Death Springs Eternal

by Robert J. Duperre

  Horace had no clue where they were going. He and Brian had discussed it in whispers ad nauseum, but neither of them knew the layout of the city. The only thing they could come up with was to lay low, move toward what Brian said were the still-unoccupied areas of the city, and then search for transportation to get them the hell out of Dodge. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was all they had, and even that little amount of preparation gave Horace a slight glimmer of hope.

  They crossed the street, fully exposed by the streetlights, and panic suffused his pain-wracked body. He cringed and pulled the child tighter to his chest. Her weak breaths touched his neck like kisses from an angel. He gazed down at her, looked at those sparkling blue eyes gaze at him over the bottle, and a strange sort of tranquility came over him. His trick knee unhitched, allowing him to walk smoothly, and the pain in his lungs dissipated. So enraptured was he with the child that he didn’t look where he was going. His foot hit the curb on the other side of the road and he came close to falling over. Brian grabbed his arm, steadying him, and shook his head.

  “Watch out,” he whispered. “We don’t need you falling down and breaking something. You’re not exactly a spring chicken, y’know.”

  Horace nodded. The kid was certainly correct, yet it couldn’t be denied that he did feel young whenever he looked at the baby, held her close, felt the softness of her nubile skin. She was like a living, breathing burst of energy, and holding her became an obsession. He felt like a drug addict clutching tight to the last of his stash, afraid that if he let go he’d lose his mind.

  “Oh shit, get down!” Brian exclaimed. The young man’s arm fell across Horace’s shoulder, forcing him into a crouch. His knees popped and he almost yelped. Brian tugged him around a Jersey barrier, put a finger to his lips, and then peered over the concrete slab.

  “What is it?” asked Horace, groaning. His lungs started to burn again, and the rest of his body followed suit. The swaddled baby cooed.

  “Keep the kid quiet,” ordered Brian. He then looked down at Horace and frowned. “Come take a look at this.”

  Horace rose up on his knees so his eyes peered over the barrier. In front of them was a large building that rose above those beside it. A sign atop the door marked it as a public safety complex. Three men stood in front of the building, weapons hanging from their shoulders, smoking cigarettes and laughing, their heads tilted back. Horace’s eyes drifted away from them, to the flagpole situated on the edge of the sidewalk. He looked up to see two figures hanging there, lit up with spotlights. They were a pair of black men, eyes bulging from their heads, blood pouring out their nostrils, and nooses around their broken necks. Horace gulped down a wad of mucus and almost hacked on the pavement.

  Brian ducked back down behind the barrier. “What the fuck?”

  Horace shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “What’re we gonna do?”

  “I haven’t a clue, Mr. Singer. None at all.”

  Time slowed to a crawl. Horace couldn’t tell how much had passed, be it five minutes or an hour. He sat his rump on the ground, adjusted the baby girl in his arms, and repositioned the bottle so it would be easier for her newborn mouth to suck on. Her cheeks smacked with each tug on the nipple, sounding much louder than it should have. He had to borrow Brian’s jacket and drape it over her to muffle the sound.

  Brian asked him where they should go now, but he didn’t know. He considered turning around, heading back the way they had come and finding another path to the northwest corner of Richmond, but every time they went to move one of the sick bastards up ahead would belch out laughter, making them scurry back to the barrier’s shelter. Horace gazed at the cloudy, starless sky. Please God, help us, he prayed, the first time he’d done so since the early days stowed away in the luxury of Mount Clinton. I only want what is best for the world, to make it better tomorrow than it is today…

  As if answering his prayer, lightning lit up the night sky. Raindrops followed, sparse at first and growing stronger until it became a torrential downpour. Horace tucked the baby deeper into the crook of his elbow and kept Brian’s jacket draped over her.

  “Oh man,” said Brian, peering over the barrier. “Check this out.”

  Horace carefully lifted his head. The three guards were scurrying around, arms over their heads to protect them from the deluge. They gathered bags of merchandise from inside the building and loading them into the van parked by the side of the road—the only vehicle on the street. One of them shouted, “What about them?” followed by another answering, “Leave ‘em, they ain’t going anywhere!” They then leapt inside the van and closed the doors. The engine started and the vehicle pulled away, its taillights menacing red eyes that disappeared around the next block.

  Brian turned to Horace, face soaked from the rain, a huge smile on his face. “Well shit, how’s that for luck?” he said.

  “Yes,” replied Horace with a nod. “Very lucky, indeed.”

  They left their hiding spot and continued down the sidewalk. Horace tried not to look at the flagpole’s grim ornaments on his way by, but his eyes seemed to have minds of their own. He stopped, shielded his vision from the rain, and watched water cascade off the bare toes of dead men. Brian, a few steps ahead of him, turned around.

  “Yo Doc, what’re you doing? We need to get gone.”

  Horace grimaced at the nickname, pulled the baby tighter to him, and faced the double doors leading into the safety complex. “There may be others in there,” he said. “If there are, we should help them.”

  “But what about getting out of here?”

  “There will be opportunities to find our exit later. If there are people in trouble inside, this may be our only chance to assist.”

  Brian jogged up to him. “Look at us, man. What kinda help could we possibly give?”

  “Whatever we can, even if it’s all we have left.”

  They tramped up the steps and entered the complex. Rain pounded the building, sounding like the never-ending buzz of static. Horace placed the baby and her blanket on the reception counter and shook out Brian’s jacket, spraying the floor with water. He found a towel behind the desk and did his best to dry himself off. The rain’s cold seeped into his bones, bringing back every ache and pain he’d forgotten about earlier. He glanced at the child and picked up his pace. He needed to get that baby back in his arms, to gaze into her eyes once more, as quickly as he could.

  “So where to now?” asked Brian.

  Horace looked around. The building was dark, illuminated by only the emergency lights. The memory of Johns Hopkins entered his mind and he once more shivered. To battle the pain of recollection he picked up the baby girl, made sure her blanket was snug and dry, and worked his way around the room. Placards on the walls declared where different hallways led to: Administrative, Officer’s Lounge, Files and Reporting. He stopped at the last one. HOLDING, it read.

  “This way,” Horace said, and pushed through the glass doors.

  The passage was dark and silent, the pounding rain nothing but a rumor now that the walls were thicker. They passed through three sets of double doors and an open security gate before entering lockup. There were six cells on either side of the dimly lit space, all with thick steel doors containing a single small window. Horace paused, placed a hand on Brian’s to get him to do the same, and listened. He heard sobs and whispers. Approaching one of the cell doors, he pressed his forehead against the glass. His eyeglasses clinked against it. A pair of eyes appeared, bright white in the darkness, making his heart leap. He stumbled backward, holding the child in a quite precarious position, and clutched his chest.

  “Sorry to scare you!” said the person in the cell.

  Horace waved his hand. “Not a problem…you simply…took me by surprise.”

  Another voice joined the first, speaking from the center cell behind him.

  “Friend or foe?” it said.

  “Friend,” Brian blurted out.

  “Yes, friend,” repeated Hora
ce.

  “In that case,” said the man behind the glass, “perhaps you might go about finding a way to open these doors.”

  “Mr. Mathis?” gasped Brian. “Oh my God…”

  “That sounds like a fantastic plan,” said Horace, squeezing his shocked companion’s shoulder.

  “We did the right thing…” Brian whispered.

  “Yes, Mr. Singer, we did.”

  * * *

  The scene before her was like some freakish, out-of-control carnival. Three sets of bleachers had been erected in a large grassy area that she assumed had been a park of some sort, forming a horseshoe around the open space. All three were packed with men, whooping, swearing, cheering, waving flags and banners and drinking bottled beer. Stage lighting had been erected to the rear of the bleachers, and spotlights focused on a small raised platform in the center of the forum.

  At the head of the clearing was a covered stage containing a row of chairs, a podium, and a PA system. Various forms music blared from the speakers, everything from country to heavy metal to classic southern rock. It was upon this stage that Marcy sat, a plastic mask covering the top half of her face and a red negligee hanging from her shoulders. She slumped in her chair, unable to close her eyes, watching the mob dance and cheer while electricity surged between them, visible only to her. Their energy was like a disease infecting the mass one by one, working its way down the line until all were frenzied.

  The worst part of the experience, as usual, was their thoughts. What started out as somewhat innocent curiosity transformed into an all-out orgy of violence and lust. She saw their sinister desires, their primal urges, their thirst for sex and cruelty. The sickness filled her brain, crowding out her own thoughts and causing bile to gather in her throat. Each man present had fallen under the spell of the moment, and now there seemed to be no way out but to let the event run its course.

  Part of her asked who she was to blame them, since she was no different.

  Leon. Leon had cured her, had given her temporary relief from the boundless assault of foreign psyches. Beautiful Leon, who had been swayed into fulfilling her violent passion against his will, who was murdered in cold blood only moments after their time together, beaten until his skull collapsed by the scrawny fuck who claimed her as his own. Cody Jackson. That was his name. The one who’d forced her into this ridiculous, revealing outfit, the young man with acne scars and sandy blonde hair who leered at her from the corner of the stage, his eyes constantly inspecting her figure, the one who destroyed any chance she had at normalcy.

  She wanted him to die horribly.

  A new stream of thoughts entered her conscience. Unlike those of the turbulent horde, these were humiliated, dismayed, terrified ponderings. Yet they stabbed at her brain in the same way, jabbing the back of her eyes, making her want to scream in agony.

  It started raining, which only caused more hysteria in the massive gathering of testosterone. Rain pelted the top of the stage, echoing like gunshots in her ears. In an effort to block out the mental molestation she counted the drops, tallying them as fast as she could, trying to overload her brain with numerological equations. Just like everything else, it did no good. When she reached a thousand she lost track, and the voices rose in volume. It was like they were trying to crack her skull from the inside.

  Finally she was able to force her eyes shut and get a moment of peace in the blackness behind her eyelids, but even that was short lived. Seconds later a hand snatched her wrist and forced her to stand. Cody stood before her, two inches her lesser, a sneer on his face.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you?” he grunted. “Fucking smile.”

  Marcy swayed from side to side, her expression blank. She could barely hear his words.

  Cody leaned forward and pressed his liquor-reeking lips to her ear. “Even if you don’t smile now, I promise you’ll do it later.” With that he licked her cheek and dragged her to the podium. Her right breast popped out of the negligee, which received a raucous cheer from the crowd, but she felt too weak to do anything about it.

  She stood next to her captor as he raised his hands, obviously relishing in the adoration and agitation the mob displayed. His thoughts started trickling into her head, so disturbing she thought she might puke. Pictures of disemboweled animals, young girls with surgical cuts maiming their faces, the backs of men’s heads after their brains had been blown out; all harassed her every sense, threatening to take her over. In order to halt it, she took to scanning faces in the crowd.

  She picked over them one by one, seeing none she recognized until her eyes found a teenage boy with freckles and large, watering eyes. It was Christopher. He was soaked from the rain, holding a staff in his hand and dressed in a gray suit that almost looked like a replica Confederate uniform. His expression was blank, and when she attempted to steer her thoughts away from Cody and focus on him, she found his mind to be blank as well. The kid looked broken, useless, a toy soldier standing among the real thing. Her heart went out to him.

  She thought of Billy, of Kelsey Forrest, of John and Katy Terry, of Joanna Jacks and Carl Roberson and everyone else who’d made the trip to Richmond. She wondered if they were all okay, or if they’d suffered the same fate as Leon, executed by a bunch of backward, racist pricks. She hoped not. Billy was her savior, her teacher, the father figure who loved her unconditionally. If he was gone, she saw no point in moving forward.

  From there her contemplations drifted to worried thoughts about the children, Andy and Francis, Meghan Stoddard, Jackie Balonetti, Bliss Hargrove, Danny Trumaine. Regret poured in, guilt over how much she failed her mother and father, how she was forced to kill her younger sister after she’d slaughtered them…

  Wait.

  Not her memories, not her life.

  What the…

  Her train of thought was interrupted by a new deluge of pain, regrets and fears and shame. It was a cone of sound, coming from the tent at the far corner of the clearing, sitting between two of the bleachers. Silent screams lashed against her eardrums, though not a sound had been made. They were the cries of the doomed, the subjects of the evening’s vile festivities. Their images became clear, and she could see every face, experience every moment of trepidation. She suffered as they suffered, cold and afraid with no way out. Her heart sank. She reached out, trying to let them know she was sorry, that there was nothing she could do, but her power died the moment it left her body.

  She had nothing left.

  * * *

  Cody’s arms shot out to his side, Jesus-Christ-Pose-Style, and the raucous crowd quieted to a murmur. The music cut out as well, but still he could barely hear the patrons over the bleat of the driving rain. All eyes were on him, malicious, expectant. He puffed out his cheeks and leaned forward, pressing his lips against the microphone atop the podium.

  “All right people!” he shouted. “Let’s start this thing!”

  The crowd erupted all over again, and in the distance the tent flap opened. Cody signaled to Ronnie Maggette, who’d been elected auctioneer for the night, and the pudgy bald man waddled over, his eyes locked on the woman standing to Cody’s right. His eyebrows arched and a sly grin appeared on his face. Cody glanced at Marcy, noticed her right breast had popped out of the slinky little outfit he’d made her wear, and hastily worked to put it back in its place. The girl didn’t react to his touch. She just stood there, eyes closed, body swaying. He gave her boob a squeeze, still got no reaction, and glowered. He grabbed Maggette on the way by and stared daggers into the guy’s eyes. Maggette lowered his head and shivered. His hands began shaking. It took Cody a second to realize why.

  Cody had his palm on the butt of his pistol.

  He let his fingers slip off the cold handle and grabbed Maggette’s lapel.

  “I ain’t gonna kill you, you dumb fuck,” he whispered, trying not to move his lips so those in the audience wouldn’t notice the problem. “But look at my girl that way again and I might.”

  Maggette’s head b
obbed up and down nervously. Cody stepped to the side, and the portly man strode up to the podium.

  “First item up for auction tonight,” said Maggette in his high-pitched, rapid voice. “Lot one. Twenty-nine years of age, five foot five, one hundred twenty pounds. Hair auburn, on top and below. Average breast size, all-natural. Bidding will start once the item is presented. Please bring it out now…”

  Guards escorted a skittish-looking woman from the tent. She was naked as the day she was born, and her jaw chattered. Rain pummeled her, making her hair a wet, stringy mess. She kept trying to cover herself but the guards were having none of it. Each time an arm rose up, there was a harsh slap forcing it back down. She slipped on the grass and almost fell, which got her a jab in the back from a rifle.

  Upon spotting the naked woman, the crowd’s cheering kicked up about a hundred decibels. The stage shook under Cody’s feet as he watched his flock. Their eyes kept turning from the nude girl to him, and he could see the hunger and deference in their expressions. A grin stretched across his lips. They were this close to worshiping the ground he walked on.

  Gratification washed over him. He hadn’t felt this good since he was a kid back in Florida. There’d been these frogs back home, big black suckers with orange underbellies. They made quite a ruckus at night, and he hated them. So one day he swiped a box of firecrackers from his mom’s dresser and proceeded to gather up a bunch of them. He taped M-200s to their bodies, lit the wicks, and let them hop off. Seconds later, when the explosive went off, they became soaring, fleshy tangles of black, red, gray, and green. There’d been power in his hand then, just like there was when he killed that girl in the desert, just like there was now, standing on the stage, listening to the roaring chants, feeling the adulation bestowed upon him. He felt godlike, as if he held the power of life and death in his hands.

  Yeah, that’s what it was like, only ten times better.