The lieutenant opened a narrow door into a smaller room, where a few toys — dolls, blocks, crayons — were scattered about on faded carpet.
Lily looked up from her place against the wall, arms and legs crossed, and said “When do I get to go home?”
Meyer licked his lips. He looked back at the couple. “How old is she?”
“Twelve,” Jack Calvert said.
“Come on now,” Meyer said in scolding tone. “I’ll need to see papers on that.”
“She might be thirteen or fourteen. We’ve only had her a few months.”
Meyer said to Lily, “Just another minute, sweetheart,” and closed the door to the smaller room. To the Calverts he asked, “Why ten grand? You must know how steep that is.”
“Yes,” Jack said, “but we’re in debt — we owe people and they want it all now. Or else.”
“I see.” Meyer crouched in front of them and said, “Maybe you should refinance with me. Wouldn’t that be better than selling off the girl?”
Jack and Molly looked anxiously at one another. “You’re not really in debt, are you?” Meyer smiled coldly.
Jack stared at his feet, clearing his throat again, trying to find the right words to say. “Just tell me the truth,” Meyer said. “What are you into?”
“You must know about the airfield,” Jack said. Meyer frowned. “Airfield?”
“They’re building an airfield east of the city. The Senate. I think they’re going to have planes come from somewhere and take them out of here. We just — I need to buy seats for me and my wife. We have to get out of here. The girl — Lily — we only took her in for the government support check. We can let her go. We just want the money.”
Meyer stood in silence, staring at them while he sucked on a piece of candy. The room seemed to grow even smaller to Jack and Molly, pressure building behind their eyes, hands trembling… finally he spoke.
“Seven thousand credits.”
Jack nodded immediately. He’d probably expected a lot less than ten. He put his arm around his wife and said, “Yes. Seven. All right.”
“Give this man here your account number. Expect the transfer within the hour. It’ll be entered in as a tax refund. Understand? You were never here. In fact, you never had the girl — I’ll take care of it. All of that clear?”
They both nodded. They looked like they wanted the hell out of there. Meyer decided to suck his candy and let them stew a few more minutes.
What sort of person would sell their child, even a foster child, into sexual slavery? Of course Meyer could make it right on his end, but how did they live with themselves? Heartless people. At least she’d be taken care of now. And she’d be loved… oh, his clients would love little Lily with her budding breasts and long dark hair. S.P.O. Casey would really love her.
“All right. Give my guy your account and walk out of here, and then forget all this,” he said. They scuttled from the room like spooked roaches.
He opened the door to the smaller room. Lily looked a bit more apprehensive. She hadn’t figured it out yet, but she soon would.
“My name’s Finnegan,” he said. “Want some candy?”
She shook her head.
“That’s good. You don’t take candy from strangers. But soon I won’t be a stranger, and then when I offer you candy you’ll take it. Okay?”
He knelt in the doorway like he was talking to a puppy. “Jack and Molly can’t take care of you anymore. They want you to stay here for now. There are lots of other girls here. You’ll like it.”
She drew into a ball and whimpered, “I want to go home.”
“You are home, sweetheart.”
Thirteen / Runners
A light dusting of snow had given the earth a corpse-pallor which was matched by the night sky. A black shape broke the monotony of lingering clouds and headed north.
It had been ages since Dalton had seen a bird in the sky. There was one high above him now, a hawk, circling over a shadowy patch of earth beyond the Wall.
What was the hawk stalking? Based on its behavior it seemed likely that it wasn’t infected, that it was after a small mammal. An infected raptor wouldn’t look outside its own species for prey. But Dalton had orders, and he sighted the hawk through his rifle’s scope and fired.
It was true that people had become infected through contact with animals. If you cornered one, forced it to bite, you’d signed your death warrant; Dalton had seen too many soldiers infect themselves by catching and eating plague-ridden rodents out in the field. There were so many ways that the nightmare could begin — so the military demanded every safeguard enforced. So he fired.
The hawk plummeted to earth, out of view. Dalton needed night vision goggles. The pair he’d owned had been “requisitioned” by a burn team for their evening sweeps. The lights on the Wall just weren’t enough, but they’d have to do. He heard generators humming to life as they came on.
No rotters today. Fewer and fewer each week. But wasn’t it only a matter of time, some would ask, until the hungry dead clustered in the badlands ventured north in search of food?
No, the scientists said. Field studies indicated that the dead stayed close to the communities from which they originated. They didn’t think like people, nor like animals; they didn’t think at all. If they sensed meat nearby, they went after it. Otherwise they just stood and rotted.
Dalton knew it was bullshit. He’d seen a newly-dead soldier shoot at human prey. He’d seen rotters that had felled small trees to block a road and then laid in wait for the next Army patrol. Most of them, he believed, retained some scrap of intellect. If you believed the stories about regeneration, maybe it was possible for rotters to get even smarter.
Don’t worry, the scientists said. Even if it was true, their food supply was dwindling. They were starving out there in the badlands. Someday, Americans could live outside the Wall again. Maybe even in Dalton’s lifetime.
He didn’t buy it. Because he knew that the apocalypse wouldn’t just fade away. He was a man of God and he’d seen the signs. He’d seen the Reaper.
What did the scientists say when confronted with dozens of accounts of the rider on his pale horse? Post-traumatic stress disorder. Psychotic break. Those who openly spoke of seeing the Angel of Death were flagged and relegated to menial jobs: quarantine watch, processing center clerk, orientation aide. Their personnel files had extra forms with red ink. They were called in periodically to chat with a counselor. And hey were always asked: do you still think you saw Death?
Dalton had seen him riding his white steed in the burning remnants of a Louisiana town called Jefferson Harbor. Like many towns, including the Great Cities, Jefferson Harbor had its own wall. It hadn’t made a damn difference.
Bigger walls. More soldiers. More work for the undead, but hardly a deterrent. There was no deterrent. They were zombies.
A runner came into the light. Stumbling toward the Wall, clothed in bloody rags, jaw hanging slack, fingernails black with old gore — the rotter streaked into view and right toward Dalton.
The hawk must have been circling him. It had alerted Dalton to the enemy’s presence, and he’d rewarded it with a bullet.
It wouldn’t make things right, Dalton knew, but he went ahead and put two rounds through the top of the runner’s spine, nearly severing its head from is neck. Then he grabbed his radio.
“Section nineteen. One rotter down.”
His dogs were asleep in the guard post. They were probably awake now, even with his gun silenced. Assured there were no other undead coming, he climbed down to see the Rotties.
At least Logan hadn’t made any more excuses to come by. He was probably busy in Gaylen, anyway. The night made it easier for him to go about his disgusting business.