Author's Note: Almost done. Thank you. Keep the faith, it'll be over soon.

Chapter Seven: Smoke

As an officer, Michael was required to take a minimum of twenty hours training every month in urban combat. It was all television and movie kind of stuff: knocking down doors, gripping guns amid smoke and shouts. In his years of service Mike had used his training maybe about three times; his first time had been in a drug raid. Old home with cat and dog shit all over the front yard, an old Indian lady who spoke no English and threw trash at them when they entered. The delinquents, about four youths who made methamphetamine in the old lady's kitchen, had no guns and were so doped up they didn't know the cops were there till Jack turned off the television and poured the rest of the coffee into the one guy's lap.

The second time someone had shot at him. Jack took that bullet. Third time, well the third time, was when he had crashed into the counterfeiting operation that bled into dirty cops and Code V's. He hadn't been to training in two months and he wasn't any near the die-hard officer one saw in movies. Mike was that kind of cop that got results the old fashion way, lots of paperwork and footwork.

Which made this whole scene of tramping around in headquarters supremely funny. Michael wouldn't have plotted it better if he had been writing for television. There was the darkened hallways, bathed in the red light of the emergency generators, highlighted by the occasional flash of the fire alarm. He did his best to drown out the howls of the alarm system and his footwork on the slick floors. The sprinkler system was always burning his eyes with water. He was both surprised and slightly disappointed that the building hadn't gone into lockdown with old iron gates slamming down around him. It would have made for a wonderful mood.

He had only a vague idea of a plan and it was simple and cop-like. Hear a scream, run to the scream. If Pearse had implemented any kind of emergency plans or fallback training, Michael didn't know about it. And, he honestly doubted he have trusted Pearse's plan at all. Once again, it was the old cop instinct.

He had none of Angie or Vaughan's blind loyalty to Pearse, and despite his best effort, Michael was acutely aware that he was perhaps the most level headed of the group. If Pearse was compromised, it would be him that covered it.

That thought was both resolute and frightening. He had no love for the man, but that did not mean he was certain that if his gun was trained on Pearse, he wouldn't blink.

That's all Pearse would need. One blink.

There was a shuffling behind him that froze Michael in his tracks, and dismissed his musings. The old training kicked in and threw all his senses into high gear: sight may be useless but he still had sound. The footsteps behind him were measured, leisurely; not at all the tread of someone who felt trapped.

Michael found a corner and wedged into it. His gun's mirror would be little help. The shadow was getting closer, the footfall still steady despite the produced chaos surrounding him.

"Colm…" The voice rang out clear against the sirens. "Colm is that you? Where's mother…"

So this one must be Philip, Michael thought, well that's all well and good. He got the crazy.

The Code V was stockier then he would have pictured a big scary monster. He was wandering around with his arms crossed over his chest. He was shivering in the water: partially from fear but mostly from the lack of clothing. Michael blinked twice and almost burst into laughter.

Philip had his hair slicked wildly around his large, bewildered face. He wore an oversized soccer jersey, khaki shorts and old climbing sandals with socks. Michael's first instinct was to pocket his gun and escort him back to the loony farm. It only hit him a moment later that he was staring at someone who was older and by far crueler then anything he would meet.

Ever.

Philip turned suddenly, lifting his head all the way up, till the water feel directly onto his face and around the contours of his face. Laughter rumbled somewhere in his gut, and then crawled up to his throat, till Philip's whole body shook as he laughed in the sprinklers. It was a surreal sight.

"I can hear your breathing." Philip's voice was lucid and deep; somehow Michael found himself struck by how such a plain figure could produce such a dark voice. It held the shadows and malice in its innocence. "You're the policeman, Jack told me about you."

Michael swallowed and pushed closer to the wall.

"Jack said you sounded like that when you were nervous…" The man's voice grew softer, and in the shadows, Michael saw him kneel to his haunches. Putting one hand in front of him, Philip snapped his fingers. Beckoning him like one would entice a stray dog. "We won't hurt you. Well, Colm will but I won't. I'm not after you..."

Vaughan's first lesson, and the Michael had put the most credence in had been the simple credo of shoot first. They were stronger, trickier and more callous then he could be. Still, the copper part of Michael pressed on to understand the 'why' as well the what. "…And what are you after?"

There was a pause, and then a simple pause followed by a slow response as if Philip wanted to sound out every syllable to make sure Michael understood. "Father."

"Pearse won't join you."

"He already has." Philip rose slowly. He stepped back, and smiled in sync with Michael's heart stopping. "You too. All of you or do you see a life forever outside of society and devoid of friendship and diversion as a proper lifestyle."

"Someone has to fight you."

"Why?" Philip suddenly appeared in front of Michael faster then it took him to blink. The Code V reached over and yanked the gun from his hand and threw it pushing him back into the wall. The man pushed closer to him, till his nose almost touched Michael's. "Why exactly do you hate us? Why do you fear…"

"I don't."

"Then why…"

"You killed my best friend." Michael whispered and then threw his whole body against Philip's. The Code V stumbled back and heaved. Michael made a dash to the gun.

And was promptly picked up by the nape of his neck like a kitten and pulled back. As the Code V spoke, Michael could feel his breath on his neck. "I did nothing of the sort. You mustn't blame me for actions of my kind…unless I'm allowed to do the same." The creature leaned in, lips brushing Michael's neck. Michael tried to squirm but decided that was about as effective as a grasshopper trying to escape a mason jar. "Do you know how many of my friends you've killed…"

Michael swallowed. Vaughan would never let him hear the end of this. Philip's voice was honeyed and calm. "I understand, you know. I might not agree with why or even how you fight but I do understand it. You want to preserve life. Believe it or not, that's what we want too. Pearse is just the beginning, we offer him life after all. What can you give him?" Philip leaned over, "how many more friends are you going to let die before you see we're not your enemy and of all the terrible things, officer, you could be fighting you chose to devote yourself to this. It isn't worth it."

There was explosion of light behind Michael's eyes that threw his brain around in his skull. Michael was aware of tossed unto the table and the table folding under his weight. A crossbeam shoved itself into his gut, making him cry out.

The was a swallowing of sound followed by another scream, this one too loud and enraged to be his own. Michael felt another round rake his brain and making, he double over. For a moment, tasted his lunch again and groan.

Growing up, he never wanted to be this kind of cop.

The next sensation Michael was aware of being lifted again. He tried his own feet for a moment and then tumbled into the other's arms. If it was Philip, he was screwed.

"Were you bitten?"

"Thank you, Pearse. I am alive. A little winded but otherwise top form."

"You're a little overweight." Pearse mumbled as he eased Michael unto a chair. Mike became aware of sitting and Pearse's hands on his knees in front of him and then sliding up to his chest and shoulders.

Michael shut his eyes to black out the pain throbbing right behind them. Pearse prodded his side again, recoiling as Michael winced. "What was that I said about lacy connections, Pearse?"

There was a sharp pain on the side of his head, where Pearse's hand impacted his temple. Michael would have laughed if he hadn't wanted to vomit again. The priest's hand touched Michael's neck, and the old copper howled and recoiled. His eyes opened long enough to stare at the black blood that coated Pearse's fingers. Pearse himself seemed frozen for a moment, before muttering. "This is not coming out of your medbank." He told him simply before speaking to someone behind him. Michael was aware of being lifted again and curt orders.

For one brief moment, Michael thought he heard his old Chief again, and heard a determination that had left long ago. For one soft, dull moment everything was black and white again.

"Get him into the clinic." Pearse was saying. "Allow no one in but Vaughan or Angela, highest guard. He hasn't been infected I'd like him to remain that way. Jordan, care to that burn."

"Sir, and you?" A young guard, Michael thought, was this Jordan?

"You have your orders." Pearse retreated. "Dismissed."

"Pearse…" Michael called, and waited for one long moment. His head was all loud explosions and pain but he a vague belief that the man was there in the darkness, waiting. "What he said…"

There was a long pause. "I heard." Pearse said, and was gone.