Death Springs Eternal: The Rift Book III (41 page)

CHAPTER 15

ON THE DOWNLOW

The water in the bubbling stream was cool. Corky, awake just before dawn again, splashed it over his face, allowed it to soak his long beard. His hair hung down over his shoulders, almost reaching his stomach. He sat back and rubbed that stomach, noticing how much it had retreated from its former prominence. He’d lost so much weight that he might’ve actually appeared fit. He hadn’t looked that way since he was about twelve years old.

Branches snapped behind him and he spun around, hand instinctively falling to his belt in search of his pistol. But of course the gun wasn’t there—he kept forgetting that. So he reached behind him, grabbed the tree branch he’d been using as a walking stick, and held it before him like a lance.

Doug appeared from behind the trees, carrying a bundle of bloody fur. The young Marine tossed the thing to the ground. It bounced off a pile of dead leaves and rolled to a stop inches in front of Corky’s feet.

“Rabbit,” the kid said. “I caught it, you skin it.”

Corky’s mouth twisted into a frown. “Skin it?
How the fuck?”

Doug tossed his knife—itself covered in blood—and it landed beside the dead animal.

“Use that,” he said, and then stormed away.

“Prick,” muttered Corky. He sat down and picked the dead thing up by its flopping ears. He grabbed the knife with his other hand and held up both items, rabbit next to blade, and stared. He felt apprehensive, not because he was squeamish about being around dead things, but because he hadn’t done anything like this before. Dougie was in a bad enough mood as it was. The last thing he wanted to do was screw up their meal and add fuel to the fire.

“How hard could it be?” he said with a shrug, and jammed the knife into the thing’s midsection.

They’d been alone in the woods for three days. Corky took his eyes off his gore-covered hands and stared at the sky, still dark but slowly growing brighter as the sun awoke from its slumber.
Four days now.
Four.
In that time they’d wandered aimlessly around the forest, avoiding patrols of armed men and scavenging for whatever meager food presented itself in the pilfered woods. At night they huddled together, using Corky’s denim jacket as a blanket, freezing as the temperature dropped yet too afraid to start a fire. They were miserable, and it was only getting worse. Corky’s teeth ached and his stomach rumbled. All he wanted was a warm bed and a pair of sweats. He wanted
Mount
Clinton
back. He wanted his friends back.

But of course, that wasn’t happening.

Doug returned an hour later, his rifle slung across his arms, his hair wet. His jeans, long-sleeve tee shirt, and the button-up military-issued top were damp but cleaner than before. Corky glanced down at his own chest, saw the stains blossoming on his shirt, and sniffed. He smelled like a sewer. It wasn’t pleasant. The dismembered rabbit carcass before him certainly didn’t help matters.

“So, wash up?” he asked.

Doug nodded.

“In the pond back there?”

Again a nod.

“Mind if I go next?”

“Free country.”

“You sure about that?”

He meant it as a joke, but Doug glared in his direction and tossed down his bag in frustration. Corky sighed, jammed the knife into the ground, stood up, and loped away from the kid. He shook his head, wondering what the hell they were going to do. All they had now was each other, and they were butting heads constantly. Not that they hadn’t in the past—they undoubtedly had—but now it was more…venomous.

“Corky, wait.”

There was so much pain in the kid’s voice that Corky’s chest jolted. He swiveled on his heels and saw Doug kneeling on the
ground,
arms limp by his side, tears streaming down his face. His eyes gazed at the canopy above and his mouth hung open. Corky rushed over, his long legs stepping over a fallen log as if it were nothing, and knelt beside his friend.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Doug turned to him. “We have to go back,” he blubbered.

“I know.”

“Do you? Do you really?” His voice shifted ever so slightly, becoming more acerbic. “All we’ve done is
wander
around for days. We haven’t
done anything.
”

“Doug, what’re we supposed to do?”

“I don’t know…go get them, maybe?”

Corky shook his head. “They’re all dead.”

Doug’s arm shot out and grabbed his shoulder, tight. His grip was amazingly strong in that moment. “How could you say that? We don’t know if they’re dead! Doc might still be alive! We don’t know!”

“Dougie, he got gutted. Sick as he was, I don’t think the dude made it.”

“That’s bullshit.” The kid released his shoulder and punched him in the chest. It hurt, but Corky kept his cool. He owed Doug at least that much. “I don’t get you,” Doug continued. “You
know
the little girl and the mom aren’t dead. They were
taken away
, man! Who
knows
what they’re doing to them! I figured you’d be all gung-ho for their sake, at least!”

Corky swallowed hard. He’d tried to put Shelly out of his mind, and done a good job of it too, until Doug had to go and bring the subject up again. He glowered at the young Marine.

“That’s not fair,” he snarled.

“Why not?”

“What’re we supposed to do? Go up against an army—an obviously
organized fucking army
—and shoot ’em up? C’mon, Dougie, we don’t know what we’re dealing with. We’re two…fucking…people! We’d be better off going west and forgetting about it all, start up a new life or something. Hell, all that might’ve been a mistake anyway. Maybe the government’s back, and they’re in a better place now.
Both of ’em.”

Doug rose to his feet, rolled his neck, and looked at him, aghast. “That’s a crock and you know it. I can’t believe this.
You, of all people, giving up.
Bullshit. Remember that day in the snow? Remember charging down the hill at them fleshies and saving Doc’s life? Remember how pissed I was? Well you know what? I was
in awe
of you, dude! You just went in there and charged and didn’t think of
no
consequences. But now…you’re hiding. I don’t get it. What changed?”

Guilt flowed through Corky’s veins. “A lot,” he whispered.

“No shit, Sherlock.” Doug dropped down to his ass, tossed his rifle aside, and flicked at the mud and with his fingers. “You got attached to her. You don’t wanna see her hurt. So it’s better if you just go away and pretend she’s fine.
Right?”

A tear seeped down Corky’s cheek. He nodded.

“We have to do something. We have to help. And no matter what you say, Doc
is
alive. I can
fucking
feel it.”

Corky looked at the kid, his vision hazy. “What if he’s not?”

Doug shrugged. “At least I tried. It’ll hurt, but I could probably live with that.”

Corky closed his eyes. “But what’re we gonna do? How’re we gonna get in? Last time we were shot at. These dudes don’t strike me as friendly.”

A hand on his knee.
Corky glanced at Doug. There was a sad yet hopeful smile on the kid’s face.

“We think outside the box. We find an ally.”

“And how the hell we gonna do that?”

“I have an idea.”

*
  
*
  
*

The thought had come to Doug during one of their many roundabout ventures through the woods. While they normally encountered roaming patrols that they’d have to hide from, there was one group in particular that didn’t seem to move. He always heard the same voices as they crept through the foliage. Experience taught him that a stationary force that saw no combat was an idle one, which made them vulnerable.

After allowing Corky time to wash his clothes, they slogged through the trees, backtracking through the path they’d walked tirelessly for the last three days. Now that they were in motion, the sorrow he’d felt earlier melted away. This was the time for Doug Lockenshaw to prove his worth. Horace was counting on him. He couldn’t let the old man down. Not again.

It took a half-hour to find the spot he was looking for. An open area appeared to their left, a country road complete with coiled wire guardrails held together by wooden stumps. When they’d first come across it, Corky had suggested they get out of the forest and hike on gravel for a bit. That thought was quelled when a carrier of some kind whisked by, men hanging out the back. Random shots were fired. To Doug that seemed a sloppy way to operate, and when it came to folks with guns, sloppy was deadly.

The area he looked for was secluded, a hidden spot where some of the men would relax without having to worry about responsibility for a while. Again, that struck Doug as strange. The military had always been all-hands-on-deck, all concentration all the time. To see otherwise screamed
unprofessional
.

The road curved away from the path they’d forged, and they trekked deeper into the canopy. Sure enough, a few hundred yards in Doug heard chattering voices. He picked up his pace, moving at a brisk jog down a slight decline until he was stopped by something he didn’t expect.

A fence topped with barbed wire.

Corky, coming up from
behind,
almost slammed into him. Doug held out his arm, steadied his large friend, and began walking the perimeter. He came upon a sign when the fence curved.
FEDERAL DEFENSE SUPPLY CENTER
, the sign read. Doug peered through the rungs and grimaced.

In the center of a huge open space, in front of a concrete structure, was a bigger-than-life metal golem. It was a bit rusty and painted a dim shade of tan. A gigantic barrel jutted out from it, upon which hung what appeared to be the day’s laundry. Two individuals sat atop the beast, drinking out of plastic thermoses and talking, though neither seemed very interested in the conversation. On the side of the thing, written in jagged, spray painted letters, was the word
PEACEMAKER
.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Corky murmured. “They have a fucking
tank
?”

“Looks that way,” Doug whispered in reply.

“What we do now?”

“No clue.”

“Great.”

They were close enough that Doug could see the two men, but far enough away that if they moved quietly
he
and Corky could go virtually unnoticed. He took his field glasses out of his bag and examined the men, studying their movements, their facial expressions, their clothes. He felt his body go rigid as his eyes caught sight of something exciting. He scanned the length of the fence, looking for a way in. Twenty or so feet to his left there was a gap. It looked to have been cut open at some point in the past, and came out behind a row of ground cover on the other side. As long as Corky could squeeze through, they’d be all set.

Doug tapped his friend on the arm, pointed, and crept away. Corky followed.

Though Doug got through the fissure relatively easily, it was difficult to get the much larger man to do the same thing without making a racket. Doug’s fingers stretched to the point of agony while he crouched behind the low-hanging shrubs and held back the fence, making room for an awkwardly crawling Corky. When he finally squeezed through the gap, Corky was panting. There was a spot of blood on his side. He must’ve scraped against one of the links on the way through.