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

by Cotton, Daniel

  ##

  Becka’s voice emits from radios all over town. Dan had reservations over the location of the station, beyond the protective walls of New Castle and over the river, about halfway to Parson’s Dam. But she assured him that it will be all right, that she will remain armed and travel with an escort to and from. It was the suggestion box idea that had sold him. Anything to cease, or in the very least curtail, the numerous people who stop him and Carla on the street to issue grievances regarding their neighbors, or complain about how things are being run. Dan’s only problem now is the inevitable backlash from what Becka had said about Mrs. McCleary. This won’t be good.

  “You know that old bat is going to be gunning for you, right?” Carla enters Dan’s office with a clipboard.

  “I know,” he responds, already exasperated. Just the prospect of the busybody who lets her severe religious beliefs sculpt her opinions about everything, to the point of wanting to convert others to her way, is making his stomach hurt sharply.

  “How about a quickie before we head out of town?” Carla asks.

  “No.” Dan shakes his head adamantly.

  “Come on!” she encourages. “You’re in, you’re out, we’re done.”

  “Fine.” He sighs, defeated. “Let’s get it over with.”

  The two exit the king’s office, heading to the conference room. He asks his sheriff, “What is it this time?”

  “Divorce,” she says, stifling a laugh.

  “Another one?” he groans. “Fuck’s wrong with people? Got my box?”

  Carla hands Dan his shoebox. The perfect tool for this particular matter. He enters the room where a somber looking couple sits at the long table. Sheriff Carla remains in the hall, lingering nearby to listen. Proceedings like these have been getting progressively more hilarious as the king has grown increasingly hostile.

  King Williamson sits across from the unhappy pair in a plush swivel chair. He doesn’t say a word to them at first. He just opens the box and removes a bottle of lotion. “Divorce, huh?”

  “Yes, sire,” the husband answers.

  “Don’t call me that.” Dan abhors the title. He just holds out his hand and slides the duo the lotion. “Rings.”

  He doesn’t look at the jewelry he receives. The slick bands are just dropped into the box where they clatter against so many others that have suffered a similar fate. “There you go. You’re divorced. Get out.”

  “What about the dissolution of our property?” the ex-wife asks.

  “Any kids?”

  “No, but we have a house,” the man says. “I think I should get it since I made all the payments before…”

  “And I think I should get it since I maintained it. All the cleaning, home improvements, and I just planted tomatoes.”

  “Divorce is never easy.” Dan leans back in his chair, trying to keep a straight face. “Especially when tomatoes are involved. They can be downright messy. Ma’am would you say you’ve been the sole caregiver to the tomatoes, raising them?”

  “Yes,” she says, not certain if he is being serious or not.

  “My decision is clear. Ma’am, you will get the house. Sir, you will see Sheriff Carla tomorrow about placement, but you will have full fruit visitation rights, of course. As far as possessions, you will each take away with you the shit you brought into your marriage.”

  “Can we have our rings back?” the now ex-husband asks.

  “No.” He herds the newly single pair out to the hall. “I’m sure, in the next few months, one, or both, of you will drag some new idiot in here that’s dumb enough to want to marry you. That is when you can select a ring from the box, or the jewelry store can be opened for your special event.”

  Dan waits for them to leave before turning to Carla, who tries to remain casual but is fighting laughter. “I thought tough times were supposed to bring people closer together.”

  “They do,” she responds. “But, tough times are over.”

  “No they’re not. There’s still zombies, right?”

  “Yeah, but the people feel safe enough to let their guard down, be human.” She walks with him outside to the street where her van is parked--the Attack Track. Her blue ride has been customized for missions; the windows have been barred, and the fuel tank has been expanded for extended travel.

  From the municipal building, they can see a fleet of buses parked within the fenced lot of the school. Dan had asked for them, but not for what is being painted on their powder blue sides: For when the sky falls.

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he asks, insulted.

  “Jeez! What’s eating you, crabby? It’s just a joke. You know, because you’re kinda like Chicken Little.” She chuckles, getting a visual of it. “Always running around, thinking the sky is falling. You expect some big shit storm is on the way.”

  “I don’t expect it.” He crosses his arms defensively in her passenger seat. “I just want us to be prepared if something happens.”

  “Like the tornado siren?”

  “We live in the fucking Midwest. Seems like a good idea!” Dan hitches his thumb to the back of Carla’s vehicle, where all of the seats have been removed and replaced with racks of rifles. Down the center of the van lays a long steel bin full of ammo. “How about you? Did you bring enough for the rest of the class?”

  “You aren’t the only one who likes to be prepared.”

  On their way out of town, they see Mrs. McCleary shoving fistfuls of paper into one of the new suggestion boxes. The sight makes them both groan.

  Ever since Dan was the temporary king of the town, he’s had his fleet exploring the outer reaches for survivors. Only a handful of souls have been brought in. Then they reported finding Raleigh, a town that has been sealed much like New Castle, only there isn’t any movement visible from the outside. They are all curious as to who walled the place up, and where they are now. Dan likes the idea of having a back-up settlement, should something befall their current home. They can place folks there with supplies and weapons, animals and crops. They can be fully established sister towns, and one society can escape to the other should the sky happen to fall.

  3

  Dustin awakes from his uncomfortable slumber with a crick in his neck. The lights he had seen last night have him thinking, and he has decided to travel towards them. He knows he probably won’t find life, but he is confident that he can locate a place to call his own, a place where he can make his stand against this mad world. He has food for months and plenty of firepower; if he can just keep his head down he should all right.

  Besides a tense stop for fuel at a remote gas station that had him white-knuckling the pump, he has been aimlessly cruising along wooded roads. If not for the fact he hasn’t passed through any border crossings, he’d think he was in Canada. The dashboard compass has been pointing north for a long time. He turns onto a narrow dirt road that may be a rural driveway. The Camaro slowly rolls in the grooves of the well-worn path. Branches scrape the purple steel of his roof on his way to the unknown.

  The overhead foliage blocks out the June sun so completely he debates whether he should use his headlights. As he’s about to turn the knob, the world opens up around him. The vast acreage is impressive, and it dwarfs the two story farmhouse at its center. The rutted drive leads through a time-battered post fence. Dustin parks well away from the red abode, next to an old light blue pick-up.

  Whispering revolver in hand, he cautiously approaches. He has one of his many M-16 assault rifles slung over his shoulder. Three wooden steps bring him to the porch. The boards creak under his weight, joining the rhythmic squeak of a porch swing that moves slightly in the breeze. Taking smaller steps doesn’t diminish the ruckus he makes on his way to the door. The old house just won’t allow him to sneak up on it, as if it’s all a part of its age-old security system.

  The rusted hinges of the screen door squeal. He reaches for the knob on the inner door, but it’s locked. He tries knocking, though he figures if anyone is alive
inside they have already been alerted to his presence. No answer. He doesn’t feel up to heading around the back to find another way in, since he already feels too exposed.

  He considers the possibility of smashing a window, but doesn’t want to leave himself vulnerable when sticking his body parts into the house. Then he realizes he’s holding the key. The silent revolver is placed against the lock, and he winces as he pulls the trigger.

  The penetration of the brass knob is louder than he had anticipated, but it effectively destroys the mechanism. The orb on the opposing side of the door falls to the floor and rolls across the hardwood. Dustin must wiggle the door to loosen the bolt from its locked position. Once the small block of steel is visible, he pries it away with his finger. Remaining on the porch, he pushes the door wide open, mimicking the stance he’s seen countless police officers take on television.

  The old farmhouse invites him in with its warm and homey décor. Dark wood accentuates the shadows the lowlight casts into recesses, but it isn’t foreboding. Instead it looks cozy, safe. He doesn’t detect any movement. If the porch is any indication, he should be able to hear if someone is walking towards him. He slowly enters.

  The front entry expands outward to his left, becoming a living room with rustic furnishings. An afghan covers the back of an antique sofa. He spots a coffee table that was once a small wooden wagon, and a couple of recliners. All the seats face a well-used hearth that serves as the room’s focal point. Above it hangs a large plasma TV. The Waltons got an upgrade.

  Dustin ignores the staircase he passes that leads up to the second floor. There is something in the air that he finds out of place, a whooshing sound. The noise is slight and rhythmic, like the breathing of someone in a deep sleep. He follows it back to the front of the house and into the next room.

  He explores a sitting room that probably was never intended for sitting. The old wooden chairs, with their elegantly carved high backs, look as if they would collapse if he sits in one too hard. Artifacts of a stranger’s existence must be ignored so he can locate the source of the noise. In the corner of this room, amid the shadows, Dustin finds a door that is out of place. The home is old and nearly everything in it is wood, but this portal is a thick sheet of plastic.

  He inspects the dividing curtain. A seam runs down the middle, and the ends are held together by strong magnets. He pushes through the crease, letting it reseal itself with a series of clicks once he is on the other side. He is in a short hall made of the same material.

  Bright bluish lights flash on overhead. He fights against blindness, but even when his eyes adjust he can’t see past the transparent walls due to the glare reflecting against their surface. The hall he is in has aseptic looking benches lining the right side. What is this place?

  The other end of this tunnel has an identical, magnetically sealed curtain. Cupping his hands against the plastic film, he tries to see through, but all he sees on the other side is darkness. The barrel of his weapon leads the way as he pushes through the barrier. The blue illumination dims on its own, until the light abandons him all together.

  Lingering in blindness, he tries to make shapes out in the dark. Shades of grey and black start to reveal themselves to him. A black rectangle is before him, which appears to be a table, and it’s set against a large shiny oval on the wall to his right. He is closer to the weird breathing sound, but above that he hears movement--slow steps coming closer and an odd rubbery sound.

  “I need light.”

  Lights flare on, as if the old house is answering his plea. He finds himself once again blinded for a few seconds, a few too long. He doesn’t see the owner of the powerful hands that seize him. His shoulders are gripped in strong vises of pain as the heavyweight takes him to the ground and robs him of his gun. Dustin falls back through the curtain, lying halfway in the short hall as his assailant’s mass crushes him.

  Those peculiar blue lights flicker on again above him in the antechamber. Dustin tries to keep the invisible foe at bay, but can’t muster the strength. He feels the being’s giant head pressing against his cheek. Panic and fright give him a burst of power, and he shoves the contender away. The lights above eclipse the figure, keeping it an amorphous silhouette.

  Dustin is losing his endurance, just like he lost his pistol when the attacker first laid hands upon him. He hears the heavy revolver slide across the floor beyond the plastic curtain. He struggles to keep the being away and roll to his left side. The enemy he fights is wearing an all-encompassing suit, like a deep sea diver, complete with helmet. The front plate is obscured by a sheen of condensation, making it impossible to tell if the person inside is male or female. The aggressor’s face thrashes inside the helmet, pressing against the glass plate, looking like raw meat tightly packaged in shrink wrap. It writhes, emitting a constant and maddening sound as the synthetic material rubs against itself.

  Dustin sets his feet against the outfit that reminds him of a hazmat suit. He pushes with all of his might to get out of the being’s grasp, and unslings his rifle in one move.

  Though he is aiming directly at the face plate, he hesitates. For all I know this person is alive and can help me. The condensation that clouds the glass has beaded, and droplets release their hold on the surface, running down with aid from gravity. Both Dustin and the spaceman are on their sides, but finally he can see clearly enough through the helmet to spy green, moldy flesh. So he takes his shot.

  An explosion of blood fills the cramped space the zombie’s head has been contained in for so long. Then it lays inert until Dustin kicks the corpse away. His action causes the airtight suit to collapse, releasing months’ worth of built up gases created by decomposition directly into his face. The gust of putrid fumes makes Dustin’s gorge rise and his eyes water. He battles his nausea to flee the noxious odor, returning to the room he had lost his revolver in.

  After wiping away tears in the now fully lit room, he sees no further threats. His gaze scans the floor for his silver gun. Everything around him is sterile white, from the floor to the ceiling with the exception of a china hutch that matches the house’s wooden motif, and a similarly normal dining table that is set against a wide oval window. Two places are set on the table, complete with cloth napkins, two wooden chairs, and a butter dish in the shape of a rooster resides between the settings.

  Under the seat closest to him, he locates his pistol where it had been kicked during the struggle. He feels wiped out from the brawl with the spaceman zombie, and his knees buckle as he leans to retrieve his piece. His hands vibrate as he comes down from the adrenaline rush. His breaths come as gasps of exhaustion, and in time with the rhythmic aspirating sound he still has to locate.

  The sturdy table aids him in rising to his feet, and it gives him stability on his wobbly legs.

  From the corner of his eye he sees a sight that causes him to freeze in place. A figure stands beyond the oval of glass.

  “Daddy?” asks the most radiant girl he has ever seen. “Where’s my dad?”

  4

  At some point following the plague, someone had sealed the town of Raleigh. Trees from the surrounding area had been felled and stacked to block access. Not only were the roads barred, the entire perimeter is enclosed by lumber. Lumber was once this town’s livelihood, and it very well may be what has kept them alive. Where they are now, the outcome still remains to be seen.

  Dan and Carla are the last to arrive, joining seven men at the stack of wood that stands over ten feet high. Oz is among the assembled, layering duct tape from his work glove clad hands all the way to his elbows. He has parked Mater against the wall to serve as their ladder. The barrier is to be left intact.

  “Town’s been scoped out,” Oz reports. “Not a creature is stirring.”

  “Let’s do it,” Dan says.

  The nine from New Castle ascend the beat-up tow truck’s boom in turn, being mindful not to scuff it as Oz warned. From the crested wall, they descend into the eerily calm town by way of the wrecker’s cable.
If anyone is alive here, they must be lying low. Weapons at the ready, they advance toward the heart of town in a police line.

  Crossing a clear-cut field, they spread out. Carla rebukes Dan’s attempt at distance, sticking close to him.

  “Let me guess,” he says, feeling a bit emasculated. “Heather’s orders?”

  “I promised to stay close to you,” she explains apologetically.

  “The team isn’t as big as I expected.”

  “I brought the best of the best. Each has an exemplary service record,” she explains.

  “You’re keeping service records?”

  “More like notes in a Strawberry Shortcake notebook,” she admits. “But, they’re solid.”

  Despite the warm temperature this day, they all wear full sleeves made of heavy fabric. Some of them don hooded sweatshirts with the drawstrings pulled tightly to protect their ears.

  They press on to Main Street, finding the business district consists of a small five and dime and a market. They can see a barbershop with a traditional striped pole. The team halts when they detect movement.

  A lone figure hobbles across the street. It’s a female in a torn nighty. One strap dangles off her shoulder. Her direction alters when she sees the living, and her irregular pace quickens. There’s plenty of distance, so they hold their fire for now.

  Carla inspects the woman through a small set of binoculars. She notes the paleness of her flesh. A bellow echoes through the town, interrupting what Carla wishes to say. The hollering belongs to a burly man who enters the scene. He charges the shambling figure, swinging a double edged battle axe. The wide blade is buried into her back. She falls to the ground where the man commences to savagely chop her head and torso, too busy to acknowledge the citizens of the nearby town that approach.