Life Among The Dead (Book 2): A Castle Made of Sand
Page 1
A PERMUTED PRESS book
Published at Smashwords
ISBN (Trade Paperback): 978-1-61868-2-765
ISBN (eBook): 978-1-61868-2-772
Life Among the Dead 2 copyright © 2014
by Daniel Cotton
All Rights Reserved.
Cover art by Dean Samed, Conzpiracy Digital
This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.
Table of Contents
Section IV. Music to Survive By
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Section V. If You Want Blood
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Section VI. Dead on Arrival
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Section VII. The Suicide King.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
To the Reader
About the Author
Section IV. Music to Survive By
1
It’s a week with too many Wednesdays. Dustin Barnes grumbles to himself as he sits in his beat-up old car outside of work. He is fresh off his ninety-day probationary period, but his supervisor told him he had to work the weekend. Merely seven days in and already he is exhausted. To make matters worse, he’ll probably be on for the next two weekends as well.
Twelve days straight will be bad enough, he thinks. Three weeks without a day off will kill me. The very notion of entering the depressing place is enough to make him sick. The noise and the grime, the smell and the monotony.
Kelly Peel’s voice is the only thing making his day even slightly bearable. He’s a closeted fan of hers, and it’s far better than the country music the radio stations will only pick up when nicer weather chases away the early morning chill.
The only plus he can see about this job is Cynthia. Cynthia works third shift, and the high point of his day is the short time he sees her. She always has a smile for him, and greets him by name before she changes out of her work boots and clocks out. After that, his day at the factory will be downhill.
He’s early this morning, which strikes him as funny when he considers his shift starts at 5 AM. Typically, he rolls into the lot last and has to hunt for a parking space between arriving first shifters and those on third who haven’t left yet. But rowdy neighbors fighting woke him around 3 AM , so he figured he might as well get up. He is happy that the extra time allowed him to get his thick black hair just how he likes it.
Sitting in his rattling Altima, he ponders his options. Go make time with Cynthia, or take the day off. Cynthia's a bit older than he is, but has legs to die for, and he figures the single mom may find it flattering. Too much work. The choice that looks better by the second is leaving.
Dustin realizes he won’t be losing any money since he has earned his first ‘floating holiday’ having survived the probation period. I can just call out, he rationalizes. I worked all weekend on overtime. It’s money in the bank!
But where do I spend my day off? He knows exactly where to go, Hannah’s. More specifically, he is going to Ray’s Records--his favorite place in the world. He worked there before here, but he was fired for stealing. He took everything he could from the store, including a sound system more valuable than the car he listens to it in.
The place won’t be open for hours, but he can only hope his code for the back door is still good. The manager is a lazy sort of man who should be on vacation according to his buddy, Brandon. Brandon still works there since his own pilfering is kept small, and they can hang out all day practicing. With our gig coming up we can sure use it.
Dustin and Brandon, along with two friends from high school, are in a band called the Dogs of War. They had originally intended to call themselves the Four Horsemen, but three of them couldn’t decide on who got to be called War or Death, and none wanted to be Pestilence. Famine was easily given to Vicky, whose frequent bouts with anorexia has left her with a waif-like frame and gaunt features, but her addiction to diet pills makes her a fierce drummer.
This’ll be great! he thinks as he puts his ‘shit box’ into gear and turns his system up after switching the disc. Classic metal replaces Kelly Peel’s infamous ‘Rooster song.’ The bass shakes the ground as he pulls out of the lot, leaving his job behind. He isn’t too far from Hannah’s, so he’ll have to call out from the store phone since his cell was deactivated for lack of payment. He drives cautiously, having noticed an unusual amount of people out running this morning, and a lot of cops and ambulances. It seems like almost every street is bathed in red and blue flashing lights.
##
The employee parking lot of the shopping center is underground and never secured. It is kept open for the night-cleaners and stores with late hours. Dustin isn’t surprised to find the dimly lit space practically empty; only five other vehicles sit under the yellow sodium lights.
After parking his car, he heads up the dirty concrete steps with their worn industrial non-slip strips. The employee access is a sharp contrast to the festively decorated mall beyond. Welcome to the dream factory. One flight takes him to ground level and to the back of Ray’s.
The keypad beeps with every digit he punches in. Then, to his delight, the lock releases so he can slip into the pitch-black backroom. Dustin waits for his eyes to adjust. Though he knows the place like the back of his hand, he can’t be certain where new shipment boxes have been placed. Back when he worked
here he used to use his cell phone for light, but since the service was pulled he stopped carrying it.
Shades of grey develop, revealing the outlines of his surroundings, and most importantly the breaker. Dustin feels for the handle to power up the shop’s lights. Throwing the heavy switch blinds him momentarily, and a lasting snapshot of the storeroom is stamped onto his eyelids. But just before he shut his eyes, he caught sight of a person near the door that leads to the sales floor. It’s far too early for anyone to be here, he can’t imagine who it can be.
“Hello?” he says while trying to force his eyes open. The unidentified figure doesn’t respond, so Dustin fears they may have run to call the cops. “I’m Dustin. Are you new? Brandon may have mentioned me…”
Slowly he is able to raise his gaze and focus once his eyes adjust. And the familiarity of the form allows him to relax. The mystery man is just a tee-shirt mannequin that usually stands out by the front windows. They must have moved him to decorate for the holidays.
The storage space is packed with boxes, but not all of it is merchandise to go out. The owner of Ray’s refuses to get rid of anything, having learned his lesson when vinyl made a comeback. The boxes are stuffed with cassette tapes and VHS movies in the event of retro demand. CDs will be the next items to be mothballed. The store has been struggling to stay above water since the advent of MP3s and pirated music, so they’ve had to expand the selection to include more and more clothing and musical instruments. They also have to suffer the indignity of selling the very devices that are killing the industry: iPods and other players.
The first place Dustin always goes when he comes here, even when he was an employee, is the guitars. He had fallen in love with a particular Gibson Les Paul in jet black the moment he laid eyes upon it. It’s kept in a glass case to prevent greasy fingered patrons from sullying its mesmerizing finish, or heaven forbid dropping the thing. He whispers to the axe the same promise every visit, one day.
He walks among the ever dwindling music selection. What was once wall-to-wall albums has been reduced to one central rack of CDs. Entire genres have been excised due to lack of interest, and only the most popular artists are available: cheesy pop stars, rappers, and of course the gods of rock. A glass cabinet to his left displays the reason for the decline--the music devices. He glances into the case of impossibly diminutive electronics; despite his initial disdain, he has developed an urge to get one and create the ultimate playlist.
The shop phone is by the registers near the front of the store. He has to call his work and let them know he won’t be in today. As the line rings, he looks out through the plate glass windows and into the dark courtyard of the shopping center, surprised to see mall walkers so early, The open air establishment is the perfect setting for people needing a safe place to exercise, free of traffic, but they usually arrive later than this.
Come on. Pick up the phone ya fat fuck, he commands the third shift supervisor telepathically. The walkers in the courtyard stare at him; some are coming closer to the door. Dustin shakes his head at the individuals entering the pool of light spilling out from the storefront.
“We’re closed!” he says loud and slow for them, but they continue to approach the glass. He quickly turns away from the early birds when the phone is answered. “Uh, nothing… I was talking to someone else… This is Dustin from the small lathe cell. I’m sick and can’t make it in today. Gotta go. Bye.”
The supervisor had started going on about all the other workers who had called out this morning, but Dustin couldn’t care less. He has approval and that’s all that matters. Now all he has to do is kill time before Brandon gets in. So he plans to veg out in front of a small selection of flat screen televisions, because he certainly wants to get away from the creepy folks in the courtyard. Dustin chalks their transfixed window shopping up to the approaching gift giving season.
He wheels a swivel chair from the back to the wall of TVs, drops into it, and elevates his feet on a speaker. Then Dustin wades through news bulletins, trying to find something light he can nap to. Though he’s been working this shift for three weeks, he still hasn’t gotten used to the early hours. After locating a classic cartoon of a cat and mouse in perpetual conflict, he is able to fall asleep listening to the wholesome violence.
##
A high-pitched tone whines in a steady interval. Dustin blindly searches for his alarm clock with his arm, finding nothing but air. He opens his eyes wide with shock, forgetting he has been sacking out in his favorite place in all of Waterloo after so cunningly ditching work. The sound persists.
The television displays a plain blue screen except for a message the scrolls along the bottom in a black banner. The ticker advises people they should avoid the downtown area at this time. Spellbound, he stares at the warning, unable to understand why such a drastic precaution should be taken. He waits for the slow moving headline to impart more, but it just continues to repeat.
He changes the channel to the other stations that had earlier shown what looked like war correspondents on the frontlines of some foreign battlefront. The same urban setting is being displayed, only now, during the light of day, he sees familiar landmarks.
“That’s Waterloo.”
Soldiers in green camouflage fatigues stand by barricades with their rifles at the ready.
The reporter addresses the camera. “… violence on the rise. We are told the best thing to do is stay home and lock it tight. Don’t open your doors to anyone…”
Another channel shows the city under the light of the rising sun. The angle is off because the camera is at an intersection on its side. The street takes up a third of the screen while pairs of slow moving shoes occupy the rest. The owners don’t quite pick up their feet but rather slide them along.
A riot? Dustin wonders. The areas shown on the screen are merely blocks away. What if Ray’s gets looted? The word 'looted' echoes in his mind.
He gathers the greatest albums ever recorded from the shelves and back room. Dustin knows getting out with the piles of clattering cases will be problematic, but he also knows how he can take them all and still fit the entire collection into his pockets.
The case of music players is unlocked. Dustin plans to compile his playlist, an ultimate catalog fueled by his eclectic musical tastes. Classic rock and hairbands, new metal and industrial, alternative, and a select few pop tunes he secretly enjoys. The bothersome piles of plastic jewel cases and the modern solution are dropped off at the store’s computer for the endeavor. The process will take a while, since the computer itself hasn’t been upgraded in the past decade. The tower’s cooling fan whines noisily as he brings up the program needed to rip the tracks.
In the interim between songs, Dustin checks the news to stay current on the situation. He’d go online but the outdated computer slows dramatically when overtasked. No further information is being relayed at the moment. The tedious hours are passed between staring at the progress on the monitor and sneaking peeks at the televisions. It isn’t until he is halfway through the stacks of CDs that he realizes Brandon hasn’t shown up to open the store. He should have been here by now.
A droning male voice brings his attention to the sales floor. A man is speaking in a nervous monotone on one of the flat screens. He sits behind a desk in a news room, and it appears he was rushed in front of the camera. The broadcaster’s hair isn’t very well coifed, and he fidgets to straighten wrinkles in his dark blue sports coat. His eyes dart left and right, and he is at a loss for words. Besides a few unintelligible noises, he doesn’t commence speaking until a sheet of paper is handed to him from off-camera.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. We have breaking news…” The man struggles to continue his bulletin. “It appears that the dead are walking… and attacking the living…”
“What the fuck?” He laughs at the absurdity of the announcement, thinking it must be a joke, or a movie.
“We have been asked by authorities to advise all of the viewing public to stay
indoors and not to try to reach loved ones. You should not answer your door to anyone. Avoid contact with the dead for it has been confirmed that their bite is contagious. Anyone bitten will become one of them. As an extra precaution you should avoid being seen by the dead. Stay away from windows.”
Dustin slowly looks away from the screen and out through the display panes. Dozens of ‘mall walkers’ linger at the glass, slapping their palms against the shatter-proof barrier. They want in.
Dustin had seen a crazy man pound on the transparent panes with a baseball bat once, so he knows he’s safe as long as he doesn’t leave. At least not that way. He may love this store, but he sure doesn’t want to stay here until this, whatever this is, blows over. He definitely plans to finish his playlist before going, since he'll need music to survive by.
He works as fast as the old computer will allow to get the last of the songs onto his devices, and he’s just a few tracks from completion when the power goes out. He groans in dismay, but he actually has the last of the albums at his apartment, so he just has to get there to complete his playlist. The power outage reminds him that he’ll need a supply of batteries to run his new players.
Dustin moves to the register to snag as many packages of batteries as he can, but he has trouble taking his eyes off of the threat in the courtyard. Their vacant gazes are hard to break away from. Under the morning sun, he sees them better. Patches of their clothing are tattered and bloody. One man looks as if he’s been gnawed on by hungry dogs, and his face is a mask of scarlet chunks that extends down his neck and over his shoulders. As he takes in the details of the dead, they are erased magically like an Etch-a-Sketch by a speeding white blur. He thinks the quick object that cleared the corpses was a van, but he can’t be certain. He does know it’s in for a bumpy ride, since it’s heading straight for a long set of stairs that lead to Main Street.