Death Springs Eternal

by Robert J. Duperre

  Corky scrambled to his knees and grabbed Doug by the shoulders. “Stop it!” he screamed. “We can’t do nothing!”

  “Bullshit!”

  Doug tried to get away again, but Corky had a firm grip on the back of his pants and again dragged him backward. Then he spotted another figure and froze. It was Horace, on the other side of the path, hiding in the grasses. Corky was reminded of the first time he’d seen the old man, when the fleshies were marching Horace and his young partner across that snowy field. On that day Corky had felt no fear—not of death, not of failure, not anything. He’d stormed down the hill guns blazing. But now he was frozen solid, watching from the shadows as his friends were gunned down or dragged away. He didn’t have his revolver any more. It had gone up in flames, just like everything else in the hotel. His entire being wanted to rush down there, to let history repeat itself, but his body wouldn’t move. Deep down, he knew it would be useless. Against ten armed men, they didn’t stand a chance.

  And neither did Horace. The old timer, seemingly giving up, stepped out of the grasses, holding his hands up high. All but one of the soldiers hesitated. The one who didn’t fired a single shot. Horace crumpled into a ball, holding his gut. Doug screamed, and the sound of gunfire as he volleyed round after round at the unwitting soldiers was deafening. Corky covered his ears with his hands. When Doug stopped to reload, he grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him.

  “C’mon, kid!” he screamed. “They’re gone! We gotta go!”

  Without waiting to see if Doug would follow, Corky turned tail and sprinted back into the grasses. He caught a glimpse of something shiny, then a sharp object ripped into his bicep. That’s when he saw the coils, hidden in the grass, following the same path he was running. Razor wire. There was fucking razor wire across their path.

  He kept his distance from the barbs, his head down to try and stay out of sight as bullets whizzed through the air all around him. In a matter of seconds the grass ended, and he almost ran headfirst into a tree. He turned to the side to avoid it and lost his footing. Then the land ended, and he found himself tumbling head over feet down a steep embankment. He splashed into a muck-filled body of water a second later.

  He lifted his head out of the mess, spit out a mouthful of foul water, and glanced up the rise. Doug appeared, skillfully racing down the hill while sliding on the wet leaves and mud. He caught Corky’s glance and then raced past him. Corky got clumsily to his feet—his legs hurt like the dickens—and chased after him.

  They ran for a long time, weaving in and out of trees and avoiding any open spaces, until the shouts of the pursuing soldiers were but echoes in the distance. Corky took that moment to collapse, falling to his knees in the dirt and wiping at his mud-caked face with equally dirty hands.

  Doug skidded to a halt, circled back, and started bolting this way and that, like a chef preparing dinner service all by himself. He poked his head around trees, glanced up at the branches, dropped to the ground and shuffled forward on his elbows. Tears ran down the kid’s face.

  “Dougie, they’re gone. We’re safe.”

  “Bullshit!” the kid wailed. “Fucking bullshit!”

  “I know, kid. It is.”

  “NO! BULLSHIT FUCKING FUCKING BULLSHIT!”

  Corky stood and approached him. Doug dropped the rifle to his side and swayed in place. Corky wrapped his arms around him, and then the kid’s legs gave out. Corky gently lowered him to the ground, squeezing him tight while he bawled.

  “It’s gonna be okay, Dougie.”

  “I’ll…fucking…kill ‘em…” he stammered.

  “I know. I know.”

  Corky looked up at the sky while Doug cried. It was just him and the boy now. All their friends were gone. All of them.

  And he had not a clue what to do about it.

  CHAPTER 13

  IT ALL COMES TOGETHER

  -1-

  The moon was a sliver, emitting a pale, ghostly radiance over the countryside, transforming the advancing army into an undulating sea of flesh, teeth, and bone. The many become one, the one become many. They moved quickly across the open field, at home in the darkness, falling in and out of focus with each lumbering stride. The air was saturated with their panting, their grunts, their shrieks of hunger. Every so often one would fall, drained from lack of nourishment, only to be devoured by its brethren, replenishing them, giving them added strength. Even perverted, nature was persistent in its stranglehold on order.

  At least this was something Sam could respect, for he desired order more than anything—order in the system, his plan, his thoughts. The first one was easy. Existence was existence, forever, indefinable, unchanging. The other two were a bit harder to get a firm grasp on. The best path to victory never presented itself easily, and it was only made more difficult by the constant nagging of his body’s prior resident.

  That in and of itself presented a flaw in his thinking. The system had been the same for his every incarnation, at least as much as his cellular memory could remember of those long-ago times. Something inside him said that never had a conscience held on this long, been this much of an annoyance. The ghost of the entity that called itself Ken simply refused to go away, no matter how much he tried to smother it with his corrosive essence.

  The presence of this other made him doubt his actions, his motivations. He felt joy, and sadness, and anger, and flippancy, when by all accounts he should feel nothing at all. These were all sensations that had been ripped from him, back in a time he no longer remembered. To experience them now—even if they were false, an unwanted gift from another—ate away at his black soul, caused his hatred to grow.

  Perhaps that is not a bad thing.

  He watched his children cross the field and felt a twinge of jealousy—another emotion he could do without. He envied their single-mindedness, their absolute belief in one thing and one thing only. Him.

  Ah, but you will feel this as well. It will be yours. After you do what must be done.

  Grunting, he slipped inside the upper hatch of the giant beast of steel (It’s called a tank, or a Bradley, the other whispered), crawled past the turret controls, and slid into the driver’s seat. The engine rumbled to life and he checked the gauges. Fuel tank half-empty. He would need to fill it soon, from the massive casks of gasoline strapped to the vehicle’s outer hide. He grinned as the other sank away, ashamed that its worldly knowledge had allowed Sam to realize the shortcomings of motorized transportation and take precautions. For as much as the presence annoyed him, at least it had its uses.

  He pressed the gears of the mechanical beast and felt it lurch forward. The hairs on his arms stood on end. It was excitement he felt—he was close to his destination, perhaps three days away if he kept at it. There’d been no stopping since he made the decision to leave Savannah shortly after gleaning the necessary information from Hawthorne. He didn’t stop even though the hunger burned him inside and out. His flesh was starting to develop lesions, his joints beginning to ache. Deep down he knew the towns they passed through contained unseen treasures hidden in houses, walking meals that would easily caress the pain inside him, make it all go away. But his excitement—and desperation for finality—overwhelmed his bodily needs.

  The vehicle rolled across the land on its treads, plowing over any obstacles in its path with ease. He was again putting distance between his children and himself, and for a moment felt frustration that their bodies had altered too greatly to use any of the other means of transportation he’d secreted away back before storms turned the winter into a muddy wasteland. It would have been much quicker that way, not to mention odd—a legion of atrocities a hundred thousand strong, zipping up the coastal highways like the road mutants from Mad Max.

  He chuckled at the borrowed memory and then grabbed a knife from the console beside him and stabbed himself in the leg.

  Stop doing this, he ordered, blood drenching his pants. He closed his eyes and soaked up the pain, letting it give him clarity.

&nb
sp; And in this clarity, this retreating within, he discovered something amazing. The Netherworld stretched out before him, an eternal landscape of corridors and windows, glowing, hazy, absolute. The whole of the structure swelled, growing larger, more undefined. Its passageways intertwined and separated until they ceased to exist. In a matter of moments there were no obstructions anywhere, just a collection of radiant portals floating through a seemingly endless ethereal fog. Those beyond his reach, the gateways immune to his influence, sank lower, pushing against the fabric of this new reality like thousands of wanton sperm.

  Sam gaped, awed by the spectacle. Flecks of light danced in his vision, blurring the line between the tangible and intangible. His private haunt had never done this before. Never before had access been so limitless, so immediate.

  It could only mean one thing: all the particulars in this cosmic game had gathered, including the witch and his puppet, whose gateway shimmered black and red like a burnt sheet of glass. He was there as well, the one whose death would bring about the world Sam had long dreamt of. Everything had come together. Finally it could all be over.

  His eyes snapped open. He stood in his seat, threw open the hatch above him, and howled at the starry night sky. And as he sat back down and started the machine moving again he realized there was something he hadn’t seen in the Netherworld this time around. His mind reached out, scanning every level of existence. His grin widened, so far he felt his jawbone crack and displace.

  The polar force was nowhere to be found, as if it had blinked out of existence altogether.

  It all comes together, he thought, and shoved the throttle forward.

  -2-

  First Airman Robert Lumley stood before the general. The short, older man stared at him, fingers steepled beneath his nose, eyes alert and threatening. The general then sighed, sat back in his chair, and cracked his knuckles.

  “I wanted them here immediately,” the general said. “That was ten days ago.”

  Cody Jackson, standing behind Lumley, stepped forward. “I told him as soon as you told me, sir. He knew.”

  “Is that true?”

  A lump in his throat, Lumley nodded.

  “And why did I have to send an armed company to finally get you to comply?”

  “It was my fault, sir,” replied Lumley. “We’re still in the middle of Registration. We had tons of paperwork to go over, and the interviews took longer than I anticipated. It takes time to figure out who has what talents, what training. But I was planning on getting you the lists by next week, at the latest.”

  It was an outright lie. The interviews were finished and info sheets filed—they had been for five days already. He began fidgeting, wringing his fingers together behind his back. He knew this was a risk—probably a stupid one—but one he felt compelled to take.

  There was just something special about this group from Pittsburgh, something pure and endearing he wished to protect. They cared for one another, defended one another, which was quite different from what he’d become used to lately. The first time he met with John Terry, the man had thrown a fit about the segregated housing situation. The way he looked in those moments—his wrinkled brow creased, his beady eyes shooting death rays into Robert’s brain—told him all he needed to know. The old man went so far as to set up daily treks across the campus to visit those from their party deemed undesirable by the establishment, as if to keep them separate would be to forsake a part of their very souls. This was a codger who wouldn’t give in to the status quo, even if it meant he was putting himself in harm’s way. Robert admired him, and the old cop, greatly. They reminded him of why he’d joined the Air Force in the first place—to share in a brotherhood, to make a difference, which was, to his way of thinking, the complete opposite of what General Bathgate sought to accomplish.

  So he kept hedging, pushing back the disclosure of information, even threatening some of the men under his command to keep them quiet. His guilt impelled him to protect them, the realization that he’d spent so much time looking the other way when he knew, just knew, that underhanded dealings were going on. Though he wasn’t in the general’s inner circle and henceforth only told what he needed to know, the signs were everywhere. Hell, simply the presence of Jacob Handley should’ve been all the evidence he needed. The reverend’s Church of Creation had made a name for itself in the days leading up to the end of civilization, with cable news networks picking up the crazy bastard ranting and raving, talking about how the Rapture was upon us, brought about by the world’s tolerance and acceptance of all but the Master Race. Robert had scoffed at the time, thinking the guy a wacko, but now there they both were, moving in the same groups, living in the same places, for nearly half a year.

  It was enough to make him sick to his stomach. He had to fight back, had to defend rather than facilitate harm. If he didn’t he would bring shame to the ideals represented by the uniform he still wore proudly. And that would be unforgivable.

  The general grabbed a pen and tapped it on the paper before him. “What do you take me for, Bob?”

  A bead of sweat dripped down Robert’s nose. “What do you mean, sir?”

  “We know all about what you’re doing. A couple of your men—trustworthy men—came to me yesterday saying that registration was complete and you’ve been stalling.”

  “It’s not true,” said Robert, trying to stay calm.

  Bathgate lifted the paper he’d been tapping and waved it at him. “That so? Then why do I hold in my hand a comprehensive register of all one hundred eighty-seven individuals, including place of employment, schooling, military service, arrest record, and whatnot?” He held the paper up to his face. “Hm. This one’s name is Craig Broussard, EMT technician, and his greatest desire is to someday discover a cure for RF, if only he had the intelligence to pull it off.” He leveled his gaze at Robert. “You even asked hypotheticals, Bob. Come on now.”

  Robert said nothing.

  “Tell me why. Tell me why you disobeyed a direct order.”

  His lips remained sealed.

  Bathgate gestured to Sergeant Jackson, who undid the latch on his holster and pulled his sidearm. Jackson pressed the cold steel barrel to Robert’s temple. Robert squeezed his eyes shut and prayed.

  The general’s voice rose above the clamor of his thoughts. “I have no issue with allowing the sergeant to blow what few brains you have left from your head, Bob. You know this. That’s always the price of treason, a tradition the SNF carries on.”

  Robert nodded.

  “So talk to me. Convince me to give you another chance.”

  Robert slowly opened his eyes. The general was leaning against his desk, arms folded over his chest. His tone had taken on a softer quality, and the way those gray eyes stared at him—warm now, not cold and oppressive like before—told him he might have a chance.

  “Honesty is best, correct?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. I held back in the hopes that I could figure out a way to get them out of the city.”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t want them executed.”

  “And what makes you think that would happen?”

  Robert shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His jaw trembled as he spoke. “Um…rumors, sir. I’ve heard things.”

  “Like what?”

  “That you selectively pick survivors, only those with long-term potential. The old are exterminated, as are the minorities. I respect these people. I didn’t want that to happen to them.”

  Bathgate exhaled, shook his head, and then signaled Sergeant Jackson with two fingers. Jackson re-sheathed his firearm and stepped back to his spot at the wall.

  “I’m sorry you heard those things,” the general said. “Yes, there is an ounce of truth there, but it’s been greatly exaggerated. Commoners are apt to do such a thing, especially the way things are now. I want you to do me a favor. Go take a look outside.”

  Robert complied, heading to the window to the side of the general’s
desk and peering through the blinds. It was a bright day, and people were busy working on the streets below.

  “What do you see?”

  “People.”

  “What kind of people?”

  “Huh?”

  Bathgate frowned. “What nationalities are down there?”

  Robert peered again through the glass. He saw dark skin intermixed with white, slanted eyes as well as oval. He almost kicked himself for being so stupid.

  “We have plenty of minorities here, Bob. Just not many blacks, if any at all. But look at the way they lived before the world ended, killing each other every day, residing under the worst conditions in the worst neighborhoods. Think of the places we’ve gone on our travels. Think of the locations where we’ve picked up survivors. Were any of them highly populated with blacks before?”

  “I guess not.”

  “That’s right. And they obviously aren’t now. And as for killing the elderly, I’m sure that RF and the Wraiths did that quite fine, thank you very much. It took someone strong and capable to live through that shit.”

  Robert hung his head in shame. He felt so embarrassed he almost hoped Bathgate would have Jackson put him out of his misery. Instead, a heavy, comforting hand gripped his shoulder.

  “All is forgiven,” the general said. “I don’t fancy losing another good man, especially over a misunderstanding like this.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Now if you would, please bring our visitors inside.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Robert walked out the door and down the hall. John and Katy Terry, along with Jamie Forrest, sat in a line of folding chairs in front of the old Tax Collector’s office, flanked by armed soldiers. When Robert waved to them they stood up, appearing stalwart and confident in the face of what they surely thought was impending doom.