Life Among The Dead (Book 2): A Castle Made of Sand

by Cotton, Daniel

  “There were many, actually,” the comedian admits.

  “Whoa! How many did she have?”

  “No, not… I mean, I cheated on Kelly with several women,” Randy clarifies, watching the stoner light a fresh joint. He doesn’t offer him any and he can’t blame him.

  After taking a moment to return to his base line, Gar continues to think about the pop diva. “I remember this one video I saw online. She was in Iraq with the troops, and she found out it was one of the guy’s birthday. She gave him a total lap dance. She kept her clothes on, but I was like ‘I’m totally joining the Army!’”

  “She is beautiful.” Randy nods.

  “She’s perfect.” Gar expounds the sentiment, mentally picturing the woman in all her photos and stage costumes.

  “Are you thinking about my wife?”

  “Yeah,” the stoner says in a dreamy admission.

  “Can you stop that, please?” Randy requests. “Seriously, while I’m right here?”

  “Sure, give me a second.” Gar squeezes as many images as he can into his mind’s eye. “Kay! I’m done.”

  “In my country, they often speak of people ‘marrying well.’ It means they’ve found someone that complements them and takes care of them. Kelly can never be accused of that. In fact, I’d say she married quite poorly. I’m here with you, chasing a fix. She’s out there somewhere with the type of guy she should be with. He’s all strong and heroic, probably looks like Brad Pitt under that hockey mask. She deserves him.” Randy Russell stands with indignation. “Not on my watch!”

  “Where are you going?” Gar asks his famous friend, who is heading for the fire escape.

  “I’m off to find my wife amid this terrible shit, and reconcile with her before she realizes what a mistake it will be. Fare thee well, Gar. I shall remember you fondly.”

  “Just speak from the heart, man!” the stoner calls after Randy Russell as he descends the ladder, leaving him sitting alone upon the gravel rooftop. It takes a while for it to dawn on him that he is all by himself in a city overrun by the dead. “Shit! Now what am I going to do?”

  Gar hurries to throw his beloved bag of weed over his shoulder. Armed with his air rifle, he follows the comedian. Randy skitters from object to object in hopes of remaining unseen by the carnivorous corpses. He rolls over the tar like an action hero without the years of seasoning or the athletics. Covering the comedian’s back, the stoner mimics the man’s antics as they head east.

  Randy had felt an initial sense of hope upon deciding to locate his wife and make things right between them. Now he realizes his chances of finding her in the urban jungle that burns around him are slim, and slimmer yet is the chance she'll forgive him. He finds it reassuring to have not encountered a zombie yet during his selfless quest, until he rolls clumsily into a cluster of them emerging from a cross street.

  “Bloody hell!” he exclaims, trying to roll away.

  The dead fall upon him as he resorts to scooting along the ground. His tight legged jeans threaten to slide off of his hips. The man tries to bat away their hands when the need arises, but it’s no use. A bloated corpse that looks as if he was quite bloated in life too has him by the belt. The zombie is wearing nothing but a robe and his unmentionables dangle, making the already terrifying affair even more horrifying to the victim.

  Randy can’t pull free from the nearly nude ghoul’s clutches, and a very hungry mouth draws near. Inches from finding a soft place to bite, the dead man’s head wobbles, distracting him from the task at hand. Buried below the moans of the horde, another quiet shot is fired from an ineffective weapon. The indecent zombie shifts his attentions to this other morsel that pumps his rifle repeatedly, and it’s just enough for Randy.

  The comedian can see the mass of dead are torn between him and Gar, and he uses the precious seconds to unbuckle his belt and slip free of it and the zombie. He takes off, away from danger. With some space, he risks turning to see his acquaintance. Between him and his friend is a wall of death that follows the stoner towards the bombed out traffic to the north. Randy isn’t sure what surprises him more--the fact he wishes he could help Gar, or the fact he actually feels bad for continuing on without him.

  This is stupid, he thinks. I’ll never find Kelly in all this. I should just find a safe place to stay. The Hammond Grand Hotel is the only place he’s ever truly felt comfortable in Waterloo. The expense and the opulence appeal to his selfish nature. He was told he couldn’t stay there any longer due to a scheduled fumigation of the penthouse floors. They can’t kick me out if they’re all dead.

  ##

  Winded already due to his diminished lung capacity, Gar jogs away from the zombies. On his return trip, he sees corpses appear from all sides, undoubtedly drawn to the sight of his and the comedian’s previous jaunt. The burning cars loom ahead and he isn’t sure if there’s a way around them. He fears he may become trapped, and it is no relief when a man steps in front of him, holding a bloody machete and wearing a hockey mask.

  “Oh, fuck!” The startled stoner skids to a halt and scampers away. “Wrong movie.”

  ##

  “Who was that?” Kelly asks her guide. A shabby man is retreating from the sight of her companion and heading towards where the Washington Bridge once stood.

  “I dunno,” Griffin says, puzzled. “I told you to stay in the car.”

  Griffin had stopped to check on the viability of yet another safe house that proved to be anything but. A local homeless shelter was reportedly taking in those left out in the chaos. People who had no way to get home and apparently never would. But when Griffin looked in the window, he found the only reason the place could be declared safe now was because it stopped all of the zombies inside from harming anyone on the outside.

  “I know…” Kelly Peel’s words are cut off when Griffin thrusts her back towards the Intrepid.

  “Get in!”

  A throng of corpses are coming their way, and he has no doubt they are looking for the shabby, odd-smelling man he met briefly. The zombies are on him, pawing at his face. The mask is removed in the clumsy assault, but Griffin can’t worry about hiding his scars. He must protect Kelly. So he kicks them back to gain room to swing his blade. He lashes at the dead with vengeance until satisfied he has done enough damage to the pack to slow them They trip over their fallen as he can races back to his daughter’s idol.

  ##

  In the valet circle of the Hammond, Dustin is trying to squeeze his car through the gap he has made. He checks both sides repeatedly to ensure he doesn’t scratch the paintjob. A mob of dead are among the standstill traffic he reverses through, and one slaps his hands on the windshield. Its face is shiny as if it was made of pink plastic, and its features look melted and distorted. Safe again behind the wheel of the Camaro, Dustin wants to punish this one for startling him, and to make himself feel less like a coward. He lowers his window halfway to poke out the barrel of his pistol. Then he fires a single round into the candle wax face before pulling onto the road.

  ##

  Kelly screams from the passenger seat of her savior’s late model steed when she sees him fall. Griffin had been on his way to her when another vehicle appeared and cut off his path. The driver just shot him. He lies motionless on the road, the vow he had made on his daughter’s behalf unfulfilled. Alone, with only a trove of her own pictures to keep her company, Kelly is scared.

  The pop star slouches in her seat, feeling foolish for watching her guide’s lifeless body, as if he may pull through. The zombies make it clear that he isn’t going to help her as they begin to eat his flesh. She trembles in the idling car, but she finally takes her eyes off of the man who was bent on rescuing her and she cries. Her face is cradled by the man’s headrest as she breaks down. Kelly hates to admit to herself that she would have been better off at home with Randy instead of being here stranded among the dead.

  The crumpled slip of paper, the list Griffin had compiled, is upon the driver’s seat. She looks at it through
tear blurred eyes, finding only two places are left--the local YMCA and the Army Reserve Depot. She composes herself, planning to see this through. If all else fails, she knows she can always go to her home in the Hills.

  Able to move with ease in her lounge wear, she lifts herself over the center console and behind the wheel. By her nearest estimation, she should have just enough fuel to see how well the alleged rescue stations are faring. The car crawls away, drawing the dead from Griffin’s limp body. The zombies follow futilely, falling behind in her wake. Her own voice has been playing on repeat very low since she autographed Shelly’s collection; the man had asked if it was all right. Kelly switches it off, not wanting the reminder of her fame. It’s not what she had expected.

  Every girl in her church choir had dreamed of making it to the pinnacle of celebrity Kelly Peel ‘enjoys.’ They all emulated the pop divas of their generation, hitting and holding notes far too high and for way longer than desired by their choir master. And their over the top hand gestures and affectations had drove the man insane. Kelly has made it to the top, but all she has been wishing for since hitting her apex is obscurity. She longs for the ability to just sing for the love of singing and not the greed that consumed her at first. Companies wanted to pay her obscene amounts of money just so they could put her face and name upon useless artifacts of the era, but she regrets selling out with all her being.

  She picks up speed, weaving around the inanimate objects in her way, and those that are quite animated. The thought of striking a walking corpse makes her sick, but the urge to run over one shambling figure in particular makes her smile. She sees her husband step into her path. He waves his arms to make sure she sees him and knows he’s alive. She isn’t slowing down.

  At the last minute, she applies the brakes, stopping mere inches from the unfaithful man. His wide eyes are thankful as he rounds the front fender, keeping his hands on the hood as if the vehicle may speed away without him. Randy collapses breathlessly into the passenger seat, but that doesn’t last long.

  “Sweetie… I know I haven’t been the best of husbands. I know I have adulterous tendencies and have committed countless trespasses against you and our wedding vows… many occurred that same day, actually. But, I promise, never again… I realize that I’ve promised that before, however this time I mean it.”

  His accent used to charm her, but now he is a gnat in her ear. He keeps talking as if waiting for her to forgive him, if only to shut him up. All she cares about is finding a safe place. As far as she’s concerned, they are through and he is just wasting his breath.

  Randy attempts a new tactic. He speaks to her like a parent trying to tell a child about the birds and the bees, “When a man and a woman love each other very much, one of the pair is often unfaithful. The terrible infidelity can actually lead to a beautiful thing--forgiveness. The mistrust and betrayal can inadvertently strengthen the bond between them.”

  Kelly doesn’t speak, she just drives the car. She is worrying she may not have enough fuel after all as she is forced to backtrack occasionally due to obstructions.

  “I’m in no way excusing my actions when I ask you to look at it from my perspective, but we were, and still are, newlyweds. This brings a certain urge for us to have sex all the time. Where I would have preferred it to be with you, with your hectic schedule, you were not always available. Please do not blame yourself for my transgressions. I take a full 85 percent of the accountability.” Randy draws a line in the air between them with his hand. “I think the buck stops here. Or, maybe about here.”

  He can’t be serious, Kelly fumes. The gnat in her ear has become a fat bumblebee that is trying to squeeze its way into her brain. The man beside her crosses his arms in a pout over being ignored, then he falls into silence. Shot nerves make it difficult to enjoy the hiatus from his droning, but she also knows it won’t last. Randy is unable to go too long without making his thoughts known to all.

  “Where’s Leatherface?” he asks in a snit.

  “Dead.”

  The delivery of the news is so blunt and softly spoken he can’t think of what to say. The curse of needing everyone within earshot to know exactly what is on his mind has a tendency of getting him into trouble. He miraculously filters his first impulse. Good.

  He watches his wife steer the car, seeing her sorrow over the man she had only met that day. He’s jealous of him, and he has to wonder if she’d be as sad if he passed on. He buries the thought and slips into a rant about Griffin, because he needs to discredit the man to make himself feel better. Such deflections are also his curse. “He was a complete nutter. Not keeping a completely kosher house, if you catch my meaning…”

  Usually, his berating of others and his mean nature affects Kelly like water off a duck’s back. She lets his unkind words slide, but now she is getting mad. What she once found charming, just a part of his act, she now finds infuriating.

  “He’s like Nyquil. Keep out of the reach of children…”

  A sudden application of the brakes tosses Randy forward as Kelly chops his throat with the edge of her hand. He gasps for air while holding his bruised windpipe, silent once more.

  She points her index finger straight at his eyes. “Not one more fucking word!”

  13

  After he watches the semi cut a path of destruction, Dustin sees a large military helicopter cruising overhead. It makes him think how much he’s looking forward to getting out of the city and heading north to the big gig, even if it’s not there. It’s a long way to the top if you want to rock and roll.

  The light at the end of the tunnel approaches when he nears the final intersection, but an olive colored obstacle rolls into his path. He screeches to a halt, looking up at a massive military truck that he almost collided with.

  The soldier behind the wheel shouts down at him while pointing to the corner of the road. “That’s a stop sign!”

  A second figure in camouflage rounds the front of the troop carrier. A rifle, like the one he was promised earlier today, is aimed at him, and the man pointing it looks to be about Dustin’s age. He exudes confidence when he speaks. “Sir, you’ll have to follow us.”

  “I’m on my way north…”

  “I’m not asking, sir.”

  Dustin nods, willing to comply, for now at least. The first opportunity he gets, he plans to make a break for it, wanting nothing to do with this city anymore.

  The truck grumbles around the corner, heading into the very place he has been trying hard to get out of. Dustin has his foot poised over the accelerator; he knows that oversized behemoth will have no chance of catching his car. But the truck clears the way, revealing another set of headlights shining at him. Now sandwiched between these two vehicles, Dustin has no choice but to perform a U-turn and follow. The second vehicle flashes its brights to indicate he should do just that, and he becomes a part of the convoy that heads deeper into the very industrial park he wished to escape.

  Dustin Barnes has never been to this part of the park. The unmoving traffic thickens as they near the high walls of the National Guard’s recruit depot. Civilian vehicles clog the entrance to the small base in a haphazard arrangement born out of desperation. People wanted in, but those turned away for being bitten now walk in the spaces between the tightly packed bumpers.

  The trucks pull up against the wall and Dustin follows suit. Soldiers and civilians pile out of the back of the carriers, while riflemen position themselves between them and the meandering threats that advance, but most of the zombies are thankfully trapped amid the congestion.

  Dustin follows the living into the base, where he and the other survivors are handed off to a new crew of soldiers armed with clipboards and ballpoints.

  The refugees are split up according to gender and ushered into tents. They are told to strip down and surrender all weapons. Dustin is told to extend his arms and turn around while naked so he can be checked for bites. Though the process is for everyone’s best interest, he feels embarrassed and demeaned.
His pistol, and the few rounds he had on him, have been confiscated and placed in a clear bag embossed with his name in permanent marker. Those who have passed the inspection are herded away once dressed, and those who had failed are never seen again.

  Among the battery of questions asked of the survivors were personal inquiries: do they have children, and where are their families? Dustin feels a twinge of guilt as he follows the group, because he hadn’t even thought of his mom and dad until he was asked about them. He hopes they’re all right.

  The base makes him think of his grandfather. The man had been in the army, and he wonders if this is where he went to boot camp when he was Dustin’s age. He knows they used to drill here before an influx in enlisters forced them to move training to a larger facility. This base was given to the reserves as a depot for drilling and disaster relief. The refugees are brought to an open bay barracks that once slept sixty men uncomfortably back in the day, yet is now deemed suitable for ninety.

  Three rows of steel bunk beds line the squad bay with little space between. Men, women, and children who have already settled into the shelter fall silent as the additional occupants are led in and told to find an empty rack to sleep in.

  Dustin walks down the narrow rows of staring people, making it halfway down one before he discovers an empty bed. The moment he adheres the nametag they gave him to the head of his mattress frame, the soldiers tell the mass of salvaged souls that it is time to eat.

  14

  Gar has made his way to Memorial Hospital. He didn’t need to evade the dead that followed him after fleeing from the slasher, which is good considering a sharp pain in his side had caused him to slow. For some reason, the zombies just passed him by as he limped along. The stoner had to scratch his head over this and wonder if they thought he was one of them by the way he was moving.