Death Springs Eternal

by Robert J. Duperre

  Tom nodded.

  “Let’s just say you haven’t quelled any of my fears with that answer.”

  “Well,” said Tom with a grin. “You didn’t let me finish.”

  “So finish.”

  “I will. As I said, it would be my duty to meet with you, but as you so ably stated, the power structure didn’t survive the apocalypse. Go figure. But luckily you did, and you created something wonderful. Just look at what you’ve accomplished with the revival of this city. It’s an achievement you should be proud of.”

  “Thank you,” said the general.

  “No problem. On the other hand, you must realize there are other organizations out there just like yours, groups of individuals with the same endgame in mind. It is only a matter of time before you discover each other. The question is, will you cooperate or clash?”

  Bathgate frowned. “What are you getting at, Steinberg?”

  “I’m not a representative of a dead culture, General,” said Tom with a grin, “but one that’s alive and quite well.”

  The general laughed. “Is that so? And I suppose you’re here to issue a set of demands?”

  “In a way, I suppose.”

  Pulling his sidearm, Bathgate strode up to Tom and pressed the barrel against his cheek. Tom wanted to shriek and run away, but the presence inside him kept his jaw rigid, his eyes piercing, his smile unwavering.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” he said.

  “And why not?” Bathgate growled.

  “You don’t know what you’re dealing with. You don’t know the power our leader possesses. Even as we speak, his army is steadily moving in on this city. Our forces outnumber you ten-to-one. Should you choose to act rashly, you wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “And I’m supposed to believe this…why? Because you used to be someone important? I don’t think so. I’ve seen nothing to indicate another colony of survivors has banded together, especially one as large as you say. Hell, when my boys found you ten days ago, you were running from a group of harmless douchebags west of here. That doesn’t fly with your story.”

  Tom’s hand reached up, grabbed the gun barrel in his fist, and brought it up to his temple. He heard Shelly gasp. She was probably hiding behind her mother, and he realized that if she were to survive all of this, she would be in desperate need of therapy. He wanted to rush over, take her up in his arms, and hold her tight to his chest, whispering into her ear how he’d make everything all right.

  But he didn’t. He considered the general instead.

  “The circumstances of my arrival are irrelevant,” he said. “You can believe me or not believe me. That’s your choice. But for your peoples’ sake, don’t underestimate what you may face in the future. Truth be told, our leader doesn’t want a fight. He’s simply searching for someone, someone who wronged him. He feels the need to set things right, and the rest of our people can’t move on until this particular individual is brought to justice. And to show his good graces, he’s more than willing to leave you on your merry way if you assist in his search.”

  Bathgate flinched and the gun dropped ever so slightly. “Who’s he looking for?”

  Tom shrugged. “Not entirely sure. A young man, probably early- to mid-twenties. Dark hair, above average height. Probably thin now, but looks like he could hold a lot more weight on his bones.”

  The gun slumped ever further. “You realize you just described probably one of a thousand people, right?”

  “No. He would have arrived relatively recently, from the north.”

  The general cringed, like a father who went to the grocery store and forgot he’d left the baby at home alone.

  “How the hell are you sure he’s here?”

  “We have our eyes in this city,” said Tom. “He was seen here on one occasion.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes.”

  The gun started to rise again. “You’re spying on us,” he growled through gritted teeth.

  Tom nodded. “Of course. It’s what competing nations do.”

  At the sound of that word, a grin crossed Bathgate’s lips and he pulled the gun away. Such pride, thought Tom’s conductor. Such easy prey. Tom winced inwardly as he felt his mental web expanding, energies that shouldn’t have been in him sprouting arms that stretched in every direction, searching for one whose dedication had broken. Finally that web ensnared a wandering soul, and the presence shot back into his body. The entire process took less than the time it took to blink.

  Tom cleared his throat. “We have not only been searching for our target, however,” he said. “We also have been seeking information that might help you, information that may prove our intentions are pure.”

  “Go on.”

  “You have a man on your staff, a higher-up in your chain of command, who is going to betray you.” The details began drifting away, and the presence inside him upped the ante. His muscles swelled with energy, and his personality retreated deeper into the back of his mind. “His name is Pitts,” Sam said through his mouth, using his voice. “A lieutenant. He is planning on leaving come morning, of abandoning his post and fleeing west. I can’t be sure of his reasons, simply that he will try.”

  Bathgate laughed, shook his head, meandered to his desk, and flopped in the chair once more. “Yeah, right. You’re insane. I think I’ll have some of the boys pull you out of here and hang you in the common. And maybe your wife, too.”

  Shelly shrieked.

  “Shut that girl up.”

  “Hush, Michelle.” He turned to Bathgate. “That is your right, but all I ask is that you wait until nine o’clock tomorrow morning. He will be leaving then, exiting through the Nine-Mile Checkpoint. If he is not, you can kill me,” he waved his arm behind him, “and my family. If he is, and you deal with it accordingly, can we expect your cooperation?”

  Bathgate lifted a pen, chewed on the end for a couple minutes, then dropped it and nodded. “Yes. If the lieutenant is indeed planning on going AWOL tomorrow, I will let you interview each of the men one-by-one, if you like.”

  “That would be wonderful.”

  Tom grinned, stepped back, and took a seat beside Allison. He took her limp hand in his, and he wished he could feel her skin. As it was all he felt were dull sensations, like he’d been anesthetized from head to toe. Shelly shrank away from him but refused to release her mother’s hand. Allison’s arm stretched, and she almost teetered over. Tom had to pull her back to him to straighten her out.

  “What’s wrong with your wife?” asked Bathgate.

  “She had a stroke not too long ago,” he replied, using someone else’s memories to create a believable story. “It’s left her appearing catatonic, not in complete control of her functions, but she’s still in there. I can see it when I stare in her eyes.”

  Bathgate leaned forward and squinted. “Don’t look like there’s anything there to me.”

  “You’re not looking hard enough.”

  Someone rapped at the door, and Bathgate glanced at his watch. “Oh shit, they’re here already,” he grumbled. His pale cheeks grew ruddy and he began breathed heavily. Tom/Sam glanced around the room, feeling more than a little confused. The general leapt from his chair and began straightening up the few knickknacks on his desk. It looked like he’d gone crazy as he quickstepped across the short space between them, aggressively grabbed Tom’s hand, and shook it.

  “Thank you for meeting me, Mr. Steinberg,” he said. “Now please, the guards will show you back to your residence.”

  Tom/Sam shrugged and stood up, steering Allison in doing the same. Shelly hovered behind them, holding the front of her dress over her face as if she could block out the world.

  “Come in,” Bathgate said, his voice cracking, and the door opened.

  Two soldiers and two younger Hispanic girls entered. Between them was a very short, very attractive, very pregnant woman. Her long red hair, tainted with a couple streaks of gray, shimmered as if it’d just been washed, and her skin shone in the ambie
nt light. A long satin nightgown hung from her shoulders and brushed against the floor as she walked. She kept her eyes down, her lips pursed. She appeared to be in a great amount of pain.

  Tom shrugged, took Allison’s hand, and stepped out of the office. On the surface of his mind, Sam cursed that these people were outside his influence. He would’ve killed to see what that little bastard with the Napoleon complex had in mind.

  Perhaps there was still time for that.

  * * *

  Kyra peered through strands of her dangling hair, watching the family of three leave the office. There was something off about them, but the pain wracking her body conflicted with her ability to make sound connections. Her focus was on her breathing and not much else.

  She heard a voice telling her escorts they were excused. She wanted to turn around, to tell Maria and Saraphina how much she appreciated the care they took when bathing her, the sympathy that shown in their eyes while they slipped the damn nightgown over her head, the kind words they spoke as they walked with her down her own personal Green Mile. And that’s what she thought of this as—her death march. She couldn’t explain why she felt this way, but it was there. She chalked it up to the constant pain. Contractions were hitting her every ten minutes by that point.

  Then she raised her eyes when she heard her name called and stared into the eyes of death itself.

  There he was, the man who’d been haunting her dreams each night for two months. He had the same damning eyes, the same gray hair, the same haughty posture. Darkness seemed to flow from his every pore like liquid oil. She found herself not able to breathe.

  “Oh, my dear,” the man said, quickly grinning and taking her hand. He knelt in front of her. “You must be in a great deal of pain. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Her tongue frozen in shock, she didn’t answer.

  He gazed up at her, and all of a sudden he didn’t seem so frightening. His expression was almost pathetic, like a puppy that had just been slapped on the ass for shitting in the corner. His teeth chattered together. It reminded her of the walking undead, and she shivered.

  “Please, talk to me,” he said.

  “I could use a seat,” she replied.

  The man smiled, stood up, and allowed her to sit in one of the chairs at the back of the room. She sunk into the soft cushion and took in her surroundings for the first time. She saw framed pictures on the wall, illustrations that looked very much like her. Another shudder jarred her insides, followed by a grinding contraction. She had to bite her lip to keep from screaming.

  “I’m Alexander Bathgate,” the man said, seemingly oblivious to her pain.

  She glared at him and her chest hitched.

  He squinted and proceeded to pace around the room, blathering. “Do you know how much I adore you? Of course you don’t. You’ve never met me before. But I’ve seen you. I dreamed of you in my youth, visions of pure beauty I thought lost to me until they returned recently. See those paintings over there? I created them. Me, from my memory. It is you, Kyra. You are my destiny.”

  He grinned so wide she thought his facial muscles might tear.

  The contraction faded, only to be followed very closely by another. She chomped down and her vision became spotty. Then she felt hands upon her, lifting her from her seat, moving her across the hazy space before her. When that contraction diminished, Bathgate’s face came back into focus. He was close to her. Too close.

  “What do you need?” he asked. “Anything.”

  “How about a doctor?” she moaned. “I think the baby’s coming.”

  That got him to frown. He stepped back, looked her up and down. It appeared as if he was contemplating something, what with his head tilted to the side and his arms hanging loosely. Then he shook out of it and smiled once more.

  “I think we can accommodate that request,” he said. “But it may take a little time. Tomorrow morning.”

  “I don’t think it can wait that long.”

  “It’s going to have to.”

  Bathgate leapt forward. His lips locked onto hers, his tongue probing. One of his hands wrapped tightly around her back while the other roamed wherever it pleased, sliding across the smooth nightgown, moving from her engorged breasts to her hip to the curved underside of her swollen belly to down there. He was hostile and sensitive at the same time, and Kyra’s head started to spin. The hand on her nethers then came up and squeezed her left breast. He shoved her back against his desk and hoisted the bottom half of her nightgown. He tried to press forward and another contraction hit, accompanied by a blinding fit of rage. She clamped her legs shut, squeezing his sides, forcing a pained gasp from him as her knee pressed into his kidney. He retreated, sliding between her legs, and she lashed out with her foot. It connected with his chest, knocking him backward with surprising strength.

  The man panted, staring at her with livid eyes. Kyra sucked in a mouthful of air as the contraction intensified, and then Bathgate swung out of her reach, raised his hand, and backhanded her across the cheek. She fell off the side of the desk and smacked her hip against the chair.

  “You made me,” the man wheezed while he gazed at her, horrified.

  “Fuck you.”

  His stare intensified. “You will love me,” he said. “You have no choice. And if you think that little shit you came with will save you, think again. He’s long gone, burning in the Mouth of Hell as we speak. I saw to that personally.”

  Kyra’s heart sank in her chest, and as the contraction died down, she allowed herself to collapse on the carpet. Then he spoke again, his tone more sympathetic than before.

  “I apologize for hitting you,” he said. “It was not my intention. I’m sorry things didn’t work out tonight, but they will. I’ll send Morales’s girls in to take care of you.”

  Then he was out the door.

  Kyra drew her knees to her chest, shaking, while the baby kicked in her belly. Dead. Josh was dead. What hope did she have left with the one sworn to protect her now gone?

  “I’ll fucking kill you!” she bellowed at the closed office door, but no one was there to hear.

  CHAPTER 15

  ON THE DOWNLOW

  The water in the bubbling stream was cool. Corky, awake just before dawn again, splashed it over his face, allowed it to soak his long beard. His hair hung down over his shoulders, almost reaching his stomach. He sat back and rubbed that stomach, noticing how much it had retreated from its former prominence. He’d lost so much weight that he might’ve actually appeared fit. He hadn’t looked that way since he was about twelve years old.

  Branches snapped behind him and he spun around, hand instinctively falling to his belt in search of his pistol. But of course the gun wasn’t there—he kept forgetting that. So he reached behind him, grabbed the tree branch he’d been using as a walking stick, and held it before him like a lance.

  Doug appeared from behind the trees, carrying a bundle of bloody fur. The young Marine tossed the thing to the ground. It bounced off a pile of dead leaves and rolled to a stop inches in front of Corky’s feet.

  “Rabbit,” the kid said. “I caught it, you skin it.”

  Corky’s mouth twisted into a frown. “Skin it? How the fuck?”

  Doug tossed his knife—itself covered in blood—and it landed beside the dead animal.

  “Use that,” he said, and then stormed away.

  “Prick,” muttered Corky. He sat down and picked the dead thing up by its flopping ears. He grabbed the knife with his other hand and held up both items, rabbit next to blade, and stared. He felt apprehensive, not because he was squeamish about being around dead things, but because he hadn’t done anything like this before. Dougie was in a bad enough mood as it was. The last thing he wanted to do was screw up their meal and add fuel to the fire.

  “How hard could it be?” he said with a shrug, and jammed the knife into the thing’s midsection.

  They’d been alone in the woods for three days. Corky took his eyes off his gore-covered h
ands and stared at the sky, still dark but slowly growing brighter as the sun awoke from its slumber. Four days now. Four. In that time they’d wandered aimlessly around the forest, avoiding patrols of armed men and scavenging for whatever meager food presented itself in the pilfered woods. At night they huddled together, using Corky’s denim jacket as a blanket, freezing as the temperature dropped yet too afraid to start a fire. They were miserable, and it was only getting worse. Corky’s teeth ached and his stomach rumbled. All he wanted was a warm bed and a pair of sweats. He wanted Mount Clinton back. He wanted his friends back.

  But of course, that wasn’t happening.

  Doug returned an hour later, his rifle slung across his arms, his hair wet. His jeans, long-sleeve tee shirt, and the button-up military-issued top were damp but cleaner than before. Corky glanced down at his own chest, saw the stains blossoming on his shirt, and sniffed. He smelled like a sewer. It wasn’t pleasant. The dismembered rabbit carcass before him certainly didn’t help matters.

  “So, wash up?” he asked.

  Doug nodded.

  “In the pond back there?”

  Again a nod.

  “Mind if I go next?”

  “Free country.”

  “You sure about that?”

  He meant it as a joke, but Doug glared in his direction and tossed down his bag in frustration. Corky sighed, jammed the knife into the ground, stood up, and loped away from the kid. He shook his head, wondering what the hell they were going to do. All they had now was each other, and they were butting heads constantly. Not that they hadn’t in the past—they undoubtedly had—but now it was more…venomous.

  “Corky, wait.”

  There was so much pain in the kid’s voice that Corky’s chest jolted. He swiveled on his heels and saw Doug kneeling on the ground, arms limp by his side, tears streaming down his face. His eyes gazed at the canopy above and his mouth hung open. Corky rushed over, his long legs stepping over a fallen log as if it were nothing, and knelt beside his friend.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.