Seven / The Beat
“I’m assigning you to the lake district,” Senior P.O. Casey told Voorhees. “It’s blocked out in red on the big map.”
The hotel which had been converted to a living quarters for Gaylen’s Peace Officers also housed the department itself. Killian had explained that Gaylen’s original police precincts were all destroyed during the original outbreaks. Overrun by infected and people looking for shelter or arms, most police stations and military installations were lost early on; same for hospitals and airports. Of course there were no airports anymore. Every nation in turn had closed its borders and grounded all flights, domestic and international, in hopes of slowing the plague. Like everything else, it proved pointless.
Voorhees followed Casey across the squad room to the “big map” plastered across the wall. Casey was in a wheelchair, both legs gone below the knees. He probably hated his desk job. And here Voorhees was being put out on the street again after a decade as a senior officer. He’d done plenty of beat work in his S.P.O. role, but he’d also had control and respect with whomever he interacted.
He supposed that he had failed in Jefferson Harbor, and maybe he deserved to start back at the bottom.
“Social Services sent over your cleaver,” Casey said, “but we’re going to have to retire it for the time being. God willing, you’ll never have to use it again.”
He meant Voorhees’ widowmaker, a military-issue blade used in close combat against rotters. He’d decapitated more of them than he could count. The weapon an extension of his arm; now he was going to have to settle for a baton. Not even a gun. The Great Cities kept guns out of the hands of all civilians. He wondered how long that would last.
Another officer walked over and introduced himself as Blake. “I’m Killian’s partner.”
Up until that point, Voorhees had thought he might be paired with her. She had a mouth on her but was easy on the eyes. Voorhees didn’t look forward to another male partner.
“You’ll be with Halstead,” Casey said, reading Voorhees’ expression. “She’s out until tomorrow, as is Killian, so you and Blake’ll patrol the lake district this evening.” Casey turned his chair to face Blake. “Be sure you talk to Meyer about those kids he roughed up the other day.”
“Ready to head out?” Blake asked. Voorhees grabbed his overcoat from the back of his chair. “Why not?”
It was cloudy, as it had been for days, and the city was a hundred shades of gray. People’s faces were hardened slate. As they passed him by they looked away, some at their feet, others at the sky. One muttered something about rain, but she was only talking to herself.
Lots of people in the street. Everyone walked. Shuffled past one another without so much as a word. Patrons in a vegetable market rummaged quietly through bins. It was like a citywide awkward silence.
Blake slapped Voorhees’ arm and led him into the market. “My girlfriend owns it,” he said. “Her brother-in-law runs the biggest farm in Gaylen.”
A petite brunette smiled and stepped away from her counter to hug Blake. “Becca, this is Voorhees.” He looked to Voorhees as if expecting a first name. The man was silent.
“… Well, he’s Emily’s new partner, and I’m giving him the grand tour.”
“Call me Becks,” the girl said. “This one keeps forgetting. Oh, Blake, you oughta take him by the amphitheater. Jeff Cullen’s got a new play for next month. I just started reading it.”
“So you’re in it?” Blake leaned against Voorhees. “My girl’s an actress.”
“It’s just something to do,” she said, blushing, “even if Cullen thinks it’s high art.”
“What are the plays about?” asked Voorhees.
“Life before the plague,” Becks said. “So who knows whether it’s accurate or not. But I guess it’s how we’re supposed to live now, now that we’re safe.”
Safe. Normal. None of it rang true to Voorhees. If this was normal — everyone just going through the motions and trying to forget about the real world — he didn’t want any part of it. He was starting to feel claustrophobic and imagined that the living zombies in Gaylen’s streets felt exactly the same way.
Zombies. There was a fitting metaphor. Gee, I’ll bet no one else has thought of that.
Soldiers… Soldiers carried guns and widowmakers. Soldiers dealt with the undead. Maybe that was his new calling?
“We’d better get going,” Blake said. “You heard what Casey said about Meyer.”
“Who?”
“Finn Meyer.”
“They weren’t kids, they were grown men,” Finn Meyer said in his thick Irish brogue. “And they knew what was gonna happen if they crossed me.”
He was a stout man with a pudgy scarred face and sausage fingers grasping at the lapels of his suit. It was a nice suit, the sort no one made anymore. And he was talking to P.O. Blake with such unbridled arrogance that it took all that Voorhees had in him not to knock the bastard upside his head with that baton.
“Seventeen-year-olds aren’t men, Meyer,” Blake said, “and besides, I thought we had an understanding about the hands-on business.”
The tone of this conversation made no sense to Voorhees. Blake had told him that two boys with a laptop were running a dice game near the lake district. Players were able to wager credits, provided they could prove said credits existed. And the losers were billed for what they owed, by all appearances a legal transaction. It was a legit practice, although the kids were hacking the network to transfer credits. The real problem, however, was that Finn Meyer claimed exclusive rights to the game. So he’d had a couple of thugs smash the laptop and knock the kids around a little. “That’s business,” the Irishman said.
“You’re liable for the cost of that laptop,” Voorhees snapped. “And I don’t know why you aren’t in cuffs already, but at the very least you’re going to be cited for assault.”
Meyer had a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. “Mister Blake, maybe you oughta educate the new guy about how we do things.” His glassy eyes fixed on Voorhees, Meyer added in a low growl, “You know what happened to the gentleman you replaced?”
“All right, enough of that,” said Blake. “If I have to come down here again because of you pushing people around, we’re going to have a conversation with Cullen, you and I. Because that’s how we do things in Gaylen.”
Meyer raised his hands in mock surrender. “Whatever you say, boss. Just trying to make a living.”
Voorhees started to say something, but Blake pulled him away from Meyer and out into the street.
“What in the hell was that?” Voorhees yelled.
“There are some things you don’t understand,” Blake said grimly. “Our job is to maintain a balance in Gaylen — there are some elements that can only be contained, not cut out.”
“Are you saying—”
“I’m saying, let’s go grab some dinner and I’ll lay it out for you.”
It was probably going to rain soon. Voorhees’ sixty-year-old joints were aching, and he didn’t feel like arguing any longer so he shut his mouth and went along with his partner.
Eight / Lily
“How come you get to drive a truck?” the girl asked.
Jack Calvert looked away from the road and said, “It belongs to the company. Sometimes I have to haul materials out to the job site.”
Sitting in Molly Calvert’s lap, Lily twisted to make the seat belt fit more comfortably. “Are you allowed to take us into the city?”
“Of course,” Jack replied. He was a man of thirty with bright eyes and a lopsided smile that meant he knew a lot of jokes. He was good at making Lily laugh, even if some of his jokes were too silly. But she was only thirteen — or fourteen, she wasn’t sure — and it was excusable.