Dead Of Winter (The Rift Book II) (18 page)

Horace glanced Doug’s way and grimaced. “No reason. Just tired,” he said.

Corky winked. “Now ain’t that something I never heard before.”

Doug stood up. He aimed a pleading expression in Horace’s direction. He knew what the kid was feeling. The boy finally found someone he could feel comfortable enough to talk to, even if it was a man old enough to be his grandfather.
So much for not wanting to get attached
, he thought, and made his way to Doug’s side.

“We’re going to relieve ourselves now,” he said. “I hope you all don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” said a grinning Stan in his ultra-polite tone. “We just don’t want you guys to feel like you
have
to leave, though.”

“Oh, we don’t,” replied Doug. He squeezed Horace’s shoulder. “We were just talking. I think I wanna continue it.
In private.
You know?”

“Suit
yourselves
,” chirped Larry as he plopped his butt down on a barstool. “We don’t
be needing
no ‘civilized conversation’ round these parts, anyhow.”

Horace nodded, said his goodbyes, and left the room with Doug by his side. The look on the boy’s face, freed once more from the rest, was one of relief.

“So,” he said as they began scaling the stairs toward their second-floor rooms, “you were about to say something before the guys interrupted. What was it?”

Horace paused. In his mind he said,
Well,
Douglas
, I’m in the advanced stages of lung cancer. I’d have about six months to live with minimal treatment; without, I’ll be lucky to hold out until spring.

This he didn’t say. Instead, the words that came from his mouth were, “I was just going to say that I have a bad cold.”

“Oh. That’s it?
Sounded like something more.”

Horace forced a smile and threw his arm around the young soldier.

“Yes, son,” he said. “That’s all it is.”

Chapter 8

What
To
Expect

When
You’re
Expecting

Sounds haunted the woods as Josh hovered, shovel in hand, over the newly-dug hole. Beside him were an axe and a large, lumpy bundle of burlap. He breathed a heavy sigh. His heart raced as he jabbed the shovel into the frozen dirt, leaned against the handle, and closed his eyes. No part of him wanted to do what came next.
Just sit back and relax for a bit
, he thought.
You need the rest.

“No,” he muttered. “Let’s get this over with.”

He dropped the shovel, bent over, and grabbed a handful of fabric. It was hard to get a good grip with gloves on. Bracing his legs, he yanked on the bundle and it slid across the dissolving snow. As the material pulled taut it gained a vaguely human form. A booted foot popped out, waggling like a dying fish. Josh looked away and swallowed hard, but did nothing to cover it. He was too close to the end to stop now.

With a final grunt he forced the sack into the ditch. It landed with a thud, the exposed foot disappearing as it tumbled over. Mercifully the bundle became formless again, just an untidy heap of rough brown textile that looked like an overstuffed potato sack.

He paused, eyeing the thing in the trench. He then picked up the axe, waiting for the moment he would have to use it. That moment never came. Satisfied that enough time had passed he replaced axe with shovel, scooped up the hard, wet dirt from the pile to his left, and tossed it into the hole. This process he repeated until it was filled, more or less even with the rest of the landscape. He whacked the shovel against the loam, evening it out before grabbing a large, crudely stenciled rock and placing it at the head of the grave.

“Goodbye, Frank,” he said. “You’ll be missed, man.”

He offered a moment of silence to the departed Frank McKinley, the fourth victim of the sickness that had decimated the
Dover
survivors over the past few weeks. As he knelt down to pick up the axe he kissed the tips of his sheathed fingers and gently touched the ground. He gazed at the stone that marked Frank’s grave, then at the three smaller ones. His brain whispered their names;
Tommy Grant, Teri Lumley, Marsha Guilder.
At ten years old, Teri had been the oldest of that group. She had curly black hair and eyes large as almonds. Never again would those eyes glance in his direction; neither also would Tommy join Andy and Francis in a game of tag, nor would he hear Marsha giggle as she cuddled up in Emily Steadman’s lap while the old lady told nursery rhymes. They were simply gone, long gone. Just like Sophia. Just like his parents.

Just like virtually everybody.

Tears ran down his cheeks. He exhaled deeply, watching his breath form a swirl of mist before him, and squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t know if he could go on like this. The fear, the uncertainty, the despair, all conspired to eat him alive.

A rustling sound emerged from the surrounding trees. His heart leapt and the anguish retreated back into the pit from which it came. He laid the shovel on the ground, gripped the axe with two hands, and stood up. Crouching, he eased his way towards the noise. His heart rate quickened. The branches of an evergreen shifted. A twig snapped. He raised the axe.

A stumbling figure broke through the trees with flapping arms, looking for a moment like an archeologist exploring a tunnel filled with spider webs. It was a man, naked and covered with sores. His eyes were empty. Those eyes stared at Josh, seemingly without recognition. The man’s lower jaw was gone. His dead, gray tongue swayed like a pendulum.

Josh held his ground as the thing approached him. He lifted the axe above his head and, when the dead man was mere feet in front of him, swung it as hard as he could. The blade split his skull in two. Josh let go of the axe. The man stood there, wavering, with the axe handle jutting out before him. Those dead eyes stared at him and for a moment he swore he could see a flicker of recognition. That flicker disappeared and the man toppled over. He landed in a jumble of twisted arms and legs, looking like a human pretzel. Never once did his body shake, as Sophia’s had so long ago.

Josh caught his breath, talked his pounding heart into slowing its pace, approached the corpse, and kicked it. Even with boots on he could feel the softness of its flesh. It made him sick to his stomach. With a great amount of effort he grabbed the axe handle, which now stuck straight into the air, and yanked it free. He heard the snap as the skull cracked open even wider. More gray matter burped from the opening. This time he really did get sick.

After taking a moment to wipe his chin with the sleeve of his coat, Josh gathered up the axe and shovel, slung them over his shoulder, and started the journey back home. He glanced quickly at the body behind him, thinking he should dig another grave for that poor soul, as well.
Maybe tomorrow
, he thought.
Or maybe never.

Of course he would, and he knew it. This was the sixth of these creatures that he, Colin, or Mary had dispatched in the last eleven days. They appeared out of nowhere, awaking like hibernating bears once the weather grew a few degrees warmer. Despite the repetition of the killing, and though he understood these things were already dead, he couldn’t help but look at them with a sense of loss and shame. They’d been people once, folks like those he’d known his whole life. Didn’t they deserve at least some modicum of respect after they were finally laid to rest?

Of course they did, and Josh would have to be the one to give it to them.

Tomorrow.

By the time he arrived at the cottage the sun had disappeared. Darkness swept over the landscape, turning those impressions of monsters he’d noticed earlier into the real thing. He swore he heard more rustling when he reached the porch and raised the axe again. It came from the line of shrubs where the four horses, now dead as well, had been laid to rest, one of the tarps that had once formed the roof of their wagon now draped over their frozen hides. He waited. When nothing appeared he dropped the axe to his side and opened the front door.

Anxious faces greeted him. They all turned in his direction, even
Luanda
, and he could read the fear in their expressions. He sighed, leaned the axe and
shovel
against the wall, and unzipped his jacket. The air in the cabin was sticky and stinking. The side of his jaw ached. It all combined to make him even more miserable.

“Deed’s done,” he muttered. Shifting bodies answered him.

“What happened?” asked Kyra.

He threw his coat on the floor and turned to her. “Why?”

“You’ve got blood on your jacket.”

“Oh, you know how it is.”

“No, I don’t.”

Colin stepped forward. His eyelids were half-mast and he walked with an uneven stoop. There was a half-empty bottle of Southern Comfort tucked in the crook of his arm. His voice slurred when he said, “Fucking zombies, eh?”

“Yup,” Josh replied. He snatched the bottle from Colin, twisted off the top, and took a swig. The liquor stung the inside of his mouth for a moment, but at least it caused the throbbing to subside. When it ran down his throat he coughed.

“Hey,” said Colin. “That’s not funny, bro. It’s the last we got. Don’t hog it.”

Josh raised the bottle. When his friend went to grab it he yanked it away. “Look who’s talking, asshole,” he said. “And besides, I’ll hog it if I damn well please.
I’m
the one who went out and buried Mister Mac. Not you.”

Jessica Lure spoke up from the back of the room. “But you said you didn’t want anyone to come along.”

Josh dropped his shoulders, closed his eyes, and offered the bottle to Colin. He didn’t pull it away this time.

“Sorry,” he said.

“
S’okay
,” replied Colin. “I mean, I guess…forget it.”

Colin walked away. Josh removed his hat, tossed it on top of his jacket, and made his way through the still-staring crowd until he found a free chair. He turned it to face the boarded window, plunked down, and wrapped his arms around his chest. Once more he closed his eyes, this time listening to the rattle of his lungs when he breathed in. Perhaps he was getting sick, too.

Gentle hands fell on his shoulders. “I know things are hard for you,” said Kyra, her voice sweet and dripping with compassion. “Let me help you.”

He shook his head. “No. You can’t. It has to be me.”

“You don’t have to be a martyr.”

He thought of Sophia, so young and full of life six months ago; now, her body would be slowly decomposing along with the rest of the world. “Yes, I do,” he said in reply.

Her hands lifted off him. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll let you have this.” Her face appeared over his left shoulder, her green eyes blazing as she stared at him. “But you’re
going
to talk to me.
Sooner rather than later.
This
is not negotiable.
”

Josh nodded.

She gave him a kiss on the cheek and left him alone, though it brought him no comfort. He heard the murmurs behind him and realized he couldn’t be
truly
alone any more, possibly ever again. This thought caused his chest to tighten. Tears threatened to roll from their prison. He sucked them back in with a curl of his lip.

Andy and Francis appeared. They approached him tentatively, as if he was a bear trap that might suddenly snap shut.

“What’s up guys?” he asked.

“We just wanna know,” asked Andy, “if you wanna play cards.”

He shook his head. “Not today. Not now.”
Why can’t you all just leave me be?
He snorted and shot up from the chair. The two boys uttered small shrieks at his abrupt movement.

“You know what? I’m going to bed.”

He heard no cries of protest, only sniffles and moans that drifted through the sticky air. He did hear Kyra try to comfort Francis, however, and this caused his ever-present guilt to beat its chest.
You’re an asshole, Josh
, it said.

“I know,” he groaned.

He went to the secluded spot in the corner of the cabin that he and Kye had claimed, took off his pants, and slid beneath the sleeping bag. It reeked but he didn’t care. Getting in the bag meant it was time to get unconscious, and for Josh, with the harsh reality of his new life bearing down on him, he’d take unconscious over just about anything.

*
 
 
*
 
 
*

That night, for the first time in God knew how long, he dreamed not of terror, but of
her
.

In the dream he strolled through a field of wildflowers with the girl from his past. A hot sun shone down on them. He felt his heart beat with a slow thump, thump,
thump
. A wide smile stretched across his face.

“Marcy,” he said, turning to the girl beside him. “I’ve missed you.”

She nodded. Her shoulder-length brown hair bobbed. Her eyes were alive and sparkling, her lips full and sensuous. The wind blew and the sundress she wore hugged her tall, slender frame. She’d never looked prettier.

Then, quick as a blink, she disappeared. His hand held nothing but air. He snapped his head from side to side, searching for her, but could see only grass and wildflowers. The sky developed a purplish hue when the light retreated, as if someone drew a shade over his vision.

He panicked and ran away from the darkness. His feet pounded up a hill, his soles digging into the soft, wet grass. In an instant he crested it. Just as he was about to sprint down the other side he stopped.