Dust of the Devil's Land

by Bryan Killian

  CHAPTER 10.

  The Squad and the Market

  “Building clear. Bring the truck down. We have two kids here that will be hitching a ride with us.”

  “10-4. We should be there in two minutes. Do you want us at the front or rear of the store?” The voice on the other end of the radio is male. Roger and Brett stare at the woman standing before them.

  “She’s the coolest girl I’ve ever seen,” Brett says under his breath.

  “I know what you mean.” Roger is just as awestruck.

  “Bring the truck to the rear door. With the extra hands we should be loaded and out of here in less than ten.” She winks at Roger and Brett. Roger’s face grows hot.

  “Rear door. See you in a few.” The male voice sounds friendly and young.

  “Shouldn’t you guys be talking in code or something? You look like, what do they call it, part military?” Brett asks.

  “Paramilitary is the word you’re looking for. We’re somewhat paramilitary but most of us in this ‘squad’—” signaling air quotations as she said squad, “—are from different organizations, be it law enforcement, private security or military. We use the NIMS system.”

  Roger asks, “What’s that?”

  “National Incident Management System. NIMS for short. It was developed by the feds after 9/11 and finally put into practice after Katrina. I took a few of the classes but I only learned to speak in plain English on the radio and somebody else is always in charge. In this case, it’s Adam McCaw. He’s a city Supervisor. Or he was when there was a city to supervise.”

  The boys look at one another then ask at the same time, “What about the military?”

  “I’ll explain after we load the truck.” The woman walks over to the door at the end of the small storage area placing her ear against it. She can hear the truck backing up and slowly pushes the door open looking around. Nothing but the truck is moving, since most of the zombies walked to the front of the market, only to become target practice. She turns back, smiling at Roger and Brett. “My name is Sylvia but you can call my Sly. Less syllables. Besides, I always thought Sylvia sounded like an old lady’s name.” Her smile grows. Her teeth are perfect and wisps of sandy blonde hair fall over her right eye and pale cheek.

  The boys just smile.

  “So will you boys be joining our little gang or going it alone?” The booming voice causes Brett to jump. Roger turns to face the one called Giant.

  “No disrespect, but we haven’t had much luck with adults lately. We’ll be heading back to our place and taking some of this with us.” Roger steps forward, pointing to the pallet full of supplies.

  “This train is leaving soon, son. Once it’s gone, it’s gone. We go back underground and you can stay out here and fend for yourself. This is the choice we give all survivors we come across. Even the army deserter we found out near the I-5 and North Market.” Giant walks past the boys to assist Sly with the loading.

  “Well come on then. The least you can do is help get this stuff onto our truck. You can keep the stuff in your bags and we’ll dig up some more supplies for you if you decide not to come with us. We can even give you a ride home or close to it but I really recommend you come with us. We have safety in numbers.” Sly stood by as Giant propped open the door, giving her the high sign.

  The Boys walk to the door, peering out at the black 4x4, crew cab, long bed Chevy pickup. It is raised slightly and has a stout rear bumper. The bed of the truck is empty. The driver, unseen by the boys at this point, remains in the cab of the truck with the engine running. The passenger door opens and an older black male, with a receding hairline and a salt and pepper Afro, steps out, wearing simple blue jeans, a grey hooded sweatshirt, and work boots. He cradles a Mossberg 12 gauge shotgun.

  “Why isn’t he in uniform?” Brett asks Giant.

  Before Giant can answer, the man says, “It’s because these two think they’re some sort of super assassination team. Always dressed like characters from a comic book or something.”

  “What Papi is saying is, we don’t all have the same uniforms. In fact most of us don’t have uniforms at all. Giant and I made our uniforms out of a bunch of leftover wet suits and surplus army supplies from the uniform shop up on Oregon St. It helps keep us warm and we can carry essentials for raids.” Sly speaks as she moves between the pallet of supplies and the bed of the pickup. Giant follows in step, but carries far more than Sly can. All the while Papi remains vigilant, scanning the area for movement.

  The boys each pick up cases of bottled water, walking them to the pickup. Papi pays them no attention. Every time Roger and Brett pass by Sly she smiles, and soon Giant begins to hum a Christmas carol. Papi, looking irritated, shoots Giant a menacing glance, failing to shut him up.

  Roger stops and looks at the fast dwindling supplies from the pallet, realizing Giant was correct—they loaded the supplies fast. “So what about our supplies?”

  Sly places her hand on Roger’s left shoulder, “Giant told you we would give you some supplies and take you home or as close as we can.”

  “Aw, fuck, really, Sylvia?” Papi questions, sounding annoyed.

  “Really, Papi. They were nice enough to watch the stuff for us, the least we can do is take them home and pay them for their troubles.” Sly continues to smile at the boys.

  “Fine. Let’s get moving. They’re already coming.” Papi walks back out to the front of the truck, spying four slow moving zombies nearby. “Let’s load up. You can tell us where you’re staying once were moving. Giant, take perch in the bed.”

  “Yes, Papi,” Giant answers, hoisting himself into the bed of the truck, making the suspension groan.

  “Where are you guys staying?” Roger asks as the truck pulls away from the last supplies he knows of within walking distance from the tree house.

  “The Atrium,” Sly answers.

  CHAPTER 11.

  Crawlspace and dreams

  Jack can hear the man in white’s footsteps crisscrossing the floor from time to time. The trap door remains closed, leaving Jack and the zombie family in near darkness. It took the zombie family several minutes to calm down after the wife was fed. Jack didn’t bother watching the zombie consume his flesh. The day had been bad enough as it was. His body aches as his level of discomfort has reaches far beyond any he has ever suffered. He wishes for his bed. He wishes for Julia and Ronan. He closes his eyes, resting his head against the wooden support. He concentrates on his family, blocking out the pain in his left arm. He drifts off.

  The drive home was tense. Jack witnessed several traffic accidents on the way, not stopping to help anybody. His good Samaritan ways were now far behind him, and all he wanted to do was get home, lock his doors and windows, crawl into his bed and wait for police, army, anybody to gain control of the situation. He convinced himself the nightmare would end soon. Obviously that guy wasn’t a zombie. Zombies don’t exist. He reached his modest three-bedroom house built in a cookie cutter sub-division. He didn’t care for the house, but remained because he had nowhere else to go. Julia had picked the house when she was pregnant with Ronan and Jack went along with it because it kept him in town and close to the schools where he frequently substituted. His hope was to live in the house for a few years then move out to the country. Unfortunately the downturn in the economy fucked that dream.

  Jack pulled his station wagon into the short driveway. He didn’t bother opening the garage. There was no room for the car. He’d begun moving Julia’s things to the garage several weeks prior but hadn’t organized the belongings. At the other end of the house, Ronan’s room remained untouched. He knew it was clichéd to do so, but he couldn’t bring himself to move anything in his son’s room. He spoke with Julia’s ghost often, which gave him hope Ronan would come home to find his toys right where he left them. Jack exited the car, not bothering to grab his teaching bag or thermos cup from his morning coffee. He jogged to his front door, unlocking both locks. Once inside, he lowered all the blinds and shut the or
nate curtain Julia had bought. The curtain covered a large sliding glass door leading to the small backyard. Soon Jack found himself sitting on the couch with heavy eyes, flipping through the static on the TV.

  Tires squealed as they lost traction speeding around the corner next to Jack’s house. Jack sat straight up from the couch. He had been asleep for the better part of two hours. He could hear the car accelerating away from the house. It wasn’t a foreign sound and Jack always worried about cars speeding on his street. He sat listening as distant sirens howled. It’s not getting any better. He looked back down at the TV as static played. He grabbed the remote, turning the channel several times until he came across a station with an “Emergency Broadcast” banner. Only the annoying hum was audible. No crawl appeared at the bottom of the banner.

  “What’s going on out there?” Jack tossed the remote back onto the couch, and walked to his front window. He slowly separated the blinds with his fingers to take a quick peek at the outside world. The headlights came out of nowhere, blinding him. He dove to the side as the car entered his front yard and crashed through his living room wall. Debris fell everywhere and a thick cloud of dust lofted through the air. Jack regained his feet looking at the destroyed compact car. He coughed and waved dust away from his face, then noticed movement inside the wrecked vehicle. A hideous sound erupted, followed by bloody hands striking at the side windows from within. Jack backed away from the car, making his way down the hall to his bedroom. He heard glass breaking behind him as he closed and locked the bedroom door. The flimsy push button lock and hollow door didn’t instill much confidence, but it was all he had at the moment.

  Jack leaned against the bedroom door, scanning the room, frantically attempting to put together an escape plan. I have no clue what to do. Maybe I should just sit and wait to die. Wait to see…The terrible sounds from down the hall ignited Jack’s will to survive. Quickly, he donned a pair of his favorite blue jeans. He pulled a long sleeve shirt over his head, followed by a plain grey hooded sweatshirt. All the while he could hear them in the hall moaning, hissing and gurgling. They were moving closer to his bedroom door. Jack grabbed a long leather belt and began feeding it through the belt loops on his jeans. He grabbed his buck knife and leather holder from atop his dresser, slipping it through the belt on his left side. On his right rested the .45 he received from his gun enthusiast father just after college. Jack wasn’t one for violence and he didn’t care for the gun all that much, but he did learn how to shoot and properly take care of the weapon. It made his father happy, so in turn it made him happy. Two full clips rested in leather holders just in front of the sidearm, another gift from his father. Jack hadn’t felt that much weight on his belt in, well, forever. How do cops do this?

  Jack reached into his closet, retrieving his work boots. It had been some time since he had worn them, so they were near the back of his closet. Luckily he had lost all interest in keeping his room tidy since Julia had died so it was easy to retrieve the boots, plus most of her stuff had been moved to the garage. Everything except a black Jack Johnson t-shirt Julia had purchased at a concert in San Diego nearly ten years ago. He loved the way the shirt looked on her and joked often his last name should have been Johnson. He sat at the edge of the bed attempting to pull his first boot on, realizing his growing beer gut made the task impossible. He slid down to the floor and pulled it on.

  Just as the boot slipped over his heel the bedroom door was pushed open. The first zombie through the door was a young female with blonde hair. Half of her face was missing along with part of her bottom jaw. Her tongue wiggled about as the remaining part of her jaw snapped open and closed. The zombie fell to the floor over the bottom part of the broken bedroom door. It clawed at the carpet quickly finding Jack in her field of vision. Jack, stunned by the sudden entrance and appearance of the zombie, scooted away from her as fast as he could. He scooted over several days worth of dirty clothes on his way to the solid wall. The zombie scurried after him, pouncing like a cat, landing square on top of him. Jack instinctively raised his a hands to block the zombie. The broken jaw of the zombie snapped shut, catching nothing but thick sweatshirt material covering Jack’s left arm. The material was soon frayed between the broken sharp teeth. The zombie found it was caught as it pulled its head back.

  The struggle intensified as the zombie thrashed, trying to free itself. Jack looked like a police dog trainer, wearing the heavy padded sleeve the dog would latch onto and shake violently. Jack punched at the zombie’s head several times, then the rational side of his thoughts

  caught up with his actions. His right hand slid down, unsnapping the holster containing the .45. He swiftly removed the weapon, placing it in the gaping mouth of the zombie. The boom was deafening. The back of the zombie’s head became a cloud of red dust. Her body slumped forward, spilling blood all over Jack’s sweatshirt. While attempting to push the lifeless zombie to the side he spotted them. Two more zombies entered the room during the ruckus and were ready to attack. Jack wasted no time raising the .45. At close range, the shots were easy with one hand. Both zombies dropped to the floor missing most of their heads.

  Jack pushed the female off of him. He crept to the broken bedroom door, peering around the corner for movement. Once satisfied he was alone, even though there was a 10x10 opening in his front room, he began to undress. He pulled the soiled shirts over his head, tasting copper. He wanted to vomit. He held the bile down and retrieved another t-shirt from his drawer and found his other hooded sweatshirt on the floor. He brushed away the few bits of skull and brain matter that had managed to land on the sweatshirt and pulled it over his head. He slid back down to the floor and pulled on the other boot. He laced both up completely, something he’d never done. The smell of smoke lofted into the room. Not smoke from a fireplace, smoke from something electrical mixed with…

  Jack looked back down the hall. The damn car had caught fire and it was fast spreading. Jack turned, dropping to his knees. He reached under the bed and grabbed an old blue backpack Julia had kept from college. He grabbed several pairs of clean underwear, socks, an extra pair of jeans and a t-shirt. He slipped into his bathroom quickly grabbing aspirin, generic heartburn medication, toothpaste, his toothbrush, a small first-aid kit and a box of matches he left behind the commode for various reasons. He stuffed the backpack, zipping it closed. He walked to the small sliding glass door leading from his bedroom to the small backyard, then thought of Ronan. He thought of all the Hot Wheels Ronan loved and the one in particular he always had to have on road trips. The Hot Wheel sat in Ronan’s room prominently displayed at the edge of his headboard.

  Jack walked back to the hall. The fire was growing rapidly, already starting down the hall. He knew it was only a matter of minutes, maybe seconds, before the entire house was engulfed. He held his arms up over his face, blocking the heat as he raced for Ronan’s door. He reached the door in just a few steps, but the heat was unbearable. He felt as though his skin would catch fire at any moment. He reached out quickly, grabbing the door handle, but instantly pulled his hand away from the super-heated metal. “Son of a bitch!” His eyes darted up, catching sight of the colorful paper hanging on the door that read “Ronan’s room”. The paper fluttered in the heat, then burst into flames. He stood motionless, watching the paper burn, watching his son’s name disappear into a black sheet of ash that lofted away from the door. The heat pushed at the side of Jack’s head and a blister began to form on his earlobe. He reared back and kicked the door in.

  The cool air from the room burst forward, knocking Jack back a couple of feet. He bounced off the wall and scrambled inside the room, spotting the Hot Wheel with the number 32 emblazoned on the hood. He swiped the car up and spotted his favorite Giant’s baseball hat. Ronan had been wearing it the morning of his death and left the hat on his bed before he left. Jack snatched the hat up and quickly opened the window. He punched out the screen, threw the backpack out onto the gravel walkway spanning the side of the house, and pulled himself
out the window. He landed flat on his back, realizing he wasn’t graceful by any stretch of the imagination. He regained his feet, grabbed the backpack, put his hat on and cautiously walked to his front yard. He stood in the shadows watching the city burn.

  CHAPTER 12.

  Going home?

  “I know the neighborhood,” says Craig Prudy, a lanky man with pasty skin and slicked back flaxen hair. From the driver’s seat, he maneuvers the black Chevy out of the Shasta View Square rear parking lot. He glides the large truck around walkers, occasionally bumping one to the ground, but for the most part he avoids contact with the zombies. Giant remains in the bed of the truck, paying the walkers little attention. He is busy scanning for runners. Not only are some of the runners fast, they can also climb into the bed of the truck. Giant discovered this fact during an early supply run. Now he watches carefully, with his 12-gauge at the ready.

  “Alta Mesa was pretty clear when we passed earlier today,” Roger, explains from the back seat where he and Brett are riding with Sly. “There was a few dead hanging from a traffic light and one fell. Other than that and a few cars it’s good.”

  Brett is in the middle, but doesn’t mind. His infatuation with Sly is growing by leaps and bounds. His left leg rests against hers, causing heart palpitations. Roger stares out the window watching familiar streets drift by. He studies the homes that once teemed with life, but are now marked with big painted numbers and letters. 4ZX, 2HX, 0, 1HX, 1ZX…and so on. Most windows and doors are left open or destroyed. Around another familiar corner they turn and Roger spies what he thinks is a dog eating the body of a dead person. As the truck slowly passes, Roger can swear the body moves. It looks like it is trying to swat at the dog. Nobody else comments on the dog, so he lets it go. He continues viewing the outside world from the safety of the moving truck, feeling as though a bad movie is playing in the window. He feels safe, but at the same time apprehension is growing within. His hands begin to nervously twitch near the door handle. His eyes dart back and forth between the movie playing outside and the door lock that remains unlocked.