Kings of the Castle: A Stay Dead short story

by Steve Wands

  CHAPTER 3: The New Haven blues

  Days earlier...

  The radio was playing loudly on Jeff's porch. He and his father, Walter, were carrying planks of wood back and forth from the shed to the house. Walter and his family decided that they weren't going to leave town. They would board up his son's home, and hold out until this thing blew over. The radio, WNJOA 101.9 to be exact, kept telling them to get to a safe zone, but they were not about to take orders from anyone.

  Most of the people in New Haven took off days ago in a hurry after the initial reports hit the air. A few other families in town were going to stick it out as well. Gupp's Hardware had stayed open days after any other store had dared to. They made a killing, selling everything except a few garden tools. The Gupp's planned to stay in town as well. Their home was like a fortress to begin with and with Clark Gupp being a hunter as well as an odd jobber, they had the tools, the weapons and the skills to survive any situation. Even if they had to flee, they had a choice between a brand new Hummer and an older Jeep Wrangler, both well-suited for off-road terrain.

  Walter pulled a bandana from his back pocket and wiped his forehead. He couldn't believe how much he was sweating. Walter was always the last to sweat. He wondered if it was old age setting in or his nerves, he hoped neither. Jeff took off his hat, wiped his brow and put it back on. Then he looked at his watch.

  "The news should've come on by now," Jeff said to his father.

  "Well, they're still playing the Beatles, how bad could it be?" His father said with a halfhearted smile.

  "Guess we'll find out," Jeff said, picking up a big sheet of plywood.

  They had most of the house boarded up. The upstairs windows were left alone except the two windows near the big tree, neither Jeff, or his father wanted to risk having those things climbing in. Jeff thought it would be a good idea to gather all the alcohol upstairs in case they needed to make Molotovs, and throw them from the upstairs windows. Walter agreed. He also thought it was a good idea to come up with an escape plan should they need to leave in a hurry. They had the family van stocked up and ready to go near the side of the house. Inside the van Jeff placed a map, water, food, clothes, and even a blanket.

  Walter's spouse, Laura had been in the kitchen making lunch for everyone. She wanted to use up what food she could without having it go to waste. The town lost power two days ago and the freezer was as cold as tepid water. The food would go bad soon without the electricity. There was also a big freezer in the basement and it hadn't been opened since the power went out. They hoped to keep the food cold inside for as long as possible. Laura hoped the power would be back on before they would have to deal with that problem, which was tiny when compared to the problem of the walking dead, but still one that warranted attention. It may have been her son's home, but that didn't matter: his messes might as well have been her messes. She hated messes and she hated waste; she was just raised that way. And if she ever had anything negative to say about the youth of today it was that they were just too darn wasteful. Laura wouldn't abide it, no matter whose home it was.

  Jeff's wife, Maria, had done major shopping before the state of emergency was declared. Their family was a large one. Jeff and Maria Caulfield had three children; Little Wally, Sandra, and Tommy. Jeff also had a sister, Barbara, who was staying with them as was his parents. She planned for the extra company and got as much food as she could afford. The house was large enough to accommodate them all, and larger than Walter's. It was also a bit more isolated. They had a radio with plenty of batteries, and two old lanterns from when Walter would take them camping. They had plenty of candles, and a fireplace, which they planned to light soon. It was starting to get chilly, which was odd for this time of year, and dark.

  "Lunch is ready!" Laura yelled out the door, not knowing they were only a few feet away.

  "What took you so long ma? I'm starving," Jeff said sarcastically but meant every word.

  "Has the news come on yet?" She asked, looking downright depressed.

  "Not yet. They're still playing music though, so I'm sure it'll be on soon enough," Walter tried to reassure her, but wasn't all too sure of it himself.

  They gathered in the family room. It was a large room with two couches, a coffee table, and a framed painting of a shed in the woods that would've impressed Bob Ross himself. There were plants on end tables, an entertainment center that wasn't entertaining anyone, and a boarded up window that allowed almost no light inside.

  Laura lit the fireplace.

  ***

  What remained of the New Haven Police department had gathered at Mourningside Cemetery. News reports never stated anything about the buried dead coming back to life and digging their way out, but they weren't taking any chances. The police gathered friends and pretty much anyone else with a gun to survey the area. It wasn't a large cemetery, but it was big enough. It was the town's only cemetery and if you weren't catholic you were buried somewhere else outside of town. They walked in rows, following the rigid grid set forth by the headstones like a search party. They checked for unearthed caskets, or any sign of something trying to come up from the ground. They moved slowly, working their way towards the mausoleums at the rear of the cemetery. There were no recent deaths in town, the last one occurred a month ago; underage kids in a drunk driving accident. They were leaving a school football game and hit a pole doing 75 miles an hour. The car was ripped in half and so were the four kids in the car. Three had been buried toward the back, the fourth was a Jewish girl buried in the town over. She and her boyfriend weren't even drinking. According to everyone who knew them they were a couple of upstanding kids. A truer tragedy had never occurred, so whispered the lips of those who knew of them. Those who really knew them, though, knew they loved to walk around in a heroin haze and that they sucked dick for China White--the good shit. After just over an hour they had checked every inch of ground but the six mausoleums. The large group gathered near the first one.

  "Keith, Alan, and Henry, get up here, now," shouted Sheriff Bruce Davis.

  Alan replied, "sure thing, boss man. But you're going in first."

  "That's fine with me, you big pussy. Everybody, listen up. If nothing's moving we lock it up and get the fuck out of here" Davis shouted.

  At the edge of town near the North roadblock, the sky grows dim. Fires burn in the distant city and smoke chokes the light out of the day. There are only three police cruisers and six officers at the North Roadblock. No one is permitted into town without clearance from the Sheriff. There hasn't been any noise on the ham, and nothing worthwhile on the radio. A car drives up from behind the roadblock: it's Susan Kemp. Susan owns the corner deli on Main Street, appropriately named Main Street Deli. She parked off to the side of the road and got out, holding three thermoses full of coffee.

  Officer Dane Kelly walked over to her. They had been together for the last few years. Both were divorced, Dane's was a messy one while Susan's was mutual. Her husband became very distant and as a result she looked at their relationship and came to the conclusion that they should have never been married to begin with. Susan met Dane, they made each other laugh and that was that. They weren't up each other's asses, and both having gone through one marriage had no intentions of suffering another. One thing led to another and now she was bringing him coffee, it was a love like so many others.

  "Brought you and the boys some coffee. This one's French vanilla, the other two are regular. I brought some powdered creamer and sugar. No milk though," she said, her brownish red hair blowing in the wind.

  "You are awesome. The boys will love anything at this point, but I'm taking the French vanilla for myself," Dane said as he put his hand on her hip.

  "When are you getting off?" she asked. They were staying at her place, and still trying to figure out what to do. They talked about it every day and made no moves other than standing still.

  "As soon as I get relieved, Davis took almost everybody up to the cemetery to inspect it. So once they get back we'l
l be breaking up into shifts."

  Susan and Dane walked over to the rest of the guys who looked tired as hell. The scent of coffee gave their eyes a tiny bright spot, as if a cup of coffee somehow meant that all was not lost. They opened the thermoses and sipped slowly: this was the highlight of the last few hours and they were not about to gulp it down and be left with nothing.

  As if they needed to be reminded that all was not well, a stench rode in on the wind. It smelled like sulfur, or sewer steam, it was faint, but in the air all the same. The scent didn't go away either: it hung over them, it clung to them. They wondered where the stench came from.

  The thought was answered as Dane, without realizing, began spilling his coffee onto his shoes. His mouth was agape, as was Susan's. The chubby cop, Sal, jumped up and grabbed his rifle. His eyes peered through the scope seeing what the rest could only guess was slowly coming up the street. It was a grey, decaying, mob of things that used to people. It was the walking dead: the kind of dead that shouldn't exist but did regardless, the kind that stood upright, craving living flesh. And there they were, making their way to New Haven.

  Dane grabbed his talkie, "We've got more coming! Requesting immediate backup!" His voice was thick with panic.

  "Sal, how many are there?" Asked Jones, shotgun in hand.

  "Don't know, must be a hundred easy," he handed Jones the rifle. "Take a look for your self and let me know I'm not loosing my mind."

  Jones reassured him. There were at least a hundred dead things shambling toward town. They stayed close together for the most part, with only a few smaller clusters off to either side, and a few trailing behind. Jones could see that one of the creatures was dragging its intestines on the ground, foot upon foot of ropey innards, with not so much as a scowl. He nearly vomited. The sheer number of them was surreal. They had encountered the dead things a number of times, but never like this. This was an army of the dead.

  "Shoot at will! We'll be there when we can!" Sheriff Davis snapped, "Over."

  "Make it quick! Over and out," Dane replied.

  Sal started picking them off one by one. They were too far away for him to be accurate with their shots. The wind, coupled with the distance the bullet would have to travel made it tough for even a trained sniper to accurately hit his mark. Dane rushed Susan to her car. He told her to get home, lock all the doors and windows. Then he promised he'd be there just as soon as he could. She reluctantly got into her car but drove off in a hurry.

  Dane and the rest of the men grabbed their guns. Dane hopped into his cruiser and took off down the road to get closer and no one objected. Sal thought it was a good idea and did the same. They got close enough to make their shots count, and began picking them off at a decent clip. But they still kept coming. They knew they had fewer bullets than targets and if backup didn't show up before they ran out, they'd be fucked.

  They held their position and kept firing. Dane wasn't nearly as good a shot with a rifle as Sal, so he opted to grab his shotgun and drive in even closer. Sal was stunned to see Dane do such a thing: he'd never been the type to pull cowboy stunts, and Dane was far more cautious than that. He watched in awe as Dane got dangerously close to the dead things, close enough to blast three of them in the face with his shotgun.

  As he headed off-road to loop around he nailed one with the front end of his cruiser. The foul-smelling creature was struck at an angle that dragged it below the underbelly of the car, popping its head like a bottle under the wheel. He did this a few more times, eventually thinning the heard by seven. After Dane was finished with his unusual antics he headed back to the roadblock and positioned his car where it had been previously. Jones never left his spot and had only fired a few shots. He was on the walkie-talkie with Davis. They were only minutes away.

  The creatures weren't discouraged in the slightest and continued to creep forward. It looked like they'd be past the roadblock any minute. Sal was still up ahead and shooting, but quickly got in his cruiser, as a few of the creatures began hurrying toward him. Their dead muscles tearing with every step, they got to the car just as Sal closed the door. He sped off and managed to knock them to the ground with the tail of his cruiser.

  Jones squeezed off shot after shot with his shaky hands and somehow, by the grace of God he thought, hit his marks. But, with every walking corpse they put down, another came into view. The officers stood their ground in front of the roadblock, making as many shots count as possible. But the creatures continued to close the distance. The stench of their rotting bodies could make a garbage truck scream, or maggot-ridden chunks of beef smell like perfume on a stripper's tits. They were close enough now to see the flesh being punctured by the spray of bullets. The muzzle flashes highlighted their grayish blue skin, illuminating the bullet-ridden flesh.

  Dane wondered what had brought them to New Haven. Was it the fall foliage or the spacious fields? Had they devoured the rest of the county and come looking for more? Tires screeched behind the roadblock, shaking Dane from his thoughts.

  Davis and his men drove up in a fury with guns blazing. He was driving his own pickup and the back was full of locals and their peacemakers. The creatures spread out, clustering towards the closest prey. The dead things seemed to be moving quicker now that a meal ticket was in reach. Davis was doing donuts around them, taking a few out with his fender every time.

  One got wrapped up in the wheel well causing the truck to jerk unexpectedly. Jones watched the tail end of the truck in horror as one of the guys went flying out of the back. Two of the other guys tried to grab him but their attempt almost sent them out as well. Before he even hit the ground, vicious undead marauders were on him, pulling at him.

  The poor son of a bitch was Roger, one of Davis's fishing buddies!

  Roger fired at blurry hands as he fell but was bitten at the waist. He screamed. The gang in the back of the truck fired as best they could. Then one of the men shot Roger in the head. Whether it was on purpose, or an accident, it put Roger out of his misery. He wouldn't be able to feel the teeth and fingers digging out his guts and plucking out his eyes to feast upon. Once his warm flesh began to cool, however, the dead things let his corpse lie, unable to sleep. Moments later, Roger, a pile of unrecognizable shredded flesh, complete with a hole in his head, got up and joined the ranks of the dead.

  Dane's expression grew grim. His only desire was to get home to Susan, pop on the television and watch nothing remotely interesting as the aroma of fresh coffee filtered in from the kitchen. Those daydreams came to a quick end when the gristle and gray matter started spattering on his cruiser. A scream came from the right of where Dane was standing. It was punctuated by the sounds of gunfire and the grunting of the dead, but it was a scream nonetheless. Dane couldn't see who it was. His vision was blurred and he was close to passing out. So much madness in such a short time, it was hell and hell was getting really hot.

  Most of the men never had to fire their weapons at anything other than targets and bottles, yet they were now putting holes into heads. Some found they enjoyed it, the violence was so addictive and enthralling. For most, though, death stayed a taboo, one big question mark at the end of a life. Killing was now a right of passage for the men of the new world if they planned to survive.

  More screams broke the monotony of the gunfire. Someone else had fallen, another guy Davis had coerced into bearing arms against the living dead. There were few dead things left and with a few well-placed shots the numbers finally dwindled to zero.

  Alan began torching the remains of the creatures and the few who fell victim to them. Thick black smoke rose from the ground. The smell was awful. Dane wiped his sweaty forehead, pulling chunks of flesh, and dried blood off himself. He wanted to go home and shower, wrap his arms around Susan and feel like a human being again. Instead he felt like a hollowed out husk, a rusty robot in dire need of oil and lubrication.

  Davis grabbed his talkie, his leathered face covered in sweat. "South Roadblock come in." He paused, waiting for a reply. />
  "Sheriff, this is south. What's up?"

  "How you guys holding up? We just had ourselves a helluva firefight."

  "What? Is everyone okay?" the voice from the other end asked.

  "No, we lost a few guys...we're going to need something more than a roadblock if more of these fuckers come to town. Get your guys and meet me at George's lot," said Davis.

  "See ya there. Over."

  All the men at the North roadblock were either huddled together or else in their vehicles as Davis pulled up. He opened his door, standing a head above his truck while using the door for leverage, "Listen up," he yelled, "Finish torching these dead fucks and everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, meet me at George's lot! This shit's only begun."

  ***

  Jeff had just finished his sandwich, dipping his last bit of roll into some hummus. His father had a room temperature bottle of Budweiser lingering off his lip. The kids were eating peanut butter and jelly. Apart from everyone chewing, the only sound you could hear was the wind crashing against the boarded-up windows. Barbara and Maria were eating some pasta left over from the night before and Laura was having a bit of everything. Barbara was tense and wanted to say something, she actually wanted to breakdown and cry, but she kept herself in check. The adults had agreed to keep cool in front of the kids (there was no need to scare them more than they already were). And they'd be in bed soon enough, leaving the adults to talk and curse and cry all they wanted. Lunch was a late one and should have been called dinner.