Killing this guy was never his intention. He merely wanted to knock him down a few pegs. After several ragged breaths of air, he realizes he needs to get out of here. Feeling as if he is walking in a dream, he pushes through the haze fogging his mind, desperate to escape his crime. As he passes through the door, he absently tosses the smoke grenade into the rubbish bin that had also received the pin. Shoving any who stand in his way aside, Dustin heads for the exit, and the short walk now seems to take forever. He doesn’t register Chance’s calls for help contending with the horde of ravenous diners.
The night air eases the murderer’s fluttering stomach, though his pace doesn’t falter. Dustin’s mind reels through a flood of thoughts. I’ve just killed a man, and set off a smoke bomb in a crowded cafeteria… I have to leave the base, get outta here before they come after me… No. I’m fine. If Spinal Tap has taught me anything it’s ‘they can’t dust for vomit’… I need an alibi.
Months of planning ironically didn’t involve an out clause. Dustin scans the grounds for a suitable place to lie low, finding a pillbox building in front of him that will do nicely. Since their arrival on base, the soldier he escaped Waterloo with has been keeping himself busy in the armory. Though they haven’t seen much of each other, he knows Deatherage will vouch for his character and whereabouts.
Muffled chaos erupts behind him in the Mess Hall.
“Hey, look what the wind blew in!” Deatherage smiles from behind the steel mesh of the gun cage, his home away from home.
Dustin locks the door behind him before walking among the tall rows of supplies. He tries to look and sound casual, “Hey, Deatherage. Been awhile.”
“Yeah, I love this place. I’m working on a project right now,” Deatherage explains. “Do you know Sergeants Rash and Lynton?”
“I think so,” Dustin tries to control his breathlessness and racing heart. “Why?”
“In a couple of weeks, when they start going out looking for survivors again, I get to join their team,” he says. “They’ve asked for silenced weapons for when they have to put down a zombie and don’t want to give up their location to the other dead.”
Dead. The word echoes in Dustin’s mind. He’s dead. He’s going to rise. All those people are probably trapped in the hall by the smoke… trapped with him.
“…My grandfather was a gunsmith. He told me all about silencers and how they work. Apparently our base doesn’t keep them on hand, so I had to make my own in the machine shop. Check it out.” Deatherage holds a large revolver out for Dustin to see. His excitement obviously blinds him to Dustin’s inner turmoil, as he explains how his addition uses a series of chambers called baffles to release the gases that issue forth with a bullet once fired. “…like a champagne cork! Tomorrow, I’m taking her to the range to squeeze a few off.”
Dustin is at the pillbox’s only window near the door. Drawn by a rising commotion, he can see folks rushing to the hall. He must hold Deatherage’s attention. “Cool! Can I see it?”
“Sure.” Deatherage hands over the shiny hand cannon. The already long barrel has been extended even farther, and it’s fat on the end. “It’s not loaded. Wanna go to the range with me tomorrow?”
“Will they let me?” Dustin nervously looks around for bullets. “I’m not a soldier anymore. I quit today.”
“Trouble at the Mess Hall?”
“Nothing I want to talk about.” Or, admit to.
The topic is not so easily deflected, and outside people are screaming.
Deatherage swiftly jogs to the window. “Holy shit! It looks like trouble.”
He grabs several rifles from his racks and hustles to the door. Folks are already trying to get in, and they pound and jiggle the locked knob, clamoring for weapons.
“Chachi, grab some ammo!”
Dustin must teach himself how to open the cylinder on the spot. “Don’t go out there!”
“What are you talking about? They need our help! There might be zombies on post!”
Deatherage reaches for the lock. The last thing he sees, in the quickest of flashes, is the contents of his own head against the white door in front of him. He never got to enjoy just how silent his gun is--as quiet as a mouse’s sneeze.
Those wishing entry into the armory have no idea if there are walking dead among them or how many, they simply know that they need weapons just in case. Dustin imagines folks are panicking inside the smoke filled Mess Hall and these people want to get in here, because they sure as hell don’t want to go in unprepared. So they smash the singular window, only to meet their death at Dustin’s hand. He erases every face that enters the small square frame.
He falls to his knees and trembles. Not only did he kill his enemy and only friend, he’s led to the downfall of the entire base. Without access to the weapons, soldiers and civilians alike are about to die.
5
Dustin’s actions were not the only selfish ones that lead to the fall of Fort Eagle Rock.
Randy Russell sat backstage at his ex-wife’s concert, watching her prepare for the show. She had none of the outlandish costumes or make-up, no body paint or back-up dancers. She just had her voice and an acoustic guitar. The singer had been putting on performances for the survivors, singing her songs as they sounded when she first wrote them in her head so many years ago. Randy saw how truly happy she was and it was like a dagger in his heart. Living like a common person, without the mansions and money, without him, she looked happy. Kelly was able to do what she always wanted--deliver her music to folks who appreciated her for her art.
Kelly disregarded him, taking the stage without so much as a word. Feeling lower than usual, Randy had been seeking comfort in whatever drugs he could scrounge, and in any woman that might be too star struck by him to remember her standards.
Randy had always had a rule about cheating: if one must do so, at least make sure the other woman is a step up. That was before he met Kelly and had to amend the law, since he was hard pressed to ever cross paths with a more beautiful girl. The new custom was volume. Since he couldn’t find a 10, he sought out enough women to overshadow Kelly’s ranking. This very night he felt fortunate to have located not only a pair of willing 8s, but also a plastic bag of random pills.
Whether it was the first palm full of pills he took before having his way with the girls, or the second batch he swallowed post coital, it didn’t matter. Randy Russell’s melancholy heart stopped beating. As people listened to Kelly Peel sing, seeking a small slice of normalcy, the dead comedian arose from the afterglow. The nameless conquests had thought that the man was simply ready for another round, until he sunk his teeth into one of them.
Applause drowned out the screams of terror and pain. Randy mauled the naked woman as the third horrified member of the ménage a trois ran out of the room for help. With everyone watching the show, no help was found amid the labyrinth of halls. The star struck young woman ran as bare as the day she entered the world, fearing she may exit it the same way.
6
Dustin waited in solitude long after the gunfire and screaming had stopped and was replaced by moaning. He has no idea how many days he’s been locked within his fortress, but time is irrelevant. Subsisting on MREs for days, possibly weeks, a new sound draws him to the window he has been avoiding. A crash. Dustin hears the distinct noise of metal on metal and the roar of a large engine.
A cautious peek at the outside world he no longer feels apart of reveals a deuce and a half--a M35 6x6 as Deatherage had called it--careening out of the motor pool. The olive truck is heading towards the front gates and the dead are following. This could be my chance if I can grab my car and join them.
Dustin knows his car is behind the garage the survivors have just hastily exited. All civilian transports were put there for storage since the civies weren’t allowed to drive on post.
Armed with the whisper quiet revolver and an assault rifle, he tries to be brave, to boldly race across the asphalt plane, but he can’t do it. The folks making their
escape aren’t so hesitant, and he can hear the reports of their guns.
It takes several moments before he feels courageous enough to make a run for it, though he has already missed his chance to join the others. He hasn’t seen a corpse since the ones that followed the fleeing folks. He wonders if they had all pursued the truck off base. Dustin sprints for the motor pool after several preparatory breaths. He aims to grab the Camaro and bring it back to the armory for supplies.
The rockstar purple car is a sight for sore eyes, and an even greater sight are the keys that are still in the ignition. He makes his way back to the armory unfettered, not a dead menace in sight.
As fast as he can, he loads his car with packages of food and rifles, and he tosses crates of grenades and claymores into his trunk. The curved explosive devices scare him upon inspection, and written on them in raised lettering are the words: FRONT TOWARD ENEMY.
Screaming and gunfire from the civilian sector draws his attention and tells him that not all the zombies have departed. Dustin can see folks running beyond the chain-link that divides the base; he can also see the mob of figures on their heels. From this distance they look small, like action figures. He tries to equate them as such as he slides behind the wheel; he has the means to save them, just not the fortitude. So he leaves them behind to fend for themselves, because there’s somewhere he wishes to be. Though his gig has come and gone months ago, he figures it can’t hurt to at least see the venue. What else do I have going on?
##
Dustin drives for what feels like hours before he becomes suspicious. I should have seen a sign for Fallen by now. He slows to read the notices that are offered to him, and one announces a turn for Poland Creek. He remembers that name, just not how he knows it. The next placard reports how many miles to a location he remembers all too well, and it also tells him that he’s heading the wrong way.
“Waterloo! Fuck!”
So he takes the Poland Creek exit; he’s wasted a lot of gas and needs to take a break. The sleepy little town is still as he cautiously fills his tank at Gary’s Gas and Go. The pump gurgles fuel into his car while his gaze darts around, not wanting to be taken by surprise. On the street he sees a line of cars he can’t help but take a second glance at, because they look familiar. A closer inspection allows him to see that their steel hides are peppered with bullet holes; it’s the convoy he and his group helped out on their way from Waterloo. The folks are all gone, and he can’t help but notice one vehicle is missing.
He puts back the nozzle and screws on his gas cap. Dustin wonders if any of the bodies around him belong to the group. Perhaps the remaining members took off in the missing ride. He didn’t have much contact with civilians at Eagle Rock, not enough that he’d remember one of them, except for the girl he had attempted to chat up.
He fights off thoughts of the pretty girl who is probably dead, which only leads to thoughts of the base he had recklessly brought down. Stop it, he commands himself once behind the wheel. He has a lot of ground to cover and knows that he can’t change what has happened.
Dustin cruises out of town, trying to find his way back to the highway. As he’s about to turn onto the main artery, he sees a glorious sight through the dense trees. At the end of a long driveway sits an estate that beckons him. He would have missed it had he not been driving so slowly. It can’t hurt to check it out.
A tall stone wall towers over him where he parks outside of the place’s wrought iron gates. Dustin uses his hands as visors against the glare of the sun above so he can see the home. The palatial abode is the aspiring rock legend’s dream home. It looks like the Playboy mansion. The overgrown lawn aside, he finds the place to be the perfect degree of opulence, and he hasn’t even stepped foot inside yet.
Dustin enters a small booth that juts from the wall. He assumes there once was a person stationed here to admit visitors. Just below the window is a bank of monitors that show him several views of the manor, and he figures out the controls to cycle each screen through even more vantage points. Though it puzzles him that such a secure and secluded place should not be occupied, he sees no one inside. I wonder who used to live here.
7
Prison is hard on everybody, unless you are a man like Benito Sartori, then it can be downright easy. The Italian born successor of the long defunct Sartori crime family, Benito had revitalized the old syndicate and brought it into the modern age. The capo, known to his peers as ‘Papa Bear,’ holds to the old traditions of omerta, honor and respect. His family still dabbles in the old sources of revenue, but rely heavily on technology and cyber-crimes these days. Prostitution brings in money, but not nearly what their internet porn rings and bootleg movies earn them. The family still makes fast cash through robberies and hijackings; however their scammers and hackers are far more lucrative. Despite his crimes and the people he’s had killed, or killed personally, what he had been incarcerated for is inconsequential. He’s actually innocent. He was set up.
While locked away from the world among similarly violent people, Benito had decided to escape. His plan involved the use of a distraction, and he found a patsy to kill for him. The murder turned out to be unnecessary since the guards had disappeared.
“I never took him for the Dahmer type,” Sartori had said when he looked into the cell containing the useless cogs of his scheme. He couldn’t help but feel cheated when he saw the man that was supposed to die was the victor. The pudgy, shorter intended victim, whose name Benito had forgotten, was on top of the other eating him. The cell mates were both covered in blood.
Manny, Benito’s lifelong friend and trusted associate, leaned in close to the bars to see the fallen guy being mauled. The black-haired zombie groaned, making the large enforcer jump away. “Christ! Is he ok?”
“Does he look ok?” Sartori asked sarcastically.
He was angry. The escape plan had been thwarted by an out of date blue print, and they had been forced to exit the duct work they were crawling through. The absence of the guards was their saving grace.
Inmates yelled for the crime boss to help them, they groaned and reached for him and Manny. The larger of the two kept his distance from the vacant eyed prisoners, while Benito just ignored them. He had restored his family to its former glory, made the Sartori name mean something once more, and he was respected and feared. The thirty-year-old capo had no time for those he felt superior to, which included everybody.
“Fuck ‘em.”
“We can’t just walk out, Benny!” Manny sounded nervous as he cringed from the reaching hands and the sight of the prisoners that stared at him. “What about the guards?”
“We haven’t seen a bull in days.” Benito tried to calm his friend’s nerves. Most of the guards became employees of the capo once he entered the facility, but they certainly would never let him escape, since doing so wouldn’t just cost them their jobs. It would also get them locked up in the very prison they were sworn to watch, with the very prisoners they had bullied and abused. Killing Benito in his attempt to escape would make them a hero, and probably earn them the respect of the FBI and protection from reprisal.
At the end of the block, they saw the door was actually propped open with a boot. Beyond the steel sheet was the control room, a small antechamber where the guards maintained their vigil over the jailed. Through the shatterproof window they saw one guard, the first screw sighted in days, pacing the tiny room with his head slung low as if lost in thought.
Manny followed Benito’s lead, creeping under the safety glass. The capo cautiously peeked over the thick, bolted sill before instructing his companion to head back to the tunnel. Manny obviously felt uneasy about it but complied.
Benito waited for Manny to get a head start before he slapped the glass as hard as he could. Manny looked like a deer caught in a set of oncoming headlights when he turned to see the guard heading for the door.
In the door’s swing zone, Sartori waited for his chance. He expected the bull to pass him by so he could grab him, but t
he man tripped and fell right in front of the prisoner. The guard locked his eyes on Sartori and immediately tried to grab him, snagging his shoulder.
Benito struggled to get away, but the guard had a viselike grip on him. His eerily vacuous eyes never wavered or blinked in the dim light of the cell block. Benito kicked against the steel door between him and the guard, hoping to force him to release his hold. It took a massive effort to free himself, but once the moaning guard lost purchase on Benito’s prison issued shirt, the capo scrambled around and over him. He entered the control room, heading straight for the gun rack.
Before Sartori could reach the shotguns, his ankle was seized, taking him down hard. Benito was up again quickly, fighting the bull’s efforts to pull him down, clinging to the rack of shotguns in his attempts to break free. With many of the weapons gone, he had to get to the far corner to claim one of the few that remained.
Manny had rushed to his friend’s aid, arriving late, and the door had been allowed to close. The big man was locked out, slamming against the pane to no avail, unable to aid Sartori.
Hopping on one foot, Benito fought to drag the jailer to the rack, needing just a few inches more. He couldn’t help finding it odd that the guard hadn’t uttered a single word to him, hadn’t told him to stop. He found it even odder that the man seemed bent on biting him.
All of his efforts to reach the rifles paid off. The second he had one in his hands, he turned and fired it point blank into the bull’s head. The projectile ricocheted off the man’s face, yet he seemed unaffected, though his left eye suffered an orbital blowout. The cheekbone was shattered, the eye ruptured from the incapacitating round and looked misshapen, and yet the guard still persisted. The bull had not released Benito either, but his eager moans were silenced when the capo stuck the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger. But the guard still fought in silence.
Life Among The Dead (Book 2): A Castle Made of Sand Page 14
