Death Springs Eternal: The Rift Book III (33 page)

“Yes.”

“Okay. I held back in the hopes that I could figure out a way to get them out of the city.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want them executed.”

“And what makes you think that would happen?”

Robert shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His jaw trembled as he spoke. “Um…rumors, sir. I’ve heard things.”

“Like what?”

“That you selectively pick survivors, only those with long-term potential. The old are exterminated, as are the minorities. I respect these people. I didn’t want that to happen to them.”

Bathgate exhaled, shook his head, and then signaled Sergeant Jackson with two fingers.
Jackson
re-sheathed his firearm and stepped back to his spot at the wall.

“I’m sorry you heard those things,” the general said. “Yes, there is an ounce of truth there, but it’s been greatly exaggerated. Commoners are apt to do such a thing, especially the way things are now. I want you to do me a favor. Go take a look outside.”

Robert complied, heading to the window to the side of the general’s desk and peering through the blinds. It was a bright day, and people were busy working on the streets below.

“What do you see?”

“People.”

“What
kind
of people?”

“Huh?”

Bathgate frowned. “What nationalities are down there?”

Robert peered again through the glass. He saw dark skin intermixed with white, slanted eyes as well as oval. He almost kicked himself for being so stupid.

“We have plenty of minorities here, Bob.
Just not many blacks, if any at all.
But look at the way they lived before the world ended, killing each other every day, residing under the worst conditions in the worst neighborhoods. Think of the places we’ve gone on our travels. Think of the locations where we’ve picked up survivors. Were any of them highly populated with blacks before?”

“I guess not.”

“That’s right. And they obviously aren’t now. And as for killing the elderly, I’m sure that RF and the Wraiths did that quite fine, thank you very much. It took someone strong and capable to live through that shit.”

Robert hung his head in shame. He felt so embarrassed he almost hoped Bathgate would have
Jackson
put him out of his misery. Instead, a heavy, comforting hand gripped his shoulder.

“All is forgiven,” the general said. “I don’t fancy losing another good man, especially over a misunderstanding like this.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now if you would, please bring our visitors inside.”

“Yes, sir.”

Robert walked out the door and down the hall. John and Katy Terry, along with Jamie Forrest, sat in a line of folding chairs in front of the old Tax Collector’s office, flanked by armed soldiers. When Robert waved to them they stood up, appearing stalwart and confident in the face of what they surely thought was impending doom.

“It’s okay,” Robert said.
“False alarm.
They just want to speak with you.”

The soldiers relaxed, as did Katy and Forrest. Dr. Terry, on the other hand, puffed out his chest, jabbed his cane into the floor, and marched down the hall with a stern expression etched on his wrinkled flesh. “And I with them,” he said. “It’s time we get that grid up, that the ruling body starts treating us like everyone else…”

The meeting lasted for more than an hour. It was tense at first, as the good doctor accused the general of favoring the rank-and-file over civilians, of lacking communication skills and a proper leadership structure. He expressed concern over the laws set in place, wondering whether aspects of the original US Constitution had been carried over into this “new” United States, causing the general to first wince, then dive into his plan for reorganization of the people and reconstitution of laws, attempting to fix the aspects of the original makeup he and his colleagues felt to be lacking. (This was news to Robert, for whom the
Warrior’s Creed
was the only document containing a set of rules and regulations he’d seen in his five months with the SNF.) Apparently comforted by this information, Dr. Terry continued, this time reading a list of complaints from his people, covering everything from defense boundaries to unsanitary conditions to quality of food to concerns over whether an education system would be in place for the younger residents to the segregation of a good number of their party. Eventually his ranting died down.

When it was Bathgate’s turn, he talked slowly, articulating every word, answering every complaint and accusation Dr. Terry hurled at him. He remained calm the entire time, never once raising his voice, and Robert stood in awe of the man. He really
did
have everything under control. And to think there had been moments where he’d questioned the man’s credentials.

At the end, Bathgate stood and shook the three visitors’ hands. A grin spread across his lips after he gave Katy a peck on the cheek, a peck she blushed and wrung her hands together after receiving. He motioned for Sergeant Jackson to get the door.

“So, I don’t know how much Bob here has told you,” said the general, “but we’ve been sorely lacking in the medical department for quite some time. We are truly honored to have you here, and I hope to move the lot of you into the city proper in the next week or so.”

“Thank you,” said Dr. Terry. “That is very much appreciated.”

“It is,” Katy reiterated.

Forrest said nothing, just as he hadn’t during the length of the meeting, just standing there were his hands buried in his jeans pockets, lips bent downward and looking a bit doubtful. Robert watched the general’s eyes flick in the old cop’s direction, and then he stepped out from behind his desk.

“In that vein,” he said, “there is an issue I’d like to know if you could answer for me. If you’ve been cooped up in that hotel for so long, you probably didn’t realize that of all the damage that occurred when
Wrathchild
reached its apex, hospitals took the brunt of it. With all those patients who eventually…changed…overloading the emergency rooms, those were obviously the first places struck. We’ve found virtually nothing of use in them. Every one we’ve come across looks like it’s been scorched from the inside out, including here in
Richmond
. However, I sent one of our reconnaissance teams to places like Ruckersville and
Cumberland
recently to pilfer the private medical centers. I guess conditions were better there, but still pretty bad. They ended up bringing back some equipment, most of which I’d have no clue what to call it. They’re stored here, in the City Hall basement. I was wondering if you would do me the favor of looking it over, inform us of whether any of it is useful or not.”

Katy’s eyebrows lifted. “You want us to do this
now
?”

Dr. Terry stroked his wife’s gray hair, nodded, and looked to the general for an answer.

“Well, yes,” he said. “You’re here already, it’s a good half-hour drive back to the campus, and I’m sure it won’t take more than a few minutes. All I’m looking for is a preliminary opinion, what’s useful to us and what isn’t. We can figure out what works later.”

“Very well,” said Dr. Terry. “Lead the way.”

Bathgate walked off, with Forrest right on his heels. He moved slower than usual, as if making sure to not get too far ahead of the gimpy old doctor. Robert followed behind them, with
Jackson
behind him. A sweeping sensation of relief washed over him. He’d been so nervous about this meeting, about the danger he’d put himself in, but it turned out that fear was all for naught. Everything was fine—
more
than fine, actually—and it seemed Forrest was only one who required convincing. But then again he was a cop, just as Robert’s father had been. From experience, he knew they were always the last ones to buy into any theory. Just part of the job, he supposed.

They moved down the hall and descended the rear stairwell—nine steps and turn, nine steps and turn, just like any stairwell in any town hall he’d ever been to. The uniformity of the design made him wonder if, with all the architects and previous residents of these buildings presumably dead,
would those who now remained
seek to go in a new direction when planning future structures, or cling desperately to designs of the past?

At the bottom of the stairs, the humming fluorescent lights overhead were replaced by silent, old-fashioned, yellow-lighted bulbs. They progressed along a narrow corridor ending at a thick steel door with a small viewing window. Robert swore he heard a strange thumping noise coming from behind the walls, but when he paused to listen—almost causing
Jackson
to ram into him—it had silenced. He passed it off to the sound of the building settling.

Bathgate seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then he pushed on the handle. The door swung inward.

Sparks
danced in Robert’s eyes, and the back of his head exploded in pain. People shouting filled his ears, followed by a gunshot. He staggered against the wall, hands flat against its smooth surface, trying to regain his bearings. When the flashes in his vision subsided, he saw
Jackson
dragging Forrest’s limp form through the doorway into the darkness beyond. A trail of red followed his body across the unpolished linoleum floor. The general stood to the side, his firearm raised, aimed it at the
Terrys
. Katy had her face buried in her husband’s frail chest while the Doctor scowled and mouthed,
I knew it.

A headache spiked behind his eyes, and Robert felt the rear of his skull throb. He gently touched the spot with his fingers. The skin beneath his hair was split and bleeding, and a large knot was beginning to form. Jackson, that bastard, had pistol-whipped him. Grunting, he reached for his own pistol, struggling to unlatch the strap in his dazed state.

“Hands off, Bob,” he heard the general say.

Robert dropped his hands and stared ahead. The
Terrys
had disappeared into the darkness beyond the door as well, and now
Jackson
stood there, off to the side, barrel of his rifle trained on him. Robert gulped and stepped back, hoping to run.

Bathgate shook his head and gestured to the door. “No, Bob,” he said. “That’s not the way. Not for you.”

Jackson
removed the gun from Robert’s holster and stuffed it in his own belt. Defeated, Robert tossed his head back, did his best to smooth his hair, and walked forward, trying to remain as strong as possible. If prison was what the general had in mind for him, then so be it. Things could’ve ended much worse.

On his way by, as
Jackson
smirked, the general grabbed his arm. The shorter man yanked him down and whispered into his ear. “I expected better of you, Bob. Remember the Creed. You deserve this. Oh, and the rest of them will get what they deserve, too. I promise you.”

With that,
Jackson
once again slammed him from behind with the butt of his rifle. Robert staggered, tripped over something, and almost fell flat on his face. The door slammed shut behind him. He regained his balance, bathed in near-complete darkness. He heard sobs in the background, and panting, and something else—something lower, more guttural. Like a growl.

“What the hell?”

Fingers brushed his arm, and he swatted them away. “It is only me,” Dr. Terry said through the black. “I simply wish to thank you, and say I am sorry. We all are.”