Free Death Springs Eternal: The Rift Book III by Robert J. Duperre, Jesse David Young Page B

and turn on the water for a minute. He compromised, deciding that come evening he’d fill up his bathtub with cold water—also frowned upon because of their limited power supply; when people bathed, they were supposed to use a sponge at the kitchen sink—and sit in it until his teeth chattered. That won’t work, and you know it , he thought. The water’ll reach body temperature in minutes. And hell, you don’t even fit in the tub! All good points.
    The lounge was filled with people. Hector, Luis, and Larry sat at the bar, downing watered-down vodka drinks. (They had to add water to all alcoholic beverages now, since after four months their supplies were beginning to run dangerously low.) Horace took his place by Doug’s side, sitting beside the window and gazing out at the courtyard. Dennis lounged in his favorite chair, mindlessly strumming the strings of his guitar. Allison Steinberg was by the fireplace, where just a few weeks ago they would all gather at night to chat. She fanned an oblivious Shelly, her cherubic, five-year-old daughter. The only member of the party not present was Tom Steinberg, her husband, who was in the kitchen making sandwiches for everyone.
    That’s not true and you know it. Corky frowned and his shoulders slumped. There was someone else missing, someone who’d been gone for quite some time now. He wanted to smack himself for not remembering his friend, Stanley, who’d leapt from the cliff a mile or so from the resort. That was three months ago, and it seemed that every day his brain tried to restrict thoughts of the man, as if letting the sadness in would paralyze him. But each day Corky chastised his inner survivor, telling himself that moving on doesn’t mean forgetting. Not now, not ever.
    Tom strolled in, carrying a tray of quartered sandwiches. He made his way around the room, offering them up like a waiter. When he got to Corky and offered the tray, Corky reached out his hand but paused.
    “What’s on these?” he asked.
    “Spam,” replied Tom, “and a bit of Miracle Whip .”
    Corky groaned. “Again? Shit.”
    Tom put a finger to his lips. “Hey, we all have to deal with some…restrictions, right? But don’t you worry. We’ll have a lean dinner tonight, but I have a big surprise planned for the day after tomorrow.”
    “Yeah? What’s that?”
    Tom winked. “You’re going to have to wait and find out.”
    With that he walked away, heading for his wife and child. Corky grinned. He liked Tom. A lot. Even though the rest had taken a long time to warm to him—a few, like Doug, still hadn’t—there was just something about the man that Corky couldn’t resist. He’d gained some weight, though not nearly as much as he used to carry when Corky would see him on television performing his Speaker of the House duties. He now looked like a strong, capable individual rather than a ghost, though those heavy bags under his eyes never seemed to go away. Tom was also so smart, so on top of things, that Corky passed off his earlier bad behavior and appearance to nerves and fear for his family.
    After all, it had been Tom who took up the duties of burying Stan after he committed suicide. It was Tom who suggested they close and lock the front gate, only two days before the first of the zombies showed up. It was Tom who cooked them dinner every night, Tom who assumed Stan’s chess-playing role with Larry, Tom who always volunteered first for every proposed chore. Doug said the guy was trying to buy their affections, just as any politician would. But Corky had seen the man play with his daughter, had watched as he rubbed his wife’s back when he thought no one was looking. To Corky’s way of thinking, a man didn’t do those sorts of things to “prove himself.” No, a man did that because he wanted to.
    Because he was nice.
    The evening wore on, the sun set, and the temperature dropped to a more reasonable—but still prickly—level. Corky’s resort-mates came and went, sometimes