Death Springs Eternal

by Robert J. Duperre

  “How the fuck should we know?” muttered Luis as he rose from where he’d fallen, rubbing his left hip.

  “Where’s Doc?” asked Doug.

  Larry shrugged. “Upstairs, I think. I’m sure he’s fine.”

  Doug didn’t answer, instead sprinting away from them. Larry, his knees shaking, got up on his feet. He glanced over his shoulder at the picture window. The Steinbergs were nowhere to be seen. He was about to say something about it, but then he smelled the smoke. Beneath that smell was something else, something sour and pungent.

  “Oh no,” he said.

  “What?” said Corky. “What the fuck, man? What’s going on?”

  Larry stepped away from the window and gazed at the fireplace. It was smoking something fierce, billowing from a crack in the brickwork.

  “We have a problem.”

  Doug reemerged, towing Horace behind him. The old man looked horrible, like he’d been stricken with the world’s worst flu. That’s how Hector looked, Larry thought, but the beginnings of a rumble reached his ears, and he instead shouted, “Everyone, get out!”

  He sprinted toward his friends, shoving Dennis in the back and grabbing Corky around one massive elbow. The rumbling grew in volume as he ran, and when he entered the hallway another blast knocked him off his feet. He collided with Luis and they both careened to the floor. His forearm scraped across the carpet, burning his flesh. The sensation was appropriate, for he glanced behind him and saw the lounge begin to glow. It was on fire.

  “Everyone outside!” he shouted. “It isn’t safe in here!”

  “Wait!” he heard Corky yell. “Where’s Shelly? We can’t leave without Shelly!”

  Larry spun around, stared down his massive cohort, and said, “Just move your ass, Cork. They’re fine. They’re outside already. I saw them earlier, okay?” He wanted to say something more, but he didn’t have the time. He’d explain everything after he did what had to be done.

  Dashing out the back door as fast as his spindly legs could carry him, Larry hopped down the steps without his feet hitting them once. He landed on the wet grass, rain beating down on his head, and made a beeline for the bulkhead, a hundred feet away. Smoke wafted between its seams, creating a snaking tendril of black that coiled up, up, up. The window above—the laundry room—was shattered. Flames licked out, greedy and sizzling in the rain.

  He ran around the dead deer, still hanging from its makeshift gallows, slid to a stop before the bulkhead door, unfastened the latch, and lifted. Smoke engulfed him, flowing up his nose and down his throat, making him gag. His eyes, still sore from the bright flash earlier, stung like a bitch. Hands then fell on his back, pulling him away from the smoking pit.

  “What the fuck’s going on?” asked Corky. The big man had his hands on his knees, panting, his long red hair stringy and wet. The others surrounded him, looking wet and scared.

  Larry swallowed hard, trying to drive away the itching in his throat. “It’s the furnace,” he croaked out. “Something’s wrong down there. When was the last time anyone checked it?”

  “Um…never?” said Luis, unsure.

  Doug stepped forward. “I looked at it when we brought you-know-who down there,” he said, his voice even. “The gauges all seemed fine. Arrows pointing to black are good, right?”

  Larry nodded. “Yeah, but it’s obviously not fine now. I need to go see what’s wrong.”

  “Seriously?” Dennis said. “But the smoke? And what about Hec?”

  Larry waved him off. “The smoke ain’t gonna mean shit if this place goes up. And Hec’s all chained. He ain’t gonna be able to do anything. Right, Ho?”

  “Yes,” replied the old man in a weak voice.

  “It’s settled then. I’m going in. If I’m not back in, oh, five minutes, come get me. But be fucking quick about it if you do, ’kay?”

  He pulled his shirt over his nose, buttoned the top button, and stepped over the ledge. The smoke was indeed thick, and he couldn’t see more than a foot in front of him. He took it one step at a time, until he felt the reassuring hardness of concrete beneath his feet.

  Before becoming a cross-country trucker, Larry had tried his hand at being an HVAC technician. He wasn’t very good at it. A lot of it came down to a lack of studying, which was something he didn’t do well. He also didn’t have the stomach for working with chemicals. During his initial schooling he developed migraines, the worst of which forced him into bed, in complete darkness, for hours. He’d dropped out quickly enough, but in the few months he had spent at the tech academy, he had seen enough videos of what happened when a furnace redlined to know they were in trouble.

  And the furnace at the Clinton was at least five times larger than any he’d ever seen, so make that a shitload of trouble.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, using the wall to guide him, trying to save his vision for when he was close enough to the furnace to do some good. The further he progressed, the thicker the smoke became. Even with his shirt covering his nose and mouth, he choked. I better not’ve misremembered where the damn thing was, his subconscious worried.

  After about thirty steps, his feet splashed in a puddle of liquid. His hand then fell upon a pipe of some sort—a pipe so hot it immediately scorched his palm. He yelped and jumped back, eyes popping open, and there it was, the giant hulk of shuddering gray steel. The grate at the bottom had blown out and flames erupted from it. The smoke in the room came from the top. The pipes were bent back and blackened, like the barrel of a rifle when a bullet explodes in the chamber.

  He swallowed his fear, and the pain, and stepped up to the metal beast. The flames spraying from the bottom cooked the air, but still he pressed on. He inched closer, wincing, and waved at the smoke so he could get a better view of the gauges, but they were nowhere to be found. They’d all been ripped out. Wires hung like dead worms from the holes. Even the instrument panel below, which had probably contained the restart and emergency shutoff switches, had been smashed. Confused but determined, he allowed his eyes to wander upward, tracing the thick copper tube leading to the main tank. There was only one way to stop the inevitable now, and that was shutting the flow valve.

  To his dismay, that had been destroyed as well. The knob was nothing but a single spike, mocking him with its uselessness. Oil spit from a crack in the pipe, gathering on the floor. That explained the liquid he’d stepped in, at least.

  The furnace shuddered and burped, and the flames intensified. It shook out of control, making a high-pitched rattle that made it feel like his ears would start bleeding. It was hopeless. The thing was going to blow any second. Panic set in. He turned toward the way he came in—at least what he thought was the right direction, for the smoke formed a wall of gray all around him.

  “Guys!” he screamed, then scurried in a pained half-limp for the exit. “Guys, it’s gonna blow! Get the fuck outta here!”

  He heard a heavy click and started to run. What followed was an explosion so violent it sent Larry flying across the room. He landed on his face, his forehead thwacking the concrete floor. Stars filled his vision. He smelled burning flesh.

  One thing bothered him: the explosion hadn’t come from the furnace. The angle was off. No, that blast came from the generator.

  Larry moaned and rolled over. His head was hot, his scalp burning, and he lifted a blistering hand up to find out why. Flames licked off his fingers. Shrieking, he started smacking himself in the head, trying to put out the fire. That’s when he noticed the heat rising from below him. He froze and stared at his feet, finding that they were now in flames, too.

  Leaping up, he stomped in a circle until the bottoms of his sneakers only smoked. With that done he shoved his face in the corner, searching for clean air while he both lamented the loss of his precious hair and tried to figure out what the hell was going on. Then it came to him, in the form of a constant whup-whup-whup. The generator, though something had detonated inside, was still running. That was the ticket, the way to end this. All he had to do was
shut it down. Without power, the pressure would stop building in the furnace and it would burn itself out on whatever fuel remained.

  He straightened himself, re-covered his nose, and once more worked his way through the smoke. His lungs burned and he coughed frequently, but he pressed onward. He found the generator by following the sound it made, and luckily nothing stood in his way. He stared at it while it shook, smelling gas and seeing one side was scorched. A smile crept across his face. All it would take was a twist of the lever, and this whole nightmare would end.

  Larry reached for the lever. Something flickered in front of him, moving much too fast. His fingers went numb. He lifted his hand to his face and stared at four jagged stumps, squirting blood straight into the air. His lips dropped into a frown. It seemed so unreal. He didn’t even feel any pain.

  He staggered backward, lightheaded. Again he saw something in his periphery, and he turned toward it. A shadowy, hunched figure approached through the smoke. Larry decided that what he was seeing wasn’t real, that it was nothing but a dream.

  “Oh, hey Hec,” he muttered. “You look like shit.”

  A deformed thing that held a passing resemblance to Hector stood before him, stooped over with huge teeth, holding a lawnmower blade in its clawed, smoking hand. The thing grinned at him with frayed lips, and one of its teeth pierced through its blister-covered cheek. It raised the hand holding its weapon and swung.

  The blade caught Larry across the stomach, and this time the pain did come. He hollered as loud as he could. A feeling of lessening came over him. He reached down with his hands—one with fingers, one without—in an instinctual attempt to try and stop his intestines from spilling out of his abdomen. The thing raised its arm again, and Larry took off. His movements were sluggish, he didn’t know if he was going in the right direction, there were approaching footsteps from behind him, and the knocking of the furnace got even louder, but none of that mattered. The only thoughts going through his head were the image of his intestines leaking between his fingers and the incredible pain. He heard his friends shouting, guiding him. He had to get outside. He had to reach safety. The quicker, the better.

  * * *

  Corky couldn’t stop coughing. Even standing a good ten feet away from the bulkhead, the swirling smoke made his sinuses and throat burn. To make matters worse he was soaked, and cold, and shivering, and felt like he was going to get sick. Not a good combination.

  “Larry!” Dennis screamed into the black hole. “C’mon, man, hurry up!”

  “We should get down there,” said Corky, though that wasn’t high on his list of things he wanted to do. “Bring him out. It’s been almost ten minutes.”

  Luis paced back and forth, shooting nervous glances at Horace, who knelt on the other side of the concrete enclosure, looking like hell while he watched Doug, who stood on the top step, a bandana over his nose, standing admirably still despite the smoke and warmth.

  “You see him?” Corky asked between hacks.

  “No,” Doug yelled back without turning around. “I can’t see shit!”

  Corky stood up, fought a wave of dizziness, and approached the bulkhead. “C’mon guys, we gotta go now. I think he’s in trouble.”

  Doug finally turned to meet his gaze. There were tears in his eyes, but that could’ve been a result of the smoke. “Okay,” the kid said. He pointed at the rear balcony. “Let me get my rifle first, though. Y’know, just in case there’s…”

  The young soldier’s eyes widened and he whirled around, catching Corky by surprise. Doug then jumped back, revealing a reaching, fingerless hand. A body appeared, sprawled out on the steps, gawking and spitting blood. Corky almost puked.

  “Fuck!” he yelled. “Larry!”

  He leaned forward and grasped his friend under the armpits. Larry’s skull smoldered, his hair was gone, and he was covered in blood. His head lolled back as Corky lifted him, and his eyes rolled up. Thick gobs of slippery matter then struck Corky in the thigh, making him let go. He glanced down, saw ream after ream of glistening red tubes slop onto the stairs, and he froze. “Holy shit, holy shit,” he stammered.

  A sound came from below him, and he peered into the blackness. A pair of glowing eyes appeared, moving menacingly up the steps. Corky backed away, almost tripping over the ledge, while the rain cascaded down on him. Doug appeared beside him, having retrieved his rifle and holding it at the ready, and emptied round after round into the darkness. The creature below roared, the glowing eyes disappearing back into the smoke.

  This can’t be happening, Corky thought. The whole of him went numb.

  Screams all around him, bringing him back to the real world. The others scampered away from the hole. Shouts too, someone telling him to get away as fast as he could. Corky turned around and spotted Tom limping toward them, waving his arms. Corky started jogging, mindless of his own actions.

  And that’s when the dragon roared.

  The first sensation was a heavy vibration, followed by deafening thunder. The next was that of flying, as his feet lifted off the ground and he floated gracefully on the wings of angels. Then the wind hit his cheeks and he fell to the earth, smacking the nose Tom had broken months ago in the process. Luckily the ground was mostly mud, and his face sunk in. He breathed deep, swallowed a mouthful of dirty water, and lifted his head. He coughed and spat, swearing to himself. Looking up, he saw the faces of the rest of his friends, all on the ground as well, their eyes wide.

  Corky turned around, and what he saw astonished him. A thick spiral of orange and yellow flame spewed from the bulkhead and the windows of the floor above, sending shards of wood and concrete flying. The baseboards then shattered and the walls blew outward, showering glass into the wind and rain. The deer carcass—and its stand—had collapsed, smoldering, to the ground. Corky scuttled backward on his hands, trying to get as far away from the scene as possible.

  Someone grabbed him by the shirt collar and tugged. He glanced up and saw Tom, a look of gritty determination on his face, pulling him as hard as he could away from the blast. Then another explosion came, and this one seemed to happen in slow motion. The entire side of the building splintered, coming down in a shower of fire and debris.

  “No gawking!” shouted Tom. “Move your ass, man!”

  Corky shook his head, realized the rest of the troupe was running along the wall, heading for the main gate. He heard Shelly’s voice rise above the crackle of fire and pounding rain, desperately asking where’s Quirky, where’s Quirky, and that got his feet moving. His strength returned and he plowed a shoulder into Tom, lifting the emaciated man with little effort, and ran for it. In the parking lot he passed the Beamer, the car that had sat idle in the same parking spot since the day they arrived. A block of concrete had smashed through the roof, caving it in. He felt Tom wince against his back.

  The propane tanks that ran the Clinton’s stove went up just as Corky passed through the front gate. The structure was an inferno, a living tower of flame and heat. Corky looked from one face to another as they all stood there, out in the rain, and he felt afraid to breathe. Dennis, a wide gash on one cheek, slumped with his arm around Luis, whose lower lip quivered. Doug crouched on the concrete, holding his rifle close to his chest. Horace was on his knees, panting as water dripped over his glasses and nose. Tom and Allison breathed heavily, five feet between them, while Allison glared at her husband with squinting eyes and pursed lips. He saw Shelly between them, scanning the others much like he was, and when her eyes met his she dashed forward, wrapping her tiny arms around his legs much as she’d done when they first met. Her innocent voice was a cacophony of bawls and whimpers, and he brought a comforting hand down and ran it through her soaked, curly hair.

  “It’s okay darlin’,” he said.

  But it wasn’t.

  “What the fuck do we do now?” Luis asked no one in particular. “Where do we go?”

  “I got no fucking clue,” said Dennis.

  Corky had a feeling everyone else felt
the exact same way.

  CHAPTER 9

  THE RUINS

  Storming through dense foliage, cutting down vines and tropical plants with a machete he built out of spare propeller parts from the Bendicion wrapped in duct tape, Eduardo Periera kept his eyes on the ground, trying to make sure his feet didn’t slip. He’d learning his lesson weeks ago, during his first venture into the jungle, when in his haste to find food he’d stepped in a ditch and turned his ankle. It’d swelled up horribly, forcing him to crawl back to camp. He was laid up for days after that, unable to provide for his family. Luckily for him Lucia was a strong and capable woman, proficient with a rod and spear, but that feeling of uselessness ate away at him all the same. It was bad enough that his architectural skills were poor, that every time a tropical storm blew over the island the winds toppled over the hut he’d constructed from tarps and downed palm trees. He only wanted Eddie Jr. to look up to him the way he’d looked up to his own father—as a strong, capable provider.

  He leaned against a tree as the land scaled upward, catching his breath. Sweat poured over his face. His thoughts drifted back to Spain, to the modest apartment just off the coast where he, Lucia, and Eddie Jr. had lived in reticent luxury. They didn’t have much—two bedrooms, a small drawing room, and an even smaller kitchen—but that was fine by him. To Eduardo, the only things that mattered were family and the sea.

  And now here he was, on some uncharted island in the middle of the Atlantic, closer to both his family and the ocean than anyone could ever be, but it didn’t seem to be enough. The Bendicion, his fishing vessel and the other pride of his adult life, sat idle just off the coast, swaying between rock-filled jetties like a huge, useless piece of driftwood. The engines hadn’t fired since the day they’d flooded, and he’d put off fixing them. There didn’t seem to be a point. The Virgin no longer spoke to him, as if God had given up on the world and stowed the mother of His son away in their secluded golden paradise. Even the reprise he’d received months ago, when the image of another feminine presence came to him and refilled his soul with a desire for life, was starting to wane. He’d resigned himself to living the life of a castaway, hunting and fishing and rebuilding their shelter almost daily, yet the relative inactiveness ate away at him. This was why he pressed deeper into the wilderness each day, exploring their new home for as long as daylight would allow.