Death Springs Eternal: The Rift Book III (27 page)

Lumley faced the throng and raised his arms. The crowd around them wasn’t exactly raucous, but with so many mouths going at once, it was hard to hear anything other than one giant, muddled conversation. It took a few minutes for everyone to settle down.

“Okay then,” the first airman said, raising his voice so all could hear. “As I just told these fine gentlemen, my name is First Airman Robert Lumley. I’ve been selected as your liaison. We need to register you all first, names and socials, and then we will proceed to your new homes. You will be staying just outside the city, on the campus of the
University
of
Richmond
. Unfortunately there is no power there yet—the grid only reaches as far as the structure behind me—but we’ve set up generators, and hopefully the university grid will be up in a few days’ time.
Any questions?”

That was the wrong thing to say, as it seemed like everyone had something dire they wanted to know. The chatter began anew. John Terry and his wife finally made their way to the front of the crowd, raising their hands to quiet everyone. None seemed to notice. People shouted over each other, asking every question under the sun.
Is the President here? Can I search for my loved ones? Do the bathrooms work? When’s breakfast?
Lumley, obviously overwhelmed, took a step back. He ran a hand through his hair, grabbed a megaphone, and held it to his lips.

“Okay, bad idea!” he said. “Please calm down! Form three lines and enter the garage. We’ll man the desks once in there, and proceed one at a time to each station. Then we’ll take down all the important information.” He paused, then added, “We’ll also hand you each a card, upon which you can write your questions and concerns. All will be answered in the next week. I promise.”

Billy chuckled as the people around him began doing as they were told, forming three clumps of humanity that could only dream of being considered lines. Folks pushed and shoved one another, trying to keep their smaller groups together. It struck him as funny, in a not-so-funny way. Back at the Omni, when they’d been trapped and on their own, his fellow survivors had been the embodiment of cooperation and order. Yet now that they were in a familiar place, with familiar creature comforts and structure, they reverted to petty squabbles and immaturity. John Terry again tried to calm everyone down, this time slamming his cane against the edge of a metal folding chair positioned just outside the garage. Eyes turned to him.

“Get
yourselves
together, people!” he shouted. “What are we, savages?”

Everyone seemed to get the point this time, murmuring and shuffling about until the lines were pretty much even. Forrest chuckled, taking his place in line. Billy shook his head, threw his arm around Christopher, and entered the building.

The structure, Billy found out, was actually a parking garage, only the ramps leading up had been cordoned off. There were indeed desks in there—twelve to be exact, three rows of four—and the process of registration began. The soldiers, including Lumley, sat behind the desks. One individual at a time, names and social security numbers were written on four-by-six index cards, and then dropped into milk crates. They’d organize them later, Billy assumed, but there was something haphazard about the way the soldiers—all but Lumley—went about writing and placing the cards in the crates gave him pause. They seemed to not care one lick, as if what they were doing was a needless formality and nothing more. These were supposed to be members of the American military establishment, the most disciplined men and women around, not petulant teenagers. And one look at the expression on the face of the man-in-charge said he felt the same way. This was certainly something he’d need to discuss with the first airman later.

When the registration process ended, the survivors were led back outside, gathering in the parking lot. Christopher scurried away from him—with his permission, of course—rushing to join a group of children more or less his age, laughing and cavorting with all the naiveté of youth now that a semblance of normality had been returned to them.

Billy sighed. Something was obviously wrong here. Part of him wanted to chastise his inner skeptic, to turn a blind eye to all his worry and doubt and allow himself to be blissfully unaware for once. He glanced up, noticed the sky above had become an ominous gray with dawn’s approach, which only added to his paranoia. He felt the painful stabs of exhaustion, both physically and mentally, and rubbed his temples.

A slender hand grabbed his elbow. He looked over to see Marcy standing beside him, and for a moment it felt like his heart had been injected with adrenaline. She smiled back at him, though her eyes were filled with sadness.

“We need to talk,” she said.
Leon
loomed behind her, scowling.

“Very well.”

As Billy walked behind his two friends, heading for a secluded spot away from the crowd, he eyed Forrest, who stood with the John and Katy Terry, talking with Lumley. The old cop caught his gaze, tapped the pistol on his hip, and then passed him
a thumbs-
up and a cautious nod, which Billy returned. Despite the relief and giddy excitement in the air, Forrest seemed to display all the trepidation he felt.
That is a good man
, he thought.
We are lucky to have him on our side.

When they were sufficiently out of earshot, the three of them huddled in a tight circle.
Leon
breathed hard, like he’d just finished running a marathon. Marcy’s smile disappeared. She looked to be in a great amount of pain.

“What is wrong?” asked Billy.

“They came back,” she replied. “For a while I was all good, like I’d just stopped being crazy, but the closer we got to here, it just kept getting worse. I mean, it’s not as bad as it was a few days ago, but I’m still…seeing things.”

“Such as?”

Marcy’s jaw tightened.
“Nothing concrete.
Not yet, anyway.
It’s
more notions and feelings. But it’s just like what I felt from the guys back at the hotel. This doesn’t feel like a good place.”

“Explain.”

“There’s hatred here.
A lot of it.
More than anything, that’s the impression I get.”

“From who?”

“I don’t know. It’s just a feeling, like someone leaking black goo into my brain or something.”

Leon
squeezed Billy’s forearm. “I feel it too, man,” he said, his eyes white and glowing in the dawn’s new light. “I don’t need no psychic powers or anything to know it, either. C’mon, don’t tell me you haven’t felt the same thing.”

Nodding his head, Billy said, “I have.”

“So what’re we gonna do about it?”

“Right now, it seems we have no other choice but to go with the soldiers, take whatever lodging they give us, and sleep. We are all exhausted. Once we are rested, we can discuss our next step.”

Marcy and Leon both frowned, though they agreed it was the best choice of action. After all, where else could they go? Though the world had always been a big, scary place, it was even more so now. The only comfort they had was each other. Together, he felt they could get through anything, defeat all odds, and come out on the other side in a better place. They had survived this long, outliving infection, the walking dead, and even their own personal demons, by trusting each other. They had to do that now, as well.

Soon the survivors from the Omni were being loaded back onto the vehicles they arrived in, preparing to journey to the
University
of
Richmond
and their new lives.
 
Billy, Marcy, and Leon walked back to them the way they left—together.

*
  
*
  
*

Over the years, Billy had come to love the city of
Richmond
. He always made it a necessary stop on his trips up and down the eastern seaboard, either for vacations, teaching seminars, book signings, or simple road trips. He thought it might be the most gorgeous city in
America
, its rolling landscape covered with ash, beech, hemlock, and maple trees. The architecture was a combination of old-world Victorian homes and inventive, glass-infused skyscrapers. As a city it stayed remarkably true to its bucolic roots despite the addition of those few tall buildings and a population of four hundred thousand people.

The spring, in particular, brought out the best in the city. The soft white blooms of flowering dogwoods made the air sweet to breathe. The sun was bright and warm, but usually not as oppressive as it was just a few miles south. The people were generally warm and friendly, unusual for big-city living in the States. If he could choose of one word to describe it, it would be
comfortable.

And it was that word—or the lack of it—that came to mind when he stepped out of the van once they entered the University grounds. In early morning sunlight, without the counterfeit reality of electric lighting, he saw a land stripped of beauty and charisma. A decaying countryside took its place; burned-out buildings, seared, dead grass, trees bent sideways, abandoned wrecks that had once been automobiles. Facing him was a building whose windows had been long smashed.
Weinstein Center for Recreation and Wellness
, the sign proclaimed, but the state of the edifice opposed that title. Its walls—those still standing—bore scorch marks, and brown stains covered the concrete steps. Behind him, in an old baseball diamond, a place Billy would have spent many weekends if he’d been a student here, there were hundreds of crosses standing at the head of upturned piles of dirt. The lake behind it appeared brown and polluted, most likely filled with rotting corpses as well. Just like SCI Greensburg, just like
Pittsburgh
,
Richmond
had become one huge graveyard. He kicked himself for even entertaining the notion that things might be different.

The soldiers, led by Lumley, went about gathering the survivors into small groups. All firearms were confiscated, with much protesting from Forrest’s cop friends, while orders were shouted and people hustled from cluster to cluster, some following directions, some not, but all appearing as if they just wanted to lie down and sleep. Dormitory buildings loomed in front of them.

Billy scanned the different groups, and realized something strange: all people of African or Arab lineage, at least those who were noticeably so, were being gathered into a single assembly—his own. Old dreams, old paranoia, crept up on him. A sickening sensation pricked at his spine, and his fists balled out of instinct.

Lumley strolled by, gaze locked on his clipboard. A soldier appeared on Billy’s left, trying to get his attention. Billy shoved him away and stormed after the first airman.

“Lumley,” he said. “You will speak with me.
Promptly.”

Lumley glanced up and his eyes widened. He dropped the clipboard to the ground and held his hands out to his sides, as if telling everyone else not to panic. When Billy drew near, he could see the man was breathing heavily through his nose.

“What is going on here?” Billy asked. He heard the venom leak out in his voice and tried his best to contain it. There were more soldiers lingering about here than at the processing station. They’d run him through in a second if he caused any problems.

“What do you mean?” said Lumley.

“You know very well of what I speak.”

Lumley’s eyes dropped, and he put a hand on Billy’s shoulder. “Come with me,” he whispered.

They strolled across the parking lot and stepped behind one of the intact walls of the Weinstein building. Stopping there, Lumley’s eyes flicked from left to right as if he was scared someone was eavesdropping on them.

“Speak,” said Billy.