David Dunwoody - Empire's End

“These things happen,” the other man finally said, gloved hands folded.

“‘These things happen’? You’ve been given too much pull around here,” St. John growled. “It was your idea to let Grimm play out there with the rotters, and he cracked. You pushed for an expedition to Congo and two good soldiers are dead as a result. Hell, now Whittaker’s been AWOL for a week. He’s a combat vet, a hero, and lately I’ve seen him following you around like a goddamned puppy. Have any idea where the hell he is?” St. John grasped his temples, wincing: migraine. Suits like Ryland sauntered into military operations from their “classified backgrounds” and fucked up the whole works. Ryland was like the executive branch’s little spy, carrying out the silly whims of armchair warriors and putting St. John’s boys in the dirt. He sighed. “Bradshaw takes Clarke’s place as leader of the field unit. And he selects his new teammates. Not you , Ryland, him .”

“Fair enough,” Ryland replied. His pale, fatty jowls made his smile all the more repulsive. He was soft all over, wasn’t he? St. John just shook his head. “Get out.”

Bradshaw met Ryland outside the administrative building. Ryland clapped a hand on his back. “I didn’t even have to bring it up. He promoted you. Now, I only ask that you put Sergeant Cervantes on the team. His assigned duties aren’t important, I just want him out there.”

Bradshaw nodded, and they walked along the electric fence separating their world from that of the afterdead. A few rotters milled around in the grass, probably in search of overlooked chum from a previous feeding. “Who else will you choose?” Ryland asked.

“Stoddard and Thomas,” Bradshaw replied quickly.

“I see you’ve been thinking about this,” Ryland grinned. “Captain.”

Bradshaw offered an insincere smile in return. He’d just flown up the ranks to a critical leadership position — all because he was a killer, and worse than that, a lackey. He still didn’t know the reason why he’d shot Pete Clarke through the heart. It would have made as much sense at a backyard barbecue as it did in Congo. And Ryland… something was wrong with him. His face was more sunken and pale than usual. He carried his bulk with an awkward gait. Looked like a…”Ryland, I’ve got to get down to the warehouse for a pickup. Talk later?”

“Of course.” The pale man nodded curtly and wandered back to the administrative building.

Joe Stoddard was already stationed at the warehouse. Bradshaw had Cervantes and Thomas meet him there as well. Thomas was an older woman, hard, not a feminine bone in her body. What hadn’t been drilled out of her when she transferred to the base had been washed away at the sight of the lunging rotters (Bradshaw wondered if it was different for a woman, seeing new life created, but from death). She’d stopped wearing her bite jacket long ago, and both her arms bore scars as a result; nonetheless she’d definitely be an asset in field missions. As for Cervantes… Bradshaw hadn’t seen much of him since Grimm’s death. There were murmurs that Cervantes was some sort of psychic, the sort of nonsense the Defense Department had messed with fifty years ago. Maybe they were still messing with it. Hell, Bradshaw had seen stranger things.

“I appreciate your choosing me,” Cervantes said.

Bradshaw decided against saying you’re welcome . “We’ve got a truck coming in five minutes.”

Stoddard barked from his post, “It’s already here!” and opened the main loading door to admit the semi’s refrigerated payload. Bradshaw slapped a button to start the conveyor belt that led from the warehouse to the scientists’ underground compound.

“Let me ask you something,” Cervantes said. “What do they do down there? What tests do they run on the afterdead?”

Had he just been reading Bradshaw’s mind? The captain crossed his arms and gave Cervantes a stony look. “It’s not my jurisdiction. I’ve learned not to ask.”

Stoddard slapped Cervantes’ back as the truck opened. A steel box came out on rollers and they guided it onto the conveyor belt. There were five more inside, each coated with ice, electronically sealed; and within each, a fallen soldier who would be inducted into the undead population. Somewhere, Stoddard knew, there were graves with empty coffins upon which grieving mothers placed tiny flags. But these boys were still serving their government, in a way . Whatever helps me sleep at night .

“Seal’s broken!” Thomas snapped, banging on the lid of the next box. Stoddard came around and hoisted the lid up to look inside. Though the body was in a clear bag, he wasn’t able to tell if there was any putrefaction. “You think it matters?” he asked Bradshaw.

“Dead is dead,” came the reply.

Stoddard forced the lid down and pushed the box onto the belt. “Can’t argue with that logic, boss.”

“Don’t call me boss.” Bradshaw tried to grimace, but Stoddard’s expression teased a hint of a smile from the corners of his mouth.

Ryland locked his office door and sat on the edge of his desk. His breathing was growing more shallow with each passing day. It didn’t hurt, it wasn’t uncomfortable; he was just afraid someone might notice. Good thing a yearly physical wasn’t required of him. He dropped into his chair and turned on his computer, entering several encryption keys before he could get into his files. Despite all that security — and a few extra measures he’d added himself — he knew that there was always someone reading his e-mail. That’s why his most precious files were in paper form.

Unlocking the bottom desk drawer to produce those files, Ryland checked the contents. All there. Could never be too careful. A medical report, written up by one A. Harmon, dated seven months prior. Blood work results. Digital photographs of his right hand. Removing his glove, Ryland saw the ugly scars. He tried flexing his fingers. There was stiffness and pain, only the pain seemed strangely distant, and even as the skin cracked and bled he continued closing his hand into a tight fist.

The URC, the energy in the earth that revived the dead, was never intended to be weaponized. Maybe in some horror movie, a corrupt military lab would try to turn URC into a contagion, but the real government understood the possible consequences. Still, factions within were sparring over what to do; and several months ago, Ryland had led a group of private contractors to New England to check out another Source. And… he began to laugh uncontrollably at the memory, the goddamn absurdity of it. “Fucking cat,” he gasped between giggles.

The cat’s love bite shouldn’t have had any effect, but Harmon had discovered an anomaly in Ryland’s blood when he returned to the base for stitches. He knew immediately what had happened. The URC had bonded with some virus lying dormant in the feline’s system. Some thought it possible. Now he knew it was. And just like that, it was a contagion. A cosmic roll of the dice, a sick twist of fate. All these hundreds of thousands of years, and only now had it happened… and to Nathan Ryland.

It took a few months of watching his arm die before he made the decision to transfer Harmon to the field and silence her. Grimm had been another story altogether…

Though the tissue in Ryland’s body was dying, he didn’t feel much discomfort. The infection was turning him undead piece by piece, yet he retained all his mental faculties, even if there was a cold hollow growing inside of him as his soul was forced out. Thus he had reasoned that, like the afterdead, he could maintain a healthy appearance and a clear head if he fed. The afterdead’s chum was trucked in biweekly and stored at the ass-end of the base where the smell wouldn’t offend. So Ryland had gone out to the storage building, walked in, shut the door, and promptly vomited at the sight of the festering meat spread before him. Dropped to his knees, dry heaving, arms shaking until he was prone on the floor in his own puke. “I–I can’t,” he had whispered, fighting the urge to keep retching. He looked at his dead hand. It felt so detached, like it wasn’t really part of him. It was almost surreal to see it scooping up a handful of rancid medical waste. He forced it down, stuffing his fingers into his throat and trying not to taste it. But the smell hit him again. He spewed chum all over his pants.