Vesta was a tall woman with a long reach. Caxton had to roll away from the swing, going down on one knee and throwing her head back. It was a lousy position from which to counterattack, and she didn’t get the chance. Her brain, running purely on reflex, sent a signal down her arm, a signal it had sent a thousand times before. Always before the signal had instructed her hand to slap a certain place on her hip and close its fingers around the grip of her pistol.
The pistol wasn’t there. Caxton knew that consciously, but her conscious mind was still trying to work out what was happening. Her hand closed pointlessly around the place where the gun should have been, and she wasted another fraction of a second.
“Protect my daughter and my man! Please!” Vesta screamed, and the knife thrust deep into the fabric of Caxton’s winter coat. The edge hissed along Caxton’s skin and she felt hot wet blood roll down her arm.
Behind Vesta the other half-deads were streaming up toward the building. They were all armed, with knives and sickles. What had Jameson done? It looked like he’d slaughtered half the population of the state and drafted them to his service.
Caxton had to get away. She had a few weapons on her belt, but none of them would let her get control of this mob. Maybe, though, they could give her a chance to get back on her feet. Vesta raised her knife high, flipped it in her hand and brought it down blade first, clearly intending to skewer Caxton with it.
Caxton twisted away from the blow—then came up fast, her arm swinging around, her canister of pepper spray clutched in her fist.
She pushed down on the button on top of the can and foaming spray splashed across Vesta’s eyes.
Vesta threw up her knife arm across her ravaged face, exactly as Caxton had known she would—it was the inevitable reaction to being sprayed. They taught you that at the academy. It seemed even death couldn’t break that primitive instinct.
Caxton didn’t waste time following through on her attack. She dropped the can of spray and shoved both of her hands down onto the cold concrete, shoved herself bodily upward until she was half upright, half bent over. It got her feet underneath her enough that she could run. She did not look back as she dashed through the doors of the HQ building, screaming for help.
“Somebody,” she shouted, “anybody—lock those doors!”
But it was too late. The half-deads were already inside.
Chapter 49.
Caxton raced down the hallway, looking for help. She couldn’t find any. The wardroom was empty—she took one look inside and hurried past. Where had everybody gone? For a bad, breathless moment she thought maybe all the troopers who normally hung around the HQ were dead—or worse, that she had been betrayed somehow, and they had left her to her fate once Fetlock had dismissed her in their presence.
But no. That was just paranoia. When she considered things for a second she realized exactly what had happened. It was just after five o’clock, which meant it was rush hour. The vast majority of the troopers were out on duty, mostly on patrol around the capital. They had all left shortly after the sun set and Raleigh failed to rise. Those troopers who remained in the building were tasked with administrative roles, and they would not be armed. Vesta couldn’t have planned her attack for a better time—Jameson had ordered her to attack just when he knew the HQ would be at its most vulnerable.
That meant Vesta would know everything Jameson knew about the building and its layout. She wouldn’t waste time searching for Simon. She would know exactly where he would be, and the quickest route to reach him. Caxton knew it too, if she gave herself a second to think about it.
She hurried around a corner and put her back up against a wall. She could hear the half-deads coming down the corridor toward her, moving fast. Caxton reached down to her belt and undid the clasp that held in her ASP baton. It was the only weapon she had on her, an eight-inch length of steel painted black. She pressed down on a catch at its base and flicked it out with her wrist and three telescoping segments slid out, extending the baton to its full length. The tip, the thinnest of the segments, was solid steel, and wielded correctly it could deal an agonizing blow to anyone it struck. Unlike the riot-control batons most troopers carried, Caxton’s baton was capable of breaking bones—if she hit the right spot, and with enough force.
The half-deads were just down the hall, nearly on top of her. She could hear them giggling to themselves, anticipating the slaughter to come. Caxton made herself wait until the last possible second, then whirled out around the corner, swinging the baton two-handed like a baseball bat.
The half-dead in the lead, a sexless creature with a torn face wearing a black overcoat, just had time to look surprised before the baton crunched through its rotten cheek. It dropped the meat cleaver it was carrying and spun around, its hands jumping up to its face as it gurgled in pain.
Caxton didn’t have time to feel sympathy. She brought the baton around in a circle, her body swerving through the air to give it leverage, and split the back of the half-dead’s skull. It dropped in a heap.
Behind it stood more of them, plenty more. At the back of the group she could see Vesta Polder, watching her carefully.
Caxton ran. She turned on her heel and dashed down the corridor, her knees jumping high as she sprinted for dear life. She thought Simon would be in the off-duty break room, a lounge on the far side of the building with a television set and vending machines. Glauer would have taken him there to wait while Caxton stood vigil over Raleigh’s body. It was a safe place, a place where Simon couldn’t get into any trouble. Behind her she heard running footsteps and a skritching sound like a knife being dragged through the wallpaper, and she knew the half-deads were following her. She was leading them right to Simon, but she didn’t have a choice.
Up ahead the hallway widened where it was crossed by a side corridor. There was a receptionist’s desk up there—this was where the bureau chiefs had their offices—and a couch and some chairs. The receptionist was standing behind his desk next to some potted plants. He had a watering can in his hand, but he was staring in horror at the half-deads coming down the hall.
“Get out of here,” Caxton shouted at him. He reached up to straighten his tie and she realized he must be in shock. He could never have expected this, that the HQ would be invaded by a horde of freaks with no faces. But if he didn’t move he was going to get killed. Caxton rushed up and nearly collided with him, grabbed his arm hard and twisted. “Run away!” she screamed in his ear. Finally he got the point and bolted, the watering can still in his hands.
If the receptionist had never considered this possibility, whoever designed the building, thankfully, had.
There was a panic button mounted under the edge of the reception desk, connected to an alarm in the duty room, where troopers waiting assignment would be preparing for their night’s work. Caxton stabbed the button, barely breaking her stride. She heard the alarm ringing off to one side, but couldn’t afford to give it any of her attention.
Ahead of her the hall was lined with glass doors. This was where the bulk of the HQ’s staff worked.
Some of them were troopers, but most were civilians hired to do clerical work, IT management, and as PCOs—police communications officers, the dispatchers who sent patrol cruisers where they needed to go. Most of them would still be working, and none of them would be armed. If they poked their heads out to see what the commotion was, they would all get killed, end of story.
Caxton considered knocking on all the doors, warning the workers of the danger, but she knew that even a second’s delay now could mean certain death—or worse—for Simon. With what breath she could spare she shouted for the workers to lock themselves in their offices, and she didn’t stop moving.
Past the offices she finally could see the door of the break room straight ahead. It was open and through it she could see Simon. He was curled up on a couch, maybe taking a nap or just lost in his own thoughts. She hurtled through the door at full speed. Once inside she slammed the door shut, then locked it.
“Jesus, what now?” Simon asked, stirring from his fetal position on the couch.
Caxton kicked the couch hard and he jumped up to his feet. He stared at her with wild eyes, but she just shook her head, breathing too hard to talk. She grabbed one end of the couch and nodded for him to take the other end, and together they pushed it up against the door.
It was only after she’d sealed herself inside that Caxton thought to look around for other exits. There were
