Death Springs Eternal: The Rift Book III (5 page)

With that, a plume of black smoke puffed from the plow’s stack as Pitts hit the gas, heading for the incredibly long line of vehicles that sat idling on the main drag. Bathgate felt the hard plastic of his pistol’s handle and shivered. He hadn’t realized he’d put his hand on it, and it surprised him that he’d been so hostile toward his oldest friend.
I have to teach him a lesson
, he thought.
Order trumps friendship, after all, and Greg’s been slipping. I need to reign him back in before I have to do something drastic.

A few minutes later, his Hummer pulled up curbside. Much to Bathgate’s surprise, Private O’Leary, his usual driver, was nowhere to be found. It was Sergeant Jackson behind the wheel instead. The ambitious young soldier smiled wide.

“To what do I owe the honor, Sergeant?” asked Bathgate as he opened the door and slid into the passenger seat. “What happened to O’Leary?”

“The Private had a change of heart, sir,”
Jackson
replied, his voice oozing with cynicism. “He’s riding in the med-cart, instead. His jaw’s hurting something fierce, I guess.”

The general tilted his head. “How badly did you injure him?”

“Not a lot.
Enough to teach him a lesson.
He’ll be fine in a week or so.”

“And this attack was unprovoked, I assume?”

Jackson
grew pale at the coldness of Bathgate’s accusation, but it took only a second for his color to return. “Not at all, sir,” he replied confidently. “I told him I was driving the presidential vehicle, and he said no, I wasn’t. That’s disobeying an order from a superior, right? So I taught him a lesson. But he’s still alive. I’ve seen you be harsher than that, sir.”

Bathgate gazed at the fanatical grin on
Jackson
’s face and grinned himself. Sergeant
Jackson
was an unruly sort, though his lithe frame and longish blond hair suggested otherwise. He was quick to anger and even quicker to react when the call to violence came. He was a brutal soldier, but undyingly loyal to Bathgate’s cause, and he possessed an ambition the general admired. The kid had risen through the ranks quite fast since he and the lieutenant had found him in
Macon
, leading a faction of the People’s Militia against the undead hordes. The general thought it would be prudent to send a search party of men north with Jackson once they reached their destination, just as he’d sent one south under the leadership of Captain Hawthorn.
 
It was a plan that made sense.
 
Jackson
had helped compose the SNF charter, adding his own personal touch to the byline of the new ruling class. He could lead people, and was more than twice the soldier Pitts was, though Pitts still maintained authority over him because of their past together.

That could all change
, he thought
,
if the lieutenant doesn’t get his head out of his ass.

Bathgate slapped the dashboard. “Very well then, soldier,” he said. “Let’s get this caravan moving.”

Sergeant Jackson steered the Hummer out of the hotel parking lot and drove alongside the motorcade of idling vehicles that stretched as far back as the eye could see. The general took in the varying array of buses, vans, trucks, and armored personnel carriers as they passed by, watching the heat sway across their steel forms. In the center of the line were twenty oil rigs containing the fuel that powered their five-hundred-plus
vehicles.
They were a point of pride to the general, a symbol of his undying attention to what was important. Anything of use that was found along their travels would be taken, by force if necessary, and Bathgate assumed that seeing as the refineries no longer pumped black gold from the Earth after the end of civilization, gasoline was by far their most precious resource.

As they drove, the general opened his window, felt the stifling air, and lifted his arm up, fist clenched. He heard hoots and hollers echo all around him as his people raised a cheer in his honor. He smiled and pointed forward, just as the Hummer approached the front of the line, where Pitts and his rig waited. The old snowplow bucked into motion, as did the rest of the convoy, as
Jackson
steered the Hummer into a gap between vehicles. A single walking corpse emerged from the trees, staggering mindlessly into the middle of the road, only to be cut down by the ricochet of gunfire. It collapsed, and the onward trekking army reduced its body to a puddle of rotten flesh.

If only everything could be so easy.

With the fleet in motion, the general rolled up his window and blasted the air conditioning. The cold air assaulted his flesh and made him shiver with joy. It was a comfort he’d enjoy on the long drive to
Richmond
, the future capital of the new country he was soon to make his own. When that happened, all would sing songs to the glory of the Soldiers of New Freedom, and his name would pass into the realm of legend alongside Alexander the Great himself.

CHAPTER 2

DREAMS,
AND STAYING ALIVE

IN THE LAND OF THE DEAD

It didn’t take Josh Benoit and the rest of the survivors from
Dover
,
New Hampshire
long to realize that the world had changed greatly over the long, cold winter.

They traveled south along I-95 in the two SUVs they’d lifted from the dealership in
Norton
,
Massachusetts
. From there it was a quick jaunt into
Rhode Island
, where they found a massive pileup blocking their way. The wreckage seemed to stretch on forever, a winding snake of jagged metal and burned plastic that built upon itself, as if those fleeing the scene had ignored the coming obstruction and kept the gas pressed down in the hope that they would somehow teleport through the mess. The snow had done a pretty good job of melting away by then, revealing the smashed windshields of hundreds of cars and the bodies trapped within. They stood there for a good long while, deliberating what to do, before Emily, the old woman with faded blue eyes, shrieked and pointed down the debris-crowded freeway. The rest followed her finger, watching some of the corpses begin to move. Josh didn’t have to say a word for everyone to jump back into the cars and get the hell out of Dodge.

The group backtracked, sticking to the minor highways and service roads that weaved in between
Massachusetts
and
Rhode Island
. Josh hoped beyond hope that the pileup had only been a minor
glitch, that
once they got into
Connecticut
things would clear up and there would be no more trouble.

The first part of that wish came to pass.
The second…not so much.

When they crossed the border into
Connecticut
, they discovered a roadway surprisingly clear of obstacles. Accident scenes were few and far between, cars and trucks abandoned on the side of the road even rarer than that. It struck Josh as odd, until he remembered that when the army of Wraiths first attacked, they’d come from the
south.
It all clicked in his head. Most folks probably had the same thought as he at first—head inland, north, up to the mountains, where they might find a semblance of safety. He shivered.

“I bet 91’s a mess,” he whispered.

“What’s that?” asked Kyra, the older woman with red hair who was pregnant with his child.

“Nothing,” he replied, and said no more.

During the days that passed while they journeyed, the sun did its job of warming the land. The snow liquefied, leaving a crystalline sheen on the pavement and revealing the surrounding evergreens for the first time in months. But that wasn’t all the warming air revealed, for the wandering undead began to appear in greater numbers, as well. During their time in the shack in
Attleboro
they’d run across a handful, only one at a time. Now the decayed things congregated in small groups. They never posed much of a threat during the day, as they were slow and lumbering and easily plowed over if they wandered too far into the street, but the dark of night was a different story. The survivors needed to sleep, and required relative safety to do so. At the behest of
Luanda
, they spent much of the twilight hours driving around suburban towns, seeking structures large and accessible enough to hide their two vehicles, and themselves, inside. A seemingly endless parade of repair shops and warehouses greeted them each evening, and they always followed the same routine—pull in, scour the grounds for straggling hostiles, then seal the doors and hunker down for the night while the monsters outside howled and moaned. Most of the places they stayed bore signs of previous inhabitants—warnings scrawled on the walls, pictures of lost loved ones, the remnants of a fire or discarded camping gear. And no matter where they were, there was the pervading sensation of being watched. Shadowy faces appeared in the windows of presumably empty houses, only to flee from view when any turned to face them. Other survivors, they assumed, sheltered in their homes, too frightened to move. Not that any blamed them. Though it was unspoken, none knew how they would react to seeing other people. The only reality they had left was one another. That knowledge wore on all of their nerves, but Josh’s especially. At times he wanted nothing more than to step outside and allow the undead hands to take hold of him, to let their hungry mouths devour his tender flesh.

It was all becoming too much for him to bear. Each day thoughts of Colin, his best friend for life who Josh allowed to perish when their group had been set upon by a pack of mutant dogs, invaded his psyche. He saw his friend’s thinning blond hair and wry smile, heard his cackling laugh and the softness of his tone when Colin was in a reflective mood. These sensations haunted him, made him feel like vomiting all over again, as he had that night. The fact that leaving Colin behind had been something his friend had wanted him to do didn’t matter. An act of sacrifice on the part of one became an act of cowardice by the other. Josh blamed himself, both for the decision and for not being strong enough to die for the cause. Every time he looked at Jessica, who had grown close to Colin and become a shell of a woman since that night, his mood dropped ever lower. She did nothing but
rock
her son Zachary in the back seat and close her eyes whenever danger approached. She cried in the night constantly and went days without speaking to anyone. Jessica had been a shining light bestowed upon their little group, but that light had been virtually extinguished.

“It’s all falling apart,” Kyra said one day.

Josh didn’t disagree.

Farther down the
Connecticut
freeways they drove, constantly weaving in and out of peril and surviving more than a few close calls with the hungry beasts that popped up with all the more frequency, until reaching the town of
Baltic
. It was there, in the middle of a few wandering corpses, that Josh, without warning anyone, came to a screeching halt beside the local Wal-Mart. He jumped out of the car and dashed into the store. A few minutes later he emerged, a bundle of rifles in his hands.

“Come on!” he said, growing irritated by the lack of motion from the adults and children in the SUVs. “It’s about goddamn time we arm ourselves!”

Kyra and
Luanda
ran into the store to gather more weapons and ammo. Josh dropped his armful on the ground, picked up a pump-action shotgun from the pile, and opened the box of shells he’d grabbed. He started stuffing them into the chamber the way he remembered his grandfather doing when the old man took him out duck hunting as a kid (occurrences his mother was never too happy to hear about). He pulled back on the pump and heard what he hoped was a round clicking into place. Then he stood up, just as a large, drooling monstrosity curved around one of their cars. He heard the children screaming in the back of the SUV, which gathered the creature’s attention. It turned away from Josh and weakly smacked its fist against the window. Everyone inside scurried away, cramming their bodies on the other side of the vehicle, making it sway on its struts.

“Hey, fuckface,” growled Josh.

The beast turned, its lifeless eyes staring at him blankly. It took two steps forward, away from the car, before Josh sprang up from his squat, got a foot away from the thing, and pulled the trigger. At such a close distance the thing’s head literally exploded, showering blood and gore a good twenty feet behind its staggering body. The corpse toppled over, shook for a few seconds, and stilled.

“Shut UP!” Josh bellowed at the screaming children.

All fell silent in that moment. The rest of his companions stared at him, afraid. Josh guessed that if he’d looked into his own eyes, he would’ve been, too.

Fearful of the growing numbers of undead, the
Dover
survivors decided it best that they stick to the less-populated side roads until they absolutely had to get back on the highway. Their days grew monotonous, and they all became skilled at new tasks they never thought they’d have the need to know. Their evenings were spent learning how to use the guns they’d lifted from the store, though not often with live ammo. The last thing they wanted to do was attract undue attention to
themselves
, considering they never knew where pockets of undead were roaming.

Josh learned other things along the way as well. He became an expert at siphoning gas, for example. He learned not to keep his lips around the pipe for too long, to let go just a few seconds after hearing the low gurgling sound that occurred as he sucked with all his might. The first couple times he received a mouthful of petrol for his troubles, a taste and burn that stayed with him for hours, sometimes days, and caused headaches to spike behind his eyes.

He also learned how to ignore everyone around him. At this, he became a connoisseur. Kyra, Jessica,
Luanda
, Emily, Mary, Yvette
—
even Andy and Francis couldn’t hold his attention. Any who tried talking to him about anything other than loading a pistol, or warning about road hazards, were brushed off with a disgusted wave of the hand.

My misery is my own
, Josh thought at the time,
and it’s gonna stay that way.

There were very few times anyone broke through that barrier. Only Kyra, her belly growing rounder by the day, came close to reaching him. She’d lay beside him at night, listening to him breathe. Every so often she’d reach for his hand. On the occasions that he didn’t pull away from her, Josh allowed her to place his palm on her swollen stomach, atop a slightly protruding nub. Sometimes that nub shifted, sometimes it was still, but no matter what happened Josh would sigh, roll over, and hold her. Those were the only moments where he felt even the slightest bit of hope.

It took weeks, but eventually the survivors reached the shoreline. They swallowed their fear and risked finding I-95 once more. Thankfully it was pretty much clear of obstructions, but that did nothing to ease their minds.
 
The thought of crossing bridges that hadn’t been maintained after months of cold and heavy, built-up snow caused Josh a great deal of concern, but he tried not to show it. Those bridges were the quickest way to get past the most daunting part of their southbound journey—
New York City
. With the numbers of undead rising seemingly every day, even in rural
Connecticut
, he didn’t want to think about how overcrowded with cannibalistic dead folks the Big Apple might be. All he
could
think about was the eventual end of his journey—
Miami
, and the safety that Isabella, his wacky, ethereal guide, had promised him so long ago, a promise that seemed more and more unreal with each passing day.

Then they arrived in
New Haven
, and Josh’s mood hit an all-time low.

Sitting in the idling vehicle on the side of the road, he gazed upon a vast collection of stumbling cadavers in various states of decomposition. The creatures were packed tightly on the highway, thousands of them shoulder-to-shoulder, with barely any room to move. They acted like they didn’t realize the two cars were there
—
only two hundred feet away at most
—
instead content to stagger about aimlessly. There were too many to drive through without stalling the vehicles. Josh was reminded of the many concerts he’d attended at the
Stone
Church
up in
Newmarket
,
New Hampshire
, and was immediately thrust back into painful memories. He saw his parents; Sophia; Mrs. Flannigan and the seventh graders; Bobby, his childhood friend; Mr. Conroy, his mentor; even Rick Colden, his old boss—all dead now and never coming back. He saw Colin, his glasses askew, his face being ripped apart by vicious teeth, and with that vision Joshua Benoit finally gave up. He slammed his fist against the steering wheel. The horn blared, startling those around him.