DUST OF THE DEVIL’S LAND
A novel
by
Bryan Killian
© 2016, Grand Mal Press and Bryan Killian. http://www.grandmalpress.com
For my children, Chase and Max
Acknowledgements
First, my beautiful wife, my Spark, for always listening to my story ideas, having the balls to tell me I’m way off course, and for always making me laugh when I need it most. My mom, hello Mother, thank you for your love of horror that you passed along to me. My friends and fellow writers, (all brilliant, you should buy their books) Ryan C. Thomas, Anthony Trevino, David Agranoff, Robert Essig, and Chad Stroup. Brian Keene and Stephen Kozeniewski for hanging with me at WHC 2016 and keeping me on the right track. Big thank you to my pal Milton for my very first interview (Slovenlygamer.com or on twitter @SlovenlyGamer).
Authors Note
For those of you who live in and around Redding or know the city, I have taken certain liberties with street names and locations. You may recognize some areas while others will simply be reminiscent of times past. Ask yourself, do the dead stop at street signs and wonder if they’re going the right way?
Table of Contents
PART 1: Air Rifle
PART 2: The Atrium
PART 3: Real Rifles
PART 4: All Fall Down
Part 1
Air Rifle
CHAPTER 1.
Tree House
The crosshairs of the scope center perfectly on the putrid face. Roger moves his head slightly to one side, peering out from his hiding place. He spies the zombie shambling along with no immediate purpose. He looks the zombie up and down, attempting to recognize who it had once been. The face is sunken and black from rot, and its right arm has fallen off, leaving only black strands of decaying tissue. The once white shirt the zombie wears is now melded with its dead skin.
Roger sights the walker once more while sliding his trigger finger in place. He follows the target two more steps before lightly squeezing the trigger, careful not to jerk the weapon. He wants every shot to count, and this shot is true. The air rifle pellet sinks deep into the zombie’s face, just above where the nose once sat. The zombie swats at the remains of its face, as if shooing away a bothersome fly, then trips over its own two feet, falling face-first to the ground. Wheezing, the zombie regains its feet. Roger sights the zombie again, doing all he can to stifle the laughter building up inside.
“My turn.” The hushed voice sounds behind Roger. Brett Bellman, Roger’s next door neighbor and one year his junior, stands waiting impatiently for his turn with the air rifle.
“I don’t know who it is. I thought it might be Mr. Lieman from the Save Mart, but I can’t tell.” Roger stands, handing the air rifle to Brett. “Try to hit him in the eye. He only has one left.”
“Cool.” Brett finds his position on the floor of the tree house, scopes his target, while Roger sits back staring out at the dead neighborhood. Brett waits for the zombie to turn around. The dried crusty clothes draping the decomposing body barely move as the zombie turns back towards the tall black oak. Brett waits. He doesn’t possess Roger’s patience, but he finds the resolve to lay off the trigger. The zombie stares blankly into the overgrown yard with its one grey eye and gaping mouth. Its blackened gums have long receded from the decaying teeth. Brett sees his opportunity, pulling the trigger. A split second later the grey eye pops, spilling from the rotting face. The zombie stumbles around with its arms outstretched, bumping into everything and moaning. It sounds mournful. Brett looks back at Roger, shaking his head in bewilderment, “I don’t think I’ve seen one without both eyes.”
Roger, looking down at the worn Iron Man comic in his hand, says, “I have. The second day of all this shit. Before I made it up here I saw the Andrews’ kid in his front yard. He was just sitting there with a toy truck in his lap. His head was down. I thought he was playing or something, so I ran across the street to get him. Then he looked up….”
Brett sits staring back at Roger, eyes wide. After a moment, Roger speaks, his voice shaky. “It looked like he had his face bit in half. Both of his eyes were gone and his nose was hanging, flopping around. He knew I was there and jumped up. He chased me for a moment but lost me and ran back towards his house. I stopped at my yard and looked back. He just sat back down near his toy truck and began patting the ground. I think he was looking for it. I think the soldiers got him. I hope it was fast because he didn’t deserve to be that way. He was just a kid.”
Brett looks back out at the world, hiding the tears welling in his eyes. “They probably did but the zombies keep coming. How long till one of us turns into one of them?”
***
11:26pm
A thunderous boom shakes the land violently. A second thunderclap strikes again, driving the deafening sound through every inch of the tree house. Roger and Brett huddle in one corner of the second story waiting for the next thunderclap. The night sky lights up, followed instantly by another boom. Roger tries counting between the lightning and the thunder, but can’t reach one. He remembers the trick from the movie Poltergeist.
Boom!
Crying and embarrassed, Brett rolls away from his best friend. He stares out a small opening in the side of the tree house trying to find any thought, memory or distraction to take him away from this place. The sky bursts white, revealing zombies stumbling about in his and the neighboring yards. His head slumps to the cool wooden floor, his thoughts turn to his X-box and the games he wishes he could still play. Periodically, his thoughts flash to his mother and the horrific way she died. Squeezing his eyes shut, he finds his X-box once again, logs in and begins a ferocious campaign to rid the world of scum terrorists. All is right in his world for the briefest of moments.
The storm continues late into the evening, gaining intensity, but eventually passing. Roger sits watching distant lightning strikes with his legs dangling high above the ground from the tree house deck, wondering when Brett is going to stop feeling embarrassed for crying. Lord knows he’d cried plenty since the arrival of the zombies and military.
The sky performs another light show, flashing brilliantly. “Wow, that was a good one.” Brett, with his childhood exuberance, scoots quickly to the edge of the deck, joining Roger. Though he would never admit it, Roger enjoys Brett’s childish enthusiasm, not all the time, but at times it’s refreshing.
“There’s another good one. Probably over Millville,” Roger states, running his hands over his crusty blue jeans. Before the event he wouldn’t have given the state of his jeans a second thought but now it weighs heavy on his mind. His mother is no longer around to take care of such trivial needs, and in fact, there are no adults left in Redding to take care of them, or at least none he wishes to meet. The soldiers pretty much soured him on the world of grownups. Watching lightning strikes in the distance, he leans slightly against Brett.
“You cool?” Roger asks.
“Yeah, I’m cool. I just don’t like thunder when it’s that close. Scares the shit out of me.”
“Me too,” Roger says.
Roger’s thoughts drift back to a time before the event. He thinks of his mother, his father and neighbors on his block. For a moment he misses school, even though he wasn’t the best student. He longs for the sanctuary of his classroom with all its prison-like qualities. He joked on many occasions with his classmates, “We’re all doing time at Woodville Maximum Penitentiary.” He can still see the chalkboard filled with reading assignments and arithmetic problems. He misses the smell of chalk. Does chalk smell? He thinks. It must if I miss it. He remembers Shelly July, and the time she pushed him down on the soccer field, laughing at him along with half the school. She was such a bitch. The vis
ion of her chest exploding outward in a cloud of blood and bone floods his mind. Shaking the memory, one thought remains: even she didn’t deserve that.
Another lighting strike dances through the clouds in the distance, followed shortly by a bellowing thunderclap. “You know we have to go past the Save Mart tomorrow.” Roger’s words are almost a question. He waits patiently for Brett’s reply.
“Yeah I know. I have to be extra careful and watch everything around me. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful this time.” Brett curls up with his well-used pillow covered with an almost unrecognizable Hulk pillowcase. The smell is approaching toxic but he’s used to it, and the pillow provides some level of comfort. He rests his head on the floor, pulling his pillow in close to his body. He drifts into the wonderful world of sleep where he can’t be harmed.
CHAPTER 2.
Storm
Jack Elliott sits quietly watching lightning strikes, and counting the walking dead around his vehicle. A .45 rests in his lap under his right hand. Storm’s a-brewing. He caresses the firearm slightly, continuing to watch the dead light up with every lightning strike. Gimme Shelter plays in his mind but he doesn’t dare hum out loud. Earlier, the noise of the Suburban he’d been driving on a bad tire for a full mile, attracted a few walkers and one particularly determined runner. The runner is now standing on the roof of the disabled vehicle.
Jack remains as still as possible, careful not to rile the passenger on the roof. The windows of the suburban, so far, are proving too much of an obstacle for the runner. Grotesque hand and face smears paint parts of the windshield and the side windows, while pieces of rotting flesh stick to the rough plywood blocking a broken window just behind the driver’s seat. The stained back seat and floorboard directly behind Jack are stark reminders of how close he came to being killed, multiple times, by one of the walking—and sometimes running—abominations. For the life of him he can’t remember the name of the fellow who had lost his life in that seat. He did remember having to shoot the man in the head before he turned.
Soon morning will come, allowing Jack the opportunity to formulate an escape plan. His life has become nothing more than a series of escape plans. He escaped his home only to end up at the Redding Convention Center, along with hundreds of survivors. At least it seemed like hundreds; he couldn’t remember the population count nor did he care. He led an ill-fated supply run, witnessing all the men around him die at the hands of zombies and soldiers. I wonder if there are any zombie soldiers? Jack sits in the dark contemplating his next escape plan yet again. God, how he hates having to constantly escape death.
Eyes growing heavy, Jack’s thoughts turn to a comfortable bed with big pillows and warm blankets. He wishes for the bed he shared with his wife. Thoughts of her flood his mind. He tries to push them away, but suddenly she is there, in the cab of the suburban with him.
“Hello, Julia.”
“My love.”
Jack lifts his head, looking over at the passenger seat. He can see her, faint outline, not solid, but there. “I miss you guys every day.”
“I know, Jack.”
“Do you?”
“You need to leave this place, Jack. It’s not safe.”
Jack speaks with his eyes closed tightly, “I’ll be out of here at first light. It’s time to find a house to hole up in for a while. I need sleep. Hell, I’m talking to you again and you’re dead.”
“Not nice, Jack.”
“I’m not doing this.”
“I miss him too, Jack.”
“Why’d you take him away from me? Why doesn’t he come see me?” Jack doesn’t look at Julia, choosing instead to keep his eyes firmly shut. The few times she’s appeared, she’s disappeared just as fast, at the mere mention of Ronan. He wonders, as always, if the conversation was in his head or if he was indeed speaking out loud to the nothingness surrounding him. He pulls his old SF Giants hat further down over his eyes while holding a red Hot Wheel, a 1968 Datsun 510 racer with the number 32 emblazoned on the hood, in his left hand. He caresses the Hot Wheel, remembering countless hours playing cars with his son, building outlandish tracks with gravity defying loops and laughing at their utter failures. In his mind’s eye he sees his son smiling at him. He was beautiful.
CHAPTER 3.
A few weeks ago
Brett Bellman’s eyes popped open at the sound of his parents arguing in the front room of their modest three bedroom home. He rolled over under the new Hulk sheet set his older sister, Linda, bought him. She was home from college for the upcoming weekend to attend the wedding of one of her high school friends. She was out this night and Brett would never see her again. He stared at the slit of light spilling in from the slightly ajar bedroom door. He continued listening to his parents’ muffled argument from the safety of his bed. Finally, curiosity proved too great to ignore as he climbed out of bed, opening the door a bit wider.
Cloaked in darkness, Brett watched his parents pacing back and forth in the front room. Long shadows stretched along the hallway, covering various family pictures, like thin dark fingers. Every time his father passed by the entrance of the hallway Brett could see a dishrag wrapped around his right hand. The rag was rapidly turning red. His father was going on and on about a coworker biting him while his mother tried in vain to calm him down long enough to tend to his wound. Brett turned, spying the pale green digits of his alarm clock reading 11:07pm. He turned back to the hall, jumping quickly at the sight of his father standing before him.
“Why you still up, boy?” his father spoke, short of breath.
Brett just stared at his fathers’ silhouette, tall in the doorway. His face was shrouded in darkness as he reached in and turned on the light. Brett gasped. His father’s bloodshot eyes stood out brilliantly against his ashen skin.
“You ok, Dad?” Brett asked, climbing up on the edge of his bed. Staring at the floor, he didn’t dare look his father in the eye.
“Yeah, it’s just a flesh wound. Nothing your mom can’t fix. You need to get to sleep. School tomorrow.” He leaned against the doorjamb, breathing deeply.
“Why were you and mom fighting?” Brett barely looked up as he slid back under his Hulk sheets.
His father, leaning even harder against the doorjamb, took a deep rasping breath. Just as he began to answer a loud siren screamed down their street. It was soon followed by another siren one street over. Brett’s father again tried to answer the question, but was interrupted by frantic knocking at the door.
“For fuck sake!” Brett’s father walked back down the hall towards the front door. His mother hovered near the front window, peeking out at the front porch.
“It’s Tina. Why would she be over here this time of night?”
Brett’s father stared back at his mother, shaking his head. He opened the front door, looking Tina directly in the eye. Tina, somewhat taken aback by the appearance of the man before her, spoke softly.
“Charles, there’s something wrong with Mike. I can’t get through to 911 and I don’t know what to do.” Her voice cracked as she spoke.
Charles Bellman shook his head, rolling his eyes. “What’s Mike got himself into this time? Too much whiskey or vodka?” Charles knew all too well Mike’s demons.
“No, it’s not that. There’s something wrong with him. He attacked me for no reason. He tried to bite me but I was able to fight him off. He’s not himself. He’s acting crazy.” Tina dropped to her knees, tears beginning to streak her reddened cheeks. Brett’s mother, Karen, stepped out on the porch, helped Tina to her feet and guided her inside.
“Why don’t you go see what all the trouble is over there and I’ll take care of Tina.”
“Shit, really, Karen? Look at my hand. I have to get this taken care of if I expect to work tomorrow.”
“Yes, Charles, I know. Just check on Mike and I’ll tend to your hand when you come back.”
Charles, shaking his head, walked through the darkness to Mikes’ house. He stopped briefly at the bottom step, thinking of t
he man who had bit him at work. Then he remembered Tina saying Mike had tried to bite her. What the fuck is going on tonight? He found the front door unlocked. Knocking, he opened it. The front room was cast in dim light from an overturned lamp. He stepped inside, calling out, “Mike, where you at, buddy?”
The figure emerged rapidly from the cloaked darkness of the hallway. Mike’s eyes were foggy and his skin was pale. His blood-red gums stood out brilliantly against the white surrounding them. Charles stepped back, finding the side of the doorjamb. The slight hesitation cost him as Mike slammed straight into him, sinking teeth deep into his chin. Gurgling was the only sound Charles could make out as his entire lower jaw was torn from his head. Life drained from his eyes before his body reached the floor.
***
Tina rocked back and forth on the Bellman’s couch, She couldn’t control her nerves. “I don’t know why he attacked me, Karen. He’s been sick the last few days with the flu but today he became angry, stopped making sense, and his eyes… there was something wrong with his eyes.”
Karen walked back into the living room, setting down a small glass of water. Brett watched his mother pass by the entrance of the hall from the safety of his bedroom.
“I don’t know, Tina. Charles came home with a wound on his hand. He told me a coworker bit him. It’s hard to believe but things seem a bit weird tonight.” Karen continued to speak as she walked to the front door peering outside.
Tina continued rocking on the couch. Her breathing grew shallow and she felt dizzy. Blood seeped from the hastily placed wad of paper towels on her slightly protruding right love handle, stained her green shirt black. The bite wound was shallow, but death coursed through the veins of her less-than-perfect body. Years of smoking, drinking, and hard-living worked against her at that moment.
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