Death Springs Eternal

by Robert J. Duperre

  Brian shook his head. “What’re we gonna do, Horace? I mean, the soldiers are gonna be back any minute now to get her…with him. They said we had two hours. It’s been…” he checked his watch, “…an hour and a half now.”

  Horace gazed into Kyra’s face, into those dazzling eyes, and took a deep breath. “You’re sure you want us to do this?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “And you will come with us?”

  She shook her head, the tears slowing down.

  “And what do you want us to do with her?”

  In a sudden feat of strength, she grabbed his collar and yanked him off his knees. Her lips pressed against his ear, sending a shiver down Horace’s spine.

  “Keep her safe,” she whispered. “I have to make sure no one ever hurts her. Ever.”

  And that was all.

  CHAPTER 18

  THE REDISCOVERY OF PURPOSE

  When the dream ended, it was followed by a flash of bright light and a roll of thunder that shook Eduardo so thoroughly he tumbled off his makeshift bed. He hit the sand with a thud and cried out.

  He opened his eyes and glanced frantically about him. He didn’t know what time it was, but the dimness hinted at morning. Rain pelted the canvas top of the hovel. The sides buckled and flapped, appearing close to being yanked from the rope holding them in place. Another flash of light, another rumble of thunder, and he tentatively poked his head out into the open air.

  It was windy as hell, so much so that the palm trees had bent almost horizontally. In the sky sheets of dark clouds rolled past, dumping buckets of rain onto the shore. Eduardo noticed the canvas sagging above him, and yanked the corner, stretching the material downward. A wave of water rolled off the top of the hut, forming a pool in the sand in front of his knees. He crawled back inside, sealed the flap, and wandered back to his bed of sea grass and pillows scavenged from the Bendición. He gazed at Lucia, sleeping peacefully despite the racket going on outside, with Eddie Jr. nestled in her arms. Eduardo nudged her shoulder, and her eyes fluttered open.

  “My love,” he whispered.

  Lucia blinked awake. Another crack of thunder sounded and she recoiled.

  “Do not worry,” said Eduardo. “It is only a storm.”

  He crawled back into bed and draped his arms around her. Lucia sighed, pressing her forehead into the crook of his neck. His fingers twirled the loose curls atop her head, and their lips met.

  “Something troubles you,” Lucia said.

  “It is not important,” he replied.

  “What do you wish for me to do?”

  “Just hold me.”

  There they lay, this lost family of three, waiting out the driving rain. Trees crackled outside, the sound of their broad leaves meeting the ground like a symphony of menace to their ears. When Eddie Jr. stirred, his father and mother placed their hands upon his chest, feeling his heart beat beneath his ribcage, using that gentle rhythm to quell the worry strumming in their own chests.

  The rain drifted away, the storm rushing off to assault a different landmass with its strong winds and pounding rain. The sun emerged, baking away the mist the storm left behind. Eduardo exited the shelter, standing tall on the beach, and watched the waves assail the shore. The swells were huge—storm swells, six feet high, rolling like a liquid avalanche. He clasped his wrist and stared at his boat, rocking in the distance, small as a toy.

  The dream once more entered his mind, a vision of decay and pestilence and terror. He saw despair and panic. And yet below all that horror, like a shimmering band of gold, had been the unmistakable impression of hope. That hope existed in the eyes of a young child with eyes as blue as the ocean before him. Just thinking of this child filled his soul with lightness. He and his family had been stranded on this island for months, living each day while ignoring the events that led them here. They searched for distractions, for different ways to pass the time. They’d explored the island, discovered the ancient ruins atop the mountain, killed wild boars, built sailboats for Eddie Jr. out of driftwood, written messages and placed them in discarded plastic water bottles, setting them to sea as a way not to communicate with the outside world, but to complete the mirage of what he thought people should do when stranded on an small landmass in the middle of the Atlantic.

  And now, as he gazed at his ship and thought of that innocent, propitious child, he realized how futile his efforts at forgetting his mission had been. If none of it mattered, he wouldn’t have ventured out to the Bendición every other day, spending hours hacking away at the engine with his ratchet, fastening support struts to the toppled mast. He wouldn’t have done his best to chart the island, naming it Isla de la Luz in the process. And he wouldn’t have held that sliver of optimism in his chest, a sliver that seemed to grow larger with each passing day, until his vision of the blue-eyed child caused it to blossom into something grand, something necessary, something hopeful.

  Eduardo smiled and lifted the satchel he held over his shoulder. In that satchel was the dagger he’d found in the graveyard atop the mountain. He felt its hardness through the old, beaten leather case, traced the outline of the jewels embedded in its handle. A realization came over him. Everything he’d done—building the shelter, climbing the mountain, discovering the ruins, charting the island—had been important. The feeling of purpose that had departed him when the Virgin stopped visiting his dreams returned, telling him to return to the Bendición and its repaired motor, pull up the sails, and continue the quest he’d ignored for too long. There was another storm brewing, the aftermath of which would bring his cargo to him, allow him to carry them back to this very island and begin life anew, just as the Virgin had promised ages ago.

  He ran back to the shelter, where Lucia and Eddie Jr. were busy cooking boar meat and coconut slices over the crackling fire, and dropped to his knees. He panted, hands clutched over his chest, tears in his eyes. His family turned to him, the confusion in their expressions overwhelmed by the joy of seeing the man who meant so much to them looking joyous and encouraged for the first time since they arrived. He took their hands in his and wept openly, rubbing their palms with his fingers, letting the sea breeze rustle his long, ratty hair.

  “My loves,” he said, his voice as choppy as the waves. “Gather your belongings. Tonight, we set sail.”

  CHAPTER 19

  A HARD RAIN’S GONNA FALL

  Dusk fell over Virginia, its ethereal near-darkness made even more substantial by the dark clouds billowing overhead. Moses Sumner sat on the hood of his automobile, an old Chrysler LeBaron, and watched them roll on by. In the distance, before the profile of the Shenandoah Mountains, he saw flashes of lightning and heard the rumbles that followed seconds later. The storm was coming east, headed right for them.

  He lifted his megaphone to his lips. “All right, people,” he said, his voice amplified through the plastic cone. “Time to pack things up. Work’s done for the day.”

  The workers seemed to sigh in unison, shoulders dropping and heads hanging, exhausted from the day’s hard labor. Their faces and clothes were streaked with mud and grime. The utility truck pulled up and they began throwing shovels, pickaxes, hoes, and pitchforks into the bed before making their way to the service tent to get some water and a bite to eat, the last stop before they headed home for the evening.

  Home was Richmond, and Moses found himself overseeing the planting of corn in the vacant lands fifteen miles south of the city proper. According to what he’d been told weeks ago, he was to make sure they had all three hundred acres seeded before July. It was now closing in on the end of June, and none of the seeds had taken. Moses was an agricultural engineer by trade, studying at UMass Amherst twenty years earlier and was plying his trade for a produce distributor based in Missouri before the end of the world. He’d been with this strange army since April, and the general in charge of it all had been so impressed with his pedigree that he placed him at the head of the Agricultural Renaissance Project.

  Though h
e was happy for the safety that being part of the group afforded, he wished the man had found someone else to run this endeavor. Most of the farmland they’d come across during the long journey north had been razed when the RF outbreak swept across the land. And in the months that followed, much of the valuable nutrients remaining in the soil were washed away by the constant rain and snow. That left acre upon acre of dead earth where nothing would take root. Moses found himself attempting to convert other areas, such as demolished towns, into usable farmland after the debris had been cleared. It seemed like a hopeful attempt at first, until the realization came to him that much of the soil beneath these homes was just as wasted and infertile as everywhere else.

  Another flash of lightning, another rumble of thunder, and the first raindrop fell on the back of Moses’ hand. He wiped away the wetness on his pants and swung his legs off the roof of his car. His back cracked as he stood up, and he ran his fingers through his curly black hair. The guys were all in the huge service tent, which was really a big top left behind by a disbanded Ringling Bros. Circus caravan, retrofitted to fit a new purpose. The men laughed and clanked glasses while they stuffed their faces with freshly cooked meat from the newly constructed cattle ranch on the northern edge of the city, celebrating the end of their shift. Another raindrop hit Moses, in the head this time. Once more he raised the megaphone to his lips.

  “C’mon, people! Time to move out!”

  Begrudgingly, the farmhands exited the shelter of the tent. They made their way to the line of transports behind Moses, flanked by a number of soldiers from the Church of Creation’s military wing, who’d been given the assignment of overseeing the Agricultural Renaissance’s progress. The soldiers, dressed in jeans and button-up camouflaged shirts, usually stayed behind in the mobile home donning the name of their organization, only making themselves known when there was a problem that needed resolving or come quitting time, when they’d inspect the workers for signs of pilfering. Moses had almost forgotten they were there, as he tried to do each day. They were a surly bunch, with shifty eyes and blank expressions. Religious fanatics, he thought. Nothing good can ever come from those sorts. He shook his head. In no way did he understand how they’d come to possess so much power in the first place. If he’d been running things, they would have been left on their own and devoured by the wandering undead long ago.

  Of course now those animated corpses were all but extinct, as was the rest of civilized society, and still the Church of Creation remained. Go figure.

  Moses tossed his megaphone through the side window of his LeBaron, followed by the bag containing his ph testing kit. One of the soldiers—the one in charge, Grady—passed him a suspicious glance. Moses rolled his eyes, made his way to the other side of the car, and opened the door.

  Another rumble in the distance, only it sounded wrong. Moses lingered by the open car door, cocked his head, and listened. It was the longest roll of thunder he’d ever heard, building up, growing louder, shaking the ground beneath his feet. He glanced up at the sky and realized there’d been no lightning preceding it. Craning his neck, he listened more intently. The sound came from the south, not the west.

  He swiveled on the balls of his feet, facing that direction. The landscape stretched out before him, all darkened trees and black sky. In an instant Grady was at his side, the man’s beady eyes watching the same direction as he, a frown painted on his lips.

  “What is that?” asked Grady.

  Moses shrugged. “No clue.”

  Grady took the field glasses that hung from his neck and lifted them. His frown became more pronounced as he scanned left to right, right to left, then back again. “I don’t see nothing,” he said, and tilted back his white faux cowboy hat with his finger. The rain fell harder, dripping off the brim.

  The rumbling became all the more intense, and when Moses looked down he saw pebbles bouncing along the freshly tilled land. He glanced up, squinting in the sparse light, trying to see past the dark line of trees. He swore he saw something moving behind them—lots of somethings, squirming like insects in the walls of an abandoned house.

  A loud crash sounded, and Moses jumped back. The foliage rustled, a tree toppled, and a large object came busting out of the forest. It was huge and tan, with a turret atop a boxy frame. It rolled across the land, coming in their direction, its treads tearing up the ground as it went.

  It was the Bradley.

  “No shit,” said Moses. “Hawthorne’s back.”

  Moses remembered the Bradley more than the man who drove it, and the vehicle had been sent away on a “special mission” a long while ago. He hadn’t heard a single word of what had happened to the beast of a machine or its crew since then. In many ways he’d already forgotten about it, adding its disappearance to the long list of vanishings that had filled the book of his life since the world ended.

  But now here it was, safe and sound, rumbling toward them at much too fast a speed.

  “What the hell’s he doing?” asked Grady.

  Moses pointed to the walkie hanging from the man’s belt. “Why don’t you get on the line and ask hi –”

  The howl of a thousand lost souls filled the air, making any words coming from his mouth incomprehensible. Moses covered his ears and stepped to the side while Grady swung his rifle from behind his back. More COC soldiers had congregated by then, glancing at the approaching Bradley, and each other, with anxious faces, the first real show of fear Moses had ever seen from them.

  More crackling from the line of trees, and then a mass of bodies burst into the open air. Even in the darkness, Moses could see they weren’t right. Their gaits were all wrong: hunched over, stumbling, clawing the Earth. Lightning lit up the sky, and he saw decayed, animalistic faces, too many to count. They surged forward like stampeding buffalo, a mass of coiling, screeching flesh. They grew nearer with each passing second, somehow keeping a steady pace behind the Bradley despite its high speed.

  Memory surged into Moses’ brain. He saw his son attacked and dismembered by ghastly, inhuman beasts, creatures that had once been his neighbors down in Daleville. They’d ripped his little Joseph to shreds and turned their sallow, urine-colored eyes to him. He beat them off with a shovel while his brother David, who’d been hiding out in his basement with him while violence wracked their town, cut them down with his shotgun. They were the most hideous beasts Moses had ever seen—way more frightening than the zombies that came afterward—and he’d done his best to forget they ever existed. Yet here they were, thousands upon thousands of them, dashing across the field, stomping the ground with their clawed feet.

  His body loosened, and Moses dashed for his car. He heard shooting behind him as the soldiers emptied round after round into the onrushing horde. Then came the screaming, inhuman shrieks of pain that followed the sound of tearing flesh. Liquid splashed against the ground, both rain and something more substantial. His legs pumped faster, his chest burned.

  When he reached the LeBaron he leapt inside, slammed the door, and fumbled for his keys. They felt large and awkward in his fingers, but it only took a couple seconds for him to find the right one and shove it into the ignition. The engine rumbled to life. Moses threw the car into gear and slammed down on the gas pedal, rolling up the side windows at the same time. The tires spun, cascading loose stones against the undercarriage. Eventually they found purchase and he shot ahead, careening down the dirt road, sweat and rain upon his brow, breathing as if he’d just run a marathon.

  The squeals of the dying intensified, piercing the car windows as if they were sheets of tissue paper. He rumbled down the road in darkness, swerving from side to side, and finally pulled the knob for his headlights. Twin beams of light shone out before him, illuminating a wall of flesh blocking his way. Moses screamed and, his taxed mind running on instinct, plowed straight into them. Bodies struck the vehicle, bouncing off the grill, crashing into the windshield. Moses was thrown forward, his chest crushed against the steering wheel. The side window shattered
and pellets of glass rained down on him. Fingers like talons reached through the opening, seemingly hundreds of them, grasping his arm, tearing strips of flesh from his bones. Moses howled and tilted to the side. He felt like he was on a rollercoaster as the LeBaron rose up on its two side wheels, then came crashing down on the roof. He fell from his seat, his gashed arm stinging, and dizziness ensued. From every direction mutated beasts closed in, clawing at him, digging into his flesh, biting down, devouring him alive.

  He screamed, joining the chorus of others who did the same, and then claws dug into his neck, ripping his head from his spine.

  * * *

  Night had fallen by the time Horace and Brian exited the hospital’s parking garage. They’d been hiding in there for hours after fleeing the birthing room. Kyra, the child’s mother, had given a tearful goodbye, one that caused Horace’s heart to sink in his chest. The woman seemed so strong, yet there was an aura of defeat about her. He promised her he’d find her again, that he’d reunite mother and child once more, and the whole time he spoke the back of his mind berated him with the words, don’t make promises you can’t keep.

  Horace held a bottle to the lips of the tiny child in his arms, watching it suck on the nipple. They didn’t have any formula or milk to give her, but they’d managed to find an old box of apple juice in the parking garage’s security office, like the ones Kelly used to pack for lunch. The thought of his old assistant brought back those surefire pangs of guilt, but he pushed them back and focused on feeding the baby, hoping the juice was enough to satiate her appetite. The last thing he needed was for her to start bawling and give them away.

  The streets were strangely empty as they walked down the sidewalk, staying close to the buildings and the shadows created by faintly glowing streetlamps. The baby fussed, and Brian immediately pushed Horace into an alley while placing his palm over the child’s much-too-tiny lips. They stayed there for a few moments, made sure no one was around, and then stepped back onto the main street.