“That,” he said, “is extinction.”
* * *
Horace tossed a log into the fireplace. He watched the flames drape their greedy fingers around its husk. The sap-filled bark crackled and fizzled. He tried to wrap his mind around the events he witnessed up the mountain but he felt distracted, so he pulled the blanket tighter around himself instead. Noises from outside filtered in through the walls. They were the merry cackles of the others, playing a game of twilight volleyball in the snowy rear courtyard. It sounded like home.
But it wasn’t.
“Doc?” said Doug. Horace snapped to attention. He checked his watch. At least an hour had passed since their return and he still couldn’t get warm. He took a sip of brandy, enjoying the burn as it slid down his throat.
“Doc?” Doug repeated.
“What is it?” he replied without turning around.
“I know you said not to ask, but I gotta. What really happened back there?”
“I’m not sure, Douglas.”
“But you’re a scientist, right? You must have a theory.”
“I might.”
“Then why won’t you tell me?”
Horace glanced in the boy’s direction. “Because I’m not sure I’m right,” he said.
Doug sighed. His shoulders slumped and he seemed disappointed. “Just talk to me, man. Please. I’m confused as hell. None of this makes any sense. At least give me that.”
Horace picked up a poker and jabbed at the glowing logs. The kid was right. If he wanted to gain his trust, he had to be honest with him. About everything.
“Look at this,” he said. He held the poker out before him like a sword. “The design of this thing is so simple, and yet it took grace and handiwork to construct.”
“Huh? What’s that got to do with anything?”
He pointed around the room. “This poker. That lamp. That chair. The glass I’m drinking from. We’ve had these items our whole lives. We’ve taken them for granted, as if they’ll always be here. But let’s face facts. I know next to nothing about carpentry or electronics, and even less about metallurgy and glass blowing. We’ve gone from Harrisburg to Bridgewater to here, and we haven’t seen another living soul. So if we’re the only eight people left in the world, who is going to provide the amenities when they run out, seeing as we’re not capable of making them for ourselves?”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” said Doug.
He put down the glass and poker. “Let me put it this way, son. We were lucky. When we arrived at this facility, someone had either the foresight or forgetfulness to leave the heat on. There’s a gas generator downstairs that feeds the furnace, which is in turn fed by reserve oil tanks, which look to have enough fuel to last at least one winter, perhaps even all the way through next fall. What happens, though, when our energy supplies, that very oil and gas, run out?”
“We get more, I guess.”
“That’s good. In theory. It would be fantastic if the gas stations and oil companies had a backlog of tankers waiting for us to purge from. But there won’t be. The economic state of the world was in shambles before the outbreak, and it just got worse after that. But we, as a society, still used those supplies as if everything were fine. Because of that, I feel our resources will run out much sooner than we’d like to think. What happens then? Do you know how to find and extract fossil fuels? Do you think Dennis or Corky or any of the others do? Because I sure as hell don’t.”
Doug’s face slackened. “Shit. I never thought of that.”
Horace nodded. “I know. Neither did I. Not until now.”
“Okay. Fine. But what’s that got to do with the animals? Why’d you call it ‘extinction’?”
“That’s an interesting question. Despite popular beliefs, I think that all living creatures feel emotion. And of all the emotions, to me fear is the strongest. On the other hand, creatures of the wild have an advantage over people because survival in an untamed world is instinctual to them.”
“And?”
“Something’s happened. A shift. They’re not acting like animals. They’re operating outside their nature, behaving like frightened people. They cannot survive that way.”
“Why not?”
“In any normal circumstance, the starving predators would have devoured the lesser creatures by now. But they’re not. It’s winter, there is very little food, they’re ignoring what food there is, and animals that should be hibernating aren’t.”
“What’s causing it?”
“Fear, I suppose. Those wolves might know there are only five or six deer in that nook. It’s possible they’re aware enough to assume they won’t ever see another. And also, you have to take into account that they’ve probably watched their brethren fall ill from eating diseased meat. That catacomb we found says as much. Just like us, they’ve come up against something they’ve never seen before and it scares them to death. They’ve isolated themselves, sectioned themselves off from nature, and that breeds a community atmosphere that is most definitely not in their best interest. The circle of life is described as a circle for a reason. When a circle is broken, it becomes a line. And a line usually has an end.”
“So this means?”
“Their fear is going to kill them. And the same will happen to us.”
“Why?”
“We’re going to run out of food eventually. As with everything else, canned corn won’t last forever. We’ll be mirrors of what we saw out there. Then, in our isolation, we’ll do the unthinkable. We’ll turn on each other. We’ve become the slaves of reason and technology. We’re not cavemen any longer. Our bodies aren’t built to survive harsh conditions. Evolution takes a long time, Douglas, and yet we’re asking ourselves to adapt overnight. It’s not going to happen.”
Doug shivered.
“Sorry if this sounds pessimistic, but you wanted to hear my theory. Would you like me to stop?”
“No. It’s fine. I’m okay.”
“All right then. So as I said, our bodies can’t adapt that quickly. However, with our ability to reason, we could fight the inevitable and survive as a group. We could use our brains to change the inevitable. Unfortunately, though, we aren’t communal animals any more. We don’t trust each other. We build walls, like the one that surrounds this resort, to keep others away. Deep down, we’re all separatists. There will always be one individual in any group who possesses his or her own agenda, someone who will put their needs and wants ahead of their compatriots and place everyone at risk.”
“You’re right. That’s pessimistic.”
“Of course it is. However, this is not to say that all I described is destined to happen. All I’m saying is that it will happen if we change our intrinsic nature.”
“Meaning?”
“We have to get out of this place. We have to try and live, not just exist. Otherwise we’ll all be dead in a year.”
“So we have to leave?”
“Yes. Eventually. I know this hotel seems like heaven right now, but as I said, it won’t last. Don’t get too attached to it. There is too much we don’t understand. We have to find other people. It cannot be only us. With greater numbers, dissenters can be dealt with. The problem is other survivors are probably doing the same as us. Hiding away, playing it safe when it could end up being the least safe thing we could do. I feel that all of us should come together, seek each other out, and rebuild what we’ve lost, no matter how depraved it might have seemed before. Otherwise our race will cease to exist.”
Doug dropped his head, rose to his feet, and strolled to the window. Horace followed his gaze. The sun had set, and the others were playing kill-the-man-with-the-volleyball in near darkness. They rolled around in the snow and laughed.
“They look so happy,” said Doug. “But I don’t feel that way. I mean, I’m the one who’s gotta be looking over everyone else’s shoulder. I’m always uncomfortable. Sometimes it feels like I’m the only one who’s paranoid.” He turned and a sad yet oddly relieved smile
crossed his lips. “But I’m not, am I?”
“No, son, you’re not.”
Horace picked up the tumbler, took a sip of brandy, and set it back down again. He removed his glasses and used his shirt to wipe them. “I hope you can come to accept me, Douglas,” he said. “I mean you no harm.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
Horace coughed. Deep, guttural bursts of internal hatred spewed from his diseased lungs. He tried his best to fight through it while replying, “I am…too…son.”
“Hey Doc,” said Doug while he bit his lip, “what’s wrong with you, anyway?”
When his spasm died down, Horace said, “This is pretty serious, but last year I was dia – ”
“Whassup, party poopers!” a voice shouted. Hector bounded his way into the room. Snow dropped from the underside of his large stomach. The others, a soaked and grinning motley crew, followed him in.
“All trabaje, no fiesta, eh?” he said.
Corky ducked underneath the door jam and tossed the soaking volleyball on the chair beside him. He wore a wide grin on his mug and had deep purple splotches under his eyes. “Hey there, Ho-bag and Scrotum. Why you guys look so down?”
Horace glanced Doug’s way and grimaced. “No reason. Just tired,” he said.
Corky winked. “Now ain’t that something I never heard before.”
Doug stood up. He aimed a pleading expression in Horace’s direction. He knew what the kid was feeling. The boy finally found someone he could feel comfortable enough to talk to, even if it was a man old enough to be his grandfather. So much for not wanting to get attached, he thought, and made his way to Doug’s side.
“We’re going to relieve ourselves now,” he said. “I hope you all don’t mind.”
“Of course not,” said a grinning Stan in his ultra-polite tone. “We just don’t want you guys to feel like you have to leave, though.”
“Oh, we don’t,” replied Doug. He squeezed Horace’s shoulder. “We were just talking. I think I wanna continue it. In private. You know?”
“Suit yourselves,” chirped Larry as he plopped his butt down on a barstool. “We don’t be needing no ‘civilized conversation’ round these parts, anyhow.”
Horace nodded, said his goodbyes, and left the room with Doug by his side. The look on the boy’s face, freed once more from the rest, was one of relief.
“So,” he said as they began scaling the stairs toward their second-floor rooms, “you were about to say something before the guys interrupted. What was it?”
Horace paused. In his mind he said, Well, Douglas, I’m in the advanced stages of lung cancer. I’d have about six months to live with minimal treatment; without, I’ll be lucky to hold out until spring.
This he didn’t say. Instead, the words that came from his mouth were, “I was just going to say that I have a bad cold.”
“Oh. That’s it? Sounded like something more.”
Horace forced a smile and threw his arm around the young soldier.
“Yes, son,” he said. “That’s all it is.”
Chapter 8
What To Expect
When You’re Expecting
Sounds haunted the woods as Josh hovered, shovel in hand, over the newly-dug hole. Beside him were an axe and a large, lumpy bundle of burlap. He breathed a heavy sigh. His heart raced as he jabbed the shovel into the frozen dirt, leaned against the handle, and closed his eyes. No part of him wanted to do what came next. Just sit back and relax for a bit, he thought. You need the rest.
“No,” he muttered. “Let’s get this over with.”
He dropped the shovel, bent over, and grabbed a handful of fabric. It was hard to get a good grip with gloves on. Bracing his legs, he yanked on the bundle and it slid across the dissolving snow. As the material pulled taut it gained a vaguely human form. A booted foot popped out, waggling like a dying fish. Josh looked away and swallowed hard, but did nothing to cover it. He was too close to the end to stop now.
With a final grunt he forced the sack into the ditch. It landed with a thud, the exposed foot disappearing as it tumbled over. Mercifully the bundle became formless again, just an untidy heap of rough brown textile that looked like an overstuffed potato sack.
He paused, eyeing the thing in the trench. He then picked up the axe, waiting for the moment he would have to use it. That moment never came. Satisfied that enough time had passed he replaced axe with shovel, scooped up the hard, wet dirt from the pile to his left, and tossed it into the hole. This process he repeated until it was filled, more or less even with the rest of the landscape. He whacked the shovel against the loam, evening it out before grabbing a large, crudely stenciled rock and placing it at the head of the grave.
“Goodbye, Frank,” he said. “You’ll be missed, man.”
He offered a moment of silence to the departed Frank McKinley, the fourth victim of the sickness that had decimated the Dover survivors over the past few weeks. As he knelt down to pick up the axe he kissed the tips of his sheathed fingers and gently touched the ground. He gazed at the stone that marked Frank’s grave, then at the three smaller ones. His brain whispered their names; Tommy Grant, Teri Lumley, Marsha Guilder. At ten years old, Teri had been the oldest of that group. She had curly black hair and eyes large as almonds. Never again would those eyes glance in his direction; neither also would Tommy join Andy and Francis in a game of tag, nor would he hear Marsha giggle as she cuddled up in Emily Steadman’s lap while the old lady told nursery rhymes. They were simply gone, long gone. Just like Sophia. Just like his parents.
Just like virtually everybody.
Tears ran down his cheeks. He exhaled deeply, watching his breath form a swirl of mist before him, and squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t know if he could go on like this. The fear, the uncertainty, the despair, all conspired to eat him alive.
A rustling sound emerged from the surrounding trees. His heart leapt and the anguish retreated back into the pit from which it came. He laid the shovel on the ground, gripped the axe with two hands, and stood up. Crouching, he eased his way towards the noise. His heart rate quickened. The branches of an evergreen shifted. A twig snapped. He raised the axe.
A stumbling figure broke through the trees with flapping arms, looking for a moment like an archeologist exploring a tunnel filled with spider webs. It was a man, naked and covered with sores. His eyes were empty. Those eyes stared at Josh, seemingly without recognition. The man’s lower jaw was gone. His dead, gray tongue swayed like a pendulum.
Josh held his ground as the thing approached him. He lifted the axe above his head and, when the dead man was mere feet in front of him, swung it as hard as he could. The blade split his skull in two. Josh let go of the axe. The man stood there, wavering, with the axe handle jutting out before him. Those dead eyes stared at him and for a moment he swore he could see a flicker of recognition. That flicker disappeared and the man toppled over. He landed in a jumble of twisted arms and legs, looking like a human pretzel. Never once did his body shake, as Sophia’s had so long ago.
Josh caught his breath, talked his pounding heart into slowing its pace, approached the corpse, and kicked it. Even with boots on he could feel the softness of its flesh. It made him sick to his stomach. With a great amount of effort he grabbed the axe handle, which now stuck straight into the air, and yanked it free. He heard the snap as the skull cracked open even wider. More gray matter burped from the opening. This time he really did get sick.
After taking a moment to wipe his chin with the sleeve of his coat, Josh gathered up the axe and shovel, slung them over his shoulder, and started the journey back home. He glanced quickly at the body behind him, thinking he should dig another grave for that poor soul, as well. Maybe tomorrow, he thought. Or maybe never.
Of course he would, and he knew it. This was the sixth of these creatures that he, Colin, or Mary had dispatched in the last eleven days. They appeared out of nowhere, awaking like hibernating bears once the weather grew a few degrees warmer. Despite the repe
tition of the killing, and though he understood these things were already dead, he couldn’t help but look at them with a sense of loss and shame. They’d been people once, folks like those he’d known his whole life. Didn’t they deserve at least some modicum of respect after they were finally laid to rest?
Of course they did, and Josh would have to be the one to give it to them.
Tomorrow.
By the time he arrived at the cottage the sun had disappeared. Darkness swept over the landscape, turning those impressions of monsters he’d noticed earlier into the real thing. He swore he heard more rustling when he reached the porch and raised the axe again. It came from the line of shrubs where the four horses, now dead as well, had been laid to rest, one of the tarps that had once formed the roof of their wagon now draped over their frozen hides. He waited. When nothing appeared he dropped the axe to his side and opened the front door.
Anxious faces greeted him. They all turned in his direction, even Luanda, and he could read the fear in their expressions. He sighed, leaned the axe and shovel against the wall, and unzipped his jacket. The air in the cabin was sticky and stinking. The side of his jaw ached. It all combined to make him even more miserable.
“Deed’s done,” he muttered. Shifting bodies answered him.
“What happened?” asked Kyra.
He threw his coat on the floor and turned to her. “Why?”
“You’ve got blood on your jacket.”
“Oh, you know how it is.”
“No, I don’t.”
Colin stepped forward. His eyelids were half-mast and he walked with an uneven stoop. There was a half-empty bottle of Southern Comfort tucked in the crook of his arm. His voice slurred when he said, “Fucking zombies, eh?”
“Yup,” Josh replied. He snatched the bottle from Colin, twisted off the top, and took a swig. The liquor stung the inside of his mouth for a moment, but at least it caused the throbbing to subside. When it ran down his throat he coughed.
“Hey,” said Colin. “That’s not funny, bro. It’s the last we got. Don’t hog it.”
Dead Of Winter (The Rift Book II) Page 13
