Dust of the Devil's Land

by Bryan Killian

  Karen continued looking out the front door as Tina died on her couch.

  “Mike must be OK. Charles is still over there but there doesn’t seem to be anything happening. They’re probably having a beer and talking.” Karen soon realized Tina wasn’t answering her.

  “Tina. You OK, sweetheart?” Karen turned to see Tina slumped over on the couch.

  “Oh my dear, are you OK?” Karen knelt down placing her hand on Tina’s shoulder. Tina didn’t move. Karen glanced down, noticing the growing stain on Tina’s shirt.

  “My gods, Tina, are you hurt?” She placed her hand under Tina’s chin, lifting her head gently. Grey eyes stared back at her. “Oh shit, Tina, what’s happened to you?”

  The primal scream penetrated every fiber of Brett’s being. His eyes darted back and forth, watching the carnage unraveling down the hall from his bedroom. His mother lay flat on her back trying with all her might to push Tina off of her. Her right hand slipped from Tina’s sweaty shoulder, finding the gaping mouth of the new zombie. The tips of her middle three fingers were removed with one quick bite.

  Blood poured from Karen’s hand, covering her face. Tina bore down, sinking her teeth deep into Karen’s neck, shaking her head violently. She tore a large hole in the side of Karen’s neck, severing the jugular. Karen bled out within seconds. Her blank eyes stared lifelessly at the ceiling as Tina feasted on her warm flesh. Soon her eyes began to cloud.

  Brett stood perfectly still in the middle of the hallway. His bare feet resting silently in the brown shag carpet while his far-too-small Marvel Universe pajamas clung tightly to his thin body. Something was wrong, dreadfully wrong, just feet from him. His mother lay in a pool of her own blood, while his neighbor continued tearing flesh from her neck and right shoulder. The sound reminded him of a program he watched recently on Animal Planet about a pride of lions and the kills the females would make in the dead of night. He shivered, stepping closer to the end of the hall. Slowly, lifting his feet one at a time, he stepped silently on the shag carpet. He reached the end of the long shadow, taking a deep breath before stepping out of his hiding place.

  Brett stood in front of his mothers’ fallen body. His eyes widened at the carnage.

  “Mom!”

  Tina shot straight to her feet, locking her foggy eyes on Brett. Small pieces of flesh escaped her mouth, falling to the floor. Brett stood frozen. The nightmare had to end soon. He would wake up and all would be normal.

  The nightmare didn’t end.

  His mother squirmed on the floor, then stood with her back to Brett. Her head was twisted, resting almost perfectly horizontal on her right shoulder. Brett stepped back slowly, drawing Tina closer. Karen turned quickly, swinging her head loosely from side to side. She staggered forward, bumping into Tina. Karen’s mouth, opening and closing, revealed taught lines of sinew pulling and releasing. Brett screamed as the grey eyes of his mother locked on him.

  Brett turned, sprinting down the hallway. He reached his room in a few steps, slamming the door behind him, pushing in the flimsy lock button. His mother crashed into the door, splintering the top half. With a stroke of luck the lock didn’t give. Tina joined his mother, both clawing feverishly at the door. Brett ran to the far side of his room, throwing open his window. He pulled a small wooden chair over from an old desk his father had found for him a few years back. The desk and chair were both too small for him but it didn’t matter at this moment. The chair was just tall enough to help him climb out the window. Brett shoved hard on the screen, popping it out. His mother and Tina broke through the remainder of the door, rushing the window as Brett’s bare feet fell from sight.

  Brett landed back first on the moist grass below. He sprinted through his yard to the dimly lit street with only one thought. Roger’s tree house.

  CHAPTER 4.

  Supply Run

  Roger kneels on the bottom floor of the tree house inventorying the items in his backpack once more. His clothes feel stiff and crusty, while his hair is matted, greasy, and generally unkempt. He runs his tongue across the front of his teeth, feeling tartar build-up forming small grainy bumps. It’s been well over three weeks since he and Brett last had the chance to brush their teeth. He peers over at Brett, who stands staring out over the dead back yard with his back to him. Brett’s thin build is wasting away and his once blond wavy hair, brown now, lies flat against the back of his dirty neck. Roger can see the top of Brett’s spine threatening to poke through his pale skin. He shakes his head, returning to the task at hand.

  Two small bottles of water. Check.

  Extra pocket knife. Check.

  Multi tool, found on an earlier supply run. Check.

  Two long Bungee cords. Check

  Matches. Check.

  Gloves. Check.

  The three remaining strawberry Pop Tarts. Check.

  The last remaining pop top can of chili. Check

  First aid kit. Check.

  The last box of .22 long rifle shells for the only real firearm in the tree house. Check.

  “Let’s gear up.”

  Brett spins around at the words. This is his favorite part of supply runs. He walks over to the corner, eager to prepare. First he slips kneepads over his dirty jeans, followed by shin guards. He pulls on an oversized denim jacket, buttons it all the way up to his neck, and finally dons elbow pads. He unbuckles his belt for a brief moment, slipping on a rather large hunting knife he took from his fathers’ workbench shortly before the event. He had intended to use the knife to carve some swear words on the walls of the tree house. He’s happy he never carved the words. This is home.

  Roger performs the same ritual, minus the shin guards. He never played soccer and at times called Brett a fag for playing. In the back of his mind he wishes he had shin guards, but he knows he will have to take all kinds of shit from Brett if he wears a pair. He slings the backpack over his right shoulder, noticing it has considerable weight. He shrugs off the thought of splitting up the goods, handing Brett the empty backpack.

  “Like last time, you’re the gatherer and I’m the lookout. When we get into the outlet it’s your…”

  “Yeah I know. I’ll get the food. Got it.” Brett knows the routine and this time he’s bound and determined to get the job done right. He is tired of Roger’s lectures about paying attention to his surroundings and not fucking off when they were away from the tree house. They were in the same class after all. Roger was held back a year when he was seven, after moving to Redding from Idaho, but he didn’t seem to mind.

  Both boys stand just inside the main door to the tree house. Roger removes two black bicycle helmets from hooks, handing one to Brett. He takes down two pairs of clear Oakley ski goggles. Roger lets his goggles rest on the front brim of his helmet, while Brett allows his to hang from his neck. Brett picks up an aluminum bat, feeling the weight in his hands, while Roger retrieves a short-handled camp axe with a makeshift leather strap. They step out on the small deck, just off the lower level of the tree house, scanning the immediate area. Brett pulls down the black scarf from around his mouth, placing two fingers up to his lips. His breath vaporizes in the cold air as he mimics cigarette smoke. “Nothing like a good smoke in the morning.”

  Roger ignores him, continuing to scan the backyards and neighboring street. Three slow moving zombies are nearby. One stands in the corner of the backyard. It has no eyes.

  “Maybe the cold has finally slowed them down.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Only one way to find out.” Brett kicks a rope ladder down. The zombie in the corner barely moves.

  Roger watches the ladder descend. Earlier experiences with the roaming dead have taught the boys to be patient. Roger knows the lesson all too well, and constantly worries about Brett. In the back of his thirteen-year-old mind, the same thought remains, Brett has ADD and it will kill him someday. Roger lets the thought go, scanning the remainder of the neighborhood with a small pair of Bushnell 12X25 binoculars he retrieved from his house a week after the event beg
an. The neighborhood sits quiet. They wait a while longer, watching the zombie in the corner of the yard, before deciding to climb down.

  Roger is first down the ladder. He hits the ground, spins around, gripping the camp axe firmly at the ready. The 77/22 Ruger rifle remains on his right shoulder. The bolt-action rifle is quite accurate, easy to use, lightweight, but noisy. Roger looks in every direction, deliberately taking his time, knowing the anticipation is killing Brett. Satisfied there is only one immediate threat in the yard, he gives Brett the signal. Brett hits the ground, pulling the bat from his backpack. Like a well-oiled machine, or a small band of neighborhood thugs, they move towards the intended target.

  The zombie moves slowly along the fence line, scraping against the rough wood, leaving behind hardened cold flesh. Roger moves quickly, raising the camp axe. Brett follows closely behind, ready to swing at a moment’s notice. Roger brings the axe down in one fluid movement, splitting the rotting head of the zombie wide open. The putrid brains of the walker spill out onto the ground as the zombie collapses. Roger pulls the axe back and wipes it on the dead grass in an attempt to clean off the gore.

  “One down. We’ll have to move him later. Let’s check for the other two and get moving before more join the party.” Roger trots to the side of the house, peering around the corner. All clear. Without turning his head he gives the high sign to Brett. Within ten seconds both boys are at the edge of Roger’s house, staring down the driveway. Puffs of breath rise against the cold crisp air of the December morning. Brett raises his hands to his face, blows hot air into them, before pulling his scarf tighter around his neck.

  “Maybe the other two are just as slow,” Brett says in a muffled voice.

  “If we’re lucky,” Roger replies, inching forward. Brett slips in behind him, continuing to look over his shoulder. The boys are soon standing on Solar Street. A zombie, once a girl in her late teens, stands across the street staring straight at them. Her grey eyes don’t blink.

  “There goes our luck. You go left, I’ll go right. Let’s confuse her and end this quickly.”

  Brett understands Roger’s command, moving left while looking over his shoulder for the third zombie. He grips the bat out in front of him like a broad sword. The zombie catches Brett in her field of vision and pounces. Her movement is quicker than either boy expected.

  “Oh shit.” Brett swings the bat swiftly, hitting the zombie in the chest as she closes the gap. Brett dances away from the sudden runner, looking to Roger for help. The zombie spins, catching Brett with one dead hand. Just as it clamps down on Brett’s denim jacket, it is lost. In one swing of the camp axe, Roger cleaves through the zombie’s forearm. He brings the camp axe around one more time, striking the zombie dead… well, as dead as a zombie can get. The axe remains stuck in the girl’s rancid brain matter. Roger nods, places his foot on her neck, and attempts to tug the axe free.

  “Nice swing.”

  “You too, dude,” Roger replies. “I bet if you hit one in the head you’ll destroy the brain. I think their bones are getting weaker. Look at this, I split the head with a half swing.” Roger pulls the bloodied axe from the zombies’ head with a sickening, sucking sound. A maniacal grin spreads across his face as he turns back to Brett.

  “I worry about you sometimes,” Brett states flatly, rolling his eyes.

  “I worry about you all the time.”

  “You suck, you know that, Roger.”

  “That’s what your sister said.”

  Brett stands for a moment, staring at Roger, not believing the fucker brought up his sister.

  Roger knows he’s stepped over the line, yet again, so he drops, “Your sister’s hot. Sorry, dude. We all knew it and if I ever had the chance…”

  “You wouldn’t know what to do, so don’t ever bring my sister up again.” Brett looks genuinely pissed.

  Roger continues smiling. “I’d figure it out, given the chance.”

  “Fuck you, douche bag. My sister would destroy you.”

  “I’ve dreamt of that.”

  Brett finally throws his hands up in disgust. “Maybe we should get going while we’re still alive.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. You know she’s alive, don’t you?”

  “I know, I think.” Brett grips his bat tightly, nodding as Roger takes the lead once more.

  It has been well over a week since the boys last wandered out to the street. At first glance the neighborhood appears as any long abandoned neighborhood would in a post-apocalyptic movie. Roger looks back to Brett, pointing to his eyes then forward, as if in a combat video game. Brett shakes his head, again. A closer look at the neighborhood reveals far worse images. This post-apocalyptic world is real. Filled with decaying bodies of the dead, spent casings from the military’s bullets, and painted numbers on the front of houses indicating the kills inside. Roger and Brett’s peaceful neighborhood is gone, and their city is dead.

  The boys cautiously make their way out of the neighborhood and onto Mercury Dr., then down to Alta Mesa. A simple two-mile walk north on Alta Mesa will bring them right to the Shasta View Square, with multiple stores waiting to be looted. They move slowly at first but soon quicken their pace. The streets are empty. All the abandoned vehicles have been pushed to one side of the two-lane road by the military. The boys remain in the middle of the street, moving from one lane to the other, giving each abandoned and wrecked vehicle a wide berth.

  It isn’t long before they reach a large four-way intersection. The boys stand, staring at three bodies hanging lifelessly from a traffic light. Crude nooses have been fashioned from yellow nylon rope. Roger nudges Brett lightly with his elbow. “Their hands are tied behind their backs. I bet you they were alive when they were hung.”

  “That’s fucked up,” Brett says without taking his eyes off the bodies. “Oh shit. The middle one’s moving.” He slinks back.

  Roger stands his ground; watching the wiggling body of a man who may have been in his early twenties at the time of his death. The body begins swaying, and soon it’s swinging back and forth. Brett steps further back, as Roger stands firm. The zombie is now swinging violently. Its eyes fix on Roger, swinging back and forth. Roger slides the .22 rifle down and butts it firmly against his shoulder. He takes aim, finger resting on the trigger. He sights the zombie, allowing one more full swing. The weight of the zombie’s body is too great and it tears free from its head, crashing to the pavement below. The sound of bones breaking accompanies the splat of putrid meat. Both boys stare at the mess in the road, mouths agape.

  “Now that’s some fucked up shit,” Roger states, slinging the rifle back over his left shoulder. “I wonder how long he was up there?”

  Brett is growing nervous. “Don’t know, don’t care. Let’s get going.”

  Roger can tell by the tone of his young charge’s voice, and pats him on the back. “You’re right, let’s go. We don’t want to stay in one place too long and I’m sure the sound that dude made when he hit the ground could draw some unwanted company. We only have four more blocks.”

  Brett and Roger give the fallen corpse plenty of room. They soon arrive at the edge of the Shasta View Square parking lot. Several abandoned cars remain in the lot, as well as one corpse prominently featured on the hood of an old Cadillac. The corpse sits face up, staring out into the morning sky. A ragged piece of cardboard rests in its hands. The black ink, fading in the weather, is somewhat visible. “The End Is Here”. Roger stares at the sign remembering a song that often played in his father’s pickup truck. “Evil is alive and well.” He can’t remember who sang it but remembers the words just fine. A chill rolls up his spine. “We need to be careful. I have a bad feeling about this.”

  Brett stands with his back to Roger and is about to step into the parking lot when Roger’s words stop him. Roger is the worrier of the two, but this time there is something in his voice. Brett turns, but doesn’t meet Roger’s gaze as anticipated.

  Instead, Roger looks straight at the corpse with the si
gn. “Man… something isn’t right here. We need to go.” Roger starts backing away from the parking lot.

  “Hold up, man. You said we need supplies. Where else are we going to go? There’s nothing left near us. We’ll end up lunch for those things if we go any farther. Look around you. The dead are dead here. Nothing is moving but us and I’m fucking hungry.” Brett holds his arms out wide, gesturing to the surrounding parking lot and streets.

  Roger takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly, “Sorry, dude. I don’t know why I’m freaked. You’re right, let’s get some food and whatever else we can find, and bolt.”

  CHAPTER 5.

  Escape Plan 1

  The sun that rises above the eastern tree line is producing little warmth on this winter day, but it does provide a means to an end. Jack stares out the front windshield of the disabled Suburban, focusing his attention on the used car lot he failed to see the night before. It sits no more than a hundred yards from his current location. A sly smile creeps across his face. Been there, done that and I’m about to do it again. His smile turns downward as his rational side catches up with his impulsive side. The last time he commandeered a vehicle from a used car lot he had several other armed men with him. Now he is alone, though he does have a friend standing on the roof.

  Jack shifts slightly in his seat, doing all he can to not rock the suburban. He pats the .45 in his lap, making a conscious decision not to use the firearm. Noise and movement are his enemies at the moment, so the Bowie knife will have to do. Unfortunately his unwanted passenger is a potentially dangerous and persistent runner. Jack remains focused on the used car lot, with every intention of formulating a “destroy and search” plan when his hand rests on a small bulge in his jacket pocket. The jacket, still blanketed over him for warmth, is heavy and has several large pockets. In one rests his old iPhone. He can’t tell you if it’s a 4, 5, 6, or if it is even an iPhone but he does know the battery is shot. He has a car charger, and for his own sanity, and trust in the idea of survival, the phone contains 763 photos of his son and his wife, along with 27 videos. He knows every photo by heart and can mouth every word spoken on every video. At times the memories are too much to bear. The phone has no other working functions, and the compass has failed. But still, the pictures and videos remain.