Claire hit the second-to-top riser and stopped dead, a whipping wind pounding rhythmically at her bare shoulders as the giant black vehicle hovered into view, half lost in shadow. It was near the ancient water tower that bordered the helipad at the south-west corner, though she couldn’t tell if it had just taken off or was coming in to land.
Couldn’t tell and didn’t care. “Hey!” she shouted, raising her left hand into the air. “Hey, over here!” Her words were lost in the blowing dust that swirled across the rooftop, drowned out by the steady chop of the ‘copter’s blades. Claire waved wildly, feeling like she’d just hit the lottery.
Somebody came! Thank God, thank you!
A blaring searchlight snapped on from the midsec-tion of the hovering bird, scrawled across the roof—and was going in the wrong direction, away from her. Claire waved more frantically, drawing in breath to call out again—
• and saw what the spotlight saw, even as she heard the desperate, mostly unintelligible shout beneath the ‘copter’s roar. A man, a cop, standing at the helipad’s corner opposite the stairs, backed against an elevated section of the roof. He held what looked like a machine gun and appeared to be very much alive.
“—get over here—“
The officer shouted at the helicopter, his voice tinged with panic; Claire saw why and felt her relief evaporate. There were two zombies lurching through the darkness of the helipad, headed for the well-lit target that was the shouting cop. She raised the nine-millimeter and then lowered it helplessly, afraid of hitting the cornered man.
The spotlight didn’t waver, illuminating the horror with brilliant clarity. The cop didn’t seem to realize how close the zombies were until they were grabbing for him, their stringy arms extending into the beam
of fixed white light.
“Stay back! Don’t come any closer!” he cried, and with the pure terror in his voice, Claire heard him perfectly. Just like she heard his howling scream as the two decaying figures obscured her view, reaching him at the same time.
The sound of his automatic weapon ripped across the helipad, and even over the helicopter’s clamor Claire could hear the whining ting of bullets flying wild. She dropped, knees cracking against the top step as the weapon’s clattering fire went on and on—
• and there was a change in the sound of the ‘copter, a strange hum that rose quickly into a me-chanical scream. Claire looked up and saw the giant craft dip down, the back end swinging around in an erratic, jerking arc.
Jesus, he hit them!
The ‘copter’s spotlight was going all directions at once, flashing across metal pipes and concrete and the dying struggles of the cop, somehow still firing as the two monsters tore at him—
• and then the helicopter was coming down, tee-tering sideways, its blades slamming into the brick of the elevated roof with a tremendous crash. Before Claire could blink, the nose of the craft hit—plowing across the helipad in a curtain of screeching sparks and flying glass.
The explosion happened just as the mammoth machine slid to a stop against the southwest corner—directly on top of the fallen cop and his killers. The rattle of the machine gun was finally cut off in the whoosh of flame that sprang up after the initial sputtering boom, lighting the rooftop in a burning red glow. At the same instant, something in the roof gave with a rending crunch, as the nose of the ‘copter plunged through a brick wall and out of sight. Claire stood up on legs she barely felt, staring in disbelief at the leaping fire that dominated almost half of the helipad. It had all happened too fast for her to feel like it had happened at all, and the smoking, burning evidence in front of her only made the sense of unreality greater. An acrid, sickly-sweet odor of burning meat wafted over her on a wave of heated air, and in the sudden silence, she could hear the soft groans of the zombies down in the courtyard. She shot a look down the stairs and saw that both of the dead cops were at the foot, blindly and uselessly falling against the bottom step. At least they couldn’t climb ...
. .. can’t. Climb. Stairs.
Claire turned her frightened glance toward the door that led into the RPD building, maybe thirty feet from the curling, popping flames that were slowly eating the body of the ‘copter. Except for the stairs, it was the only way onto the roof. And if zombies couldn’t climb—
• then I’m in some deep shit. The station isn’t safe.
She stared thoughtfully at the burning wreck, weighing her options. The nine-millimeter held a lot of ammo and she still had two full clips; she could head back into the street, look for a car with keys in it and go for help.
Except what about Leon? And that cop was still alive—what if there are more people inside, planning an escape?
She thought she’d held up pretty well on her own so far, but she also knew she’d feel safer if somebody else were in charge—a riot squad would be okay, though she’d settle for some battle-scarred veteran cop with a shitload of guns. Or Chris; Claire didn’t know if she’d find him at the station, but she firmly believed that he was still alive. If anyone was equipped to handle himself in a crisis like this one, it was her brother. Whether or not she found anybody, she shouldn’t take off without telling Leon; if she didn’t, blowing town instead, and he got killed looking for her. .. . Decision made. Claire walked for the entrance, carefully skirting the blaze and scanning the flickering shadows for movement. When she reached the door, she closed her eyes for a second, one sweating hand on the latch.
“I can do this,” she said quietly, and although she didn’t sound as confident as she would’ve liked, at least her voice didn’t tremble or break. She opened her eyes, then the door; when nothing jumped out at her from the softly lit hall, she slipped inside.
ElGHf
CHIEF OF POLICE BRIAN IRONS WAS STANDing in one of his private corridors, trying to catch his breath, when he felt the shuddering impact rumble through the building. He heard it, too—heard some-thing. A distant splintering sound, heavy and abrupt. The roof, he thought distantly, something on the roof. . .
He didn’t bother following the thought to any kind of conclusion. Whatever had happened, it couldn’t make things any worse.
Irons pushed away from the stone wall with one well-padded hip, hefting Beverly as gently as he could. They’d be at the elevator in a moment, then there was just the short walk to his office; he could rest there, and then—
“And then,” he mumbled, “that’s the question, isn’t it? And then what?”
Beverly didn’t answer. Her perfect features re-mained still and silent, her eyes closed—but she seemed to nestle closer to him, her long, slender body curling against his chest. It was his imagination, surely.
Beverly Harris, the mayor’s daughter. Youthful, stunning Beverly, who had so often haunted his guilty dreams with her blond beauty. Irons hugged her closer and continued toward the elevator, trying not to let his exhaustion show in case she woke up. By the time he reached the lift, his back and arms were aching. He probably should have left her in his private hobby room, the room he’d always thought of as the Sanctuary—it was quiet there, and probably one of the safest areas in the station. But when he’d decided to go to the office, to collect his journal and a few personal items, he found that he simply couldn’t stand to leave her behind. She’d looked so vulnerable, so innocent; he’d promised Harris that he would watch out for her, and what if she was attacked in his absence? What if he came back from the office and she was just—gone? Gone like everything else .. .A decade of work. Networking, making the connec-tions, careful positioning... all of it, just like that. Irons lowered her to the cold floor and opened the elevator gate, trying desperately not to think about all that he’d lost. Beverly was the important thing now. “Going to keep you safe,” he murmured, and did one corner of that perfect mouth rise slightly? Did she know she was safe, that Uncle Brian was taking care of her? When she was a child, when he used to frequent the Harrises’ for dinner, she’d called him that. “Uncle Brian.”
She knows. Of course she knows.
He half-dragged her into the lift and leaned her in the corner, gazing tenderly at her angelic face. He was suddenly overwhelmed by a rush of almost paternal love for her, and wasn’t surprised to feel tears well up in his eyes, tears of pride and affection. For days now he’d been subject to such emotional outbursts—rage, terror, even joy. He’d never been a particularly emo-tional man, but had grown to accept the powerful feelings, even to enjoy them after a fashion; at least they weren’t confusing. He’d also had moments when he’d been overcome by a kind of strange, creeping haze, a formless anxiety that left him feeling deeply unsettled . . . and as bewildered as a lost child. No more of those. There’s nothing else that can go wrong now; Beverly’s with me, and once I collect my things, we can hide away in the Sanctuary and get some rest. She’ll need time to recover, and I can, can sort things through. Yes, that’s it; things need to be sorted through.
He blinked the already forgotten tears away as the metal cage started to rise, unholstering his sidearm and ejecting the clip to count how many rounds were left. His private rooms were safe, but the office was another story; he wanted to be prepared.
The elevator came to a stop and Irons propped open the gate with one leg before lifting the girl, grunting with the exertion. He carried her as he would have carried a sleeping child, her cool, smooth body limp in his arms, her head rolled back and wobbling as he walked. He’d picked her up awkwardly, and her white gown had hiked up, exposing the tight, creamy skin of her thighs; Irons forced his gaze away, concen-trating on the panel controls that opened the wall into his office. Whatever harmless fantasies he’d had be-fore, she was his responsibility now, he was her protector, her white knight...
He was able to hit the protruding button with one knee. The wall slid open, revealing his plushly deco-rated and thankfully empty office; only the blank, glassy stares of bis animal trophies greeted them. The massive walnut desk that he’d had imported from Italy was right in front of him and his stamina was going fast; Beverly was a petite woman, but he wasn’t in shape the way he used to be. He quickly laid her on the desk, pushing a cup of pencils to the floor with his elbow.
“There!” he exhaled deeply, smiling down at her. She didn’t smile back, but he sensed that she would be awake soon, like before. He reached under the desk and tapped the wall controls; the panel slid closed behind them.
He’d been concerned when he’d first found her, asleep next to Officer Scott in the back hall; George Scott was dead, covered with wounds, and when Irons had seen the red splash on Beverly’s stomach, he’d been afraid that she was dead, too. But when he’d taken her to the Sanctuary, to his safe place, she’d whispered to him—that she didn’t feel well, that she was hurt, that she wanted to go home ...
... did she? Did she really?
Irons frowned, snapped out of the uncertain memo-ry by something, something he’d felt when he’d laid her on his hobby table and straightened her blood-stained gown, something he couldn’t quite recall. It hadn’t seemed important at the time, but now, away from the hidden comforts of the Sanctuary, it was nagging at him. Reminding him that he had suffered one of those confused moments when he’d, when he’d—
• felt the cold, rubbery j elly of intestine beneath my fingers—
• touched her.
“Beverly?” he whispered, sitting down behind his desk when his legs went suddenly weak. Beverly kept her silence—and a turbulent flood of emotions hit Irons like a tidal wave, crashing over him, crowding his mind with images and memories and truths that he didn’t want to accept. Cutting the outside lines after the first attacks. Umbrella and Birkin and the walking dead. The slaughter in the garage, when the bright
coppery scent of blood had filled the air and Mayor Harris had been eaten alive, screaming until the very end. The dwindling numbers of the living through the first long and terrible night—and the cold, brutal realization that had hit him again and again, that the city—his city—was no more. After that, the confusion. The strange and hysteri-cal joy that had come when he’d understood that there would be no consequences for his actions. Irons remembered the game he’d played on the second night, after some of Birkin’s pets had found their way to the station and taken out all but a few of the remaining cops. He’d found Neil Carson cowering in the library and had. . . tracked him, hunting the sergeant down like an animal.
What did it matter? What matters, now that my life in Raccoon is over?
All that was left, the only thing that he had to hold on to, was the Sanctuary—and the part of him that had created it, the dark and glorious heart inside of his own that he’d always had to keep hidden away. That part was free now....
Irons looked at the corpse of Beverly Harris, laid out across his desk like some delicate and fragile dream, and felt that he might be torn apart by the feelings of fear and doubt that warred inside of him.
Had he killed her? He couldn’t remember.
Uncle Brian. Ten years ago, I was her Uncle Brian.
What have I become?