Life Among The Dead (Book 3): A Bittersweet Victory

by Cotton, Daniel

  2

  “More lambs for the slaughter, Trent. You’re on in five.”

  The owner and self-appointed hero drops himself into a swivel chair beside his technical producer, Dwayne, hoping to catch a breath before the next set. He appraises the newest batch that enters on one of the many monitors that oversee the action. “Good looking group. Very photogenic. Record on all cameras with this bunch. We’ll use their footage for next year’s commercials.”

  Trent Tilden bought the impressive property as a foreclosure when he was just a nineteen year old horror fan with a dream. His goal was to open the greatest haunt around. The place was once a hotel until a wealthy man bought it for his home. The gentleman’s abhorrence for parting with his money robbed him of his riches, and the place just sat in disrepair for the better part of a decade until Trent came along and invested a modest inheritance in it.

  The place has come a long way since, though it has rarely been cleaned. A lot of the original dust and cobwebs still remain. The home’s uneven, creaky floors and stairs have never been repaired, and their hardwood remains scuffed and worn. The walls are still marred from abusive repo men who were called in to remove anything of value. What started with just Trent and his buddies dressed in costumes, jumping out at visitors from closets and around corners, evolved. The basement became an unholy slaughterhouse with rattling meat hooks hanging from the rafters. People once had to avoid these while trying not to step in the carnage strewn on the floor. The rotting remnants of a massacre were but scraps salvaged from the dumpsters of butcher shops.

  Floor by terrifying floor offered frights aplenty for years to any who dared enter in search of a good scare. Every horror mainstay was employed, every staple character and cliché, and a few new creeps. All the way up to the attic, where Trent himself would often play the obligatory mad scientist in his laboratory. While Jacob’s Ladders and strobe lights dazzled the eye, he would cackle in maniacal glee as his sheet draped creation rose from his steel table. Year after year people would come, knowing just what to expect. They would try to spot the new additions, but not this year. This year he’d transformed the haunt into a Zombie House survival horror scenario.

  “So, we’re doing this again next fall?” Dwayne asks with disappointment evident in his voice.

  “Of course! Actually, I want to start it up again mid-spring,” Trent says. “I have a pair of independent filmmakers already interested in the old props--”

  “You’re selling our props?” Dwayne sounds shocked. “What if this whole zombie thing is just a fad?”

  “I’m fairly certain it isn’t. You’ve seen the people outside. They come dressed as zombies and heroes like the hardcore sci-fi fans. People are willing to pay big time for the fantasy. It’s like what inspired me to do this in the first place.”

  “The zombie run,” Dwayne says with disinterest, having heard about it many times.

  “People paying to run away from zombies. It’s brilliant! There’s no reason not to continue with it. Next year will be mostly profit after hiring on more staff and buying tons of paintballs. We’ll raise the ticket price and run the attraction longer. We can even add other money makers.”

  “Such as?”

  “First aid spray. We get a case of cheap aerosols, slap some fake labels on ‘em, and then charge ten bucks to rent a can at the door so people can heal themselves, one time only, if they get bitten. Then all we have to do is have our boys target those schmucks.”

  Dwayne listens to the man he’s known for many years and it’s like hearing the words of a stranger. He once respected Trent. Revered him as a visionary. Now all his friend cares about is money. When they started the haunt it was all about the thrill of the scare, but that Trent is gone.

  “You’re on in one minute, if this meathead ever finishes his waiver.” Dwayne taps the monitor displaying the new group and the one person who hasn’t finished his required paperwork. “We’re recording in all rooms.”

  “Good.” Trent stands and takes another look at his new audience. A girl among the ten catches his eye. She has naturally tan skin and a Latin allure, yet also possesses the downhome charm of the girl next door. An attainable beauty. “She’s the one.”

  “Who?”

  “She’s gonna make it through this.” Trent points her out to Dwayne. His voice is a whisper.

  “Fat chance.” Dwayne scoffs after a mere glance at the pretty girl’s exotic curves. “The boys are gonna take one look at her and grope her like prom night.”

  “So tell them to keep their greasy hands off.”

  Dwayne’s smile fades. His chuckle dies at the prospect of rigging the game. “Why?”

  “Because she has to win. She has to make it out alive,” Trent says. “Don’t you think she’ll fill out the ‘Zurvived’ tee beautifully? She’ll look great in the ads, draw people here in droves, thinking ‘if she can do it…’ Tell the boys they can have the bimbos.” Trent indicates a pair of blondes as he peruses the contestants. Then he singles out two men huddled in the corner, which make him uneasy. “I want those two taken out early. Keep my girl on the run, but make sure she lives through the night.”

  3

  In the foyer of the house, ten hopeful survivalists wait. Ten hooks along the wall have been provided for them to ‘drop their dead weight’ as a sign puts it. Brandon hung up his hoodie upon entering and left his keys in one of its pockets, with assurance from a placard that all effects will be kept safe, but anything left more than 48 hours won’t be so lucky. A trashcan marked ‘lost and found’ contains one such unclaimed garment.

  Chairs are aligned down the middle of the hardwood floor, and on the seats are their weapons, safety goggles, and full clipboards. With the tethered pens, everyone has made short work of the waiver and has had time to review the manual that lays out the ground rules for them. They are allowed to quit the game at any time using the ‘suicide out’ policy. All they have to do is announce to the dead that they have shot themselves and they can proceed immediately to the nearest exit.

  Only one of the hopefuls is still filling out his paperwork, but he is easily sidetracked. “I don’t think they’re giving us enough time,” Lloyd confides in Vida and Vicky, who sit beside him. “I lost my keys the other day and it took me three hours to find them.”

  “Things are always in the last place you look,” Vida says.

  “Whoa, they were in the last place I looked!”

  She gives the bassist a sympathetic pat on the arm. She hopes for his sake that their band’s aspirations of success in music come true. Lloyd’s a sweetheart, but good looks and playing the bass are all he has going for him. Having already read through the manual, Vida excuses herself and walks to the coat rack to see what’s going on with Brandon.

  Brandon and the guy he chose over her are still in their clandestine powwow in the corner. Neither has reviewed the rules that she has seen. They only scrawled their information on to the form before taking to the sidelines to whisper like schoolgirls. Vida leans in the opposing corner to stare daggers at them. She tries to will Brandon to look her way, but he’s too engrossed in strategizing to succumb.

  Frustrated beyond belief, Vida kicks a trashcan at her feet. The metal receptacle produces an unexpectedly loud clang that draws all eyes to her. Her face flushes brightly with embarrassment as she drops to the floor to pick up the can and return a denim jacket that has fallen out.

  Lloyd is still wrestling with the form, but Vicky is there to help him. “How would I know if I have a heart condition?” he asks his waif-like friend.

  “We’ll put a ‘no’ and hope for the best,” she tells him, uncharacteristically calm. She leans on his beefy arm while assisting him. “And, we can put a ‘no’ on this one too, right? You aren’t pregnant, are you?”

  “No, I haven’t been with a chick in…” He laughs as her joke dawns on him. “I’m a guy.”

  Vida returns to where her friends are seated, and Vicky notes her mood has changed. Before she
was rather tense, but now she wears a goofy grin. “Embarrassed? Don’t feel bad,” Vicky says. “We all have our clumsy moments.”

  “I guess.” Vida shrugs.

  “Brandon really pissed you off, huh?”

  “You noticed that?”

  “Are you gonna get even, or make him grovel?”

  “Probably both.”

  “Just sign at the bottom and you’re done, Lloyd!” Vicky cheers.

  The bassist scribbles his name and sets his clipboard under his seat as everyone else has.

  The green light is given to Trent Tilden, who emerges from one of the halls, four minutes late. “Who are you people?”

  “We’re your next group,” Lloyd tells the armed man that has startled them.

  “Shh, sweetie. It’s starting,” Vicky explains softly.

  “I asked you a question,” Trent continues after being derailed. He trains his paintball gun on each set of eyes watching him. “Who are you?”

  The contestants are silent. They shift in their seats, not knowing how to respond. Vida, Trent’s special pick, offers an answer, “Survivors?”

  “Same here.” Trent nods. He relaxes his weapon and tosses the future face of his ad campaign a tube of paintballs as a reward.

  “Aw,” Brandon groans from the corner like an envious child.

  “Those things are everywhere,” Trent goes on, checking the opposing hall to make certain it’s clear.

  “Cue exterior zombies.” Dwayne’s disembodied voice appears in Trent’s earpiece, and it will echo out across the property from his command center--the pantry in the kitchen.

  In his search of the foyer, Trent pauses by the windows facing the front of the house. Slow moving silhouettes evoke a collective gasp from the assembly. The air they breathe instantly becomes thick with tension as the shadows grow larger.

  “We need to move!” Trent draws them to the hall opposite the one he emerged from. Everyone grabs their guns and dons their protective eye wear. In the dim light, a few of the survivors catch a glimpse of a wound on Trent’s neck. A blood soaked cloth bandage is held against the moulage with duct tape.

  “You’re bit!” Lloyd says.

  “I ain’t dying here,” Trent bravely announces with a groan. He takes his position near the next room, a sitting area full of old, dusty looking furniture. “Follow me if you want to live. I saw a truck outside. Whose is it?”

  When nobody lays claim to the pick-up, Trent continues, “The keys must be somewhere in this house. We need to split up and find them!”

  Screams alarm everybody, especially the Dogs of War, since they know the voice calling out in terror. While the host had everyone looking where he wanted them to, five ghouls sneaked up behind them from the dining room. Tattered clothes and grey skinned masks with slack expressions and bloody mouths indicate their role for the evening. The zombies must have on protective headgear under their Halloween masks, because Vicky strikes ineffectively at their faces while thrashing against their grasps. They take her away as she calls out for help. She tries to keep the wet mouths of the corpses away from her because red paint rubbed off on a contestant equals a bite.

  The group fires at the dead, but the zombies carry Vicky’s light weight with ease through the dark halls.

  Trent orders them to cease fire. “Save your ammo! I’ll get the girl. You all need to find those keys!”

  With that, they are left to their own devices. Trent disappears on the heels of the dead to save the damsel, and the game has started.

  “Vicky,” Lloyd says softly, as if she has actually died.

  Brandon isn’t as torn up over the loss to the team, figuring he can always make it up to her after the game. “Kitchen, right, Josh?”

  “Yeah, but we have to wait,” Josh says, pointing to where Vicky was just dragged away. “It’s down there. The last time I tried for it I got beefed. We can try somewhere else. You said you think the keys are in the attic?”

  They make it a point to keep their voices low so as not to tip off the competition. The pair of blondes haven’t budged from where they leapt to when the dead appeared, and they cling to one another. The kid and his uniquely adventurous parents have already struck off for the first floor’s guest rooms, opposite of the dining hall.

  Vida speaks, “I think I--”

  “Let’s do it!” But Brandon’s enthusiasm drowns her out.

  4

  Now out of the customer’s sight, Trent slows his pace. He nods to his paid corpses as he passes through what was once used as a dining area. The zombies lurk in the shadows by the doorway, waiting for anyone foolish enough to try being a hero. They set Vicky onto her feet in the kitchen.

  “Am I dead?” she asks.

  “I’m afraid so,” Trent says, breaking character as the dead do when they wander off to their next assigned zone.

  Should I just lie down or leave?” she says.

  Trent opens a door, revealing a small closet full of monitors and a man on a swivel chair.

  Dwayne tells him, without looking away from his duties, “We have stragglers in the foyer.”

  “Again?” Trent asks in frustration. The attraction has been going strong since it opened, but it is still a work in progress. There’s a lot they need to figure out. In this scenario, he can’t send the victim out until the front door is clear. “What’s your name?”

  “Vicky.”

  “Vicky, I need you to hang out here with Dwayne until he says it’s time to go, ok?”

  “Sure.” She puts a hand to her chest, as if in an attempt to slow her adrenaline fueled heart rate. “I can’t believe I died already.” She drops herself into the empty chair by Dwayne.

  Trent has already moved on.

  “Don’t feel bad,” Dwayne says, without once looking from his monitors. “It happens every round. We take one person at the jump to get the others moving.” He has no qualms about revealing the secret strategy. After his conversation with Trent earlier, he has decided this is his last year working the haunt.

  “So where are the keys?” she asks while tapping out a beat on her legs.

  “I have no idea,” he admits. Only Trent Tilden knows the answer to that question. Dwayne has a suspicion he doesn’t share: Maybe there are no keys.

  5

  Brandon wants to lead his group up the main stairs but is halted by Lloyd, who grabs his arm and hitches a thumb toward the petrified blondes. “We should help them.”

  “Forget them. Let’s go!” he snaps.

  Lloyd hangs his head low and follows Brandon to the back of the foyer where a wide set of stairs are situated. The route to the next floor branches off into two sets that veer to either side above them.

  “We’ll sweep the parts of the second and third floors that I’ve never made it to.” Josh reminds Brandon of the plan they had come up with.

  “How many times have you done this?” Vida asks.

  “This is my fifth try. This time it will be different. I was able to get my hands on a blueprint of this place from city planning and I memorized it.”

  “Wow, you really want that shirt,” she says.

  From the stairs, the group can see murky figures crossing dim pools of amber light cast by antique fixtures. They emerge from the shadows below and more enter through the front door. The pair of blondes that have been left behind scream out in terror. Unable to move, they just cling tighter to one another.

  Lloyd stops in his tracks at the sound, torn between his band and his good intentions. The zombies branching off from the amassing horde to pursue them up the stairs do not deter him. He charges down the steps, checking the corpses aside with his broad shoulders to get to the damsels in distress.

  ###

  “We have a foul on the first floor!” Dwayne reports over his mouthpiece. “Security, I need you to remove a survivor from the foyer.”

  “That’s Lloyd!” Vicky says, as she watches her friend bash the stunt zombies. “Please don’t kick him out. He’s just trying to help tho
se girls.”

  “We’ve got rules,” Dwayne says. “He read them in the handbook.”

  “He isn’t much of a reader. Please!”

  A second of deliberation is all it takes. “Cancel that, security.” Fuck it! I’m quitting anyway.

  They watch as the thickly built musician hurls one zombie into another before finally using his weapon, taking out three targets with near perfect precision. On his way to the ladies, Lloyd plants his foot into the drapery shrouded heads of some more zombies trying to enter the windows. This sends them back out into the cold.

  Concerned for the safety of the actors, Dwayne calls to them, “Guys, just back off of the beefy one! Focus on the three down the hall. They’re getting too close to me.”

  The heroic, if not overzealous, Lloyd guides the blondes up the stairs. Since launching the zombie attraction this year, Dwayne has seen folks take the game a bit too far before, but what he’s just witnessed is over the top.

  He turns to Vicky, who is a lot calmer now but still fidgeting in her seat. “It should be all right for you to leave now. Just head for the door you entered.”

  6

  “Half of these doors are locked, Buddy. Are you sure the keys are down this way?” the father asks his son.

  “I don’t know where they are,” the pre-teen says. “That’s the point.”

  “C’mon, honey. This is fun!” the man’s wife says, trying to ease his nerves. She reaches for the next door knob and is thrilled to find it turns. The exhilaration overrides her use of caution.

  Out of the guest room lunges a figure like those who stole the skinny girl. Its head is cloaked in a large grey mask with drooping features. The woman recoils away from its reaching arms. It is the husband who shrieks with fright, unable to react otherwise. He is seized while in his stupor and ‘bitten.’