Death Springs Eternal

by Robert J. Duperre

  “Um,” said Josh, trying to ignore both the stares and his growing unease. “I got a problem.”

  “What’s that?” asked Pitts.

  “We need a doctor.”

  “Why? You hurt or something?”

  “What? Oh no, not for me. For my girl. I think she’s having the baby.”

  “That right?”

  Josh shrugged. “Think so.”

  “Well, why don’t we go see, eh?”

  Pitts draped a huge arm over his shoulder and started leading him back toward the stairs. “Got some business to take care of, boys,” he yelled to the soldiers waiting in lobby. “Hold off until I get back.” He then leaned into Josh and whispered, “Don’t turn around, don’t look at them, don’t even nod,” into his ear.

  Josh did as he was told. A sudden rush of fear made him stop breathing.

  Once they were in the safe confines of the stairwell, Pitts shoved away from him and gestured for Josh to walk up the steps. He stayed by his side, grunting with each footfall. Josh wanted to say something, to ask what was wrong, but held his tongue.

  They were at the first floor by the time Pitts opened his mouth to speak. “You almost ruined everything,” he muttered. “You shoulda’ stayed upstairs.”

  “I’m confused,” said Josh.

  Pitts shook his head. “Can’t be mad at you. No way you coulda’ known.”

  “Um, okay.”

  The stairs rounded the other way and they kept on walking. Pitts fell back, allowing Josh to guide him through the second level access door. From there it was a straight line to their room. Josh cocked his head, listening for Kyra’s howls, but all was quiet.

  Josh ambled into the room to find Kyra at the table in the kitchenette, sipping a cup of coffee. Jessica sat across from her. It looked like the two of them were in the middle of gossipy lady-talk, what with the way they flipped their hair to the side and grinned at each other. Emily was nowhere to be seen.

  Pitts stepped forward. “I thought there was a problem?” he said, looking perplexed.

  “I think I’m in between right now,” said Kyra. She appeared downright chipper, and her rosy, freckled cheeks glowed in the overhead light. Then her expression soured, her bottom lip jutting out and her nostrils flaring. Quick as a cat, Jessica leapt from her chair and circled the table, kneeling beside her friend and rubbing her back.

  “Okay then,” said Pitts.

  Josh watched as the large man wandered away from him, snatched the radio from his belt, and spoke into it. “Send up Vincent and Cartman,” he said. A voice on the other end squawked in reply. “No,” Pitts growled, his tone commanding. “Just those two for now.”

  With that he re-sheathed the radio, made his way back over to Josh, and watched as Jessica worked to ease Kyra’s pain. They stayed like that for at least five minutes—Josh uncertain what to do, Pitts looking like he had everything under control—until footsteps pounded down the hall.

  “Okay,” said Pitts, “time for the show.”

  Josh’s vision exploded with bright stars, followed by panicked screeching from the two ladies. He toppled over, clutching at the side of his face. Pain surged down from ear to jaw, and when he opened his mouth he heard a click, followed by another burst of pain, as if it’d been dislocated. “What the fuck…” he began.

  “Shut up and don’t move.”

  Though everything in him wanted to fight back, Josh did as he was told. Even with his throbbing head, he recognized something odd about Pitts’s tone. Something almost trustworthy. Almost.

  He hoped he wasn’t grasping at straws.

  Two soldiers rushed into the room, weapons drawn. Josh curled into a ball and turned away from them. Jessica and Kyra continued to cry out in protest. Their horrified, high-pitched rambling filled his head.

  “Is that him?” one of the soldiers asked.

  Pitts answered. “Yup. But he’s mine. You guys get these two outta here.”

  “Both going to the stables?” asked the other one.

  “Nope. The brunette’s going, but the redhead’s the general’s. Get her to Morales’s girls, have her prettied up, and get…who’s in charge of the University crew now?”

  “Fredricks. Or maybe Jackson.”

  “Uh-uh, fuck that. Get in touch with Fredricks, have him find her a doctor. I think she’s in labor.”

  “You don’t want us to do that first?”

  “Negatory, shit-for-brains. Bathgate wants to see her as soon as he can. You gonna make him wait?”

  No answer from the peanut gallery that time.

  Jessica and Kyra had calmed down by then, their disapproval made known by grunts and whimpers. Josh chanced to arch his neck, and he spotted them, arms around each other, huddling against the far wall as if they could use their asses to bust it down and flee. Kyra’s eyes darted from one side of the room to another, until they fell on his prone form. Josh raised an eyebrow and tried to nod without moving too much. That seemed to calm her down a bit. Her shoulders relaxed, her lips parted, and she took a deep breath.

  Josh rolled back over.

  After an argument and a bit of a struggle—mostly from Jessica—the soldiers left the room, Jessica and Kyra in tow. Josh heard Pitts yell after them. “The other women should be in the rec room, along with the kids. Yeah, I know, I know. But as they say, everyone can be sold for something. Get Johnson to handle that. I’ll be down in fifteen.”

  With that he closed the door, and Josh and Pitts were alone.

  “Get up,” the man ordered.

  Josh complied, planting one shaky leg beneath him. When he was standing, Pitts shook his head, took out his sidearm, and charged forward, screaming. Josh yelped and threw his arms over his face, thinking this was it, but nothing struck him. Instead Pitts flew by him and slammed the butt of the pistol into the wall over and over again, screaming, “How’s that you fuck!” the whole time.

  Beads of sweat dripped off the man’s chin, made the corners of his handlebar mustache shimmer. After five good whacks he stepped back, panting, and shoved the gun back in its holster. The armpits of his denim vest were drenched.

  “What…the fuck…” said Josh.

  “Long story,” the man replied, shaking his head. He then turned around, opened the door a crack, and peered out. “Okay,” he said, looking back in Josh’s direction. “They’re busy with the others. Let’s go.”

  Pitts slithered out the door without making a sound, a feat that seemed nearly impossible given his size. Josh followed him, tiptoeing around the corner and down an adjacent hallway. Screams and pleas for mercy came from behind them.

  “What the hell’s going on?” asked Josh.

  Pitts wheeled around. “Shut up!” He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder, at the door marked STAIRS, and put a finger to his lips.

  Once in the stairwell, with the door shut firmly behind them, Pitts finally spoke. “Listen, kid, sorry for thumping you back there. Had to make it seem real, y’know?”

  Josh grunted, massaging his sore jaw. “No, I don’t.”

  “Shit’s just been real fucked up lately,” Pitts continued as if he hadn’t heard Josh speak. “A lotta shit happening I ain’t down with. What with Bathgate going all gaga over your lady to handing over the blacks to Handley to Jackson’s fucking meat market tomorrow night, I just don’t think I can take it no more.”

  Josh’s mind reeled, the sore spot between his eyes pounding. He grabbed Pitts by the vest pocket and tugged. The larger man, seemingly taken aback by the act of physical confrontation, actually stopped moving.

  “Please, just stop,” Josh pleaded. “What’s this gotta do with me? With us?”

  Pitts dropped a large hand on his shoulder. “You know why I was sent to that room?” he asked.

  “Of course not. Duh.”

  “Well, it seems the general, the guy who put this whole organization together, has an eye out for your lady. So I was supposed to come get her, then get rid of you in the process.”

  J
osh gulped.

  “That’s right,” said Pitts. “If I wasn’t having a crisis of conscience today, you’d be one dead-ass fuck.”

  “And what about the others?” Josh asked, in shock, his voice barely a whisper.

  “The Meat Market. That’s what all the boys’re calling it. Getting all the girls together—from your group, and a bunch brought back from Pittsburgh around the same time you got here—and selling ‘em off.”

  “Holy fuck.”

  “I know. Even with all I seen, that’s some fucked-up-shit. Ain’t right, no see, no way, no how.”

  Pitts twirled around and started storming down the steps again. Josh stayed on his heels, peppering him with questions. Once more his mind swirled with horrible images of what would happen to his friends, to his love, his unborn child, only they were new scenarios of torment this time. He actually wished for the old ones to come back.

  When they reached the ground floor, Pitts opened the door slightly, peered through the crack, and then urged Josh to join him outside. They exited into a brick-walled alley lined with garbage. In the dim radiance coming from streetlamps a hundred feet away, the knotted forms of the stuffed plastic bags looked like discarded bodies.

  “Listen,” said Pitts, his tone hushed. He pointed down the alley in the opposite direction, the side bathed in darkness. “Stay that way. The south end of the city isn’t lit up yet. Hide out for the night, and tomorrow. When the sun goes down, the boys’ll have their fun. That’ll leave only the COC guys on patrol. A mistake if you ask me, they ain’t all that trustworthy, but hey, they didn’t…” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, don’t let no one see you, and get the fuck out the city quick as you can.”

  Josh shook his head. “Can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not leaving them behind. I can’t.”

  Pitts chuckled. “Your funeral, fucker.”

  “So says you.”

  He started walking away, saying, “I don’t care what you do, just stay outta sight until tomorrow night. Got it?”

  “And what’re you gonna do?”

  Turning to him, his air serious, Pitts said, “I’m getting the fuck outta dodge, hombre. This place ain’t for me no more.”

  With that, the man turned the corner and joined a throng of soldiers as they passed by. Josh took that as his hint and ran the other way, heading into the darkness.

  CHAPTER 14

  A TALE OF TWO KINGDOMS

  Allison’s eyes gazed into nothingness. Tom snapped his fingers, waved his hand in front of them, backed up and made quick forward motions trying to scare her, but still she didn’t budge. It was as if she’d gone catatonic on him.

  He slumped down in the chair opposite her and tugged on his virtually nonexistent hair. Allison hadn’t spoken in going on four days now—ever since he’d betrayed their friends. When that was all over, after the shots had been fired and the men who’d come to treat him as one of their own had been slaughtered, she’d retreated within herself, sealing him out in the process. Nothing seemed to break through to her, not even Shelly. The little girl would lay in her lap, crying for mommy to wake up and play with her, but there was no response. She simply sat there, mindlessly chewed food or sucked on a straw when they were placed in her mouth, soiled herself, and stared straight ahead. Even though she existed in a physical sense, she’d become dead inside.

  Just like the rest of the world.

  Tom shook his head. He felt tears coming on, and he lifted his chin to stare at his wife once more, allowing guilt to churn in his gut. I will have this, his free will demanded. I deserve it.

  But, of course, it didn’t last. As soon as those pangs of human emotion entered his psyche, there was his master, returning to his mental web and clearing the detritus away. You will not worry yourself with such uselessness, it said. You have a greater duty to perform, one that ends with you by my side.

  Tom nodded, though not a part of him wanted to.

  Someone rapped on the door. Shelly, her head buried in her mother’s thighs, looked up. She’d been crying, and her puffy eyes glimmered in the soft lighting. Tom glanced at the clock. 11:13 PM. She should be asleep already, he thought. It’s past her bedtime.

  Then those thoughts disappeared.

  He stood up without looking at his daughter again, crossed the room, and opened the door. A pair of soldiers stood there—young kids, no more than Doug Lockenshaw’s age, a realization that caused another swell of shame for the alien conscience to obliterate.

  “Mr. Steinberg?” one of the soldiers asked.

  Tom nodded.

  “Please come with us, sir. The general will see you now.”

  “Will do. One moment please.”

  Tom strolled back across the room. He lifted Shelly from beneath her arms, stood her up straight, and brushed back her hair. He then did the same with Allison, whose body responded like some huge action figure. After he flattened the wrinkles in her blouse and skirt (which he’d labored to dress her in), he knelt in front of his daughter once more.

  “Darling, we must present our best face to the powerful man,” he said. “Do you understand?”

  “You’re not daddy,” Shelly replied. “You’re Sam. I don’t like you.”

  “Don’t be silly.” He pinched his cheeks between his fingers and pulled her face close to his. “I am your daddy. I always have been, I always will be. It’s best you remember that.”

  Shelly recoiled, moving behind her mother’s legs and hiding there.

  “That’s better,” Tom said.

  I love you baby girl, forever and ever, his mind screamed, but it was quickly silenced.

  He walked out of the renovated apartment complex he’d been calling home, tugging Allison along behind him, and followed the soldiers across the street. Streetlights shone down, turning the road into a checkerboard of light and darkness. There were no automobiles parked at the curb, giving the space a wide-open feel. He heard raucous laughter coming from a brightly illuminated building, along with the constant tinkle of glasses clanked together. His mind retreated backward, recalling the times he’d sit alone in the back of his federally supplied town car, sipping on his scotch and puffing a cigar. Other circumstances came to mind, occasions when he’d gone to bars much like this one, using the dim and deafening settings to craft all manner of surreptitious deals with powerful men. He’d been so confident then, so full of answers. Now he was nothing. If not for his master, he imagined he’d be a lot like Allison—an empty shell.

  These were his thoughts as the guides escorted his family up the steps of the Richmond Town Hall. It was a beautiful building, capturing Virginia’s rural roots with its wide white columns while simultaneously representing the height of modern urban architecture with its penchant for oversized windows and ornate brickwork. The two boy soldiers held open the front doors, and Tom pulled his family through.

  The office they eventually arrived at was large but sparsely furnished. A few framed documents adorned the wall, along with three amazingly detailed watercolor paintings of a woman with red hair and green eyes. There was a middle-aged man sitting behind the desk, a man of below-average height and attractiveness. The only thing that stood out about him was his eyes, which were achingly gray, staring at Tom from beneath a head of mostly white hair. When this man nodded, the soldiers who’d brought them in offered a brisk salute, backed out of the room, and closed the door. In the recesses of Tom’s mind, his master expressed his approval.

  This is the one who would be king, the voice said. Proceed with caution.

  Tom turned to his family. He lowered Allison into a chair against the wall and crossed her hands over her lap, manipulating her like a doll. Then he gestured for Shelly to sit beside her, which the young girl did, nestling her head of curly hair into the crook of her mother’s arm, hiding her face.

  “That’s my girls,” said Tom. “Now sit tight.”

  He faced the man-in-charge once more. Neither said a word. Tom felt o
verwhelmed with nostalgia, and his old self started to resurface. This wasn’t his first go-round with a man of influence, and the quiet, sizing-up moments were what he excelled at.

  Finally, the man behind the desk flinched. His eyes dropped and he cleared his throat.

  “So,” he said, “you must be Thomas Steinberg.”

  Tom cleared his throat as well—a reciprocal gesture, demonstrating a shared state of mind—and replied, “I am.”

  “You look different than I remember.”

  “I’ve lost a few pounds, but I am still me.”

  “I realize that,” the man said sternly, as if he’d just been insulted. “I was simply commenting on how much you’ve changed.”

  “I hope it is for the better.”

  “Not entirely.”

  “Opinions are opinions, or so they say.”

  The man nodded.

  “So you know my name,” said Tom, “but I haven’t been given the pleasure of yours…”

  The man stood up, again considering Tom with those chilly gray orbs. “General Bathgate,” he said. “Commander General of the Soldiers of Newfound Freedom, leader of the New United Brotherhood.”

  “Pleased to meet you, General,” Tom answered.

  Bathgate grunted, walked out from behind his desk, and clasped his hands behind his back. “Time will tell if the feeling’s mutual,” he stated. “However, many of my reservations may be resolved if you answer a question.”

  “Which is?”

  “Why the fuck did you demand to see me?”

  Tom grinned. “As presumably the last member of not only the Cabinet, but the entire United States Government left standing, it would be my duty to meet with the military leaders and discuss an appropriate plan of act—”

  The general silenced him with a wave of his hand.

  “The US doesn’t exist anymore,” he growled. “You hold no sway here.”

  “That may be so,” said Tom, “but—”

  “But nothing. Right now, the three branches of government have as much meaning as the power structure of ancient Mesopotamia. You’re a representative of a dead culture, Mr. Steinberg.”