The Killing Floor

and ridiculous red suspenders and all. Instead of reading a cheap paperback as his usual habit, Tyler is poring over some paperwork on his desk, his lips moving while he reads, cursing someone named Benny under his breath. A large poster mounted on the wall to his left shows a photo of a smiling little girl under the words: WHY WE FIGHT.

Ray grins. “Tyler Jones, you old shit.”

“Get out of my ass, Ray,” Tyler says, then blinks, his mouth hanging open. His eyes flicker and take in Ray leaning against the doorframe. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph.”

Ray shrugs, enjoying the sight of Tyler staring at him with his paling face. “I’m back.”

“I can’t believe it.”

Tyler half stands, still bug eyed, and Ray waves him back into his chair. “I’ll come to you.”

“Well, sit down then! You want some coffee?”

Ray takes a seat opposite Tyler with a painful grunt. Every muscle in his body aches, the result of burning massive amounts of adrenaline over the past few days. He feels like he could sleep for a year. “And a smoke, if you got one.”

Tyler shuffles to the pot, pours a metal cup full of hot, black coffee, and returns, slamming it on the desk in front of Ray. He snaps his fingers, as if forgetting something, then pulls two cigars from the breast pocket of his gray work shirt.

“Wow, look at you,” Tyler says as he lights Ray’s cigar.

They say together, “You look like shit.”

Tyler laughs. “This is the best day of my life, Ray. I mean it.”

“I can’t believe I’m here.”

“What the hell happened to you?”

“Never mind that right now, Tyler.” He reaches for the coffee and sips it, humming with pleasure. “How long was I gone? I kind of lost track of time out there.”

“You left two weeks and three days ago, champ.”

Ray shakes his head. He was asleep for roughly two weeks. I’m a regular Rip Van Winkle. “What’s been going on around here?”

“Progress, Ray,” the old man tells him, puffing on his cigar. “The government is digging wells and building windmills. We even got a radio station now, telling happy stories about loved ones reunited and teaching everyone how to make a vegetable garden. People here started getting a little more hopeful when the Army invaded Washington, DC. They’ve got a big piece of it cleared out already. A whole company of them showed up here, too.”

Ray thinks of Sergeant Riley, how he was regular Army. “The Army’s here? When did that happen?”

“As a matter of fact, they showed up the day you left.”

Just a couple of hours, and Ray would not have had to go to the bridge. The Army would have taken care of it. The Reverend Paul Melvin would still be alive, and so would Ethan Bell, the teacher, and thirty-three National Guardsmen. And Ray would not have been stung and infected.

He sobs, unable to tough it out. He sniffs and wipes tears from his eyes.

Tyler shakes his head. “Jesus, Ray, look at you. Your nerves are shot. Let me get something stronger.” He holds up a small key and uses it to access a file drawer in his desk, from which he produces a bottle of Wild Turkey and two glasses. “I know it’s a little early, but let’s have a snort.”

“Why not?” Ray forces a smile. “I just can’t believe I’m actually here.”

“Shit, boy, I can’t believe you’re here either!” Tyler laughs. “We had a funeral for you and everything. We even said nice things about you. Anyway, drink up while you still can. The good stuff won’t last forever. We’ll all be swilling dandelion wine and mead pretty soon.”

Ray grins at Tyler and remembers his dream. His friend holding two green monstrosities that strained against their leashes, trying to get near him. Whoa, we got a live one here.

He feels a sudden hot flash followed by the urge to vomit.

The thing shivers, releasing a cloud of musk. This is how it eats.

Tyler is staring at him with obvious concern. Ray reaches for his glass and slams his drink back, gasping with pleasure.

“So how’s your dumb kid?” he says.

Just before he left for the bridge, Jonesy and Wendy had been attacked by camp riffraff while on patrol.

“Jonesy is great, thanks for asking. He got over that knock on his head in about two days. All the guys should be done with their shift in about a half hour. You can say hello. They’re going to shit themselves when they see you.” Tyler taps the end of his cigar against the edge of the ashtray. “Listen, Ray, they made me sergeant. But you’re still in charge here as far as I’m concerned. I’m happier doing dispatch. You rest up and take command whenever you’re ready.”

Ray frowns. He had not thought about it, but right now does not welcome the idea of being a cop again. Does he have any responsibility to other people anymore? He remembers standing next to Todd Paulsen on the bridge, emptying his pistols into the greasy pale hide of the tentacled giant, screaming his head off as it bore down on them. Last time he stuck his neck out to save the world, he got infected. He beat the bug, but far from feeling invincible, he dreads everything now. Let the Sergeant Rileys fix this mess and leave me out of it, he decides. I deserve a break. I’ve got a second chance, and I have to figure out what to do with it so I don’t waste it. And for that, I need a little time. No worries except breathing in, breathing out.

“Any word from Saslove?” he asks.

Tyler nods. “I heard our dear Wendy’s shacked up with that big Black fella, Toby Wilson, and they’re traveling around with an outfit called the New Liberty Army.”

“Good. Sarge will take good care of that girl.”

“She was the real thing.” Tyler snaps his fingers. “Hey, I almost forgot. Get a load of this.” He goes into one of the holding cells, rummages around in a box, and returns with a mint-condition black STEELERS cap. “Try this on for size.”

“I can’t believe it,” Ray says, blinking another round of tears.

Tyler laughs. “Boy, that old hat of yours has seen better days.”

Ray takes off his old STEELERS cap and puts on the new one.

“How does it look on me?”

“Like lipstick on a pig.” Tyler laughs so hard he starts coughing. “Lipstick,” he repeats, his face turning red. “On a pig.”

Ray watches with mounting alarm as the veins in Tyler’s throat stand out hard and dark like wires. The man is choking. He grimaces and wheezes: “Pig.”

Then he slams both hands on the desktop, stands and sprays a geyser of vomit from his open mouth. Ray lurches back in his chair as the old man’s breakfast splashes across the desk and onto the floor.

“Tyler!” he roars, standing.

The man collapses to the floor, convulsing.

Ray kneels next to him, pressing down on his shoulders, trying to hold him still. “Aw, shit,” he says. He has no idea what to do. “Help! Help me!”

Run, Tyler hisses just before his eyes roll back into his head.

Ray jumps to his feet and races down the hallway to find most of the cops on the floor. The men still on their feet stare at them helplessly, their eyes wild, shouting at each other to do something.

Outside the building, he stops in awe. Everywhere, bodies are flopping in the mud like fish while the survivors stand over them, crying for help. A man hobbles away on crutches, raising the alarm.

“Infection! Infection!”

A cop wrenches a pistol from his shoulder harness and fires into the face of a woman lying on the ground. People shrink away in revulsion from the roar of the gun. Even from two feet away, he misses two shots before the woman’s head explodes across the sidewalk.

“They’ve got the bug!” a woman says, drawing her own gun and emptying half a magazine into another convulsing victim.

Another woman screams at her: “We don’t know they’ve got it!”