Death Springs Eternal: The Rift Book III (43 page)

“Okay.”

“So why are you out here?”

“I’m leaving.
The city.
The SNF.
Everything.”

“Why?”

“I just can’t take it anymore. I wasn’t built for this shit.”

“Really?
But you were a Hell’s Angel. I thought you guys
were
built for trouble?”

“I might’ve overstated my exploits a bit,” Greg said, cringing as he did so.

“Really?
You don’t say.” With that, the general let out a guffaw.

Greg chuckled and looked at the man, amazed. “What’s gotten into you, anyway?”

Bathgate beamed. “Let’s just say I had a good night.”

“You and the redhead, eh?”

“Yes. And she is fantastic. Her smells…I’ve never smelled a woman like that before.”

“And she was willing?”

The general seemed to think about it a moment before saying, “Yes.”

Pitts stared, but didn’t say a word. His nerves prickled under his flesh, causing the hairs to rise on the nape of his neck. His fingers came up and instinctively fondled the corner of his mustache. Everything about the conversation—hell, the entire
situation
—was completely wrong. He couldn’t help but think any minute the guy would whip out a gun and kill him. His hand—the one not stroking his facial hair—inched backward, getting ever nearer to the hidden AK. The only question was whether he could pull it out in time…

“I know what you’re thinking,” sighed Bathgate, and Pitts froze. “You’re wondering how I could just brush off the information that you…exaggerated your history to me.”

“Um, sure.”

“Well, the truth is, I’m not everything I said I am, either.”

Greg’s head tilted to the side, his mind a swirl of conflicting thought.

“My name’s not even Alexander Bathgate,” the general continued. “It’s Terrance. Terrance Graham. I was never in the military, never mind a high-ranking officer, and I’ve never left the mainland. All those stories I told you? Made up using bits and pieces from the tales my brother-in-law used to tell me. Before everything went down, I’d never been farther north than
Georgia
. In fact, I was a history teacher, and that’s it. No grand adventures, no heroic gestures.
Just me in a room with thirty high-school students, lecturing about the past.”

Greg grabbed the steering wheel and squeezed it until his knuckles hurt. “That the truth?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Why’re you telling me this?”

Bathgate shrugged. “Just wanted to get it off my chest, and since you’re leaving, I figure you’re the safest person to tell. It’s been bugging me for a while now.”

“Well, I’m glad I could help.”

“So am I.” He shifted in his seat and gazed at him beneath his bushy eyebrows. His tone did a complete one-eighty. “But despite this little bonding moment, you can’t take the plow.”

“Huh?”

“You can’t take the plow, Greg. This is SNF property now. As is the assault rifle you hid behind the seat.”

Pitts swallowed.
Hard.

“Oh, don’t go getting all dramatic on me,” the man whose name used to be Terrance Graham said with a roll of his eyes. “You’re going to be fine. I didn’t waste all this time coming out here to end the life of my best friend.”

“Then why
did
you come out here?”

“To see you off.
And make sure you didn’t leave with my property.”

“Oh.”

The sound of the distant ocean filled the silence between them as they sat there, looking at each other, for an uncomfortably long time. Finally the general rubbed his eyes with his fingers.

“All right Greg, time to go.”

“Go where?”

“Wherever you want to.
The ocean’s only an hour walk from here, maybe less. I assume that’s where you were headed.”

“Can I get a gun?
For protection?”

“No.”

“But what if
there’s
more fucking zombies out there? What if they didn’t all die off?”

Bathgate shrugged. “Then you make do. Remember, Greg, this is
your
decision. You have to deal with the consequences.”

That last line made Pitts grin. The man was going to let him go. The knot in his stomach gradually unfurled, and he felt his heartbeat start lowering. He stuck out his hand, and the general grabbed it and shook.

“Thank you, Terrance,” he said, and the man across from him winced. “I hope you do well with…whatever it is you’re gonna do next.”

“I’m sure I will,” said Bathgate. “I’m sure I will.”

Pitts opened the door and hopped out of the cab. He landed with both feet on the sandy shoulder. The morning sun shone down on him, which made him smile wider. Then it faltered when he gazed into the distance, watching the dark clouds he’d seen earlier double in size, become like lingering blobs of disease on the horizon. He’d need shelter when the storm hit. On either side of him were small constructions with peeling white paint.
A barber shop, a surf store, a jewelry seller, a convenience store, a post office.
All dark, all empty, all waiting for him to occupy. He might even find supplies in there, if he was lucky. His faltering smile regained its radiance. At least maybe that could make him forget about losing his wheels.

“Oh, one more thing,” said the man behind him.

Greg turned around to see Bathgate hanging out the driver’s window, his hand pressed against the door. His eyes were serious, even though the corners of his mouth were uplifted.

“What’s up?” asked Greg.

“That last job I had for you. Was that the one that did it? Did killing that kid put you over the edge?”

Pitts laughed. “In the spirit of honesty, yeah it was. But I never killed him.”

“No?” The general’s smile didn’t waver.

“Nope.
Let him go. But he’s a moron.
Probably still hanging out in the city as we speak.”

“That so?”

“Probs.”

“Okay then. Thank you for being honest. Take care, Lieutenant.”

Greg snapped his feet together and offered the man a half-hearted salute.
“You too, sir!”

With that, Greg Pitts spun around and began walking down the boulevard. He was deep in thought, trying to decide which building would offer the most comfort, the book store or the dentist’s office. So entrenched were his fantasies about his future life sailing the open ocean that the pop he heard sounded like distant thunder. The pain that pierced the back of his eye became a byproduct of the intense sunlight he was walking into. And then his mind went blank, and he lost control of his extremities, and he fell over. The pavement rushed up to meet his face, and he thought it preposterous that the ground could do such a thing.

Finally, Greg Pitts thought nothing at all.

*
  
*
  
*

Bathgate held the smoking AK-47 and watched Pitts collapse. He stared at the body until it stopped twitching, then removed the banana clip and set the weapon down beside him. He sighed. He hadn’t wanted to kill the man, but Pitts left him no choice. He couldn’t accept a deserter, especially one so close to him. And besides, the lieutenant’s work had been lagging of late, so getting him out of the way might be an improvement. Maybe he’d have a crew come back and retrieve the body, parade it around the city as an example. That would work. As a bonus he could elevate Jackson, who was better suited to be his right-hand-man anyway. With a nod he cranked the engine, turned the plow around, and headed back the way they’d come.

A realization came to him as he rumbled down the road, and his brow furrowed. Since the information given had been correct, he now owed the Steinberg guy, as well as the people he represented. Bathgate
hated
owing anyone a thing. But at least he’d gotten his answer. The kid, the father of his love’s child, was still alive. He didn’t think it likely, but that could’ve been who the former House Speaker had been talking about. Even though it pissed him off that Pitts had disobeyed his orders, the violation might have worked out for the best. Better to give the man the wrong person than no one at all. Perhaps whatever army was approaching would turn around and leave them alone as a show of solidarity.

“Enough,” he muttered, and steered back onto the highway. He let his mind drift to bigger and better things. He thought of his love, of her luscious red hair and smooth skin. He recalled attempting to take her the previous evening, and felt a momentary pang of shame at the thought that he’d hurt her. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the memory. It seemed so much better to believe the lie he’d told Pitts rather than the truth, but the reality of the situation wouldn’t let him. The woman had been in a lot of pain when he left, moaning and writhing on the floor of his office. The boys had taken her away, brought her to the hospital, of which the first floor had recently been refurbished. The child would be born soon, and the boys were under strict orders to eliminate it as soon as it caught its first breath. He couldn’t allow the child to live, couldn’t allow the offspring of someone other than him to enter the world from her womb. And after that, she
would
love him, the failure of last night be damned. Of that he was sure.

He pressed the petal down harder, watched the speedometer climb to sixty, and checked his watch. It was almost
ten o’clock
. He had to get back there. He wanted to be with the woman he’d waited his whole life for in the moment she needed him most.

CHAPTER 17

A NEW LIFE COMETH

Anguish choked him from the inside out. He cried out and clutched at his side, the root of the torment. He felt gauze beneath his fingers, and medical tape, and wetness. Another rush of agony pierced his brain, and he hollered once more.

“Hey, guy, cut it out!” he heard someone say. Hands fell to his shoulders, steadying him. “You’re gonna pop your stitches.”

Horace opened his eyes to a bright, muddled world. A blob hovered above him, the shape of a human head. The head slowly came into focus with each blink, and he saw a young man’s face gazing down at him. Horace locked his hips when another stab of pain hit, trying to steady himself. It seemed to work. He took a deep breath, heard the rattle in his diseased lungs, and shook his head.

“I’m dying,” he said.

The young man shook his head. “No, you’re not,” he said. “The bullet went right through you.
Didn’t hit any major organs.
You’re really lucky. It even passed through two of your ribs without so much as nicking either of them…front or back. You should be fine, as long as you don’t bust a gut being all hysterical.”

Horace opened his mouth to say
that’s not what I meant
, but decided against it. His ordeal slowly came back to him—the ambush, Steinberg yelling
They’re trying to kill us
, Dennis’s intestines spilling from his stomach, Allison passing out, Luis getting shot in the neck, the intense heat that came when the bullet struck him.
Then blackness.
He shuddered.
This cannot be real
, he thought.

“How long was I out?” he asked.

The young man shrugged. “Don’t know. The guy who brought me over here said four days ago, but I don’t know if that’s true. I just got here this morning.”

“Where are we?”

“St. Mary’s Hospital.
Richmond
.”

“
Richmond
? How did I get here?”

“Don’t know. Oh, and I think these are yours.”

“Yes, they are.”

The young man walked up and handed over his glasses. Horace put them on and, biting back the pain as he leaned up on his elbows, looked over his body—his sunken chest, his skinny legs, his arthritic hands. One of those hands reached out and pulled up a corner of the bandage on his left side, revealing a jagged line of black filament sticking up like the hairs on an insect.

“Nice work,” he said with an irritated sigh.

“Wasn’t me,” the young man replied. “Like I said, I just got here today.”

Horace flopped back down on the table and gazed at him. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Brian Singer,” he replied.

“What specialty?”

“Huh?”

“What branch of medicine do you specialize in?”

“Oh.” Brian’s complexion became red. “I’m actually a nurse.”

“Son, please,
don’t
take offense.” Horace grunted and forced himself to sit fully upright. He reached out his hand. “Nursing is a fine profession.
Nothing to be ashamed of.”

Brian accepted the handshake. “I appreciate that.”

“Think nothing of it. My name is Horace, by the way.”

The young man mouthed
thank you.

“Now do you think you can do an old man a favor and fetch me something for the pain?”

“I went through some of the shelves earlier,” said Brian, jacking his thumb over his shoulder.
“Vicodin okay?”

“That would be wonderful.”

After taking two pills and washing them down with a huge glass of water, Horace reclined and let the soothing sensation of the drugs take over. He felt a bit lightheaded. A lessening sensation came over him, as if the pain was a physical manifestation being gradually hacked away, bit by bit. He let his shoulders sag and stared up at the overhead lights, getting lost in the vision as color played a game with his moist eyes.

Lights.

“Hold on,” said Horace, his voice dreamlike to his own ears. “There is electricity?”

Brian appeared in front of him.
“Yup.
I guess these folks are in the middle of rebuilding the city.”

“What folks?”

“Army guys.
Sort of.
SNF, they call themselves.”

“
United States
Army?”

“Not really. I guess some are. But it’s more than that. And not as nice, I think.”

Horace swallowed, willed the spectacle of drugged-out wonder to melt away, and sat up again on the cot. Thankfully, neither his wounded side nor his diseased lungs hurt as badly. The Vicodin had done its job.

Diseased
body
now, not just lun –

“Shut up,” he murmured.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.
Simply talking to myself, Mr. Singer.
Now tell me, why are they not as nice?”

“Count the freaking ways, man. First we got separated when we got here, with anyone with dark skin being isolated from everyone else. Then Dr. Terry, his wife, and Kelsey disappeared—when we’d been camping at the Omni William Penn in
Pittsburgh
, they’d pretty much been the head honchos. Then this dumb ‘job placement’ crap, and I haven’t seen a lot of our group since that day. To top it all off, they took all the girls last night.
Forcibly, too.
I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but it isn’t pretty.” He looked away, staring out the window. “And please just call me Brian. I hate Mr. Singer.”

“Very well, Brian.”

“Good. Now let’s take a peek at those stitches…”

Horace relined and allowed Brian to examine him. The feel of the young man’s fingers on his body sent shivers down his spine. He remembered performing pretty much the same task with
Clyde
back at Johns Hopkins, the day the Wraiths came busting in, slaughtering everyone in sight. He’d shared so many intimate moments with the younger man—stories of their childhoods, fears, longings, dreams—in the short time they’d traveled together. But
Clyde
was gone now. As were all his colleagues and his old assistant and surrogate daughter Katy. Just about everyone he’d ever known was dead, and now he could add Stanley, Hector, Larry, Dennis, and Luis to the ever-growing numbers. He thought of Doug, the other youngster he’d taken under his wing, and felt at least a moment of hope. The boy had gone off with Charles to relieve his bladder when the soldiers fell upon them. He hoped the two of them were smart, heard the shooting, and stayed away. Just in case they hadn’t, he decided to make pretend they did anyway.

A world where Douglas Lockenshaw still existed was much better than one without him.

A rap on the door broke him from his trance, and Horace’s eyes popped open.

“Looks like the patient is here,” said Brian.

Horace forced himself up on his elbows.
“Patient?”

“Yeah.
I was brought down here to take care of a pregnant woman. ‘Utmost importance,’ the guy who grabbed me said.”

“No offense Brian, but you are a nurse. Why wouldn’t they bring a doctor, instead?”

The young man shrugged. “There wasn’t anyone who specialized in pre-natal care, and I was the only one with qualifications who hadn’t been sent somewhere else already.” He frowned. “Guess they got the bottom of the barrel, huh?”

Horace shook his head. “Don’t say that, son. I am sure you’ll do fine.”

“Let’s hope so.”

Brian opened the door and two soldiers—older men wearing odd expressions of excitement—wheeled a gurney into the room. They stopped and chatted with Brian for a moment, and Horace heard the words
important
and
or else
come out of their mouths. Yet their giddy appearance never faltered. They acted like construction workers pining the day away before heading to a bachelor party. With a last word of confidence from Brian, the two pushed their cargo to the center of the room.

Horace brought his eyes down to inspect the young woman they’d brought in. She writhed in pain, her chest heaving with each breath. Her hands gripped her bloated stomach as if she could hold back what was coming through sheer will. Her thick red hair clung to her cheeks, glistening with sweat. Her jaw opened and she bared her bottom teeth. Despite her condition, the woman exuded beauty. Horace then noticed a few oddities—streaks of gray on her head, slender and bony fingers, a thick, blue vein tracing her bare thigh, the creases surrounding her brilliant green eyes. This woman wasn’t as young as he initially thought, probably closer to fifty than twenty.

Brian locked the wheels of the gurney in place and gently raised the woman into a sitting position. He looked shaky, sweating profusely. He then spread her legs and chewed on his lip as he stared at the forest of hair between them. He reached down with his gloved hand, and the woman shrieked. Her legs clamped together like a vise. She slapped his hand away and began thrashing. The gurney rocked from side to side, close to falling over. That’s when Horace noticed she’d been strapped to it.

“Whoa, lady, chill out!” exclaimed Brian. “I’m just trying to check!”

“GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!”

Ignoring the pain surging through him, Horace slid his legs over the side of his cot and stood up. His joints cracked and his muscles felt almost too weak to stand, but he pushed himself until he wasn’t shaking any longer. With labored steps he made his way to the angry woman and flustered nurse. Brian seemed confused and shocked at the same time, eyes wide as saucers, mouth agape as he stared at the woman. Horace grabbed his elbow.

“Son, why don’t you let me handle this.”

“You…know what you’re doing?
You a doctor?”

Horace shook his head. “Technically yes, but you are going to have to help me with the birthing process. I haven’t taken part in one in over thirty years.”

“Um, okay.”

He turned to the woman on the table and placed a calloused hand on her knee. Again she recoiled, but she didn’t lose control this time. “Excuse me,” he said, “my name is Horace, and the young man behind me is Brian. We mean you no harm, none whatsoever. Do you understand?”

The woman nodded through her glare.

“And what is your name?”

“Kyra,” she replied. Her voice rumbled like fire was about to spew from her throat.

“Miss Kyra, it would be our pleasure to assist you in delivering your baby today. How far along are you?”

That seemed to calm her a bit. “Ei…eight months,” she replied.

Horace frowned. “Eight months? And are you sure you are in labor?”

Her face hardened as a contraction hit, but still she nodded.

“Would you mind if I take a look?”

She shook her head.