… 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 jelly 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?
It was too much. Without taking his gaze from her lifeless face, he pulled the loaded VP70 from its holster and began to rub the barrel with numb fingers, gentle strokes that reassured him somehow as the weapon turned toward him. When the bore was pressed firmly against his soft belly, he felt that some kind of peace might be within reach. His finger settled across the trigger, and it was then that Beverly whis– pered to him again, her lips still, her sweet, musical voice coming from nowhere and everywhere at once.
… don't leave me, Uncle Brian. You said you'd keep me safe, that you'd take care of me. Think of what you could do now that everyone is gone and there's nothing to stop you… "You're dead," he whispered, but she kept talking, soft and insistent.
… nothing to stop you from being fulfilled, truly fulfilled for the first time in your life…
Tortured and aching, Irons slowly, slowly pulled the nine-millimeter away from his stomach. After a mo– ment, he rested his forehead against Beverly's shoul-der and closed his tired eyes. She was right, he couldn't leave her. He'd prom– Ised – and there was something to what she'd said, about all of the things he could do. His hobby table was big enough to accommodate all kinds of animals… Irons sighed, not sure what to do next-and won-dering why he was in such a hurry to decide, anyway. They would rest for a while, perhaps even take a nap together. And when they awoke, things would be clear again.
Yes, that was it. They would rest, and then he could sort things through, take care of business; he was the chief of police, after all.
Feeling in control of himself again, Brian Irons slipped into a light and uneasy doze, Beverly's cool flesh like a balm against his feverish brow.
NINE
Thanks to a van parked in the alley behind Kendo's, Leon's straight shot to the station had taken a few detours – through an infested basket-ball court, another alley, and a parked bus that had reeked from the sprawled corpses inside. It was a nightmare, punctuated with whispering howls, the stink of decay, and once, a distant explosion that made his limbs feel weak. And though he had to shoot three more of the walking dead and was wired to the teeth with adrenaline and horror, he somehow man– aged to hold on to his hope that the RPD building would be a safe haven, that there would be some kind of crisis center set up, manned by police and paramedics – people in authority making decisions and marshaling forces. It wasn't just a hope, it was a need; the possibility that there might be no one left in Raccoon to take charge was unthinkable. When he finally stumbled out into the street in front of the station and saw the burning squad cars, he felt like he'd been hit in the gut. But it was the sight of the decaying, moaning police officers staggering around the dancing flames that truly wiped out his hope. There were only about fifty or sixty cops on the RPD force, and a full third of them were lurching through the wreckage or dead and bloody on the pavement not a hundred feet from the front door of the station. Leon forced the despair away, fixing his sight on the gate that led to the RPD building's courtyard. Wheth– er or not anyone had survived, he had to stick with his plan, put out a call for help – and there was Claire to think about. Concentrating on his fears would only make it harder to do whatever needed to be done. He ran for the gate, nimbly dodging a horribly burned uniformed cop with blackened bones for fingers. As he clutched the cold metal handle and pushed, he realized that some part of him was grow– ing numb to the tragedy, to the understanding that these things had once been the citizens of Raccoon. The creatures that roamed the streets were no less horrible, but the shock of it all just couldn't be sustained; there were too many of them.
Not too many here, thank God…
Leon slammed the gate shut behind him and pushed his sweaty hair off his brow, taking a deep breath of the almost fresh air as he scanned the courtyard. The small, grassy park to his right was well lit enough for him to see there were only a few of the once human creatures, and none close enough to be a threat. He could see the two flags that adorned the front of the station house, hanging limp in the still shadows, and the sight resparked the hope that he thought he'd lost; whatever else happened, he'd at least made it to someplace he knew. And it had to be safer than the streets. He hurried past a blindly reeling trio of the dead, easily avoiding them – two men and a woman; all three could have passed for normal if not for their mournful, hungry cries and uncoordinated staggers.
They must have died recently…
… but they're not dead, dead people don't gush blood when you shoot them. Not to mention the walking-around-and-trying-to-eat-people thing…
Dead people didn't walk… and living people tended to fall down after they'd been shot a few times with.50 caliber slugs, and didn't put up with their flesh rotting on their bones. Questions he hadn't yet had time to ask himself flooded through his mind as he jogged up the front steps to the station, questions he didn't have the answers for – but he would soon, he was sure of it. The door wasn't locked, but Leon didn't allow himself to feel surprise; with all he'd been through since he hit town, he figured that it would be best to keep his expectations to a minimum. He pushed it open and stepped inside, Magnum raised and his finger on the trigger. Empty. There was no sign of life in the grand old lobby of the RPD building and no sign of the disaster that had overtaken Raccoon. Leon gave up on not feeling surprised, closing the door behind him and stepping down into the sunken lobby. "Hello?" Leon kept his voice low, but it carried, echoing back to him in a whisper. Everything looked just as he remembered it; three floors of classically styled architecture in oak and marble. There was a stone statue of a woman carrying a water pitcher in the lower part of the large room, a ramp on either side leading up to the receptionist's station. The RPD seal set into the floor in front of the statue gleamed softly in the diffuse light from the wall lamps, as if it had just been polished.