Brass washes off the cream. The once black leather is paler, almost white in patches. He adds black dye to the porous material.
“So now you’re just making them look the same as they were?” the same bored little boy complains.
Brass looks up and sees Abby across the lot preparing to decorate Vida’s helmet. “Children, you have been most helpful, but I think your efforts would be better suited playing.”
“Aw! I want to shine boots!” Alice says.
“You will. Another time. I will have all the prep work done and next time we can shine together. Sound good?”
The little survivors dissipate, already chasing one another, working on boots now the furthest thing from their minds. Brass is left alone in the motor pool with Abby, though he knows Lady Luck is probably somewhere near, either under or in one of the vehicles.
“Is this Vida’s?” Brass asks.
“Yeah,” Abby says, without looking up from the black plastic he frames with tape to protect the areas he doesn’t wish to spray with primer.
“I was hoping she’d be involved in this.”
“Why’s that?” Abby works fast, for he needs the job to be done and dried by tomorrow. His vision is simple, and the stencil he cut out of oak tag is basic. Most of the detail work will be done freehand.
“Well, it’s her helmet after all.”
“We talked about it. I have an idea.”
“Did you two talk about anything else?” Brass leads his young friend.
“Not much.” The answer disheartens Brass. “We talked about what she’s into and stuff. I told her how I think my life is better now than before the zombies.”
With Abby so focused on the task at hand, he doesn’t catch Brass slapping his own forehead in dismay or the shaking of his head. He doesn’t notice Lady Luck roll out from under one of the many trucks to eavesdrop.
“You told her you like life better now?” Brass cringes at how it sounds.
“Yeah. It was a dead-end before. It still is, only now we can make a difference.”
Silently, Brass works the logic of what Abby has said, ultimately declaring things not a total loss. “All right. There’s still hope.”
“Exactly,” Abby says as he lightly applies a layer of primer to the helmet. “You know I don’t like people gawking over my shoulder when I work. Is there something you need?”
“No, just killing time. You know me. Livin’ life, being awesome. Planning what to do next after this batch of noobs graduate tomorrow. She’s cute, isn’t she?”
14
“5,6,7,8!” Brass says at center court of the gymnasium. He wasn’t at the armory this morning, and the recruits were told he’d meet them at the school for the final.
The dead moan and pound on the far doors. Brass sits in a wheelchair at half court, completely vulnerable without his armor.
Unlike the previous romp here, all the overhead lights are on. Where shadows once shrouded chaperones, now only bare corners and gleaming floors can be seen. Above Brass, a timer counts down seconds on the scoreboard.
Abby armed the graduates as they left the bus. They had to choose from two rifles and a long tire iron. Vida readily chose the blunt tool, allowing the guys to take the guns. Then Abby told them to head to the gym to meet Brass. Now they rush to his chair before the dead can enter.
“Hey guys,” Brass says.
“What is this?” Vida asks.
“Oh my god, Vida, you look wonderful!” He admires the picture his friend painted on her helmet--a Mexican skull adorned with gleaming jewels and music notes. “Abby’s quite the guy, huh?”
“Is this a test?” Player 1 says, even though they’ve been told this is their final. His question is answered once the timer reaches zero and a buzzer sounds.
The far doors open and dozens of zombies enter. They fight and squeeze past one another to get at the living.
“Yes, it’s a test. I am a survivor and you all have to save me.” Brass takes on the persona of a housewife from an old cartoon. He leaps on to the seat of his wheelchair and shrieks, “Zombies! Zombies!” as if he’s just seen a tiny mouse.
“Player 1, get him out of here!” Vida commands. “Malcolm, you and I will hold them back!”
“It won’t budge!” Player 1 says, after shoving the chair only results in it skidding along the floor, leaving scuffs of black rubber.
“Oops. I think I left the locks on,” Brass says. “Sorry ’bout that.”
Vida and Malcolm spread out to divert the attention of the dead. They want them to come their way so Brass can be wheeled out to the bus. The throng separates down the middle, each mass zeroed in on one of the two closest humans.
Malcolm fires his six shot weapon until it clicks empty. The corpses trip over their fallen but don’t stop, even as those bringing up the rear trample over them in their zealous quest for food.
Vida swings and whacks with her tire iron. She shoves back the zombies, toppling them like dominoes to get to Malcolm where he lies under a heap of ravenous corpses. She drags him out from under the writhing tangle. “Get out of here!”
The zombies reclaim their footing. As they rise once more, Vida recognizes a few familiar faces. These are the zombies they danced with. This is their school, and they have home court advantage and superior numbers. They can have it, she thinks as she dashes after Malcolm.
On the other side of the double doors, Vida slides her weapon through the handles, turning it into a lock to keep the threat contained. Malcolm is in the hall waiting for her so they can head to the Gunship together.
Even though the school’s lights are on, the daylight seems exceptionally blinding as they fly through the front entrance. They lean against the glass doors to catch their breath. Clapping hands brings their sore eyes to the top level of the double decker bus. Brass, no longer wheelchair bound by some miracle, gives the group an ovation next to Abby and Lady Luck.
“Great work, kids!” He beams with pride. “Vida, way to take command. That’s a wrap! You’ve taken everything I’ve taught you and put it all together. Faster and better than real military training, I assure you. None of that breaking you down to build you up garbage.”
“Have you encountered any military?” Vida asks him once she is freed of her newly painted helmet.
“Oh yeah!” Brass says, sounding as if it wasn’t the nicest of experiences. He unravels her protective adhesive while the others get themselves un-taped. “They come around periodically to entice us to join them down south. Now that I think of it, we haven’t seen them in sometime.”
“Do they have a big base down there?”
“Not that I know of. These soldiers are living it up at Story Book Land of all places.”
“And they haven’t tried to force you to move down there? I thought they wanted to get all survivors on to the bases.”
“They do. But they can hardly force us to move when we outnumber them and have all the same toys that they do, now can they?”
Section XI. Point of No Return
1
More than 350 miles south of Rubicon, Georgia is a magical land. Within the stone walls that surround this kingdom, high upon a hill is a castle of powder blue. Only the most radiant princess in all of public domain can call this place home--Cinderella.
Through the tall drawbridge and into the ornate main hall, past empty suits of armor that stand bravely, all the way to the throne room, everything is gilded in hues of blue and gold. Once upon a time, visitors stood in awe of the high ceiling and the tapestries that appeared to hang from a mile over their heads. Now they would see it is all a sham.
Beyond the rich upholstered and elegantly carved thrones is a door that was once guarded during visiting hours to prevent the commoners from investigating the royal home too closely, lest they be privy to the truth. If one were to make it through the door, the illusion would be broken, the magic lost.
Bare walls of plywood and a floor of concrete would give way to the fact that corners had
to be cut somewhere to keep expenses down. Hand scrawled messages on the rough planes of wood might contradict the belief that this seemingly cheerful realm is one of the happiest places on earth. Here, over the years, employees have jotted down their complaints about the management at Story Book Land.
Along the walls, as if punctuating the graffiti, are bits of dried chewing gum, since the actors weren’t allowed to chew when under the scrutiny of the consumers. Many of the gobs are off-white in color and contain traces of nicotine, since smoking on the clock was also forbidden. A princess can’t hug a child or get her picture taken with them if she reeks of cigarettes. Or so it was written long ago.
Dressing rooms also line these corridors the tourists never saw. Deeper down, beyond voids of space used for storage of outdated props, is an office where the current ruler of the land, Major Barnwell, sits upon a swivel seat of power.
Three civilians sit across from the commanding officer’s desk. He who controls the army that occupies the park. The major ignores them as he reviews papers on his desk. To the only female of the summoned trio it feels a lot like being called to the principal’s office. Her leg bounces rapidly until the companion on her left places his large but gentle hand upon it to still her nerves. The gesture makes her stop, but her other leg bounces after a few grueling seconds.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” the major apologizes for his rudeness. “I’m just going over the daily report. I need to stay apprised of things: headcounts, supplies, reports from our patrols…”
“What is this about?” the nervous girl blurts
“Miss Thorne…” The man must refer to a clipboard for her name.
“Carla.” It’s been a long time since she has heard her last name, so long that it sounds odd to her.
“Carla, as you may have suspected, your New Castle wasn’t the only settlement with life beyond our walls. We have found strongholds all along the coast and have brought them in. There is one exception--a town called Rubicon just beyond the border of Georgia. A man has established a thriving community much like your New Castle. Only instead of striving for as normal an existence as possible, he has kept his encampment compact. Rubicon has comparable numbers to your New Castle. From what we can tell, at least half of his people are voluntary soldiers. He has formed a militia that has ransacked every fallen military installation they have come across, and confiscated the weapons.”
“What does this have to do with us, exactly?” one of the men in attendance asks.
“I was getting to that, Mister…”
“Oz,” the large man says.
The major clears his throat. “We’d like you three to go talk to this man. This is completely voluntary, but since you have so much in common with him he may listen to reason if it comes from you. He doesn’t seem to trust the military, though he certainly likes our equipment.”
“And I suppose you want me on board to lead this mission,” the third attendee of the meeting speaks up for the first time. “Someone that’s proven himself in the field. A registered badass. I’m in.”
“Not exactly, Mister Rottom,” the major says to the man in full clown makeup. “This man, a Mister Brass, has a flair for theatrics, from his over the top vehicles and the outfits his people wear, to their G.I. Joe nicknames.”
“Sounds like a real freak,” the clown scoffs, crossing his arms defensively.
“Please don’t use that word when you meet him. Mister Rottom, your job will be to appeal to his most cherished citizens, the children.”
Brock Rottom is thrilled by the prospect of having a fresh audience to entertain.
Carla isn’t completely on board yet. “I get why you chose Oz, and now understand why Brock’s here. Why me?”
Oz fields this one, “Because you’re adorable. Everyone loves you. Well… maybe not the women.”
Carla pouts. “Like it’s my fault I’m young, pretty, and have nice--”
“Time is a factor on this,” the major says. “Miss… I mean, Carla, you have more time in the field against the dead than most of my soldiers, from what I hear. Your people say you were quite the sheriff.”
“I imagine you’ve already talked to Dan about this,” Carla assumes from the use of her old title.
“Mister Williamson will not be joining you. With your anticipated success in bringing these folks in, we’ll need all the vaccine we can get to finish inoculating our current residents and to cover the refugees. His blood is too precious to spill.”
“Why the sudden urgency?” Oz asks. He feels strongly that there is more to it. They’ve obviously known about the encampment for some time. “Why now?”
The major shifts uncomfortably and straightens his papers. “Though we had no scientific reason for believing this, my colleagues and I think the dead are devouring the flesh of humans as a means of prolonging their existence. We’ve observed them migrating in search of food, but also settling in dry climates and cold climates, which we suspect may also be an instinctual effort to increase their longevity. They’ve found another way.”
###
“What’s that Uncle Bruce?” an eight year old Danny Williamson asked long ago.
“Dead guy,” the man said as he glued one of the boy’s action figures to the inside of something they made together. Typically it was race cars and rockets, but this visit they had decided to work on a school project on alternative sources of energy. Danny had been assigned nuclear power.
Nancy Williamson made a sound of disapproval after she overheard the addition to the model. She quickly walked over to try and remove it. “We are not sending him to school with a dead guy!”
“Nance, I love you like a sister, but if you touch my dead guy, I swear…” Bruce warned her.
“He’ll get in trouble! Or expelled…”
“Expelled? For historical accuracy?” Bruce said. “What the hell kinda school are you sending him to?”
“Vermello Elementary, Bruce,” Wallace Williamson, the boy’s father, said from the comfortable distance his recliner provided. He’s already exhausted, having broken up too many fights between his wife and brother. “Same place we went to.”
“Yeah? Well, it’s gone downhill. Just like the rest of this town,” Bruce said snidely. “This is supposed to be a multi-disciplinary project, right? They want to mix the subjects: art, English, math, and science. Why the fuck can’t we add some history?”
“Why is he dead?” Danny asked, ignoring the most recent frackus among the adults.
“He got impaled,” Bruce said, satisfied the figure was well stuck to the grey cardboard wall that they had dabbed with sponges to look like concrete. “We’re building this from the plans of a real reactor. One day there was an explosion in the core. This gentleman got pinned to the wall like a cocktail wiener. Radiation was leaking, so they had no choice but to leave him until they got it under control. He must have been in there for weeks, maybe months, by the time they had everything decontaminated. When they retrieved his body, he was still fresh as a daisy. He should have been bloated and stinking to high heaven, but radiation halts the decomposition process.”
“He didn’t rot?”
“Nope. This same principle is why a lot of your supermarket fruits and veggies have such a long shelf life. It’s called irradiation.”
Danny jotted notes for the report he had to write to accompany the project. “Is this how irritation was discovered?”
“Irradiation. You know, I’m not too sure about that one. I’ll hit the books and give you a call before this is due,” Bruce said. He noticed that Wall was not in his chair any longer. Usually his brother liked to watch them do their projects together. Also as usual, the boy’s mother would pull Wall aside at some point to tell him she wanted Bruce to leave. “Make sure you put in those misconceptions we talked about. Despite this accident, and all the other accidents, nuclear power is quite safe. Not as safe as my dam, of course, but if they could just find a better way to get rid of the waste, it’s just as clean. Pro
bably the cleanest of all the fancy ways of boiling water for power.”
“You’re gonna be leaving soon, aren’t you?” Danny asked sadly.
“Sooner than I had planned, but you and I both know that’s always the case,” Bruce said, as Wallace headed outside. “I’ll be back in a sec. I have to step out for a smoke.”
“We were going camping,” Danny said.
“We will,” Bruce assured. “And I don’t mean next time. Pack your shit. Trust me.”
Outside, Wallace leaned against the house. “Is it just me, or are your visits getting shorter?”
“Oh, it isn’t you.” Bruce lit a cigarette. A big no-no so close to the house. “Don’t even say it! I was born and raised here. I’ll smoke where I damn well please. We’re in New Hampshire. Cleanest air on the planet. The boy needs a little second hand smoke or else he won’t be able to thrive anywhere else. Like that kid Travolta played in that movie.”
“I thought you were quitting,” Wallace said, while tapping his finger on the lid of a Copenhagen can to pack the dip to one side.
“I could ask the same of you and that nasty shit.” Bruce pointed to the smokeless tobacco with disgust. “I’ve never thought ‘Wow! It’s been a while since I put some crap in my mouth that makes me deathly afraid to swallow my own spit, and makes my gums bleed.’”
From his room above them, young Dan listened to the two men he looked up to most in the world while he got his gear together. Uncle Bruce never broke a promise, so if he said they were going camping, that’s what was going to happen.
“I worry about you, brother,” Wall said. “Why don’t you stop chasing those younger girls and just find a nice one your own age to settle down with? You could move back here and be happy.”
“Yeah, married life looks like a blast to me,” Bruce said. “I’m far happier with nubile ladies in their early twenties. Besides, I don’t chase ’em. They chase me. Personally, I think marriage has softened you. I just haven’t said anything till now.”
Life Among The Dead (Book 3): A Bittersweet Victory Page 20
