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

by Cotton, Daniel

  “What do you get a man who has everything?” Freeman asks. “Peace… Even with my twin making half of my appearances for me, bolstering the reputation I have for being everywhere at once, I felt tired. So many people and causes, all fighting for my attention. The charities, the government agencies, even you, my dear, became incessant panhandlers.”

  He says such awful things to her without a shred of malice in his voice. Then the man’s kind eyes move from his wife to manger, who watches in rapt attention. “How do you do? I’m Freeman Wilkes.”

  “That’s who you are!” Gar points at him, happy to have a name to match the man’s face.

  “That’s what I said.” He smiles with a playful shrug. “Who might you be, friend?”

  Gar shakes the wealthy man’s hand and says, “Garfield Colt.”

  “Is that Garfield as in the cat, or the president?”

  “My grandfather.”

  “That would have been my next guess.”

  “You’re the richest man I have ever met. Didn’t you just donate a shit ton of cash to Olive Grove Hospital?”

  “Two shit tons to be more accurate. That facility is woefully out of date and in dire need of some TLC.”

  “Wow! You’re voice sounds like smooth jazz,” Gar says then immediately wishes he hadn’t. “Fuck, that wasn’t racist, was it?”

  The black man chuckles. “I have a feeling you’re the type that couldn’t be offensive even if he tried.”

  “Except for his smell,” Freeman’s wife quips.

  “Sorry about that,” Gar apologizes with embarrassment. “My shower is broken. I usually go to the YMCA, but I haven’t been able to get there for… a few months.”

  “You haven’t bathed in months?”

  “Or, done laundry.” Gar’s honest nature doesn’t allow the omission.

  The doors to the chapel are being slapped by the dead things in the hall. They’re obviously drawn to the voices. Freeman Wilkes ejects the magazine from the pistol and sees no rounds. “I only have one in the chamber. I think we should probably move on before they find a way in.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you.” His wife shakes her head.

  Freeman is on the pulpit of the small chapel named after him, and he has opened a small hidden panel just under a large wooden crucifix. After a series of numbers are depressed on a keypad, a secret door opens next to him. “Veronica, the world is no longer a place for you. A woman who refuses to wear the same outfit twice will never survive.”

  He doesn’t wait for her answer, he simply enters the opening. Gar follows with Veronica begrudgingly in the rear. The three descend a long staircase after the covert door closes behind them.

  “When this wing was built, I made sure they installed generators that would last for weeks in the event of an extended blackout. I also had them add this for me,” Wilkes explains.

  “Where does it go?” Gar asks.

  “My secret lab, where I make all my pharmaceutical advances.”

  “We have a lot in common,” Gar tells the powerful man. “I have a secret underground place where I make advances. I developed my own strain of weed, and it’s the dopest dope you’ll ever smoke. Wanna try some?”

  “Perhaps later, Mr. Colt.” The man smiles kindly.

  At the bottom of the stairs, they enter another sterile white hall. Nothing stirs that they can see, and all they hear is the gentle whoosh of the air conditioner. Veronica shivers against the chilly air.

  “Do you want my shirt?” Gar offers.

  “Fuck no,” she snarls.

  Undeterred by the disgusted face the beautiful woman has made at his offer, Gar poses a question to Freeman that has bothered him for years, “Who cleans it?”

  “Pardon?”

  “In the movies and on TV, I always see these secret labs, you know, I’ve always wondered who cleans them. Are there janitors with super-secret clearance? Or, do all you super-secret scientist types just take turns mopping?”

  Freeman Wilkes cracks up, and his laughter echoes down the long, empty hall. “No, Mr. Colt, we don’t have janitors with ‘super-secret clearance,’ no double-oh 4-0h-9s. We scientist types try to pick up after ourselves.”

  Deeper down the hall, they come to a bank of windows smeared with blood on the other side. The panes are sound proof, and they can’t hear the dead folks in lab coats pounding on the glass. Wilkes stops to look at the remains of his research team.

  Veronica scoffs. “I guess you’d better grab a mop, honey.”

  He ignores her, leading them to a room adjacent to the ghoulish chemists. They follow along the filthy panes as faithfully as they followed the man in life. Once inside, Wilkes hit a large button to seal the three of them in.

  Gar is anxious about the presence of the deceased in the next room, and his anxiety erupts from him in a torrent of words that keeps his mind off of the zombies. “Like I was saying, I developed my own strain of marijuana. I dream of one day, when it’s legal, wandering the country, living off the land and planting my seeds. Just spreading the love, you know. I think most of the troubles of the world can be cured by Mary Jane. Being in pharmaceuticals, what’s your opinion on its medicinal use?”

  “I’m all for it,” Wilkes says, with his back to the man as he peers in a steel cabinet. “It certainly has been proven effective in helping a lot of people. So, you wish to be a regular Johnny Appleseed?”

  “Yeah, I would love that!”

  Veronica sits on an examination table. She ignores what she considers ‘asinine banter’ and elevates the backrest so she can relax. The blood splattered inhabitants of the other room are hard to look at, and even harder to ignore. She can’t believe this is happening. All her planning has been for nothing. The bundle of money she holds is worthless.

  Freeman Wilkes is holding an object that piques Gar’s interest. It’s a small glass vial filled with a bright green substance. The wealthy man stands, holding the sample to the light, pondering the contents.

  “What is that?” Gar asks.

  “A souvenir,” Wilkes says. “During the early days of space travel, samples were brought back to Earth. These artifacts were subjected to extensive sterilization as a precaution. Upon one rock claimed from the moon’s surface was a green speck that could not be killed. They attempted every means: chemicals, radiation, gases, nothing worked. Once it was exposed to oxygen, under controlled circumstances, it reproduced exponentially. The only way to contain it is in a vacuum.”

  “That shit’s from space?” Gar asks, his eyes wide with amazement.

  “Yes.” Freeman is lost in his own mind. He returns with a laugh, “It’s ironic. It was never given a proper name, just labeled ‘Sample Six.’ Since humans developed the ability to do so, we’ve sought to name everything on the planet and beyond. Leave it to the one thing without a moniker to be the thing to kill us.”

  Palpable silence follows. Gar looks to Veronica, who appears to have actually taken an interest in the discussion. She in turn looks to the dead at the windows. The slaughtered flesh looks like meat under shrink-wrap. “You caused this?” she asks.

  “No.” Freeman alleviates her suspicion. “Six years ago, the substance was accidentally released by one of my researchers in a gaseous form. We held our breath, literally, as well as figuratively… Nothing happened. Over the following weeks, traces of the substance were being discovered all over the country, then the world. It wasn’t effecting people in any way, though we now all harbor it, but it’s just been taking up residence. We continued to use it for its regenerative properties, and many cutting edge drugs have been made with this as their derivative. While the others chased the fountain of youth, I branched off into experimenting with ways to counteract it, should it ever pose a threat…”

  “Like today!” Veronica shouts.

  “The other shoe has indeed fallen,” Freeman agrees. “And I have yet to find a way to fight it. It just sat in our bodies, innocuous, until it finally decided to strike. I still don’t k
now exactly what it is that I am holding. Is it some alien life form’s means of conquering an entire planet? Or perhaps God just sneezed one day and this is a mere germ, capable of eliminating life as we know it.”

  “Whoa!” Gar can’t believe how heavy this has gotten. “There’s no cure at all? No vaccine?”

  “Not yet, but I have a theory.” Freeman punctuates his statement by firing the last round of his pistol into his wife. The quiet bullet enters her chest, right between the perfect breasts he had paid for.

  Gar is horrified. “What the fuck!”

  “I debated hard on this, Mr. Colt--which of you two to use as which ingredient of my plan,” Wilkes tosses the spent pistol absently onto a counter. “Though I can think of many uses for her, I’d soon grow tired of her incessant bitching. You amuse me.”

  Gar can only stare at the still woman on the exam table. Freeman Wilkes quickly binds her hands to arm rests he raises and her ankles to retractable stirrups. He makes fast work of securing her body, and then tosses Gar a bottle of pills. “Take these.”

  The words on the bottle might as well be in another language, and Gar is shocked beyond the ability to read. “I’m not into pills.”

  “Don’t tell me a big time drug peddler such as yourself is afraid to take a couple little pills.”

  “I’m a Potsmith!” Gar makes the distinction. “You’re a drug dealer!”

  Freeman stalks toward him. His words are no longer smooth jazz in Gar’s ears, but spine tingling slams of piano keys. “Do you know why marijuana has the effect it does?”

  “Because it’s awesome?” Gar cringes.

  “No, Mr. Colt. Not because it’s awesome. Marijuana does what it does as a means of reproduction. It entices silly little creatures like monkeys, or yourself, to ingest of its buds. Its aim is for them to spread the seeds in their scat, or as you put it ‘spread the love.’ The herb that you revere, and positively reek of, is just using you. Seriously, the stench coming off of you reminds me of the Amorphophallus Titanum, also known as the Corpse Flower. It mimics the smell of rotting flesh to attract flies.”

  The words hurt Gar, as if the man has hit him. He feels like he’s just been told that Darth Vader is his father. The foundation of his life is shaking beneath him, and he has no way to stabilize it. “You are Doctor Doom.”

  “Cute,” Wilkes says. “Take the pills. They’re just immunosuppressers. I need to use you like you use the water pipe you undoubtedly own. It probably has some clever name. Bongzilla, perhaps?”

  “King Bong,” Gar admits weakly.

  “Once my wife arises, and the pills have weakened your immune system, I’m going to filter the virus through you. If my theory holds, and they usually do, you will be right as rain.”

  There’s no way to tell if this man is lying about him surviving the process. Gar has too many questions to comply. “Why? If the world is gone, why go on?”

  “What do you give a man who has everything?”

  Gar remembers the answer to the question from when it was posed upstairs. “Peace.”

  “Correct!” Freeman cheers. “You leave him the fuck alone! No hands out wanting to be filled, no bald-headed sick children. I plan to make for my mansion and wait out the apocalypse in peace… You are of course invited. As I told you, you amuse me.”

  The damage has been done, and Gar now knows this man is truly a bad guy. So different from the kind hearted man he had portrayed himself to be. Gar can’t help but formulate a plan of his own, for he wishes to stop this evil doer and become a true hero even if it kills him. The Potsmith rushes to the wall of hungry corpses and slams the button to open the door that stands in their way. Wilkes screams as the dead fill his personal lab.

  15

  The meal Dustin consumed from a compartmentalized tray sits heavily in his gut. Any remorse he may feel over the day’s events is pushed away. Now he just wants to sleep, but the near constant whoop of the choppers and the din of his fellow survivors make getting any shut-eye impossible. He wishes he had his music. A pair of ear buds would lull him to sleep like a baby. Making matters worse, he was saddled with a top rack and now lays directly under a blinding fluorescent light fixture.

  He’s also waiting to use the bathroom. The roving watches that keep a constant headcount of the evacuees, as well as the peace, have told the people that to avoid problems men will only be allowed to use the bay’s single, yet multi-user, bathroom during odd hours. The women have the run of the lavatory currently.

  Impatient men who aren’t shy have been relieving themselves into empty water bottles, but that isn’t the kid’s problem. Dustin wishes to get cleaned up after relieving himself in his pants earlier. His legs were saturated with urine, and no they feel prickly. The smell emanates from his denim, and he prays that it’s only noticeable to himself.

  Quite a lot of other men are poised on their mattresses awaiting their turn in the latrine too. Each counts the minutes until they can rush in like hockey players headed for the penalty box. They cradle thin towels wrapped around small army issued bottles of Prell and bars of Zest. Everyone was given a small white mesh bag of toiletries upon entry, and Dustin was happy to find a comb in his but no hair gel. He wonders if he may be able to borrow some from someone, or perhaps the base has a market.

  The last lady exits the bathroom. Before the sentry announces that the men can go in, Dustin bounds off of his top rack, aiming to be the first through the door.

  The large, poorly lit space is wall-to-wall beige tile, and the room is divided in the middle by a wall with banks of sinks on either side. Toilet stalls with no doors populate the left portion of the latrine, but Dustin makes for the far end where the showers are.

  The showers aren’t what he is expecting. Sprayer heads stick out from the tiled wall within a small room beyond an antechamber of benches and hooks, and there are no doors or curtains for privacy. His hesitation at the threshold raises a grumble from the gentlemen assembling behind him, who also want to get clean. Men begin to undress all around, and his eyes widen.

  Dustin steps aside to let men pass him before he commences to bashfully undress. He has lost his opportunity to be one of the first to bathe. So he waits, third on deck to enter the steam filled room with countless naked men behind him. He tries to act casual around all the bare skin. Some of the guys make jokes about ‘dropping the soap’ that he forces himself to laugh at.

  16

  It’s dark by the time Kelly finds the final location on Griffin’s list, the Reserve Depot. The car grumbles and complains, because it has been running on fumes for much longer than the pop star can believe possible.

  The gate is a mess of haphazardly parked vehicles, and she has trouble finding a way to the entrance. Taking the Intrepid onto the sidewalk, she manages to squeeze in, and she spots movement in the dark between the car clusters.

  Spotlights hit them from the top of the stone wall. Randy speaks for the first time since being silenced by his ex. “I’ll do the talking, honey.”

  The comedian exits his side of the car to approach the figures standing in the glare. He shields his eyes from the bright glow, but before he can even say a single word he is again silenced.

  “We’re at capacity! We can’t admit any more people.”

  “Perhaps you don’t recognize me…” Randy takes a step closer.

  “I’ll put a round in your face if you don’t back off, Ringo.”

  Kelly feels exhausted and emotionally spent, and she just wants to get inside where it’s safe. She knows just how to do it. It’s her turn to step out of the car, and the action makes her the new focal point of the sentry’s attention, just as she wants. “Hiya, boys.”

  “Holy shit! It’s Kelly Peel!” the guard says excitedly. “Open the gate!”

  17

  Back in the sack, just in time for lights out, Dustin finds it hard to drift off to sleep. Nightmare images are conjured in his mind of the horrors he had seen that day, and the drastic actions he had taken to su
rvive it all.

  Just as he is nodding off, he is stirred once more by a clamor. More survivors are being escorted in the already packed squad bay. With the bustle of the newbies settling in, and their grumbling about being displaced for some VIP, he knows he won’t be finding sleep anytime soon. He rolls onto his stomach to look out the windows that surround the crowded room. The lights of the base, powered by gas generators, filter in through a veil of condensation. The room’s temperature rises due to all the body heat contained within on the cold night. He can see the soldiers bundled up outside, and is actually envious as he breathes in the muggy air.

  ##

  Dustin grabs a few hours of slumber before the need to pee awakens him. But he is stopped at the latrine door by a new soldier on duty who says he must hold off until a lady finishes in there. The woman takes her time, oblivious to the dancing Dustin outside. He must fight the urge to pound on the door. She finally emerges and he rushes in, muttering his frustration. “About fucking time.”

  The anticipation of relieving his bladder actually makes the act enjoyable, and he lets out a sigh that echoes in the vast room of hard surfaces. Dustin hums different tones, listening to the walls vibrate more and more the deeper he goes. He daydreams of forming a new band and releasing an album, and how this hypothetical LP could contain a bonus track of his band and him in a room such as this messing around with harmonics.

  Dream over, he heads for the door, hoping to catch some more sleep while he can. A reflection in the long mirrors along the sinks catches his eyes, and he sees something he needs. Dustin grabs the item thinking, things are looking up. A small jar of styling gel. Not his brand, but it’ll do. He opens the lid and smiles, because plenty of the thick compound remains.

  Three fingers of goopy product are added to his thick black hair. While styling his cherished locks, the door opens. Considering the rule, he knows it must be another guy.