Death Springs Eternal: The Rift Book III Page 4

  “I bet 91’s a mess,” he whispered.

  “What’s that?” asked Kyra, the older woman with red hair who was pregnant with his child.

  “Nothing,” he replied, and said no more.

  During the days that passed while they journeyed, the sun did its job of warming the land. The snow liquefied, leaving a crystalline sheen on the pavement and revealing the surrounding evergreens for the first time in months. But that wasn’t all the warming air revealed, for the wandering undead began to appear in greater numbers, as well. During their time in the shack in Attleboro they’d run across a handful, only one at a time. Now the decayed things congregated in small groups. They never posed much of a threat during the day, as they were slow and lumbering and easily plowed over if they wandered too far into the street, but the dark of night was a different story. The survivors needed to sleep, and required relative safety to do so. At the behest of Luanda, they spent much of the twilight hours driving around suburban towns, seeking structures large and accessible enough to hide their two vehicles, and themselves, inside. A seemingly endless parade of repair shops and warehouses greeted them each evening, and they always followed the same routine—pull in, scour the grounds for straggling hostiles, then seal the doors and hunker down for the night while the monsters outside howled and moaned. Most of the places they stayed bore signs of previous inhabitants—warnings scrawled on the walls, pictures of lost loved ones, the remnants of a fire or discarded camping gear. And no matter where they were, there was the pervading sensation of being watched. Shadowy faces appeared in the windows of presumably empty houses, only to flee from view when any turned to face them. Other survivors, they assumed, sheltered in their homes, too frightened to move. Not that any blamed them. Though it was unspoken, none knew how they would react to seeing other people. The only reality they had left was one another. That knowledge wore on all of their nerves, but Josh’s especially. At times he wanted nothing more than to step outside and allow the undead hands to take hold of him, to let their hungry mouths devour his tender flesh.

  It was all becoming too much for him to bear. Each day thoughts of Colin, his best friend for life who Josh allowed to perish when their group had been set upon by a pack of mutant dogs, invaded his psyche. He saw his friend’s thinning blond hair and wry smile, heard his cackling laugh and the softness of his tone when Colin was in a reflective mood. These sensations haunted him, made him feel like vomiting all over again, as he had that night. The fact that leaving Colin behind had been something his friend had wanted him to do didn’t matter. An act of sacrifice on the part of one became an act of cowardice by the other. Josh blamed himself, both for the decision and for not being strong enough to die for the cause. Every time he looked at Jessica, who had grown close to Colin and become a shell of a woman since that night, his mood dropped ever lower. She did nothing but rock her son Zachary in the back seat and close her eyes whenever danger approached. She cried in the night constantly and went days without speaking to anyone. Jessica had been a shining light bestowed upon their little group, but that light had been virtually extinguished.

  “It’s all falling apart,” Kyra said one day.

  Josh didn’t disagree.

  Farther down the Connecticut freeways they drove, constantly weaving in and out of peril and surviving more than a few close calls with the hungry beasts that popped up with all the more frequency, until reaching the town of Baltic. It was there, in the middle of a few wandering corpses, that Josh, without warning anyone, came to a screeching halt beside the local Wal-Mart. He jumped out of the car and dashed into the store. A few minutes later he emerged, a bundle of rifles in his hands.

  “Come on!” he said, growing irritated by the lack of motion from the adults and children in the SUVs. “It’s about goddamn time we arm ourselves!”

  Kyra and Luanda ran into the store to gather more weapons and ammo. Josh dropped his armful on the ground, picked up a pump-action shotgun from the pile, and opened the box of shells he’d grabbed. He started stuffing them into the chamber the way he remembered his grandfather doing when the old man took him out duck hunting as a kid (occurrences his mother was never too happy to hear about). He pulled back on the pump and heard what he hoped was a round clicking into place. Then he stood up, just as a large, drooling monstrosity curved around one of their cars. He heard the children screaming in the back of the SUV, which gathered the creature’s attention. It turned away from Josh and weakly smacked its fist against the window. Everyone inside scurried away, cramming their bodies on the other side of the vehicle, making it sway on its struts.

  “Hey, fuckface,” growled Josh.

  The beast turned, its lifeless eyes staring at him blankly. It took two steps forward, away from the car, before Josh sprang up from his squat, got a foot away from the thing, and pulled the trigger. At such a close distance the thing’s head literally exploded, showering blood and gore a good twenty feet behind its staggering body. The corpse toppled over, shook for a few seconds, and stilled.

  “Shut UP!” Josh bellowed at the screaming children.

  All fell silent in that moment. The rest of his companions stared at him, afraid. Josh guessed that if he’d looked into his own eyes, he would’ve been, too.

  Fearful of the growing numbers of undead, the Dover survivors decided it best that they stick to the less-populated side roads until they absolutely had to get back on the highway. Their days grew monotonous, and they all became skilled at new tasks they never thought they’d have the need to know. Their evenings were spent learning how to use the guns they’d lifted from the store, though not often with live ammo. The last thing they wanted to do was attract undue attention to themselves, considering they never knew where pockets of undead were roaming.

  Josh learned other things along the way as well. He became an expert at siphoning gas, for example. He learned not to keep his lips around the pipe for too long, to let go just a few seconds after hearing the low gurgling sound that occurred as he sucked with all his might. The first couple times he received a mouthful of petrol for his troubles, a taste and burn that stayed with him for hours, sometimes days, and caused headaches to spike behind his eyes.

  He also learned how to ignore everyone around him. At this, he became a connoisseur. Kyra, Jessica, Luanda, Emily, Mary, Yvette—even Andy and Francis couldn’t hold his attention. Any who tried talking to him about anything other than loading a pistol, or warning about road hazards, were brushed off with a disgusted wave of the hand.

  My misery is my own, Josh thought at the time, and it’s gonna stay that way.

  There were very few times anyone broke through that barrier. Only Kyra, her belly growing rounder by the day, came close to reaching him. She’d lay beside him at night, listening to him breathe. Every so often she’d reach for his hand. On the occasions that he didn’t pull away from her, Josh allowed her to place his palm on her swollen stomach, atop a slightly protruding nub. Sometimes that nub shifted, sometimes it was still, but no matter what happened Josh would sigh, roll over, and hold her. Those were the only moments where he felt even the slightest bit of hope.

  It took weeks, but eventually the survivors reached the shoreline. They swallowed their fear and risked finding I-95 once more. Thankfully it was pretty much clear of obstructions, but that did nothing to ease their minds. The thought of crossing bridges that hadn’t been maintained after months of cold and heavy, built-up snow caused Josh a great deal of concern, but he tried not to show it. Those bridges were the quickest way to get past the most daunting part of their southbound journey—New York City. With the numbers of undead rising seemingly every day, even in rural Connecticut, he didn’t want to think about how overcrowded with cannibalistic dead folks the Big Apple might be. All he could think about was the eventual end of his journey—Miami, and the safety that Isabella, his wacky, ethereal guide, had promised him so long ago, a promise that seemed more and more unreal with each passing day.

  Then they arrived in New Haven, and Josh’s mood hit an all-time low.

  Sitting in the idling vehicle on the side of the road, he gazed upon a vast collection of stumbling cadavers in various states of decomposition. The creatures were packed tightly on the highway, thousands of them shoulder-to-shoulder, with barely any room to move. They acted like they didn’t realize the two cars were there—only two hundred feet away at most—instead content to stagger about aimlessly. There were too many to drive through without stalling the vehicles. Josh was reminded of the many concerts he’d attended at the Stone Church up in Newmarket, New Hampshire, and was immediately thrust back into painful memories. He saw his parents; Sophia; Mrs. Flannigan and the seventh graders; Bobby, his childhood friend; Mr. Conroy, his mentor; even Rick Colden, his old boss—all dead now and never coming back. He saw Colin, his glasses askew, his face being ripped apart by vicious teeth, and with that vision Joshua Benoit finally gave up. He slammed his fist against the steering wheel. The horn blared, startling those around him.

  “Fuck this,” he whispered, his tone flat. “Fuck Miami. Fuck everything.”

  That’s how, two weeks later, the Dover survivors ended up in Kingston, New York.

  * * *

  Kyra sat in front of the boarded-up picture window, gazing at the setting sun through the holes in the slats. It looked so pretty out there on the horizon, casting flares of red across the cloudy sky. It was in those brief moments of purity that the rest of the world melted away, leaving nothing but her baby and nature behind, leaving her with a future. But all it took was a single glance around the abandoned house they called home to bring all the pain, terror, and hopelessness back. The signs were everywhere—the dried bloodstains on the kitchen floor and walls, stains that wouldn’t completely disappear no matte
r how hard she scrubbed, the array of lumber nailed to every portal to the outside, the unsociable people that lived with them who would never truly be friends, no matter how long they traveled together, no matter how many horrible experiences they shared.

  When the sun finished its descent, Kyra lit a candle and stepped into the hallway. There were people in the kitchen chatting in hushed tones, so she tiptoed past so as to not disturb them. Next she poked her head into the family room, where she spotted Jessica Lure, lying on a blanket on the floor, aimlessly twirling Zachary’s hair. The child was sound asleep, and if not for her circling finger Kyra might’ve assumed Jessica was, too. Her eyes were opened half-mast, staring at the ceiling. The poor girl appeared as lifeless as the undead beasts they spent each day eliminating. Kyra shuddered.

  The baby inside her kicked, causing a surprised blast of air to puff from her lips. She turned quickly and walked away, even as she heard Jessica say her name in a miserable whisper. A rush of guilt threatened to crush her heart, but she continued her escape. The girl needs you…she’s the only friend you have…and you hers, it said. To which Kyra retorted: I have my own life to worry about right now, thank you very much.

  She found the source of that worry in one of the upstairs bedrooms, sprawled out on the bed with his shotgun tucked against his side. His eyes were closed, twitching the way they always did when he slept. When Kyra stepped through the doorway, he rolled to the side and let out a disgruntled groan.

  Kyra shook her head and stared at the ceiling. How much longer can I deal with this? she wondered. It’s getting frustrating. She knew he missed Colin, and obviously felt guilty for leaving him to be slaughtered, but all she could think as she stood there with a hand on her swollen belly was get over it. Though she hadn’t glanced at a calendar in forever, her inner clock told her it was the middle of April. By now her baby would have arms, legs, a mouth, ears, and a working brain. If she were able to see it through the layers of flesh and amniotic fluid, she would recognize it as a viable human entity, though it wouldn’t be much larger than a peach. She also realized how much she needed this broken shell of a man to regain his drive, his passion, or else everything they’d done, all the miles they had journeyed trying to stay alive, would be for nothing. Her irritation formed a ball of hatred in her gut.

  Easy for me to pass judgment, she thought, running a hand through her greasy hair in an attempt to calm down. I don’t know what it’s like being in his shoes. So she did the one thing she could, the one thing she did over and over again for weeks on end: she coddled him.

  Stripping down to nothing but her panties and sliding under the covers, Kyra pressed her stomach into her lover’s back and draped her arm over his shoulder, using her fingers to trace a line from his elbow to his chest. He rustled, and she heard the shotgun fall off the bed, hitting the carpeted floor with a stifled clunk. His hand grabbed hers and pulled it tight to his chest. Kyra snaked her other arm underneath his head and turned his face to her. His eyes were closed, and his forehead furrowed, but he pursed his lips just the same. Kyra planted a kiss on them and pressed her cheek against his. She felt the damp lines of tears, old and new, on his flesh.

  “I love you,” she whispered, and shut her eyes.

  * * *

  There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, allowing the sun to shine down unfiltered. The sun looked so huge it should have been at least a hundred degrees outside, but Josh felt a chill nonetheless. His feet pounded the sidewalk as he walked, the sounds echoing in his ears as if he were in a tunnel.

  He gazed at the various houses he passed by, listening to the chirping birds and children playing in their backyards. Tears welled in his eyes as he took it all in, experiencing through that laughter what it meant to be young and carefree once more. He took in a deep breath, cherishing the smell of lilacs and freshly cut grass, but it was another smell that caused his perfect vision to falter, for underneath everything else he caught a faint whiff of jasmine.

  Josh stopped in his tracks, looking left to right, forward and back. It was all a dream. It had to be. How else to explain how bright and cheery Dover appeared? Only in his dreams could such a dark and dreary place be filled with such lightness.

  But that wasn’t it, and he knew it. He wasn’t dreaming, at least not entirely. That smell of jasmine again, and he put one foot in front of the other. She was here—Isabella, the lady of shadows, his guide through the darkness, whose visits had become sporadic at best over the past six months. There was no other way to explain the sensations. Excitement blossomed within him. He had to find her.

  He passed sight after familiar sight as he walked—the supermarket, the hair salon, the tobacconist where he’d upended his Bonneville, Stacy’s Bar and Grille, The Pit. People were everywhere, and there were cars driving down the road. Carol Hemingway, the middle-aged divorcee who lived next door to his parents, pulled her station wagon up to the curb, stepped out, and then faced his direction. She saluted him with two fingers, passed along a kind smile and nod, then got back into her car and drove away. Josh watched the vehicle disappear around the corner, dumbfounded.

  That’s when he noticed Carol wasn’t the only one whose attention had turned to him. There was a large group of women sitting on lawn chairs in front of Tae Kim’s Beauty Salon. They stood up and cheered when he looked in their direction, clapping with their hands in the air like they would for a returning hero. Three of them stepped forward, mouthing thank you beneath the chorus of cheers.

  “Thank you for caring for Andrew,” said one woman.

  “And Francis,” said another.

  “And Meghan,” said the third.

  The rest of the gathered ladies approached, and fear rose in Josh’s throat. The scene took on the atmosphere of a nightmare, the advancing horde of middle-aged women with practical haircuts becoming mythical beasts whose only purpose was to smother him with kindness until he breathed no more. Josh spun around and sprinted down the street away from them, allowing their cheers to melt away into nothingness.

  He ran and ran, but couldn’t escape the ghosts of his past. They hung out windows, harkening his arrival with squeals of approval. He spotted Mrs. Flannigan and the doomed seventh-graders, together again, waving at him from the playground beside St. Mary’s Cathedral. The woman’s grin stretched wide, revealing a set of much-too-large teeth. Josh thought they looked sharp as razors. He pushed his feet faster.

  His lungs burned and his leg muscles ached. He felt like he had the day everything fell apart, when he dashed through town in search of Sophia, his sister. He’d seen Mrs. Flannigan and the children then, and like Colin, he’d left them to die. This was their revenge, to come for him in his sleep and torment him until he withered away. With his body a mass of throbbing pain, a part of him was ready to give them that.

  He tore around the next bend in the road and came to an abrupt halt. Nothing was as it should’ve been, for instead of the industrial district, he suddenly found himself on Maple Street. A hundred feet away from him he saw a gleaming white colonial house, complete with the carved blue sign proclaiming BENOIT in white letters. The wind knocked out of him by both exhaustion and surprise, he bent over, grabbed his knees for support, and coughed.

  A figure approached him, and Josh shot up. It was his mother, traipsing across the grass, the sun behind her casting a shadow like reaching fingers. He backed away slowly, putting his arms up. The look on his mother’s face, the knowing half-smile and squinting eyes, reminded him of better, easier days. He hoped this vision didn’t mean him harm, like Mrs. Flannigan had. But his mother’s eyes held no malice, only adoration and concern. It froze him in place as he realized how much he’d started to forget her features after such a short time. His tears flowed hard and heavy.

  “Mom, I miss you,” he blurted out.