Empire's End

Twenty-Two / Out of the Night

Voorhees was posted at the front entrance of the Gaylen City Administration Building. Halstead was in back. Two of the other officers, Ernie and Gulager, were upstairs with Senator Jeff Cullen.

“Voorhees.” Halstead’s voice came over the radio. “You asleep yet?”

“Nope, just freezing.”

“Just you and me on this channel. Wanna talk dirty?”

He smiled and answered, “If you don’t mind my chattering teeth.”

“Kinky,” Halstead laughed. “You’re what, Voorhees, sixty?”

That was a mood killer. “Somewhere up there. I forget,” he cracked. “I suppose it’s still a crime to ask a woman’s age.”

“You’ve got about fifteen years on me, old timer. Be glad — you’re that much closer to retirement.”

“I plan to die on the job,” he said. “Where would I retire to?”

“I used to live in a town called Tucson. A little hot, but beautiful.”

“I’ve seen about enough of this great land of ours, thanks.”

“But you’re not happy here, are you?”

“Where else is there but here?”

“I’d like to go back to Tucson someday. See if my house is still there. It’s not that far-fetched.”

“Government’s given up. If Tucson wasn’t already a wasteland, it will be.”

“I thought you had more fire in you, Voorhees. I thought you were gonna shake things up.”

“I’m tired,” he sighed. It was true. He’d planned to work himself to death, and that didn’t seem too far off these days.

“How far back do you remember?” Halstead asked. “What’s your earliest memory of the rotters?”

“My dad killed one on the front lawn when I was six. Chopped it up with an ax. Then he brought me out to help him build a fire for it. I cut my teeth early. That’s how Dad wanted it, and frankly I’m grateful. That’s why I don’t understand the people around here — how they can act so nonchalant. Everyone has come face to face with it at some point. Everyone gets it.”

“Your dad made you tough,” said Halstead.

“Yeah, he did.”

“And he’s passed away?”

“Long time ago. Infected.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. That’s life — that’s my point.”

Voorhees scanned the streets. It had been snowing all evening, and there was nary a footprint to be seen. People were all huddled around ovens or heaters or fires somewhere, huddling together, thinking at least we’re safe.

“I had to shoot him,” he said, into the radio.

“How old were you?”

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t think being younger or older would’ve made a difference. He had told me, a long time before, that the way things were going I was going to have to put a bullet in him someday. Kill him before he turned. Burn the remains. Become a man.”

“Is that why you never raised a family?”

That was a leap. But she was dead on.

“If someone has to kill me,” he said softly, “it’ll be a stranger. Not my own son.”

Halstead was silent. Voorhees pulled his coat around himself and shook the chill from his body. The radio crackled, then silence again.

“Come again? Halstead?”

No reply.

He switched channels and called, “Ernie? Gulager? Have you—”

A shout blared from the radio. “Backup! We need back—”

Silence again. By then Voorhees was running inside.

Down the hall, up a flight of stairs, kicking open a door to find Gulager and Ernie both lying prone in a corridor. Voorhees ran to the door beyond labeled SEN. JEFF CULLEN — CITY ADMINISTRATION. Someone shouted from within. The door was locked.

Voorhees whipped out his baton and smashed the knob to pieces. Rearing back, he kicked the door down and saw Cullen behind his desk, trying to get through another door. After him was a man dressed in black: gloves, coat, hat, even a stocking covering his face. In the killer’s hand was a knife carved from bone.

Voorhees’ baton spun through the air and clipped the killer’s hand, sending the knife flying. The stockinged assassin looked at the cop: surprise? How had he missed the guy standing out front? Must have come through the back, taking out Halstead. Voorhees hoped she was only knocked out.

For this guy’s sake, she’d better be.

Cullen scrambled through the door behind his desk. The killer retrieved the knife and sprinted after him. Feeling no pain in his adrenaline-fueled body, Voorhees vaulted over the desk in hot pursuit.

They were heading upstairs. Feet clattered loudly in the narrow stairwell, Cullen’s screams bouncing off the walls. Why had he run through the damn door? No way Voorhees could catch up while on the stairs.

They hit another corridor, and Voorhees surged after the killer. Cullen was tugging at locked doors in hysterics. The killer closed in—

Then spun to swing a fist into Voorhees’ jaw. He sprawled out across the carpet and shouted “STOP!!”

The killer edged toward Cullen. “You’re not gonna get out of here,” Voorhees said, sitting up. “Give it up now. Don’t get another senator’s blood on your hands.”

The killer tilted his head slightly, as if considering. Then, in a grand leap, he cleared Voorhees and went for the stairs.

Voorhees snagged the killer’s ankle. He went over with a cry

A female cry

But recovered and was off down the stairs.

Voorhees gave feeble chase. His mind was spinning. A woman? That it was a female wasn’t a shock; it was that it narrowed his field of suspects considerably.

He found Ernie and Gulager sitting up and rubbing their heads. “Cold-cocked us both,” Ernie muttered.

Voorhees continued down the hall and located the rear entrance. Steeling himself, he opened the door.

Halstead lay in the snow, almost peaceful, her hair matted with blood. He knelt over her and checked her pulse. She was good.

Her eyelids fluttered. “What are you doing here, Voorhees? Stop him.”

“Her,” he said. “And she’s gone.”

But she wouldn’t get far.

Patricia Morgan and Finn Meyer didn’t exactly seem surprised to see four cops walking into their office. Feet perched on his desk, Meyer called, “What’s the occasion?”

It was Voorhees who saw the bandage on Morgan’s right hand. Where he would’ve hit her with his baton.

“What happened there?” he asked mildly, then grabbed the hand and yanked her to her feet. “I fucking burned it!” she snapped. “Let go!”

“You’re under arrest for murder,” Voorhees said. “And you, Finn, for conspiracy. And why not treason?”

“What in the hell are you talking about?” Meyer growled.

“We know it was Morgan. I busted her hand with my baton,” Voorhees said.

Morgan snarled and ripped the bandages free. She exposed a blistered, pink patch of flesh. “Burned it, asshole!”

The air was sucked from the room. Voorhees’ stomach dropped into his shoes.

Meyer cocked his head. “You don’t look happy, friend.”

Voorhees turned and stormed from the loft.

Around four in the A.M., Senator Gillies was alone in his Chicago office, watching the snow fall. The city looked lovely in white, he thought.

There was a click and hiss from behind him. He turned to see Finn Meyer lighting a cigar. “You don’t mind, do ya?”

“What are you doing here?” Gillies snapped.

“I’ve seen some interesting things the past few days, Senator. Did you know they’re building an airfield outside my city?”

Gillies smiled. “Now Meyer, you didn’t think we weren’t going to tell you, did you? Of course, you would have found out anyway.”

“Hmm.” Meyer took a puff and held the smoke in his mouth. He spoke through a cloud. “You’ve got planes coming? Do I get a window seat?”

“Your seats are reserved, Meyer,” Gillies assured him. “I have to tell you though, I don’t appreciate you coming out here like this.”

“I like to handle things face to face.”

“Meyer — what do you know about Manning’s death?”

“Just that it was a shame. Damn shame.”

“I mean it.”

“Me too. I hate to see a beautiful woman go rotten like that.”

Meyer stepped closer with a grin. “Maybe I know something, maybe I don’t. But I’m on your side. Just let me know when those planes are due… Of course, Ill find out anyway.”

With that, he disappeared into the shadows, leaving only the spice of his smoke as a reminder.

Ian Gregory stepped out from the darkness. He had been less than a foot from Meyer, ready to take him down if necessary.

Gillies clenched his fists. No matter, he told himself. He had ways of dealing with bottom-feeders.