyer laughed. “You won’t presume to tell me what to do anymore, Voorhees. You’re finished. If you’re lucky they’ll set you up in one of my slums and you can rot away there. If you’re not lucky... well, there’s always room in Cleveland.

  “Do you know about Cleveland?” Meyer asked. He was standing right beside Voorhees. If the cop wanted to, he could grab the bastard and wring his neck right now.

  “Cleveland’s where we send all the rubbish,” said Meyer. “It’s outside the Wall. Not many people know that. Casey does. Cullen does.

  “See, we’re on the same side, myself and those fellows. The system works. And those who threaten it... well, we have ways of dealing with them. Discreetly.”

  Voorhees took a swing. Meyer must have seen it coming, stepped back. “You want to be stupid?” the thug snapped. “Fine. You’ll see, Voorhees. You’re done!”

  Meyer stomped out of the room. Voorhees threw the sheets off himself and stumbled out of bed, fumbling to the door and out into the hall. “Nurse!” he barked. “Nurse!” He was getting the hell out of here.

  A hand grabbed his elbow. “What are you doing?” Halstead exclaimed.

  “Leaving,” he said. “I need my clothes.”

  “They’re in your room,” Halstead said, pulling him down the hall. “C’mon, I’ll help you.”

  Once back in the room, she said, “Look, Casey’s putting you on paid leave until this is all sorted our.”

  “You mean, until they take my job from me? Until I’m thrown to the wolves? Forget it. Meyer is behind these attempted killings and I’m bringing him down.”

  “How? Voorhees...”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m a cripple. Well, I’ll be goddamned if that stops me. Seems like I’m the only one who gives a shit about what’s wrong with this town.”

  “You’re not.” She touched his hand. “But you can’t just storm in there and arrest everyone. They’re protected. Even if you could prove it... it’s going to take something else.”

  “I do things by the book,” Voorhees said. “Give me my damn clothes.”

  He quickly dressed himself, no regard for her presence, and felt his way back out into the hall. “Where do you think you’re going?” Halstead yelled.

  “I’m going to work,” he shouted over his shoulder. “You can help me or you can stay out of my way!”

  He pressed against the wall and moved forward. Couldn’t tell if there was a damn thing in front of him. All that talk about the other senses compensating for loss of sight was bullshit. He was a cripple.

  She took his arm. “This way to the stairs.”

  She led him through a door and held onto him as they slowly descended. “Thank you,” he said quietly.”

  “Don’t thank me,” she replied. “I don’t deserve a partner like you, you know that?”

  He patted her hand. “Yeah, I’m a pain in the ass.”

  * * *

  When they entered the squadroom, he heard voices fall silent. Halstead led him to his desk, and he sat down.

  “Well, I’m back,” he announced. Still no one said anything.

  Casey’s wheelchair, crossing the room. The S.P.O. cleared his throat and said, “I think Halstead told you you’re on leave. Why don’t you go home? Were you even supposed to leave the hospital?”

  “Your breath smells like candy,” Voorhees said.

  “What?”

  “Officer Voorhees really wants to work this case,” Halstead said. “Even if it’s only from his desk—”

  “Not your call,” Casey interrupted. “Voorhees, Halstead will take you up to your quarters.”

  “What’s your game?” Voorhees asked. “Are you part of it, Casey? Is that why the killer came for you? Taking care of loose ends?”

  “What in God’s name are you talking about? Halstead, get him out of here!”

  “You want me out, Casey, you take me out.”

  “Don’t make me suspend your pay!”

  “You think I care about—”

  Two desks behind Voorhees, unseen to him, but horrifyingly clear to everyone else—Killian rose from her chair with a guttural moan. Her dead eyes locked onto Gulager, and she ran at him.

  Gulager fell backwards over his desk, swinging his baton wildly. Ernie threw a chair into Killian’s path. She jumped it and headed in his direction. “Oh God!” he cried.

  “What the hell?” Voorhees yelled, standing. Had a fight broken out?

  “Killian’s turned!” Halstead said, drawing her baton and catching Killian in the mouth. The undead went down hard, smacking her head against the floor, but rose unfazed and grabbed Halstead’s arms. They staggered back into Voorhees. He fell to the floor.

  “Help me!” Halstead screamed. Voorhees heard her baton clatter on the floor. Everyone was shouting now, in a panic, unable to act. He yanked open the top drawer of his desk and grabbed something from under a pile of papers.

  “Where is she, Halstead?” he yelled.

  They had fallen onto his desk. Killian had Halstead pinned and was trying to bite her wrists. “She’s right above me! Your twelve!” Halstead screamed.

  Voorhees reached out with his left hand. He touched Halstead’s hair, her arm. He followed it up to Killian and seized her by the hair.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered, and swung the widowmaker.

  It cleaved Killian’s face in two. Halstead swung her head to the right as gore spilled from the yawning wound.

  Killian stumbled off of the desk and stood in the aisle, the two halves of her skull slowly pulling away from one another, her gibbering silenced. She swayed, then dropped with a thud.

  “What the FUCK?” Ernie yelped.

  Voorhees set the widowmaker on his desk and swallowed a deep breath. Adrenaline coursed through him. Casey grabbed his trembling arm and said, not without a bit of awe, “You killed her.”

  “That’s what widowmakers do,” Voorhees said.

  ““Look at this,” Halstead gasped.

  “What is it?” Voorhees asked.

  “In Killian’s desk... it’s a knife, made from bone.”

  “It was Killian?” Casey exclaimed.

  “She must have accidentally cut herself,” Voorhees said.

  “Maybe it wasn’t an accident,” said Halstead.

  “God,” Casey sighed. “Assassins. Terrorists. There must
be more to this.”

  “We’ll find out if there is,” Voorhees said.

  “All right,” Casey said. “You can have your desk after it’s cleaned up.”

  Halstead picked the brains from her coat. “I’d better get to the hospital.”

  “You’ll have to be quarantined.”

  Voorhees caught Halstead’s hand as she passed him. “You’ll be okay.”

  “I know,” she said. He heard the smile in her voice.

  Twenty-Seven / The Blood of Angels

  “Who was I?” Adam asked the woman in white.

  “In all honesty, I don’t remember,” she said. “But does it matter? You’re still you.”

  “So I’ll never know?”

  “What would it affect if you did?”

  Adam was silent for a moment. They were seated in the front room of the cottage, before a crackling fireplace. Outside, snow was coming down in torrents.

  “I dreamt of her again,” he said. “She was frozen... she looked pale as a corpse. I don’t think these things have come to pass, not yet—but I feel powerless.”

  “Adam, that is your power,” the woman in white said. “Precognition. You can till save her.

  “You should go,” she said, standing up. “I don’t want to keep you any longer. Just trust your instincts. You’ll find her.”

  He nodded and rose to stand beside her. “Thank you for everything.”

  A window shattered somewhere in the house.

  Adam snatched up the scythe and strapped it onto his forearm. A terrible feeling permeated his being; he felt weighed down, weak, and suddenly he knew it was the Omega’s presence. For the first time he sensed the ties that bound them, the ties that had allowed the rotter to stalk him across the badlands for months.

  This time with the woman in white had awakened his mind, brought dormant abilities to life. He wondered if she was clairvoyant too; had she known where to find him? Had she seen all this in her mind’s eye?