Empire's End (12 page)

Then the Omega rolled him over and stood on
his abdomen. He placed the shovel against Adam’s throat. He was
going to cut his head off. It was the end.

Adam summoned every bit of strength he had.
It wasn’t enough to move his arm, to move the scythe. The shovel
pushed into his clay-like skin. It met resistance in the charred,
hardened flesh. The Omega placed both hands on the back of the
shovel handle and prepared to shove it through into the street.

Staring into the undead’s eyes, Adam saw
something. He saw something
inside
, something distinct from
the rotter, something old and hateful and familiar. It terrified
him, and that terror gave him the strength he needed.

He swept the shovel away from his throat and
shoved the scythe through the Omega’s gut.

It did nothing.

The rotter pulled the blade from his innards
and cast Adam’s arm aside. He raised the shovel over his head.

Adam threw his legs out and knocked the Omega
off balance. He got to his feet and ran.

Every footfall blinded him; every wisp of
wind touching his open wounds nearly crippled him. Still he ran.
Greater than the will to continue fighting, there was the will to
survive. And fear was flooding his limbs to match every stab of
pain.

The shovel struck him between the shoulders.
He crashed into the corner of a building and rounded it, fleeing
across an overgrown field. The dry grass scratched his burnt flesh
and rocks dug into his bare feet. He felt the shovel graze his arm
and tried to quicken his pace. Then he was falling.

He tumbled down a steep hillside and landed
on a heap of scrap metal. Jagged points tore through him, skewering
him there, and then he no longer had the will to do anything.

The Omega stared down at the former Death, an
unmoving ruin, and was not satisfied.

Is he really dead? How can we be sure?

If not, we shall take great pleasure in
breaking him again. Yes, we will make his death last days; yet
still he will not know a fraction of the suffering we have
endured!

First, we need to feed. We need to find
undead.

His time will come...

The Omega took leave of his nemesis. He,
rather they, were right—they had all the time in the world to make
the Reaper suffer. Even after the world was gone, they would still
have precious time.

Many years ago, an Army private named Briggs
was separated from his unit. He spent two days wandering in the
wrong direction before realizing his mistake. By then he was
half-dead from exhaustion and fear.

He finally collapsed in a ravine, under a
copse of trees, and lay on his back watching the sky through the
leaves and waited for the end to come.

He passed in and out of consciousness, each
time thinking that he was finally dying; and then the scene
changed.

He was lying in a bed, a comfortable bed in a
small bare room. There was a window beside his head, looking out on
a well-kept lawn with a garden. He was propped up on several
pillows. Glancing down, he saw a bowl of warm broth in a lap, and a
spoon in his hand. Had he been eating? How long had he been here?
What—

She entered the room with a pleased smile.
She was wearing a hooded cloak, white as snow, and she was the most
beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

Long dark hair framed delicate, soft
features. Her skin was fair, flawless, and she had deep brown eyes
that captivated him, rendering him speechless. He sat, frozen, as
she filled the spoon, raised it to his lips and told him to
swallow.

Briggs realized his tongue was no longer
swollen and sore. He didn’t ache of thirst or hunger at all. The
tightness in his upper body was gone, and feeling had returned to
his tired legs. In fact, they weren’t tired at all—he felt like he
could get up out of bed at that very moment.

The woman in white sensed what he was
thinking and placed a hand on his chest. Warmth flowered there,
spreading through his body, and he suddenly felt tranquil.

“You need more rest,” she said. Her voice was
like cool water. He nodded, lying back on the pillows. Not only had
he been physically restored, he was also rid of the nagging fear
that was a part of every man’s life in these Last Days—and so,
unafraid, he slept.

It was hours or perhaps days later when he
awoke again. She was sitting in a chair beside the bed, prodding
gently at his legs with her fingertips. “You have a lot of
injuries,” she said. “Some old, some new. This will take time.”

“What are you doing?” He asked.

Tilting her head slightly and encircling his
ankle with her fingers, she said, “Healing you.”

“Are you an angel?”

“Maybe I was once.”

Maybe once... but no longer, no longer cold
and unreachable. Instead he was lying in her bed while she tended
to a lifetime of suffering.

“I guess there is a God,” he breathed.

“Of course,” she answered. “He’s not always
here, but he’s always
there
.”

“Heaven?”

“I suppose so.”

“What do you mean, suppose so? And
maybe
you
were
an angel?” He sat again, still amazed
at his strength, and stared at her until her soulful eyes met
his.

“I’m here, you’re here,” she said, as if it
were just that simple. “I know He’s there, but I don’t know where
there is.”

He had already accepted that she was
possessed of some sort of magic, but it didn’t seem that either of
them knew its origin. As he sat silent and watched her work on his
legs, then his arms, he thought that her ability almost seemed like
the antithesis to the corruption of the plague. And so he had to
ask.

“Do you know about the virus? Where it came
from?”

“It wasn’t always a virus,” she said. “It’s
simply an energy. It has many forms. In each, it sows only ruin
because it is the very essence of chaos, and impurity—you see, it
is not our God who visited this upon us—even His best-laid plans
were always vulnerable to chance. A long time ago, before this
universe existed, there were other gods, old ones who had never
conceived of light and were only darkness. When Creation came into
being, these gods fled to places unnamable—in doing so, they cast
off dark energy that became ensnared in the developing existence.
But even then it was not by design—it was mere chance that the
energy settled here, in our world. And what is God to do?”

“What are you saying?” Briggs stammered.
“That the plague is just something that happened? How can you say
that?”

“We give ourselves purpose and significance,
but we are as fleeting as any thought in all the cosmos,” she told
him. “Existence is existence. A cloud, a pebble, a person. To think
that you and I are more than that is arrogance. God’s love is only
that—love, plain and simple. Where we end up all comes down to
chance.”

Her eyes glistened. “This is why I became
what I am—to love as He does. Thank you for letting me do
that.”

She pointed out the window. “Your unit is a
few miles in that direction. A storm is coming, and they’ve made
camp. You can reach them tonight if you start now.”

“But wait,” he protested. “There’s still so
much I don’t understand.”

“You’re not meant to,” the woman said. “And
neither am I.”

She led him out onto the lawn, giving him his
equipment and helping him pull on his jacket. “What you know now is
enough for you to fulfill the purpose you’ve given yourself,” she
said. “Now go.”

He turned to her, looked into her endless
eyes. “I don’t know how to say this...”

“I love you,” she said, and kissed him softly
on the mouth.

He turned back. There was a small town
visible on the horizon. From it, down a long dirt road leading to
the woman’s cottage, shambled a lone rotter. Briggs went for his
knife.

“Don’t,” the woman in white said. She stepped
past him and extended one hand, palm out, toward the creature.

A light bloomed in her hand. Briggs had to
turn away, but for one split-second he felt the heat, hotter than
all of Hell; and when he looked back the rotter was gone, only a
glassy streak in the road to mark its passing.

He made it back to his unit.

He rose swiftly through the ranks, known far
and wide for his strength and fearlessness. Few, though, were ever
told about the woman in white, and those who heard the story from
others dismissed it as a fanciful rumor. Except for those others
whom she had loved.

“There’s a panic spreading through the
streets,” Casey said, hands folded on his desk. “People think
there’s been an outbreak, that infected are everywhere. Senator
Gillies tried to reassure them in his weekly broadcast, but I don’t
think anyone was even listening.”

“What
did
he say?” Halstead asked.
“Surely he didn’t tell them Manning was assassinated.”

“No. There hasn’t been an official
explanation for her infection. What I’ve heard is that, about a
month ago, Manning went outside the Wall on a fact-finding mission.
She could have been bitten there and concealed it.”

“And you’re all right with that lie being
passed off as the truth?” Voorhees asked.

Casey sighed. “Would you rather that the
unrest in the streets becomes full-blown pandemonium? Do you want
riots? Do you want to see what it’s like when crime really gets out
of hand?”

“And what about the killer?”

“We’re increasing security for the city
admins. You’ll be pulling double shifts over at the administration
building. I might be forced to deputize some new men—”

“Whose men? Meyer’s?”

“Don’t be a fool,” Casey snapped. Voorhees
didn’t buy it.

“We’ll be devoting nearly all of our
resources to this investigation,” Casey went on. “When the results
of that bone fragment test come back, and we’ve confirmed our
weapon, we start there.”

“How do you figure?”

“There’s no way someone could have smuggled
that into Gaylen. It had to have already been here.” Turning to the
map behind his desk, Casey pointed to the hospital. “There’s a lab
where they test infected tissue. It’s the only source I can think
of.”

He turned back to Voorhees and Halstead.
“You’re excused. Send Killian in.”

She was a wreck—red-eyed and sallow-faced
from lack of sleep, her uniform rumpled. “Are you sure you’re fit
to work right now?” Casey gave her a sympathetic frown. “Blake was
your partner—you can take bereavement leave.”

“No,” Killian said. “I can work. This is the
job.”

“Well,” said Casey, opening his file cabinet,
“I have something for you. You can work this one alone if you like.
It’s a priority case—it’d be our number one case if it weren’t for
what happened yesterday.”

He spread a file open on his desk. “Missing
girl. Here’s her description. She was downtown with her parents and
they lost her—think maybe someone grabbed her. Name’s Lily
Calvert.”

* * *

Voorhees stood at the edge of the market and
watched as a stone-faced Becks worked behind her counter. If only
she hadn’t been Blake’s, if only she weren’t grieving—he wanted to
ask her about the layout of the amphitheater. Could there have been
a passage that the killer used to slip in and out, past security?
If there was, who else knew about it?

“Sorry to hear about our friend Blake.”

Meyer gnawed on a bit of rock candy,
surveying the market. “Poor girl over there. I think they were
going to be married.”

“I’m sure you’re real sorry,” Voorhees said
in a low growl. “I’m sure you never planned on Blake getting
killed. What do you call that? Collateral damage?”

“Are you accusing me of being involved with
this tragedy?” Meyer appeared taken aback. “Officer Voorhees,
there’s a very tenuous balance between my people and your people.
Why would I risk upsetting that?”

“Because you think you’re untouchable. You
think you run this town.” Voorhees leaned in close. “Like you said,
you’re God here.”

Meyer winked at him with a sly grin. “I did
say that, didn’t I? Well, I suppose you’ve got a point there.”
Sucking his candy, he continued, “But just because I
could
pull it of doesn’t mean I did. I meant what I said about that
balance, Voorhees, ever so delicate. And I don’t think you’d want
to upset it either.”

“Meaning... ?”

“Imagine Gaylen without ol’ Finn Meyer. Think
of what these streets would look like. Think of just how difficult
your job would be. My God, what a sad picture.”

Meyer had smuggled guns and drugs into
Gaylen. He could have gotten his hands on infected bone.

Voorhees’ gaze narrowed. “You’re nothing new,
Meyer. There are men like you everywhere. And if you were taken
out, any one of them could replace you—so don’t go thinking you’re
too precious to be locked away and forgotten.”

“What do you mean, prison?” Meyer laughed.
“There’s no
prison
here! They wouldn’t even send me to
Cleveland. You know why? Because I’d get back in, and then I’d have
all their fucking heads on pikes!
”

He stepped in close to Voorhees and snarled,
“Just try to bring me in. Do it now! Slap the cuffs on me and march
me out of here. You won’t even make it to the street.”

Voorhees nodded. “I see. Looks like I’ve
gotten under your skin a bit, Meyer. You know that’s not good.
That’s a sign of weakness—and among your people, that could get you
in real trouble. Know what I mean? The slightest sign of weakness
and all that loyalty you command is gone. Get a hold of yourself,
Meyer.”

Voorhees turned away before the man could
reply. He strode out into the street with nary a glance over his
shoulder.