The Last Policeman (Last Policeman, #1)

by Ben H. Winters

“What about you, Dr. Fenton?” “Excuse me?” She stops at the door, looks back. “Why haven’t you left, gone off to do whatever it is you’ve always wanted to do?” Fenton tilts her head, looks at me like she’s not exactly sure she understands the question. “This is what I’ve always wanted to do.” “Right. Okay.” The heavy gray door swings closed behind her, I rub my knuckles into my eyes, thinking, what next? Thinking, what now? I stand there alone for a second, alone with Fenton’s rolling cart, alone with the bodies in their cold lockers. Then I take one of the vials of Zell’s blood off the cart, slip it into the inside pocket of my blazer, and go.

He turns my way with doleful eyes, shakes his head, as if to say, boy oh boy, huh? and I can tell he’s about to try to talk to me, have some sort of human moment, and I don’t have time, I can’t do it. I have work to do.

It’s exhausting. People hiding behind the asteroid, like it’s an excuse for poor conduct, for miserable and desperate and selfish behavior, everybody ducking in its comet-tail like children in mommy’s skirts.