Death Springs Eternal: The Rift Book III Read online

  ROBERT J. DUPERRE

  THE RIFT BOOK III

  DEATH SPRINGS

  ETERNAL

  ILLUSTRATED BY JESSE DAVID YOUNG

  T.R.O. PUBLISHING

  Publisher’s Note:

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, events, persons, and

  locations are used in a fictitious and imaginative manner. Any

  resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, circumstances,

  or locales are purely coincidental.

  Cover and Interior Design by Catherine Santos Young

  Copyright © 2011 by Robert J. Duperre

  Illustrations © 2012 by Jesse David Young

  Cover Art © 2011 by Jesse David Young

  ISBN # 0615583881

  EAN-13 # 978-0615583884

  ALSO BY ROBERT J. DUPERRE

  NOVELS

  The Fall: The Rift Book I

  Dead of Winter: The Rift Book II

  Silas

  SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS

  The Gate: 13 Dark and Odd Tales

  The Gate 2: 13 Tales of Isolation and Despair (February 2012)

  For Guido, Jack, and Jim

  Honorable soldiers and true American heroes

  “Police state,

  Police city,

  Police world,

  Oh what a pity, yo”

  – The Fear ’Nuttin Band

  Police State

  PROLOGUE

  Sam roared, and all those around him cowered.

  They were the lowest of the low, those for whom infection wasn’t a blessing like it was for his brood but a curse. They gathered on an empty stretch of highway beneath the rising sun. There was no intelligence in them to be seen, no desires but to move and feed, making them even less than the insipid animals they’d been before. What he saw now were exemplars of the cycle of life: that which is born of the ground will one day return, only they moved and swayed with an elemental purpose. A sea of rotting humanity that stretched out before him for miles, meandering, stumbling, moaning, drawn to him just as any who had felt his influence, but these beings were dead inside and useless to him.

  He reached out with his mind, trying to ensnare the pathetic beasts in the web of his thoughts, but they simply stared at him with eyes that seemed to approach some sort of recognition, only that recognition was now beyond their grasp. He held no sway over them, yet still they came, drawn forward by his essence.

  He hated them.

  Those in the front who had trembled at the sound of his voice forgot the reason for their fear and once more surged ahead, their decomposing limbs outstretched like children in search of a parent’s affection. One of them drew near, so close that Sam could smell the putrefaction saturating every inch of its being. Sam had witnessed so much death over the span of his life—or unlife—but these creatures were different. They had no meaning, no function, and if there was one thing Sam couldn’t stand, it was chaos. There was no order in the random, and that’s exactly what these monsters were.

  He reached out and wrapped his fingers around the throat of the one who’d approached him. Its flesh felt spongy and no pulse beat in its veins. Grimy tendrils of its hair brushed against his wrist. Disgust filled Sam’s gut as he stared into its lifeless eyes, yellow and slowly liquefying in their sockets. In a surge of anger he swung his free hand, bringing it down upon the top of the dismal beast’s head. Its skull collapsed, drenching Sam’s arm and chest with blackened brain matter and thick, coagulated blood. The body quivered slightly, as if waking from sleep, and then its limbs slumped. Sam let go of the thing’s neck, and it collapsed to the ground in a jumble of useless arms and legs.

  It wasn’t as if Sam hadn’t seen their kind before—they were an expected side effect of his awakening—but to observe them in such great numbers filled him with disgust. In that moment he wished to retreat into his Netherworld, to wander the hall of souls, basking in all he’d accomplished, but even that seemed lost to him. Whereas he once found comfort and dominion there, now confusion reigned. It took mere seconds for the other inside of him to rear its head, to prattle on about its loves, regrets, contemplations, and desires. This part of him should have been eliminated by now, swallowed by his divine authority, and yet still it went on, whispering, pleading, wanting—waiting for the opportunity to reclaim its hold over his body.

  All I ever wanted was to learn from history, the other murmured from deep within him. I never wanted this…

  “Shut up,” Sam said.

  As he once more looked upon the approaching horde, Sam realized the connection between the lingering aura of his body’s former resident and these vile, rotting beasts. He had wasted too much time. He was losing control. He’d allowed his polar force to gather its strength, to guide the boy, the witch, and the others outside his influence. He could sense their strength and numbers growing, a miasma of brightness on the fringes of the dark era he’d ushered in. Sam grunted, thinking himself a fool. He should have gone north when he first learned of the boy’s identity, should have ended the game before it started. But his timelessness bred arrogance, and that arrogance was now gradually unwinding his faculties.

  Sam reared back, bellowed, and charged through the crowd of undead. His arms flailed, fingers bent into claws, shearing flesh, snapping bone. The throng did not protect itself, did not cower at the sight of his anger. Instead they accepted their fate mindlessly, allowing their bodies to be ripped limb from limb.

  Sam called out for his children—his true children—and they appeared, rumbling over the hillside. Once men, they had been changed, becoming derivatives of his view of perfection. They, too, descended into the mass of rotting bodies, biting and clawing, devouring all that stood in their way. The air was filled with hoots and howls and wet slurping sounds. The area above the fray grew hazy with pinkish mist as stagnant blood erupted from decaying veins.

  Soon all was still, and Sam stood in the center of the carnage, barking at his followers, who shrunk away from him, dropping to their knees in servitude. He gazed upon the detritus of human remains, arms and legs and torsos and heads, all bearing deep gouges and leaking orifices, and felt that old pride wash over him again. He was still himself, still Sam. All would tremble before him just as his children did, and humanity would suffer for the ills he had suffered, even if the events that spurred these feelings were now just hazy fragments of memory.

  A low rumbling sound reached his ears, yanking him from the reverie of his success. He stepped to the side, crushing a severed hand in the process, and gazed north. There appeared a giant cloud of dust, rising into the sky like a sandstorm in the dry spring air. Sam leaned forward and squinted, making out three tiny dots on the horizon. He reached out with invisible feelers, trying to touch whomever it was that approached, and sensed nothing but blind obedience in return.

  It wasn’t obedience to him, however, and that was not good.

  He frowned and snapped his fingers, and his children were yanked from their genuflecting states. They disappeared over the hillside without him having to say a word. Sam followed closely behind, crouched in the midst of the sea of tall, dying grass surrounding the highway, and waited.

  The three approaching objects turned out to be something Sam had thought he’d seen the last of—working automobiles, two armored jeeps and a large, tank-like behemoth. The vehicles slowed as they approached the cluster of mutilated bodies. The two jeeps bucked forward and back, as if the operators didn’t know how to proceed. Sam closed his eyes and again tried to reach them, to ensnare whoever was inside in his corrosive web, but still came back with nothing. He ground his teeth and sw
ore under his breath, the alien blood in his borrowed veins pumping harder than ever. If he couldn’t control these newcomers, he wanted carnage.

  The top hatch of the tank swung open and a man popped his head out. He was an older sort, with long, gray-brown hair and deep crevasses around his sunken eyes. It looked like he hadn’t eaten in days, and when he opened his mouth Sam could see dried spit form a sticky mesh around the corners of his lips.

  The two jeeps came to a stop and eight men—much younger than the one in the tank—stepped out, automatic weapons slung over their shoulders. They gazed upon the scene before them with equal parts awe and disgust.

  These are soldiers, the voice of the one who previously resided within Sam’s body whispered. Your sleepers didn’t do their jobs as well as you would have liked.

  “Be quiet,” Sam muttered. His hatred grew, thinking of his seven generals and their failures. All but one had been dispatched by Sam when they marched, one-by-one, to the City of the Dead. The only one who remained active was Tom Steinberg, who hid with his family in the mountains to the north. On more than one occasion Sam had considered calling him to the slaughter, as well, but he’d stayed his hand. Tom had been a good soldier, and though he was beginning to grow hesitant about his role, he could not defy Sam’s will, and the fact that he stood directly in the path that his adversary was traveling made him valuable, even if keeping him alive proved irritating.

  The soldiers gathered at the edge of the blood-drenched highway, talked among themselves for a moment, and then headed back to their vehicles. Sam shook his head to regain his bearings and stood up. He opened his mouth and a high-pitched screech exploded from his throat. The men fell to the ground, writhing in pain and holding their ears. Sam’s children needed no further invitation. They leapt from the grass like the wild predators they were, descending on the helpless soldiers, claws outstretched and teeth snapping.

  Bring me the old one, Sam told them.

  Almost as soon as it began, nothing remained of the eight soldiers but ribcages and splashes of red that littered the pavement. Sam emerged from the grass just as his children were ripping the long-haired man and his driver from the huge, lumbering war machine. They were brought before him and forced to their knees.

  Sam gazed at each of the two faces, studying them. The older one’s expression remained hard and stoic, amazingly without a hint of fear. The other, much younger man trembled while sweat poured down his forehead, making him blink when it dripped into his eyes.

  It was the latter that Sam approached. He rested his hands atop the young man’s head, searching for his thoughts. Nothing came to him. Sam sighed and pressed harder. The young man squirmed beneath his grasp but could not break free. Shrieks of pain followed. Sam pressed even harder, and this time the cranium imploded, caving in like a pumpkin, bathing Sam’s fingers in more blood and brain matter. Thankfully, the soldier stopped screaming.

  Sam let go of the body and it dropped. The body was then dragged away and defaced by his children. Sam proceeded to lick his fingers clean while pacing around the older man, curious to see his reaction.

  There was none.

  “Interesting,” Sam whispered.

  This caught the man’s attention. His hardened, deep brown eyes turned to him, glaring with hatred. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice a low growl.

  Sam didn’t answer. Instead he rushed forward and grabbed the man by the sash draped over his shoulder. He tugged on the material, tearing it in two, and shoved the letters printed upon it into the man’s face.

  “What does this mean?” he said.

  The man said nothing and spit between his teeth, striking Sam in the cheek with a thick glob of mucus. Sam wiped it away and flung the yellow mess on the ground. He then signaled to a group of his children, who readily dashed to him and hauled the soldier away, shoving his face into the asphalt as they went.

  Sam glanced down at the sash in his hands. He stared at the stitched letters, SNF, and knew that he had to start moving again. He might not have understood exactly what the letters stood for, but he knew what their presence meant.

  War was inevitable—Sam and his children against whatever remained of the human survivors.

  Sam smiled, the voice in his head fell silent, and all thoughts of the rootless undead left him. His moment was close at hand. It was time to get moving.

  CHAPTER 1

  S.N.F.

  The general peered through his binoculars, watching the scene unfolding in the town below. There were five men down there—civilians—fighting against the zombie horde, wielding shovels, hatchets, and pipes as weapons. These men moved with purpose, rushing to one of the abandoned shops, four standing guard while the fifth dashed inside and salvaged whatever he could. When he emerged with his sack heavy, they moved on to the next shop and performed the same ritual. It was a delicate ballet, constantly treading the thin line between life and death. The general thought it was beautiful.

  “What’re they doing?” the man to his right asked.

  Dropping his binoculars, the general rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Looting the stores. Surviving. It’s admirable.” He looked to the large man who spoke. “Lieutenant Pitts, what do you think we should do?”

  Pitts hunched his back and smoothed the wrinkles in his jean jacket. “I guess we should head down there,” he said while twirling the corner of his mustache. “Help clear the area.”

  The general looked at him cockeyed and scowled, to which Pitts replied, “Sorry, we should head down there, sir.”

  “Better.”

  For a few minutes they stood silent, with the general still peering through his binoculars. Pitts teetered from one leg to the other, then, sheepishly, asked, “Should I do it now, General Bathgate?”

  Bathgate exhaled through clenched teeth and replied, “Of course, you moron.”

  Pitts raised his arm and signaled for the others to approach. The general felt the Marauders draw near from behind him, fifty strong and well armed, wearing their sashes over their uniforms with pride and holding the SNF banner high. His best boys. He smiled despite himself, even as he observed the chaos in the town below.

  “We’re moving in now,” he heard Pitts say. “Time to nail those fuckers.”

  “What formation?” a young, sarcastic voice asked. “What methods we gonna use?” Bathgate knew exactly whose voice it was and turned around.

  Standing at the front of the battalion was Sergeant Jackson, a man in his early twenties with sandy-blonde hair, a wiry build, and a wild gleam in his eye. The general sighed, knowing he had to stem the tide of internal conflict, since Pitts’s broad shoulders were already rising and falling in an exaggerated manner while he stared at the young soldier. Bathgate understood the apprehension his Sergeant displayed—Cody Jackson had been a real soldier in the actual Army before the fallout, Greg Pitts hadn’t—but Lieutenant Pitts was the general’s closest confidant, the man who saved his life, and he owed it to him to shield him from embarrassment.

  “Do not question orders from your superior, Sergeant,” the general hissed. “Just get a move on. Keep the banner high. No flanking maneuvers this time. We’re going for a straightforward gang-fuck here. Hit them head on, cut them down. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir!” said Jackson, snapping his heels together. His previously unruly eyes became squinted and forthright. This was the look General Bathgate was after, that of a man ready to do his part.

  “Now GO!”

  His soldiers went screaming past him, running down the hill with their various weapons raised. Bathgate sensed Pitts heading off, as well, and grabbed him with the hand not wrapped around the binoculars.

  “I want you with me,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” replied Pitts.

  Bathgate watched as the ghastly horde of rotting humanity turned toward the sound of the onrushing soldiers. The first shot rang out just as a wave of undead beasts lumbered forward, followed by a deafening cacophony of gunfire as the rest of h
is men followed suit. The sound hurt the general’s ears, but at least it drowned out the beasts’ moaning.

  Five, ten, fifteen of the inhuman mass toppled over as bullets ripped through their decaying bodies. Still his soldiers surged onward, those with full magazines stepping to the foreground so those who’d discharged all their ammunition could reload. Three more of the undead fell, followed by another ten or so, blood leaking from the smoking holes peppering their hides. It was a surgical strike—virtually every shot his men fired found purchase in the flesh of their enemy, cutting them down before they could get close enough to do any harm. The general smiled. These were the Marauders, the best trained and most successful of his army. In that moment, he felt confident that no matter what stood in their way, the SNF would triumph.

  He turned away from the battle, focusing instead on those who’d been looting the stores. They were standing before the entrance to a ransacked pharmacy, hatchets and pipes clutched in their hands, gawping at the skirmish before them with astonishment and relief in their eyes. Even in their awe, they still had the presence of mind to strike out at any lingering undead that ignored the soldiers, bashing skulls, severing limbs. The general twisted the dial on his binoculars, zooming in on the survivors, capturing their faces one-by-one. There were four black men and one dark-skinned Hispanic, none older than Sergeant Jackson’s twenty-one years, most much younger. He dropped the field glasses and shook his head.

  “What’s wrong, boss?” asked Pitts.

  “Nothing,” the general replied.

  Pitts didn’t push the issue.

  In a matter of no more than ten minutes, the skirmish had settled down. Only a handful of undead remained standing, ambling as if they didn’t know where to go. The soldiers rushed up to them and systematically fired bullets into each of their skulls at close range. With the end of the ordeal at hand, General Bathgate turned to his lieutenant, gestured with his hand, and descended the hill.