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

by Cotton, Daniel

  “I got it,” Jackson says. The door is unlocked, so he slides under the steering column. With his lower back resting uncomfortably on the floor, and his feet on the ground, his compatriots take positions around the car.

  “You should drop the ‘E,’” Dustin suggests to Deatherage from their posts at the rear of the wagon.

  “Huh?”

  “Drop the ‘E’ in your name legally, and then start a band.”

  “Yeah, I’d be a real headliner: Calvin Death Rage.” He laughs at the concept.

  The smirk the soldier wears is erased by moans of corpses sauntering closer to them on the passenger side. He yells to Collins to cover the area, and Ryan comes around from the right side to help. Shawn is nowhere to be seen. Over the wails of the dead and the intermittent gunfire, Deatherage hears the rapid plod of heavily booted feet. He follows the sound to see a civilian running away. “Where the fuck is he going?”

  “Looks like Mission Ave,” Dustin replies, considering their present location. “Going home, I guess.”

  The leader shakes his head with disappointment at the coward before turning to the advancing threats and taking aim. “I’ve heard that before. What you said about my name.”

  The man waits to tell Dustin more so he can concentrate on his shot. “You see a lot of odd ones in the military. I worked with this one Mexican fellow named Moises Areola.”

  Dustin just smiles while Deatherage laughs. He doesn’t get it.

  “The areola is the dark part around the nipple…” Deatherage explains. “He was two ‘T’s away from a wet tee-shirt contest… I hear it’s actually a common name south of the border.”

  Collins comes to the rear and sees the AWOL man exploiting gaps among the dead in his retreat. “Prick got an armed escort halfway home and a free gun.”

  “What’s touching me?” Jackson inquires with annoyance while working on the ignition, and then he screams.

  “Shit!” Deatherage rushes to the driver’s side door.

  The scene makes the leader’s stomach drop. One of Jackson’s legs flail wildly, while the other is being held by a female zombie as if it was her lover, but instead of lavishing it with kisses it gnaws insatiably.

  Deatherage slams the butt of his rifle savagely against the ghoul’s head, but it refuses to release its lunch. The zombie has been stripped of any scrap of clothing from the waist down, as well as any flesh. Bloody bones scrape on the tar as Jackson writhes in agony. The corpse’s tattered shirt tears away when Deatherage attempts to pull her off by her collar.

  Jackson continues to scream out in horror, for the woman’s teeth have made it down to the bone. Her teeth crack his femur and chew on the marrow. The man’s rifle had been set on the hood since he was expecting everyone would have his back.

  Deatherage had fallen backwards when the woman’s shirt gave way to his yank. From this position, he yells out, “Chachi!”

  Dustin moves in, pressing the barrel of his M-16 against the zombie’s head and firing. Not even he could miss this close. The door panel becomes splattered with blood and brains, as does the windshield and parts of the dash.

  Jackson replaces his agony with anger. “Where the fuck were you guys?” The man kicks the dead girl away. The sight of his ravaged leg makes him shiver, and he must divert his eyes. Collins kneels before him with an olive drab bandage to field dress the injury. Dustin catches a glimpse of the devastation before it is dressed, and it’s a bright red mess with white shards of broken bone. He winces with sympathy pain.

  “You won’t want to put any pressure on that leg until we get a proper splint on it,” Collins advises.

  The dead are closing in on all sides now, and they still need the car started. Deatherage must get them back to the task at hand. His voice wavers, and his confidence is failing, “Guys, let’s stick closer to the door. Jackson, I hate to ask…”

  “I still got this,” the infirmed man groans. He eases himself back under the wheel, being careful not to bump his leg. Once he has the station wagon rumbling, his friends get him into the back after they push debris out of the way--a pile of dirty work uniforms and empty soda bottles.

  The radio Collins carries squawks, and the Master Sergeant’s voice rasps, “Team Alpha! Come in, over.”

  Collins is too busy trying to get Jackson comfortable in the car that smells of industrial oils and stale cigarette smoke. He hands the radio to Dustin. “It’s for you, Chachi.”

  “What?” he answers the handset without saying over. To Dustin that just seems redundant, he knows I’m done talking if I stop talking.

  There is a pause before Quincy comes back over the line. “I need you boys to get those things around the bend so my movers can get out there, over.”

  “They haven’t even started yet.” Dustin’s words are high pitched from the shock. “What the fuck?”

  “Don’t tell me how to do my job, you little shit! Nobody talks to me like…”

  “You’re the douchebag that put me on the payroll, so get used to it.” Dustin simply switches off the unit. The others look at him with expressions that range from pride to disbelief. “Wrong number.”

  The men all board, and Dustin takes the ‘way back.’ Jackson laughs at his lack of protocol.

  “I’ll handle the radio, Chachi,” Jackson says. “He’s gonna be pissed when you get back to base.”

  Dustin isn’t concerned about Quincy’s wrath. He plans on becoming a civilian once again as soon as the job is done.

  19

  The wood paneled relic protests when Deatherage tries to shift it into reverse, and he must force the gearshift on the tree. The zombies are all around the car, yet they are no longer a threat. The soldier makes no effort to avoid striking the carnivorous pedestrians. He had hoped to see at least a quarter of a tank displayed by the gas gauge, but they have less than an eighth to work with as they roll down the street Ryan had taken on foot.

  To no avail, the dead try to grab the men who cruise past. Considering the state of Jackson, and the fact they have lost the other guy, Dustin has to ask. “Why don’t we just go back?”

  “We can’t. Not until we get the order,” Deatherage responds. “Once they have the buses ready and a hole made, they’ll call.”

  Jackson switches the radio back on for when the brass call them home. “I’m in no hurry. If I only have an hour or two, this is how I want to go, cruising around with the boys. All we’re missing is some brews.”

  The look on the dying man’s face is serene. His eyes are closed as he obviously imagines that he is touring the strip on a Saturday night.

  “I can’t believe there’s no cure for this shit,” Collins says.

  “Sure there is,” Jackson counters without opening his eyes. “I’ll get my dose the second we pull into HQ. A bullet to the skull.”

  “That’s not entirely true,” Deatherage sadly says.

  “The fuck it isn’t. I know what they do to folks who arrive with bites.”

  “They stopped using bullets as of yesterday afternoon,” Deatherage reveals. “I imagine they didn’t want to scare the civilians with the constant shots, or didn’t want to waste the ammo. They’re using a nail gun now. Requisitioned it from supply around noon.”

  “Good to know I’m not entirely screwed,” Jackson bleakly quips.

  The weight of the ‘cure’ fills the car, pushing out all chatter. The men have fallen into despondent silence. Deatherage turns on the radio for a distraction, but the stations are playing nothing but static or repeating recorded messages instructing folks to stay indoors. Aid stations are listed for those who are out in the thick of things, and more than half of the places named have fallen to the dead.

  ##

  Without the comfort of music, Jackson decides to utilize another form of male bonding, indulging in the tradition of regaling his friends with a lurid story. The recount is of a trip he and a buddy had taken to Tijuana a while back when he lived in San Diego. Like most tales of TJ, it involves copious amou
nts of alcohol and poor decision making.

  “…There we were, drunk off our asses, not a dime between us after paying this chick her asking price for what we wanted. We didn’t have enough for the five dollar cab ride to the border. We certainly didn’t have enough to buy condoms. So, we decided to share the one we had, turning it inside out between our turns. By the grace of God we found our way back to the states afterwards.

  “The next day we wake up, our heads are splitting. Ironically, I found a condom in my wallet that had been in there since junior high. Of course, by then it’s too late because the two of us are pissing razor blades.”

  The guys share a laugh at the volunteered disclosure, and even more after Jackson adds fuel, “It seemed like such a good idea at the time.”

  The wagon is propelling itself in drive without the use of the accelerator. Deatherage wants to keep the zombies enthralled with them. The living are creeping out of the industrial park and onto Washington Avenue with the dead in tow.

  A familiar face greets them just before it is torn off by two ravenous ghouls. The man that had abandoned them screams for them to stop and help him.

  “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy,” Jackson says, craning to see the gory scene better. He nudges Dustin. “Can you believe that pussy just ran off like that?”

  “No.” the Dustin hopes his eyes don’t give away the true fiber of his own character.

  “We’ll need gas soon if we want to make it back,” Deatherage announces.

  The wounded man shifts uncomfortably, removing an object from below his rump. He looks at a coiled length of tubing. “I’ll get us gas. Pull over somewhere safe.”

  “Not on that leg,” Collins negates.

  “That’s exactly why I’m the lucky duck. I’m dead anyway.”

  The wagon pulls alongside the cars parked against the curb on the left side of the street. Deatherage guides using his mirror to line up their tank with that of a Neon.

  The condemned man strips off his H-harness, and he leaves all of his gear and his weapon on the seat. At the donor vehicle he begins the process. Jackson reaches back into the car to take one item from his equipment--a hand grenade. He damn sure doesn’t want to become one of those things, and he certainly doesn’t want to be put down with a nail gun. “After I’m done, you’ll want to get far and fast.”

  Deatherage sees what the man has acquired. “Are you sure?”

  “It’ll be a blast.” He smiles devilishly. “If I can wipe out the pack, you should be able to return to base, right?” Jackson looks back to view the horde heading his way, then removes the hose and hands it to Deatherage. “You may need this. You have enough to cruise for a while and get home. It’s been interesting, fellas.”

  Jackson pulls the pin as the station wagon takes a right out of view. They wait for the impending boom, but it doesn’t come when expected. Back at the Neon, the bait hobbles to the other parked cars, opening their gas tanks to let out the vapors. He wants to achieve the maximum carnage possible.

  The station wagon is well down the road by the time the ground shakes from the explosion. After the initial blast, they hear subsequent eruptions, like aftershocks. A wall of flame fills the rearview, and Deatherage shakes his head. “Chachi, call command. See if they’ve pulled their heads out of their asses yet.”

  “Hello?” Dustin says into the handset. “Is anybody there?”

  “Come in Team Alpha, over,” a new voice greets him.

  “Did you guys get your heads out of your asses yet?”

  “Roger that. The hole is made and the buses are on route. Bring it in fellas, over.”

  The men in the car cheer over the permission to come home, despite the loss of men. The driver takes a right that should take them all the way to the industrial park, but all in the car are thrown forward when the brakes are slammed. “Jesus!”

  “That’s never a good sign,” Dustin says from the very back of the wagon. “What’s wrong?”

  “Exactly what I said.” Deatherage indicates ahead of them. “It’s Jesus.”

  Lying across the road is a massive wooden crucifix that has fallen from where it once stood in a churchyard. The top portion landed on a bus stop bench, and the depiction of Christ in perpetual agony that once looked up to the heavens now eyes a billboard advertising a local production of Cabaret.

  “Looks like we’re backtracking,” Deatherage says in a disappointed tone. He slings his right arm over the passenger backrest to turn his body.

  “Wait!” Collins says, laughing. “Look at JC. He’s totally looking up that chick’s skirt.”

  The four remaining soldiers look again. The angle of the visage gives the illusion that the messiah is peering up the female performer’s already short costume. Collins pulls out his cell phone. “I’ve gotta get a pic of this.”

  “Hurry up,” Deatherage says impatiently.

  The soldier’s phone makes an unconvincing shutter sound with every click of the button. Deatherage looks past the photographer, his eyes drawn to the opening of the church’s front door. A priest holding a shotgun emerges. The man of God is trying to flag down the men in the car, and his black robes billow as he runs to the wagon holding his weapon across his hips like a commando. Collins, having snapped enough pics of the savior, rolls down his window to hear what the man of the cloth is screaming. The soldier also wants to capture an image of this guy that to him seems to be surreal. Between this and his leering Jesus stills he knows he’ll be a Facebook legend should the world ever recover.

  “The day of judgment is at hand,” the cleric announces before pivoting and firing into the window.

  Deatherage is showered with remnants of his companion. He must squint through a skull fragment in his right eye to find reverse. He turns around fast. Glass rains down upon Dustin, blown in by buckshot.

  “All must fall if he is to return,” the crazed priest shouts.

  The car refuses to speed up as it travels. It’s listing to the left, having lost a tire. Deatherage ducks below the backrest as another shot takes away his side mirror. “Chachi! Take him out!”

  Dustin hears another burst from their assailant. The tilting car levels out when the right rear tire is obliterated, and the long backend of the wagon drags its bumper along the asphalt, creating sparks. The front wheels are having trouble pulling them; they are practically dead in the water.

  Dustin pops up over the fifth door to take his shot. He feels no need to adhere to the headshot only rule; he just wants to stop the zealot from firing again. He also disregards the ‘no rock and roll’ clause, releasing three rounds in rapid succession to silence the sermon.

  The station wagon’s front wheels are smoking and squealing in protest of the demands being made on them. Deatherage must give up. He picks through his friend’s corpse for supplies, taking ammo and grenades. The leader has so many emotions he doesn’t know what to feel, so he chooses to let frustration fuel his decision to strike onward from here on foot. “Call command. Tell them we need a pick-up.”

  In the commotion, Dustin has lost sight of the radio, and he frantically searches for the device in the way back of the wagon. He’s anxious about their static position and fighting the shock of what has transpired. He locates the handset and quickly depresses the button. Speaking rapidly he says, “Command! Come in, command!”

  He waits but hears nothing. He attempts to use the proper protocol, “Over.”

  Deatherage slammed his door and now stands on the street with his hands clasped on top of his head. Down the intersecting passages, he can see the dead approaching.

  “The radio is fucked,” Dustin says from inside the vehicle. “Maybe the battery is dead.”

  “A lot of that going around,” Deatherage mutters. “Grab all you can carry. We’re walking.”

  “All the way back?” Ryan asks in alarm.

  “If we have to.”

  A warm breeze reminds the three men that the dead will be faster here than they were near the base, a
nd several of them are already congregating at the fallen cross. The zombies are having trouble finding a way to the morsels that taunt them, they reach over the wooden statue rather than explore for a way around the obstruction. The stranded men know they can’t go that way.

  The team leader turns away from the corpses. “Let’s try to find a new battery before we risk humping home.”

  A scan of the streets reveals a clear path to the business district. Deatherage turns the wagon’s radio way up. He hates leaving his comrade’s body behind but he knows carting the corpse will just get them killed. Between the drone of the radio and the smell of the man’s blood, the dead will be lured here rather than where he plans to lead the few remaining guys depending on him.

  20

  The enduring members of Team Alpha cautiously make their way through the stores and specialty shops. They stay low to avoid detection. An electronics store is their best bet. Like many of the businesses, it was not opened yesterday. A steel shutter blocks their entry; the storefront window is protected by bars.

  “Now what do we do?” Ryan whispers.

  “Get back,” Deatherage says, taking a grenade from his gear. The distraction he had setup will be ruined after this, but he feels desperate.

  His men are huddled in an alley when Deatherage comes rushing in to join them, making it around the corner just in time. He hollers over the ringing in his ears, “We’ll have to be quick!”

  The men have to lift the twisted steel barrier to enter the devastated glass door. In the darkness, they need to split up to locate four ‘C’ cell batteries. Dustin sticks close to the light entering from the front window. The glass is cracked from the explosion but the brightness makes him feel safe in the dark shop. Just yesterday, he encountered living souls running around this very city. As far as he knows they’re all dead, and today they’ve found only one survivor who didn’t fare much better. Half of his team is gone now, and the world seems truly lost.