Apocalypse - Keith R. A. DeCandido [16]
Jill snorted and headed for her desk, which was one of the few still intact and upright.
“What the hell’re you doing?”
Sighing, Jill ignored the familiar voice of Captain Henderson, who had burst out of his office. She was amazed he had the balls to actually open the door.
“Valentine! You’re on suspension!”
As if that mattered. Again, Jill sighed. She opened her desk drawer and pulled out her spare automatic, a thigh-strap, and more clips. “I told you,” she said, “shoot for the head.”
“Why are you even here, Valentine?”
What a question to ask. As if she was no longer truly a cop.
Well, maybe she wasn’t—at least, not in a town that was controlled by a multinational corporation that didn’t give a damn about human life. Or on a police force where captains didn’t stand up for their people and just let them get railroaded into suspensions for no good reason except to cover a corporation’s ass.
“Just cleaning out my desk.” She buckled on the thigh-strap, then holstered the second weapon there. She put the ammo in the pockets of her shorts.
Without even sparing Henderson a glance that, frankly, he didn’t deserve, Jill headed out, this time going past the sarge’s desk. Quinn had always been good to her.
“You okay?” she asked.
Quinn chuckled. “I was gonna ask you the same question. I’m thinkin’ I shoulda taken that early retirement Sheila’s been goin’ on about. Florida’s lookin’ real good right now.”
“My advice? Go home to Sheila, and then get out of town.”
Shaking his head, Quinn said, “No chance. My shift ain’t over yet.”
Jill sighed a third time. Quinn had been on the job for almost thirty years. His father and uncle had both been RCPD, and so had his grandfather. He’d always been a little too dedicated. But she couldn’t fault his loyalty.
For Jill’s part, loyalty was something she had no reason to keep giving the RCPD.
“In that case, Sarge, shoot for the head. That’s the only way to stop these things.”
Quinn nodded. “Good luck to you, Valentine.”
“You too, Sarge.”
As she passed Quinn’s desk, she saw a zombie hooker trying to bite an overdressed perp who was cuffed to the bench.
“Keep away from me!” the perp was screaming, even as the hooker moved closer. “Rashonda, stop it! Help!”
Jill shot Rashonda in the head. She slumped onto the bench.
Then she turned her gun on the overdressed perp.
“Oh, shit, not me!”
She pulled the trigger.
The handcuffs, and the part of the bench they were attached to, splintered and broke.
Once he realized he was free, the overdressed perp leapt up and moved as far from the bench as he could.
“Freaky gnarly-ass ho tried to eat me!” Then he looked at Jill. “And you! God damn! What the hell’s goin’ on here?”
“You carrying a gun?” she asked.
The perp snorted. “I wish.”
“You might want to find one.”
Then she turned around and looked at Quinn, Henderson, and the other cops still alive. “I’m leaving town—I suggest you all do the same.”
Without another word, she turned and headed out.
As she worked her way toward the door, she heard the frantic voice of a uniform on the dispatch radio. Jill was pretty sure it was Wyms.
“Dispatch, we need backup—immediate backup to Rose and Main. Dispatch? Come in, dispatch. We’re being overrun. Officers down. Pulling back. Help us, dammit. We need help. Dispatch! Please!”
Even as Wyms’s pleas grew more frantic, they faded from Jill’s hearing as she headed back to her car. They’d had their chance to stop this, and they’d blown it.
They’d told Jill Valentine she was insane.
Now the entire city was paying the price.
Eight
All in all, this was the worst vacation of Carlos Olivera’s life.
He’d started his stint in the air force right out of high school, then left when the Umbrella Corporation made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. Yeah, the USAF was better than the streets of East Texas where he’d grown up, but Umbrella was better than the USAF. Better pay, better hours, less chance of getting shot.
Until today, anyhow.
He had been relaxing in a cabin in the woods when an SUV pulled up containing two of Umbrella’s drones in suits.