Death Springs Eternal: The Rift Book III (9 page)

Kyra shivered, exhaled, and dropped her chin to face him.
“Nothing.
Bad dream.
You?”

Josh grinned. “Good dream.
The best one in a long, long time.”

“Lucky bastard.”
She smirked as she said it, as if trying to force herself out of a bad place. Then she leaned forward, kissed his nose, and said, “You seem much chippier than I’ve seen you in a while.”

“Yeah,” Josh replied. “I guess there were some things I had to work out.”

She looked at him sideways. “And that’s all it took?
One good dream?”

“Well,” he said with a frown, “not exactly. It’s not that easy.”

She opened her mouth to say something more, winced, and then grabbed Josh’s hand. She guided it to her belly and placed it on the hard spot. The child within her squirmed, and a faint knot moved beneath her flesh. Josh’s eyes widened, his lips quivered, and his other hand soon joined his first. Before too long they were both sitting there with their hands on her stomach, quietly reveling at the miracles around them—the life they’d created, the life they still had, the connection between them. Josh noticed moisture starting to form in Kyra’s eyes once more, and he guessed it was that last miracle that she was thinking of, a miracle that he’d done everything he could to make it seem like a mirage.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She nodded. “I know.”

“I’ll do better.”

“You better.
Or else.”

She playfully punched his shoulder, and Josh feigned insult. They began wrestling together, causing the bed to creak. Even though Josh heard the sounds of people waking up downstairs, he didn’t stop. It had been so long since he’d felt this good. It was like a lifetime of regret had been cleansed from his soul. He wanted to share that feeling with the only woman who cared.

Before too long, Kyra’s panties were off and they were making love for the first time in ages. Josh was careful not to hurt her, not to press too hard on her stomach. He moved gently, gliding his hips in a slow, sensual rhythm. He felt Kyra’s chest hitch, felt her breathing pick up pace, but he didn’t speed up. He wanted this to be slow, to be
felt
, to let her know how sorry he was.

What he didn’t know, seeing as he was behind her, was that Kyra silently cried the whole time.

CHAPTER 3

HECTOR GOES TO THE DOGS

Desperate fingers reached through the gate, grasping at air. Rotting faces pressed against the bars, opening sores, causing blood to cascade over the thin steel shafts. Empty eyes stared straight ahead while mouths filled with the remnants of teeth hung open, releasing groans that sounded like the final cries of drowning men.

Charles “Corky”
Ludlow
stood in the center of the pavement in front of the entrance to the Clinton Resort. The way in was efficiently blocked by the heavy iron gate, making him breathe a little easier. Still, it was tough to look at the monstrosities trying to force their way inside. They were disgusting, depraved,
inhuman
. In a way, the sight of them made him sad.

“This sucks balls,” he muttered.

Horace Struder, the old scientist, stood beside him and let out a groan that sounded eerily like the walking dead folks outside before saying, “Very true.”

The weather had become unseasonably warm up on
Mount
Clinton
, to the point where Corky had heard Larry proclaim more than once, “Can we get some
real
weather now? I’m tired of this shit!” Corky agreed. After a freezing cold fall and a winter where it seemed to snow every day, all he wanted was some nice, comfortable seventy-degree temperatures. But no, nature had to go out and make it close to ninety.
In
spring.
He sweated so much that his armpits and inner thighs were chaffed. Without enough power to run the air conditioning inside the hotel, he was left to deal with it as best he could.

Ideally, he would have trekked down the mountain, raided the local pharmacy of as much baby powder as he could carry, and apply it liberally all over his body. But alas, groups of zombies—freaking
zombies
—started showing up out of nowhere, which made leaving the walled interior of the resort an iffy proposition, at best.

Corky sucked in a wad of phlegm, gathered it in his mouth, and spit it at the beasts. It hit one of them on the face, and when the gob rolled over its lips it closed its mouth. For a moment it stopped its bleating and scrunched its forehead, as if it had just tasted something wonderful but couldn’t place the flavor. Then it was back to beating on the bars again seconds later.

“That’s disgusting,” said Horace.

“The least I can do,” replied Corky, “what with the way they screwed us and all.”

Horace shrugged. “It’s not so bad, actually.”

Corky chuckled and rolled his eyes.
“Yeah?
Oh really?”

“Yes, really.
Think about it. We’re up in the mountains, away from civilization. Right now there are what, six or seven outside the gate? Consider how bad it must be in other places, where the populations were much more…dense.”

“Oh,” Corky said. “I see your point.”

Horace nodded.

Doug Lockenshaw walked by them, wearing a tank top and cut-off jeans. He moved with precision, muscles tense,
his
hair that hung just above his shoulders bouncing with each step. In one hand he held his rifle by its strap, in the other a huge bowie knife. He marched to the gate with purpose and went about jabbing the knife through the bars, stabbing eyes, mouths, necks. The undead fell one at a time until only two remained. Those last two, apparently sensing the danger to
themselves
, stepped away from the gate. Doug dropped the knife, shouldered the rifle, took careful aim, and cut them down with two shots.

As the young Marine wiped the blood off his hands with the towel attached to his waist, Corky asked, “Why didn’t you just shoot ’em all?”

Doug glanced up, shook his head, and, with a hand pressed against his temple, replied, “I’m running out of bullets. Don’t wanna waste them.”

“Oh.”

The kid gathered up his things and proceeded to walk back to the building. On the way he turned his head and offered the two observers a bit of advice.

“By the way, staring at them
don’t
accomplish anything.”

Neither Corky nor Horace had a retort for that. They followed him inside.

The interior of the hotel was just as hot as outside, but it felt even hotter because of the stagnant air and restricted space. Corky passed the fountain on his way to the lounge and thought for a moment that he should just go to the basement and turn on the water for a minute. He compromised, deciding that come evening he’d fill up his bathtub with cold water—also frowned upon because of their limited power supply; when people bathed, they were supposed to use a sponge at the kitchen sink—and sit in it until his teeth chattered.
That won’t work, and you know it
, he thought.
The water’ll reach body temperature in minutes. And hell, you don’t even fit in the tub!
All good points.

The lounge was filled with people. Hector, Luis, and Larry sat at the bar, downing watered-down vodka drinks. (They had to add water to all alcoholic beverages now, since after four months their supplies were beginning to run dangerously low.) Horace took his place by Doug’s side, sitting beside the window and gazing out at the courtyard. Dennis lounged in his favorite chair, mindlessly strumming the strings of his guitar. Allison Steinberg was by the fireplace, where just a few weeks ago they would all gather at night to chat. She fanned an oblivious Shelly, her cherubic, five-year-old daughter. The only member of the party not present was Tom Steinberg, her husband, who was in the kitchen making sandwiches for everyone.

That’s not true and you know it.
Corky frowned and his shoulders slumped. There
was
someone else missing, someone who’d been gone for quite some time now. He wanted to smack himself for not remembering his friend, Stanley, who’d leapt from the cliff a mile or so from the resort. That was three months ago, and it seemed that every day his brain tried to restrict thoughts of the man, as if letting the sadness in would paralyze him. But each day Corky chastised his inner survivor, telling himself that moving on doesn’t mean forgetting. Not now, not ever.

Tom strolled in, carrying a tray of quartered sandwiches. He made his way around the room, offering them up like a waiter. When he got to Corky and offered the tray, Corky reached out his hand but paused.

“What’s on these?” he asked.

“Spam,” replied Tom, “and a bit of Miracle
Whip
.”

Corky groaned.
“Again?
Shit.”

Tom put a finger to his lips. “Hey, we all have to deal with some…restrictions, right? But don’t you worry. We’ll have a lean dinner tonight, but I have a big surprise planned for the day after tomorrow.”

“Yeah?
What’s that?”

Tom winked. “You’re going to have to wait and find out.”

With that he walked away, heading for his wife and child. Corky grinned. He liked Tom.
A lot.
Even though the rest had taken a long time to warm to him—a few, like Doug, still hadn’t—there was just something about the man that Corky couldn’t resist. He’d gained some weight, though not nearly as much as he used to carry when Corky would see him on television performing his Speaker of the House duties. He now looked like a strong, capable individual rather than a ghost, though those heavy bags under his eyes never seemed to go away. Tom was also so smart, so on top of
things, that
Corky passed off his earlier bad behavior and appearance to nerves and fear for his family.

After all, it had been Tom who took up the duties of burying Stan after he committed suicide. It was Tom who suggested they close and lock the front gate, only two days before the first of the zombies showed up. It was Tom who cooked them dinner every night, Tom who assumed Stan’s chess-playing role with Larry, Tom who always volunteered first for every proposed chore. Doug said the guy was trying to buy their affections, just as any politician would. But Corky had seen the man play with his daughter, had watched as he rubbed his wife’s back when he thought no one was looking. To Corky’s way of thinking, a man didn’t do those sorts of things to “prove himself.” No, a man did that because he wanted to.

Because he was nice.

The evening wore on, the sun set, and the temperature dropped to a more reasonable—but still prickly—level. Corky’s resort-mates came and went, sometimes to go to the bathroom, sometimes just to stretch their legs, but by the time the full of evening was upon them, everyone had resumed their usual roles. Hector remained at the bar, looking dreary while he nursed his drink. Luis, Larry, and Dennis left for good, saying they were going to spend some time on the upstairs balcony. Horace and Doug were immersed in conversation, speaking in hushed tones, their eyes never leaving each other—Corky still found their newfound bond amazing, considering how Doug first reacted to the old man after he and Corky had rescued him from the fleshies. And Tom sat in his usual chair with Allison on the floor between his knees, gently stroking her hair while Shelly bounced from one corner of the room to another.

“Lookit me Quirky!” the youngster proclaimed as she sailed on by, arms outstretched.

“I see,” said Corky with a grin. “You’re a swan.”

She stopped and glanced at him, her head cocked and a smile on her pouty little lips.
“Nu-uh.
I’m a Shellybird.”

“That so?
And
what’s a Shellybird eat
?”

Her smile stretched wider.
“OREOS!”

A mad cackle escaped her lips and Shelly was off again. Corky leaned back against the wall and watched her. He felt his heart soaring, just like she was pretending to do. He’d grown to adore that little girl so much. She was like a daughter to him. She brought him joy each day, doing her part to heal his crushed soul. Little by little, with each caring embrace she gave him, the guilt of his earlier, horrible actions waned just
that much
. Not that he would ever forget the face of Shelly Robinson, the little girl he accidentally killed before the world fell apart. No, that would never happen. Corky wouldn’t allow it. But if caring for this new Shelly, the one with the carefree spirit and obvious affection for
him,
meant that he could somehow atone for his deeds, then that’s what he would do. He owed the spirits of the dead at least that much, if not more.

Allison leaned back, stretched her arms above her head, and yawned. Shelly ceased her frantic scurrying and mimicked her mother. Allison then turned to her husband and said, “Hun, I’m exhausted. I’m going upstairs.”

Tom nodded.

Allison stood and gathered up her daughter.
“Bye Daddy, bye Corky, bye other guys!”
Shelly exclaimed as she waved from over her mother’s shoulder. Doug and Horace offered a wave in return while Hector raised his glass and hiccupped. Corky grinned and passed her a thumbs-up, which she gladly returned before disappearing out the door.

With the child gone, Corky had nothing to distract him from more thoughts of
Stanley
. His mood soured and he felt his face droop. He played with the frayed knee of his jeans, rolling the strings around his meaty fingers and making the hole wider. He thought of
Stanley
’s unremarkable appearance, a shell that hid the most compassionate and loving man he’d ever known. Out of all those who had fled the diner in
Roanoke
with him, Stan was always the one he felt closest to. The funny thing was
,
he didn’t realize it at the time. Now that he was gone there was a hole there, one that no one else could fill. He started to feel dizzy.

A hand fell on his shoulder and he looked up. Tom stood above him, hand outstretched. “What do you say, Charles,” the man said. “Care to share a drink with a friend?”