Death Springs Eternal: The Rift Book III (15 page)

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The reception area was packed, and Cody heard
Garret
Underhill
, another of the soldiers under his command, whistle. Garret was always whistling through his teeth like that, but most of the time his reasons for doing so didn’t warrant such a reaction. It was the one thing the guy did that grated on Cody’s nerves, but at least this time the situation called for it.

His eyes scanned the crowd, amazed by not only the numbers but also the apparent cleanliness of the people. Most of the survivors they’d run across during the long trek north had been tattered, starving folk, so filthy he swore he could draw images on their flesh the way he used to on his rear windshield after four-wheeling in the bayou. It was as if they’d become savages, lost touch with the simple traditions connecting them to their humanity. But these people appeared to have preserved their customs—their clothes were relatively dirt free, they all wore shoes, their hair was trimmed and proper, and though a definite stink did fill the room, they seemed to at least attempt cleanliness. There was also another odor lingering just below the pong of body odor, a scent that made Cody grin when it entered his nostrils, for over the last half-year he’d come to the conclusion he would never experience it again.

Perfume.

It was because of this, he realized, that Garret whistled. Not the scent exactly, but the
bearers
of the scent.
Females.
Lots and lots of females.
Some young, some older, some attractive, some not, most white, some black, and some brown, but feminine nonetheless. Cody hadn’t seen women in such large numbers since the day he’d returned from
Afghanistan
, when he stepped off the plane and saw the cheering crowd that greeted him and his fellow soldiers. For the first time since he’d seized a young Afghan girl for his own pleasure while crossing through a small desert village (her Polaroid was among the first he’d taken of a person, still stowed away in his box in the jeep;
such a sad waste of beauty
, he thought), he felt butterflies in his stomach.

Herb sidled up beside him and elbowed him in the ribs. Cody glared but breathed deep, trying to focus on anything but the sea of boobs and vaginas before him. The sea then parted, revealing a distinguished-looking old man wearing thick black glasses, leaning on a cane. A woman stood at his side, arm-in-arm with him,
her
face only slightly less wrinkled than the old man’s.

But it was those who stood behind the pair that gave Cody pause. Twenty men, at least, all dressed in navy blue uniforms with holstered handguns on their hips and either rifles or shotguns held firmly in their hands. A quick glance around showed that there were many others holding firearms in the crowd, maybe not as professional looking but still plenty equipped to do major damage. Herb elbowed him again, and this time Cody turned.

Cops
,
mouthed Herb.

“I know,” Cody whispered out the corner of his mouth.

The old man kissed the woman on the cheek, unwound his arm from hers, and stepped forward. The cop in the center of the pack—a stocky, middle-aged guy with a wide jaw and thinning brown hair—followed him. They approached slowly, measuring their steps while eyeing Cody and his men with caution. When they stopped, giving themselves ample distance, the other cops marched alongside, flanking them. Cody’s finger twitched over the butt of his pistol. These people were organized. They knew what they were doing. If he made a wrong move, he and his boys were goners.

“Hello,” he said.

The old man’s expression remained stoic. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice demanding.

“Sergeant Cody Jackson,
Sir
,” Cody said, snapping his heels together and shouting as if responding to a drill instructor. “Twenty-third regiment, Alabama Brigade, U.S. Army,
Sir
.”

Cody grinned secretly as he watched the tough old cop loosen up with his reaction.

The old man chuckled. “At ease, soldier.”

Cody complied, widening his stance and grasping his wrists behind his back. He had to fight back the urge to vomit at taking orders from—and being simultaneously mocked by—someone as unimportant as this geezer, but he dealt with it quietly. The cop behind him relaxed even more, and so did the rest of his posse.

“There is no need to be so formal here, Sgt. Jackson,” the old man said with a hint of a smile. His voice softened. “My name is John Terry, and this is my wife, Katy. Beside me is Forrest, our head-of-security, if you will.” He gestured to the rest of those standing around. “Welcome to the Omni William Penn Hotel.”

The proclamation sent the mob into a wild applause. Cody stepped back as grins appeared on many of the faces surrounding him, some sincere, some obviously not. He performed a mental checklist, sectioning off each of those he saw who might prove difficult or not useful. Yet after a few minutes of scanning the crowd an angel appeared before him, and that checklist all but disappeared.

She was tall and slender, dressed in a snug white t-shirt and baggy pants. Her dark hair bobbed just below her shoulders, her flesh pale, her lips thick and sensuous,
her
eyes sad. She was held up by two black men, as if she hadn’t the strength to do so herself. Cody stared right at her, and her at him, and his eyes traced her body from toes to tits, ingesting every bit of her luxurious legs, the width of her hips,
the
swell of her breasts. Her neck was smooth and elegant, waiting for his mouth to latch onto. He felt his heart rate pick up speed, riding a freight train of lust. His cock followed suit, and he was forced to turn around, flex his knees, and adjust himself so it wasn’t noticeable.

No one noticed, thankfully. Everyone was still cheering, high-fiving among themselves while declarations of
we’ve been saved
and chants of
USA
!
USA
!
filled
the air. Even the girl hadn’t seen his embarrassing gesture, as she nuzzled her face into the younger black man’s chest. Anger brewed inside him, and his cheeks flushed. He knew right then and there the girl was his next conquest, just like the Afghan, only hopefully with better results. At least this one seemed more mature.

“Is something the matter?”

Once more there was a sharp jab to his ribs, and this time a surprised puff of air escaped Cody’s lips. He doubled over, growled, and almost punched Herb in the balls.

“No,” he said through gritted teeth.

John Terry raised his voice over the shouting mob. “Is there anything we can do for you good men? Do you need food for your travels?
Shelter for the night?
Is there anyone in need of medical attention? A good number of the people you see around you are qualified nurses and doctors, so if you have an ailment, please let us know and we will help.”

This got Cody’s attention.
Doctors?
Nurses?
If there was one thing the SNF sorely lacked, it was anyone with a medical background—other than the few veterinarians they’d come across, of course, but stitching up a horse is much different from stitching up a human. He’d seen enough attempts over the last few months to know that for a fact.

Thinking quick, Cody said, “No, sir, there’s nothing you can do for us. But there’s something
we
can do for
you
.”

Herb passed him a sideways, anxious glance as the crowd quieted down.

“And what might that be?” asked John Terry.

“We’d like you to come back with us.
Back to
Richmond
.
Back to the new capital of the
United States
.”

Herb grimaced.

“Why
Richmond
?” asked someone from the rear of the throng. “What’s there that we don’t
got
here?”

“Well, for one, electricity,” replied Cody. He stepped forward, raising his arms like a preacher on Sunday. “Or at least we will. We have a group of engineers trying to get the local power plants back up and running as we speak. And there are jobs, and a community, and plenty of housing. We even started planting crops in the outlying areas, and some cattle for fresh meat—though honestly not many, so it’s kind of a special occasion thing. The city has been cleaned up, all undesirables have been eliminated. But we need more people. If we’re going to rebuild this country, we need to do so from the center on out. Built a strong foundation right there and let it spread. That’s why we were sent here—to gather what survivors we could find and bring them back, so they—
you—
can be a part of the grand renewal.”

That got the crowd rumbling again, though quieter than before. Cody feared for a minute that he might have overplayed his hand, been a bit too dramatic, and he glanced at Herb and Garret, saw them grimace, and his confidence faltered. He rejoined the rest of his men, who were hovering about behind him, and waited.

John Terry stayed where he’d been, standing with the big cop Forrest, his expression never changing. He seemed to consider Cody with his ancient, wrinkled eyes, and then pointed his cane at the door.

“I would like to ask you to wait outside while we discuss this matter,” the old man said.

Cody nodded, and without another word he spun on his heels and marched to the front door. The rest of his men fell in line and followed him out.

After closing the door, Cody turned his back to the massive structure. He walked down the steps and around the corner, where he spotted piles upon piles of steel girders, wooden beams, and concrete blocks. Getting a little closer to them, he saw many of the objects were splattered with dried blood.

“That’s how they kept ’em out, huh?” asked Herb.

“Duh.”

He grew bored of looking around, finding nothing of interest but a few spent shell casings and dark splotches on the concrete. Wringing his hands together, he abruptly turned around and headed back the way he came, elbowing his way through Herb, Garret, Davey, and the others. It irritated him how close they were, and his face flushed.

“What’re you, sheep?” he barked. “Stop fucking following me!”

He stormed away, his heart racing. Fear wracked him—fear that his speech would be seen for the stinking pile of shit it was, fear that the beautiful woman inside would never know his name, fear of trudging back to the general empty-handed. The only reason he’d agreed to this mission so readily in the first place was to prove once and for all how much better than the rest he was—better than that lazy asshole Pitts, than
Hawthorne
, than
all
of them. His fists clenched and he glanced at the vehicles sitting idle in the middle of the street. It would be so easy to put the cannon to good use, to snatch up some grenades and put an end to the bastards in the hotel before they had a chance to react.

He shook his head.
No, I can’t. There’s too much here to lose.

He turned around once he reached the front stoop to see that his men hadn’t followed his edict. They were still trailing him, though they did give him a few extra feet of space. He cocked his head, listened to sounds of commotion in the hotel, and then stared at Herb. His longtime friend looked back at him with his lips slightly askew.

“Okay,” said Cody. “What’s wrong?”

Herbed nudged the soldier beside him, a kid nicknamed Sturgeon, the only member of the team younger than Cody. He’d been a late arrival to the People’s Militia, joining only a few weeks before the world ended and the SNF
came
a’calling. But Cody liked his spunk, and the fact he loved country music as much as he did, so Cody always requested him for special duties. It didn’t hurt that Sturgeon was obsessed with the contents of Cody’s box.