Empire

40 Lies and Consequence

Once the manor gates had been closed behind the truck, Tetch pulled Lily out of the back and wrestled her into the house. She screamed and kicked all the way up the stairs, but once they reached the study she fell silent. He deposited her in a chair by the window and glared at her sullen face.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

He slammed the door and locked it, then paced back and forth in front of her. "You've seen the city now — happy? Was it everything you'd hoped? If I hadn't come and gotten you, do you have any idea what those people might have done?"

She had closed herself off to him and stared at the carpet. He stamped in his foot on the spot where she was looking. "So there are people in the city. So I lied. But now do you see why? It's Hell out there!"

"You killed my parents," she mumbled.

He dropped to one knee before her and clasped her hands. "Who told you that?" She tried to pull her hands free, but he tightened his grip so she just gave up and looked at the wall.

"I'll ask you one more time. Who told you?"

"It's true." She replied.

"No — before I say anything about that I want to know who told you! Was it the man in black? Where is he? Has he left the city?" She bit her lip anxiously. "You don't know where he is." Tetch smiled grimly. "He's left you. Of course he did. But I came looking for you."

Voorhees' words from the rooftop bored into Tetch's mind. He winced and pushed them back.

"Your parents — if you can call them that — they abandoned you too. When they came back it wasn't because they cared about you, Lily!"

"Then why?!" She spat. Her hands trembled inside his. "Because," he pleaded, "they just wanted to have you so they could make people feel sorry for them! I mean, first you're a liability that they have to get rid of and then you're a meal ticket. I've never treated you with anything but love, you KNOW that. I didn't tell you about them because I thought it would hurt you. To know that they were like that."

"Is that what they said?" Her eyes were dark with mistrust. Her hands still trembled, from rage Tetch realized. "Of course they did." He answered.

"You let the others eat them."

"What was I supposed to do, Lily? Bury them in the swamp? Think about it. I just didn't want you to see them…now that you know, do you feel any better? No. You feel awful. And I don't know what the dark man told you about it, but he wasn't there."

"Yes he was. He's the angel of death."

"I know." Tetch said. It had a sobering effect on her. For the first time since he'd brought her back she made eye contact. "I know," he repeated, "and it doesn't matter. He has no place in the world anymore. I can bring the dead to life, Lily." He stroked his fingers along the back of her hand. She shuddered. "He doesn't understand things like I do. Neither did Addison. Neither did your parents."

Her lips parted, she wanted to argue; but there was no argument. He leaned in to kiss her.

She jerked her hands free and drew herself into a tight ball on the chair. "Liar!"

He slammed his fist against the nearby desk. She whimpered. He wanted to take her into his arms and comfort her, but she wouldn't let him. She wouldn't let him love her when he was the only one who could.

(You're the only man Lily needs — isn't that right?)

"I'll prove it to you. You'll see. Soon." He left the study, relocking the door from the outside.

Addison, Death, Jesus — all hopelessly irrelevant, hopelessly wrong. Cut from the exact same filthy cloth. Tetch pocketed the study key and headed up to the third floor. The servants' quarters up here had been mothballed years back, and a thick skin of dust coated the bare wood beneath his feet. He stood in the silence of one of the front rooms, at a window, and contemplated the encroaching swamp through a film of grime.

There were ferals out there. He could see some of them, eyeing the house from the shadows.

In City Hall, Jenna stood at the window in the fourth-floor corridor. They'd barricaded the stairwell entrance, and could hear the ferals that had followed them shuffling outside. "We can't just forget about that girl." Jenna muttered.

"I know." Replied Voorhees. He toyed with the shotgun in his lap. "We could make a clean break if we had that truck."

Jenna turned to face him. "Are you suggesting we go to the Addison house?"

"I think we're both suggesting it."

"Make that all three of us." Duncan stood uncertainly on his leg. He was paler than he'd been before the attack. "Maybe we can use the sewers to get across town. At least part of the way."

Voorhees shook his head. "Sewer access is all sealed up. We're going to have to take our chances on the streets. I think — well, frankly, I don't think we'll all make it. We might all reach the house, but…"

"Someone will get bit, at least." Jenna finished.

She pulled down the collar of her shirt. There was a gash on her collarbone. "The one that pinned me in the lobby."

Duncan let out a long sigh. "Jen."

"All that matters is that somebody gets that truck and gets Lily out." She smiled sadly. "As for me…honestly I just don't care anymore. But she hasn't lived life long enough to be sick of it."

"I'm infected." Duncan said. "The axe, it had that rotter's blood on it. I can feel it inside me." Duncan gave a mild shrug. "I wouldn't know where to go anyway. I spent my life chasing the dead, not running from 'em."

"I know the Army's withdrawal route." Voorhees kneaded his hands. "They briefed us before they pulled out. I'll take her to them. There might be refueling sites along the way, but if we end up running out of gas or just breaking down, we'll hoof it. If I can just get her out of town, I know I can keep her safe."

"We're really doing this." Jenna whispered. "Okay. When?"

"No time like the present," said Voorhees. "We've gotta get to the house by twilight."

"Okay." Jenna motioned toward an open office. "I'll make some more torches to throw the rotters off."

Voorhees turned to Duncan. He knew in his core that Duncan wasn't infected, that he felt nothing coursing through him but his feelings for that woman. He'd seen Duncan's photography of the undead hordes. There was always an intimate quality to the images, to the way he framed both soldiers and rotters, unlike the stark gore-laden pictures snapped by most freelancers. Mark Duncan was a romantic. It was a stupid way to live. Maybe, though, a nice way to die.