Dust of the Devil's Land

by Bryan Killian

  Giant steps forward but is stopped by a firm hand to his chest. His stare meets Sly’s pale eyes. She nods towards the door. He squints then exits the office with Sly close behind.

  “Do you remember when the military first arrived, how excited and relieved we were? I had the same feeling about this place and the people we came with. Hell, I had that feeling up to about a week ago but now it’s the same as when our own military betrayed us.” Sly grabs Giant by the arm, stopping him. His massive shoulders slump.

  “I have the same feeling. We’re all going to die in here. McCaw is blind to what’s really happening out there. He’s the opposite of the military but just as dangerous. But what you’re proposing is essentially murder.” Giant faces Sly before continuing his speech. “If we bug out these people will be left with only McCaw and his band of bureaucrats. They won’t stand a chance. We know the weak entry points. We know not enough trained personnel exist to watch this place.”

  “I understand your hesitation, but it’s been you and me through this entire nightmare. We now have some comrades in arms that deserve to fight another day and now we have two boys we brought into this mess. All they want to do is go home and by the looks of them they have done just fine for themselves. All I’m suggesting is we give them a ride home in two fully fueled vehicles with plenty of supplies to keep five of us happy for, oh let’s say the rest of time.” Sly hopes her little speech will make Giant see things her way. It pains her thinking of the rest of the Atrium population, but it pains her more to think of dying for them. She just doesn’t have it in her anymore.

  Giant continues looking into Sly’s unblinking eyes, a contest he has lost every time. “You know I’m with you. You know I can’t let you go out there on your own, even though you’re one bad-ass bitch.”

  “Language.”

  “Ha. Your virgin ears can handle it. I’ll find Papi and find out how things are going,” Giant loses the staring contest yet again but knows he has the better swagger and struts away.

  “Yes, we all know you’re destined for the runway. I’m going up top. I’ll be down later, or sooner if things are real bad.”

  ***

  On the roof of the Atrium Anderson peers out over the streets with high-powered binoculars. “She’s right. They’re coming right back here, slowly, but they’re moving in our direction. And I see more coming. How can there be more? I thought the military killed most of them, leaving a few stragglers.” Anderson let the binoculars hang from his neck, turning to Del Rio and Sanford.

  Sanford, in his early fifties, has graying temples and wrinkles around his eyes to prove his age, though most of the signs of aging started right after the event. He stands silently. He is of medium build and in fairly good shape, thanks to his love for bicycling. Hidden under his semi-baggy jeans were the legs of a twenty year old. He rubs the four-day-old grey scruff on his chin, watching Del Rio dig yet another Kool from his shirt pocket. “They’re probably coming this way because they can smell those things,” Sanford says, pointing to the cigarette dangling from Del Rio’s mouth.

  “Well I’d chew if I had some, but I’m stuck with this and I need the nicotine.” Del Rio lights the cigarette. His barrel chest draws in a healthy lung full of smoke. His dirty white T and red-checkered flannel shirt are no match for his massive beer gut. Lawrence Del Rio, Larry for short, had been a capable long haul truck driver before the event. He lost his truck near the Atrium, but was lucky enough to meet up with Papi. He did what he could to help secure the building and was tremendously thankful when the big Samoan and the girl arrived. They were able to pick up the slack and they had some chew and smokes. Del Rio isn’t a man of action, and often sits on the roof watching for zombies to roam by, or fires to pop up around the city, but most of all, he just stares towards the north where Oregon waits for him to come home. He wonders if Medford has survived the event, or if it even reached his hometown. Stuck here with a bunch of locals, just my luck. Del Rio steps away from Anderson and Sanford in an effort to appear somewhat respectful, but stays within earshot.

  “I need to check with McCaw about reinforcing the perimeter,” Anderson explains, “Let me know if the numbers continue to grow. I don’t think the front of the ice cream parlor can handle much weight.” He heads back to the ladder leading back into the Atrium.

  “I still think we should take the fork lift and an armed detail and retrieve more of them steel boxes from that rental yard a few blocks over. The two we have in the alley work well, why don’t we get more?” Sanford asks, pointing southwest.

  Anderson follows the gesture knowing all too well the location of the rental yard, and he knows several empty Conex boxes sit in the front lot. He also knows the forklift has an open cage and is slow as molasses, “I’ll run it by McCaw again. I think your idea warrants some merit and should be considered.” Anderson disappears down the ladder.

  “I know we can get at least one of those boxes over here and drop it right in front of the ice cream shop,” Sanford yells down the ladder. He shrugs his shoulders knowing his plan is solid and needs to be completed soon.

  “You driving the lift? You wouldn’t catch me in that thing,” Del Rio states as he flicks his cigarette butt off the roof.

  The cigarette butt falls slowly, finding the head of a fresh zombie that has wandered in from the east under the canopy of well-established trees. The former teenager, once a rising star on his high school’s speech and debate team, now stands with grey foggy eyes staring blankly into the sky. His clothes are fairly clean with small bloodstains visible on his light blue polo shirt. The bite he suffered, from his best friend on the back of his right arm, is black. After killing his best friend with a garden gnome, he crawled behind a line of dense shrubs, spending the last hour of his life debating the pros and cons of suicide. During his final minutes he simply felt sorry for himself. During his last seconds he felt nothing.

  The fresh teenager stands in front of the same ice cream parlor he and his family visited several times a month. Driven by an unknown instinct, he walks up the steps, turns into the alcove and grasps the front door handle. The door doesn’t open.

  CHAPTER 19.

  Conversations

  Jack…Jack…JACK

  Jack’s eyes pop open, finding nothing but darkness. He tilts his head to the side, and for the briefest moment can feel her touch, smell her skin and hear her voice echo throughout his tomb. He closes his eyes, seeing her face next to his. He smiles and his thoughts gather much faster than they have in the past 24 hours. Time is running out, his shoulders and back are tremendously sore, his legs are useless and numb and his left hand and forearm continue bleeding through the dressing. Jack moves his hands, feeling blood soaked rope. His thoughts slow, as much from the effects of dehydration as from new thoughts forming in his mind. I have one shot at this, Julia. If it doesn’t work I’ll see you and Ronan soon.

  Jack lifts his head high and vigorously moves his hands back and forth. Progress is slow and he finds he needs something to push his hands against. He attempts to slide his body down and forward, in an effort to find purchase on the ground. Instantaneous spasms grip his lower back and continue through his legs. A vise clamps down on his body, causing his lungs to ache for air. Breathing is now a tremendous struggle.

  “Mutha fucka. Hmmph, hmmph.” Spit flies from the sides of the gag. Spasms continue traveling from muscle to muscle as Jack feels the surly binds of unconsciousness creeping up again. He stops moving, stops struggling and sits still. He closes his eyes, thinking only of his air. He starts breathing through his nose, controlling his lungs, pulling air in, and dispelling it deliberately, methodically. He is practicing the same breathing drill he used while teaching America’s future. The spasm in his lower back begins easing, then bolts of lightning shoot up his spine from his rectum and into the depths of his brain. All signs his body needs fluid, nourishment, and most of all, freedom. The second jolt makes his hands clench…he feels its jagged sides. His fingers stretch downw
ard, grasping the object, moving it slightly. There is weight, enough weight to make a weapon. Cue the adrenaline.

  His hands move back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Blood drips from his open wounds providing lubrication. Back and forth, up and down, back and forth. The interior darkness of his mind begins closing in as his energy rapidly drains. Almost there. Almost… The darkness retreats as his hands shoot forward. He can barely see the outline of his own hands in the murky light of the crawl space, but he can make out the dressing hanging from his butchered left hand. He stares in disbelief for a moment at his left hand, then notices all the glorious fingers on his outstretched right hand. They are beautiful.

  Light floods the crawl space. The zombie family begins whooping and hollering as only a zombie family can. It is feeding time, after all. Jack places his hands behind the post and cautiously digs the jagged piece of broken cinder block from the blood-moistened earth. His plan is crude, ill conceived, and probably won’t work, like most of his plans of late. He waits.

  The man in white climbs down into the space carrying a small battery-powered lantern, “Hello, my loves. I’ll be with you in a moment after I tend to our guest. I brought extra light so I can look at your wounds, Jack. Don’t need you expiring.”

  Mother fucker has been in my stuff! Jack stares at the man in white as he duck-walks over to him. He watches patiently as his captor straddles his legs and leans in close with the lantern held to one side. The eerie light casts a pale glow on the man’s face. Jack can see he recently shaved and once again his breath smells fresh.

  “You look wide awake today, Jack. Where do you get your energy? I don’t think I could…”

  Pow, mother fucker!

  Jack’s right hand, holding the jagged piece of cinder block, strikes from behind the post, connecting solidly with his captor’s left temple, knocking him to the dirt. Jack rolls with the man, placing his weight on him. He swings the weapon rapidly, bashing the man’s face and neck.

  The man in white struggles, but is dazed by the first blow. He raises his hands in an effort to thwart the beating, but quickly realizes this is a mistake. His left hand is swept aside as another blow lands against his temple. The zombie family begins thrashing back and forth in their bindings. They growl, gurgle, hiss and moan loudly. Jack props himself up with his wounded left hand just long enough to bring down the final blow. The cinder block combined with his upper body weight breaks the man’s jaw, sending broken teeth deep into his windpipe. The man in white suffocates, dying moments later.

  Jack flops over onto his back. His energy is sapped, his left hand is throbbing, and the spasm in his lower back has traveled to his upped back. He reaches up with his right hand and removes the ball gag. Air rushes into his mouth unabated; it feels glorious yet his eyes feel heavy as the adrenaline rush subsides. He wants to sleep. No. He rolls onto his side, pulling his legs in close. Pins and needles run up and down his legs as blood returns. The pain is preferable to the numbness he had been suffering. Slowly he works out the kinks, bending, stretching, reaching, and eventually resting flat on his back. Thirty feet away the zombie family continues protesting.

  “Shut the fuck up.” Jack sits upright, looking at the family of four, feeling a sudden rush of contempt. “Fuck you, all of you, and your fucking crazy father or husband or whatever you call him. My escape plan is working perfectly like it always does. Now shut the fuck up!” His escape plan is working so far, but Jack knows he needs to get the hell out of the crawl space. A moving shadow catches his eye. He turns his head, meeting the foggy gaze of the man in white. “Shit!”

  CHAPTER 20.

  Satellites

  Far above Earth the satellites dance, even though mankind has suffered a great blow with the rise of the dead. Technology continues its systematic, mathematical and binary-based march into the future. Programs run, check, self-check and recheck. There are some failures and satellites go offline, but for the most part signals are sent, received and answered. One such signal continues as a finger presses down on a small black keyboard deep within a structure. Code is transmitted, received and read by a man in uniform sitting at a console in a darkened room. He reaches for a small binder sitting at the edge of his desk. A coffee cup, half full of vodka, sits near the edge of the desk with the words “dada בעסטער” emblazoned on its side. The binder should be locked away, but the uniformed man is the only person left in this office. Though his eyes are bloodshot, his teeth in need of a good brushing, and his deodorant has long ago given up, he still manages a smile as he reads the information before him.

  CHAPTER 21.

  The boys and the Atrium

  Deep in the bowels of the Atrium the Squad gathers along with Roger and Brett. Stanley Yonkey has joined the discussion, as Sly’s invited guest. The group sits quietly in flickering candlelight, waiting for the last members’ arrival. Finally, somebody taps on the large door. Tap…tap…tap tap tap.

  Giant pulls open the door, allowing Anderson in. “Your beard is looking good old man,” Giant states as Anderson takes a seat near Craig Prudy.

  “Thanks. I think the grey makes me look distinguished. Reminds me to never use Just for Men anymore.” Anderson grins as he removes his glasses, placing them inside a beat-up hard-shelled case.

  “Huh, Just for Men. Probably the only thing left on the shelves out there,” Giant quips back.

  Roger and Brett watch Anderson intently before shifting their gaze around all the new people in their lives. Roger’s left eye is still swollen, making it difficult for him to see. Giant, looking his way, nods. Roger, feeling he has taken the large man’s best punch, and lived to tell about it, nods back. Brett is satisfied watching everything Sly does, not caring if he is caught. It is the end of the world, after all.

  Sly breathes deeply and speaks, “At the end of this meeting we are going to take a vote. Whatever the outcome, we stick by the vote. We are still somewhat civilized. Today’s haul was a good one and should set this place up for at least two full weeks before another run is needed. Unfortunately we also led the zombies back here. They know we’re in here and as we speak, more and more are gathering outside. That goddamn ice cream shop will be the death of us all.”

  “I spoke with Adam.” Anderson delivers his news with his arms folded. Roger thinks the old man looks like a professor. “He’s finally on board with retrieving another storage container from the rental yard and using it to block that window and door.”

  “It may be too late for that. To make that happen we have to draw away as many of those things as possible, and hope they stay with us while somebody, and it won’t be me and I hope none of you, drives that slow ass forklift across three city blocks, picks up a container that’s probably too big and drives it back here, all while having no real protection. If the dead lose interest and return back here, that plan and everybody helping out is fucked. Especially if there’s a runner or two in the bunch.”

  “Ok, so what are you suggesting?” Craig asks just as Papi is about to speak up. Craig receives the stern Papi look.

  Sly hesitates before answering, “This will not sound good but I promise you it’s our best bet for survival. We, everybody here, bugs out. We put as much mileage as we can between us and the Atrium.”

  The room remains silent. Papi leans against the wall, having been made aware of the plan earlier. Craig stares at Sly with disbelieving eyes. Giant doesn’t care one way or another, because Sly has saved his ass on more than one occasion, so he’s along for the ride, no matter what. Anderson hangs his head placing his hands up to his face, praying silently.

  Yonkey looks around the room noting the facial reaction of every member. “I’m new here. I have Sly and Giant to thank for bringing me in, so I vote we go. I’ve been in the ice cream parlor and you’re right. It’s only a matter of time before the dead find their way in. If there are too many we will be forced to the upper levels and we’ll surely lose a few residents along the way. I’m just concerned about those we ar
e proposing to leave behind. Is there anyone else we want to bring in on this?”

  “I have gone over this scenario again and again and every time we try to get anybody else on board it ends badly,” Sly says, gesturing around the room. “We’ll never convince the entire population here to leave just because the zombies are gathering outside the walls. Everybody in here has dealt with this nightmare. The inner trio of evil that is Adam, Liz and Edward can’t be broken. Luckily for me you’re level headed and see the risks involved with staying here.”

  Anderson remains still, hands clasped together in front of his chest. “Sly’s correct. Those three upstairs will not leave this place and they’ll put up a fight if they know we are preparing to bug out. Adam is convinced this is the safest sanctuary for survivors. He’s not a bad guy, but stubborn as hell, and he won’t give up a couple of the vehicles. They’re his life line of sorts.”

  “Alright. So it comes down to this. I don’t like the idea of leaving these people behind, but I don’t want to die here. I’m not ready to give up the fight for survival just because we’re in here and there’s people weaker or ill-equipped to take care of themselves. When Giant and I fled because of the military, we had to fight our way through shit.” Sly’s hard exterior wanes a bit under the emotional toll.

  Craig asks, “If the vote is to stay, will you stay?”

  Sly thinks for a minute. She looks to Giant for affirmation. He nods. She looks at the boys, now in her charge. Her chest tightens slightly as she thinks back. She’s never given up on anything in her life. She pitched a no-hitter her senior year in high school with a broken rib. She graduated near the top of her class in the Police Academy, landing one of only two openings with the Shasta County Sheriff’s Department. She even finished reading Under the Dome though she so badly wanted to skip to the end. Roger’s looking at her with his bruised and swollen eye while Brett’s staring with a puppy dog look. We should’ve let them go home. “No. I have to leave and I have to ensure these two get back to their home safely. They didn’t want to come here and we kinda brought them against their will, so no, I won’t be staying but I understand if the rest of you want to stay. That’s why we need to vote.”