Dead Of Winter (The Rift Book II) (4 page)

A sequence of riotous pops cut off his anger. Corky ducked and threw his arms over his head.
This is it, I’m a goner
, he thought, but no bullets pierced him. He glimpsed up, wincing. One of his attackers had toppled over, clutching at its neck. Two others stumbled and almost lost their balance. They swiveled in the direction of the continuous
pop-pop-pop
. Their tongues whipped about like tails. Corky followed their gaze.

He watched in amazement as Doug sprinted down the hill, high-stepping through the snow with grace he could only dream of. The rifle was locked into the kid’s shoulder and he squeezed off round after round in short bursts, pivoting the barrel of his weapon with sharp, concise motions. There was an expert’s ease in this, and Corky believed he hadn’t seen a more beautiful display of talent since he watched Perky Sunshine spin around the pole down at
The Velvet Moon
.

Corky thrust his fist into the snow one last time. It struck paydirt. He wrapped his fingers around the butt of the revolver, jumped to his feet, aimed at the faltering creatures, and squeezed the trigger time and again until all six rounds emptied. He laughed hysterically the entire time. “You like that? How ‘bout that? HA!
You lousy fucking UGLY FUCKS!”

It was over in a matter of seconds. The four monstrosities lay in crumpled heaps. Steam rose from the holes in their carcasses. Corky laughed and looked at the old man, who was now scrunched up on his knees with his hands covering his ears.

“Sorry ‘bout that, dude,” said Corky between giggles.

“You’re an ass,” he heard Doug’s voice announce.

The kid stood to his flank, rifle flung over his shoulder, arms crossing his chest, and lips creased tight as a virgin’s nethers. Corky, however, couldn’t stop laughing.

“What?” he asked, lifting up his hands in his best
who, me?
expression
.

“You’re a moron,” replied Doug. The young Marine shook his head and stormed in the direction of the scattered bodies. Corky blew one last chortle through his nose and turned his attention back to the old man.

“See, I told you,
pops,
there ain’t nothing to worry about.” He lifted the shaken man by his armpits until he sat, shoulders hunched, in the snow. He waved his palm in front of the old guy’s face. There was no response. “Hello, anybody home?” he asked. Still nothing; the eyes before him stared off into the distance. Then they closed.

“Okay, you asked for it.”

Corky lifted the old man with ease and threw him around his neck like an ox harness. A touch of concern reached him when he realized how light the guy was. He turned to Doug, who had by this point finished his inspection and glared in his direction with an expression that seemed much too intense for a boy his age.

“Sorry, man,” said Corky sheepishly.

“Whatever,” Doug replied. His voice shook with anger. “You’re gonna get us all killed, you know that? Shit!”

Corky patted the old man on the behind. “I know,” he said, “but hey, I couldn’t let the geezer die.”

“There could’ve been more of them!” screamed Doug.

Corky flipped him the middle finger. “But there ain’t, is there? Look around you.” He spread his arms and spun around, Julie Andrews-style, with the old man still draped over him. “We’re the only ones here!” he hollered at his own echo.
“HELLOOO!”

“Asshole,” Doug mumbled.

“You’ll get over it.”

“I don’t feel like dying because of you.”

“Me neither.”

“So no more stupid risks, okay?”

Corky grinned. His cheeks turned red. “Dougie-boy,” he said, “you got my word.”

ii

Horace
Struder
awoke when a stiff, cold wind brushed past his face. An omnipresent sense of warmth followed. Something sizzled. He opened his eyes. Everything was hazy, and in the distance he saw what appeared to be six huge snakes. They danced around a giant column of light. His heart skipped a beat.

It took a long while for his vision to adjust. When it did, he realized the serpents were actually men. They sat in a circle; the glowing pillar between them was flame spewing from a fire pit. He tried to lift himself up on his elbow but was too weak. His head swiveled as he gave in to his frailty and allowed his eyes to scan the backdrop. All around him were jagged rock formations. Tufts of grass sprouted from cracks in the earth below. It looked like a cave.

How did I get here?
he
wondered. The last he remembered, Clyde Cooper and himself had been ripped from their lean-to by a small platoon of Wraiths. They’d been on the run for five weeks at that point. They were starving. Their exhaustion made them sloppy. The enemy gained the advantage.

His head began to throb while he tried to think of what happened next. He recalled being led into a vast white meadow with guns at his back. He remembered falling down. The screaming voice of
Clyde
, his only friend, came next. After that, however, his mind went blank.

As Horace tried his best to piece together the particulars of his endeavor, one of the men who sat around the fire, a huge and familiar-looking sort with long hair and a beard colored bright red with a hint of gray, leaned back and glanced his way. A jovial smile plastered itself on the stranger’s face.

“Hey, it’s the old dude,” the stranger said. “He’s up.”

The man rose to his feet. Horace could hear his knees crack. He bent over and snatched a long, round object off the ground.

The other five outsiders turned their attentions to him. Though his vision was still quite foggy, he could tell they were smiling.

“What’s up, grampa?” the monstrous redhead asked. He stood hunched over, his head scraping the top of the cave. With a flick of the wrist he unscrewed the top of what Horace realized was a thermos and poured its contents into the cap. He offered it to him.

“You been out forever, dude,” he said. “We
was
starting to worry about you.”

Horace gathered enough strength to force his body into a sitting position. He nodded at the man and gripped the cup with both hands. Taking it to his lips, he was suddenly parched and drank too quickly. The liquid drained into his dry esophagus and caused his throat to spasm. Fluid ran down the wrong tube. He gagged. His lungs felt like they were on fire.

The large man took the cup from his hand and assisted in leaning him forward. A gigantic hand slapped his back. “Whoa, slow down, dude,” he said. “You don’t wanna choke yourself.”

Horace sat still for a moment and closed his eyes. After a few stifled gags, the feeling subsided. He swallowed gently. The relief he felt in this act, even with the knowledge of his cancer-ridden lungs, brought him a dreamlike sense of calm.

“Thank you,” he managed to whisper.

“No
problemo
, dude,” the redhead answered.

With one more calming breath, Horace attempted to stand up. His knees buckled. The large man caught him around the waist and broke his fall. In a split second of humiliation, Horace turned his vision towards the others, expecting them to laugh at his ineptitude. They didn’t. Instead, the look on each of their faces extolled sympathy and relief.

He turned to the redhead, who was still holding him, and gazed into the kindest pair of emerald-green eyes. “What’s your name?” asked Horace.

“Charles Ludlow, my man,” he replied, “but my peeps call me Corky.”

“Peeps?” chirped another voice from those around the fire.

“Yeah, peeps,” Corky shot back, coupling his words with a flash of his middle finger. “You got a problem with that? Take it up with your mother. I did last night.”

He broke out laughing, an act that shook Horace so hard he felt like he would vibrate out of reality. Corky, ostensibly sensing the discomfort of the man in his care, led him to the cave wall, propped him against it, and then, free of constraint, doubled over. The laughter didn’t so much seep from his lungs as erupt like a geyser of hot air held dormant for years. Phlegm formed sticky tentacles in his beard. His body trembled. Horace thought of the way his father used to laugh, and was suddenly curious as to how this peculiar yet kind brute could experience so much joy given their current circumstances.

Very slowly, the manic outburst subsided. “Sorry, pops,” blurted Corky as he choked on his last few giggles.
“Got a little outta control there.”

“That’s fine,” replied Horace.

“Guess I can really crack myself up, huh?”

“Sure can,” piped in another voice.

Corky smiled. “But I’m a blast, I tell ya.”

Yet one more voice added, “Fuck, yeah!”

Horace smiled at the banter. The odd crowd looked at him as if his being there was the most normal thing in the world. It amazed him how trusting they seemed.

After a few moments Horace steadied himself, leaving the security of the wall’s support. “Where am I?” he asked.

“A safe place,” said Corky. “Well, it’s really just a hole in the side of the mountain, but beggars can’t be choosers.
Right?”

Horace nodded.
“And what about
Clyde
?
Is he here, too?”

The relaxed appearances of those before him stiffened. All of them, Corky included, looked away.

“Uh, who’s
Clyde
?” asked Corky.

“He is my travel companion. We escaped from Johns Hopkins shortly after the first wave of hostiles hit. We’ve been hiding in the woods ever since. It seems like forever ago. I think we were in Linville when we were taken from our shelter.” He glanced around. “Did you see him when you found me?”

Corky’s tone dropped to a barely audible murmur. “He’s…well, we saw you being marched across a field…and you, uh, fell down…the guy with you tried to protect you…you know, all brave-like…and…”

Horace leaned forward and placed his palm on the large man’s shoulder.

“He’s dead?”

Corky nodded.

A wave of vertigo spun Horace’s brain. “I think I have to sit down again.”

“Well,” said Corky, “let’s get you to the fire, at least.”

Colossal hands firmly clutched his shoulders as he shuffled his feet in the direction of the fire pit. Two of the others scooted aside to make room for him. Knees smarting, he lowered himself to the hard ground, which had been warmed by the intensity of the flames. Smoke from the fire spiraled upward and exited through a hole in the cave ceiling the size of a basketball. It was a strangely convenient happenstance, and he wondered what kind of karma these folks had built up to be awarded with such luck. After all, they still had their lives, and they still had each other, which was more than he could say.

He squeezed his eyes shut and felt the steady heat toast his wrinkled flesh. He sat there for what felt like hours, and never once during that time did any of those around him utter so much as a word. His thoughts wandered, aided by the steadiness of the crackling blaze. He saw
Clyde
’s face, young, boisterous, and full of life. The boy would have fit in well with this motley bunch.

Kelly entered his mind next. His heart ached for his former assistant more than he could ever admit. Her loss formed a cleft in his soul. Here he was, an old man rapidly approaching the closing bell of his life. Death surrounded him, and yet unlike most of those young souls, he’d been spared.
What do I have to offer the world?
he
wondered. He thought of those now departed and attempted to latch on to their ambition, to restart his own dying motor through a confluence of ideals. It wasn’t working. They were gone now, and they would never be coming back. Part of him demanded that he feel lucky for his chance at survival. No matter how much he tried, however, he couldn’t ease his conscience.