David Dunwoody - Empire

He left her on the floor and went into his bedroom. She stayed there another hour, just to be safe.

The signage on the Holy Covenant Community Shelter was illegible, every letter of every word punctuated by bullet holes and smeared with crud. It was just as well, seeing how the shelter didn't have much left to offer. Just a roof and some blankets — there'd been a time when Reverend Palmer was able to convince her charges that such meager provisions were a blessing. Nowadays she could barely say it herself without bitter laughter.

Oates, a bearded black man in his late sixties, was helping her put new boards up over the windows. "Just what are we protecting?" Wheeler asked in his usual manner. "You." Palmer replied.

Wheeler brushed back his shock of white hair and picked at a scab on his chin. "I ain't worth protecting. None of us are. Truth hurts."

"So why don't you kill yourself instead of bitching all day long?" Isabella barked from a cot across the room. The reverend shot her a look. Wheeler shrugged. "Mother Theresa here says that suicide's a sin. I'll go to Hell if I do that. Apparently Hell's something worse than this putrid shithole." All things considered the shelter wasn't in awful shape. Palmer knew that Wheeler just thrived on misery. He was scared to feel a shred of happiness, lest something tear through those boarded-up windows and take it away. Palmer could barely hold her tongue around the man. He never helped to scrounge for supplies, never comforted any of his equally-distraught companions. The world owed Wheeler, always would, and that was that.

Something thumped against the board Palmer was hammering. She cried out and Oates pulled her away, turning his hammer to wield its claw as a weapon. "Whoever's out there, speak up!"

"Patrol Officer!" A young male voice.

It was a common ruse among most cities in the badlands, thieves posing as P.O.s. "Let's see some ID!" Oates shot back.

A laminated card slipped between two of the slats and into Palmer's hands. Michael Weisman, it said. Based in Miami, it said. "Long way from Florida." Oates called, reading over her shoulder.

"Florida's gone. I've been here for months. I just want to check up on you."

"No one checks up on anyone," Wheeler spat. Two other men, J.J. and Yeats, trudged into the room. "What's going on?"

"We got ourselves a P.O. outside." Oates muttered. He peered between the boards. "It's Weisman all right."

"The ID's fake," said Wheeler. "Don't even think about letting him in!"

"Come around to the front." Palmer said to Weisman. As she left the room with Oates she glanced at Wheeler. He stuck his tongue out and flipped her off.

She and Oates cleared the crude barricade from the front entrance and unlocked the door. Weisman was wearing his uniform, though it had clearly seen better days. He patted a pistol strapped to his hip. "How many you got in here?"

"Ten." Palmer extended her hand and introduced herself. "Do you have any food?" Weisman asked. "Medicine? Plumbing?"

"Pipes are fine." Oates slapped Weisman on the shoulder and ushered him in. "You're looking at the Harbor's best plumber. We're getting a nasty soup of ground water and seawater, but I threw together a filtration system."

With sandy brown hair and deep eyes, Weisman was good-looking. Damn good-looking. At fifty-something, swatches of gray among her long blonde locks, Palmer rarely felt attractive nor attracted. But damn. Smiling sweetly at the P.O. she led him into the building. Oates stayed behind to restore the barricade.

"How long have you all been in here?" Weisman asked next. It sounded to Palmer like he was taking mental notes. "Most of us have been here a year or so. We took a young woman and her boy in last week, and that's it."

"Has anyone been assaulted recently?"

"No, not at all."

"And how many of the ten are men?"

"Uh, six."

"And there haven't been any problems."

"You sound surprised, Officer Weisman."

"Mike, please." He stood in the doorway of the community room and returned the questioning stares of its inhabitants. "Any of the men ever leave the shelter?"

"Oates — our resident plumber — he leads supply runs every week. Everyone stays together out there." Palmer touched Weisman's arm and lowered her voice. "Why are you asking these questions?"

"There- " Weisman was cut off by the appearance of Oates, followed by a tall balding man in a trench coat. Nodding to Weisman, the bald man showed his ID to the reverend. "Senior P.O. Voorhees. We're checking up on Midtown residents now that the military's left us." Voorhees took Weisman's position in the doorway. He made a not-so-subtle display of the firearm beneath his coat. "You're Reverend Palmer?"

"Yes. What is this about? Is this about the supplies we've taken? We only go into abandoned buildings."

"No," Voorhees responded, loud enough for everyone to hear. "It's about a rapist. He's been roaming Midtown for weeks. We think he may have come to the Harbor from out West. My communication with neighboring towns is limited, but there have been similar reports out there." Locking eyes with the sneering Wheeler, Voorhees said, "It ends here."

"Shouldn't y'all be playing escort to Senator Moorecourt right about now?" Wheeler asked. "What does it matter if we're raping and killing each other? There's an honest-to-God statesman gracing the Harbor with his presence!"

Weisman interrupted Voorhees' reply. "The Senator never arrived."

Wheeler groaned. "I knew it. Bastard was never coming."

"Officer Weisman and I are going to want to speak with each of you individually." Voorhees said. "Reverend, would you get everyone together please?"

She nodded reluctantly and headed down a dark hallway. A serial rapist in Midtown? None of the women would be going on supply runs anymore. Oates would have to stay here, he was the toughest…no, no, no. She couldn't let their simple way of life be turned upside-down by this. If she showed fear or weakness it would spread to the others. Except Wheeler — if he saw her limping at the rear of the pack he'd pounce.

She rapped on a restroom door. "Al? Still in there?" Al had been sick for days since she'd discovered he was still using. The restroom floor was a terrible place to detox, but there was nowhere else. Palmer pushed open the door.

Al was sitting in the far corner under the window. The window was broken. It had been intact last night. She moved closer and realized he was dead. The needle was still in his arm.

Reverend Palmer sat down beside the cold body, pulling Al's discarded jacket over his chest, over the needle, closing his bleary eyes. She whispered a prayer. It was a little late, but what the hell.

She left the room and shut the door quietly behind her. Death stood beside Al's corpse. It was not infected, and would not rise again. The dying flame of Al's candle would not swell at the last second with a cold blue light. It was as it should be.

Two blocks from the homeless shelter, Club Fetish was similarly boarded-up, windows covered with the splintered remains of tabletops and flooring. The main dance floor was all colored lights, no longer aglow. The light and sound riggings hanging from the ceiling were equally useless and their creaking made those in the club nervous. The bar had been cleaned out long ago and the consequences had clogged every toilet in the joint. The air was musty. It was dark. A tiny giggle escaped from behind the bar.

Jenna O'Connell awoke with a start. The tinny laughter increased in volume. She found an empty bottle at her feet and chucked it over the bar. "Fuck you, Syl!"

Lauren poked Jenna's arm. "Don't let him get to you."