Dead Of Winter (The Rift Book II) (5 page)

“It’s funny how things work out,” he said finally, and opened his eyes. “I lived my life trying to unlock the world’s hidden mysteries, like I was unchaining some secret code to the universe. I always thought I was an oddity…the man of science who actually believes in God. Then, the world goes to hell, and what do I do? I feel sorry for myself and wish I didn’t believe…because if God does exist, he can’t be very happy with me right now.” He paused to see if any would be taken aback by his sudden admission. It seemed none did.

Corky placed his anvil of a hand on his knee. “It ain’t that bad,” he said. “I mean, you’re still alive. That’s
gotta
count for
something
.”

“I wish it did,” replied Horace. “But there’s been so much death. It surrounds me. You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve seen. Sometimes, I just don’t think it’s all worth it.”

A new, younger voice rose up from behind him. “Now that’s just dead fucking wrong,” it said.

Horace peered over his shoulder. A youngster wearing fatigues stood in front of the cave entrance. The brightness of the flames bounced off the walls and illuminated him with eerie yellow light. The boy was tall and thin, with a teenager’s tight ropes of muscle rippling down his neck. His hair was cut close to this scalp, his eyes dark and foreboding. The way he stood – rigid, with his legs spread apart and his hands on his hips – echoed the message those eyes gave.

“What makes you think you have it worse than
anyone?
” the kid asked, his voice a muted growl. “All of us have seen shit that would make anyone in any normal place and time shit their fucking shoes. You’re nothing special, old man. So get over it, and at least thank us for saving your worthless fucking life.”

Corky shot up. “That’s enough!” he screamed. “Leave the guy alone!”

Horace tugged at the leg of Corky’s pants. “No,” he said, “he’s right. I am sorry, son. I wasn’t thinking.”

His words seemed to disarm the young soldier. His visible angst diminished like the smoke through the hole in the ceiling. “Well, uh, apology accepted,” he muttered. “You guys, I’ll…be outside keeping watch. You got next, right Dennis?”

“Sure do, my boy,” answered an older man with a head of wavy silver hair and equally silver beard. He waved his hand. The boy opened his mouth as if to speak, then snapped it shut, swiveled on his heels, and headed back towards the cave’s mouth.

He stopped at the cusp. “I’m…glad you’re all right,” he said, barely audible, then marched out into the howling wind.

Corky sat back down and again thumped Horace’s knee. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he said. “That’s Doug. He’s
kinda
like our own human Doberman. Don’t mind him too much. He can be a bit of a prickly fucker sometimes, if you know what I mean.”

“You mean he’s a social retard,” said Dennis the Silver Fox.

“Pretty much,” he replied before turning back to Horace and saying, “So, old timer, I don’t think we caught your name.”

“Horace. Horace
Struder
.”

“Okay, then that’s settled, Ho-bag,” he said with a grin. It looked as if he’d lose control of his mirth again, but he held it together and gestured in the direction of his circle of friends.

“Go ahead guys, introduce yourselves.”

“I’ll start,” the man sitting beside Corky said. He was much too lean, with a comical blonde mullet. “Name’s Larry
Nevers
. I’m a trucker, just like good ‘
ol
Corky here.
Was on my way back from a drop in
Roanoke
when the shit went down.
But you can just call me
Glad
To
Be Here
.”

“As you probably heard, I’m Dennis,” said the silver fox. “From
Louisiana
originally, and I’m hoping to get outta this cold-ass shit hole soon as I can.”

Next to him were two Hispanic fellows. The first was short, pudgy, and most likely in his mid-thirties. The second looked much younger and had intense gray eyes. Beside him was a nondescript individual with a receding hairline and black-rimmed glasses; he seemed to Horace the type of person one might have a conversation with and then forget their face a moment later.

Around they went, introducing themselves while raising their right hand in salutation.

“Hector
Conseca
, from right here in the glorious state of
Virginia
.”

“Luis Rivera.
Missouri
.”

“
Stanley
Clark
,
New Mexico
.”

The banter flowed fast and easy with the preambles finished. The group told Horace of the first time they met, which happened to be in a roadside diner off the Richmond Beltway. Each took turns telling parts of the story.

They’d been random strangers, detached from both the world and each other, when they happened to wind up at the same place for a bite to eat. Disaster struck soon after. The invading Wraiths (“Fleshies,” insisted Corky) ripped through the diner, slaughtering everyone in sight. Hector, who’d been the short-order cook, charged the nasty bugger who’d latched onto Corky’s back and gouged it with a butcher knife. Stan was there with his wife, the first casualty of the melee. He told his chapter with tears on the cusp of overflowing their ducts. Luis and Larry were in the bathroom. They dropped to the floor and tried to wedge their adult bodies into the disgusting area behind the bathroom stalls for protection before gathering enough courage to crawl across the shit-stained linoleum floor and book it out the kitchen’s back door.

Dennis, the silver fox, had the most amazing story of all. According to all in attendance, he took two bullets in the shoulder and one sliced off the lower half of his ear when the window beside him exploded. (“And I just wanted to dive into my hotcakes and grits,” he said while he pulled up his shirt and showed Horace the two crusted-over holes just below his left armpit.) He collapsed and slid beneath the table. For more than a few lost seconds he lay there in shock, unable to comprehend what went on around him.

“One of those bastards fell in front of me,” he said. “I didn’t even think about it after that. My face and chest were on fire, but I didn’t care. I grabbed the gun the
thing’d
dropped and stood up. I hadn’t held a rifle since the Reserves, and that was a long damn time ago, but I just shot and shot and shot, in every direction. I caught the fuckers by surprise, I tell ya. They didn’t know what hit ’
em
.”

Dennis’s actions created the window of opportunity that the remaining four required. With confusion ruling the day, Dennis, Corky, Hector, and Stan followed, without prior knowledge, the path taken by Luis and Larry before them: out the kitchen door, past dumpsters that stunk of overly-greased waste, and into the surrounding cover of trees.

“And that’s where we met,” said Dennis.
“Out beyond the forest, right by the freeway.
We
was
alone and scared shitless.” He patted Larry on the shoulder, who smiled in response. “We’ve been best of buds ever since.
Brothers, really.”

“That’s an amazing story,” Horace said, “but where does your young soldier friend come in?”

“Oh, Dougie,” sighed Corky. “He showed up about two weeks ago, I think. It’s hard to keep track of time nowadays. It was a few miles from here. We were hiding in an old barn and then here he comes, walking through the woods and freezing his ass off. The kid looked miserable as all hell, but I’ll be damned if I never seen anyone put on a face as fucking hard as he does. We offered him a dry place to hang his boots. I guess he just
kinda
ended up staying with us. Not like he had anywhere else to go.”

“He might be wound a bit tight,” added Luis, “but he’s a good kid. Plus, he’s a
caballero
. Even with ole Dennis’s divine intervention in the diner, none
a
us really know how to protect ourselves, you know, with guns and stuff.”

“Plus, I think he needs us as much as we need him,” said Dennis. His Bayou drawl was starting to make itself known; his
I’s
were
coming out like protracted
ah’s
. “But I don’t think he’d ever admit it. Like Corky said, he’s a hard one.”

A long silence followed those words. Horace sat back. He thought of Doug and his crushed youth. A pang of sadness pricked his brain. He felt sorry for the kid. To be that young and have so much responsibility heaped upon his shoulders could not have been easy.
Youth is meant for learning and amusement, not this
, he thought.

His pondering brought back memories from his own childhood. It seemed like so long ago. He remembered how he was at Doug’s age, how driven and eager he’d been. There were so many nights spent with either his nose pressed arduously into a book or nipping at the heels of some revered Yale professor like an over-eager lap dog. He had done this not out of enjoyment but because it was what he thought he needed to accomplish his goals.
And this is where I find myself.
He was sixty-three, with no family, and lacking the sense of stability to ground him.

In that realization, he regretted his past decisions. The memories, with all their bitterness and regret, forced his mind to tread even further backwards, to a happier time. He was ten years old again, playing stickball in one of the many vacant lots that peppered his neighborhood in
Queens
. Johnny Pazarelli, Shane Reynolds, and the rest of his youthful friends became his friends once more. He’d been immature and free in those days, a feeling that stayed with him until his brain kicked into high gear and he succumbed to the pressures his intelligence – and drive – demanded.

“You know what I miss?” he asked. The others turned to him. “I miss the innocence of youth. I miss being able to walk down the street and know, just know, that everything is good and always will be. It didn’t matter how broke I was or how practical I could be. My father would let me skip school sometimes on weekdays, and he’d bring me across the bridge to Yankee Stadium to watch Mickey Mantle play ball.” He sighed. “I miss the time when baseball was all that mattered. I suppose we won’t have
that
anymore, either. Baseball, I mean.”

Luis’s eyes lit up. “Damn, Doc, I hear you. I’m only thirty, but I remember my pops taking me out to Bush every once in a while to see the Cardinals play. I’d whistle every time Ozzie, the Wizard, shot the gap and turned singles into double plays. Man, it was fucking poetry watching the Oz play ball.”

“Yes, it was,” said Horace.

“Pops and I
worshipped
those teams. We lived and died with them.” Luis paused. A tear descended his cheek. “My father died in a car accident when I was seventeen. I didn’t watch another game for a good ten years after that. It just hurt too much. But then my son was born three years ago,” again he paused and his voice grew choppy. “And I…I…”

“It’s okay,
compadre
,” Hector said, placing a caring hand on his back.

“I’m all right,” replied Luis. “So anyway, last year, on his second birthday, I took little Juan to a game. He was way too young to remember anything about it, but that was okay.
I
saw something that I needed that day. I saw my dad in the bathroom mirror. It was me. I realized it wasn’t the worst thing to remember the good times, even if it hurt. I was there, with a life I helped create, and I could give him a great set of memories just like my father gave me. It’s the first time I really appreciated what I had. But now…now he’s so far away. I don’t even know if he’s alive. I doubt he is. But I still wish I could see him again…see him and tell him how much I love him.”

He began to sob, heavy tears that caused his body to tremble. Hector wrapped his arms around his friend. Stan reached over and wiped a watery smudge from his cheek.