Empire (30 page)

    "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.

    Death stood in an endless tunnel with candles set into niches in the walls, their halos of light constricted so that he was in complete darkness.

    He began to reconstitute his body in the living world, but stopped. He knew Lily was alive - her flame still burned bright - but did it even matter? When her candle went out, it went out. As they all eventually did. He watched the tiny fires around him flicker and jump in life's dance.

    I don't want to do this anymore, he thought.

    (Then quit.)

    Who are you?

    (Don't worry about it. So are you quitting?)

    This is all I am - my purpose is my being. If I quit, I cease to exist.

    (No, not really. I've never made anything that didn't eventually find its will. Will becomes being, purpose becomes secondary. That's life I guess.)

    You made me?

    (I sure did. As I made others before you, and as, if you quit, I'll make another one.)

    I'm not the first? The first Reaper?

    (Humanity was around long before you were. Don't feel bad for being so presumptuous - you've been nothing but an ego for so long, you weren't meant to ponder things like that. But you, my friend, have begun pondering. Can I ask a question?)

    Of course.

    (What was it? What woke you up?)

    It was...a child. A little girl.

    (But for thousands and thousands of years you've seen a parade of children living and dying. What was it about this one?)

    It wasn't just her. It really started with the afterdead. I have to ask - did you make them? If so, why?

    (Ummm. Maybe I did. I don't remember. Doesn't seem like my work though, does it? No will, no soul.)

    That's it?

    (If I knew more I'd say so. Sorry. But back to this girl.)

    She doesn't have much time left. But I can't just let her die. It's not...it doesn't seem...

    (Doesn't seem right.)

    Yes. Exactly. But as you said I've seen billions of young flames snuffed out. I don't remember a single face or name. I don't know what's different about her.

    (What's her name?)

    Lily.

    (Lilith? I like that. How do you feel about her?)

    It makes me angry when I think about what might happen to her.

    (Anger. That's fear, really, did you know that? You're afraid of what might happen. And what might happen is her death. You see, she made you look at yourself and you didn't like what you saw.)

    I suppose that makes sense. Actually, that makes a lot of sense. Perfect sense.

    (Yeah I can be fairly perceptive sometimes)

    (So you are going to quit, right?)

    Yes. I am.

    (Do you have any more questions before I cut you loose?)

    I can go back to the living world, can't I? And help her?

    (Sure. But you won't be able to reconstitute yourself again after this next time. When you're done, you're done. There's no Heaven or Hell or anything else waiting for you. If anything, I guess you're about to enter your afterlife.)

    My scythe.

    (You made it, it's yours. I like it by the way, novel idea to forge a tool from their bones so that you could affect them. Did it ever occur to you that the concept was born of your own imagination?)

    It didn't...

    (See, it was only a matter of time before you found your will.)

    If I'm not the first - and not the first to quit - that means are there others like me out there?

    (Hmm. Well, there were. Like I said, you'll be a wholly corporeal being - your existence will become temporary. Theirs were temporary too.)

    Do you know what happened to them?

    Do you?

    (I can't go down this road with you. Foresight is one of the things you're surrendering. You won't be able to see Lily's flame anymore, but you will be able to intervene in her life. And you won't know how much time you yourself have left, but you'll have a life of your own. You're trading certainty away. Do you understand?)

    I understand.

    (Anything else?)

    Do I...have a...

    name?

    (Not until you pick one.)

    That's it then.

    (Oh. Farewell.)

    And just like that, it was.

    On the thoroughfare south of the city plaza, the nameless being stirred and rose to his feet. His steed rose with him, and he stepped over Gene's prone body to climb atop the horse's back.

    Most of the afterdead had cleared out of the plaza. The sun was going down, filling their eyes with light, and they shuffled blindly amongst themselves.

    He backed cautiously toward a strip mall across the street. None of them appeared to have noticed him - then one let out a baleful moan...

    And was knocked down by a crushing blow to the head. P.O. Voorhees stood over the rotter and swung his widowmaker into its face. The skull split like an overripe fruit.

    He handed the cleaver to Mark Duncan, who nodded in understanding and took it, giving Voorhees the shotgun in return. Jenna O'Connell had the revolver that Tetch's zombie had dropped in the City Hall lobby. The fallen rotter continued to flail its limbs as they walked past it, but it wasn't getting back up, nor could it moan.

    The man on the horse, sitting motionless in a long shadow, saw that Lily wasn't with them. He decided to follow. The horse's hooves were eerily quiet on the asphalt.

    The living moved quickly from block to block, staying behind businesses to avoid the intermittent clusters of undead that stood in the streets. Just after they left the cover of a small building, a rotter stumbled out the back door and saw them crossing the road. It opened its bloody mouth--

    And a scythe exploded through its chest.

    Duncan had taken point and was ready to quietly dispatch anything that got in their path. Voorhees wielded the shotgun like a club; firing it was his last option. Jenna tucked the revolver into the waistband of her pants.

    "Please. Please." A voice called.

    A man, shirtless, walked toward them. He held out a grasping hand and repeated, "Please." His tone was flat, without urgency or emotion.

    It was a rotter, parroting something it had probably heard from one of its victims. Voorhees motioned for Duncan to hand him the widowmaker, but the latter shook his head and approached the talker himself.

    "Please." The undead said mechanically. Saliva ran in thick gobs down its chin.

    Duncan swung the blade into its neck and wrestled it to the ground. He sawed frantically through meat and bone until the gurgling head fell free. Its eyes stayed focused on him.

    Voorhees touched his shoulder. "Leave it."

    They were nearing the construction site. Bad memories, recent ones. Duncan silently vowed there wouldn't be any more.