“Slow it down,” Dustin says suddenly.
“What is it?” Deatherage taps the brakes to warn Brock of the deceleration.
“There’s a line of cars parked on the side of the road,” Dustin says. They’ve seen many abandoned vehicles, but this is different. The train is organized, evenly spaced, and pointed in their direction.
The two cars halt as a precaution. Deatherage hates stopping since they are so close to their goal--less than an hour by his estimation. It certainly looks like a convoy, he thinks as he surveys the scene. “There are people sitting on the road. Actually, they seem to be kneeling. Three people in orange vests are pacing…”
The lead vehicle is a large black pick-up that is angled across the lane. The men have rifles. Brock Rottom has joined the soldier, staring at the situation through an obscenely large pair of binoculars. He speaks Deatherage’s exact thoughts, “This doesn’t look good.”
Brock’s view of the events unfolding are far superior to Deatherage’s, and the clown delivers great details. Bullet holes pepper the sides of the middle vehicles, and these cars are filled with frightened faces. The smallest of the three thugs holding these people captive slings his rifle so he can comb his thick black hair. The other two fellows are morbidly obese.
The clown tenses with anger, and he watches as the preening man grabs a woman by her arm and drags her away from the others. The distance makes her screams of protest sound small as the evil man forces her to join him on the other side of the black truck. The man’s shouts are incoherent growls, but Brock and Deatherage soon realize these are commands as the woman reluctantly returns to her knees while the man unzips his fly.
“There’s kids down there,” Brock says, then he rushes to his lunch wagon before becoming a colorful blur heading towards the horrible scenario. He’s now carrying a unicycle that he grabbed from a rack on the back of his truck.
The woman at the villain’s mercy refuses to go through with his demands, and she grimaces as his hands grope and explore her beneath her white tank top. The lady’s eyes slip away from the offensive object she is being threatened and she turns her head toward Brock. Her puzzled expression draws the rapist’s attention as well.
Brock balances on his unicycle, juggling pins and heading straight for the villain.
He hurls the pins with such great velocity the first one dents the truck’s door. The second and third projectiles strike the villain in his throat and exposed groin, dropping him to the ground. But the clown doesn’t stop. Instead he allows himself to fall and slide under the high truck, while the unicycle skitters along the asphalt making sparks.
Another of the large men drops his gun and hides behind the other as he shrieks, “Clown! Clown!”
Before the man’s human shield can raise his weapon, Brock rolls on his side, fishing a black revolver out of his fake potbelly. “Let me guess, he’s afraid of clowns, right? Thinks we’re creepy? Follow his example and drop your rifle.”
Brock remains lying on the ground with his pistol trained on the men in hunting vests, and he keeps this casual pose until he hears the vehicles of his party approach.
“Jesus, Brock!” Deatherage exclaims. “We didn’t know you were armed.”
“Well, a clown can’t be too careful these days.” He relaxes his gun so he can stand, since his friends have the assailants in their sights.
“Thank you! That was incredible.” The woman in the white tank top walks up to the clown and kisses his heavily made up cheek. “It’s more than my husband was going to do for me.”
“Aw, Gloria!” a man among the released captives groans. “What could I do?”
“It was nothing, really,” Brock says nervously, not wanting to fuel the domestic squabble. “You don’t major in unicycling at a place like NYUK for nothing.”
“You went to the clown school in New York?” she asks.
“Yes I did!” Brock smiles smugly at Dustin.
Introductions are made as the three ‘hunters’ lay on their chests on the road, and their hands and ankles lashed with donated shoelaces.
Dustin, who was presented to the grateful band as Chachi, sees a pretty girl among them that catches his eye. She’s about his age and looks familiar. He wants to ask her where she goes to school, because she is wearing a tee-shirt under her thin hoodie that is from a haunted house attraction near Waterloo, but all the vehicles in the train that make up the caravan have out of state plates. The girl is Latino and well out of his league, but he hopes his affiliation with the heroic team will help his cause in chatting her up.
While Brock prepares a feast for the travelers, Dustin runs his fingers through his black hair and wishes he had a mirror. He strides confidently towards the girl who stands with a grey-haired gentleman and Deatherage. His friend is telling the pair of Waterloo when Dustin joins them. He nods along with Deatherage’s story, but isn’t listening. He is preoccupied and wondering if his buddy has already set his sights on the girl, not that that would stop him. Just as he’s about to pipe in with his own twist on things, Brock tells the group that the food is ready, and he misses his window.
The caravan of civilians has declined to accompany the smaller group to the base in favor of resuming their trek south. The older gentleman that spoke to Deatherage has property down there, but they happily take advantage of what the clown has to offer in the way of provisions. The proud entertainer makes balloon animals for the children and makes sure to send them on their way with plenty of treats. The travelers also receive some of the rifles the other men used to assault them, taking almost all of the weapons from the racks in their trucks.
The black pick-up and a much smaller red one had appeared out of nowhere and just opened fire upon the travelers. The savages muscled them to stop. They had no choice but to surrender, having little means of self-defense.
After a generous head start is afforded to the travelers, the thugs are dealt with. Deatherage and the others have decided that they can’t take them into custody or execute them, because they aren’t the police. They also realize that they must release them with a few weapons; to do otherwise is a death sentence. They have no guarantee these men won’t attack others, only their word that they won’t after some parting words from Brock, “Should you continue your wicked ways, the next person to get the better of you may not be as lenient.”
Finally the team is ready to saddle up and resume the last bit of their journey. However Deatherage can’t help but see the forlorn look in Dustin’s eyes. “Cheer up, Chachi. You’ll meet a nice girl one day. And may God have mercy on her soul.”
3
The group arrives at Fort Eagle Rock and is immediately separated; the men are ushered to one side of a large tent, while Erica and her baby are brought to the other. An olive drab sheet separates the space for privacy, and Dustin finds himself once again told to strip down for an exam.
During the humiliation, they are asked intake questions by a soldier with a clipboard. “Sir, we need you to provide your real name.”
“It is my real name,” Brock Rottom insists. “I had it legally changed years ago.”
The census taker moves down the line, stopping in front of Dustin. “Name?”
Before he can draw breath to answer, he is interrupted by a coarse voice that makes every muscle in his body clench. “Chachi!”
His reddening face doesn’t deter the old Quincy from continuing, “I am surprised as fuck and pleased as punch to see you made it.”
The abrasive man exits the tent, leaving Dustin vibrating with anger as well as shame. The nearly naked clown standing beside him chuckles slightly. “That’s gotta be embarrassing.”
Dustin is fuming, and his vow of vengeance is reinforced within him. All he needs now is a plan.
4
Dustin surprised everyone, none more than himself, with his dedication. During the cold winter months he spent as a soldier, he took more patrols than anyone and eagerly jumped upon tasks that most shied away from. Now as spri
ng approaches he has been assigned to the duty he has been striving for--the mess mall. Kitchen patrol isn’t the most glamorous job in the military; the work is hard and the hours are long, but it’s been his goal since he first declared himself a soldier the very day he arrived.
Deatherage earned his pick of assignments for having not only survived the city, but also shepherding four survivors to the base. He’s in the Armory. Erica and her son Jeremy integrated with the other families in the civilian sector, while Brock Rottom has become a one-man USO.
Wearing a paper hat and an apron stained by countless meals, Dustin retrieves stacks of trays from diners who have finished their food. He sprays the compartmentalized serving ware with a high-pressure hose before sending them down the line. His gloved hands quickly sort the silverware into green baskets so they can be doused off as they are sent along the stainless steel counter.
“Thanks, Chachi,” a sweet voice says from the other side of the window, where he receives the dirty trays. He recognizes it as belonging to a beautiful soldier girl named Steele. Everyone calls her Rash.
“It’s Dustin, actually,” he says, leaning down to offer her a smile.
“I’m sorry.” She sounds slightly embarrassed. “I’ve heard folks call you Chachi.”
“It’s an unfortunate nickname,” he sheepishly explains. “I was wondering if you’d like to go to the Kelly Peel concert with me tonight?”
Before she can answer, a tray is tossed carelessly on top of the stack, splashing Dustin with wet leftovers. Baked beans stick to his face.
“Zee!” a glowering Rash scolds her friend, who stands close to her. “Actually, Dustin, I already have plans.”
“Another time?” he calls hopefully.
“Not likely,” Zee growls.
Dustin watches them depart. He has heard rumors that the two are an item, but he has also heard to the contrary. He figured he’d give it a shot anyway.
“Zee, why do you have to be so mean?” she asks him. “He’s cute.”
“He’s a punk douchebag.”
“They are always the cutest.”
Dustin can’t wallow in his rejection, not only since he has been shot down by every female on the base from soldier to survivor, but because his true obsession is in the chow line. He spots Master Sergeant Quincy, and this is what he’s been waiting for. It’s time.
The soaked apron is tossed down before he dashes to the serving area, stopping at the beverage fountain to implement the key component of his plan. The boy has studied his prey’s habits well.
“Hey, Chance,” Dustin greets his fellow kitchen worker as he moves behind the long steam table of items and slips into a fresh apron. He hopes the items bulging in his pants pockets aren’t noticed by the soldiers on the other side of the sneeze guard. “Why don’t you sneak out for a smoke? I got the line.”
“Really? You don’t mind?” the renowned chain-smoking private asks.
“Not at all. The scullery is all caught up. When you get back, I’ll go on break.”
“All right!” Chance smiles broadly on his way out.
Dustin happily scoops food out for his patrons, and each satisfied diner brings him closer to his target. He casts glances periodically at Quincy over the transparent barrier, trying not to look too suspicious.
“Chachi!” Quincy says with the usual vigor. “I’ve been hearing great things about you… Why are you behind the counter? Weren’t you just over in the deep sink getting cock-blocked by Sergeant Lynton?”
“I was at that,” Dustin says with a smile.
“I don’t want to get caught up in any schoolgirl gossiping, but I hear they’re together.”
“I’ve heard that too. It never hurts to try. What’ll it be?”
“Chili mac. Tatters. Mixed veg.” The terse list is filled, then Quincy snags a few dinner rolls from the end of the line before heading to the soft-drink dispensers.
Dustin watches the man draw his preferred drink from all the available choices, ignoring the chain of frustrated folks who clamor for food.
“SHH!” he tells the amassing throng of hungry people. He absently acquiesces to their demands, slapping their selections onto their trays while keeping his focus on Quincy. “There! Now fuck off.”
As per his routine, Quincy carries his tumbler of cola toward the tables. He takes a sip mid-stride and makes a face. Dustin looks around people standing in his view, because he has to see his plan in action. Despite Quincy’s brass-balled bravado he is very picky; where most people would accept the situation, the Master Sergeant returns to the service line.
“Chachi,” he says. “The soda fountain is all jacked-up, too much syrup in the mix. Can you give this a shot of H2O?”
“Of course,” Dustin says, forgoing the dozens in line to comply with his request by heading to the kitchen.
“Hey, don’t you have a sink right here?”
“Water smelled funny earlier. I have some bottled water in the back.”
“Ooh! Fan-see,” Quincy retorts.
Obscured by a wall, Dustin pours off the top eighth of the drink. He doesn’t add water just yet, but first infuses the soda with a special ingredient--an entire bottle of eye drops. One of his old band mates, Lloyd, told him about this prank. ‘It’ll make someone as sick as a dog’ the bassist had said, ‘He’ll wish he were dead.’
“Here you go, Master Sergeant.” Dustin hands over the cola. “Tell me how it tastes.”
“Perfect! Keep this up and you could be the next Dr. Pepper.”
Once again the line of starved warriors is tended to. Dustin minds his task, trying not to look at the future victim of his wrath, but he has trouble not stealing glances at him. As usual, the man sets himself among a fresh batch of soldiers.
The young enlisted men make room for their idol, looking proud to have him so close. The fools are about to be regaled by war stories and funny tales. On more than one occasion Dustin has heard his name mentioned--his nickname, that is. Similar goofy looking bastards have chuckled at his expense, eyeing him with their faces set in silly grins like this gaggle has now.
The joke’ll be on you in a few minutes, Dustin thinks. You left us without seeing the red smoke. I’ll show you red smoke.
Private Chance returns, accompanied by the crisp smell of spring air and the aroma of cigarettes. “Thanks. I needed that.”
“No problem.” Dustin removes his apron. “The line has gotten a bit out of hand.”
On his way back to the scullery, Dustin hears Quincy imitating a young girl’s voice, “…My daddy calls him Chachi…”
The receiving window has gotten ‘out of hand’ as well, and an uneven stack of trays has toppled to the floor. Impatient people keep stuffing their dishes in. Dustin chuckles at the disorganized scene awaiting him. The floor is slick with refuse, but he isn’t bothered by the mess. He simply sprays the rectangles clean while he leans casually against the steel counter so he can see Quincy’s face as he toils.
“Oh!” the man exclaims, stopping his humorous anecdote. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, my chili mac is trying to make an encore.”
The military man rushes from his fans, heading straight for the latrine. Dustin has never been so proud of himself, and he congratulates himself on the victory by removing his heavy dishwasher’s garment for the last time. After delivering the coup de grace, he plans on joining the civies in their leisurely lifestyle. But first he must make that evil man feel what he and Deatherage had felt that day--hopeless, lost, with no escape.
“Chachi!” the sergeant in charge of the mess hall bellows angrily upon entering the scullery. Obviously the disarray is completely unacceptable. “I thought I told you…”
“Eat shit! I don’t answer to you anymore.” He tosses the sopping wet apron against the bewildered man’s chest. “And, don’t call me Chachi!”
Dustin fingers a canister in his right pocket as he heads to the latrine. He drags a yellow placard behind him that tells people to use another restr
oom while whichever one it stands before is being cleaned. He has no intention of cleaning up the mess he expects to find in there, let alone the mess he intends on making.
Quincy has been in the bathroom for ten minutes by Dustin’s timekeeping, but he bides his time while people flee from the echoing chamber. The sound of retching drives them away. One guy snorts, “Got your work cut out for you. Someone’s puking his guts out in there.”
Once the stampede subsides, the sign is posted to ward off intrusions. Then the spoon along the canister’s side is squeezed, and Dustin pulls the pin and drops the ring in a trashcan between this restroom and the one dedicated to females. He enters the foul smelling space, noticing the sickening groans and splashes have gone quiet.
Dustin knows that there is about a five second delay after the spoon is released to allow the user to clear the landing zone. Then the smoke bomb will go off. I love it when a plan comes together.
The stench wrenches his own stomach, and he forgets every word he had rehearsed in preparation for this day. He breathes through his mouth, filtering the odor of vomit through pursed lips. If not for the visible shoes if his enemy, he’d think he had missed his chance. He wonders if Quincy is taking a break or if he has passed out. He had hoped to hear anguished moans and pleadings with God for leniency.
Inching closer to the partially open stall, he laughs because the man hadn’t had enough time to lock the latch when the urge to purge struck him. The sight of the field weathered face resting upon the stained toilet seat should make him giddy, but his foe’s unmoving frame negates that.
“Oh, no!”
Not even several sharp kicks from his heavy, well-polished boots arouse the Master Sergeant.
“Are you ok?” he asks, reaching down to grab the sick man’s shoulder.
The victim slumps limply to the urine splattered tile. Chunks of his dinner still cling to his chin, and remnants disgrace the bowl and rim. Dustin loses the contents of his own stomach all over the dead man’s perfectly creased fatigues, unable to muster the respect to guide his regurgitation elsewhere.
Life Among The Dead (Book 2): A Castle Made of Sand Page 13
