Claire jerked the metal pin loose from the handle and aimed the hose at the burning floorboards, where the flame danced in white and blue. She squeezed the lever down and a hissing plume of snowy spray whooshed out, blasting over the debris in a powdery cloud. Barely able to see through the billowing white-ness, she directed the hose over everything, dousing the wreckage liberally with the oxygen killer. Within a minute, the fire appeared to be out, but she kept up with the extinguisher until it ran dry.
At the last spluttering cough of spray, Claire let go of the handle and took a few more shallow breaths, inspecting the smoking wreck for any spots she’d missed. Not a flicker, but the wooden door alongside the helicopter’s flocked cockpit was still leaking ten-drils of black smoke. She leaned closer and saw a tinge of glowing orange under the charred surface. The area surrounding the burning wood had already been torched, but she didn’t want to take any chances; she stepped back and gave the door a solid kick, aiming for the glowing embers.
Her boot connected squarely with the hot spot, and the door flew open with a splintering crack, the
scorched wood giving way in a sparking shower of cinders. A few landed on her bare calf, but she drew her weapon before stopping to brush them off, more afraid of what might be waiting behind the ruined door than a few blisters.
A short, empty hallway, littered with jagged pieces of splintered wood and hazy with smoke, then a door at the end on the left; Claire moved toward it, as much to get to some fresh air as to see where it led. With the immediate threat of the fire over with, she had to start looking for Leon—and thinking about what they’d need to survive. If she could check out a few of the rooms along the way, maybe she’d be able to find stuff they could use.
A phone that works, car keys . . . hell, a couple of machine guns or aflame-thrower would be nice, but III take what I can get.
The plain door at the end of the hall was unlocked. Claire pushed it open, ready to fire at anything that moved—
• and stopped, feeling mildly shocked by the bi-zarre atmosphere of the lavish room. It was like some parody of a men’s club from the fifties, a large office decorated with an extravagance that bordered on the ridiculous. The walls were lined with heavy mahogany bookshelves and matching tables, surrounding a kind of sitting area made up of padded leather chairs and a low marble table, all set atop an obviously expensive oriental rug. An elaborate chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting a rich, mellow light over it all. Framed pictures and delicate vases were situated through-out—but their classic designs were overwhelmed by the stuffed animal heads and poised, lifeless birds that dominated the room, most gathered around a massive desk at the far side—
• oh, Jesus—
Laid out across the desk, like some character from a gothic horror story, was a beautiful young woman in a flowing white gown, her guts ripped to bloody shreds. The corpse was like a centerpiece; the dried and dusty animals stared down at her with dead glass eyes—there was a falcon and what looked like an eagle, their ratty wings spread in simulated flight, as well as a couple of mounted deer heads and that of a nappy furred moose. The effect was so creepy and surreal that for a moment, Claire couldn’t breathe—
• and when the high-backed chair behind the desk swiveled around suddenly, she barely held back a shriek of superstitious terror, half expecting to see some vision of dark and grinning death. It was only a man—but a man with a gun, pointed at her. Twice in one night, what are the odds—
For a second, neither of them moved—and then the man lowered his weapon, a sickly half-smile playing across his pudgy face.
“I’m terribly sorry,” he said, his voice as oily and false as a bad politician’s. “I thought you were anoth-er one of those zombies.”
He smoothed his bristly mustache with one thick finger as he spoke, and although Claire had never met him before, she suddenly knew who he was; Chris had bitched about him often enough.
Fat, mustachioed, and as slick as a snake-oil sales-man—it’s the police chief. Irons.
He didn’t look good, his cheeks flushed with high color and his porcine eyes rimmed with puffed white flesh. The way his gaze darted around the room was unsettling, as if he was in the grip of some kind of heavy paranoia. In fact, he looked unbalanced, like he wasn’t all that connected to reality.
“Are you Chief Irons?” she asked, trying to sound pleasantly respectful as she stepped closer to the desk. “Yes, that’s me,” he said smoothly, “and just who are you?”
Before she could speak, Irons went on, confirming Claire’s suspicions with what he said next—and with the bitter, petulant tone in which he said it. “No, don’t bother telling me. It makes no difference. You’ll end up like all the others. ...”
He trailed off, staring down at the dead woman in front of him with some emotion that Claire couldn’t place. She felt bad for him, in spite of all that Chris had told her about his rotten personality and profes-sional incompetence; God only knew what horrors he’d witnessed, or what he’d had to do to survive. Is it any wonder that he’s having trouble with reality? Leon and I wandered into this horror show in the last reel; Irons was here for the previews, which probably included watching his friends die.
She looked down at the young woman on the desk and Irons spoke again, his voice somehow sad and pompous at the same time.
“That’s the mayor’s daughter. I was supposed to look out for her, but I failed miserably. ...” Claire searched for some words of comfort, wanting to tell him that he was lucky to have lived, that it wasn’t his fault—but as he continued his lament, the words died in her throat, along with her pity. “Just look at her. She was a true beauty, her skin nothing short of perfection. But it will soon putre-fy... and within the hour, she’ll become one of those things. Just like all the others.”
Claire didn’t want to jump to any conclusions, but the wistful longing in his tone and in his shining, hungry stare made her skin crawl. The way he was looking at the dead girl—
• you’re imagining things. He’s the chief of police, not some perverted lunatic. And he’s the first person you’ve met who might be able to give you some kind of information. Don’t waste the opportunity. “There must be some way to stop it. . . ” Claire said gently.
“In a manner of speaking. A bullet in the brain—or decapitation.”
He finally looked away from the body, but not at Claire. He turned to gaze at the stuffed creatures perched on the edge of his desk, his voice taking on a resigned but somehow mirthful quality.
“And to think—taxidermy used to be my hobby.
No longer. . . ”
Claire’s internal alarms were doing some serious jangling. Taxidermy? What the hell did that have to do with the dead human being on his desk? Irons was finally looking at her, and Claire didn’t like it one bit. His dark and beady gaze was directed at her face, but he didn’t seem to actually see her at all. For the first time, it occurred to her that he hadn’t asked her one question about how she’d come to be there or commented on the smoke that had leaked into his office. And the way he’d talked about the mayor’s daughter ... no real sorrow at her passing, only self-pity and some kind of twisted admiration. Oh, boy. Oh boy oh boy, he’s not just out of touch here, he’s on a different goddamn planet—