Free Empire's End by David Dunwoody Page A

keeps people from stealing. He polices the market
more often than the cops.”
    “But he is stealing from you, don’t
you see that?” Voorhees sighed.
    “It could be worse,” was her reply.
    “How, exactly?”
    “I have a business here, Officer, and a home.
I have a normal life. I was the only one from my hometown to reach
the Great Cities. We were being followed by rotters. We had to try
to swim across this lake—then suddenly there were rotters all over
the shore, on all sides, surrounding u. Fourteen went in. By the
time an Army convoy happened by, I was the only one still treading
water.”
    “I’m sorry,” Voorhees said. “I’m sorry that
happened to you. But how does that make this all right?”
    “It makes this tolerable,” she said. “I spent
two days in that water. I watched as people sank, one by one,
around me. I ran out of tears. I couldn’t scream anymore. I could
only fight to stay afloat. And their eyes—the rotters, every pair
of eyes was on me. Those soldiers could have just passed me by but
they fought those bastards for hours just to get to me. They
brought me here. I’m grateful.”
    “Don’t be grateful to Meyer,” Voorhees told
her. “His days are numbered.”
    “What are you trying to do?” she asked
softly, sadness in her eyes, pleading eyes. “Life is okay now.
Please.”
    Someone nudged Voorhees’ back. Remembering
that he was blocking the checkout, he stepped back. A hard-faced
woman in a long coat offered her hand. “Pat Morgan.”
    “P.O. Voorhees.” He gave her a firm shake.
“Are you another officer?”
    “No, air,” she said, with the slightest
twinkle in her eye. “I work for Mister Meyer. He’d like to buy you
lunch.”
     

Twelve / Candy
     
    Meyer had a handful of colorful rock candy,
probably homemade, that he munched obnoxiously as he and Pat Morgan
walked Voorhees down to the shore of Lake Michigan.
    “I thought this was an invitation to lunch,”
said Voorhees. Meyer shrugged. “Not hungry.”
    “Crooked and cheap. But I’ll bet your
whores are top dollar.”
    “Interested in a lay, Officer?” Meyer
grinned. “I can get you a special deal. You ever fucked an Asian
girl? I do mean girl , by the way.”
    A quiet chill settled in Voorhees’ gut. “What
do you want? If this is about either bribes or threats you’d best
just save your breath. I don’t care.”
    “I have a lot of little girls,” Meyer
continued, as if Voorhees hadn’t spoken. “In basements all over
Gaylen. They’re quite willing, too—”
    Voorhees seized Meyer by the collar of his
coat. Morgan whipped out a .45 and stuck it against his temple.
    “I didn’t think guns were allowed in Gaylen,”
Voorhees said through gritted teeth. He didn’t let Meyer go.
    “Oh, they’re not,” Meyer replied, his breath
sickly sweet. “Neither are booze or hash or meth, but there seems
to be a steady demand and, well, why send people away empty-handed?
I don’t believe in that. The government doesn’t believe in
that.”
    “You’re trash. If this were my city I’d—”
    “Yes, I’ve heard how you did things back in
Louisiana. So trusted, so admired that nearly every citizen and all
your cops bailed on you when the military withdrew? Leaving you
with what, a handful of bums? What else happened down there,
Voorhees? I’ve heard lots of strange talk about weird things in the
southern badlands.
    “You know what they say?” Meyer asked,
delicately extracting Voorhees’ hands from the folds of his coat.
“People say that there are ghosts and gods roaming about out there.
They call these days the Last Days. But I don’t subscribe to that,
and I’m sure you don’t either, being a rational man. Just the
same—”
    He slugged Voorhees in the stomach, doubling
the old man over, and shouted in his ear “In here, I am
God! ”
    Morgan clipped Voorhees in the back of the
head with the butt of her gun. He fell to his knees, vision
swimming, the voice of Finn Meyer fading in and