Death Springs Eternal: The Rift Book III (11 page)

When that was finished, Tom hurried to the stairs. It seemed each one creaked with every step he took. He heard Doug and Horace stirring in their beds and noticed a faint glow enter the hallway. The sun was coming up. He had to get back to his room before anyone found him.

He made it, just barely. Just as his door clicked shut, he heard another door open and drowsy feet stumble down the hall. He assumed it was Doug, seeing as the footsteps were light and confident despite their unevenness. Tom breathed a sigh of relief and slid down the wall until his butt rested on the floor.

“Daddy?” an innocent voice asked.

Tom’s eyes shot up in horror. He saw Shelly sitting on the bed, staring at him with her wide, walnut-sized eyes. She cocked her head, and he got the distinct impression his daughter, young as she was, knew exactly what he’d just done. Sorrow built up in his throat.

“Daddy, what’s wrong?” said Shelly, and Tom lost it. He crawled over to his daughter and she leaned into him. In that moment he hated himself, his passions, his drive, the deal he’d made. He realized, right then and there, that the entirety of his life had been a lie. Pulling her off the bed, he held her there, rocking her, allowing her tiny five-year-old hands to caress the back of his head while he sobbed. Allison stirred in bed.

Pathetic
, the voice in his head proclaimed.

Tom didn’t argue.

*
  
*
  
*

When he first started coughing, Hector tried to ignore it.
You’re just beaten down
, he thought.
Too much
cervesa
, too little sleep.
Or maybe it’s one of those spring colds.
But then the headache started, rising from his sinuses and zapping his brain like a million tiny electric eels. Sweat poured off his forehead. His throat tightened as it had when he’d been stricken with strep as a kid. His stomach clenched and he constantly felt the urge to take a dump, but when he sat on the toilet nothing came out but gas.

In short, he knew he was in deep shit.

He hid from his friends for most of that day, only venturing out to refill his pitcher of water. Whenever anyone asked him what was wrong he waved them off, saying it was nothing but a bad hangover. He didn’t want them to know. He didn’t want
himself
to know. He’d seen what happened to Jose Reviez, the guy who’d lived in the apartment next to him. The paramedics had taken him away four days before all hell broke loose, never to be seen again.

Don’t think about it
, he thought.
It’s not what you think it is.

That evening, when he tasted blood and checked the mirror, he knew he was wrong. His gums had developed painful, bleeding sores. His teeth felt hollow, as if he hadn’t brushed them in years. But none of that compared to what he saw when he took off his shirt. His skin was covered in red-and-yellow blotches from collarbone to bellybutton. In the center of a few of these blotches was what appeared to be the head of a
pimple.
He squeezed one—it hurt like hell—and a pinkish fluid oozed out. He covered himself up as best as he could, retreated to bed, and curled up beneath the covers, praying over and over again that sleep would cure him of whatever had gone wrong.

It didn’t. The next day he felt no better. His eyes burned and his mouth was dry. It felt like an impenetrable fog had descended over his brain, making coherent thought virtually impossible. He sat up in bed, stuck his arms into his
Mount Clinton Resort
bathrobe, and tried to stand. His head swam, making him sway, but eventually he righted himself. His stomach gurgled and the ache made its way up his esophagus.

“Food,” he muttered. It was the only word he could think to say.

He made his way through the quiet resort, bumping into walls as he walked, poured himself a bowl of cereal in the kitchen, and stumbled to the dining area. By the time he reached his destination, he’d lost half of what had been in his bowl.

Sitting at the large table, Hector spooned cereal into his mouth. It hurt to chew, and the food didn’t feel right going down, but at least it eased his stomach a little. Pressure built up in his skull and he dropped his head in his hands, moaning. A part of him thought he sounded similar to the dead things hanging around outside. He shivered, and it wasn’t completely because of the fever.

Time became an obscure concept, and before he knew it people were filtering into the dining room, performing their morning rituals. Hector watched through bloodshot eyes: Doug chomping on a plain bagel while he strummed his fingers on the table; Luis eating a banana, his hair sticking straight up; Dennis stumbling around aimlessly, cup of coffee in hand; Larry combing his ridiculous blond mullet while simultaneously sipping on orange juice; Corky lying with his head buried in his forearms, as if he didn’t want to give in to wakefulness just yet.

Then Horace strolled into the room. The old man carried a bowl of cold oatmeal, a bowl that fell from his hands the moment he gazed at Hector. His mouth formed a shocked “o”, just as the bowl shattered on the hardwood floor.

“No,” said Horace.

All eyes in the room went to him. Doug leapt from his sitting position and rushed to the old man. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

Horace pointed right at Hector, who tried to grin despite the pain.

“It’s back,” Horace whispered.

Everyone else immediately pushed themselves away from the table. They stared at him, mouths gaping. Hector thought they all looked rather funny, so he laughed.

“
Amigo?
” said Luis.

Hector craned his neck, gazed up at his friend, and smiled. He felt fluid leak from the corner of his mouth when he did so, but he did nothing to stop it. Everything seemed unreal. It had to be a dream. He punched himself in the head, causing bright spots to flash in his vision. Another wave of dizziness and nausea overtook him. He tried to stand up, but his legs were shaking.

“I’m okay,” he attempted to say, but to his ears it sounded like garbled nonsense. The world rushed by, causing everything to spin. He leaned over, attempted to move his head in time with the rotation of the earth, and then felt the sensation of gliding. He barely felt it when his head hit the floor. The exterior of his body had gone numb; the interior was a torrent of pain.

Hands on him.
Trying to help him up.
The old man telling everyone to get away.

“Don’t touch him! It’s not safe!” he said.

“He’s burning up!” someone yelled.

And in the coming blackness, that’s just what Hector did.

He burned.

*
  
*
  
*

Shelly bounced along, skipping ahead of her parents while they took their morning walk around the grounds. Mist hung in the air, creating a wall of gray above them that would dissipate as soon as the rising sun broke through the cloud cover. Allison Steinberg strolled alongside her husband, keeping one eye on her daughter the whole time. Yet it was hard to pull her attention away from Tom’s face. There was something wrong. After more than three months of improvement, she saw signs of regression in him. The dark rings beneath his eyes were more prominent than ever, his remaining hair was greasy, and he looked to be grinding his teeth. Every so often he’d mutter to himself, just like he had in the weeks before and after fleeing
Fort
Meyer
. He also appeared even skinnier than before, which scared her to death. He’d only recently begun to put back on some of the weight he’d lost.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” she asked.

Tom’s head slowly turned in her direction. His eyes were cloudy and distant. “Nothing,” he said, and seemed to force a smile.

Allison slipped her fingers into his and squeezed. When he looked at her this time, his smile seemed a bit more genuine.

“Really, Tom.
What’s wrong?”

Tom cleared his throat. “I just don’t feel quite right today. I think it’s because of tonight’s dinner.”

She nodded. Yes, that had to be it. Tom had worked so hard to impress his new friends, trying to win them over with sheer effort. The others seemed to appreciate it—at least most of them did—but they didn’t see what he looked like at the end of each day, lying in bed, panting and cringing, his sore bones one big ache.

And then there was the dinner. Tom got the idea when he discovered a large honey-roasted ham hidden beneath a pile of frozen vegetables in the back of the walk-in freezer. They survived every day on preserved food and breads from the cooler, so she knew the thought of having a
real, honest-to-goodness meal
made Tom more than excited. It seemed like he didn’t talk about anything else recently, and she imagined the fact he planned it for this evening, the three-month anniversary of that kind man Stanley’s death, as a token of remembrance, made him nervous.

Allison didn’t think that a reason to be nervous. She thought it was sweet.

They rounded the rear of the building and stopped. There was a commotion going on outside. Everyone had gathered, and their faces were masks of concern. They rushed about, all frantic energy and shouted instructions. Corky, Shelly’s new best friend, and the young Hispanic man Luis were tugging on the massive bulkhead leading into the resort’s cellar. Shelly ceased her skipping and stared.

“Quirky, what’s wrong?” Allison heard her ask.

Corky’s head spun around, his eyes wide beneath stray wisps of his long red hair. “Go inside, darlin’” the kind behemoth said, his voice filled with panic, before his gaze found Allison and Tom. “All of
you,
get inside.
Now.”

Allison was about to ask why, but she then found herself being dragged along the wet grass by Tom. She tried to see her husband’s face as she struggled to stay on her feet, but all she could see was the sweat dripping off his chin. He leaned over to corral Shelly on his way by, and the little girl let out a cry of surprise as his arm slipped around her waist.

Tom shoved Shelly’s face into the crook of his neck as he ran, but Allison, towed behind, had a full view of what was going on. Horace, the kind old scientist, was hovering over Hector, the chubby, funny Mexican. Blood poured out of Hector’s mouth. His body thrashed as if a constant electric current flowed through his veins. The young Marine, Doug, crouched behind him, holding a length of rope.
They’re tying him up!
Allison’s mind screamed.
They’re torturing the poor man!
Shame filled her, for all she could do in response was close her eyes, push her feet faster, and follow her husband inside.

Once they entered through the hotel’s rear doorway, Tom let go of Allison’s hand, placed Shelly on the floor, and bent over at the waist, hacking. The sound coming from his mouth was a strange combination of panting, choking, and sobs. Allison gathered Shelly in her arms and backed against the glass, staring at her husband.

“Tom, what’s going on?” she asked.

He lifted his head to her. His eyes were bloodshot and tears streamed down his cheeks. His lips quivered when he said, “It’s happening again.”

“What’s happening, Daddy?” asked Shelly.

That made Tom lose
it even more. He collapsed to his knees and cried. Confusion overwhelmed Allison and she started crying, too. Shelly followed not soon after. Before long they were all huddled together, sniveling into one another’s clothes, squeezing each other, as if to let go would mean the end of everything.

For all Allison knew, given whatever was going on outside, that’s exactly what would happen.

*
  
*
  
*