Death Springs Eternal: The Rift Book III (13 page)

She lay in bed, a good three months after winning her battle with Percy, the beast that haunted her unconscious mind, and wanted it all to end. The creatures that used to moan outside, the lack of electricity and entertainment, the constant well-wishers she knew were frightened of her, the crap food she ate on a daily basis—everything. She turned to the window, saw a ray of sunshine flash between a
gap
in the curtains, and wondered why the sight of dust dancing in the light didn’t bring her joy as it always had. She closed her eyes, hoping to wish it all away, and then the voices came. They arrived hard and fast, a hundred different minds casting a hundred different patterns of thought her way, filling her head like a water balloon before it burst. It was very similar to what she experienced as a child whenever she was stricken with a high fever, only now they assaulted her every day. It had been this way since the morning after she woke up from her long coma, and all she could think about was jamming a knife into her wrists and letting the pain bleed out. Marcy quickly opened her eyes and the voices faded, at least a little. She felt on the verge of tears, tired, malnourished, and in desperate need of sleep she could never get, for she always woke up screaming.

She was in hell.

The voices were the biggest thing standing between her and a full recovery. She worked hard, teaching her limbs to move again the way they once did. Therapy was painful work, constantly grinding her sore, underused muscles to the point of agony. There were times she felt like simply lying there, but then Billy would show up, the gruff teacher who’d helped her save herself, and fill her with hope. He stayed with her during her long, sleepless nights, comforting her, trying to help her deal with the ache of both body and mind, even though the voices did everything they could to drive her insane.

That was the worst part of it all—the fact that she had no clue where these invading snippets of thought came from in the first place. At first she thought she might be schizophrenic, just as her parents had assumed when she first told them about Percy. But then one day, as Billy and Leon, the kind man who’d brought her to the hotel after she’d been bitten and lay dying on the street, sat by her bedside, she heard the two of them through the clatter, loud and clear. She saw in her mind’s eye Billy’s fatherly love for her, his regret over his past, and
Leon
’s constant—albeit hidden—adoration. It came through in their eyes as they spoke, though she couldn’t hear the words coming from their mouths because the ones in her brain swallowed all else.

She tried to talk about it, to rationalize her condition in a logical way, but it didn’t seem possible. There was too much that seemed imaginary, too much emotion involved—and just a fraction of it her own. Even the act of standing up now brought with it an extreme sense of nausea and vertigo. So she sat in her room alone for hours, straining to keep her eyes open so the voices didn’t attack her full-force, knowing in the back of her mind that Billy and Leon would soon grow tired of her ordeal and turn away from her, just as she’d done to Lindsey Cooper so long ago.

Someone knocked on her door. “Come in,” she groaned, and the door swung open. In strode Billy and Christopher, the teenager who’d arrived with the professor all the way from
Greensburg
. Billy carried with him a glass of water and a can of noodle soup. Christopher carried with him a spoon and a smile.

“How are we doing today?” asked Billy.

Marcy pushed herself into sitting position.
“Fine.”

“You do not sound fine.”

“Well, it’s been a long day.”

Christopher’s smile faltered. “It’s
noon
.”

“Oh,” said Marcy with a groan. “Sorry. It’s hard to tell time when you don’t sleep.”

Billy sat down on the edge of her bed and put a hand on her knee. “You do not look good,” he said. “Is there anything I can do?”

Marcy leaned her head against the wall, closed her eyes for a moment, felt the rush of invading thought. Her eyes snapped open and she said, “Can you help me to the balcony?”

“Are you certain you wish to do that?”

She nodded.

“Very well.”

She slipped one arm into the crook of Billy’s elbow, the other around Christopher’s shoulders, and allowed them to guide her. Gradually she rose from the bed, fighting the onset of vertigo. When the world started spinning she paused, and Billy and Christopher, accustomed as they were to her state of being, gave her the time to steady herself.

“It’s okay,” she said after a pause that seemed much too long. She stretched her eyes open as far as she could and watched as the quivering landscape settled down and become placid once more. She then nodded, and her two helpers stayed by her side, hands on her back, as she shuffled across the carpet. Billy pushed aside the curtain, allowing bright sunshine to stream into the room. Marcy squinted as he pulled open the sliding glass door.

The air outside was hotter than it should have been, but the wind brought with it a cool, crisp flavor that told her lungs yes, indeed, it was still spring. Billy and Christopher released her arms, allowing her to step forward. She put her hands on the railing, stared up at the sun, and breathed deep. Just being out of the cramped confines of her room did wonders. Her head started to clear, and before long she could hear only herself in there, her own voice telling her to walk strong, buckle down, persevere. She grinned and listened to the wind as it buffeted the side of the building, then leaned over the railing.

Things on the ground looked much different than they had only a month before. There were no walking dead or decomposing bodies down there, baking under the sun’s heat. She spotted folks from the hotel strolling along the street, rifles, shovels, crowbars, and whatever other weapons they could get a hold of slung over their shoulders. She heard the faint sounds of laughter, laughter that stopped when a stumbling corpse appeared from around the corner, moving like it had expended almost all of its energy. Then it was all business. One of the people—a woman with auburn hair—rushed forward and buried the business end of her axe into the thing’s head. It collapsed right there, and the rest of the people gathered around it, waited for it to stop gyrating, and then someone whistled. More folks appeared from inside, carrying towels and long poles. They wrapped the dead thing up, tied the wrapping to the poles, and then carried it away, heading for the rear of the hotel, where they would burn the remains.

Marcy sighed. Though this sort of scene had lessened greatly over the last few weeks, it still made her nauseous. In a few minutes the smoke would emerge, permeating the air with the scent of burning flesh. And when the distant pop of gunfire in the distance sounded—a less-than-savory recent development—she decided enough was enough.

“Okay,” she said. “I’m ready. We can go in now.”

Billy and Christopher helped her get back into bed. They’d spoken nary a word since they arrived, but that was par for the course. They never said much unless she wanted them to, which often she didn’t. She already heard enough voices; there was no need to fill her personal space with any more. They understood that. They
respected
that. And when Marcy saw the smile Billy gave her when she slid back under the covers and started sipping her soup, she regretted ever thinking the man would turn his back on her. The man was a saint, his past as a murderer
be
damned.

Billy kissed her on the forehead, eliciting a giggle from Christopher, which Marcy answered with a feigned scowl. She leaned her head into the professor as he placed his palm on her cheek. She loved the feel of his hands—calloused and warm, like her father’s.

“We will go now,” he said. “But there is someone outside who wanted to see you. Is it all right if he comes in?”

She groaned. “It’s not Doc Terry, is it?” she whined. “I don’t wanna answer any stupid questions right now.”

Billy shook his head and winked. “No, it is not Doctor Terry.”

“Oh,” replied Marcy. She felt her neck flush. “Sure, send him in.”

Billy and Christopher left the room. She heard the voice of the man she’d hoped for out in the
hallway,
telling Billy that Forrest had stopped by, wanting to see him on the roof for a moment. This familiar, soothing voice was low and sensual, even when speaking of the most mundane things. It was
Leon
. Her spirits lifted, and the invaders in her head retreated even more, which seemed to happen every time he came around.

A few minutes later, the door to her room opened just a tad. She glanced over and saw large brown fingers wrap around the edge and a pair of twinkling eyes peer her way. Marcy laughed—it felt good to do so—and waved her hand. She winced from the effort.
 
Her muscles were still weak.

Leon
stepped into the room. He was a large man, broad across the shoulders and chest, with thick thighs. He had an athletic build and strong-looking arms. He might have been intimidating if not for his face, what with his kind smile, dimpled cheeks, and wide, caring eyes. His mahogany skin shimmered as beams of daylight struck him. He’d been studying medicine when the world ended, and Marcy imagined him as a doctor in a civilization that hadn’t collapsed, causing the hearts of all his female patients to swoon. He moved to the bed and sat down beside her. His hand rested on her lower thigh.

“So,” he said in his deep, caring voice.
“You up for some work?
Get that body back into shape?”

Marcy groaned. A frown crossed her lips. “Okay. Sure. I guess.”

She reclined on the bed, shoved the covers off, and felt his strong fingers wrap around her calf. Her gut tingled and she sucked on her lip. She thought momentarily that she should venture
inside
, get a glimpse of what he was thinking, if he was as attracted to her as she was to him, but thought better of it.
That would be an invasion
, she thought.
That would be wrong.
So she simply went with it, allowing him to stretch her sore muscles, bathing in his musky, manly odor.

In time
, something in her brain stated.
He’ll see it in time.

Marcy nodded, gritted her teeth, and went to work.

*
  
*
  
*

Billy made his way up the service stairway, heading for the roof. He’d left Christopher behind with a group of young people, thinking that if Forrest had something to say, he most likely wanted it said in private.

He pushed open the access door and entered the open air. Forrest wasn’t there, so he tramped across the thin, paved surface of the roof, heading toward the front of the hotel. Sure enough, there Forrest stood, thinning hair blowing in the wind, thick chin held firmly in his hand, staring with interest into the heart of the city. Even at rest, it seemed the retired police officer was a study of obligation.

“What is it?” asked Billy, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder.

Forrest turned to him and grimaced. “I don’t like this,” he said.

“And you are speaking of…”

He cocked his head. “You hear that?”

Billy followed his lead. He heard the rushing water of the Monongahela in the distance, the cawing of crows, and behind it all an unusual rumbling sound. He nodded. “I do. What is it?”

“Engines.
A few of ’em.”

“Is that so?”

“Yup.
There was a lot of shooting going on, too—more than usual. I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Are the gangs on the move?”

“I don’t know.”

When one terror died off, another rose up to take its place.
At least that’s the way it seemed. It had been only four weeks ago at most when he’d stood on this same perch with Forrest and Dr. Terry, gazing down at the undead horde as they stumbled and fell over themselves. They seemed so pathetic at the time, like a pitiable group of lemmings whose legs would no longer lead them to the ledge they needed to leap from. They turned on each other, decaying soul devouring decaying soul, until only a few remained. Those that survived were easily dispatched by Forrest and his men, weak and pathetic as they were.