Death Springs Eternal: The Rift Book III (22 page)

Fingers were running up his forearm. He looked over to see red-stained bandages wrapped around him, and then Doug’s hand. His eyes drew upward, looking the young man in the face. Doug stared back, grimacing. The soldier jerked his head, and Horace followed his gaze. It was his upper arm the kid was looking at, a collection of wrinkled flesh, varicose veins, and bruises.

Huge, purple-and-yellow, monstrous bruises.

“What the hell?” said
Doug.

Horace patted him on the shoulder with his free arm. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Took a nasty fall the other day is all. I think I may need to take an iron supplement, as well.”

Doug frowned.
“You sure?”

“Yes. Now please, help me stand.”

It was an outright lie. As Doug looped an arm underneath him, Horace couldn’t help but feel guilty. There had been no fall. The bruises had just
appeared
, just like the ones on his legs and sides. Combining that with the constant vomiting and nosebleeds, he could come to only one conclusion—the cancer wasn’t only in his lungs anymore. It was a thought that frightened him to no end.

That fear was quashed by a squeal, like the scream of a wounded child amplified tenfold. He leaned against the wall for support, covered his ears, and watched Doug do the same. His eyes followed the sound, falling on the thing that used to be Hector, which now thrashed all the harder.

But it was the
look
of the creature that gave him pause. He’d just watched its body heal itself, and yet now new lesions covered it and red-and-yellow pus burst from its maw. Its tongue lapped the air as it screamed, becoming impaled on one of its large, sharp teeth. Pustules erupted all over its exposed flesh, smoking. It then turned to the side and ejected a torrent of stinking fluid from its mouth. After that it closed its eyes and panted.

Doug turned to him, eyes wide. “What the
fuck
was that?”

Horace looked back at the boy, feeling just as lost. “I don’t know.”

They were outside a few minutes later, slouching against the closed bulkhead and staring at the bright, late-morning sky. Horace downed a few aspirin, closed his eyes, and waited for the pain coursing through him to lessen, at least a little.

Doug shifted beside him, the metal beneath the butts creaking. The youngster’s hand then fell to his knee.

“Doc, how you feel?”

“Better.”

“How’s the arm?”

Horace turned his wrist over. The bleeding seemed to have stopped. The bandages were turning brown now instead of a deep red.

“Better. I may need stitches, though. Do you think you could help with that?”

Doug nodded.

“Good.”

“But Doc…”

“What is it?”

“What happened down there? I mean, why’d Hector—”

“It’s not Hector anymore.”

“Okay, why’d
that thing
go all crazy like that? Why’d it get better and then suddenly…go backward?”

“I’m not sure,
Douglas
,” he replied with a sigh.

“But you have an idea, right?”

Horace nodded. “I do. I’m going to need you to go back down there and get a sample for me to prove it, though.”

“Okay.”

He squeezed his eyes shut and stifled a moan. Yes, he did have a theory as to what just happened. He just wasn’t sure if he wanted that theory to be true.

*
  
*
  
*

Corky sat on the edge of Lookout Point, staring at the rocks below. Upon those rocks was a dull stain, barely visible from as high up as he was. He imagined the source of that stain, Stanley, his friend, and remembered voyaging to the gorge to retrieve his body. He’d been limp and
broken,
a shattered rag doll of a man. Corky would never forget the feel of his dead weight and flopping limbs, the sight of his caved-in skull.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out an item he’d found a few feet away from the body—Stan’s glasses. The frame was bent and the lenses had disintegrated on impact, but he’d kept them just the same. Every time he felt close to forgetting his friend’s face, he’d pull them out, run his fingers along the nosepiece, and force himself to remember. He thought about Hector, the next one to go, the one transforming in the basement of the place they called home, and figured he should probably get something of his, as well.

And here we are again
, he thought.
Another friend gone, another body on the pile.

His eyes closed and his mind went backward. He recalled the time he and his squat, pudgy friend sat in the garage of an abandoned gas station a few days after their miraculous escape from the diner.
I’ve never thought of this before
, Hector had said,
but life’s gorgeous. I mean really fucking gorgeous.
Nothing like the end of the world to put that into perspective, eh?
Corky heard the words as if they were being spoken for the first time, and a tear trickled down his cheek.

“Whassa matter Quirky?” asked a quiet voice from beside him.

He glanced over at Shelly, who mirrored his pose, her tiny legs hanging over the cliff. She kicked, knocking bits of stone into the ravine. The thought came to mind that it wouldn’t take much for her to tumble over the side and end up like Stan, crushed and twisted. A shiver ran through him. Her parents had trusted him enough to let him bring their daughter out there all by himself. The least he could do was make sure she didn’t wind up dead.

“Hey Shelly,” he said, “
how
abouts we get away from the edge a bit?”

“Okay.”

They scooted back on their rumps, sliding easily across the slick grass. Shelly then leaned into Corky, dropping her head of kinky brown curls into his lap. His massive fingers ran through her hair, felt its softness, the physical representation of the innocence. The feeling made him once more think of Stan and Hector, and the tears started rolling once more.

Twisting in his lap, Shelly gazed up at him, her eyes doe-like.

“You’re sad,” she said.

Corky nodded.

The tyke stood up and wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders. She was small as an insect to him, her five-year-old frame so tiny and insignificant, but when she pressed her lips to his ear and whispered, “It’s alright, Quirky,” she was more powerful than even the largest of men he’d fought over the years in biker bars all over the country. His own arms then enveloped her small body and he held her, weeping, rocking back and forth, while she sang a nursery rhyme that only he could hear.

After a while his cries turned to laughter. Her grip on him tightened, as if she was afraid he’d float away. “Thank you,” he whispered, and Shelly leaned back, wiping the tears from his beard with her perfect, diminutive hands. With a final sniffle, his sadness left him, and he was left to rinse himself in the aura of her purity.

“Quirky,” said Shelly, “can we look at clouds?”

“Of course, darlin’.”

They reclined on the grassy knoll and stared at the sky, guardian and child, together as one. Shelly was in constant motion, wiggling about as she lay there, pointing and gabbing away.

“That’s a horsey!” she said.
“And a crab, and a bunny, and a unicorn!
And that one! What’s that look like, Quirky?”

“A lobster, I think. Oh, and look over there. One’s shaped like my old motorcycle.”

“Where?”

“Over there, by the one that looks like a tit…I mean, like a mountain.”

“What’s a tit?”

“It’s nothing, darlin’.
Don’t worry none
. Slip of the tongue.”

“Oh, okay.”

He twisted his neck and gazed at her cherubic little face, watching her eyes sparkle as they scanned the heavens for the next wondrous image. He reached for her hand and she reached for his, and the moment their fingers touched he wished it were
his
daughter lying there, that the responsibility for her life fell to him and him alone.

“Quirky?” she said, breaking the brief silence.

“Yeah?”

“Do you believe in God?”

Her expression, with pouty lips held tight and brows creased, made her look much older than she was. “I guess so,” he replied. “Why?”

“I do,” she said. “I talk to him every night. Mommy says it’s my guardian angel, but I know he’s God.”

“How you know that?”

“He told me.”

Corky sat up, picked grass off the back of his neck, flicked it away, and watched it flutter in the calm breeze.
“Why you telling me this, darlin’?
What’s going on in that head a’yours?”

“Nuthin,” she answered, but there was something about the pleading way she looked at him that said differently.

“You can talk to me. You know that, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“So tell me.”

“It’s daddy,” she said. “He’s acting funny.”

Corky let out a small chuckle. “Your dad
always
acts funny.”

“Nuh-uh,” she said, looking offended. “He used to be nice.”

“And he’s not nice now?”

“Um…yeah.
But he
don’t
sing Humpty Dumpty to me anymore. He cries at night. I listen when he thinks I’m sleeping.”

“Has he ever talked to you while he’s crying?”

“Uh-uh. He talks to Sam.”

Corky cocked his head. “Who’s Sam?”

“His invisible friend.
I used to have an invisible friend. Her name was Matilda.”

“That’s nice.”

Resting on his palms, Corky squinted against the sun’s glare. He wasn’t sure what to do with what Shelly just told him. Hell, she was
five
for Chrissakes. But how could she get the impression he had an invisible friend, of all things?
Imagination?
Yeah, that’s probably it.
It was true that Tom had been acting strange ever since Hector fell ill, but they all had. It was
normal
abnormal behavior, if that made sense. The guy had to deal with his issues somehow, and Corky guessed that the fact that Hector had brushed him off during their last meaningful encounter only added to his strangeness.
Likely thought about killing
him
or some shit like that after it happened, and now he’s feeling guilty for thinking it. Hell, I’ve thought the same things.
Best to just give the guy a break.

He leaned forward, took Shelly in his arms, and began rocking her. She gazed up at him, her tiny lips parted just slightly.

“Quirky, will you make everything okay?” she said.

“Oh darlin’, of course I will.”

“Will you sing
Humpty Dumpty
to me?”

“Sure thing.”

And he did.