With her remaining hand, the woman grabbed the Omega’s head and sunk her fingers into his left eye. He shook his head frantically, losing his grip on the shovel. Adam fell, prying himself off of its blade.
The rotter turned on the woman in white. Raising the shovel over his head, he drove it like a spear into her breast. She sagged, eyelids fluttering. He was killing her.
The scythe exploded through the Omega’s ribs. Adam turned the blade sharply to the right and raked it through the rotter’s black guts. Ichor spewed from the undead’s mouth. Throwing the Omega into the wall, Adam fell upon him, hacking flesh away from bone, the rumble in his throat building to a roar that blurred his vision. All he saw was his blade coming down again, and again, and dark chunks of meat spattering the walls.
Adam collapsed in a heap, exhausted by his rage. The Omega was a ruin. The rotter gnashed his teeth, staring at the ceiling as he tried to gather his spilled guts. As Adam watched, the thing’s trembling hands fell motionless.
He crawled over to the woman in white, lying on her back, eyes barely open.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, touching her face, her beautiful face, looking into her glistening dark eyes. He felt something welling up in him, and choked; his vision blurred again, this time from grief, and he felt wetness spreading beneath his eyes.
His tears fell on her cheek. She blinked and looked up at him. “Adam?”
“I’m so sorry,” he wept.
“Don’t be.” She took his hand, his ugly, charred hand, and said, “I love you.”
He buried his face in her neck. She sighed, and then he was alone. Snowflakes swirled around their prone forms.
Adam staggered to his feet and crossed the room to where the Omega lay. He knew it was still in there; the blue spark of undeath still resided in those rotten bones. He was still in there, while she was gone.
Adam drove the scythe through the rotter’s face and into the floor. He fell to his knees and screamed, “WHY HER?” He forced the blade deeper. “WHY? TELL ME WHY!”
There was no answer from the Omega. It was just a rotter, after all, dead and dumb. Just a rotter that had killed a woman.
He pulled the scythe out and sat back on the floor.
Lily.
Something about the woman in white had reminded him of Lily. He couldn’t place his finger on it. He only knew that he wouldn’t — couldn’t — let the same fate befall the child.
Twenty-Eight / Memory
There was a knock on Voorhees’ door. He dragged himself out of bed and limped across his quarters.
He’d already started to get used to the blindness, at least as far as mobility was concerned. He knew the layout of his place and could move about with confidence. He’d tried counting his steps at first, but it was easier just to trust his gut.
How much longer would he be a cop? Casey was being supportive now, but Voorhees suspected the man didn’t have a strong sense of loyalty. He was part of the problem. No, Voorhees would be out on the streets soon enough — Meyer’s streets — and what prospects did he have then? He’d been a cop as long as he could remember. A damn good cop, even blind, but they wouldn’t see it that way.
Goddamn you, Killian.
He leaned against the door. “Who is it?”
“Halstead.”
He opened the door, and she took his arm. “I need you to come see this.”
See. “What is it?”
“Stir-fry and rice.”
She led him to her place and sat him down at a table in the front room. The smell was mouth-watering. He heard her pouring something, and she placed a wine glass in his hand. “Two thousand California merlot. Just uncorked it a few hours ago.”
“This is illegal, isn’t it?”
“Hence why it’s in police custody. Try it.”
She guided his hand to his fork and napkin. “I figured stir-fry would be easy for you to eat. Might be a little messy, I guess. Don’t sweat it.”
“I didn’t know you cooked, Halstead.” Voorhees carefully lifted a mouthful to his lips.
“My dad taught me to cook,” she said. “He made sure I could take care of myself. That was life in the badlands.”
“Tucson.”
“Right. I had a big family. My folks and I lived with two uncles and aunts and three cousins. We actually used to play outside. Can you believe that? Huge fenced-in yard with a clear view of all the roads. If any rotters appeared on the horizon, one of my uncles would be sitting on the roof and blow their heads clean off. He’d call down to us whenever he spotted one. ‘Two o’clock!’” She laughed softly. “Those were the best years of my life.”
“What finally brought you north?”
“Same reason as everybody else,” she said. “I lost everything.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to say that. I know.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes. He heard her refilling her glass. “We were attacked one night,” she said. “From a distance, they looked like badlanders — they even carried torches. They had a caravan drawn by dead horses. They surrounded the house, lining the fence. By the time we realized they were undead they’d already thrown the torches. The house was on fire.
“They just waited. They could have brought the fence down and stormed the house, but they smoked us out. Then they came for us.”
She sighed, long and loud; trying to hold back tears. “My cousin and I were the only ones who got away. My cousin Will. We managed to survive for a few weeks in the desert before the infection took him.”
She drained her glass again. “He was the first rotter I killed.”
“Sor—” Voorhees stopped himself. Instead he asked, “It was a caravan. You mean like the old King of the Dead legend?”
“It’s no legend,” she said quietly.
Another moment of silence. Voorhees scraped his plate to make sure it was clear. “Well, I can’t eat any more.”
“Neither can I. But I could use another drink. You?”
“Sure.”
She topped off his glass. “Here’s to looking forward instead of back.” And she clinked her glass against his.
Suddenly he remembered going out the window; shards of glass tinkling in mid-air, Killian flying away from him. He remembered thinking it’s a cop before he hit the street.
He remembered he hadn’t thought it was Killian.
Killian, like Casey, like Blake, like all the others, believed in the system. No, he had only one sympathetic ear when he complained about the state of things.
He reached his left hand across the table. She touched it gently. He seized her fingers, and she gasped in pain.
“Did I break any of them? When I hit you with the baton?” he asked.
She rose from her seat and he rose with her, snatching her other arm and pulling her to him. He wrapped her in a cruel embrace. “And you must have hurt your back when you fell. Did you?” He shook her roughly.
She cried out. “Stop!”
“Was it worth it?” he shouted. “Was it worth killing Blake and framing Killian? Was it worth blinding me? Did you get what you wanted? Huh?”
She tried to break free, but he held her like a vise. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone else!” she said. “I tried not to hurt any cops — you know that!”
“I know you fucking failed! Miserably!” He threw her to the floor and swept the dishes from the table. “What’s it all about? Destabilizing the government? Throwing the people into a panic? Destroying Gaylen? Is that how you’re going to fix things? You goddamn fool!”
“You don’t understand!” she cried. “There are people all over the city preparing for this! People in every city! We’re going to bring down the Wall and give America back its resources — it’s about saving the rest of the country, Voorhees!”