Death Springs Eternal: The Rift Book III (14 page)

“Anything in nature can starve to death,” Dr. Terry said, his ancient eyes scanning the scene.
“Even the unnatural.”
Billy found those to be rather profound words, especially coming from such a stoic, grounded man. That was one conversation he made sure to document.

Cleanup took days, with everyone who resided in the Omni helping to cart away the moldering bodies so they could be burned. When the fires were stoked, that’s when he noticed the
other
plumes of smoke around the city—dark columns that reached for the sky like giant, mystical sandworms, surrounding them. There were other survivors out there, lots of them from the looks of it. The death of the dead seemed to have led to a rebirth for humanity.

A few days later the fighting began. Pops of gunfire drifted to the Omni, the sound ricocheting off the building day and night. Groups of people dressed in rags began to appear, watching the hotel like vultures waiting to descend upon their weakened prey, each faction bearing different colors. Armed and fearless, the invaders pushed Billy and his fellow survivors back into the confines of the hotel, until Forrest and the other retired officers, using training they hadn’t thought they’d need any longer, threatened—and delivered—extermination upon any who ventured within fifty yards of their castle of steel, brick, and glass.

“The gangs are at war,” Forrest had said. “Each wants to claim territory now that it’s safe to move freely. I can only hold them back for so long. Pretty soon they’ll come here wanting what we have, too.”

Billy sighed. It seemed that even the end of the world couldn’t stop old tensions, old prejudices,
old
greed, from reemerging.
Maybe the slate should have been wiped clean
, he thought.
Tabula Rasa, start it all again.
Then he thought of Christopher, of Marcy, of Leon, of Forrest, of Dr. and Mrs. Terry and the rest of his fellow survivors, of the kindness and perseverance he’d experienced over the last few months, and incinerated that notion in his mind’s kiln. There
were
people worth saving. He was given proof of that each morning when he woke up. So when someone suggested killing their beacon, Billy said they shouldn’t, in hopes that some lost soul in search of a safe haven might find their way there.

He stepped up to the edge of the roof beside his rigid friend and gazed through the chain-link fence—the only thing separating them from a ten-story drop—and wondered if that was nothing but wishful thinking. The sun baked the city, lifting a haze that formed a liquid curtain over the buildings, both upright and toppled. He heard a sequence of muffled pops, likely the report of a cheaply made automatic weapon, followed by something he wasn’t expecting—a bright flash that momentarily blinded him. He grunted, covered his eyes with his hand, and heard Forrest yelp. A moment later he peered through his fingers to see more of that black smoke rise up in the sky. Someone in the distance screamed, and another explosion came after that. After a prolonged moment of silence, the deep, virtually unnoticeable rumble of engines started again.

Billy peered at Forrest. “I do
not
like this,” he said.

Forrest nodded gravely.
“Like I just said.”

“How far away do you think it is?”

“Not sure. Ten blocks, maybe.”

“What should we do?”

“I have no idea.”

They stood there in silence for a while after that, listening to the approaching rumble and holding their breath. Forrest called down to his buddies, telling them to prepare the SWAT equipment just in case. And when a vehicle emerged from around the corner, just outside the industrial district, Billy’s jaw dropped. It was a camouflaged Jeep, with some sort of cannon mounted on its rear. Two other vehicles followed, one of them a huge—and obviously military—armored box of a thing. He heard voices shouting and hands clapping, sounds that came from below their perch on the roof. He pressed his forehead against the fence, shoving it out as far as he could, peered down, and saw waving hands sticking out of the windows.

The signal had worked. For better or worse, someone had come.

“Oh my,” he said. “Do you presume this is for real? Has the cavalry arrived?”

“I don’t presume
nothing
,” said Forrest.

“And why is that?”

“Because
this don’t
feel right. Not right at all.”

Billy agreed, and when Forrest bolted for the door and ran down the steep stairwell he was right on the old cop’s heels.

*
  
*
  
*

The hotel appeared before them like an elegantly dressed monster. It was a huge brick edifice with rows of windows, still intact, that glinted in the afternoon sun like a hundred eyes. The place had obviously been built with elegance in mind, but Cody was amazed at how pristine it still looked, even after the end of the world. And there, on the fifth-floor balcony, the constant strobe of the beacon called him onward.

While Herb drove he looked at the man to his rear,
who
stood behind the mounted cannon, aiming it at the building, his trigger finger appearing itchy.

“Yo, Davey,” said Cody. “Chill out. Sit down. I think the fighting’s done with.”

Davey passed him an uncertain glance, locked the cannon in place, and slipped into the seat, almost taking a tumble when the Jeep ran over a rather large pothole. He grabbed the cardboard box that had been there and almost dropped it. The cover slipped off.

“Asshole!”
Cody screeched. His hand shot back and slapped the soldier. He then snatched the box while Davey glared at him, holding his swelling cheek.

“Be careful with my shit,” said Cody. “Next time you’ll get more than a slap, you fuck.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” replied Davey, handing forward the box’s cover.

Cody massaged the top of the cardboard square, gazing lovingly at the white-framed squares of happiness inside. He picked up the one on top, a Polaroid photo taken only a few minutes earlier, when a crew of thugs tried to get the drop on them while they crawled through the center of the city. It had only recently developed, and a pair of dead brown eyes stared back at him from the center of a dark face. The spic had thought
himself
brave, Cody assumed, rushing the Jeep with his cheap-ass Tec-9. Those things were notoriously unreliable, and not a single bullet hit even the side of the car. Cody felled him with two shots, the second of which took off the top of his head,
then
allowed Herb and the rest of the crew finish off the guy’s friends. He’d gotten what he wanted, after all.
Another kill, another trophy.
Daddy woulda been proud
, he thought. After one final glance at the picture, taking in the red puree that had been the dude’s cranium, Cody placed it back among the rest of his conquests, fastened the lid, and slid the box beneath the passenger seat.

“You think there’ll be anything here worth bringing with us?” asked Herb.

Cody shrugged. “I sure as hell hope so. I don’t wanna be out here any longer than I have to.”

The building grew larger and larger in the windshield. The structure seemed alive, writhing under the sun. A strange noise filled his ears. The closer they got, the clearer both the image and sounds became; a squirming mass of people, hanging out of the windows and standing on the balconies, cheering, whistling, hollering. Cody glanced at Herb and grinned.

“I think we hit the fucking jackpot,” he said.

*
  
*
  
*

Marcy was in the middle of her exercises with
Leon
when Billy rushed into her room. Sweat covered him, as if he’d just finished running a marathon. Christopher hurried in behind him, flustered as well. The calm she’d been feeling scuttled away from her when she noticed the sobering expression on the professor’s face.

That’s when she heard the cheering. It sounded like the type of thing she’d experienced at the Pitt football games she and her ex used to attend. She glanced all around her as if she’d never seen her room before, then fixed Billy with a cockeyed stare and said, “What’s going on?”

“We have company. I need you downstairs.”

“Why?”

“It looks as if the military just arrived.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” asked
Leon
.

Billy grimaced. “I would say that depends on what they have in mind.”

Marcy nodded. “That’s why you need me, huh?”

“Yes.”

Just as before, Marcy allowed the men to lift her from the bed. Leon and Christopher left the room while Billy assisted her in taking off her nightgown and then putting on a t-shirt and sweats. Never once did she feel awkward or dirty. She sensed the sincerity in his actions, the lack of sexual energy coming off of him.

From there it was out into the hallway and down the rear staircase.
Leon
stayed in front of her in case she fell while Billy and Christopher supported her from the sides. Her legs felt more and more like jelly with each step she descended and her feet were numb. Whenever she teetered to the side, though, Billy was right there to support her, lending her his strength, just as he had when together they fought off the demon that haunted her soul.

They reached the lobby and
Leon
threw open the door. Marcy stared in disbelief at the scene before her. It looked as if everyone in the building had congregated there, and the smell of the unwashed masses—like Polish sausages wrapped in dirty socks—made her nauseous.

She was led to the center of the assembly, where Dr. Terry and his wife stood, facing the doorway. There was an anxious energy about them that didn’t fit with the rest of those in attendance. Marcy tried her best to hold off the onslaught of foreign emotion, but the pressure of it all began to overwhelm her.

“Breathe deep,” Billy whispered into her ear. “Breathe
slow
.”

She did as instructed, and the pressure in her skull slowly dissipated. She glanced again at the Terrys, attempting to stem the flow of sensation to theirs and theirs alone, and felt paranoia and distrust permeating off of them.

“They don’t like this, either,” she said.

“I know,” replied Billy.

The front door then opened, and eight men stepped into the hotel. They all wore military fatigues, their boots polished and shining, which seemed out of place in the relatively grimy world she’d grown accustomed to. Though the occupants of the Omni tried their best to keep up with their cleanliness, the lack of running water made maintaining proper hygiene an iffy proposition at best. Each of the soldiers also wore a sash—of varying colors—that looped from their right shoulder to beneath their left armpit.

Marcy moved to the side so she could see the men more clearly. They were of mixed age, with the one in front appearing to be no more than twenty years old. He had a head of shaggy blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and carried himself with an authority that made her think he was in charge. Those behind him followed his lead, and when he barked at them they listened, which proved her theory. She didn’t like the way he moved, the way his shoulders swayed with each stride he took, like he was some sort of James Dean wannabe. Using the breathing trick again, she concentrated on him, trying not to let in more than she could handle.

She gasped and stepped back.

“What’s wrong?”
Leon
asked,
his eyes wide with concern.

Marcy opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came out. Her vision began to waver, and then there were hands on her shoulders, supporting her, keeping her upright, refusing to let her fall.