“I hope that fucking Dave Carver isn’t the only thing you’re good at,” he said.
Wendy put on her game face and said, “I’m not fucking Dave Carver.”
“If you say so, rook.”
“But you’re right, I was good at it.”
Kendrick snorted with laughter.
“All right, Cleopatra. Let’s get going. But one more thing before we go out today. We’re going to be in some rough neighborhoods, but remember there are a lot of good people who call those neighborhoods home, so show some fucking respect out there.”
Wendy nodded, appreciating the perspective. They reported to the dispatcher and entered the garage, where they found their cruiser.
“I’ll drive, rook,” he growled. “You don’t do anything unless I say so—what?”
“I said, ‘Okay, Officer Kendrick.’”
“If you think I’m being hard on you because you’re a woman, fuck you.”
The squad car left the garage. They drove around their territory for a while and then stopped at a Dunkin Donuts for breakfast. Wendy went in and minutes later returned to the car with a box of donuts and two tall Styrofoam cups full of coffee. Kendrick wolfed down the donuts and drank his coffee, then sighed contentedly and settled into his seat. He watched the street with the dull gaze of a basilisk. Wendy guiltily prayed that something terrible would happen and that she could do some real police work on her first day. She pictured the dispatcher calling out, car crash with injuries, or robbery in progress and shots fired. Maybe she and Kendrick would catch a drug deal in progress. Maybe there would be a man on one of the city’s many bridges, threatening to jump, and she would have to talk him down. She began to fidget in her seat.
“This is the job, rook,” he growled, slurping his coffee. “You hurry up and wait. And wait.”
The radio suddenly blared.
“CD to all units.”
There had been a break-in and stabbing. The dispatcher gave the location and advised that the suspect was still in the house. He had broken in through a window, punched the occupant to the floor, robbed her, and cut her up. By the time the dispatcher finished, Kendrick had already started the car, turned on the lights and siren, and was now replying that they were en route.
The car lurched into traffic and roared toward the scene on squealing tires.
“Hold on to your ass,” Kendrick said.
“Every unit in the zone must be on its way,” Wendy shouted over the siren.
“We’ll get there first. Excited, cherry?”
Wendy tried not to smile through her game face.
He whistled. “First day on the job and you might get a collar. Lucky kid.”
The dispatcher was firing updates over the radio when Kendrick yanked the steering wheel and brought the squad car to a screeching halt in front of the house.
They got out of the car, Kendrick pausing to retrieve his shotgun. Wendy unholstered her Glock, fighting to control her breathing, and ran to the front of the house at a crouch.
They knocked loudly and took a step back.
“Police!”
The door opened and an old woman, leaning on a cane, waved them in.
“He left when he heard you coming,” she said.
“Where’d he go?” Wendy demanded.
“Up there,” the woman answered.
“Hold it a second, rook,” Kendrick said tersely. “Ma’am, are you hurt? Did he cut you?”
“He stabbed me right here. See?”
Kendrick’s face turned purple.
“It’s all better now. I refused to stay hurt. I am quite resilient.”
“Which way did he go, Ma’am?” Wendy said.
“I already told you he went up through the ceiling to his helicopter.”
Behind them, other cars rocketed to a halt in front of the house, spilling cops.
“What a waste of time,” Kendrick muttered.
“Can I get you a glass of milk, officer?” the woman said to him.
Sergeant McElroy showed up, talked to the woman for several minutes with clenched fists, and called the dispatcher to report the call as unfounded.
“Congratulations, Sherlock,” he said, jabbing Wendy in the chest with his finger. “You caught your first big case.”
She spent the rest of her first day as a police officer filling out reports on the incident in triplicate.
Clean and pink and dressed in plain green hospital scrubs, the survivors wolf down heated cans of ravioli and spaghetti and meatballs in the lounge, washing it down with bottles of red wine that before the world ended would have been considered expensive. The showers washed off the days’ old stink of fear and they are beginning to feel human again.
As the time approaches six o’clock, they chant a countdown. When they get to zero, nothing happens. The survivors stare at the ceiling, their hopeful expressions wilting in disappointment.
“Bummer,” Todd says.
The fluorescent lights suddenly blink to life, impossibly bright.
The survivors gasp in amazement, then cheer.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you civilization,” Sarge says.
“Fantastic,” Ethan says. “It almost feels normal.”
“How much of the building is powered?” Anne asks.
“We isolated the power to a section on this floor that includes this lounge plus the pathology department, brain clinic, OBGYN, nursing administration and all of our rooms.”
“How long will we have it?”
“The generator runs on diesel like the Bradley. After topping up the rig, we’ve got enough fuel to have power for forty days if we use it an hour a day.”
“I’m going to try to power up my cell phone,” Ethan says.
“There’s probably still no service, though,” Paul says.
Ethan shrugs with a sad smile.
“Sorry,” Paul adds. “That was a stupid thing to say. Anything is possible.”
“It’s all right. I just want to have the phone ready, just in case. I have to be ready.”
“I hear you.”
Todd says, “I’m going to juice up my iPod. Shazam!”
“Are there any windows we need to black out?” Anne asks Sarge.
“I think we’re good, Anne,” Sarge tells her. “We turned off the lights in all the rooms with windows.”
“Somebody should go out and check to make sure no light is leaking out of the building.”
Sarge blinks. “If you think that’s wise.”
“If somebody sees the light, we will not be safe.”
“True,” he admits.
“We’re acting like we’re safe here but we’re not. We’ve only explored a small part of the building. Today, we found a room infested with worm eggs. There could be more of those things, not to mention more Infected, right under our feet on the second floor, or right over our heads on the floors above. They could be crawling through the air ducts. We can’t worry about both them and other people coming in from the outside wanting to take what we have.”
“All right, Anne,” Sarge says, feeling sour, as if a fine party has been spoiled. “Who do you want to go out and check? The power will only be on for an hour and it’s starting to get dark, so whoever is going had better get moving.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Not alone. If nobody else wants to go with you, I will.”
“Thanks, but I’d rather go alone,” she says. “I’ll be fine.”
“I’m not at all sure that you are,” Sarge says.
“So it’s decided.”
Anne cleans her hands on her pants, gets onto her feet, and walks out the door. The survivors stare at the empty doorway in a stunned silence for a few moments.
“Are you really going to let her leave like that by herself?” Wendy asks Sarge.