Death Springs Eternal

by Robert J. Duperre

  “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.

  “Simply part your legs for me, okay? I promise I will not hurt you.”

  Kyra nodded and slowly spread her knees apart.

  “Very good, Kyra. Thank you.” He turned to Brian and whispered, “Get those damn straps off her now,” before leaning in for a better look.

  He pushed up his glasses while Brian worked on getting Kyra free of her restraints. The woman’s inner thighs were badly bruised, yellow and black splotches that spread from her crotch to just above her knees. Reaching into the box on the table to his right, he removed a pair of latex gloves and snapped them on.

  “I am just going to poke around a little, okay?”

  Kyra didn’t give him an answer, but she didn’t tell him to go away. She simply stared at him with those beautiful, rage-filled eyes.

  “Okay. Easy now.” He traced her inner thigh with his knuckle as his hand approached her most sensitive of areas, trying to let her know he would be careful. The he slipped a couple digits into her and turned his head to the side.

  “Miss Kyra, you are ninety percent effaced, eight centimeters dilated, though your water has yet to be broken. I would say this child is indeed coming.” He again glanced at the discoloration on her inner thighs. While he withdrew his fingers he added, “You have some pretty major bruising here. Did you take a rather nasty fall recently?”

  Kyra’s fingers curled into fists. She squeezed them so tight she drew blood.

  Bruises. Abrasions on her hip. And now that he was looking closely, he spotted a welt on her lower jaw, weakly covered over with makeup. His breathing hitched.

  “Oh my goodness, I apologize. Who did this to you?”

  She didn’t answer, and tears started to form in the corners of her eyes, but the look of fury on her beautiful face said it all.

  He stroked her wet, matted hair, trying to calm her down. “It’s okay. You are here now, with friends. No one will hurt you.”

  “See?” said Brian, shaking his head with hands firmly planted on his hips. “I told you there’s some fucked up shit going on here. And to think, this is supposedly the guy in charge’s girl.”

  “Is that what the soldiers told you?”

  “Yup.”

  “This is not good.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  Horace turned back to Kyra. Her body tensed, another contraction wreaking havoc on her nervous system. He held her hand tight and eased her back against the mattress. With a swift nod, he told Brian to get in position.

  “Disturbing events or not, this child is coming,” he said. “Hopefully, the beating she suffered did not hurt it. Get started.”

  Horace kept hold of Kyra’s hand while Brian went about the business of breaking her water. When the liquid poured out of her and over the table, the contractions came on even stronger, which he expected. She squeezed his hand so tight he heard his knuckles pop on more than one occasion, but it didn’t hurt too badly. At least it made him forget, if only for a second, the pain he felt everywhere else.

  Another spasm hit, and Kyra’s head pitched back. She let out an ear-splitting screech. Horace caressed her forehead with his free hand. “Breathe, just breathe,” he whispered into her ear. “Slow, in and out, in and out. Work through it. Relax.”

  He breathed deliberately with his cracked lips puffed out, offering her a model. She mimicked him, panting faster and faster with each heartbeat. Finally she seemed to settle down, and those green eyes looked directly into his. For the first time in the short time since he’d met her, she smiled.

  It was breathtaking.

  “Thank you, Doctor,” she sighed.

  “You are very welcome, Miss Kyra,” he replied. “But just to warn you, now is the hard part.”

  The tortured woman closed her eyes.

  Forty-five minutes later, a new child entered the world. Kyra flopped back on the gurney, caked with sweat and panting. The area between her legs was soaked with blood and piss, and Brian handed the viscous-covered child, swathed in a clean blanket, over to Horace so he could clean up the mess. “Don’t bother yet,” said the old scientist. “She still has to deliver the afterbirth.”

  Kyra moaned, followed by an, “Oh, yeah,” from the young Mr. Singer.

  The moment the child was in Horace’s arms, everything began to change. His vision brightened, his bre
athing became easier, his thoughts not as muddled. He laid the baby out on the table and unfolded the blanket.

  “Miss Kyra, it is a girl,” he said.

  Again he stared at the child, captivated by her beauty. She was tiny, obviously premature, but only by a week or so, not a month. Her breathing was steady and her blue eyes were opened wide. Atop her head was strawberry peach fuzz. She didn’t cry, only offering gentle, throaty purrs each time one of her hands found her mouth. He snatched up a stethoscope and went about examining her. The lungs sounded fine, the heart strong. She was, in a word, perfect.

  “Dr. Horace?” Kyra asked, wheezing after pushing out the afterbirth.

  “Yes, Miss Kyra?”

  “Is she all right?”

  Horace wiped the remaining blood and vernix from the child, wrapped her back up in the blanket, and turned around. He offered her to her mother and said, “Yes, she is fine. Could not be better.”

  Kyra gasped. “She’s beautiful.”

  “That she is.” He placed the child in Kyra’s arms, his heart lifting as mother clutched daughter to her chest, tears filling her eyes. “Do you have a name for her yet?”

  Her voice faltered. “No. We never decided on one before…before…”

  She broke down, grasping the baby to her bosom and gently rocking back and forth. Gone was the indignation from earlier, the anger. She now looked completely defeated. Horace wanted to interrupt, to ask her what he could do, but decided to let her wind down on her own. When she did, she gazed up at both him and Brian with wide, desperate eyes.

  “Y-y-you have to t-t-take her,” she said.

  “What?” Brian and Horace said in unison.

  “G-g-get her out of h-h-here. As far as y-y-you can. It’s not s-s-safe. He’s gonna k-k-kill her!”

  Horace dropped to his knees, still feeling amazingly refreshed, and grabbed her shoulder. “Who is going to kill her? Why?”

  “B-B-Bathgate. He w-w-wants me for hims-s-self.”