And so a new girl appeared in the tenement that many knew about but none spoke of.
It was part of Tripper’s “honor the living” philosophy. A prostitution racket was very profitable, especially when one dealt directly in bartered goods rather than imaginary credits. But he refused to exploit human women or, worse, children. That was Meyer’s game.
“So we’re out of luck for a while, eh?” Tripper sighed. “Well, keep me posted. Couple of the girls are starting to look pretty rough. I need some new faces.”
As Logan left the warehouse where Tripper ran a soup kitchen, a young woman P.O. could be seen approaching. “Shit,” Tripper muttered under his breath.
“My name’s Killian,” the cop said. She handed him a piece of paper. “Have you seen anyone matching that description?”
Tripper read it over. It was Lily.
“Nope. Sorry.” He handed the paper back.
“Who runs this place?” Killian peered over his shoulder, hand on her hip all businesslike. Tripper quickly said, “The church on West Avenue. This place was condemned ‘til we fixed it up.”
Killian nodded slowly. “Mind if I ask around about the missing girl?”
“Be my guest,” he said. As soon as she was out of his face, he trudged out into the snow. It was really starting to pile up alongside the buildings and curbs. The Army wouldn’t be bothered to bring a plow truck through until after Christmas.
A few blocks from the soup kitchen he quickened his pace. Ducking into a nondescript office building, he ran up the stairs to his and Cam’s place.
Lily was asleep in the back bedroom, and dreaming…
She found herself in a dark cave, its length seemingly infinite, with small black candles set into recesses in the walls. Though each burned with a brilliant light, their glow did not fill the tunnel; each cast only a small halo about itself. Lily walked in an uncertain blackness.
The tunnel widened, and the walls smoothed, leaving the candles behind; now an eerie phosphorescence emanated from the blue stone surrounding her. The ceiling rose as the tunnel expanded into a great hall lined with pillars. It was freezing; she hugged her arms across her chest and proceeded forward despite a growing sense of dread.
Shadows between the pillars resolved into great bronze statues. She saw a horned, demonic thing with yawning jaws and bat-like wings; an angelic form scarred with deep cuts across its face and chest; a nude figure wrapped in chains, its expression pure malevolence. She saw a bearded man with his hands held out as if to embrace her. And finally, at the end, she saw the last statue: the Reaper.
Robes billowing about his crouched form, he clutched his scythe and peered out from under his hood with blank eyes. Lily reached out to touch his face.
The bronze cracked loudly. She jumped back, looked at her fingers; blood trickled down her palm. The fissure in the Reaper’s cheek widened, and smaller cracks webbed out from it, covering his face and spreading over his body and cloak. The statue groaned. Lily stood rooted to the floor and watched.
The Reaper buckled, knees shattering, bronze splinters flying out and making tiny cuts in Lily’s cheeks. The scythe cracked and fell apart, crumbling to powder. The Reaper’s eyes caved in, and then his head collapsed into his torso and then the entire statue went.
It crashed to the floor with a horrific sound. Lily spun away from the shower of jagged shards. They scored her arms and legs and clattered like bits of glass on the stone floor.
He was gone. Shattered.
Lily stumbled through the remains and stood on the spot where he had been. She picked up a piece of his face. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
A long shadow stretched down the great hall and engulfed her. Lily turned, sobbing, hands trembling, and looked into a hateful, rotting face, a face hauntingly familiar; and then the shovel came down.
She awoke with a scream. Cam grabbed her, saying “It’s all right, just a dream,” and cradling her, even before Lily started to cry. “My friend…” she wept. “He’s in trouble.”
“We’re all in trouble,” Tripper muttered from the doorway. “The cops are looking for you, hon.”
“What should we do?” asked Cam.
“I’d say disappear, but we can’t. Thackeray needs us here.”
“How do we know that his plan is even being carried out?”
“You herd about Manning. It’s happening, babe, as we speak.”
And Tripper was fulfilling his role. He had storehouses full of goods, ammunition, supplies. They’d be ready when it all came down.
Cam got up and rummaged through a dresser beside the bed. Glancing over, Lily saw something tattooed on the outside of Cam’s thigh. “What’s that?”
“Oh, that?” Cam tugged up the hem of her shorts, revealing the image of a skeletal green face, with one bulging eye and strange hair that stood straight up in the middle of its head. “It’s from a talking picture,” Cam explained, “called Return of the Dead or something.”
“What’s a talking picture?” Lily asked.
Cam smiled. “Poor kid.”
“Cam’s real serious about her zombie shit,” Tripper said, grinning.
“Language,” Cam scolded.
“Sorry, sorry.” Tripper sat on the edge of Lily’s bed. “I’ve seen this girl kill more rotters than I can count. That’s why I hang out with her.”
“Yeah, that’s why.” Cam wiggled her ass at him, then pulled a blanket from the dresser drawer. “Here sweetie. It’s getting extra cold in here.”
“Thanks.” Lily let Cam bundle her up, then sighed. “I hope my friend is okay.”
“What’s his name?” Cam asked.
“Death.”
The two adults glanced at one another. Then Tripper shrugged. “Fair enough.”
“I guess we’re all pretty well acquainted with death these days,” Cam mused.
“Yeah,” Lily said. “He let me ride his horse.”
Twenty-Six / Awakening
“Too bad about your eyes, friend,” came Finn Meyer’s voice.
Voorhees sat bolt upright in his hospital bed. He heard Meyer sauntering across the room. “I hear they don’t expect you to recover. Shame.”
“Get the fuck out of here,” Voorhees snarled.
Meyer laughed. “You won’t presume to tell me what to do anymore, Voorhees. You’re finished. If you’re lucky they’ll set you up in one of my slums and you can rot away there. If you’re not lucky… well, there’s always room in Cleveland.
“Do you know about Cleveland?” Meyer asked. He was standing right beside Voorhees. If the cop wanted to, he could grab the bastard and wring his neck right now.
“Cleveland’s where we send all the rubbish,” said Meyer. “It’s outside the Wall. Not many people know that. Casey does. Cullen does.
“See, we’re on the same side, myself and those fellows. The system works. And those who threaten it… well, we have ways of dealing with them. Discreetly.”
Voorhees took a swing. Meyer must have seen it coming, stepped back. “You want to be stupid?” the thug snapped. “Fine. You’ll see, Voorhees. You’re done!”
Meyer stomped out of the room. Voorhees threw the sheets off himself and stumbled out of bed, fumbling to the door and out into the hall. “Nurse!” he barked. “Nurse!” He was getting the hell out of here.
A hand grabbed his elbow. “What are you doing?” Halstead exclaimed.
“Leaving,” he said. “I need my clothes.”
“They’re in your room,” Halstead said, pulling him down the hall. “C’mon, I’ll help you.”
Once back in the room, she said, “Look, Casey’s putting you on paid leave until this is all sorted our.”
“You mean, until they take my job from me? Until I’m thrown to the wolves? Forget it. Meyer is behind these attempted killings and I’m bringing him down.”