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week. Everyone stays together out there." Palmer touched Weisman's arm and lowered her voice. "Why are you asking these questions?"
        
        "There- -" Weisman was cut off by the appearance of Oates, followed by a tall balding man in a trench coat. Nodding to Weisman, the bald man showed his ID to the reverend. "Senior P.O. Voorhees. We're checking up on Midtown residents now that the military's left us." Voorhees took Weisman's position in the doorway. He made a not-so-subtle display of the firearm beneath his coat. "You're Reverend Palmer?"
        
        "Yes. What is this about? Is this about the supplies we've taken? We only go into abandoned buildings."
        
        "No," Voorhees responded, loud enough for everyone to hear. "It's about a rapist. He's been roaming Midtown for weeks. We think he may have come to the Harbor from out West. My communication with neighboring towns is limited, but there have been similar reports out there." Locking eyes with the sneering Wheeler, Voorhees said, "It ends here."
        
        "Shouldn't y'all be playing escort to Senator Moorecourt right about now?" Wheeler asked. "What does it matter if we're raping and killing each other? There's an honest-to-God statesman gracing the Harbor with his presence!"
        
        Weisman interrupted Voorhees' reply. "The Senator never arrived."
        
        Wheeler groaned. "I knew it. Bastard was never coming."
        
        "Officer Weisman and I are going to want to speak with each of you individually." Voorhees said. "Reverend, would you get everyone together please?"
        
        She nodded reluctantly and headed down a dark hallway. A serial rapist in Midtown? None of the women would be going on supply runs anymore. Oates would have to stay here, he was the toughest...no, no, no. She couldn't let their simple way of life be turned upside-down by this. If she showed fear or weakness it would spread to the others. Except Wheeler - if he saw her limping at the rear of the pack he'd pounce.
        
        She rapped on a restroom door. "Al? Still in there?" Al had been sick for days since she'd discovered he was still using. The restroom floor was a terrible place to detox, but there was nowhere else. Palmer pushed open the door.
        
        Al was sitting in the far corner under the window. The window was broken. It had been intact last night. She moved closer and realized he was dead. The needle was still in his arm.
        
        Reverend Palmer sat down beside the cold body, pulling Al's discarded jacket over his chest, over the needle, closing his bleary eyes. She whispered a prayer. It was a little late, but what the hell.
        
        She left the room and shut the door quietly behind her. Death stood beside Al's corpse. It was not infected, and would not rise again. The dying flame of Al's candle would not swell at the last second with a cold blue light. It was as it should be.
        
        
    7.
    Sly Silver's Brains Taste Like Sugar
        
        Two blocks from the homeless shelter, Club Fetish was similarly boarded-up, windows covered with the splintered remains of tabletops and flooring. The main dance floor was all colored lights, no longer aglow. The light and sound riggings hanging from the ceiling were equally useless and their creaking made those in the club nervous. The bar had been cleaned out long ago and the consequences had clogged every toilet in the joint. The air was musty. It was dark. A tiny giggle escaped from behind the bar.
        
        Jenna O'Connell awoke with a start. The tinny laughter increased in volume. She found an empty bottle at her feet and chucked it over the bar. "Fuck you, Syl!"
        
        Lauren poked Jenna's arm. "Don't let him get to you."
        
        "It's past getting. He's already gotten to me. I hate the prick." Jenna ran her fingernails through her golden hair. Lauren had thick red hair that now