But then he thought of the long, dark nights, when all he could hear were these same people crying, and felt suddenly irritated. When the sun set and the world went black, all Brandon wanted was to escape the truth, to withdraw into his mental shell and wish reality away. Their incessant bawling always brought him back to the real world.
Fuck them.
That attitude’s not helping.
He closed his eyes and retreated inward, isolating himself even further from his helpless state. He thought of his wife, Susan, and how she’d succumbed to RF, even after they’d taken every precaution to avoid exposure to the damned virus in the first place. He remembered the look on her face when she started showing symptoms, on a surprisingly chilly fall day as they hid away in their bayou cottage, as far away from civilization as they could get. Brandon did his best to help ease her pain for the two weeks she suffered, and in the end left a loaded 9MM on the bed stand. She used it. Susan, who never liked guns, never understood Brandon’s obsession with survivalist culture, and loved the Church, sat all alone in the dark, put the pistol to her temple, and pulled the trigger. When he found her, he closed her eyes and left the bayou, actively seeking out danger. Screw being safe, he’d thought at the time. There’s nothing left to live for anyway.
It ended up being a long time before he saw another soul, other than those murderous bastards who’d succumbed to the disease.
When he ran across General Bathgate just outside Baton Rouge, he’d been living in squalor for weeks. As a retired naval officer, Brandon was immediately cleaned up and given the rank of captain. He assisted with raids and search-and-rescue missions, never once questioning the orders given him. He’d heard whispers of less-than-savory beliefs being the cornerstone of the newly formed SNF, but turned a deaf ear to them. All he knew was that the general had given his life meaning again, had allowed him to put Susan out of his mind. Because of that, he owed the man a debt he could never repay. So when Bathgate asked him to take up the reins of a new, risky operation—he was to head south on the coastal roads, searching for men of value to add to the SNF ranks—he agreed without question.
As he lay there, being whisked away through the crowd of filthy onlookers, Brandon summed up the last half-year as such: What started out as sorrow became a death wish, then somehow turned into an opportunity, which eventually became responsibility, and finally found him coming full circle, dreading death with each passing moment yet wishing someone would grant it to him, and soon.
An itch crept from his ankle to his calf, a stabbing sensation like a thousand tiny pins. He squirmed in the hands that held him, trying to free up his arms and relieve the tingling, but he couldn’t, and realized he didn’t need to scratch at all, for his arms, legs, hands, and feet were gone. It was all phantom pain, filling up his phantom life.
You fuckers, he thought. He wished he could say it out loud, but he didn’t have a tongue to speak with.
More memory hit him, just as the deformed bastards hauled him out of the pen and across a field of dead grass. He recalled the day his small platoon was overrun by these beasts, when the strange man with the glowing eyes killed Brad Luckman while Brandon watched, helpless. The guy had squeezed poor Brad’s head until it popped and then ordered Brandon to be dragged away. He was beaten mercilessly and then dumped in the goddamn pen he’d just left, by himself in the crowd, without one word of explanation.
To pass the time in those early days, Brandon would watch the beasts come into the pen, snatch up a handful of people, and then count the seconds until the screaming began. From his experience, it never took longer than eighty-six seconds. Seventeen seconds was the quickest. No one who was taken ever came back.
When they showed up for him, Brandon almost danced a jig. He was tired and bored, living each day without food or purpose, simply watching survivors get tossed into the pen, survivors get removed from the pen. Monotonous to no end. His heart raced with excitement, thinking the end of his tedium had finally arrived. He didn’t care if he would be released (not likely) or die horribly (most probably), at least it was something. Either way, he wouldn’t have to stay in that goddamn paddock with those feeble, whimpering people any longer.
Oh, how wrong he’d been about that.
He wasn’t killed, wasn’t released. Instead, he was systematically dismembered. First the bastards took his left arm, then his right. Then his tongue, then his right leg, then his left. His balls came after that, followed by his cock. Each time he was taken away, he was brought to a dank, stinking building filled with human remains, where three of them waited for him. They’d tear into him with their claws and teeth, devouring him, and then the one who brought him from the pen—a massive, hunched-over, decayed-looking brute whose clothing, a set of coveralls, seemed to have merged with its flesh—would press a red-hot sheet of metal against the wound, cauterizing it. Then it was back to the stall to wait God knew how long before the next mutilation. He felt like an unfortunate pig whose owners liked their bacon really fresh.
Now he was Brandon Hawthorne, human paperweight, who had to wiggle across the ground just to drink from the dirty, piss-filled water pooled on the ground. He felt the burn in his lower abdomen as infection spread up through his intestines. He wouldn’t last long like that. When the fuckers took his penis, they never gave him an outlet for waste. Heck of an oversight on their part, he thought. Unless, of course, they didn’t plan on keeping him alive much longer.
Now there’s a thought.
The scent of burning flesh brought him back to the real world. He didn’t know how long he’d been out of the pen, hoisted above his warder’s head, but it seemed much too long. He opened his eyes, wished he had a hand to shield them from the sun, and saw that he was being carried indoors. This wasn’t the warehouse they always brought him to, and the burning-flesh scent was actually burning rubber, as the parking lot of this new place was filled with discarded tires. The tires, and the sun and everything else, disappeared from view as he was lugged through the doorway. His personal jailer roughly tossed him to the ground, and then went about getting him into an upright position, resting against a stone slab. The thing’s claws tore into his flesh as it worked, but that pain wasn’t any more noticeable than the other aches that pervaded his being.
When he was sufficiently propped up, the beast trudged away, leaving him alone in near-darkness. Brandon sat still—as if he had a choice—and waited. He felt blood trickle from the new wounds the monster’s claws had forged, dripping to the concrete beneath him like water from a leaky faucet.
A faint yellow flicker, like that of a candle, caught his vision. Brandon blinked. Then it came again, and he noticed it wasn’t one but two flames, evenly spaced apart. A form began to emerge in the distance, that of a man sitting cross-legged. The flickering came again, and he realized they weren’t burning candle wicks, but eyes. Very slowly, the figure rose to its feet and then walked toward him, deliberately, as if each step needed to be measured, needed to be perfect. As it moved into the area in front of him the figure leaned forward, entering the sparse light from the doorway.
It was him.
Brandon thrashed about on his ass and shouted incomprehensibly, but the eerily human face and those glowing yellow eyes never moved. They stared at him, taunting.
“Interesting,” the man said. There was no emotion in his tone. He lifted his hand.
Brandon froze. The guy held a knife. A big one.
“Uf ooey,” he screeched. Just do it.
“I may,” replied the man. “If you give me what I desire.”
Brandon scrunched up his face and ran his teeth over the stubble below his lower lip. “Wha ooh-ooh wah?” What do you want?
“Information.”
When Brandon opened his mouth to reply, the man put the index finger of the hand not holding the knife to his lips. “No,” he said. “Not like this. I need you to let me inside.” He waved his arm in a half-circle. “If you allow it, all this will end. All of your suffering,
your fear, your pain. All of it. Do you understand?”
“Weff.”
“Very well.”
The man closed his eyes, and Brandon followed suit. At first he felt nothing, but then he let his body relax, let the pain wash away, and suddenly his mind was filled with images. He saw fields of burning grass, livestock slaughtered, heads propped on stakes, stone huts with thatched roofs, the burial mound of a beautiful woman—
Enough.
Brandon’s eyes shot open. The man was now sitting across from him, gazing intently, his eyes blazing brighter than before. Now, you will disclose everything to me.
Brandon nodded. What do I need to do?
You are closed to me still. You are dedicated to another. Raze that loyalty, and I will end your suffering.
He tried. He really did. But nothing seemed to be happening.
I can’t.
The man sighed. What is more important to you? An end to your suffering, or your allegiance? Should you not help me, I will prolong your condition…indefinitely. The man reached behind him and brought forth a plastic bag filled with clear liquid, a small rubber tube, and a scalpel. On the bag was printed ANTIBIOTICS. Brandon gasped.
Yes, said the man. I can draw this out as long as you wish. A day, a month, a year, forever. However long it takes.
Fear washed over Brandon’s soul. The thought of being stuck in the state he was, as a mockery of humanity slowly withering away day by day but never dying, caused his heart to hammer in his chest. His breathing picked up pace, tears streamed down his cheeks. He opened his mouth to plead for mercy, but nothing came out.
His vision was abruptly washed out in a swirl of brilliant color. His surroundings meshed until they were a blur, and through this blur his life played out for the man to see: his childhood in Alabama; his wedding day; the moment Susan killed herself, the sound reaching his ears from a mile away as he waited; meeting General Bathgate; the journey north with the rest of the SNF; the plan to make Richmond the capitol of the New United Brotherhood; the best routes north, the number of men available as last Brandon knew, the strengths and weaknesses of the army, the supplies they did and did not have …
That is all. I have enough.
The swirling in his head ceased, and Brandon slumped forward. All energy drained from him. It felt like his head was attached to a bungee cord, bobbing below his shoulders. He panted and heard the rustle of fabric against concrete, a sure sign that the strange, unreal man, the bringer of pain, was standing up. It took all the strength he could muster for Brandon to make his neck work.
“Mow. Ooay” Now. Do it.
The man nodded, leaned forward, and slowly pressed the blade of his large knife into Brandon’s chest. The cavity exploded with pain as the knife dragged downward, snapping his ribs, tearing muscle. Blood flowed out of him like from a fountain, pouring over his stomach to the empty crevasse where his manhood used to reside. He shrieked and squeezed his eyes shut, and then the cutting abruptly stopped.
Footsteps walking away from him. The world growing hazy, but not hazy enough. Brandon’s eyes popped open and he gaped at the shining light of the doorway, and the man who stood within it.
We had a deal! Brandon’s mind screamed.
“We did,” the man replied. “And I kept my part of the bargain. It just might take longer than you might have liked.”
With that he turned and exited the building, leaving Brandon alone in his suffering. He writhed there on the floor of his concrete prison, toppling over, life fluid leaking out, trying to plead for mercy to any deity who’d listen.
Finally, five hours later, Brandon Hawthorne stopped breathing…only to wake up again a few minutes later. Then his jailer arrived, along with a few friends, and devoured what was left of his reanimated corpse while his eyes stared at the ceiling, without a thought in his head.
CHAPTER 6
PORTRAIT OF A LADY
Flames reached with snapping fingers toward the sky. Crackling sounded in the afternoon air, accompanying the scent of burning rubber and flesh. The crowd around the ditch, which had been an abandoned construction site at some point in the near past, backed up as the fire intensified. The heat was blistering, the stench overwhelming. Many turned away, fanning themselves to stay cool.
Those who worked at the edge of the crater had no such advantages. They wore gas masks and heavy jackets to shield themselves from the floating ash as they scooped up heaps of lye, spreading it out around the pit in an ever-expanding circle. Others trudged onward, lugging carts on which the diseased had been stacked, readying their morose inventory for incineration. It was all carried out with economic precision: those spreading the lye turning to the carts, dumping a few shovels full of the corrosive powder atop the bodies, before turning away and moving down the line; the two cart-haulers stepping to the front and tossing, one-by-one, the corpses into the fiery pit; the carts leaving and the lye-spreaders returning, covering up the spots where the cart wheels and haulers’ feet disturbed.
General Bathgate watched this scene play out over and over again, and pride filled him. He’d taught them well—well, Darrel Hotchkiss, a science teacher from Birmingham, had actually came up with the method of ridding the area of all those undesirable carcasses, but it was Bathgate who gave the final order. To see the plan in action was beautiful. He felt like a football coach after a great week of practice.
If only everything had gone so smoothly upon arriving in Richmond. He thought of the countless deceased—it wasn’t only the meandering dead that filled the carts, but many of his own men—and regretted not listening to Corporal Baker’s advice. The old Navy man had told him to wait it out once they saw the condition of the city, to see if the hordes continued to dwindle and die out. But no, Bathgate couldn’t have that. He felt impatient, needy for the new capitol to be his. And he paid for it. Four hundred and forty-eight men died during the week it took to clear the area. Not acceptable. At least Baker was among the deceased. At least he didn’t have to hear anyone say, I told you so.
He sighed and backed up a step, looking to his right, where Pitts stood, towering over him, nervously tugging one side of his handlebar mustache. His Lieutenant glanced down, raised his eyebrows, and gestured behind him with his thumb. Bathgate nodded, turned on his heels, and approached those he was obliged to.
Four men stood behind Pitts: Jacob Handley, head of the Church of Creation; Lester Porcello, former Army captain and the person in charge of the Porcello Syndicate and the Free Radicals; Pedro Morales, leader of the Latin quarter; and Dominic Ngyn, the mouthpiece of the Asian Select. There was so much tension between these four that Bathgate feared a stray spark from the fire could ignite the very air surrounding them. He definitely had a tightrope to walk here. These were the most important men in the SNF, other than himself of course. It was their input that brought about the Warrior’s Creed and the laws of the new constitution. He had to keep them happy.
“Gentlemen,” he said, and started pacing in front of them. “Welcome to the Mouth of Hell.”
Morales scowled. “Why are we here?”
“Yes,” added Handley. “Do tell, General.”
Bathgate grinned, showing his teeth. Pitts stepped up behind him, and the four leaders withdrew from their previously aggressive stances. The general had discovered it useful to never give an earnest smile; when he did, it was usually followed by something not so pleasant.
“I was recently contacted by Sergeant Jackson,” he said. “It seems he has some news.”
“Oh,” said Porcello, a single eyebrow raised.
“Yes. It seems he discovered a fairly large group of individuals in Pennsylvania, alive and well and living in a hotel. There are about two hundred of them, enough to lessen the sting of those lost in battle. Also, there are quite a few with medical training, something we have been sorely lacking for some time.”
He paused there and felt Handley’s eyes boring into him.
“What’s the catch?” he asked, fingerin
g his Rosary.
“The catch,” said Bathgate, his grin returning, “is there are many who do not fit the criteria for inclusion among our people.”
That got Handley’s cheeks all red. Bathgate almost laughed.
“That so?” said Ngyn. “Why don’t you tell Jackson to just get rid of ’em?”
“Because,” Bathgate said, glaring, “they are a tight-knit group, well armed. We have to get them here, integrate them, and weed them out slowly.”
“Not going to happen,” said Morales with a shake of his head.
“Yes, it is,” said Bathgate.
“They won’t be in the city proper, will they?” asked Porcello.
The general spun and almost raised his hand. “Of course not. Do I look like an idiot to you? We’ll set them up in housing on the perimeter, near the universities. We’ll get them processed, get them comfortable, find out what they know…” he turned to Handley, “and then your men can have them. All of them. To do what you will.”
Morales rolled his eyes and leaned on his rifle. “Are we done here, then?” he asked.
“No,” said Bathgate. “Go over there and stand still.” He motioned to the other three. “You too. I want you to see something.”
Porcello, Ngyn, and Morales complied, trudging across the sand to a spot farther away from the heat coming from the pit. Handley lingered, glowering.
“What is it, Jake?”
“It’s bad enough we have the spics and chinks here, you know.”
The general nodded and put on his best compassionate expression. “I understand, Jake. I really do. However, your ministry is not without fault. Concessions must be made in the name of unity, in the name of rebuilding. Hell, concessions have been made on all sides. The fact that Morales and Ngyn stand within five feet of you, have their men fight alongside yours, is proof of that.”
Death Springs Eternal Page 12
