Empire (22 page)

    Shipley left the construction site. He crossed the street and headed up the steps of a museum with its doors hanging open. About halfway up, he stopped to catch his breath, to stem the pain radiating through his entire body, and he saw Kipp come out.

    The boy's gaze, which once had bespoke nothing but love, was now only hungry.

    He shuffled down the steps with arms open to receive his father.

    Down a set of stairs at the rear of the police station, through a locked door and into a dark tunnel beneath the three-story structure, Voorhees led the others to the PD's only unbarricaded entrance. The door had a new lock and four bolts, for which he had all the keys.

    The others were silent. They'd heard the gunshots, heard Jenna and Voorhees' accounts of Mike Weisman's death and what had preceded it. Shipley and Kipp were gone. Cheryl was in shock, and Palmer drew her coat around the girl and held her close.

    The only light in the lobby came not from the many doors and windows, which had been covered with every available board, desk and shelf; but from a shattered skylight overhead. Rain pooled on the floor and Voorhees led them carefully around the water. "Up those stairs." He tossed his keys to Lauren. Jenna was supporting Duncan, but Lauren turned and handed the keys to her anyway.

    "It's the first hallway, first door on the right. My name's on it." Voorhees walked to the barricades and reached between two overturned desks, pulling out a pump shotgun. "There's a first-aid kit up there too, in my desk. Clean Duncan's wound."

    "How?" Jenna asked from the bottom of the steps. Voorhees sighed. "Hold on."

    Leading them upstairs, he unlocked a room marked HOMICIDE - EVIDENCE and went inside. A second later, he appeared with two jugs of distilled water. "One of these is for drinking. Conserve it." He handed that to Palmer. "Use the other one to clean his leg. I'm gonna have to stitch it up."

    "Whoa, whoa." Duncan swayed in Jenna's arms. "Let's just dress the leg and call it a day."

    "It needs to be closed up."

    "Just bandage it. I don't want stitches."

    Voorhees reached back into the darkness of the evidence room. He pulled out a dusty plastic bag with pills in it, some crushed. "You'll forget all about the pain. Deal?"

    Duncan shrugged helplessly. Voorhees stuffed the bag in his pocket and locked the room up. He brought everyone into his office: chair, overturned buckets stacked with files, a water jug and a can which purported to hold coffee beans. Sure enough, it did. Voorhees popped one into his mouth and gestured to the open can. "Eat up."

    Cheryl stared blankly at the can. "Sorry, fresh out of roast duck." Voorhees grumbled. "Leave her be." Palmer said sternly.

    Duncan was rested on the floor, back propped against the wall. Voorhees handed him a few pills. "What are those?" Jenna asked. "You don't recognize these babies?" Voorhees answered. "I thought you kept bowls of them backstage." Before she could retort, he said to the others, "The squeamish need to wait outside. Don't leave this floor, don't mess with locked rooms. Okay?"

    Palmer took Cheryl out of the room. Lauren looked from Jenna to the door. "I'm staying, Laurie." Jenna said quietly. "Just hang out in the hall. Okay?"

    Lauren nodded glumly and left. The door clicked in her wake, and the room was silent.

    Duncan took the pills with a mouthful of water and closed his eyes. "How long?"

    "Ten minutes and you'll be under. You'll feel like it, anyway." Voorhees fished the first-aid kit out from under his files and, removing the tourniquet from Duncan's leg, pressed a wad of gauze against the wound. "O'Connell, there's a little bag under the chair. See it? Needle and thread are inside."

    Jenna opened the bag. "Are you kidding?"

    "What?"

    "These are for mending socks."

    "You got another idea? Kiss it better maybe? We need to close this gash up before it gets infected."

    Infected...what a choice of words. Jenna threw the bag to Voorhees.

    Duncan's breathing had relaxed, and he looked like he might be unconscious. Jenna sat in the chair and watched Voorhees thread his needle. "I don't know what kind of person you think I am, but I was never a drug-addicted slut."

    "Every professional musician since the plague has been a drug-addicted slut." The cop replied flatly. "It's their escape from the world."

    "So what's yours? Playing policeman in a ghost town?"

    He didn't say anything for a few minutes. Duncan moaned slightly, then his head fell onto his chest.

    "I stayed here to help the residents who refused to leave. It's their right to stay and it's their right to be protected."

    "Did you ever ask yourself why I came out here?" Jenna felt something rising in her throat, a sob maybe; she choked it down and went on. "Why would I come to a coastal city under martial law if I was just a party girl? I thought maybe...I don't know, I thought I could make people smile a little. There's nothing wrong with forgetting about the hell we live in for just one day. If all we're doing anymore is surviving, what's the fucking point?"

    Voorhees removed the gauze from Duncan's wound and shifted to sit beside the unconscious man. "You've got me there."

    In the hallway, Cheryl and Lauren stood quiet while Palmer rummaged through another office. She came out with a pair of gloves. "Anyone cold?"

    The girls shook their heads. Palmer went to put the gloves on, and a crumpled cigarette pack fell from the left one.

    She knelt and picked it up. There were smokes inside.

    "Mother of God." Cheryl whispered.

    She leaned forward eagerly, and Palmer handed her one. She stuck a second cig in her own mouth and went back into the office. "There must be a light in here. Lord, let there be a light."

    A cry of triumph, and she came out holding a tiny flame to her lips. Cheryl ran over to light up. They both inhaled slowly, filling their throats, their lungs; they sighed happily.

    "You smoke?" Palmer asked Lauren. She shook her head no.

    "I never, ever, ever dreamed I'd smoke again." Cheryl held her cigarette out before her, as if it perhaps weren't real. "I haven't smoked since I was seventeen. And just one cost you the shirt off your back! This..."

    "It's a blessing." Palmer spoke through a gray cloud. She propped herself against the wall. "It'll help with the hunger pangs. Are you sure you don't want one, Lauren?" Another shake of the head.

    "Where did you come here from, hon?" The reverend asked Cheryl.

    "The badlands."

    "Really? How'd you end up here?"

    "Long story."

    "We've got plenty of time."

    "I was with my brother, and he was dodging the draft. There are thousands of people out there in shanty towns. It's really not that bad, about the same as it is here...just no walls."

    "No cops either."

    Cheryl shuddered at that. "I'm sorry," Palmer gasped, "I didn't mean--"

    "I know, I know. I can't even bring myself to think about that right now. But my brother...well, as we moved further south he started dropping hints that I should stay with my cousin here in the Harbor. He was only trying to look out for me, but I felt like I was a burden or something. I got more and more difficult...those last weeks together we fought constantly. I cursed him for running away from the Army and taking me with him, even though I knew Portland had fallen. Portland, Oregon, our hometown."

    "Ah."

    "Anyway, we weren't too far outside the city gates when a couple of rotters hit us. They must have been wandering all around the walls, because as soon as I screamed more of them came stumbling out of the night. There were...there were runners. Have you ever seen them?" Tears welled in Cheryl's eyes. "I have," Palmer nodded. "You're lucky to be alive."

    "I'm not lucky. He saved me. He pulled them off of me and onto himself...he laid there, and they took the easy prey while I ran."

    "If he hadn't, you wouldn't be here now - and I know you'd say that's not much consolation, but you can't blame yourself. You can't tell yourself that you weren't worth saving. If you do, that means his death was a waste."

    Cheryl stubbed her cigarette butt out on a windowsill. She didn't speak. Palmer gave her another one.

    "Maybe you're right." The girl finally said.

    A few hours later, Duncan was awake, though groggy, and he was carried by Voorhees and Jenna down the hall to a dark room. They placed him on a cot. The door closed, and Duncan stared into blackness.

    He heard a weight shifting beside the cot.

    "Someone there?"

    "It's me." Jenna's voice. "How does the leg feel?"

    "I don't feel much. A dull ache I guess. Ugh, I'm fucking stoned."

    "How's your head?"

    "Iffy."

    Her hands, on the edge of the coat, moved to touch his side.

    "Jenna?"

    She kissed him on the cheek. Her breath smelled like coffee. "Is this okay?"

    "What?"

    "I want to do this. Do you?"

    "Jenna--"

    "If you can't, because of the leg, it's all right." But she began undoing his jeans. And, though he could have stopped her, could have done more than say her name, he didn't.

    Water sloshed. A wet cloth slipped into his pants and massaged his crotch. His loins throbbed and he nearly came. "W-what are you doing?"

    "I want to be clean." Her pants rustled, descending to her ankles. "I want this to be good. I don't want to fuck, Mark, I want to feel good." She was still massaging him with the cloth, and he rolled slightly, searching with his hands. "You have another?"