He cleared his throat and continued. “I know I have to go on…for her. She’d want me to live. I owe that to her. I’m the one who survived this whole mess. I have to make the best of it while I still can.” He smiled. “I have you guys to thank for that.”
“I know exactly what you’re saying!” exclaimed Hector. He rubbed his hands in front of the fire with a far-away look in his eyes. “I mean, no use crying over things we can’t control, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Yep, and the thing is, I been pissed off for years. Look at me. I was a short, fat kid…but I was a fucking great soccer player. I was a frigging god in high school. I never paid no attention in class, though, and didn’t do no homework. All I wanted to do was kick that ball. My folks, they wanted me to be the first Conseca to go to college. They figured I’d get in on a scholarship or something. Didn’t happen. My grades fucking sucked and my parents basically disowned me. They told me to go away and not come back ‘till I got my shit together. I hated them so much for that. My padre told me I was a lazy fuck! Can you believe that?”
Everyone, excluding Horace, nodded.
“Yeah, fucking hilarious guys. But you’re right. I was.”
“You know, Hec,” interjected Dennis, “everyone goes through that sort of shit. It’s part of being a kid.”
Hector vehemently shook his head. “That’s just it, Denny. Being a kid. I’m thirty-nine and that shitty attitude of mine lasted ‘till two fucking months ago! It took the whole world going down the shitter to realize what I had. That’s why I like what Stanny Boy said. I don’t wanna die. I’m still fucking breathing when most of the other fuckers are walking around with their insides coming out. Nothing that happened before means shit compared to this.”
Dennis lifted his cup of water. “I’ll drink to that.”
“Sounds good to me,” said Luis.
“You guys wanna know something?” said Dennis. His eyes stared at the wall as if it were a work of art. “Everything that’s happened in the past and what’s going on right now…y’all realize how special it is? I’ve been with you guys longer than most any relationship I’ve ever had, sad as that is to say, and this is the first time we’ve been so open with each other. It’s the first time we’ve really bonded. We’ve never been so honest, so naked. It’s beautiful, man.”
“You sound like a hippy,” Hector blurted out.
“Nah, that was a long time ago. This is different. This is cosmic, like it’s meant to be. For the first time in my life, I feel…comfortable.”
“Comfortable? Really?” asked Stan.
Dennis grinned. “I thought I had it all before. I got to play guitar and sax and piano and even some percussion for a shitload of bands over the last thirty or so years. It’s all I ever wanted to do. I went from city to city, sitting in with group after group, never staying in one place too long or getting to know anyone too well. This was all well and good, but there was this emptiness inside I just couldn’t get rid of. In a way, I felt cursed.
“And that’s what’s so ironic. I was up here playing gig after empty gig, ignoring what’s going on around me, smoking pot every night and getting royally plastered after curfew. Then, one morning, the meaninglessness of it all got to me. We was going through Richmond and I just quit. Right there on the spot. I got off the bus and started walking, with nothing but fifty bucks in my pocket. And where did I end up that day? At the diner.” He pointed at Corky. “I bumped into you on the way in, and you apologized, even though it was my fault. Stan, you and your wife looked right at me and said hi. Luis and Larry scooted over when I walked up to the counter to order my food without me having to ask them to. And Hector, when I said I wanted some eggs and grits with sausage, you smiled and said to take a seat, they’d be done in a few minutes. I know, it doesn’t seem like much, but even in those tiny little moments, when I didn’t know y’all from nothing, there was a spark. There was companionship. So when I sat down, I couldn’t take my eyes off a one of you.
“When all the bad shit happened, I just acted. It was like I was protecting my family or something. All I could think about was picking up that gun and taking the ugly fuckers out. I didn’t even aim; I just kept pulling the trigger. It’s amazing I didn’t shoot you guys, too, in the process.”
Larry nodded. “We got lucky.”
“No, we didn’t,” said Dennis with a wag of his finger. “I don’t believe in luck. But I do believe in fate. We were destined to meet in that diner.” He looked at Horace. “And you, my man, were meant to be here now. No one can convince me otherwise.”
“So what’s it all mean?” asked Stan.
Dennis shrugged. “Fucked if I know.”
Horace watched the laughter start up again, and this time he joined in. He shook at the gut, feeling more alive than his contaminated body should’ve been allowed to. He wanted it to last forever.
A few moments later, Dennis stood up. He glanced to the far corner, just beyond the circle, where Corky, the only one not laughing, sat in silence.
“Hey, Charles,” he said. “What’s up with you? You’re not even this quiet when you’re sleeping.”
“I’m just cold.”
“Well, sit closer to the fire, dammit. That’s what it’s here for.”
Corky frowned. “Can’t a guy get some peace?”
“No. You never give it to us, do you?”
“Guess not.”
“Sucks when it’s thrown back into your face, eh maricon?” said Luis.
Corky nodded. “Sure does.” It seemed strange to Horace, even though he’d just met the man, to see him appear so stoic.
“So how about it, bro. You got something to say?”
“Nope.”
Stan popped his head up. “Come on, Corky. That’s not fair. You have to say something.”
“Fine,” said Corky. “You asked for it.”
He rose to his feet and strolled in his hunched-over manner to the edge of the circle. He started humming and placed a hand on his jiggling belly while his weight shifted from one foot to the other.
“I had a woman, she wouldn’t do for me,” he sang in an off-tune, cracking voice. “I’m goin’ back to my used to be…it’s a mean old levee, cause me to weep and moan…gonna leave my baby, and my happy home.”
“Oh God, puke!” shouted Larry.
“Shit, Corky,” muttered Hector, “get a life.”
Dennis grinned. “Is that all you got?”
“No,” Corky said. “I could sing some more, if you like.”
“That’s quite all right.”
Corky turned around and grabbed a pile of blankets from off the ground. “Sorry, dudes. I’m just tired. Been thinking about tomorrow.”
“What happens tomorrow?” asked Horace.
The huge redhead spread his blankets on the ground and slid beneath them. “We head up the mountain,” he said, “to the old resort on Mount Clinton. Figure we’ll be safe up there. It’s pretty secluded and it’s frigging huge. Not to mention the fact it’s way up in the middle of no man’s land. I’m just worried about getting there. You know, with the fleshies and all.”
Hector playfully punched Horace’s shoulder. “So whaddaya say, old Doc? You coming with us?”
“That would be fantastic,” he replied.
“So,” said Corky as he rolled to his side, “let’s get some fucking sleep.”
“Sounds good,” Horace said, looking towards the mouth of the cave. “But what about the boy?”
Dennis’s face scrunched up. “Oh, shit. I forgot all about him. It’s my turn to watch. I should go.”
“Nah, don’t worry about Dougie,” grunted Corky. “He’s probably having too much fun playing soldier.”
* * *
Doug Lockenshaw squatted with his rifle resting in his lap and gazed into the now-silent confines of the granite enclave. He kept to the shadows, out of reach from the moonlight that now shimmered off of the snow. The wind whistled. He swore he heard it whisper hi
s name.
An enveloping sense of loneliness wrapped him in a cloak of despair. Beneath the wind, he could hear the sounds of those snoring inside. Confusion overwhelmed him. He didn’t fit in with these people, that much he knew. Yet sitting out there in the cold, with nature’s wrath beating down around him, he realized how much strength they possessed in spite of their vulnerability. Their brotherhood gave them power. In many ways, he was in awe of them.
I’m an outsider, he thought. I don’t belong here.
Despite this skepticism, there was something that kept him grounded, kept him strong, and that was the amount of care he felt for these strangers. No matter how much his head and his training told him to leave, to go off on his own and be the loner he’d always been, an odd feeling in his gut told him to do otherwise.
He had heard their conversations, listening in like a voyeur as they revealed their inner feelings and doubts. A part of him wanted to join in, to disclose to these men his own struggles, but fear wouldn’t let him. He chuckled. Here he was, a kid who’d confronted head-on the most terrifying incidents any living being could experience, and yet he couldn’t stomach the thought of exposing his inner turmoil to a group of men who had become as much a family to him as he’d ever known. So he did the next best thing; he sat back and took it all in from a distance, like he would when his parents were loudly making love in the room below him, screaming in passion with little regard for how that would affect the little boy upstairs.
He’d lived by the same mantra his whole life after that.
Never drop the shield.
Ever.
Chapter 4
Whiteout
Josh’s knees buckled beneath the bundle of wet and heavy sticks. He fell. The load scattered before him, disappearing beneath the mounds of snow. He swore under his breath and searched for them, shoving aside piles of the white stuff with his numb, glove-sheathed hands.
How different things had become. He now lived in an entirely different world, and he didn’t like it one bit. In his youth, he felt an attraction for the season’s first few weeks of snow. He’d spend the days when classes were cancelled sledding down the hill behind Dover Elementary, careening at breakneck speed and tempting fate. He could accept the bumps, bruises, and scrapes (and on one occasion a broken hand) he’d predictably receive. There had been so much carefree innocence then, a feeling of indestructibility that defined those early years.
He felt none of that now.
He bundled the sticks up yet again, stood up, and once more lost his grip. He plopped his wet rear end on the ground and stifled tears. Things weren’t going smoothly, not at all. Like I could’ve expected they would, his inner pessimist whined.
The journey had started with such promise. The wagon train formed by he and his fellow Dover exiles made significant progress during the first two weeks. They matriculated down a crowded I-95 with relative ease, weaving through abandoned automobiles, sticking mainly to the diamond lane. On only three occasions did they find it necessary to backtrack due to multiple car pileups that formed barricades of twisted metal, glass, and human remains. In these instances they moved away in haste (or as much haste as they could, given the fact is was difficult for the horses to turn about face in such cramped corridors), not wanting to take the time to contemplate, even for a moment, the toll of life these obstructions imparted.
After only two days on the road, James Conroy’s old Volvo ran out of gas. They left it where it stalled and searched for another mode of transport to use as an advance scout. Their luck proved good, as most of the forsaken autos still had the keys in the ignition. For a moment they considered ditching the horses entirely. This, however, was unpractical, as most vehicles were stuck with empty or virtually empty gas tanks, which meant they would constantly have to transfer their human cargo into new vehicles. With the possibility, which was confirmed on more than one occasion, that the cars would contain within the decaying remnants of their former operators, they decided the horses would be much safer on the whole.
The caravan passed through Boston on the fourth day. Conditions worsened. Everything dropped into a dead silence. They heard no birds cawing or animals scurrying in the nearby woods; in short, there was nothing of nature’s usual commotion that all had taken for granted as part of everyday life.
Past empty skyscrapers and office buildings they plodded. All bore the blackened scars of conflict. Towards the end of the city limits they passed a construction site. Massive cranes hovered around them, looking like the guardians of a lost civilization, waiting for the day their masters would return and bring them back to life. Josh felt like he was creeping by on one of those historical rides at Epcot Center. The hairs rose on the back of his neck and fear snuck into his subconscious, but he took solace in the fact that at least the impediments hadn’t been too great to overcome. At this rate, he’d thought at the time, we’ll make it to Miami in two weeks, at most.
That optimism only lasted a few hours.
On the morning of the fifth day the snow began to fall. It was light at first, a few scattered flakes that trickled down like cotton from the sky, but by early afternoon it took the form of an official nor’easter. The wind picked up, causing flakes heavy with condensation to gust sideways. It was among the most intense blizzards he’d ever seen, and it plunged so forcefully that by nightfall more than a foot had gathered. Flecks of ice bombarded them. The makeshift wagon covers bowed, exposing their faces to nature’s prickly cold.
It was near Attleboro, Massachusetts that the snow became too deep for the horses to pull the carriages through. Josh helped Frank McKinley detach the horses from their bridles. Their huge bodies shook in the bitter chill and their movements were sluggish. The survivors emptied the carriages of all the supplies they could carry.
From there it was a long march through the surrounding trees, heading deep into the forest in search of shelter. They walked for a little more than a day, taking turns carrying those children who were too weak or too little to go it on their own, sometimes slinging them onto one of the horses’ backs. Eventually they stumbled upon a small shack. Josh, fearing for the health of Frank, Emily, and a few of the young ones, decided this would have to do. He broke down the door of the shack with Colin’s help. Inside they found the frozen body of a man. The two old friends removed it, carrying the stiff corpse like taut driftwood to the stream a hundred yards behind the hut. They rested the body on top of the ice. It wouldn’t plunge into the water until the thaw, but they thought that would be all right. It was only November, after all. Warmer days would come. They always did.
That, thought Josh as he again gathered up his twigs, is what I get for making assumptions.
He rose to his feet and started walking. The wind howled past his ears, forcing a shiver. The night was vivid, with its bluish hue reflecting off white. I should just give up, he thought. Maybe sit here in the middle of nowhere and freeze to death. He shook his head. No, he couldn’t do that. There were too many people relying on him. He understood what had to be done, even if Isabella, his mysterious spirit guide, had chosen a most inopportune time to abandon him. This fact alone told him all he needed to know. He didn’t have the time or energy to debate the significance of what amounted to a dream. In the end, he’d become the de-facto leader of a group of tired and weary survivors. He convinced himself it was a duty he would have chosen with or without an otherworldly nudge. His payment for past failures, a responsibility he had no choice but to see through until the end.
In his mind, there was no other way.
* * *
Kyra sat on the floor in front of the small fireplace. She poked at the glowing logs with a steel rod. Sparks flew. She glanced at the dozing four-year-old in her lap and stroked her dirty brown hair with her free hand. Little Meghan Stoddard coughed. A rush of panic surged through Kyra’s vertebrae. There were many others in the group who’d fallen ill, and in the aftermath of the Rodent Flu epidemic, she was afraid of what it would mean should the s
ame befall Meghan.
The child had become Kyra’s surrogate daughter in the time since the exodus. She tried her best to be a mother figure, but it was hard, much harder than she would’ve assumed. The uncertainty of living one day to the next wore on her. How could she present the façade of stability, she thought, when she, herself, rattled on the inside?
This is the paradox of motherhood, she reasoned. And it’s good practice.
She lifted the sleeping angel’s head and placed it on a musty pillow. To her left she spotted a passed-out Colin, a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels wedged between his legs. Even in the rush to vacate the carriages, he’d made sure to pack a bag full of liquor. She huffed through her nose in irritation, but took solace in the fact that she wouldn’t be the one serving him anymore. Those days were long gone.
A chill came over her. She leaned forward and jabbed at the smoldering logs, watching their spirit-like embers dance up the flue while the kindling shifted and collapsed. She threw the last log on and watched it catch flame. Hopefully Josh would get back soon with more firewood. He’d been gone for a long time and she was starting to get worried.
Her stomach twisted. A burning sensation slunk up her throat. She stood up, feeling dizzy, and covered her mouth. With unsteady legs she maneuvered her way through the clustered mass of sleeping children. Mary Kincaid and Alice Carpenter, reclining silently in the corner, glanced up at her and frowned. Yvette Kilty was asleep. Luanda Anon and Emily Steadman, looking miserable as they poked dirty spoons into cans of string beans, shook their heads in disappointment. They had obviously noticed her performing this duty before, and she wondered if they really understood what was going on. She wanted to talk to them, to somebody, about it, but her fellow ladies never offered so much as a kind word. It was as if she didn’t belong.
Dead Of Winter (The Rift Book II) Page 5
