“Fuck ‘em.”
Opera, Dustin discerns what the man is singing by how wide he opens his mouth and by his elaborate movements. It’s definitely opera. A frozen loaf of garlic bread is being sawed in half, but the task appears to be very difficult, and this makes Dustin wonder if he can get the drop on the guy. As he cracks the vault-like door open, he keeps a watchful eye on the crooning cook, who doesn’t falter in his preparations. He takes a break from the solid loaf to stir a generous amount of red wine into his sauce. It’s like he’s forgotten all about me. Stealthily, Dustin descends the stairs, listening to the off key acappella.
At the swinging kitchen door, Dustin makes certain his safety is off and his rifle is ready to fire its three shot burst--the ‘rock and roll’ setting. He steels his resolve before pushing the door open, ready to kill the stranger.
“Did you think I forgot about you?” the chef stops his attack on the frozen bread. The serrated knife is removed from the frosted crust and held menacingly.
“Don’t even think about it,” Dustin warns the man at the end of his sights. He motions with the flash suppressor for the guy to back away from his own weapon that’s just out of reach on the counter. Now Dustin has two options: kill the guy, or tell him to leave. Either way, he’s eating this food and keeping the house.
“Get out,” Dustin says coolly.
“Nope,” the man responds with a slow shake of his head.
“Then, I’ll shoot you.”
“No you won’t,” the man says, taking deliberate steps around the kitchen’s island, closer to Dustin. “You smell that?”
He does smell something in the air, and it isn’t a fine Italian meal. Gas!
The man that vowed to make Dustin suffer stalks closer still, armed with a long bread knife. “Papa Bear’s porridge is too hot, Goldilocks.”
The stove was transported from the old country by his grandparents; it’s all his Nonna would cook on. The antique appliance has no pilot light, and once the gas is started one has to ignite it with a match, or else. Dustin had tried the relic, but he thought it was broken when it didn’t flame up. He knows now that he’s been had, lured down to be killed. He has no idea if he can fire or not. Has the gas been on long enough to fill this big ass kitchen?
“Shoot me,” the man says coyly. “Kill us both.”
Dustin dashes out of the kitchen and across the sitting room. The booze slick floor takes his feet out from under him, and he hits the stone hard then slides into the bar. Dustin collects himself fast in the puddle of spirits, then he turns to see Sartori, airborne with the knife held high. The M-16 releases three fast shots into the lunging man’s chest.
The armor Benito wears takes the rounds but leaves him winded. Both contenders for the estate get cut on the broken glass beneath them, and burned by the alcohol that enters their wounds.
Dustin takes advantage of his opponent’s injured state to crawl behind the dark wood bar. He still doesn’t know if his muzzle flash would have set off the gas in the kitchen, but that doesn’t stop him from lining his sights on the groaning man now.
With all the stovetop burners set to high, and without a flame to consume the gas, the kitchen is still filling with propane. Having just had its doors opened, the refrigerator attempts to regulate its temperature. The compressor engages, creating a spark that ignites the air in the room in a flash.
Dustin has been waiting for the intruder to compose himself in order to issue an ultimatum, leave or die. He doesn’t have to. Before he can utter the words he has been rehearsing, the swinging door of the kitchen is taken off its hinges. Propelled by a rolling inferno, the wooden plane decapitates the intruder.
Dustin’s ears ring from the blast. He had shielded his face instinctively from the intense, searing air and ducked down below the bar. His situation has not improved with the removal of his nemesis, but grown far more dire. Fire is about to rob him of his found home. Smoke pours out of the charred kitchen, setting off whining detectors. The flammable vapors from the alcohol that covers the stone flooring has combusted, and a pool of blue flames blocks Dustin’s only way out.
Using a stream of seltzer from the bar’s multi-beverage dispenser hose, he frantically tries to douse the flames. He succeeds in diluting the fuel, but has caused a rippling current that spreads the fire outward to the walls of the room. Soon the couches and curtains are on fire and the carbonated extinguisher cannot reach them. Dustin yanks on the line for more extension, but it won’t budge.
His glorious rockstar palace is burning around him, and the incessant alarms are telling him it is time to go. In typical rockstar fashion, he had it all and lived it up, and now he has lost everything. Dustin just walks out the front door to his Camaro, which still holds all of his supplies--from his guns to his MREs, his MP3 players to all the explosives in his trunk. Vowing to actually go by the dash mounted compass this time, he strikes north to Fallen.
10
Fallen is a small town populated by sporadically placed mobile homes. The main street that features dive bars and liquor stores is deserted. Even the dead don’t want to be here. Dustin imagines the place was depressing even before the zombies appeared. A dying community that owed what traffic it received to alcoholism and, of course, the notorious strip club he was once slated to play at.
The Flag Pole once drew crowds on a nightly basis. Folks, men folk that is, came from miles away to watch the talent on stage. Dustin had heard that many of the dancers would get extra friendly for the right price. Though not all the ladies were for sale, most were.
The man who owned the place, Beau, also owned the adjacent motel and diner. He was a big fish in an extremely small pond.
Dustin stands outside that property now, which is surrounded by a tight ring of cars. It makes him wonder if the man that had hired his band might still be in business.
The windows of the diner and the first floor of the motel are boarded over. The entrance to the club is protected by a crudely fabricated plywood barrier, and the sheets of particle board create a foyer. Red spray paint boasts: Girls! Girls! Girls!
That’s a good sign. Dustin slings his Les Paul and pockets several of his MP3 players. Taking an assault rifle and his revolver, he hops over the wall of cars, leaving his own parked outside the perimeter. At the entrance, he can’t find a way in. A wood barrier has been nailed to the posts of the awning that should lead into the Flag Pole.
Pistol at the ready, he starts to travel counterclockwise around the parking lot that encompasses the businesses. He hopes to find a way in around the back of the establishments, but hope fails when he sees just how exclusive the place has become.
The smell of decay greets him behind the place. The back section appears to have once been used for deliveries and trash disposal. The later seems to remain true still, as evident by the bodies strewn indiscriminately on the asphalt, left to bake in the sun. Twenty or more by his horrified count, like neglected action figures.
“Holy shit,” he says impulsively, disregarding the need to be quiet. The bodies however do not disregard him. Heads begin to loll and necks crane to find the source of the cursing. Sunken, eager eyes lock onto the trespasser. These dead haven’t eaten in a long time, and the insatiable hunger makes them far spryer than those he has encountered before.
The zombies get to their feet as fast as decomposition and injuries will allow. No infirmity will keep them from the morsel that recoils at the sight of them. Those that can’t walk crawl after him with vigor.
The shock wears thin quickly and Dustin turns, heading away in the direction he had come. The dead are on his heels, moaning differently than the city dwellers so long ago, sounding more pitiful. These corpses seem to beg him to stop. They plead with him for a bite in their dead language.
He has no intentions of satisfying their hunger. He sprints across the front lot, and his rifle and instrument batter his back with every panicked stride. Dustin takes the next corner wide, not wanting to race into the waiting ar
ms of whatever may be coming from the other direction. There are no dead to be concerned with ahead of him, until he returns to where the race began. The crawlers have only made it to the corner just past the dumpsters.
Dustin dashes to the receptacles before the creeping corpses can turn, and those closing in behind him can catch up. He leaps up to grab the top of the wall, hauling himself on top of the Flag Pole. The only way in or out of the establishment has to be up here, he contends, since there are no evident entry points on the ground floor.
He has made it to the roof before the deceptively quick dead reach the back, and he lies on the gravel surface as they continue to circle the connected buildings, chasing the food that is no longer on the menu. The crawlers foolishly join the pursuit though they have seen him climb out of reach. Obviously they see their peers running and figure there must be more meat available, remaining a lap behind their faster counterparts.
Dustin creeps over the thinning layer of small stones, where patches of tar paper peek from under the crunching gravel. At the awning, he sees a hole cut into the overhang. His way in, and a ladder allows him entry to his goal.
Dustin knocks on the glass door within the wooden booth. Beyond the locked portal, he hears movement and sees a figure approach through the tinted window. But no amount of squinting will answer the question that burns in his mind. Is he dead?
The dark figure takes its time reaching the door, and Dustin holds his breath in anticipation. He tries to hear the person closing in on him over the beseeching moans of the dead. Below the wailing, he detects the most wonderful sound, music.
“What do you want?” a male voice asks from within the club, through a crack he makes at the door.
“I wanna rock.”
##
Dustin is instructed to keep his hands in the open, where the rotund man who has answered the door can see them. He complies, while the balding gentleman keeps a bead on him with a sawed off shotgun. Then Dustin is ushered down a dark hall. Here, the walls that flank him are decorated with framed posters of strippers. Under each peeler, engraved on brass plates, are their names. One of the stills outshines all the rest, so much that Dustin must do a double take. He stops in his tracks to admire the goddess.
“Is she here?”
“Carla?” the man asks. “No. Probably dead. Damned shame.”
A nudge from the stout weapon prods Dustin deeper into the dim den that stinks of stale cigarettes mixed with fresher smoke. A man behind the bar sets his roughly stubbled face into a wide grin. “Sweet Jesus! We’ve got a customer. Lita! Vita! Wake up!”
The man slaps the dark wood of the counter to arouse two blonde ladies slumbering at one of the round tables. They wear next to nothing, and the first to her feet is clearly getting too old for the job. There are more lines on her face than a cocaine addict’s mirror. And if the occupation has weight standards, Dustin can assume she is well out of them. The other one is pretty enough for her profession, however her weight class leans in the other direction. This younger girl is an emaciated stick, not much thicker than the pole she now grabs a hold of on stage.
The music changes for the show, from Ozzy Osbourne’s shrill yet beautiful vocals to classic Poison. Dustin never could comprehend why 80s hair bands and stripping went so perfectly together. He forgoes the lackluster show to talk to the man at the bar. Beau, if he isn’t mistaken.
“We ain’t had no new blood in here for quite some time.” The man sets his meaty forearm on the counter. “Where’re you from?”
“Waterloo,” Dustin tells the man, whose scraggly grey hair is pulled back in a ponytail. The greeter lingers within arm’s reach of him.
“He says he ‘wants to rock,’” the man behind Dustin explains.
“Cletus, put that thing away!” Beau waves off the need for the weapon.
“But, he’s packing!” Cletus protests.
“I can see that, you asshole. Git back to your post! He ain’t here fer trouble.”
“My name is Dustin,” he nervously spits out. “I’m with the Dogs of War.”
“What’s that? Some sorta biker gang?” The man draws a beer from one of the taps. A tall, grimy mug is set down on a coaster for Dustin and slid across the greasy surface. The man smiles with only half the teeth nature intended for him. “Frankly, you don’t look the type.”
“We’re a band… well… were a band. I’m the last one. We were supposed to play here a few months ago.”
The man laughs deeply at that. When he has the breath to speak, he says, “Better late than never, I guess. Now, you are one dedicated rocker!”
“Yeah…” Dustin isn’t sure if it’s the situation that’s the joke, or he himself. “It’s my dream. I at least wanted to see the place…”
“Here it is!” The man raises his arms to display the majesty of his kingdom, in all its dinginess. “How about room and board to play a few sets a night, and become one of my foot soldiers?”
“Foot soldier?”
“You know, defend the homestead, go on supply runs, shit like that.”
“Sounds good.” He nods, because making a living by playing music is all he has ever wanted.
“If you cross me, I’ll feed you to my mosh pit out there,” the boss warns. “Now, for your work I’ll give you a room, food, and a few beers a day. If you choose to sample the other amenities, you best have cash money.”
Cash? Dustin didn’t think that the concept of commerce still held value. “What amenities?”
“Drugs and pussy,” the man says plainly as he wipes the filthy bar with a dirty rag. “The finest things life has to offer.”
Dustin never acquired a taste for drugs, but since being able to relax for months at Fort Eagle Rock his hormones have stabilized into the normal, hyperactive, range of a nineteen-year-old. His amorous feelings went unattended on post, and now even the substandard ladies on stage make his trousers feel more constricting. Looking at the uninspired striptease being performed by the drowsy, dead-eyed girls, despite their clumsy attempts at being provocative, he must ask a question, “How much?”
“That’s my wife and daughter,” Beau says sternly. “You can’t afford them.”
Dustin has no idea how Beau knows that he hasn’t any money. He now can’t take his eyes from the younger of the ungainly dancers, his eagerness making her nonexistent curves more voluptuous with each passing second.
“I do take trades,” the man adds. “You’ll just have to lower your standards.”
How the fuck is that possible? What issues from his mouth is a different inquiry, “What kind of trade?”
“Anything of value in exchange for seven minutes in Heaven.” The man hitches his thumb to a handwritten sign over his shoulder that extols the going rate for such a privilege to be five hundred dollars.
Dustin lays one of his MP3 players upon the bar. He hates to lose the portable library that contains so many of his favorite songs, but he hates the anxious urge building within him, the urge that has to be released.
“That ain’t much,” the guy remarks. “But that axe and the pod will earn you a lifetime pass to my VIP room.”
“If I give you my guitar, how will I play?”
“I’ll let you borrow it come show time.”
Dustin unslings the coveted instrument. He hasn’t so much as fingered the frets let alone played it since liberating it from the store. He has longed to own it since first he laid eyes upon it. It’s not like I won’t get to play her. “Deal!”
The man takes the axe gingerly. “I know it must be hard to part with such a fine thing as this. I’ll let you bust a few nuts before I put you to work.”
The instrument is leaned behind the bar for safe keeping. The man walks out from behind the counter. “Dustin, is it? Let me take you to Heaven.”
The boy zealously walks with Beau, whose arm drapes over his shoulder. Even the sharp odor from the man’s body isn’t enough to wipe the happy smile from his face. The pair head towards the back of the bar,
to the VIP room. The scruffy man talks while escorting his new employee. “I need a bunch of shit from town. Ingredients for making brain candy.”
Dustin wonders if he means meth. Such a cheaply manufactured drug would be his biggest seller, if the users can make it through the mosh pit.
The men come to a halt by the back door. Through the peep hole the boss can see his ward has riled up the moat of corpses that still chase their tails.
Kegs of beer and crates of spirits crowd the hall, instead of being behind the door labeled: Barrel Storage. Dustin also notices that he is surrounded by brooms and mops, yet there is an adjacent door designated for cleaning supplies.
“I knocked the wall down between these two rooms for optimal space,” Beau explains.
One of the two doors that lead to Heaven is opened. Dustin expected perfume or the scent of flowers, but what he receives is the stench of death. The room’s name is a misnomer, for he is entering Hell. In lieu of ‘baby making music’ he hears flies buzzing, urgent moans, and the rattle of chains. Dead ladies are thrashing against their bondage upon seeing the boy and their pimp.
“I never feed ‘em. I’ve been told they move better than the real thing. These bitches are still fairly fresh; the blonde got bit, the other blonde OD’d. The red-head over there killed herself. The brunette just got mouthy.”
Some of the undead prostitutes are chained to steel rollaway beds in different poses. One, the other blonde, is shackled over a step stool. All eyes are on the boy, for they obviously desire him. But this isn’t the type of desire he had bargained for.
“I’ll leave you to it,” the man says, shutting the door behind him.
Dustin is alone, looking at each subjugated corpse bride in turn. His temper flares, and he has only one thought, “I’m getting my guitar back!”
Life Among The Dead (Book 2): A Castle Made of Sand Page 16
