Empire (33 page)

    An hour or so later, the ferals outside were drawn into the house by a long, tortured scream. When they reached Tetch, he was dead. They sat around him and used broken glass to cut his flesh.

    Hundreds of them crowded inside, searching every room on every floor, packing the house. It groaned madly around them. Then it all came down, wood and flesh and stone, all came down into the cellar, into the Hell a man had made. They lay pinned in the wreckage and pawed at one another, a cacophony of groans filling the night sky.

    (Where are we going?)

    "I'm not entirely sure." Voorhees finally replied. "North, I can tell you that much. That's where all the other people have gone."

    "What people?"

    "There used to be a lot of people in Jefferson Harbor. They left when the Army did. There are cities, safe cities, in the north. And I don't know how to get all the way to those cities, but I think we can catch up with the Army."

    "Why did they leave?"

    Voorhees frowned over the steering wheel. "They decided it wouldn't do any good to keep fighting for this place."

    Lily stared at her hands, folded in her lap, and said, "I guess they were right."

    "We tried." Voorhees snapped. She cast a frightful look in his direction, and he tried to soften his tone. "The people who died back there at the house, they didn't die for nothing. They died saving your life."

    "I'm sorry." She pleaded. Pursing his lips, he offered her his best facsimile of a smile. "You'll get it when you're older."

    In the middle of the night, they reached a military fuel station. Voorhees whispered a silent prayer that there'd still be gas beneath the cement slab; he slipped the pump into the truck and waited.

    The gentle sloshing brought a genuine smile to his face. Looking toward the cab, he saw Lily watching him through the rear windshield. She returned the expression.

    The headlights caught the faintest hint of something moving on the horizon. Voorhees leaned into the cab and flipped on the high beams. It was a single rotter, a good thousand yards away, moving on a broken ankle.

    He pulled the widowmaker from its sheath. "I'll be right back. Keep the doors locked."

    "You could just let it go." Lily said. He fixed his eyes on her naive little face and shook his head. "Be right back."

    He strode across the barren soil toward the undead. It lifted its bloody head to study him. He stopped, waiting to see what it would do.

    It opened its mouth and moaned for his flesh. It came at him.

    When it was finished, he replaced the fuel pump and got into the truck. Lily was silent.

    "I didn't do it because of what he was." He told her. "I did it because of what he used to be."

    Back in Jefferson Harbor, at the city plaza, Gene was standing. He felt the night wind picking up and let it caress his face. Something inside him tugged gently, pleasantly, and he didn't move a muscle for several minutes. Just stood there, feeling.

    He knew one thing: he had tasted the flesh of the man in black, and he was no longer what he had been. His stomach still yearned for meat, and he kneaded his palms as the nagging, maddening need made his mouth water. But there was something else, too. A new purpose.

    Gene picked up his shovel and started walking.

    Chicago's security wall, three stories high, was manned by dozens of armored troops that paced atop it. The one gate that cut through this concrete and steel was surrounded by guards, and a fenced quarantine center was just inside. The city proper was still a few miles off.

    A young Latino soldier, maybe twenty years old, sat on a stool with a laptop propped on his knees. Behind him, a canvas tent flap whipped in the wind. "You want some water?" He asked Voorhees. "God, yes," came the reply.

    "And you're a cop?" The soldier pecked at the computer keys with inexperienced fingers. Voorhees felt a little resentment at being interrogated by these kids, but as he looked toward the city in the distance, as he watched a female solder kneel to chat with Lily, he figured it was worth the hassle.

    "I'm a P.O. out of Louisiana."

    "Once you're approved and entered in the system, it'll kick your record out to Employment Services. They'll help you get work. We need cops - you'll probably end up doing exactly what you did back in Louisiana."

    I hope not, Voorhees thought.

    "Is she your daughter?" The soldier motioned to Lily on the other end of the tent.

    "No, we're not related."

    "Legal guardian?"

    "No..." Voorhees narrowed his eyes. "She's a refugee like anyone else."

    "I know, I know. Don't worry about it." The soldier, hunched over the laptop, kept pecking keys. "I just mean they'll probably put her in foster care." The boy looked up and quickly added, "You can probably apply for custody. Honestly, I don't know how it works--"

    "I've only known her a few days." Voorhees brushed dirt from the sleeves of his coat. "Am I going to get the widowmaker back?"

    "The...oh, the cleaver? Doubt it."

    "How about that water?"

    "Right! Sorry. Just a sec."

    Voorhees nodded and settled in for a long wait.

    In the badlands...

    Two ferals, staggering side-by-side across the parched earth, saw something on the ground ahead. Through shimmering waves of heat, their pus-encrusted eyes discerned a man's body lying prone on its back.

    They increased their pace. The sun beat on their bare backs, blisters running over raw red flesh. They teetered on bones, stomachs aching, and lunged at the corpse in its ragged gray suit.

    It sprang to its feet.

    The scythe halved the first rotter at a diagonal and lodged itself in the second's skull. The man in the suit yanked the blade free and watched the undead collapse into rancid piles.

    He'd broken off part of the handle, making the blade easier to wield. It slipped into a makeshift pocket inside the suit jacket. He'd taken these clothes off of another zombie; it made his own "corpse" all the more authentic, as he'd learned over the past few weeks.

    His recent time among the dead had only made him yearn for the company of the living, of one little girl in particular. She was somewhere out there dreaming of him. He was sure of it, because he'd begun to sleep, and dream, and all his dreams were about her.

    He hoped Lily was still with the policeman. He remembered that, at one time, the policeman's flame had been close to burning itself out; that was before he had intervened. Maybe he'd given Voorhees a new lease on life. He would never know for sure. Someone else knew, and that same someone knew Lily's remaining time on this plane, recording it without a second thought.

    He'd find her. He'd carve a great bloody canyon through the plague-ridden badlands to do it.

    That was settled, then. Now all he needed was a name.

    The man stood over the remains of his prey and thought for a moment.

    Then he continued on his way.

    February 20, 2112

    Stacy Bekins was sitting on the steps of the Jefferson Harbor Museum. Rain pattered on her thick brown hair, running over her shoulders and down her back to the cold stone beneath her. She watched dully as her shoes darkened with moisture, feeling the water pooling in the soles.

    "What are you doing out here?" P.O. Voorhees threw a plastic raincoat over her shoulders. "Stacy? You with me?" She was unresponsive. Voorhees knelt to bring himself eye-to-eye with the girl. She stared through him. She was in shock.

    Stacy was a checkout girl at the PX the troops had established inside the museum. The portraits, skeletons and relics once kept there were decades lost; the building had served off and on as an emergency shelter. Major Briggs, the latest man placed in charge of the Harbor's security, had decided the space would be better utilized as a grocery store.

    The soldiers were being paid in credit, and they spent it all inside the museum. MREs were often passed up in favor of luxury items like cigarettes, aspirin and underwear. Voorhees had noticed the soldiers getting thinner and thinner inside their fatigues. And they all smoked.

    He helped Stacy to her feet - hauled her, really - and took her through the doors to the guard post in the museum entryway. A grunt with glazed eyes watched them from his reclining chair. "She's been out there for an hour," he said.

    "You didn't think to say anything? Ask her if she was all right? Get her out of the rain?" Voorhees gave the soldier a dark glare, but the disinterested boy merely looked away.

    A woman Voorhees knew as Corporal Elliot strode toward them from the PX. She had a brown paper bag under her arm. The only thing they bagged were personal hygiene items. The young guard also noticed the parcel and smiled slyly.

    Elliot kicked the chair out from under him. Chair and grunt slammed into the floor with a sharp crack. "You sit up straight. You're not on vacation." The corporal snapped.

    Voorhees gave the guard a sly smile of his own, then turned to Elliot. Stacy hadn't made a sound this entire time; hadn't reacted to the guard's fall. "Something's wrong with this girl." Voorhees told Elliot. She nodded with concern and gestured outside. Her Humvee was across the street.

    They hustled Stacy through the rain to the vehicle. Soldiers posted on the sidewalk saluted crisply.

    "She works in the PX, doesn't she?" Elliot asked. Voorhees nodded as he eased Stacy into the back seat.

    "Stacy, did something happen?" The P.O. looked into her eyes for any glimmer of awareness. It wasn't uncommon for people, especially young people, to have a breakdown or two when faced with the reality outside the city walls. The soldiers had been very, very good, working in conjunction with Voorhees' men to keep the perimeter secure and torch anything that managed to worm its way inside. But the threat of the undead wasn't what made these kids crack, Voorhees knew; it was knowing that they'd never live a free, "normal" life, the life that had existed a century prior. They would grow up always having to look over their shoulders, like early Man did, except that today's humanity wanted more than survival. They wanted their lives to mean something greater.