Death Springs Eternal

by Robert J. Duperre

  They rolled along the sand, giggling. He planted a kiss on her neck, which she gave back in kind. He felt his passion rising, but then the image of another woman entered his thoughts—his love, the one carrying his child. He froze and rolled away.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Marcy.

  “This isn’t right,” said Josh. He lifted himself and stared at the swaying sea grass. “Shit, this isn’t even real.”

  Marcy sighed and tucked her legs beneath her. “I know.”

  “Then what’s this all about?”

  “Not sure. I had the thought that I wanted to see you. Now here you are.”

  He nodded. “So you’re not a figment of my imagination then?”

  “No,” she said with a shake of the head. “Unless it’s the other way around.”

  Josh pinched his elbow and winced. “Nope. I’m me. I think.”

  That elicited a laugh. “Good to know.”

  Marcy’s head sagged, and tears dripped down her cheeks. Her hands came up, covering her face while she cried. Josh inched toward her and placed a hand on her back.

  “I’m scared,” she sobbed.

  “Scared of what?”

  “Of life, of myself, of everything.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Of course you don’t get it. You don’t know what it’s like to be inside everyone’s head at once, to know what someone intends to do before they ever do it. To know the dangers of the world but move ahead anyway, just because you got no choice.”

  “No, I don’t.” He positioned himself behind her and put both hands on her shoulders. “But I know what it’s like to feel something you don’t understand. Hell, I’ve been kinda lost ever since Isabella said sayonara. But I’m coping.”

  She turned and considered him with squinting eyes. “Who’s Isabella?”

  He let go of her shoulders and sat back. “You know, Isabella. Redhead, mystical type. Comes to me in dreams, a lot like this. You were with her once.”

  “I don’t know…” Marcy’s eyes widened, and her image flickered. “Hold on. Something’s strange here.”

  She was becoming more and more transparent by the second, and panic flooded Josh’s veins. “Hold on, Marcy, don’t fade away on me!” He grabbed her arms, and she became solid once more.

  “What’s that for?”

  “You were…disappearing on me again.”

  “Again?”

  “Long story.”

  “Oh.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief. “Okay, what’s strange?”

  She reached out and touched his temples, as if realizing for the first time that she could feel actual flesh beneath her fingertips.

  “I can’t see you,” she said.

  “Um…what? I’m right here.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean. I can’t see inside you.” A grin stretched across her face. “I don’t know what you’re gonna say before you say it.”

  “And that’s a good thing?”

  She nodded.

  “Okay. Good.”

  She shook her head as if to clear cobwebs from it. “I’m connected to everything,” she whispered. “To the people around me, to pain, to happiness. It’s like the world’s breathing through me—or at least what’s left of it. I feel so lost and scared. But here, with you…I feel like myself again.” She looked at him with a pleading expression. “I know we weren’t meant to be, that whatever relationship we had is long gone. But I still miss you. Like, a lot.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Can you come to me then? I’d like to see you…you know, in reality.”

  “I’d like to, but I don’t even know where you are.”

  She smiled, sadly. “I’m in trouble, I think. Heading someplace that isn’t safe.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Richmond.”

  “Richmond? As in Virginia?”

  She nodded.

  “Nice. That’s not too far from us, actually.”

  He reached forward and touched her cheek, and she blushed. Words entered his head, words from long ago. You will find each other, in time. He smiled.

  “What’s that for?”

  “Isabella told me once that you’d be safe, that we’d find each other again. I never really believed in fate or anything, but now it seems real, and it’s actually kind of comforting.”

  Marcy nodded. “It is.” Her image then flickered again, and she winced.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Josh.

  “I must be sleeping,” she replied. “I think I’m gonna wake up.”

  Josh felt himself frown. “Just stay as long as you can, alright?”

  “I will.”

  They sprawled out on the sand together, and Marcy beckoned him into her arms. They embraced, and the heat from her body felt so real, the curve of her hips so tangible. He was struck with an odd, somewhat frightening notion: for the last eight months, he existed in and out of a dream world. Realizing that fact made him question whether what had happened to him, to the entire globe, was real at all.

  “I know, it is strange,” Marcy said, as if reading his thoughts. “But trust me, it’s very, very real.”

  Accepting those words as fact, he closed his eyes. He sensed the dream world they populated undulating, shifting in form and purpose. He went with it, allowing the lightness to take him. And then Marcy’s lips were pressed to his ear, whispering.

  “Isabella’s a pretty name,” she said with a chuckle. “Isn’t that what we were gonna name our first kid?”

  “It was,” he replied, and a kaleidoscope of darkness lifted him away.

  * * *

  Marcy opened her eyes, and there were strong hands pressed against her shoulders. Her vision was muddy, but when it cleared she stared at rear of a seat. She was lying down, her head resting in someone’s lap. She twisted her neck and glanced up, still trapped in the grogginess of sleep. Whatever dream she’d just experienced disappeared from her memory like dust in a windstorm.

  It was Leon who held her. He smiled, his white teeth like marble pillars surrounded by his dark lips. His fingertips swept a stray hair from in front of her eyes, and she nuzzled into his crotch.

  “Hi there,” he said, his deep voice rumbling.

  “Is she awake?” another voice asked. Billy.

  “Yeah, I’m awake,” she said. She heard the steady whine of tires rolling over pavement below, and the vehicle bucked. “Where are we?”

  “Charlottesville,” said Billy. “We will be there soon.”

  “Oh joy.”

  She put her head back down and closed her eyes. The gentle rocking of the van was like a cradle, its unlit, windowless interior a womb, urging her to enter dreamland once more. Leon’s hands continued to work, kneading her scalp.

  “Still tired?” he asked.

  “Exhausted,” she replied. “Just gonna get more shuteye, I think.”

  “Okay.”

  Her consciousness slowly faded away, and though she couldn’t remember the dream she longed to return to, a lingering sense of rightness overcame her. In the back of her mind, before she re-entered sleep, she came to the realization that, in the few moments after she’d awoken, she’d not once been invaded by someone else’s thoughts.

  And it was wonderful.

  * * *

  It was early morning, and the sun had just poked a sliver of its annoyingly bright head over the eastern horizon. A dull gray haze surrounded the farm. Nature’s nighttime chorus dwindled to a scant few chirps and whistles, making the dawn seem virtually lifeless.

  Luanda placed her note on the kitchen table, left her bag next to the chair she’d slept in, and tiptoed out of the house. She carried with her a single item in a paper sack.

  Down the driveway and into the surrounding woods she tread, ambling with no particular destination in mind. She wanted someplace quiet, someplace peaceful and far away from the stress she’d been living with since the whole mess started. The morning’s journey carried her down one slope and
up another, until the trees became so dense that she could barely squeeze through them.

  After an hour, when the sun climbed higher in the sky, she began sweating. The paper bag swayed in her hand, its bunched, rolled-up top damp. She feared the item inside would tear the bottom. She didn’t want to see—or think about—its contents until the time came to use it.

  Finally she heard the sound of bubbling water and picked up her pace. She came upon a brook filled with ample stones the water had to maneuver around. Strolling alongside, she eventually found a large boulder and climbed atop it. There she sat, staring at the gurgling water as the day’s heat enclosed her in its brutal cosset.

  She placed the bag down, hearing it clank against the rock, and lay back. Her eyes squeezed shut, a spasm of grief pouring over her soul. She saw the face of her husband, of her son and his wife and child, of her parents and friends, all of whom she would never see again.

  For the longest time, Luanda thought she was beyond this, beyond the suffocating grief. But with each passing day, the fact of her loneliness became greater. And then, when the nightmares started, her terror reached its apex.

  It was the same dream, coming to her whenever she shut her eyes. She knew it was a dream, but the images were so lucid, the events so frighteningly urgent, that her logical mind came to the conclusion she was seeing a portal into the future.

  In the vision she sits in a muddy pit on a stormy, rain-soaked evening. Lightning flashes overhead, and in its brief light she sees her traveling partners. All are covered with muck, panting and frightened. Around her rests a collection of skulls, flesh dripping off them like wax from a lit candle. She looks around, only to see the children she sometimes unwillingly protected have been slaughtered, each and every one of them. Then her eyes carry to the lip of the crater, where a phantom of a man stands. He laughs, his voice turning the very air into a wave of noxious gas. The man then points a finger at her, and fire erupts from its tip. She tries to get away, to hide behind the scurrying forms of her fellow survivors, but it is no use. The flames consume her, burning her from inside out.

  Her jaw hitched at the memory, and her tears flowed all the faster. Shame consumed her, the knowledge that even with all she’d experienced, all the companionship she’d felt with the rest of the Dover crew, she would turn her back on them in an instant if it meant her own survival.

  Finally, she swallowed the last of her tears, wiped their remnants away with her grimy sleeve, and sat up. Mosquitoes buzzed around her head, floating before her eyes like a procession of dandelion seeds. In those seeds she saw the face of her loved ones, drifting upward, heading for the golden forever. She hesitated, pondering her next action, thinking of the consequences. It’s a mortal sin, she thought.

  But no. Death wasn’t worse than dishonor, or a loss of freedom, or worst of all, a loss of will. Everything she’d ever read, everything she’d taught her students over the years, had shown her as much.

  Luanda lifted the paper bag, tipped it over, and dumped the pistol into her open palm. Grabbing the handle—it felt so cold, despite the morning’s heat—she pressed it to her temple. Her lips mouthed the Our Father. Her finger pulled the trigger.

  Just like that the number of survivors from Dover, New Hampshire, dropped by one.

  * * *

  The note felt thin as tissue paper in her hand, and the words were haunting. Goodbye, it read in simple, elegant script.

  “She’s gone,” whispered Kyra.

  Josh paced around the farmhouse, pulling at his hair. “I have to go look for her,” he said. “She couldn’t have gotten far. She didn’t even take her stuff.”

  Jessica shook her head. “No, Josh. She’s gone.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “No bullshit.” It was Mary, speaking in earnest for what seemed like the first time since Alice, her friend since childhood, had been butchered by the mutant dogs back in Attleboro. “This is Luanda we’re talking about here. If she decided to go, she’s gone. And you’re not going to find her.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  Josh spun around and snatched his bag off the floor. His sudden movements frightened the children, who were standing by the doorway, ready to hit the road. A few of them recoiled. Sharon Acker, the youngest of the girls, started sobbing.

  “Oh, get over it,” muttered Josh.

  Kyra closed her eyes, breathed deep, and then clenched her fists. She then marched up to him, clutched his shirt with one hand, spun him around, and slapped him across the cheek with the other. He stepped away from her, a look of shock on his face.

  “What the hell…” he began.

  Kyra narrowed her eyes, her heart thumping out of control, the baby kicking. “You get over it,” she said, trying to sound as stern as she could. “We can’t save everyone. I thought you understood that. If Lu doesn’t want to be here, that’s her choice.”

  His expression slackened and his shoulders slumped. His lips twisted into a half frown and he shook his head. He seemed to be fighting one hell of a battle inside of himself, a battle he couldn’t win. Kyra stepped up to him again and once more grabbed hold of his shirt, only this time she rose up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the lips.

  “Sorry,” she said. “You didn’t deserve that.”

  “Yeah, I did,” he replied, and she could tell he was trying to smile. “You’re right. You all are. We just gotta get moving.”

  “You sure about that?” asked old Emily.

  Josh shrugged. “I’m not sure of anything, really. But we gotta do what we gotta do, right?”

  They all nodded in agreement.

  An hour later, Josh pulled the first SUV out of the barn. The second followed right behind, now with Mary at the wheel. At the end of the dirt driveway, Kyra kissed the farmhouse goodbye, thankful for its night of comfort despite the loss of one of their members. She closed her eyes and remembered the previous evening, the first truly joyous sexual encounter she’d had in months. Her hand crept across the center console and latched onto Josh’s knee. She turned to him and smiled.

  “We’re missing one of the pistols,” Josh said, frowning. “The Remington.”

  “What’s that mean?” asked Jessica from the back seat.

  Josh shrugged. “I checked the house twice. It’s not there. So either Luanda took it to protect herself, or…”

  He didn’t finish that thought, and Kyra was glad for it. Wanting to change the subject, she said, “So where are we headed now? Back to 95?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet. I think we should hit Virginia first. Maybe Richmond.”

  She looked at him sideways. “What? Why Richmond?”

  “I think there’re some friends there. Maybe they could join us.”

  “Friends? What makes you think there’s friends there?”

  He winked. “Sometimes, there’s stuff we just know, you know?”

  “Touché.”

  With that he reached across and put his hand on her stomach. The child inside her seemed to react to his presence, the body shifting, coming up to greet his touch. Kyra shifted, suddenly uncomfortable, and placed her hand over his.

  “She knows it’s you,” she said.

  “I know.”

  She gazed at him, concerned by the odd expression that washed over his eyes. “Hun, what’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Oh,” he replied, shaking out of his trance and focusing back on the road. “Sorry, just thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “What’re we gonna name her? I mean, you’re so convinced it’s a girl and all, but do we have a name yet?”

  “No.”

  “Well,” he started, then hesitated before saying, “how about Molly?”

  Kyra almost choked on her tongue. “Molly? Really?” she whispered.

  He nodded. “Why not?”

  “I was kinda partial to Christina, personally.”

  “I like that name,” said Jessica, poking her head up from the back seat.

  “I do
too!” shouted Meghan Stoddard, bouncing in the seat next to Jessica, her flailing arms whacking Andy and Francis, her youthful voice like a bastion of innocence that washed all doubt away.

  “Then Christina it is.”

  Josh grinned, squeezed Kyra’s hand, and they drove on beneath the blazing heat of day.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE DRAGON ROARS

  “You know,” said Doug, “last time you told me not to kill the deer.”

  “Yes, well they seem to be out in more abundance now, wouldn’t you say?” replied Horace.

  The two of them balanced the dead animal between them, Doug holding the front legs, crooking his back so the head and antlers didn’t poke him. It was a small specimen, a young buck, but still heavy. It would serve its purpose.

  “There’s still not many though, Doc,” Doug said.

  “I know. So we should appreciate this one while we have it.”

  “That mean we’ll be able to cook this sucker up once we’re done?”

  Horace sighed. “Yes, Douglas. This animal appears healthy, and we really will not be using much of the meat for…our experiment.”

  Doug grimaced, and it seemed to take a great amount of effort for the young soldier to wipe it away and smile. “Good. We haven’t had fresh meat in a while. Be nice.”

  “It will.”

  They dumped the carcass on the grass outside the bulkhead doors. Horace snatched a large metal bucket from the veranda while Doug went about stringing the deer up on the wooden frame they’d constructed two days prior, looping a rope over the top and yanking, the buck rising because of the steel hooks driven through its hind legs.

  When it was high enough to hover a good foot off the ground, Doug tied off the rope, grabbed a hatchet, and went to work hacking off the thing’s head. Horace made sure to place the large bucket beneath the swaying carcass to collect as much blood as possible. Doug’s fifth swing finally severed the spinal column and the head dropped, its immature antlers striking the side of the bucket, almost tipping it over. Blood poured from its neck, splashing around like a fireman’s hose gone out of control.