Horace, feeling close to losing his lunch again (which was happening with greater frequency lately, at least twice a day), turned away and covered his mouth. That’s how Franks died, he thought, remembering the Major’s valiant battle with the Wraiths that allowed Horace and Clyde to escape Johns Hopkins. It amazed him that even after all he’d seen he still couldn’t get used to the sight of death. He heard Doug call his name, and he turned around. The young man had stepped away from the mess and now held a large, serrated knife in his hand.
“Do we skin it now?” he asked. “’Cause I really don’t know how to do it.”
Horace shook his head. “No need. We can have one of the others perform that task, if any of them have experience.” He pointed to the head. “That is all we’ll need right now. Could you please place the head in the bucket?”
Doug did as he was asked while Horace yanked open the bulkhead doors. Immediately the smell of oil and gasoline reached his nostrils. Normally that would make him gag, but at that moment he was happy for it. The odors given off by the furnace and generators helped mask the scent of the basement’s other occupant.
“Here we go,” he said, stepping aside so Doug could walk down the stairs. The bucket appeared heavy, and a few inches of antler poked over the lip, but the youngster managed to keep it steady for the most part. The splashing blood only made it over the edge twice.
Horace followed him down, taking it slow, his old knees and diseased lungs barking with each step. He had to pause halfway just to catch his breath. All this physical exertion wasn’t good for him, and each day his sickness grew worse. He made sure to wear baggy clothing despite the heat; he didn’t want Doug, Corky, or any of the others to notice how thin and frail his body had become. Is it shame? he wondered, and then scoffed at the notion. It was duty he felt, to both those in his direct care and whoever outside their walls still battled through each terrible day since the fall. He had a job to do, and the last thing he wanted was to be a burden.
At the bottom of the stairs he flipped the switch, and rows of subdued lights came on. Doug had placed the bucket on the ground and now stood beside him, hands shaking, looking like he was getting ready to reach around his back and grab his rifle. Horace placed a calming hand on the young soldier’s forearm.
“There’s no need,” he said. “He’s contained.”
He gazed in the direction of the thing they’d come to see, secured with rope, wire, and chain and fastened to the far wall. The mattress it had been placed upon lay in tatters a few feet away, drenched in pus and blood. The thing moaned, and Horace turned away. Despite the promise they’d made to each other, only on three occasions had anyone come down to check on the beast in the thirteen days since they brought it down there. It was as if they all wanted to forget it ever happened, forget there was ever a man named Hector Conseca who used to drink, laugh, and talk with them every night. If it hadn’t been for that deer wandering just outside the hotel grounds earlier that day, Horace was positive he would’ve kept right on pretending along with the rest of them. Guilt formed a knot in his stomach.
“Holy shit,” whispered Doug.
The thing in the corner kicked out, tensing against the ropes and chains that held it in place. It lifted its head, and the horror that stared back at them was unrecognizable. Its cheeks were sunken, its flesh taking on a grayish hue. The eyes were jaundiced and dripping a mucus-like substance. The lips had been shredded by the slender knives that now protruded from its gums. It appeared to be the rotting corpse of some mythical demon, not the portly Hispanic man they’d once known.
Horace tried to hide his shock from Doug. He thought he’d be prepared for what he saw, thought he’d developed at least an inkling of Wrathchild’s power, but Hector was in a state far worse than any of the creatures he and Clyde ran across—even those who’d captured them outside Linville.
“He’s dying,” he said, softer than he wanted to.
“What’s that?”
He waved the youngster off, then abruptly stepped forward, grabbing the bucket. It was indeed heavy, and in his weakened state it took every effort just to get it off the ground. In a swift motion Doug was again by his side, slipping the handle from his grasp and taking over.
“I got this,” he said. “Just tell me what to do, Doc.”
Horace walked over to their friend, keeping his distance even though it looked like the thing had no strength left to fight. Doug wasn’t far behind, and he put the bucket down, awaiting instruction. Horace glanced at him and saw the look of cold calculation on the soldier’s face. Doug hadn’t taken it well when they’d first brought Hector down here. Horace guessed the only way the youngster could handle it now was to treat it like an unwanted job—or a necessary evil.
“Take out the head,” said Horace, “and hold it above his mouth.”
Doug grimaced as he grabbed the antlers and lifted the head out of the bucket. The deer’s dead eyes bulged from their sockets, its lips clenched in an eternal pucker. The blood it had been drenched in—its own—saturated its fur and dripped off the tattered remnants of muscle and tendon hanging below its neck. Doug carried it over to the thing that used to be Hector, and it turned its head. An audible crack filled the room, rising above the rumble of the generators.
The creature’s mouth opened as Doug held the dead thing above it. Blood dripped into its maw, blood it licked up with a gray, serpentine tongue. A wet hiss escaped its throat.
“Lower.”
Doug’s hand dropped down, far enough that loose tendrils of flesh and muscle touched the ridge of the beast’s shriveled nose. Its head jerked backward and its jaws snapped, ensnaring a piece of meat between those dagger-like teeth. It thrashed from side to side, and Horace could tell the kid was struggling to hold on.
“Just drop it.”
Letting go of the antler, Doug backed up a few steps. The Hector-beast followed the descent, its neck twisting to the side. The amount of flesh in its maw grew and it made a sucking noise. Skin and tissue ripped free from the side of the skull, pulling one of the bulging eyes with it. The gory mess was slurped whole down the creature’s gullet. It then tried to reach the head again, snapping and growling, lashing out its tongue, but it had fallen too far away.
Horace watched in horror as the creature calmed. Those rotting, yellow eyes closed. The pustules covering its neck slowly closed and its cheeks gained more color. He swore he could see the neck, which had been thin to the point of exposing every ripple of its vocal chords, begin to fill out. In a matter of seconds it seemed to regain a semblance of vitality, and its eyes snapped open, glaring at the two of them like a big cat sizing up its next prey. Horace reached out, grabbed the sleeve of Doug’s shirt, and tugged him back.
“Step away.”
“Why?”
“He’s…it’s…getting better.”
They moved to the opposite side of the room and watched as the beast began struggling in its restraints. The chains rattled, the rope pulled taut, and it let out an inhuman roar.
“So fast,” Horace whispered. “So…fast.”
“How’s that even possible?”
Horace cleared his throat, trying to think of the simplest way to explain himself. “From what I have learned, the virus can overtake living tissue and synthesize it, but it requires an outrageous amount of protein to stay viable. When introduced to dead tissue the same thing happens, only because the cells are already in a state of decay, the copies are decayed as well, and without sustenance it begins feeding on its own tissue until the copied cells expire. When a life form is alive, however, the end is much different. My best assumption is that the process of overtaking and duplicating living cells allows the virus to reprogram the nucleus, so that without nourishment the cellular activity will slow, using the body to sustain itself while going into a form of hibernation, hence the lethargy and decay. But once the cells are allowed to consume more protein, and so long as there’s still an electrical spark to restart the motor—in this cas
e a functioning brain—the cells are able to regenerate rather quickly.”
Doug shrugged his rifle from behind his back and leveled it, aiming for the beast’s thrashing head.
“Then let’s put the spark out.”
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“I need to get a sample.”
“Uh, Doc, I’m not sure that’s such a great idea. Let me do it.”
Horace complied, reaching into his breast pocket and handing over his scalpel—the same one he used to shear the flesh from a dead animal in the hidden cove in the woods so long ago. Doug took it from him and approached the mutated man.
Without thinking, Horace followed. He stayed close to the youngster, grasping at the back of his shirt to keep his balance. His head started to wobble, dizziness set in, and his stomach lurched. All his muscles clenched and he doubled over. Doug yelled his name as he fell.
His arm flailed, and he struck a pole on the way down. Something tore into his forearm, something sharp, and the pain in his chest and stomach was soon forgotten. As his shoulder hit the ground, he grasped the wound, feeling blood pump between his fingers.
“Doc!”
Hands on him, strong hands pulling him backward. The dizziness lessened and he opened his eyes. The creature that had been Hector was a few feet away from him, struggling against its bonds with its cheek pressed to the ground while that long, gray tongue lapped up the new crimson fluid that now covered the floor. The thing made a groaning sound, as if lost in ecstasy.
Doug lifted him up and leaned him against the wall. Horace glanced to his right, spotting one of the support poles and the jagged hook that jutted from it—probably an old hanging bracket. He gawked, unable to move, as Doug took the first-aid kit from his backpack, cleaned the gash on his arm, and wrapped it with gauze bandages. His whole body felt numb, exhausted. From the way his heart pounded in his chest, he feared the end would come right there, sitting in a pool of his own blood in a dimly lit basement.
Fingers were running up his forearm. He looked over to see red-stained bandages wrapped around him, and then Doug’s hand. His eyes drew upward, looking the young man in the face. Doug stared back, grimacing. The soldier jerked his head, and Horace followed his gaze. It was his upper arm the kid was looking at, a collection of wrinkled flesh, varicose veins, and bruises.
Huge, purple-and-yellow, monstrous bruises.
“What the hell?” said Doug.
Horace patted him on the shoulder with his free arm. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Took a nasty fall the other day is all. I think I may need to take an iron supplement, as well.”
Doug frowned. “You sure?”
“Yes. Now please, help me stand.”
It was an outright lie. As Doug looped an arm underneath him, Horace couldn’t help but feel guilty. There had been no fall. The bruises had just appeared, just like the ones on his legs and sides. Combining that with the constant vomiting and nosebleeds, he could come to only one conclusion—the cancer wasn’t only in his lungs anymore. It was a thought that frightened him to no end.
That fear was quashed by a squeal, like the scream of a wounded child amplified tenfold. He leaned against the wall for support, covered his ears, and watched Doug do the same. His eyes followed the sound, falling on the thing that used to be Hector, which now thrashed all the harder.
But it was the look of the creature that gave him pause. He’d just watched its body heal itself, and yet now new lesions covered it and red-and-yellow pus burst from its maw. Its tongue lapped the air as it screamed, becoming impaled on one of its large, sharp teeth. Pustules erupted all over its exposed flesh, smoking. It then turned to the side and ejected a torrent of stinking fluid from its mouth. After that it closed its eyes and panted.
Doug turned to him, eyes wide. “What the fuck was that?”
Horace looked back at the boy, feeling just as lost. “I don’t know.”
They were outside a few minutes later, slouching against the closed bulkhead and staring at the bright, late-morning sky. Horace downed a few aspirin, closed his eyes, and waited for the pain coursing through him to lessen, at least a little.
Doug shifted beside him, the metal beneath the butts creaking. The youngster’s hand then fell to his knee.
“Doc, how you feel?”
“Better.”
“How’s the arm?”
Horace turned his wrist over. The bleeding seemed to have stopped. The bandages were turning brown now instead of a deep red.
“Better. I may need stitches, though. Do you think you could help with that?”
Doug nodded.
“Good.”
“But Doc…”
“What is it?”
“What happened down there? I mean, why’d Hector—”
“It’s not Hector anymore.”
“Okay, why’d that thing go all crazy like that? Why’d it get better and then suddenly…go backward?”
“I’m not sure, Douglas,” he replied with a sigh.
“But you have an idea, right?”
Horace nodded. “I do. I’m going to need you to go back down there and get a sample for me to prove it, though.”
“Okay.”
He squeezed his eyes shut and stifled a moan. Yes, he did have a theory as to what just happened. He just wasn’t sure if he wanted that theory to be true.
* * *
Corky sat on the edge of Lookout Point, staring at the rocks below. Upon those rocks was a dull stain, barely visible from as high up as he was. He imagined the source of that stain, Stanley, his friend, and remembered voyaging to the gorge to retrieve his body. He’d been limp and broken, a shattered rag doll of a man. Corky would never forget the feel of his dead weight and flopping limbs, the sight of his caved-in skull.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out an item he’d found a few feet away from the body—Stan’s glasses. The frame was bent and the lenses had disintegrated on impact, but he’d kept them just the same. Every time he felt close to forgetting his friend’s face, he’d pull them out, run his fingers along the nosepiece, and force himself to remember. He thought about Hector, the next one to go, the one transforming in the basement of the place they called home, and figured he should probably get something of his, as well.
And here we are again, he thought. Another friend gone, another body on the pile.
His eyes closed and his mind went backward. He recalled the time he and his squat, pudgy friend sat in the garage of an abandoned gas station a few days after their miraculous escape from the diner. I’ve never thought of this before, Hector had said, but life’s gorgeous. I mean really fucking gorgeous. Nothing like the end of the world to put that into perspective, eh? Corky heard the words as if they were being spoken for the first time, and a tear trickled down his cheek.
“Whassa matter Quirky?” asked a quiet voice from beside him.
He glanced over at Shelly, who mirrored his pose, her tiny legs hanging over the cliff. She kicked, knocking bits of stone into the ravine. The thought came to mind that it wouldn’t take much for her to tumble over the side and end up like Stan, crushed and twisted. A shiver ran through him. Her parents had trusted him enough to let him bring their daughter out there all by himself. The least he could do was make sure she didn’t wind up dead.
“Hey Shelly,” he said, “how abouts we get away from the edge a bit?”
“Okay.”
They scooted back on their rumps, sliding easily across the slick grass. Shelly then leaned into Corky, dropping her head of kinky brown curls into his lap. His massive fingers ran through her hair, felt its softness, the physical representation of the innocence. The feeling made him once more think of Stan and Hector, and the tears started rolling once more.
Twisting in his lap, Shelly gazed up at him, her eyes doe-like.
“You’re sad,” she said.
Corky nodded.
The tyke stood up and wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders. She was small a
s an insect to him, her five-year-old frame so tiny and insignificant, but when she pressed her lips to his ear and whispered, “It’s alright, Quirky,” she was more powerful than even the largest of men he’d fought over the years in biker bars all over the country. His own arms then enveloped her small body and he held her, weeping, rocking back and forth, while she sang a nursery rhyme that only he could hear.
After a while his cries turned to laughter. Her grip on him tightened, as if she was afraid he’d float away. “Thank you,” he whispered, and Shelly leaned back, wiping the tears from his beard with her perfect, diminutive hands. With a final sniffle, his sadness left him, and he was left to rinse himself in the aura of her purity.
“Quirky,” said Shelly, “can we look at clouds?”
“Of course, darlin’.”
They reclined on the grassy knoll and stared at the sky, guardian and child, together as one. Shelly was in constant motion, wiggling about as she lay there, pointing and gabbing away.
“That’s a horsey!” she said. “And a crab, and a bunny, and a unicorn! And that one! What’s that look like, Quirky?”
“A lobster, I think. Oh, and look over there. One’s shaped like my old motorcycle.”
“Where?”
“Over there, by the one that looks like a tit…I mean, like a mountain.”
“What’s a tit?”
“It’s nothing, darlin’. Don’t worry none. Slip of the tongue.”
“Oh, okay.”
He twisted his neck and gazed at her cherubic little face, watching her eyes sparkle as they scanned the heavens for the next wondrous image. He reached for her hand and she reached for his, and the moment their fingers touched he wished it were his daughter lying there, that the responsibility for her life fell to him and him alone.
“Quirky?” she said, breaking the brief silence.
Death Springs Eternal Page 16
