millimeter at the man, backed up a step…… and felt her calf hit the unyielding railing of the back steps to the roof. The woman was five feet to her right, the torn, bloody shirt exposing one gouged breast, the hand of her working arm grasping toward Claire. The man was one step from reaching distance, and she couldn't back up any further. Claire pulled the trigger and there was a mammoth boom, the gun jerking almost out of her hand. The right half of the tall man's slack and withered face disappeared in a burst of dark, liquid streams gushing from his shattered skull. She whipped the gun around, tightening her grip as she aimed for the woman's pallid, moaning face. Another blast of deafening sound and the rising moan was cut off, the waxen forehead imploding in a spray of blood and bone chips. The woman went over backwards, crashing to the pavement like…
… like a corpse, which she already was. They won't be walking away from this one.
It was as if everything finally caught up to her at once, the reality of her situation driven home when she'd pulled the trigger. For a moment, Claire couldn't move. She stared down at the two crumpled sacks of ruined flesh, at the two people she'd just shot, and felt like she was only an inch or two from losing it. She'd grown up around guns, been to shooting ranges dozens of times – but with a.22 target pistol, firing at pieces of paper. Targets that didn't bleed, or spew brain matter like the two human beings she'd just…
No, a cool voice inside of her interrupted. Not human, not anymore. Don't kid yourself and don't waste time on remorse. Leon could be inside by now, looking for you. And if the S.T.A.R.S. got called in, Chris could be here, too.
If that weren't motivation enough, the two zombie cops that Claire had passed when she first hit the courtyard were on their way, boots shuffling and dragging across the flagstones. It was time to go. She jogged up the stairs, barely able to hear the clang of her steps over the high-pitched ringing in her ears. The nine-millimeter blasts had done a tempo– rary number on her hearing – which explained why she didn't know about the helicopter until she was almost to the roof. Claire hit the second-to-top riser and stopped dead, a whipping wind pounding rhythmically at her bare shoulders as the giant black vehicle hovered into view, half lost in shadow. It was near the ancient water tower that bordered the helipad at the south-west corner, though she couldn't tell if it had just taken off or was coming in to land. Couldn't tell and didn't care. 'Hey!' she shouted, raising her left hand into the air. 'Hey, over here!' Her words were lost in the blowing dust that swirled across the rooftop, drowned out by the steady chop of the 'copter's blades. Claire waved wildly, feeling like she'd just hit the lottery.
Somebody came! Thank God, thank you!
A blaring searchlight snapped on from the midsec– tion of the hovering bird, scrawled across the roof and was going in the wrong direction, away from her. Claire waved more frantically, drawing in breath to call out again…… and saw what the spotlight saw, even as she heard the desperate, mostly unintelligible shout beneath the 'copter's roar. A man, a cop, standing at the helipad's corner opposite the stairs, backed against an elevated section of the roof. He held what looked like a machine gun and appeared to be very much alive.
'-get over here-'
The officer shouted at the helicopter, his voice tinged with panic; Claire saw why and felt her relief evaporate. There were two zombies lurching through the darkness of the helipad, headed for the well-lit target that was the shouting cop. She raised the nine-millimeter and then lowered it helplessly, afraid of hitting the cornered man. The spotlight didn't waver, illuminating the horror with brilliant clarity. The cop didn't seem to realize how close the zombies were until they were grabbing for him, their stringy arms extending into the beam of fixed white light. 'Stay back! Don't come any closer!' he cried, and with the pure terror in his voice, Claire heard him perfectly. Just like she heard his howling scream as the two decaying figures obscured her view, reaching him at the same time. The sound of his automatic weapon ripped across the helipad, and even over the helicopter's clamor Claire could hear the whining ting of bullets flying wild. She dropped, knees cracking against the top step as the weapon's clattering fire went on and on…… and there was a change in the sound of the 'copter, a strange hum that rose quickly into a me– chanical scream. Claire looked up and saw the giant craft dip down, the back end swinging around in an erratic, jerking arc.
Jesus, he hit them!
The 'copter's spotlight was going all directions at once, flashing across metal pipes and concrete and the dying struggles of the cop, somehow still firing as the two monsters tore at him…… and then the helicopter was coming down, tee– tering sideways, its blades slamming into the brick of the elevated roof with a tremendous crash. Before Claire could blink, the nose of the craft hit – plowing across the helipad in a curtain of screeching sparks and flying glass. The explosion happened just as the mammoth machine slid to a stop against the southwest corner -
– directly on top of the fallen cop and his killers. The rattle of the machine gun was finally cut off in the whoosh of flame that sprang up after the initial sputtering boom, lighting the rooftop in a burning red glow. At the same instant, something in the roof gave with a rending crunch, as the nose of the 'copter plunged through a brick wall and out of sight. Claire stood up on legs she barely felt, staring in disbelief at the leaping fire that dominated almost half of the helipad. It had all happened too fast for her to feel like it had happened at all, and the smoking, burning evidence in front of her only made the sense of unreality greater. An acrid, sickly-sweet odor of burning meat wafted over her on a wave of heated air, and in the sudden silence, she could hear the soft groans of the zombies down in the courtyard.
She shot a look down the stairs and saw that both of the dead cops were at the foot, blindly and uselessly falling against the bottom step. At least they couldn't climb…
… can't. Climb. Stairs.
Claire turned her frightened glance toward the door that led into the RPD building, maybe thirty feet from the curling, popping flames that were slowly eating the body of the 'copter. Except for the stairs, it was the only way onto the roof. And if zombies couldn't climb -
– then I'm in some deep shit. The station isn't safe.
She stared thoughtfully at the burning wreck, weighing her options. The nine-millimeter held a lot of ammo and she still had two full clips; she could head back into the street, look for a car with keys in it and go for help.
Except what about Leon? And that cop was still Alive, what if there are more people inside, planning an escape?
She thought she'd held up pretty well on her own so far, but she also knew she'd feel safer if somebody else were in charge – a riot squad would be okay, though she'd settle for some battle-scarred veteran cop with a shitload of guns. Or Chris; Claire didn't know if she'd find him at the station, but she firmly believed that he was still alive. If anyone was equipped to handle himself in a crisis like this one, it was her brother. Whether or not she found anybody, she shouldn't take off without telling Leon; if she didn't, blowing town instead, and he got killed looking for her… Decision made. Claire walked for the entrance, carefully skirting the blaze and scanning the flickering shadows for movement. When she reached the door, she closed her eyes for a second, one sweating hand on the latch. 'I can do this,' she said quietly, and although she didn't sound as confident as she would've liked, at least her voice didn't tremble or break. She opened her eyes, then the door; when nothing jumped out at her from the softly lit hall, she slipped inside.
EIGHT
Chief of police brian irons was standing in one of his private corridors, trying to catch his breath, when he felt the shuddering impact rumble through the building. He heard it, too – heard some– thing. A distant splintering sound, heavy and abrupt.
The roof, he thought distantly, something on the roof…
He didn't bother following the thought to any kind of conclusion. Whatever had happened, it couldn't make things any worse. Irons pushed away from the stone wall with one well-padded hip, hefting Beverly as gently as he could. They'd be at the elevator in a moment, then there was just the short walk to his office; he could rest there, and then… 'And then,' he mumbled, 'that's the question, isn't it? And then what?'
Beverly didn't answer. Her perfect features re– mained still and silent, her eyes closed – but she seemed to nestle closer to him, her long, slender bodycurling against his chest. It was his imagination, surely. Beverly Harris, the mayor's daughter. Youthful, stunning Beverly, who had so often haunted his guiltydreams with her blond beauty. Irons hugged her closer and continued toward the elevator, trying not to let his exhaustion show in case she woke up. By the time he reached the lift, his back and armswere aching. He probably should have left her in his private hobby room, the room he'd always thought of as the Sanctuary – it was quiet there, and probablyone of the safest areas in the station. But when he'd decided to go to the office, to collect his journal and a few personal items, he found that he simply couldn't stand to leave her behind. She'd looked so vulnerable, so innocent; he'd promised Harris that he would watch out for her, and what if she was attacked in his absence? What if he came back from
