Dead Of Winter (The Rift Book II) (26 page)

“Fuck them, and fuck you,” he muttered.

The kid sighed. “That attitude ain’t gonna get you nowhere.”
          

“Yeah?
Well fuck you again.”

The soldier turned and made his way to the door. “Sorry, man, but I don’t
got
time for this right now. If you wanna be a little bitch, you can do it by yourself. See ya.”

He walked out. The door clicked shut behind him. “That’s right!” Tom bellowed. “You leave! Go away now, soldier-boy! And don’t come back till you’re damn sure you can handle me!”

He paused. For a moment he felt like something had brushed his ear from the inside. He shook his head. Nothing happened. He continued his tirade.

“And one more thing, fucker!
You haven’t seen the face of death!
I have!
He’s coming for you! He’s coming for
all of you!
”

Calm, my child.

He heard it that time and fell silent. His eyes darted around the room, searching for a form, an outline, a skeleton in the corner; anything that could speak to him. When none appeared he whispered, “Who’s there?”

The answer came with a surge of heat that set his brain ablaze. Fireworks burst in his eyes. He screamed and thrashed about as the pain intensified. The cable that restrained him burrowed into his arms, legs, and chest.

When the sensation rescinded he slumped in the chair, held upright by the restraints, and panted. Sweat dripped from his nose and chin. His hair was sopping. He opened his mouth and the wheeze of a dying man leaked out.

With great effort he was able to slow his breathing. He sucked air into his nose and exhaled through his mouth. It worked. He started to feel normal again.

Normal
, he realized, for the first time in quite a while.

One corner of his mouth twisted upward. He leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. Relieved sobs escaped his throat.

“Hello,” he whispered.

The burning sensation returned, only this time he didn’t fight against it. Instead, he let it wash over him. His body warmed and the fogginess of his thoughts diminished. Beneath the liquid churn of blood in his brain the presence whispered to him once more.

Calm, my child.

“Yes,” said Tom. His voice was low and choked with joyous sniveling.

Excellent.

“Why did you leave me? Never mind. I don’t care. What do you need me to do?”

The manifestation of his long-departed master spoke to him and he listened. In no time at all Tom Steinberg was smiling.

*
 
 
*
 
 
*

Corky led Horace, Stan, and Hector down the hall. He found Doug sitting cross-legged in front of the door, his rifle balanced on his knees. His eyes were closed.

“
Yo
, Doug, what’s up?” Corky asked.

The young marine’s eyelids fluttered open. He looked tired. No, that wasn’t it. Not tired.
Annoyed
was more like it.

“Just listening for trouble,” he replied.

Hector jabbed his thumb towards the room.
“He being a bitch,
amigo
?”

Doug sighed. “He was.
Went nuclear for a bit.
Was screaming and shit.”

“I know,” said Horace. “We could hear the racket all the way on the other side of the building.”

Corky placed his ear to the door. The wood felt cool to his hot flesh. “I don’t hear
nothing
,” he said.
“The guy alive?
You didn’t kill him, did you Dougie?”

Doug rolled his eyes. “No,” he said in a faux-whine, “but don’t tempt me.”

This brought a laugh from Corky. It hurt his nose to do so and soon he deteriorated into a fit of squealing. Stan put a hand on his back but he swiped it away.

“I’m good,” he said, forcing a smile. “Don’t worry ‘bout me none.” He breathed in through his mouth. “How about we say hey to our new friend?”

“Go for it,” Doug said. “Mind if I take a breather? Join the others for a bit?”

“Go for it, kiddo.”

Doug stood up and ambled away. Corky turned the knob and cracked the door. It was quiet as a tomb in there. With the way the guy had been screaming he guessed he would’ve heard him panting like a dog, but there was nothing. For a moment he feared the dude might have shrieked himself to death.

He stepped into the room and that fear subsided. The guy was most definitely alive. He was tied to a chair, staring at Corky as he entered. His eyes, surrounded by deep black rings, seemed to radiate sadness. The flesh on his cheeks drooped and his chest appeared sunken. To Corky, Shelly’s father looked like an old man deep in the clutches of anorexia. Despite that, the distinct feeling that he’d seen this guy somewhere before entered his mind. He simply couldn’t figure out how that could be the case.

Hector and Horace followed him in. They flanked the detained man on both sides.
Hector’s
fists were firmly planted on his hips. He scowled. Horace took a kinder approach – he bent over the guy, wiped sweat from his face, and offered him a drink of water.

The man didn’t respond. His gaze never left Corky’s.

“So, what’s up?” Corky said after the uncomfortable silence lasted a bit longer than he liked.

The man shrugged. He muttered something under his breath.

“Huh?” said Corky. “Couldn’t hear you, bud.”

The eyes staring at him widened. “Sorry,” he said, “about your face.”

The calm in his voice took him back a step. This didn’t sound like the same man who’d been hollering at the top of his lungs only fifteen minutes earlier. This man sounded dignified and under control. And once more, Corky thought, familiar.

“Well? Do you accept my apology?”

Corky snickered and scratched his head. “Um, okay.”

They stared at each other for some time. Mystification ruled Corky’s thoughts. The whole episode seemed so unreal. The calm, sad expression never left the man’s face.

Silence persisted. Corky grabbed another chair, yanked it across the room, and straddled it, facing the man. He tapped his foot, not knowing what to say.

The man strapped to the chair then smiled and said, “You’re a very large man, you know.”

Corky giggled and dropped his face into the crook of his arm. His ruined nose rubbed against his elbow. He winced.

“Once again,” said Shelly’s father, himself wincing, “I am truly sorry about your face.”

Corky nodded. “Hurts like a bitch.”

“I can imagine.”

“Bet you could.”

“Listen, I really am sorry. I haven’t been myself lately. The stress has been getting to me. I mean, everything went to hell and we ran here, where we thought it was safe. Then you guys show up, and I could just imagine it being the same here as it had been when we fled
Washington
. I didn’t want my family to be hurt. I’m sure you understand this.”

Corky nodded, stuck out his hand, remembered the guy was tied up, and retracted it. “Corky,” he said.
“Corky
Ludlow
.”

The man chuckled and replied, “Tom Steinberg.”

“Oh, shit,” Corky said. In that moment everything snapped into place. He glanced at Horace and noted that the old man’s eyes were bulging. His mouth had dropped open. Hector, meanwhile, only scowled.

Corky stood up, shoved his hand in the pocket of his jeans, and pulled out his knife. He flicked it open and approached Tom. The confined man didn’t flinch. Hector, however, did. As Corky leaned over and lowered his knife the portly Mexican leapt at him. He was too late. By the time his shoulder made contact with Corky’s chest the deed had been done. Tom’s restraints were severed.

“
What’chu
doing, man!”
Hector screamed. “You’re just as
loco
as that dude!”

Corky pushed his friend away. “
Yo
, chill out,
Hec
. Ain’t
nothing
wrong here. You know who this guy is?”

Hector faced Tom, who now stood, coiling the cable that had held him around his wrist.

“No,” he replied.

“That,” said
Corky,
“is Tom Steinberg.” He looked at the man.
“Secretary of State, right?”

Tom shook his head.
“Speaker of the House.”

To which Corky replied, “Oh, yeah.”

“But…but…” stammered Hector.

Horace placed a calming hand on his shoulder. “
It’s
okay, Hector,” he said. “I can confirm this. He is who he says he is.”

“You know him?”

Horace glanced at Corky, then at Tom, and then shrugged. “Not really. But I had seen him many times on television. He is definitely much thinner now than he had been, but it is most certainly him.”

Corky mulled this over for a minute, cocked his head, and looked over at Tom. “Yeah, you really don’t look well, dude. What happened to you? Last time I saw you on
tv
you were round as Rush Limbaugh.”

Tom brought his hands up and frowned. “Must not be eating too well,” he replied.

After a short yet serious conversation they made their way for the door. Hector seemed to chill out a bit, though grudgingly, and Horace gained an uncertain, distrustful air. When Corky prodded him as to what was wrong, the old man said, “I’m just thinking,” and shut his mouth.

Corky didn’t care. Even though it always seemed to find him, in truth he hated conflict. He wanted nothing more than to be friends with everyone, no matter the cost. There had been many nights in his past –
early
nights, mind you, before the liquor flowed – where he’d forgiven even the most spiteful comments because of his desire for everything to
Just
Be Okay.
So when Tom had apologized and appeared to mean it he instantly wanted any bad feelings shoved under the rug.

This man had helped create that beautiful creature down the hall, after all. And he was a
Republican
, for Christ’s sake, the House Speaker for the last nine years, and Corky thought himself nothing if not a loyal conservative. Despite the horrible wound to his nose he had the feeling he would grow to enjoy this man’s company. Hopefully, with time, everyone else would too.

Can’t we all just get along?
was
Corky’s motto.

They exited the room. Horace, talking again, railed into Tom about failed policies when it came to worldwide pandemics, a subject to which Tom developed a morose expression, his lip jutting out like a child. They walked on ahead with Hector trailing, heading back to the room where the rest of their friends – and Tom’s family – were stowed away.

Corky paused when he closed the door. He glanced to his right. Stan was there, sulking, his back pressed against the wall.