Death Springs Eternal: The Rift Book III (21 page)

She placed the bag down, hearing it clank against the rock, and lay back. Her eyes squeezed shut, a spasm of grief pouring over her soul. She saw the face of her husband, of her son and his wife and child, of her parents and friends, all of whom she would never see again.

For the longest time,
Luanda
thought she was beyond this, beyond the suffocating grief. But with each passing day, the fact of her loneliness became greater. And then, when the nightmares started, her terror reached its apex.

It was the same dream, coming to her whenever she shut her eyes. She
knew
it was a dream, but the images were so lucid, the events so frighteningly
urgent
, that her logical mind came to the conclusion she was seeing a portal into the future.

In the vision she sits in a muddy pit on a stormy, rain-soaked evening. Lightning flashes overhead, and in its brief light she sees her traveling partners. All are covered with muck, panting and frightened. Around her rests a collection of skulls, flesh dripping off them like wax from a lit candle. She looks around, only to see the children she sometimes unwillingly protected have been slaughtered, each and every one of them. Then her eyes carry to the lip of the crater, where a phantom of a man stands. He laughs, his voice turning the very air into a wave of noxious gas. The man then points a finger at her, and fire erupts from its tip. She tries to get away, to hide behind the scurrying forms of her fellow survivors, but it is no use. The flames consume her, burning her from inside out.

Her jaw hitched at the memory, and her tears flowed all the faster. Shame consumed her, the knowledge that even with all she’d experienced, all the companionship she’d felt with the rest of the Dover crew, she would turn her back on them in an instant if it meant her own survival.

Finally, she swallowed the last of her tears, wiped their remnants away with her grimy sleeve, and sat up. Mosquitoes buzzed around her head, floating before her eyes like a procession of dandelion seeds. In those seeds she saw the face of her loved ones, drifting upward, heading for the golden forever. She hesitated, pondering her next action, thinking of the consequences.
It’s a mortal sin
, she thought.

But no.
Death wasn’t worse than dishonor, or a loss of
freedom,
or worst of all, a loss of will. Everything she’d ever read, everything she’d taught her students over the years, had shown her as much.

Luanda
lifted the paper bag, tipped it over, and dumped the pistol into her open palm. Grabbing the handle—it felt so cold, despite the morning’s heat—she pressed it to her temple. Her lips mouthed the Our Father. Her finger pulled the trigger.

Just like that the number of survivors from
Dover
,
New Hampshire
, dropped by one.

*
  
*
  
*

The note felt thin as tissue paper in her hand, and the words were haunting.
Goodbye
, it read in simple, elegant script.

“She’s gone,” whispered Kyra.

Josh paced around the farmhouse, pulling at his hair. “I have to go look for her,” he said. “She couldn’t have gotten far. She didn’t even take her stuff.”

Jessica shook her head. “No, Josh. She’s gone.”

“Bullshit.”

“No bullshit.” It was Mary, speaking in earnest for what seemed like the first time since Alice, her friend since childhood, had been butchered by the mutant dogs back in
Attleboro
. “This is
Luanda
we’re talking about here. If she decided to go, she’s gone. And you’re not going to find her.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Josh spun around and snatched his bag off the floor. His sudden movements frightened the children, who were standing by the doorway, ready to hit the road. A few of them recoiled. Sharon Acker, the youngest of the girls, started sobbing.

“Oh, get over it,” muttered Josh.

Kyra closed her eyes, breathed deep, and then clenched her fists. She then marched up to him, clutched his shirt with one hand, spun him around, and slapped him across the cheek with the other. He stepped away from her, a look of shock on his face.

“What the hell…” he began.

Kyra narrowed her eyes, her heart thumping out of control, the baby kicking. “
You
get over it,” she said, trying to sound as stern as she could. “We can’t save everyone. I thought you understood that. If Lu doesn’t want to be here, that’s her choice.”

His expression slackened and his shoulders slumped. His lips twisted into a half frown and he shook his head. He seemed to be fighting one hell of a battle inside of himself, a battle he couldn’t win. Kyra stepped up to him again and once more grabbed hold of his shirt, only this time she rose up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the lips.

“Sorry,” she said. “You didn’t deserve that.”

“Yeah, I did,” he replied, and she could tell he was trying to smile. “You’re right. You all are. We just gotta get moving.”

“You sure about that?” asked old Emily.

Josh shrugged. “I’m not sure of anything, really. But we gotta do what we gotta do, right?”

They all nodded in agreement.

An hour later, Josh pulled the first SUV out of the barn. The second followed right behind, now with Mary at the wheel. At the end of the dirt driveway, Kyra kissed the farmhouse goodbye, thankful for its night of comfort despite the loss of one of their members. She closed her eyes and remembered the previous evening, the first truly joyous sexual encounter she’d had in months. Her hand crept across the center console and latched onto Josh’s knee. She turned to him and smiled.

“We’re missing one of the pistols,” Josh said, frowning.
“The Remington.”

“What’s that mean?” asked Jessica from the back seat.

Josh shrugged. “I checked the house twice. It’s not there. So either
Luanda
took it to protect herself, or…”

He didn’t finish that thought, and Kyra was glad for it. Wanting to change the subject, she said, “So where are we headed now?
Back to 95?”

He shook his head. “Not yet. I think we should hit
Virginia
first.
Maybe
Richmond
.”

She looked at him sideways. “What?
Why
Richmond
?”

“I think there’re some friends there. Maybe they could join us.”

“Friends?
What
makes
you think there’s
friends
there?”

He winked. “Sometimes, there’s stuff we just know, you know?”

“Touché.”

With that he reached across and put his hand on her stomach. The child inside her seemed to react to his presence, the body shifting, coming up to greet his touch. Kyra shifted, suddenly uncomfortable, and placed her hand over his.

“She knows it’s you,” she said.

“I know.”

She gazed at him, concerned by the odd expression that washed over his eyes. “Hun, what’s wrong?” she asked.

“Oh,” he replied, shaking out of his trance and focusing back on the road. “Sorry, just thinking.”

“About what?”

“What’re we gonna name her? I mean, you’re so convinced it’s a girl and all, but do we have a name yet?”

“No.”

“Well,” he started,
then
hesitated before saying, “how about Molly?”

Kyra almost choked on her tongue. “Molly? Really?” she whispered.

He nodded.
“Why not?”

“I was kinda partial to Christina, personally.”

“I like that name,” said Jessica, poking her head up from the back seat.

“I do too!” shouted Meghan Stoddard, bouncing in the seat next to Jessica, her flailing arms whacking Andy and Francis, her youthful voice like a bastion of innocence that washed all doubt away.

“Then Christina it is.”

Josh grinned, squeezed Kyra’s hand, and they drove on beneath the blazing heat of day.

CHAPTER 8

THE DRAGON ROARS

“You know,” said Doug, “last time you told me
not
to kill the deer.”

“Yes, well they seem to be out in more abundance now, wouldn’t you say?” replied Horace.

The two of them balanced the dead animal between them, Doug holding the front legs, crooking his back so the head and antlers didn’t poke him. It was a small specimen, a young buck, but still heavy. It would serve its purpose.

“There’s still not many though, Doc,” Doug said.

“I know. So we should appreciate this one while we have it.”

“
That mean
we’ll be able to cook this sucker up once we’re done?”

Horace sighed. “Yes, Douglas. This animal appears healthy, and we really will not be using much of the meat for…our experiment.”

Doug grimaced, and it seemed to take a great amount of effort for the young soldier to wipe it away and smile. “Good. We haven’t had fresh meat in a while. Be nice.”

“It will.”

They dumped the carcass on the grass outside the bulkhead doors. Horace snatched a large metal bucket from the veranda while Doug went about stringing the deer up on the wooden frame they’d constructed two days prior, looping a rope over the top and yanking, the buck rising because of the steel hooks driven through its hind legs.

When it was high enough to hover a good foot off the ground, Doug tied off the rope, grabbed a hatchet, and went to work hacking off the thing’s head. Horace made sure to place the large bucket beneath the swaying carcass to collect as much blood as possible. Doug’s fifth swing finally severed the spinal column and the head dropped, its immature antlers striking the side of the bucket, almost tipping it over. Blood poured from its neck, splashing around like a fireman’s hose gone out of control.

Horace, feeling close to losing his lunch again (which was happening with greater frequency lately, at least twice a day), turned away and covered his mouth.
That’s how Franks died
, he thought, remembering the Major’s valiant battle with the Wraiths that allowed Horace and
Clyde
to escape Johns Hopkins. It amazed him that even after all he’d seen he still couldn’t get used to the sight of death. He heard Doug call his name, and he turned around. The young man had stepped away from the mess and now held a large, serrated knife in his hand.

“Do we skin it now?” he asked.
“’Cause I really don’t know how to do it.”

Horace shook his head. “No need. We can have one of the others perform that task, if any of them have experience.” He pointed to the head. “That is all we’ll need right now. Could you please place the head in the bucket?”

Doug did as he was asked while Horace yanked open the bulkhead doors. Immediately the smell of oil and gasoline reached his nostrils. Normally that would make him gag, but at that moment he was happy for it. The odors given off by the furnace and generators helped mask the scent of the basement’s
other
occupant.

“Here we go,” he said, stepping aside so Doug could walk down the stairs. The bucket appeared heavy, and a few inches of antler poked over the lip, but the youngster managed to keep it steady for the most part. The splashing blood only made it over the edge twice.

Horace followed him down, taking it slow, his old knees and diseased lungs barking with each step. He had to pause halfway just to catch his breath. All this physical exertion wasn’t good for him, and each day his sickness grew worse. He made sure to wear baggy clothing despite the heat; he didn’t want Doug, Corky, or any of the others to notice how thin and frail his body had become.
Is it shame?
he
wondered, and then scoffed at the notion. It was duty he felt, to both those in his direct care and whoever outside their walls still battled through each terrible day since the fall. He had a job to do, and the last thing he wanted was to be a burden.

At the bottom of the stairs he flipped the switch, and rows of subdued lights came on. Doug had placed the bucket on the ground and now stood beside him, hands shaking, looking like he was getting ready to reach around his back and grab his rifle. Horace placed a calming hand on the young soldier’s forearm.

“There’s no need,” he said. “He’s contained.”

He gazed in the direction of the thing they’d come to see, secured with rope, wire, and chain and fastened to the far wall. The mattress it had been placed upon lay in tatters a few feet away, drenched in pus and blood. The thing moaned, and Horace turned away. Despite the promise they’d made to each other, only on three occasions had anyone come down to check on the beast in the thirteen days since they brought it down there. It was as if they all wanted to forget it ever happened
,
forget there was ever a man named Hector Conseca who used to drink, laugh, and talk with them every night. If it hadn’t been for that deer wandering just outside the hotel grounds earlier that day, Horace was positive he would’ve kept right on pretending along with the rest of them. Guilt formed a knot in his stomach.

“Holy shit,” whispered Doug.

The thing in the corner kicked out, tensing against the ropes and chains that held it in place. It lifted its head, and the horror that stared back at them was unrecognizable. Its cheeks were sunken, its flesh taking on a grayish hue. The eyes were jaundiced and dripping a mucus-like substance. The lips had been shredded by the slender knives that now protruded from its gums. It appeared to be the rotting corpse of some mythical demon, not the portly Hispanic man they’d once known.

Horace tried to hide his shock from Doug. He thought he’d be prepared for what he saw, thought he’d developed at least an inkling of Wrathchild’s power, but Hector was in a state far worse than any of the creatures he and Clyde ran across—even those who’d captured them outside Linville.

“He’s dying,” he said, softer than he wanted to.

“What’s that?”

He waved the youngster off, then abruptly stepped forward, grabbing the bucket. It was indeed heavy, and in his weakened state it took every effort just to get it off the ground. In a swift motion Doug was again by his side, slipping the handle from his grasp and taking over.

“I got this,” he said. “Just tell me what to do, Doc.”

Horace walked over to their friend, keeping his distance even though it looked like the thing had no strength left to fight. Doug wasn’t far behind, and he put the bucket down, awaiting instruction. Horace glanced at him and saw the look of cold calculation on the soldier’s face. Doug hadn’t taken it well when they’d first brought Hector down here. Horace guessed the only way the youngster could handle it now was to treat it like an unwanted job—or a necessary evil.

“Take out the head,” said Horace, “and hold it above his mouth.”

Doug grimaced as he grabbed the antlers and lifted the head out of the bucket. The deer’s dead eyes bulged from their sockets, its lips clenched in an eternal pucker. The blood it had been drenched in—its own—saturated its fur and dripped off the tattered remnants of muscle and tendon hanging below its neck. Doug carried it over to the thing that used to be Hector, and it turned its head. An audible crack filled the room, rising above the rumble of the generators.

The creature’s mouth opened as Doug held the dead thing above it. Blood dripped into its maw, blood it licked up with a gray, serpentine tongue. A wet hiss escaped its throat.

“Lower.”

Doug’s hand dropped down, far enough that loose tendrils of flesh and muscle touched the ridge of the beast’s shriveled nose. Its head jerked backward and its jaws snapped, ensnaring a piece of meat between those dagger-like teeth. It thrashed from side to side, and Horace could tell the kid was struggling to hold on.

“Just drop it.”

Letting go of the antler, Doug backed up a few steps. The Hector-beast followed the descent, its neck twisting to the side. The amount of flesh in its maw grew and it made a sucking noise. Skin and tissue ripped free from the side of the skull, pulling one of the bulging eyes with it. The gory mess was slurped whole down the creature’s gullet. It then tried to reach the head again, snapping and growling, lashing out its tongue, but it had fallen too far away.

Horace watched in horror as the creature calmed. Those rotting, yellow eyes closed. The pustules covering its neck slowly closed and its cheeks gained more color. He swore he could see the neck, which had been thin to the point of exposing every ripple of its vocal chords, begin to fill out. In a matter of seconds it seemed to regain a semblance of vitality, and its eyes snapped open, glaring at the two of them like a big cat sizing up its next prey. Horace reached out, grabbed the sleeve of Doug’s shirt, and tugged him back.

“Step away.”

“Why?”

“He’s…
it’s
…getting better.”

They moved to the opposite side of the room and watched as the beast began struggling in its restraints. The chains rattled, the rope pulled taut, and it let out an inhuman roar.

“So fast,” Horace whispered.
“So…fast.”

“How’s that even possible?”

Horace cleared his throat, trying to think of the simplest way to explain himself. “From what I have learned, the virus can overtake living tissue and synthesize it, but it requires an outrageous amount of protein to stay viable. When introduced to dead tissue the same thing happens, only because the cells are already in a state of decay, the copies are decayed as well, and without sustenance it begins feeding on its own tissue until the copied cells expire. When a life form is alive, however, the end is much different. My best assumption is that the process of overtaking and duplicating living cells allows the virus to reprogram the nucleus, so that without nourishment the cellular activity will slow, using the body to sustain itself while going into a form of hibernation, hence the lethargy and decay. But once the cells are allowed to consume more protein, and so long as there’s still an electrical spark to restart the motor—in this case a functioning brain—the cells are able to regenerate rather quickly.”

Doug shrugged his rifle from behind his back and leveled it, aiming for the beast’s thrashing head.

“Then let’s put the spark out.”

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“I need to get a sample.”

“Uh, Doc, I’m not sure that’s such a great idea. Let me do it.”

Horace complied, reaching into his breast pocket and handing over his scalpel—the same one he used to shear the flesh from a dead animal in the hidden cove in the woods so long ago. Doug took it from him and approached the mutated man.

Without thinking, Horace followed. He stayed close to the youngster, grasping at the back of his shirt to keep his balance. His head started to wobble, dizziness set in, and his stomach lurched. All his muscles clenched and he doubled over. Doug yelled his name as he fell.

His arm flailed, and he struck a pole on the way down. Something tore into his forearm, something sharp, and the pain in his chest and stomach was soon forgotten. As his shoulder hit the ground, he grasped the wound, feeling blood pump between his fingers.

“Doc!”

Hands on him, strong hands pulling him backward.
The dizziness lessened and he opened his eyes. The creature that had been Hector was a few feet away from him, struggling against its bonds with its cheek pressed to the ground while that long, gray tongue lapped up the new crimson fluid that now covered the floor. The thing made a groaning sound, as if lost in ecstasy.

Doug lifted him up and leaned him against the wall. Horace glanced to his right, spotting one of the support poles and the jagged hook that jutted from it—probably an old hanging bracket. He gawked, unable to move, as Doug took the first-aid kit from his backpack, cleaned the gash on his arm, and wrapped it with gauze bandages. His whole body felt numb, exhausted. From the way his heart pounded in his chest, he feared the end would come right there, sitting in a pool of his own blood in a dimly lit basement.