Empire (11 page)

    Lily shrugged. The man in black studied her hand and her face. He touched her fingers with his, briefly; though his skin was icy cold, Lily felt warm in her chest and she couldn't help smiling at him.

    "Do you like it here?" He asked. She nodded quickly. "Then tell me why you cut your wrists." He said. She stared at the ground.

    "I'll come back later." The man climbed onto his steed. Lily wanted to ask him if she could ride the horse, just around the house a little, but she knew he'd say no. Despite that, she looked forward to his next visit.

    "Yeah. You'll be safer with me, at my place."

    "I appreciate it Mike, really. But--"

    "Cheryl, I understand why it's hard for you to trust me - or anyone for that matter. I really do. And my saying that probably isn't going to ease any tension either, but the simple fact is that if you stay alone in this apartment, you run the risk of being cornered by rotters, looters - maybe friends of your cousin."

    "Lee didn't have friends. He didn't even go outside."

    "But he had a dealer..."

    "Yes."

    "Look, I've been sleeping on the floor in my living room. You can have the bedroom, I'll help you move your things in there. And I've installed new locks on all the doors. Nabbed 'em from the hardware store. No one can get into the apartment if I don't want them to. No one will be able to get into your room if you don't want them to."

    "It's not so much about trust, Mike. It's just...I don't know. Lee's dead. I've been staying with him since I lost my brother, and I don't even remember how long ago that was. My brother controlled me too - he wasn't mean though, he had the best of intentions - but still I couldn't make a move without him. Then Lee. Nothing I did was right in his eyes, even if it was his own damn idea. I just want to run my own life for a change."

    "Makes sense."

    "But?"

    "But safety in numbers still applies. And I broke your lock when I kicked the door in."

    "Nice."

    "You're right though. It's your choice. I'm just putting the offer out there. Okay?"

    Mike pulled a pistol out and handed it to her. "I assume you know how to use this."

    "I do." Cheryl was still reluctant to take it. "The least I can do," he said. "The very least."

    "I'll think about it, okay?" She smiled. Mike doubted that, but he smiled back and left.

    Meanwhile, the guests staying at the Holy Covenant Community shelter had already worn out their welcome. Oates threw open every cupboard in the kitchen and swore. "When did we run out of everything??"

    "There are too many of us here." Reverend Palmer said, leaning against the sink as she filled a pitcher with water. "But I'm not going to ask anyone to leave. I've got no right to decide that one life is worth more or less than another."

    "Then let me do it." Wheeler stood in the doorway. "That ex-con can go first."

    "Shut up, Wheeler."

    "You heard him talking to the cop. He's a pervert! None of us know him anyway."

    "I barely know your ass," Oates barked, "and I hate you more."

    "I'm not leaving." Wheeler said firmly. "I was here 'fore the troops cut and run off. I've been out there gathering food and shit so we can stay alive. But like the Rev said there's too many damn people here now. You know more are on the way, Oates - and I'm not giving this place up just because she can't say no!"

    "This is my shelter." Palmer said, her voice barely above a growl. "If you don't like the way I run it, too bad."

    "You're running it into the fuckin' ground."

    "Then save yourself, Wheeler."

    "I ain't the one leaving!!" He stamped his feet like an obstinate child. "You leave, Palmer! Go somewhere where there are still resources to be wasted on goddamn charity! These are the fuckin' badlands, sister! Those soldiers left us high and dry!"

    "Then. Save. Yourself."

    Oates stepped between the two of them. Though neither had made a move toward the other, threats burned in both of their eyes. Oates had never seen Palmer like this. She was fed up with Wheeler's bullshit, and so was he. "Take a walk." He told Wheeler. The other man snorted in his direction. Oates stood his ground. Wheeler finally groaned and left the doorway.

    "Thanks." Palmer set the full pitcher on the counter. Her hands trembled. "What do you think, Oates? Should we leave the Harbor?"

    "Hell no."

    "He may be a bastard, but he's right about one thing. No matter how many people we have in the shelter, be it ten or two - it won't be long until the city's got no resources left. We're fighting a losing battle."

    "Well, Reverend," Oates replied, his voice shaking as much as her hands, "I don't think nothing's gonna change that."

    He picked at a splinter on one of the boards covering the kitchen window. "This is the end after all, ain't it?"

    Funny, the reverend didn't think about it too much. When Palmer was born there had already been zombies walking the earth. If this plague was the end, THE end, then it was taking its sweet time.

    A young woman named London poked her head into the room. "Can I grab that water from you?"

    "Of course. Sorry." Palmer handed over the pitcher. Oates rapped his knuckles on the boards. "No, I don't imagine I'm gonna find a better place to die than this."

    "So you say stay put?"

    "That's what I say."

    "All right then."

    On the other side of the boards, standing outside the broken window, Aidan listened. The words that he recognized wormed into his brain, the rest quickly faded from memory.

    He straightened his necktie and walked off down the street at a measured, almost-human pace.

    It pulled itself through an opening in the west wall, jagged bits of fencing flaying open its back, and staggered onto an empty street. Most of its colorful costume still clung to the body, pasted there by grime and by fluids seeping through bloated skin.

    The clown stood in the street and looked from side to side. Its red rubber nose was distracting; the clown pulled the nose off and felt most of what was underneath come away with it.

    Rouged lips were turning gray and falling off as the clown idly chewed through them. The white grease paint covering its face was hardly whiter than the skin beneath; an orange wig crawling with maggots was stuck to its bald head. Kid gloves stained brown with old blood. Oversized shoes filled now with pus and rot that squeezed out over the laces with each heavy step. The clown stood in the street and looked for food.

    Someone was coming now, but he wasn't alive. The clean man in his nice suit gave nary a look to the other zombie as he passed. The clown thought of following him, but a few seconds passed and he couldn't recall what he would be following, and where.

    The clown walked down the street. Innards sloshed within its distended belly. A maggot squirming in the rotter's navel dropped past urine-soaked trousers to the ground and was pulverized by a red size 15.

    Time passed; the zombie felt what might be a fracture grinding inside one of its legs. Then it heard a voice and stopped. The voice was coming from a nearby building.

    Inside that building, inside the shelter, a young woman sat with her son. Kipp had been Wendy's foster child for a decade, and any boundaries created by their legally-defined relationship had been forgotten in short order. Kipp was desperate, not for someone to love him, but for someone he could love. Every day his eyes were alight with what seemed an endless affection. He was sixteen now, probably half that age in an emotional sense - Wendy wasn't qualified to make a diagnosis but she'd known from the beginning he was handicapped.

    He was peering through the paper-thin space between slats in a boarded-up window. Wendy sat on a nearby cot fixing one of his worn sneakers.

    "The circus!" He said softly, breathlessly. Wendy looked up and he smiled at her. Climbing down from his perch atop a broken radiator, he padded across the community room in his socks.

    "Kipp!" Wendy called. "Don't go anywhere we haven't talked about. Especially without your shoes."

    He nodded and continued out of the room. London followed Wendy's loving gaze. "He's a sweet boy."

    "Yes, he is."

    "What did you do before you ended up here?" London asked.

    "I was - am - a social worker. I work with a lot of children like Kipp. He's actually helped me a lot with that - he always sees the brighter side."

    "I think they've got it better than we do," London said, then blushed. "Sorry, that must've sounded awful."

    "No, no, I think you're right," Wendy replied, "and we could probably stand to learn a thing or two."

    At the shelter's front entrance, Kipp quietly moved the barricade back.

    The clown stood out front now, listening intently. Its gloved hands tightened into hungry fists. A young boy's laugh floated through the door.

    The door cracked ever so slightly and the boy peered out. The clown stood still, waiting to see what would happen.

    Opening the door just enough to get his skinny body through, the boy came out, stood and smiled broadly. He was waiting too.

    The clown opened its mouth. Its painted smile split like a wound to reveal the remnants of decayed teeth. It reached for him.

    The boy screamed. He threw himself at the door, not thinking to try and squeeze through the space he'd made, his frail body useless against the barricade. The clown fumbled at his shoulders. Its hands were broken and numb. Carefully, it stooped so that it could reach the boy with its open mouth.