Empire

EPILOGUE To Dream

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.