Death Springs Eternal

by Robert J. Duperre

  “Shush, it’s okay,” he said, trying to keep his voice low but strong. Bliss cradled her scraped elbow, her lower lip trembled, but she didn’t make any other sound than that.

  He turned to Kyra, saw her lying awkwardly on the pavement, leaning to one side due to her swollen belly. Her hand reached out and grasped his free one. He felt her shake, watched her green eyes widen in fear. He wanted to do the same as he had with Bliss, but knew it would do no good. A child he could lie to; to the woman carrying his child, all he had to offer was honesty.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  She nodded.

  Boots treading over pavement came next. Josh released his hold on the two girls and gazed forward. Two men were moving the rows of barbed wire, which were attached to long wooden planks. A huge pair of feet strolled through the opening, marching with an easy swagger. It struck Josh as a peculiar way to walk, but he couldn’t figure out why he felt that way.

  The boots stopped five feet from his head. Josh went to glance up, but a deep voice ordering him to keep it down kept him from doing so. The boots then moved to the right, stopping in front of Kyra. One started tapping—not impatiently though, more in the way of someone contemplating one of life’s tougher lessens. Whoever it was began to breathe faster and faster, and then the voice instructed her to roll over.

  Josh nodded to her, and she did as she was told.

  “Fuck,” the voice said.

  Kyra’s eyes were staring up, and on the ground before Josh the shadow of the man moved, indicating whoever it was wanted her to stand. She did, rising laboriously from her slouched position, moaning. Josh closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and prepared to leap to his feet. If the guy tried to do anything to her, anything, he’d…

  “Go ahead and get up. All of you.”

  The gentle, beleaguered tone of the speaker took Josh by surprise. His eyes popped open and he rose, keeping his movements slow and steady.

  When he finally got to his feet and looked at the man addressing them, his lips pursed in confusion. A tall, beefy sort stood before him, with slicked-back black hair tied in a ponytail, wide cheekbones, and a handlebar mustache straight out of the 1930s. To Josh he looked a lot like Nick Nolte in Mother Night, if not for his fashion sense. He wore jeans and a denim button-up shirt, with a pair of leather chaps and vest partially covering both. Considering how hot it was, he found it amazing that the guy wasn’t drenched with sweat.

  The guy holstered his pistol and asked, “So who are ya?”

  “Josh Benoit,” said Josh, his voice hoarse and cracking.

  “Where you from?”

  “New Hampshire.”

  “Wow. That’s a long ways away. Why you going so fast out there?”

  Josh shrugged. “Didn’t think anyone’d be on the road.”

  “Why you here?”

  “I heard Richmond was safe.”

  “That so?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “Who told ya?”

  Josh glanced at his feet, teetered from side to side, and replied, “Just some folks.”

  The guy looked at him, then back at Kyra. He seemed infatuated with her, his eyes narrowing each time his head turned her way, like he knew her somehow but couldn’t figure out from where. Finally he chuckled, reached behind his head, messed with his ponytail, and signaled for the men standing behind the cars to lower their weapons.

  “Name’s Greg Pitts,” he said, still staring at Kyra.

  “Nice to meet you,” she replied with a hint of worry in her voice.

  Facing Josh, Pitts gave him a lopsided grin. “Lucky you guys’re here,” he said. “Sorry for the rude greeting. Can’t be too careful nowadays, y’know?”

  Josh nodded.

  Pitts turned around and started walking away. “You folks follow me. Time y’all got into the city and cleaned up a bit.”

  “That’d be nice,” said Josh as he stepped in line.

  “Oh, and I forgot to tell you,” said Pitts, craning his neck to look at Kyra once more.

  “What’s that?”

  “Welcome to Richmond.”

  * * *

  “Where are you taking me?” asked Bathgate.

  Pitts grinned. “Just something I gotta show you, boss.”

  “What is it? Tell me now, lieutenant. You know I hate surprises.”

  “Oh, trust me. You’ll like this one.”

  The general trailed behind Pitts as the large man crossed the bustling street, heading for what had once been the Richmond Science Museum. Because of its size and proximity to the center of the city, it now served as a minimum-security prison of sorts, used to discipline soldiers or civilians who stepped outside the boundaries of the new law.

  Pitts opened the door and the general stormed through, trying to keep his expression as stoic as possible. Though it was true he hated surprises, the way Pitts acted, giddy as a schoolgirl, captured his interest. Greg Pitts was not a man prone to flightiness.

  Those on security detail played cards at the reception desk, and immediately jumped to their feet when they saw who had entered the building. He noticed the respect buried in their seemingly empty expressions, and he almost blushed with pride.

  “At ease, soldiers,” he said.

  “Yes, sir!” they replied in unison.

  Pitts again walked ahead of him, weaving through the lobby and down a long hallway until they reached a set of double doors. The two soldiers guarding those doors snapped their heels together and saluted, again filling the general with satisfaction.

  The room they entered had once been the Creatures of the Deep exhibit. All displays had been removed when the museum was converted, leaving empty nooks where aquariums, display cases, and informative plaques once stood. Now the space was filled with at least twenty mattresses, all lined up on the floor. Bathgate observed, with more than a little bit of shock, that children currently occupied half of those mattresses. They were filthy and silent, either sitting and clutching their knees or curled up and dozing. Tattered bags—most likely clothing and supplies—were stacked beside them. A few hefty Hispanic women dressed in billowing white tunics bustled about, working to clean them up and offering words of consolation. Pitts must have contacted Morales, had him send some of his nursemaids to help, which was certainly a smart move. Children and family were important to the spics.

  Bathgate paused, but Pitts kept walking, beelining between the mattresses, heading for the matching double doors on the other side of the room. He seemed in his own world, not even noticing that his superior had stopped. His jaw tightening, Bathgate strode after him. Though his lieutenant had done an amiable job of leading the border patrols and his decision-making seemed to be getting better, he had to teach the man not to forget that in public, under the scrutiny of watchful eyes, he’d do well to show him the courtesy his station deserved.

  Pitts hesitated, his hand resting on the door handle, waiting for Bathgate to catch up. There was a mischievous gleam in his eye and his mustache twitched. “Get ready for it,” he whispered. “Surprise.”

  He pushed open the door, allowing enough room for Bathgate to step through. The general entered a room equal in size to the previous one. A handful of soldiers watched over the proceeding while others sat behind tables, pencils in hand, questioning a group of civilians.

  The civilians were being interviewed separately, with enough room between them so they presumably couldn’t hear each other’s answers. Bathgate took another few steps in, silent as a cat, and his eyes flitted from one face to another. It was a small group, all looking as exhausted and confused as the children in the other room. He scanned each of them in turn: a timid-looking woman with shifting, small eyes; a middle-aged woman with wide hips and an unkempt head of salt-and-pepper hair; a young man, horribly thin with a sparse beard and hair down to his shoulders; a slender old lady who could’ve been his grandmother; a beautiful young woman with prominent Italian features; a pregnant woman with striking green eyes and red hair interla
ced with barely perceptible strands of white…

  As this last image filled his vision, his heart began to pound. He traced the line of her jaw, her slender nose, her perfectly rosy lips. Every so often she would place a hand on her swollen midsection and appear to bite back a groan. She was the most perfect vision he’d ever seen—after all, he’d been drawing her likeness for the last few weeks. Bathgate gulped in a mouthful of air, afraid to move or else teeter over. Pitts placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “Thought you might like to see her,” the lieutenant whispered. “I mean, after you showed me the pics you did up. Pretty weird likeness, eh?”

  The general ceased to be himself any longer, instead reverting to a young Terrance Graham, filled with doubt and angst, hungry for love but afraid to seek it out. Even Maggie hadn’t sated that aspect of his person. Though he loved her immensely, there was still a sense of longing there, as if all he’d been given would never be enough.

  Now, as he stared at the filthy angel on the other side of the room, he realized why.

  Without another word, he turned on his heels and exited the chamber. He concentrated on walking, on placing one foot in front of the other. Pitts hurried after him, thankfully not speaking. They exited the museum and slipped down a neighboring ally, and it was there the lieutenant finally opened his mouth.

  “What was that all about, boss?”

  Bathgate shook his head. “It’s unbelievable, Greg.” His voice carried none of its usual authority—he sounded like a civilian, and he hated it.

  “I know. I was kinda shocked when I saw her.”

  “She’s perfect.”

  Pitts shrugged. “She’s also prego.”

  Bathgate cocked an eyebrow.

  “Pregnant, man. She’s hella pregnant.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “So what you want us to do with them? You wanna talk to her?”

  He shook his head. “Absolutely not. I’m not ready yet. Are they all together?”

  “Yup. Caught ‘em out on 95, heading right here. Looks like someone told the dude in there he’d be safe here.”

  “That so?”

  “Uh-huh. And boss?”

  “Yes?”

  “He’s the redhead’s boyfriend or something.”

  Bathgate frowned. That didn’t seem quite right. The kid was young, much too young for an aged beauty like her. She was elegant, experienced, with a wealth of intimate knowledge to share. But on the other hand, the boy’s youth was an advantage, possessing vitality he couldn’t match. He glanced over Pitts’s shoulder and caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the darkened window across from him. He looked at the hard line of his jaw, his close-cropped gray hair, his small but intense eyes. A grin spread across his lips. He might not have youth any longer, but he had power. And power swayed. She would forget about the kid in no time.

  His confidence returned, and his tone became even and analytical once more. “Put them up in the hotel. Make sure they’re taken care of.”

  “Okay.”

  “And Greg?”

  “Yeah, boss?”

  “Don’t you ever surprise me again.”

  CHAPTER 12

  WELCOME TO RICHMOND, PART III

  FRIENDS, FOES, AND BETRAYAL

  Bone jutted from the wound in Dennis’s leg. Blood oozed over Doug’s fingers as he pressed a cloth against the jagged end, trying to ease it back beneath the surface of his skin. The silver fox bit down hard on the twig between his teeth, stifling a scream. With a final push, the shattered bone finally retreated. Dennis collapsed flat on his back, panting, while Doug proceeded to tear apart an extra shirt and tie it tightly around the leg, bracing it with two large sticks on either side.

  Horace, looking much the worse for wear with his sunken cheeks and dried-spittle lips, guided his actions. He instructed him on how to set the injury, bracing his own knee against one side of Dennis’s calf and easing the two halves of bone into a semblance of straightness. The old scientist then poured whiskey—there had been a bottle sitting by the Clinton’s front gate, a leftover from one of Larry’s nightly strolls—over the gash, cleaning off the blood as best he could with a dirty rag. It was messy work and not all that sanitary, but it would have to do.

  The deed done, Doug took the bottle from Horace, handed it to Dennis, and watched as the shivering man guzzled down a mouthful. Dennis then gazed up at him with drained, pain-filled eyes, and shook his head.

  “Sorry, kid,” he muttered.

  “Don’t worry none,” Doug replied. “Everyone makes mistakes.”

  Luis came over, lifted Dennis’s head, and slipped his jacket beneath it to use as a pillow. Dennis closed his eyes and breathed in shallow, rasping breaths. In a matter of moments he was asleep. There was a large bruise forming on the right side of his face where he’d struck a tree stump when he’d fallen. Doug had a feeling the eye on that side would be sealed shut by the time he woke up.

  Doug stood up, patted a wheezing Horace on the back, and stepped away from the scene. He nodded to Corky, who was crouching down a few feet away. Doug then walked behind a thatch of tall trees, slumped to the leaf-covered ground, and leaned against a trunk.

  The day’s heat was starting to wane. He gazed at the sky, watching strands of white clouds skitter past his vision. They had a couple hours of daylight left. Ideally they’d keep moving, try to find shelter for the evening, but with Dennis’s condition that would be impossible. Their only choice now was to let him rest and maybe get some sleep themselves. When morning came they’d start moving again, and with Dennis’s leg the mess it was—the result of losing his footing while trying to navigate a rocky outcropping—the going would be much, much slower.

  He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and marked a ninth X in red pen. Nine days since the Clinton Hotel went up in flames. Nine days since Larry’s guts spilled out all over the bulkhead. Nine days since their safe haven ceased to be.

  He thought of his conversation with Horace back when snow still covered the land. The old man had told him they couldn’t stay cooped up in the Hotel for long. He’d agreed at the time. The theory made sense—they’d run out of supplies, out of oil and heat and food, and eventually have to strike out into the wilderness of America once more, learning to fend for themselves like the early pioneers. The idea seemed exciting at the time, yet now that safety had been ripped away from them, he was afraid. The time simply wasn’t right. Horace, the closest thing to a father he had, was sick. Corky was distant, Luis frustrated and missing his friends. Little Shelly Steinberg spent her nights crying, as if the demons that once populated the world now existed entirely in her young mind, and there was nothing her flustered parents could do to quell it. And now Dennis was hurt, which only added to the stress. It was a battle to get through each passing day, a battle they were rapidly losing.

  The sound of snapping twigs came from behind him, and he opened his eyes. Horace appeared, shuffling his feet, arms crossed over his chest. He walked hunched over, as if he’d developed a bad case of scoliosis. His skin had taken on a yellowing, jaundiced complexion. A hacking cough escaped his lips.

  He looked close to death.

  The old man eased down to his rump, his weak knees popping. He gazed at Doug with bloodshot, deep-set eyes.

  “He’ll be okay,” he said, his voice weak and rasping. “He just needs some rest.”

  “I know,” said Doug. “He’s gonna slow us down, though.”

  Horace shrugged halfheartedly. “We’ve been going slow as it is.”

  That was true. After the destruction of the hotel, they’d decided as a group to head east, toward the ocean. The terrain was rough, especially as they descended the mountains, and towns were few and far between. Those they had passed through were deserted, empty shells, rotten and gutted. But that was to be expected. By Horace’s reasoning, with the coastline being the most populated areas, if there were people still around that’s where they’d migrate. He figured that with the w
andering hordes of undead dying off, the natural desire of any survivors would be to regain an air of normalcy, to try and find safety in numbers. That was his hope anyway, a hope Doug shared. Now that their home was gone, all he could think about was rejoining society, which for Doug was a strange longing. He’d always considered himself an outsider, a loner, stronger on his own than in a crowd. Funny how months spent isolated with a close-knit group of people changed all that.

  Horace coughed again, and Doug glanced over at him. A line of pink spittle ran over the old scientist’s beard. He leaned forward, placing a hand on his knee.

  “You’re not good, Doc. What’s happening to you?”

  Horace closed his eyes. “It’s nothing, Douglas. Don’t worry about me.”

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “Where?”

  Doug touched his own lips with his finger.

  Horace wiped at his mouth with his sleeve, moved his hand away, and eyed the mark left behind. He sighed and shook his head. “It’s nothing. Just a little blood. I think I may have developed a slight case of pneumonia.”

  “Pneumonia? That ain’t good, Doc.”

  “No, it’s not. If we come across a town tomorrow, we’ll stop at a pharmacy, see if they have any antibiotics left on the shelves. Dennis will need some, as well.”

  “But you’ve been like this for a while now. Why haven’t we done that sooner?”

  Horace shrugged. “The thought simply hadn’t crossed my mind.”

  Doug grimaced. Horace wasn’t being straight with him, and he knew it. It was the look in the old man’s eyes that told him so, the way they shifted back and forth, not looking at him directly when he spoke.

  “Don’t lie to me,” he said. “I want the truth. You fucking owe me that much. Don’t be an asshole.”

  Horace scowled. It was an expression so unlike anything Doug had ever seen some across the man’s face that he was taken aback. His muscles tensed, his fingers tightened around fistfuls of leaves.

  “I don’t owe you anything, Douglas,” Horace said coldly, though the sagginess of his eyes betrayed his tone of voice. “Don’t you feign to know me or what I’m going through. We are all coping with this mess the best we can. It is time you stopped being a child and grew up.” With that, the old scientist struggled to his feet and limped away, disappearing around the trees, leaving Doug to deal with the shock of his friend and mentor’s reaction in seclusion. He swore he heard the old man sniffling, possibly crying, as his invisible footsteps grew all the more distant. It was just like with his mother, when he’d overreacted to the news she was going to marry the dirtbag she’d been dating. That argument led to his decision to join the Marines, and the last words to pass between them were poisonous. He’d hurt her badly, and she’d hurt him in return. And now he’d never see her again. Though she wasn’t the best parent in the world, he missed her more than anything.