Empire's End

by David Dunwoody

  The Geek overturned the bin right behind her and roared.

  She sprinted toward the exit, slamming into the door with teeth-rattling force—and burst through, stumbling headlong into the alley but never slowing down, running for dear life.

  At the mouth of the alley, she made a hard right, and hands caught her by both arms in a vise-like grip. She screamed.

  “It’s me, girl!” Finn Meyer hissed. “They’re all over. Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

  “Amphitheater,” she gasped. He nodded and tugged her along.

  They stumbled down the bleachers and onto the stage where Becks had performed so many roles—most poorly written by that hack Cullen, but she had always loved the stage no matter what. Still... she couldn’t make this her last stand.

  The Geek clambered over the gate and onto the bleachers. “Jesus!” Meyer breathed.

  He pulled Becks against him. “Sorry,” he whispered, then she heard the gunshot. Then she felt the wetness spreading over her abdomen.

  She fell on her back, sobbing in horror and disbelief, looking up at Meyer, who regarded her coolly before making his exit. He’d left her behind to stall the rotter.

  She rolled over and dragged herself across the stage, pain spreading like a wildfire through her stomach and chest. She pulled herself to her feet and glanced back. The Geek was halfway down the bleachers. She had time. And she knew where she was going.

  She ran with strength she didn’t know she had, strength that should have been ebbing from the wound in her belly, where she had once thought she would carry Blake’s child. She ran to the shore of Lake Michigan and dove into the icy water.

  She swam out a hundred yards and stopped. The rotter wasn’t on the shore. Perhaps it had found new quarry.

  She could tread water for a while, until the cold overtook her, and then she’d just drift downward, into blackness. It would be painless.

  The Geek erupted from behind her and threw its malformed limbs around her.

  * * *

  Voorhees pushed himself across the floor on his back. He’d gotten out of the bedroom, and was now in search of something with which to cut the ropes binding him. The widowmaker was right there, pressing into the flesh of his back, but he just couldn’t work it free.

  Dammit, he wasn’t going to find anything feeling around on the floor. He’d have to get up and start knocking into things. There had to be at least a sharp corner where he could start working on the ropes.

  Getting up onto his knees, he shuffled along until he struck the door. He knew they’d locked it when they left. At least they did that much for him. He could hardly imagine what must be unfolding outside.

  He heard someone running down the hall, trying doorknobs. Pounding. It was someone living. “Hey!” he shouted. “You out there! Over here!”

  The doorknob jiggled. “Wait a second,” Voorhees grunted. He pressed his face to the door and grabbed the lock in his teeth. If he could just turn it ninety degrees, he’d have someone to cut him loose...

  He did it! “It’s unlocked!”

  The door opened. There was a laugh, and it was the most awful sound he’d ever heard in his life.

  “Morning, Officer Voorhees. Looks like your luck just keeps getting worse.”

  Meyer kicked Voorhees over and entered the apartment, quietly closing the door behind him.

  The cop sat up and swung his head, the only way he could defend himself. Meyer laughed again, softly; then it grew silent. Where was he? Voorhees listened intently.

  “Over here,” came a whisper. He turned to catch a fist in the face. Voorhees collapsed once more.

  Meyer grabbed his hair and dragged him over to a chair. “I’ve had a real bastard of a day too, friend. But I get to take it out on you.”

  * * *

  Ernie lay under Casey’s desk with his hands over his mouth and listened. The Dwarf’s scrabbling had stopped. How long would he have to wait this out before the Army came through? Would he have any way of knowing when it was over? His radio didn’t pick up military frequencies. Stupid, he thought.

  He heard the door being unlocked, then the creak as it swung open.

  How... ? He remained under the desk, which still blocked the doorway, and listened.

  Keys jingled. He heard a sound like someone shifting about. Then something thumped on top of the desk. Something heavy.

  Dear God, was Casey still alive?

  Ernie stuck his head out from under the desk. He could see nothing from his vantage point. “Sir?” he whispered.

  Four bloody fingers crept over the edge of the desk and curled to grip it.

  Casey’s face slid into view. Or rather, the absence of it—a black, dripping void.

  His other hand came over the desk’s edge, holding the keys, and he dropped them on the floor beside Ernie’s head.

  Casey rolled off the desk and onto the floor. Blood splattered on the walls. He pulled his crippled body toward Ernie, one eye rolling crazily in his crimson skull; and finally Ernie found his voice and screamed, but only for a second before Casey was upon him, and they rolled beneath the desk in their struggle and then a sea of blood washed across the floor.

  Thirty-Seven / In Every Man

  “That barricade isn’t gonna hold,” Zane said.

  “Where do we go? Upstairs?” Dalton shook his head.

  “How about into the damn street then?” snapped Rhodes.

  “Calm down. I know another way.” Zane started down the hall. “Follow me.”

  The doctor led them down a stairwell and through a pair of doors labeled PATHOLOGY. Producing a set of keys, he unlocked an unmarked door. “More stairs.”

  This stairwell was pitch dark and smelled of disinfectant. Feeling his way down, Dalton silently chastised himself for coming into the city. Either way, there was nothing he could have done to save Briggs, but at least he could’ve stayed out in the field and been of some use.

  Zane pushed open a heavy steel door and flipped a light switch. The three men entered a long room lined with counters, upon which sat clipboards and vats of preserving fluid. Dalton was sure of what the liquid was, because inside the greenish soup twitched severed hands and feet.

  “Shit,” Rhodes whispered. He approached a tank containing a coiled spinal cord and brain. The eyeballs were still attached; they drifted over towards him, and the pupils shrank. “Fuck!” Rhodes jumped away.

  “This is where they were studying the plague,” Zane said. “I guess none of the docs have gotten here yet this morning—guess they won’t be coming in at all, will they? Anyway, the Senate allotted a bit of pocket change to let these guys poke and prod. Pointless, really.”

  Dalton picked up a clipboard and read the notes scribbled there. “Were they trying to find a cure?”

  “Doubt it,” said Zane. “The last generation of scientists gave up on that. I don’t know what exactly they hoped to understand by playing with these body parts. I think they just didn’t know what else to do with themselves.”

  “‘Spiritual constitution,’” Rhodes read from a clipboard. “‘Quantifying the temporal bond.’ What is this shit?”

  “Let me see that.” Zane took the clipboard. “Oh dear. Looks like they bought into the ol’ spiritual strength versus rate of infection nonsense. They really were scraping the bottom of the barrel.”

  A dull thud resonated through the room. Dalton and Rhodes drew their weapons. “It came from down here,” Dalton said softly.

  Another thump. At the far end of the room, Dalton noticed a tiny porthole set into the wall. Creeping towards it, he reached out the counter beneath the glass and found that it pulled away from the wall. The porthole was set in a door. He pressed his face to it. “Lord.”

  A priest lay on the floor of a dimly-lit eight-by-eight cell. He looked to be in his seventies, perhaps older. It was hard to tell because of his gaunt, sickly expression. He had to be infected.

  Zane joined Dalton at the porthole. “You’ve gotta be f
ucking kidding me.”

  “What in God’s name are they doing to this man?” Dalton breathed.

  “Don’t you see? He’s a man of God. They’re testing the virus on him to see how long it takes. They’re testing his spirit.”

  “This is insane!” Dalton cried. He pounded on the glass. “Sir! Father!”

  The priest stirred a bit. He looked up through slits and opened his mouth. Saliva ran from his lips to the floor.

  “We’ve got to get in there.” Dalton felt along the wall. There had to be a way to open the damn door. They couldn’t have just sealed him in there... could they?

  “Forget it,” Zane said. “He’s a lost cause.”

  “But he doesn’t deserve to die like this!”

  “Don’t waste another bullet!” Zane retorted. “It’s still a long way out of the city.”

  “So you know of a way out? Down here?”

  “Maybe. It’s been so long since I snooped around down here, I don’t know if it’s still here. But I’m betting it is.”

  Dalton looked at the priest. The old man reached a pale hand toward him. Dalton threw himself against the door. “C’mon!”

  “Let it go, man!” Rhodes pulled Dalton back. “We’ve gotta save the uninfected! That means us!”

  Zane knelt and crawled beneath the counter. “Here it is.” He pried at a grate in the wall. “Help me out.”

  Rhodes ducked down and kicked the grate with a loud BANG! It fell away.

  “Thanks.” Zane crawled through the hole. “Follow me.”

  Dalton shook his head sadly at the priest, mouthing “I’m sorry.”

  The old man shook his head in response, as if to dismiss the matter, and gave him a small smile.

  * * *

  They made their way through a cramped passage and rose in an enormous tunnel. Zane produced a penlight and illuminated a set of metal tracks. “Old subway system. They closed it off years back. I just knew they meant to use it as an escape route. Tricky bastards.”

  “Did you hear that?” Rhodes pointed his Glock down the tunnel. From around a sharp bend they saw moving lights. Electric torches.

  Dalton took point, peering through his scope. He saw the silhouette of a man in uniform. “Army,” he whispered, and quickened his pace.

  “Hey!” he called as others came into view. They trained their weapons on him. “I’m one of you!” he yelled.

  A sergeant approached him. “Where did you come from?”

  “They hospital. I have two civilians with me. Can I get them out through here?”

  “We’re not letting anyone out,” the sergeant replied gruffly. He turned to his men, and for the first time Dalton saw what they were doing, hunched along the walls—laying charges.

  “What?” Dalton gasped. “You’re going to blow it? You can’t! There are tens of thousands of people still in the city!”

  “It’s a hot zone,” the sergeant said. “No one gets out. I’m afraid that includes you, soldier.”

  “Are you fuckin’ with me?” Rhodes pushed past Dalton and grabbed the sergeant by his shirt. “You’d better—”

  A pistol was pressed against his temple. “Back off,” a private stammered. “Let him go.”

  “Better do what he says,” the sergeant muttered.

  “You can’t just sentence all those people to die!” Rhodes cried. “You’re supposed to protect people!”

  “We are! We’re protecting the other cities!”

  “Let him go, Rhodes,” Dalton said.

  The cop released the sergeant and threw his arms in the air. “This is bullshit!”

  “Sergeant,” Dalton pleaded, “you’ve got to let us evacuate civilians. They can be placed under quarantine as soon as they get out! Just let them out for God’s sake!”

  “That’s directly defying the Senate’s orders,” the sergeant said.

  “To Hell with them! They’ve never been part of this war! We’re all the same to them—one of these days it’s gonna be your ass on the line, Sergeant!”

  “My ass is already on the line, son!”

  “Those people up there aren’t dead,” Zane said. “Even if the Senate’s written them off, they’re not dead. Not unless you do this.”

  “I don’t take orders from—” the sergeant snapped, then stopped.

  “From who? Civilians? Is that what you were gonna say?” Dalton stood toe-to-toe with the sergeant. “For the love of God, just give us a little time. We can get people out through here. You don’t have to help. Just don’t blow the tunnels yet.”

  “I... I can’t.”

  “Yes you can.” Dalton looked at the other soldiers, who were all watching the confrontation. “Is this what you want to do? Is this how we win?”

  “Sergeant,” said Zane. “Women. Children.”

  “Shit.” The sergeant turned from them. He looked into the faces of his men and said, “Shit!”

  He stabbed his finger into Dalton’s face. “I’ll give you a few hours. That’s it. I can’t give you any more than that. Understand?”

  “All right.” Dalton gave the man a crisp salute. “Thank you.”

  “I can’t stop the others in the other tunnels. I can only give you this.”

  “It’s enough,” Dalton said.

  Thirty-Eight / Little Things

  Logan was wasted. He’d drained a bottle of Scotch and was slumped, bleary-eyed, against the bar.

  “Dead weight,” Tripper muttered under his breath.

  “Is Officer Voorhees going to be safe at your place?” Lily asked him. Tripper shrugged.

  Shoving an elbow into his ribs, Cam stepped forward and said, “He’ll be fine. New locks.”

  “But that man said they’re setting the city on fire.” Lily pointed to Logan.

  “Lily,” said Halstead, kneeling beside the girl, “I’m sure he’ll be okay. We wouldn’t just leave him helpless like that...” Her voice trailed off. Even she couldn’t say it with a straight face.

  Lily turned from the others and stalked across the room. Tripper walked over to the dead goons and collected their pistols. “We’re gonna have to get moving here. No time to waste.”

  “We need a plan,” Halstead protested.

  “Stay alive,” Tripper replied. “That’s the plan.”

  “Like I said, we continue east. Using the tunnels,” Cam said. “If we run out of tunnels we’ll take to the streets. I’m not worried about the rotters—it’s the soldiers that have got me nervous.”

  “They won’t let us out,” Logan said. “They’ll shoot us dead. I heard their orders. Have to stay underground.”

  “Do you know of a way out of the city, Private?” Halstead asked.

  “I don’t know.” Logan took a swig from a bottle of vodka.

  Tripper swept it from his hand. It smashed into the mirror behind the bar. “We need you to stay sharp, asshole, or else you’re not coming with us!”

  Logan laughed bitterly. “You’re not listening to me. We’re already dead! All of us! You, me, the kid—dead!”

  Lily pushed open a door at the rear of the room. “Hey, I know this place.”

  “Close that,” Halstead called.

  “Wait,” said Cam. “Lily, how do you know this place?”

  “I’ve been here. Upstairs is where the girls sleep.”

  “Oh, God,” Tripper said.

  “What girls?” said Halstead.

  “Meyer’s prostitutes,” Cam answered.

  “Fuck ‘em,” Logan slurred.

  “They’re kids,” Cam snapped. Logan looked up at her. “Kids?”

  “We ought to go up there,” Tripper said. “We have to. Try to get them out.”

  “You want to add another dozen children to our group?” Halstead shook her head. “Tripper, I feel for them just as much as you do. But we’ve got to think logically. Safety in numbers doesn’t apply here. We’d only make ourselves more vulnerable.”

  “I don’t know who you are,” Cam said to her. “Listen. Why did Thacke
ray send us here?”

  “They’re burning Gaylen to the ground!” Halstead yelled. “We need to get out of here! Do you think Thackeray would rather that we stay and die trying to save people instead of relocating?”

  “All you care about anymore is saving your own ass,” Cam said coldly. She walked over to Lily. “Will you show me where the girls are?”

  “I’m going too,” Tripper said. Logan pulled his chainsaw off the bar and said, “What the hell.”

  “I guess that’s it, then.” Halstead sighed and followed them through the door.

  Lily led them upstairs to a set of doors. “All the beds were in here,” she said.

  “Okay. Stand back.” Cam leaned against the door and cupped her hand to her ear. “I don’t hear anything.”

  “They might not even be here,” Halstead said.

  “Let’s make sure.” Cam took hold of the doorknob and turned it ever so slowly. Then she pushed the door open, just enough to stick her head through and have a look.

  The room was very dark. She could barely make out the outlines of the beds. There wasn’t a soul to be seen. She pushed the door the rest of the way open. “Nothing?” Tripper whispered. She nodded.

  Then a small shadow rose from behind one of the beds.

  “Little girl?” Cam beckoned. “It’s okay. Come here.”

  Another girl rose on the other side of the room. Then another, and another. They stood stock-still.

  “Come here! We won’t hurt you.” Cam stepped into the room.

  One of the girls walked out into the aisle. Behind her, like a doll, she dragged a severed arm.

  “Oh fuck—”

  Another half dozen girls rose and stalked into the aisle. Low, raspy growls escaped their throats. Then they ran at Cam.

  She swung the machine gun up and cut into them, the muzzle flare lighting up their dead faces before they were kicked back into the darkness. They each hit the floor and struggled back up in turn, charging forward again.