Death Springs Eternal: The Rift Book III (6 page)

“Fuck this,” he
whispered,
his tone flat. “Fuck
Miami
. Fuck everything.”

That’s how, two weeks later, the
Dover
survivors ended up in
Kingston
,
New York
.

*
  
*
  
*

Kyra sat in front of the boarded-up picture window, gazing at the setting sun through the holes in the slats. It looked so pretty out there on the horizon, casting flares of red across the cloudy sky. It was in those brief moments of purity that the rest of the world melted away, leaving nothing but her baby and nature behind, leaving her with a
future
. But all it took was a single glance around the abandoned house they called home to bring all the pain, terror, and hopelessness back. The signs were everywhere—the dried bloodstains on the kitchen floor and walls, stains that wouldn’t completely disappear no matter how hard she scrubbed, the array of lumber nailed to every portal to the outside, the unsociable people that lived with them who would never truly be
friends
, no matter how long they traveled together, no matter how many horrible experiences they shared.

When the sun finished its descent, Kyra lit a candle and stepped into the hallway. There were people in the kitchen chatting in hushed tones, so she tiptoed past so as to not disturb them. Next she poked her head into the family room, where she spotted Jessica Lure, lying on a blanket on the floor, aimlessly twirling Zachary’s hair. The child was sound asleep, and if not for her circling finger Kyra might’ve assumed Jessica was, too. Her eyes were opened half-mast, staring at the ceiling. The poor girl appeared as lifeless as the undead beasts they spent each day eliminating. Kyra shuddered.

The baby inside her kicked, causing a surprised blast of air to puff from her lips. She turned quickly and walked away, even as she heard Jessica say her name in a miserable whisper. A rush of guilt threatened to crush her heart, but she continued her escape.
 
The girl needs you…she’s the only friend you have…and you hers
, it said. To which Kyra retorted:
I have my own life to worry about right now, thank you very much.

She found the source of that worry in one of the upstairs bedrooms, sprawled out on the bed with his shotgun tucked against his side. His eyes were closed, twitching the way they always did when he slept. When Kyra stepped through the doorway, he rolled to the side and let out a disgruntled groan.

Kyra shook her head and stared at the ceiling.
How much longer can I deal with this?
she
wondered.
It’s getting frustrating.
She knew he missed Colin, and obviously felt guilty for leaving him to be slaughtered, but all she could think as she stood there with a hand on her swollen belly was
get over it.
Though she hadn’t glanced at a calendar in forever, her inner clock told her it was the middle of April. By now her baby would have arms, legs, a mouth, ears, and a working brain. If she were able to see it through the layers of flesh and amniotic fluid, she would recognize it as a viable human entity, though it wouldn’t be much larger than a peach. She also realized how much she needed this broken shell of a man to regain his drive, his passion, or else everything they’d done, all the miles they had journeyed trying to stay alive, would be for nothing. Her irritation formed a ball of hatred in her gut.

Easy for me to pass judgment
, she thought, running a hand through her greasy hair in an attempt to calm down.
I don’t know what it’s like being in his shoes.
So she did the one thing she could, the one thing she did over and over again for weeks on end: she coddled him.

Stripping down to nothing but her panties and sliding under the covers, Kyra pressed her stomach into her lover’s back and draped her arm over his shoulder, using her fingers to trace a line from his elbow to his chest. He rustled, and she heard the shotgun fall off the bed, hitting the carpeted floor with a stifled clunk. His hand grabbed hers and pulled it tight to his chest. Kyra snaked her other arm underneath his head and turned his face to her. His eyes were closed, and his forehead furrowed, but he pursed his lips just the same. Kyra planted a kiss on them and pressed her cheek against his. She felt the damp lines of tears, old and new, on his flesh.

“I love you,” she whispered, and shut her eyes.

*
  
*
  
*

There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, allowing the sun to shine down unfiltered. The sun looked so huge it should have been at least a hundred degrees outside, but Josh felt a chill nonetheless. His feet pounded the sidewalk as he walked, the sounds echoing in his ears as if he were in a tunnel.

He gazed at the various houses he passed by, listening to the chirping birds and children playing in their backyards. Tears welled in his eyes as he took it all in, experiencing through that laughter what it meant to be young and carefree once more. He took in a deep breath, cherishing the smell of lilacs and freshly cut grass, but it was another smell that caused his perfect vision to falter, for underneath everything else he caught a faint whiff of jasmine.

Josh stopped in his tracks, looking left to right, forward and back. It was all a dream. It had to be. How else to explain how bright and cheery
Dover
appeared? Only in his dreams could such a dark and dreary place be filled with such lightness.

But that wasn’t it, and he knew it. He
wasn’t
dreaming, at least not entirely. That smell of jasmine again, and he put one foot in front of the other. She was here—Isabella, the lady of shadows, his guide through the darkness, whose visits had become sporadic at best over the past six months. There was no other way to explain the sensations. Excitement blossomed within him. He had to find her.

He passed sight after familiar sight as he walked—the supermarket, the hair salon, the tobacconist where he’d upended his Bonneville, Stacy’s Bar and Grille, The Pit. People were everywhere, and there were cars driving down the road. Carol Hemingway, the middle-aged divorcee who lived next door to his parents, pulled her station wagon up to the curb, stepped out, and then faced his direction. She saluted him with two fingers, passed along a kind smile and nod, then got back into her car and drove away. Josh watched the vehicle disappear around the corner, dumbfounded.

That’s when he noticed Carol wasn’t the only one whose attention had turned to him. There was a large group of women sitting on lawn chairs in front of Tae Kim’s Beauty Salon. They stood up and cheered when he looked in their direction, clapping with their hands in the air like they would for a returning hero. Three of them stepped forward, mouthing
thank you
beneath the chorus of cheers.

“Thank you for caring for Andrew,” said one woman.

“And Francis,” said another.

“And Meghan,” said the third.

The rest of the gathered ladies approached, and fear rose in Josh’s throat. The scene took on the atmosphere of a nightmare, the advancing horde of middle-aged women with practical haircuts becoming mythical beasts whose only purpose was to smother him with kindness until he breathed no more. Josh spun around and sprinted down the street away from them, allowing their cheers to melt away into nothingness.

He ran and ran, but couldn’t escape the ghosts of his past. They hung out windows, harkening his arrival with squeals of approval. He spotted Mrs. Flannigan and the doomed seventh-graders, together again, waving at him from the playground beside St. Mary’s Cathedral. The woman’s grin stretched wide, revealing a set of much-too-large teeth. Josh thought they looked sharp as razors. He pushed his feet faster.

His lungs burned and his leg muscles ached. He felt like he had the day everything fell apart, when he dashed through town in search of Sophia, his sister. He’d seen Mrs. Flannigan and the children then, and like Colin, he’d left them to die.
This
was their revenge, to come for him in his sleep and torment him until he withered away. With his body a mass of throbbing pain, a part of him was ready to give them that.

He tore around the next bend in the road and came to an abrupt halt. Nothing was as it should’ve been, for instead of the industrial district, he suddenly found himself on
Maple Street
. A hundred feet away from him he saw a gleaming white colonial house, complete with the carved blue sign proclaiming BENOIT in white letters. The wind knocked out of him by both exhaustion and surprise, he bent over, grabbed his knees for support, and coughed.

A figure approached him, and Josh shot up. It was his mother, traipsing across the grass, the sun behind her casting a shadow like reaching fingers. He backed away slowly, putting his arms up. The look on his mother’s face, the knowing half-smile and squinting eyes, reminded him of better, easier days. He hoped this vision didn’t mean him harm, like Mrs. Flannigan had. But his mother’s eyes held no malice, only adoration and concern. It froze him in place as he realized how much he’d started to forget her features after such a short time. His tears flowed hard and heavy.

“Mom, I miss you,” he blurted out.

Gail Benoit took his hands in hers and planted a gentle kiss on his cheek. “I know you do, Josh,” she said, her voice serious yet sensitive.
“But enough of that.
Supper’s ready. Why don’t you join us?”

Josh didn’t reply, instead allowing his mother to pull him toward the house. His emotions, his entire
soul
, felt pliable, muddy.

They entered the house and the pleasing sounds of playful discussion filled his ears. His mother led him into the dining room, where the oak dinner table
—
a staple in the Benoit home for as long as he could remember
—
was surrounded by people. Gail cleared her throat and the chatter stopped. All eyes turned to him.

Josh felt his walls crumble as he stared at those in attendance. His father sat at the head of the table with Sophia beside him. Colin and Bobby sat opposite them, craned in their chairs so they could look at him. His Aunt Peggy and
cousin
Sean sat between them on one side, with James Conroy
—
the janitor, and Josh’s best work friend before the collapse of everything
—
on the other. Josh sniveled as he gawked at each of them, snot flowing over his quivering lips.

Don, his father, stood up. He approached the empty chair beside Sophia and pulled it out, gesturing for him to sit. Josh just stood there, dumbfounded and unsure.

“Honey,” said his mother, “go sit down.”

As if on instinct, Josh did as he was told. All eyes were still on him as he maneuvered his way around the table on shaking legs. He lowered himself down and noticed that the cushions that his mother only brought out on special occasions had been placed on the chairs. The feather-filled pillow greeted his ass with a sigh, and Sophia placed a hand on his knee. He cried even harder and covered his face. Sophia tilted her head, a look of distress on her face.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

Josh couldn’t answer.

After a few minutes of respectful silence, Josh felt his nerves re-gathering. He sucked in a stray rivulet of mucus and put his hand atop Sophia’s. When he finally allowed a smile to cross his lips, his father stood up and raised his glass.

“Josh,” Don said, “this meal is for you.”

“Prepared in your honor,” added Gail.

“To congratulate a person who added so much to our lives, though he doesn’t think so,” said Colin.

“To wish him well on his journeys to come,” said Bobby.

“And to show you that always, you will be loved,” finished Sophia.

In response to this, his aunt, cousin, and Mr. Conroy clanked their glasses together and proclaimed, “Here, here.”