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 something.
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 remained
still and silent, her eyes closed - but she
seemed to nestle closer to him, her long, slender body
curling against his chest. It was his imagination,
surely.
Beverly Harris, the mayor's daughter. Youthful,
stunning Beverly, who had so often haunted his guilty
dreams 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 arms
were 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 probably
one 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 the office and she
was just ... gone? Gone like everything else ...
A decade of work. Networking, making the connections,
careful positioning... all of it, just like that.
Irons lowered her to the cold floor and opened the
elevator gate, trying desperately not to think about all
that he'd lost. Beverly was the important thing now.
"Going to keep you safe," he murmured, and did
one corner of that perfect mouth rise slightly? Did she
know she was safe, that Uncle Brian was taking care
of her? When she was a child, when he used to
frequent the Harrises' for dinner, she'd called him
that. "Uncle Brian."
She knows. Of course she knows.
He half-dragged her into the lift and leaned her in
the corner, gazing tenderly at her angelic face. He was
suddenly overwhelmed by a rush of almost paternal
love for her, and wasn't surprised to feel tears well up
in his eyes, tears of pride and affection. For days now
he'd been subject to such emotional outbursts - rage,
terror, even joy. He'd never been a particularly emotional
man, but had grown to accept the powerful
feelings, even to enjoy them after a fashion; at least
they weren't confusing. He'd also had moments when
he'd been overcome by a kind of strange, creeping
haze, a formless anxiety that left him feeling deeply
unsettled . . . and as bewildered as a lost child.
No more of those. There's nothing else that can go
wrong now; Beverly's with me, and once I collect my
things, we can hide away in the Sanctuary and get
some rest. She'll need time to recover, and I can, can
sort things through. Yes, that's it; things need to be
sorted through.
He blinked the already forgotten tears away as the
metal cage started to rise, unholstering his sidearm
and ejecting the clip to count how many rounds were
left. His private rooms were safe, but the office was
another story; he wanted to be prepared.
The elevator came to a stop and Irons propped
open the gate with one leg before lifting the girl,
grunting with the exertion. He carried her as he would
have carried a sleeping child, her cool, smooth body
limp in his arms, her head rolled back and wobbling
as he walked. He'd picked her up awkwardly, and her
white gown had hiked up, exposing the tight, creamy
skin of her thighs; Irons forced his gaze away, concentrating
on the panel controls that opened the wall into
his office. Whatever harmless fantasies he'd had before,
she was his responsibility now, he was her
protector, her white knight...
He was able to hit the protruding button with one
knee. The wall slid open, revealing his plushly decorated
and thankfully empty office; only the blank,
glassy stares of bis animal trophies greeted them.
The massive walnut desk that he'd had imported
from Italy was right in front of him and his stamina
was going fast; Beverly was a petite woman, but he
wasn't in shape the way he used to be. He quickly laid
her on the desk, pushing a cup of pencils to the floor
with his elbow.
"There!" he exhaled deeply, smiling down at her.
She didn't smile back, but he sensed that she would be
awake soon, like before. He reached under the desk
and tapped the wall controls; the panel slid closed
behind them.
He'd been concerned when he'd first found her,
asleep next to Officer Scott in the back hall; George
Scott was dead, covered with wounds, and when Irons
had seen the red splash on Beverly's stomach, he'd
been afraid that she was dead, too. But when he'd
taken her to the Sanctuary, to his safe place, she'd
whispered to him - that she didn't feel well, that she
was hurt, that she wanted to go home ...
... did she? Did she really?
Irons frowned, snapped out of the uncertain memory
by something, something he'd felt when he'd laid
her on his hobby table and straightened her bloodstained
gown, something he couldn't quite recall. It
hadn't seemed important at the time, but now, away
from the hidden comforts of the Sanctuary, it was
nagging at him. Reminding him that he had suffered
one of those confused moments when he'd, when
he'd...
... felt the cold, rubbery jelly of intestine beneath my
fingers ...
... touched her.
"Beverly?" he whispered, sitting down behind his
desk when his legs went suddenly weak. Beverly kept
her silence - and a turbulent flood of emotions hit
Irons like a tidal wave, crashing over him, crowding
his mind with images and memories and truths that
he didn't want to accept. Cutting the outside lines
after the first attacks. Umbrella and Birkin and the
walking dead. The slaughter in the garage, when the
bright coppery scent of blood had filled the air and
Mayor Harris had been eaten alive, screaming until
the very end. The dwindling numbers of the living
through the first long and terrible night - and the
cold, brutal realization that had hit him again and
again, that the city - his city - was no more.
After that, the confusion. The strange and hysterical
joy that had come when he'd understood that
there would be no consequences for his actions. Irons
remembered the game he'd played on the second
night, after some of Birkin's pets had found their way
to the station and taken out all but a few of the
remaining cops. He'd found Neil Carson cowering in
the library and had. . . tracked him, hunting the
sergeant down like an animal.
What did it matter? What matters, now that my life
in Raccoon is over?
All that was left, the only thing that he had to hold
on to, was the Sanctuary - and the part of him that
had created it, the dark and glorious heart inside of
his own that he'd always had to keep hidden away.
That part was free now...
Irons looked at the corpse of Beverly Harris, laid
out across his desk like some delicate and fragile
dream, and felt that he might be torn apart by the
feelings of fear and doubt that warred inside of him.
Had he killed her? He couldn't remember.
Uncle Brian. Ten years ago, I was her Uncle Brian.
What have I become?
It was too much. Without taking his gaze from her
lifeless face, he pulled the loaded VP70 from its
holster and began to rub the barrel with numb fingers,
gentle strokes that reassured him somehow as the
weapon turned toward him. When the bore was
pressed firmly against his soft belly, he felt that some
kind of peace might be within reach. His finger settled
across the trigger, and it was then that Beverly whispered
to him again, her lips still, her sweet, musical
voice coming from nowhere and everywhere at once.
... don't leave me, Uncle Brian. You said you'd keep
me safe, that you'd take care of me. Think of what you
could do now that everyone is gone and there's nothing
to stop you ...
"You're dead," he whispered, but she kept talking,
soft and insistent.
... nothing to stop you from being fulfilled, truly
fulfilled for the first time in your life ...
Tortured and aching, Irons slowly, slowly pulled the
nine-millimeter away from his stomach. After a moment,
he rested his forehead against Beverly's shoulder
and closed his tired eyes.
She was right, he couldn't leave her. He'd prom-
Ised - and there was something to what she'd said,
about all of the things he could do. His hobby table
was big enough to accommodate all kinds of
animals ...
Irons sighed, not sure what to do next—and wondering
why he was in such a hurry to decide, anyway.
They would rest for a while, perhaps even take a nap
together. And when they awoke, things would be clear
again.
Yes, that was it. They would rest, and then he could
sort things through, take care of business; he was the
chief of police, after all.
Feeling in control of himself again, Brian Irons
slipped into a light and uneasy doze, Beverly's cool
flesh like a balm against his feverish brow.
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