Death Springs Eternal: The Rift Book III (42 page)

“You hurt?” asked Doug, keeping his voice low.

Corky pointed to his misshapen nose. “Had worse,” he muttered.

Doug nodded. He slipped the rifle strap over his shoulder and placed the weapon on the ground beside his discarded bag. “Don’t use it, just keep it safe,” he told his friend.

“Why? Huh? What’re you doing?”

“Just trust me, okay? I got an idea.”

With that Doug stood up, lifted his arms above his head, and marched out of the brush. The two guys sitting on the tank were oblivious. They hadn’t noticed him yet. He heard Corky gasp behind him and hoped the oaf would stay quiet while he did what he had to do.

He swerved to the left, taking Corky out of the crosshairs in case the sentinels lost their cool and opened fire, squeezed his eyes shut, and puffed out his chest. “Hey!” he bellowed. “Please don’t shoot!”

When he opened his eyes again, he saw the two men staring at him as if they’d never seen a human before in their lives. One was a tall, older sort, with patches of white hair sticking out wildly in all directions, making him look like a mad scientist. He appeared calm and even a bit amused. The other guy wasn’t either of those things. He jumped to his feet, arms shaking, and shouldered his weapon. Doug could see his finger twitching over the trigger.

“I am Private Douglas Lockenshaw!” Doug announced, stopping in his tracks and clasping his hands behind his head. “United States Marine Corps, nineteenth division! Please put down your weapon! I am unarmed and mean you no harm!”

The white haired man put a finger to his lips and grinned. “Hold on, Dante,” he said. His southern drawl reminded Doug of Dennis.

“Fuck you, Randall!” the other man shouted. “You ain’t in charge here,
I
am!”

Randall’s hand shot up, and his palm pressed into the barrel. “Go ahead, pull the trigger,” he said, a taunting quality to his voice. “Blow my friggin hand off…then
you
can drive this bucket-o-shit back to the lot…see how the big guy likes
them
apples.”

Dante slowly pulled his head away from the sight notches, glaring at his partner. Randall smirked and gave the gun a slight nudge. Dante dropped it to his side.

“Good,” said the older man. “Now out to pasture with you…and bring me back some…I don’t know…dandelions.”

“Fuck you,” replied Dante. “I ain’t going
nowhere
.”

The two were completely focused on each other, as if Doug didn’t exist. It took him a moment to break out of his stupor while he watched them snipe back and forth. He took one step, then two, moving gradually toward the massive war machine. The argument then raised a few notches, and he picked up his pace. His inching became a soft-footed gallop. With Dante’s back to him, he arrived at the side of the tank, leapt in the air, and reached out his hand. His fingers latched around Dante’s belt, and he gave it a tug on the way down. The fidgety man shrieked as he was yanked off his feet. He hit the ground with an audible
huff,
spit ejecting from between his lips. Doug worked quickly, looping the strap of the prone man’s rifle from around his arm, and then dropped both knees onto his shoulders. He swung the weapon around like a baton and shoved the business end into Dante’s face.

“What…the fuck…” Dante moaned.

“Oh shut up,” sang out Randall from behind them. Doug watched the crazy old coot dance some kind of awkward jig atop the steel hull. He nodded to the man, who gave him the same in return. Dante whimpered beneath him, and he gave the guy a swift fist between the eyes.

“
Cork
!” he shouted. “I think it’s safe to come out now!”

*
  
*
  
*

Florence Ludlow always said you could tell everything about a person just by looking in their eyes. This was why, when Corky sat in the grass beside the tank, with the old guy with the ridiculous hair across from him, he felt more than a little bit uneasy. Doug kept glancing his way while Randall pattered on and on, acting like a father telling his son not to stare at the circus freaks.

It turned out that Randall’s full name was Jeromiah Clarke Randall; he was fifty-eight, and had been retired from military service for fourteen years before being reinstated when
Wrathchild
swept the globe. Doug informed him it was the 2D Marine Tank Battalion patch on the right arm of his jacket that had given him the idea to approach him. According to Randall, he’d been S-3 of that division for the last twenty years of his tenure, none of which Corky understood. But he also said he’d been honorably discharged because of “development of mental deficiency,” which to Corky made all the sense in the world. The guy’s eyes were always moving, reflecting a sort of jittery caginess he’d only seen in meth heads and coke addicts.

Only Randall wasn’t on drugs. He was just nuts.

Corky sat back and listened as a never-ending surge of words spewed from Randall’s mouth. He spoke like a hyper kid with ADD, all stops and starts as if an invisible crank had to wind in his brain before he rapidly blurted out his thoughts. “So we was in some town in South Carolina,” he said, “some town called ‘Oxenberg’ or something like that…and from outta nowhere comes this buncha dudes scarier’n anything I ever seen…and the whole platoon got shredded, man…I mean fucking
tore up
…I’ve never…I crawled under my baby to the belly hatch…then climbed inside and lay there for a while…till I thought it was safe to go…and there was no one around…felt like Heston in that monkey-movie…but I didn’t feel hungry and that was weird…but that’s kinda beside the point…”

Doug cut him off by putting a hand on his shoulder. Randall’s lips kept moving, like there was some sort of private dialogue in his brain that just
had
to get out.

“How’d you end up here?” Doug asked. “Who do you work for now?
Government?
Military?”

“Ha! That’s something…none of neither those round these parts…though I guess they like to think so…and there’s different guys from different parts of the military….Army, Navy, Air Force, the fucking God-fearing Marines like us…but it’s built all wrong…guy in charge…Bathgate…says he was a general, but I doubt it…calls this group the SNF…Soldiers of New Freedom or some shit…real fucking corny, I know…but how’d I meet ’em…oh yeah, saw a platoon one day over in La Grange, when I was by my lonesome scrounging for supplies…hadn’t seen a soul in a month…and they seemed normal enough…and they brought me to this Bathgate fella, and he seemed to like my baby…said he’d like to talk about bringing her on board…I got the impression it wasn’t really a request, so I said yes…there’s some real pricks ’round here, some
really
unsavory folk…well, except for Hawthorne, who ran the Bradley that was already here…good guy that one…and me too, I’m decent enough…just roll around with the baby and look mean…” Randall paused, smiled, slapped the tank’s steel hull, and his eyeballs skittered back and forth between Corky and Doug. “But I’ll tell you a secret though…I got it pretty special here…long as I stick around I can do whatever the fuck I want…no one else knows how to run her…and I teach some fellas, courses and shit, but never tell ’em too much…’cause I ain’t making myself expendable…I may be a little cracked, but I ain’t insane. Y’know?”

Corky chuckled. “Sure.”

“Randall,” said Doug, “it doesn’t sound like you like you trust these people at all. Why haven’t you just packed up and left already?”

Randall shrugged. “Opportunity, soldier-boy…can’t do nothing if I don’t got the goods…I’m only one old dude…and the Peacemaker here ain’t invulnerable…even if I tried to roll out of town, they’d shoot me up something fierce…and I don’t feel much like dying…”

“But you helped us out, and that’s a risk, right?”

“Sure…but not much of one…not like y’all wanna throw down with ‘em…and besides, Dante’s a little bitch.”

From his secluded corner, stripped naked and gagged, with tape around his ankles and wrists, Dante squealed.

“Shut up, retard,” shouted Randall, a bit too joyfully.

“Do you think you can get us into the city, Randall?” asked Doug.

Corky shook his head.

“Sure thing,” Randall replied. “We can even roll in with the baby here…I’m expected back tonight anyway, and no one’ll see you inside the cab…”

Doug stood up, stretched his arms above his head, and then hopped atop the tank. He lifted the lower access hatch and peered inside. Randall popped up from his sitting position and joined him in seemingly a single motion. Corky didn’t think he’d ever seen a guy that age move so spryly.

“You like her?” the nutty old timer asked. “Been with me forever…shit, General Cooper did me the honor of retiring her along with me…best honor a TC can get…”

“What can you tell me about her?” Doug asked. Corky rolled his eyes in expectation of another deluge and climbed up on the tank with them. He was starting to feel silly sitting by himself.

“Where do I begin?” said Randall, his eyes growing to the size of golf balls. “This baby’s an oldie but goodie…M48 Patton class, built in 1958…guy who had her before me was named Gloster…nice enough fella, a bit on the rigid side though…looked like he was always ready to have a heart attack…but anyway…originally outfitted with a 90 millimeter cannon, but it was upgraded to 105 in seventy-seven…lots of bang for the buck…diesel motor, 750 horsepower, can bring her up to thirty…used to be forty, but like I said she’s kinda old…sucks gas like a sumbitch…what else is there…oh yeah, up in the TC station we got a 50 cal M2…rip-roaring, my man, thirteen rounds a second…could take out a whole platoon in a couple minutes, long as it don’t overheat on ya…”

“No shit,” Doug said, his mouth hanging low. “
How’s she drive
?”

“Hot damn, you gotta check this out…” The wacky old Marine flopped down on his stomach. His head disappeared into the hatch, and Corky could hear his voice reverberate like he was speaking in a cave. “Just like a car, only shitloads bigger…handles the turns like a dream…if you wanna drop inside, I’ll show you how she gets it on…”

Doug offered Corky an amused grin and followed Randall into the sarcophagus. “I think we’re in business,” he said with a wink. “We got fucking lucky, man. Randall’s the real deal. I think we’re gonna be spending a lot of time with him.”

“Oh goodie,” muttered Corky.
“Can’t wait.”

CHAPTER 16

THE END OF THE LINE

The young man with pitch-black hair stared at Greg while he scrubbed the tires of the old snowplow with Windex. The guy’s last name was Mansetti or something like that, a badass dude, one of the most feared Marauders. Greg didn’t know his first name because he’d never bothered to learn it. He was simply known in the ranks of the fighting men as
Corporal Bulldog.

Bulldog strolled across the street, puffing on a cigarillo. Greg tried to make it look like he didn’t see him coming, but he was sure he failed at that, big time. He was sweating and paranoid as hell, like he used to get when Greta smoked him up with that killer herb she somehow always stashed away back in his
Tiny Bottoms
days. He hated the feeling then—he wasn’t really a pot smoker, more of a drinker—and he hated it now. The last thing he needed was for Bulldog to catch a whiff of his odd behavior and think something was up.

Mainly because something
was
up.

“What’s going on, Lieutenant?” Bulldog asked as he approached.

“Call me Greg,” Pitts answered, not looking up and trying to keep his voice steady. “I told you
that
a million fucking times already.”

“That isn’t protocol, Lieutenant,” said Bulldog.
“Doesn’t follow the chain of command.”

Pitts sighed. That was the other thing about Bulldog that made him uneasy—the guy was a stickler for the rules, even if those rules were made up.

“Fine.”

“You didn’t answer my question though, sir.”

“Eh?”

“What’re you doing?”

Greg straightened up, threw the wet rag over his shoulder, and faced his inquisitor. “I’m just cleaning up my ride,” he said. “She got a little dirty, y’know?”

“At six-thirty in the morning?”

Shrugging, Pitts replied, “Hey, early to rise, right?”

“I never see you before ten.”

“Then you’re not paying attention.”

He’d let a whisker of derision enter his tone, and Greg took a deep breath to squash it. He didn’t want to get into a confrontation—not here, not with this man, not before he made his getaway.

He took the rag off his shoulder, tossed it through the cab’s open window, and then went about removing the apron he’d been wearing to avoid getting his clothes dirty. He didn’t pack anything, not even so much as a travel case with deodorant and a toothbrush. Doing that would make him look suspicious, and that’s the last way he wanted to appear.

“Listen, Bulldog,” he said. “Truth is I couldn’t sleep. I’ve been tossing and turning the whole fucking night. So I thought I’d get up and do something. You know, busy work, maybe take a drive,
get
my mind off it.”

Bulldog’s head tilted to the side. “Get your mind off of what, sir?”

“Oh, you know,” Pitts said with a chuckle and wave of his hand.
“Cody…Sergeant Jackson’s big shindig tonight.”

Bulldog looked at him like he was speaking Swahili.

“You
do
know about the auction, right?”

“Yes,” replied Bulldog. “But why would that
cause
you trouble?”

“Dude, you know how long it’s been since I got laid?
Half a year, at least.
I got a ton of silver and a classic Winchester slide-action I’m gonna put up for bid, so I’m sure to get something. And it makes me nervous.”

“Why?”

Man, this guy’s a social retard.
“Because I get scared I won’t…you know…perform as well as I could.”

“Perform?”

“In the sack.
Fucking.”

“Oh.”

“You going?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Bulldog stood there in silence, staring at him and not answering. He then blinked rapidly, shook his head, and offered a salute. “Good day to you, Lieutenant,” he said, his heels thudding together.
“And good luck easing your troubles.”

“Uh, sure thing,” Pitts said. Bulldog swiveled on the balls of his feet and walked away. He moved so smoothly that the automatic weapon slung over his shoulder never once bounced. Greg shook his head and blew a puff of air out his nose. “That was fucking weird,” he muttered, and then reached up, opened the door to the plow’s cab, and climbed in. He made sure the AK-47 was hidden well enough behind the driver’s seat before putting on his seatbelt and turning the key.

As he revved the engine and started to pull away, Greg started to second-guess his decision to take this beast of a vehicle instead of something more practical, like the ’83 Ford Explorer he used to drive before the world ended.
 
He mulled it over for a moment, then thought about how many roadblocks the plow blade had easily brushed aside as the SNF made its way north. He was sure to find more of the same on his journey to the coast, since there were
always
problems with obstructions after an apocalypse.

“Yeah, I’m sticking with you, darlin’,” he said, rubbing the steering wheel with his palm.
“Till the end of times.”

Or at least until he found a boat in decent enough condition and got the hell out of dodge.

The streets were pretty much empty at this hour, though there were a few stragglers—soldiers and civilians alike—walking about. Some he could tell were just on their way home after a long night of drinking, their gaits wobbly,
their
eyes dazed. He even saw one guy puke all over the front porch of a boarded-up sandwich shop. The others were bright-eyed and determined—
morning people, gyah
—and they waved to him as he passed them by as if he was a one-man parade. It took him a minute to remember that Bathgate had outlawed civilian automobiles in the city proper, meaning it would be assumed that any vehicle on the road was on active duty. It made him shiver and drive just a tad faster. The last thing he needed was for an inquisitive bastard to contact command and ask what sort of business he was conducting that day. “Shit,” he muttered. Bulldog might’ve been doing just that now.

He drove even faster.

Steering the plow onto Nine Mile, he drove more cautiously, watching the sky change colors as the sun emerged from behind a thin layer of clouds. He spotted an ominous black sky in the rear view mirror, far on the horizon.
Holy shit, that looks like one bastard of a storm
, he thought.
Good thing this baby handles like a charm in the rain.

Five minutes later he turned onto route 64. A sign reading
JCT 295 THREE MILES
passed by to his right. His blood started pumping. He was almost at the end of the line, the point of no return.

A string of automobiles appeared, blocking the road. There were sandbags stacked up in front of them on the side he approached, razor wire and tire spikes on the other.
The Nine Mile Checkpoint.

“Showtime.”

He slowed to a crawl, stuck his hand out the window, and waved. The sentinels manning the blockade—there were twelve of them—waved back. Two jumped up and got in a pair of Euro-crap sedans. The engines started and the cars backed away from each other. Three other men began taking down the sandbag wall while another two worked on swinging open the barbed wire gate on the opposite side. Greg’s jaw dropped open and his heart pounded. That feeling of paranoia came over him again. This was too easy.

At the newly opened gate he stopped, even though every part of him wanted to slam the petal to the floor and take off as fast as he could. He rolled down his window as a young soldier he recognized approached, a kid with a shock of blonde hair and crystal blue eyes.

“Hey Lucas,” said Greg. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much,” Lucas replied.
“So why you out this far, sir?”

“Oh, just going for a drive. I need some air.”

The kid’s face twitched. “There’s air in the city.”

“Yeah, I know. But I need something…cleaner.”

“Cleaner?”

Greg winked. “You know,
away
from people. With tonight coming up fast, I gotta…well…get myself ready.” His hand curled into a fist and he made a pumping gesture in the air.

Lucas turned red and smiled. “I get that.”

“So can I go through, or this just a formality? I mean, you already opened the gate and all.”

“Course you can go. In a minute though. Hold on, I’ll be right back.”

With that Lucas jogged away, heading for the Winnebago that served as the checkpoint office. He disappeared inside for a few short minutes, and when he reemerged, there was someone behind him.

Bathgate.

Greg had to bite his tongue to keep from screaming.

The general, wearing freshly pressed fatigues and polished boots, strolled casually up to the plow on the passenger side, opened the door, and climbed in. He bounced on the spring-loaded seat and turned to Greg. The man’s complexion looked strange. His cheeks were rosy, his nose shining. But the weirdest part of all was his mouth. It was turned up in an innocent-looking grin, a type of expression that Greg didn’t think the man was capable of. It scared him.

“Beautiful morning, is it not?” Bathgate asked.

Greg nodded. A lump appeared in his throat.

“How about we take that drive?”

“Oh. Okay.”

He pulled through the barricade. Lucas saluted them on their way by. Greg felt close to crying.

The cab was silent for a good hour until they arrived at
Newport News
. There were surprisingly few obstacles to deal with, and the ones they did come across were easily shoved aside by the massive yellow beast of a machine. The mixed scents of salt water and dead, festering sea life wafted through the open windows. Then the general cleared his throat and said, “Pull over here.” They were maybe two miles from
Hampton
.

Greg did as he was told, steering the plow toward the shoulder and stopping. He listened to the sea birds caw as Bathgate took a cigar from his pocket and lit it. The man took a pull then exhaled with his mouth in the shape of an O.

“You know, I’ve never been able to make smoke rings,” he said, his voice sounding unusual, almost chipper.
“Even in my other life.
My wife tried to teach me once, but to no avail.”

“I thought you were never married,” said Greg.

“I think the key is clicking your jaw or something,” Bathgate said. “But it takes practice, and I don’t even really like to smoke. Never have.”

He tossed the cigar out the window,
then
turned slowly to Pitts.

“Seriously Greg,” he
said,
his tone serious. “What’s going on here?”

Pitts coughed into his hand. “Whaddayou mean?” He felt like he was going to get sick.

“Don’t play dumb. You can’t hide anything from me. You might as well admit it.”

“I…um…I just…well...”

Bathgate shook his head. “Come on. What kind of monster do you think I am? You’re the best friend I have. Remember the day you saved me from that horde way back when? I owe you. You can be honest with me.”