Dead Of Winter (The Rift Book II) (36 page)

“Nice catch,” someone said.

He glanced up and saw Colin holding the woman who’d captured his heart. His expression was solemn and he nodded to his friend before turning around and hustling toward the running automobiles. Jessica leaned on his shoulder for support.

Josh followed on their heels, holding tight to Zachary. He lost his footing on the ice and slid into a split. The tendons in his crotch flared. He threw his head back and squealed. Skimming his legs to the side he glanced up to see the mutant dogs only a few feet away. They were a horde of wild things, paying as much attention to snapping at each other as pursuing their prey.

The closest one leapt at him. He held his arm in front of his face and its maw closed, biting down hard. Its long, sharp teeth pierced his thick jacket and gouged his flesh. He writhed in pain and thrashed his hand from side to side, trying to get it off. It wouldn’t budge. Its jaws were locked tight.

Struggling to his feet he dragged the beast backward and told a bawling Zachary to hold on tight. He then let go of the toddler. Another monster bit into his ankle. He kicked that one aside in a feat of adrenaline. The unseen attacker let loose a wounded cry. With the fingers of his free hand bent into a claw he came down on the misshapen face of the beast still gnawing his arm. His thumb and forefinger found its eyes and he squeezed. The thing squealed as warm fluid rushed over his hand. Eventually it let go and he was able to back up enough so that when the now-blind creature tried to snap again he was out of reach.

The blinded beast whipped into a fury. It struck out at its own kind as they tried to pass it, allowing Josh to make some headway. He heard snapping bone and the liquid churn of tearing flesh behind him. His heart raced. Zachary sobbed and shook against his chest. The car seemed so far away.

More of the mutant dogs came at him from all sides. They approached quickly yet cautiously, heads low, haunches raised. Those waiting in the SUVs cried out for him to hurry. He tried to run but all he could manage was a hobbling shamble. He felt teeth nipping at his heels.
I’m not gonna make it!
his
mind cried.

Something grabbed the hood of his sweatshirt and yanked him backward. He almost toppled over. It took all his remaining strength to keep his feet pressing onward.

He squeezed his eyes shut, shouted, and then lurched. Whatever held him suddenly released its grip and he stumbled. He braced Zachary in case he fell and peeked behind him. There was a ruckus of activity. Colin had the beast on the ground and flailed wildly, bringing the knife in his hand down time and again, shredding its hide. Colin glanced up. His glasses were cockeyed on his face, his blonde hair disheveled, but he was smiling.

“Get him to the car!” Colin screamed. “I’m right behind you!”

Josh swallowed hard and followed orders. Screams spewed in the air behind him. When he reached the open door of the SUV he basically threw Zachary at his hysterical mother and then turned around.

There was Colin, surrounded on all sides by ravenous, plague-altered canines. He spun in a circle and lashed out with the knife at any who drew near to him. “Fuck you!” he roared. “And fuck you, too!”

Josh started toward his friend. He had visions of making a dash for it, of saving him the way he had back behind the O’Connor farm oh so long ago. This fantasy was shattered when he swiveled his head from one side to the other. There were still more beasts – hundreds of them – emerging from the woods. They stalked him like a calf separated from its mother, only half a football field away from where he stood. If they chose to charge they’d all be goners.

He looked back at the car, saw Kyra’s horrified expression as she sat in the driver’s seat, and then back at his friend. Their eyes met. In the early-evening moonlight the tears on Colin’s cheeks glistened like a stream of diamonds.

“Get out of here!” Colin screamed, gesturing wildly with the hand not holding the knife.

Josh found himself with two choices – help Colin and sign a death warrant for himself and everyone else or hop in the car and drive away, leaving his childhood friend to die.

He chose the second option.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. The beasts surrounding Colin leapt at once, burying him beneath their writhing mass. Josh hurried to the passenger side of the SUV, jumped into the seat, and slammed the door. Everyone inside, adults and children alike, were a mess of moans and wailing. Jessica sobbed, “Colin, no, Colin, no!” from the back seat. Josh happened one last glance to the mound of thrashing bodies. Colin’s head emerged. His glasses were gone. Blood covered his neck. He opened his mouth to scream and one of the beasts dug its teeth into his scalp. Colin’s forehead split open. His life’s fluid poured down his face.

Josh grimaced. He turned away and dropped his head in his hands. “Go,” he said to Kyra without looking up.

“
Wh
…
what?” she choked between sniffles.

“Put your fucking foot on the gas and go.”

“But…”

Jessica’s weeping raised in volume.

“But nothing.
Drive.”

The car began pulling away. The one behind them, driven by
Luanda
, followed suit. The mutant dogs attacked as they drove, hurling their bodies into the sides. The vehicle rocked but kept moving. Before long the assailants seemed to lose interest and began marching toward the din of their feasting kin.

Josh imagined what was happening. In his mind’s eye he saw Colin’s body splayed out on the ground, torn apart from chest to pelvis. He saw greedy mouths and sharp teeth tearing into flesh, cracking ribs, ripping out organs. He vomited in his lap. Tears formed in his eyes but he held them at bay. He had no use for sadness. He had his guilt for company. Guilt for not knowing what to do, guilt for the choice he’d made.

It didn’t matter if it was the right one. That knowledge wouldn’t bring his friend back.

Fuck you, world
, he thought.

Chapter 14

Stan Clark Goes Home

i

Tom looked in the mirror. His hairline, receding for years, now stood far back like a distant cliff before a sea of pale scalp. The hair he still had was too long, its scraggy split ends brushing his shoulders. He hadn’t dyed it for months and now the gray threatened to overtake him completely.
I should have Ally give it a buzz
, he thought.
I’m starting to look like an old hippie. I’m starting to look like my father.

He shuddered at the thought, stepped back, and gave himself the once-over. The naked image staring back was that of a stranger. Whereas once he’d been a robust man he now looked thin and sickly. The empty folds of his belly drooped over the sides of his underwear. His breasts sagged. He lifted his right arm, watching the excess skin flop a good six inches lower than it should. With his opposite hand he grabbed a hunk of flesh and pulled it taut, trying to see what it would look like if he could somehow get rid of the glut. What emerged was an emaciated, skeletal appendage virtually bereft of muscle. He’d never been one for the gym, having thought it unimportant in his career as a civil servant. Now, with most of his padding gone, he regretted his laziness.

Allison called from the other room. “I’ll be there in a minute,” he replied, and set about getting dressed. When finished he gazed in the mirror once more. He wore a sweater and a pair of his old dungarees – baggy now, like parachute pants, held up with a belt whose leather was pocked with numerous hand-cut notches. The getup made him look ridiculous, but at least he couldn’t see his surplus of useless skin any longer. Once again he thought of his father and realized the person who stared back wasn’t a stranger at all, but the ancient Ezekiel Steinberg himself, raised from the land of the dead.

Moving away from the mirror he peeked around the bathroom door. Shelly was sitting on the bed while Allison brushed the snarls from her brown curls. Her eyes were intent on the book in her lap and she mouthed the words, the look of wonder she wore only changing when Allison hit a snag she had to fight her way through. In those moments her little mouth tensed and she squinted, causing Allison to pause and gently caress the side of her daughter’s face. It was an adorable scene, and Tom’s heart sunk a little, as it did recently whenever he realized how much he loved his wife and daughter. He remembered a time, not long past, when his anger and inner turmoil caused irritation and even hatred at the sight of their innocence. How could he have ever felt that way? He didn’t know.
That’s a lie
, he thought.
You know exactly the reason.

The sound of people outside drew him away. He went to the window and stared out. Morning sunlight from the east momentarily blinded him. Down below, some of the other residents of the Mount Clinton Resort had gathered. They laughed and chased each other around the courtyard. Tom smiled but also felt more than a small amount of jealousy. He wanted what they had. He wanted to be free and alive, to feel a part of something bigger.

You
are
a part of something bigger
, the influence in his brain, his new conscience, whispered.
Never forget that.
He shook his head and covered his ears but it didn’t help. The voice came back, loud as ever.
Do not deny me
, it said.
Remember the promise you made…remember your vow to protect your family.

Tom closed his eyes, cleared his mind, and concentrated. It took a lot of effort but soon the voice of his conscience dissipated. His shoulders slumped and he cursed his life’s contradiction. For a long time he prayed for the return of that ethereal voice. He’d felt so naked without it, and when it returned he again promised to play his part. It gave his mind something to mull over, gave him a
purpose
. And yet as the weeks passed by and he grew closer to those around him he began to doubt that purpose. The people he now associated with were full of life, full of unreserved caring. They talked with him, they accepted him – well, most of them, anyway – and treated him as an equal. It was a sensation he hadn’t felt since his early years in public office, when he had friends aplenty and the respect of his peers.
Did the process contaminate me?
he
thought. He couldn’t admit that to himself. That implied weakness, and Tom Steinberg was not weak.

“Hun, are you ready to go?”

He turned around. Allison stood in the doorway, her hands on Shelly’s shoulders. His daughter gazed up at him with wide eyes and that adorable, gap-toothed smile of hers. He pushed aside his inner conflict and grinned back.

“Of course.
You ready to go play, pumpkin?” he said.

He took his wife by the hand and they exited the room. Shelly skipped in front of them. It amazed him how oblivious she was – to the change that came over him, to the isolation, to the horrors that had befallen the world, to everything – and envied her purity. He must have felt that way once, of that he was certain. He simply couldn’t remember when.

There is no innocence any longer
, the voice of his conscience murmured, just beneath his waking thoughts. Tom acted as if he couldn’t hear. Sometimes it was better that way.

ii

Two cells mingled in a bed of shimmering liquid. They looked peaceful, undisturbed, until a metal proboscis interrupted their tranquility. From its tip entered a third entity. The cells acted squeamish. Their fluid bodies condensed and contracted, trying to avoid the aggressive newcomer, which looked like a red string with a horseshoe head. The invader closed in on one of the cells, piercing its protective membrane. It snaked its way inside, altering the host’s internal makeup. When the process finished – it took a few brief seconds – what emerged was a completely new life form.

In the nucleus of the conquered cell another bulbous red strand formed. It wiggled free of its host and attacked the second cell. The end result was the same. The second became a mirror image of the first, a distorted atrocity, a hostile remnant of that what had been.

Horace leaned back and sighed. It was nothing new. He’d seen the same results numerous times back at Johns Hopkins, though the going had been much easier then. In a true lab setting, with all the equipment he could imagine at his disposal and a team of like-minded researchers working alongside, he’d been confident that in time a solution to
Wrathchild’s
wicked grip over the globe would eventually reveal itself. But now, with only the most rudimentary tools at his disposal, the outlook was grim at best. Even these limitations, however, could’ve been quashed with someone to bounce ideas off.

If only Kelly were here now
, he thought.
She always knew what to do when the chips were down. I need that resourcefulness.

The recollection of his former assistant caused his spirits to dip even lower. His mind replayed her last moments on earth. He saw her put the gun barrel in her mouth and pull the trigger.
If only you had told me. If only you had let me in.
With a violent swipe of his hand he knocked a few jars and his notebook off the desk. The jars bounced on the rug. The notebook landed cover side up, splayed like a dead bird.

His thoughts shifted to
Clyde
. The young man had been a salvation for him, protecting him and helping to maneuver his frail body from one hiding spot to another when everything around them had fallen into a dissonance of violence.
Clyde
helped him so much, selflessly cared about his safety like few others in his life had, and yet in the end his fate had been the same as Kelly’s. They were both gone, lifted from the mortal coil in the worst ways imaginable, just like most everyone else in the States and, for all he knew, the world.

Survivor’s guilt weighed down on his soul. In no way could he justify the fact he was still alive when so many others weren’t. Not only that, but now he found himself embedded in a circle of companions who cared for and protected him just as Kelly and Clyde had, and it scared him. In the end he knew they would succumb to the same fate as the others.
This my curse
, he thought.
They perish while I go on undeservedly. It isn’t fair.

Yet he still wanted, more than anything, to live.

Thinking of his new friends brought about the doubt he felt every day upon seeing the latest additions to their odd little family. The Steinberg’s were decent enough folk, he concluded – at least the wife and daughter were. But Thomas, the House Speaker himself, was another matter. Horace couldn’t help but remember the outrageous policies and shady judgment the man had shown when he’d been forced to take the country’s mantle of leadership. There was something
not right
about him, and in truth he found it more than baffling that he should run into the man right here, right now, after his failed efforts had quite possibly wiped modern civilization from the face of the map. On more than one occasion Horace tried to discuss these matters with him, to find out his reasons for making the decisions he did. Tom would always skirt the issue. Only when the subject of the infected populace and their strange disappearance was broached did he offer an answer that didn’t seem disingenuous.

“We have nothing to worry about,” he’d said. He picked up a satellite phone, smeared with blood, and held it up to him. “It took some time for the structure to collapse after I left, but the last
intel
I received after
Fort
Myer
fell was that the hordes were evacuating. Brigadier General Mathis reported massive waves of them crossing the state line into
North Carolina
in mid-December. It’s been quiet around here ever since. Save for a few stragglers, I would gather they’ve gone south to wait out the winter or died off. Either way, we won’t see them again.”

He never explained his reasons for thinking this, and Horace didn’t trust him, yet he couldn’t deny that things
had
been stagnant for some time. In fact, the last he’d seen of the infected were those that Corky and Doug rescued him from. And no one in their little group had fallen ill, either, which flew in the face of the affliction’s previous, deadly vitality.
Wrathchild
seemed to have vanished along with its victims, like the world’s deadliest flash fire. He couldn’t understand why and it made him question his motives for continuing his research. Was he doing it just to make himself feel useful? He didn’t think so. There was always the possibility the virus could return at any moment, without warning.

Hopefully, if that were that to happen, they would be ready for it. Despite the words of that weasel Steinberg, he had to keep going. It was imperative.

A fit of coughing overtook him and he doubled over. He dug his palm into his cane for support. He could feel the cancer, that greedy consumer of life, spreading. In his dreams he saw it trickle into his stomach, pancreas, and throat, turning his insides into a grizzled knot of blackened tissue. He awoke from those dreams hacking and wheezing, with nothing but a bottle of aspirin to dull the pain. The fits were a curse that made it hurt to simply
be
, but the possibility of dying petrified him. His fear at the thought of his own demise struck him as paradoxical. In the days before the fall he would spend his time relaxing at his home in
Cambridge
, sucking down
Oxyconton
while he awaited his next treatment, welcoming the release from pain that death would bring. Now, with death all around him, he wished to be granted the ability to go on.

When the convulsions in his chest subsided he sighed, knelt down, and went about picking up the objects he’d knocked from the desk. He gently placed the jars on the desk, folded the notebook, and slid it into his back pocket. Then he picked up a plastic bag from his workstation and held it in front of his eyes. Inside was the small hunk of flesh he’d removed from the necropolis deep in the forest. There was barely anything left of it now. The rest he’d used during his experiments over the last few weeks, experiments he’d learned virtually nothing new from. He swore, sealed the bag, opened the top drawer of the desk, and dropped it in.

Another coughing fit overtook him. His chest burned. He sat down on the bed, snatched the bottle of aspirin from the end table, and waited for it to pass.