Dust of the Devil's Land

by Bryan Killian

  “Where the fuck would we go if we vote to leave?” Craig asks, his chest puffed out slightly, displaying the anger boiling up inside.

  “ I want to take these two home first. After that, my plan is to head just south of Cottonwood. I know of a couple of ranches down there that would be ideal. Lots of open land surrounded by nice new barbwire fences, a well with freshwater, room to garden and there’s a ranch that operates mostly on solar power. It’s been in the back of my mind ever since this shit started.”

  “Is there another way?” Yonkey asks nervously, rubbing his hands together. “Like maybe we can stay long enough to help secure the ice cream shop?”

  Anderson answers, “We have nothing left in this place to secure that window, other than stacking some cases of water in front of it and keeping a guard posted. I don’t see what we can do other than retrieve another Conex box. But I agree with Sly, it’s a suicide mission. We don’t have enough weapons or fighters in this place to ensure the mission is successful. I think if we leave Adam will move everybody to the upper levels where he can keep an eye on them. It may keep them safe. If we stick around for a few days we may be able to help our own cause while helping the people in here ensure their own safety. There’s always a way, we just need to brainstorm.”

  Sly looks around the room before answering, “I’ll give you that. We can prep in secret; help with the container plan, then bail after the container is in place or when things go horribly wrong. Either way, we need two vehicles ready to go and enough supplies for at least a week. The ranches are about 15 miles from here but that could take several days to navigate depending on what we find out on the roads.”

  “I say we vote,” Craig says, looking straight at Sly. “We know your vote Sly, so how about you, big guy?”

  “I go where she goes,” Giant states in a low rumbling voice.

  “I’m in,” Anderson follows.

  In his usual irritable tone, Papi says, “I vote we go.”

  “Like I said, they brought me in so I go where they go,” Yonkey answers, gesturing towards Giant and Sly.

  “So I’m the odd man out,” Craig argues, spittle flying from his bottom lip. “I thought we really had something here but you all grew thick yellow stripes, didn’t you. So a few zombies are pounding at the front door. There’s nothing that says we have to let them in.”

  “You’re not the odd man out. You have a choice and you made it, “Sly says, stepping over to Craig, touching his arm. “.I commend you on sticking to your principals. It may be the only human trait any of us has left. I just ask…I’m really begging for your help with prepping. You have access to the keys. I… we are only asking for two trucks or a truck and van. That leaves you with four fully operating vehicles. Can you do that for us?”

  He pulls away sharply. “Sure. I can do that, but don’t ask for anything else.” Craig walks towards the closed door shaking his head, when Papi steps in front of him.

  “Think about this. Take the night. Remember, you’re my wheelman and there’s nobody I trust more than you,” Papi is looking Craig in the eye hoping he’ll see things differently if he takes a moment.

  “I know Pap. I just can’t abandon these people. I thought you would vote the same but…” Craig pushes Papi’s hand away and exits the room, disappearing up the darkened staircase.

  “48 hours and we are out of here. Everybody got that?” Sly asks with her back to the group. Through the murmurs she hears the replies she needs.

  CHAPTER 22.

  Oh shit

  Jack remains still. He stares into the foggy grey eyes of the man in white. The thing’s lower jaw hangs loosely from the right side, but jagged broken teeth remain in place. Jack surmises that even though his newly returned tormentor can’t bite down with a broken jaw he will surely be cut by the infected broken teeth. Adrenaline returns, masking the aches and pains throughout his body.

  The man in white turns his head slowly, looking for movement. There is none. He stands, banging hard into the low ceiling, knocking himself to the ground. Jack seizes the moment, turning over quickly, reaching for the broken piece of cinder block. Too late, the man in white is on top of him.

  Jack thrusts, throwing the man in white from his back. Like a feral cat the man in white is back up and charging. Just as the new zombie comes within arm’s length, Jack strikes him with the piece of cinder block, driving him to the ground hard. Though Jack has made contact with the zombie’s head, it doesn’t quite do the trick. The minimal skull fracture isn’t enough to stop the zombie brain, however it does slow him. The man in white is having trouble regaining his stance.

  The crumbling pieces of cinder block fall from Jack’s open right hand. “Fuck.” Out of the corner of his eye Jack spies the doctor’s bag and dives for it, just as the man in white props himself up on his knees. In an instant Jack’s dead captor charges again. The man in white’s jaw hangs loosely, allowing his bulbous tongue to protrude from his mouth for a brief second.

  Jack straddles the man in white, pulling as hard as he can on the stainless steel surgical cutters. They pop free from the man in white’s forehead with a slight sucking sound. “I fucking told you to let me go.” Jack slumps to the ground rolling over onto his back. He tilts his head to one side, looking across the crawl space at the zombie family. They are eerily docile and quiet just staring at him.

  “What the fuck are you looking at? Why aren’t you…why are you…” Jack imagines his own family, Ronan and Julia as zombies. He imagines holding their cold dead bodies against his, giving them life again. He remembers the last time he saw Ronan alive, telling him to leave the Giant’s hat at home and Ronan telling him he had forgotten his favorite Hot Wheel in his room. “You guys are running late. You’ll have time to play when you get home. Love you guys, see you tonight.” I didn’t even turn around and wave at them. I could’ve seen them a few seconds more.

  “I’m sorry about your dad and your husband. I wish there was a cure, but there’s not.” Jack pulls the medical bag close, opening it towards the light shining through the door in the floor. He rummages through it, finding just the instrument he needs. He removes a long ice pick from the bag, feeling the satisfying weight in his hands. He looks back over to the bound zombies, thinking they needn’t suffer any longer. Jack crawls over to the zombie family, feeling faint. His adrenaline is fading; he needs to rest, find nourishment and heal. He props himself up on his knees, threatening to fall forward into the waiting open mouth of the mother. He regains his balance, looking straight into dead eyes.

  “I’m sorry, your name escapes me. I hope you and your family were happy before this all started. I hope you find each other. With any luck there is a God and he, she, whatever your belief, is looking down on us right now. Do you see this, God? I’m trying to do the right thing here. I’m cleaning up this fucking mess. I’m surviving.” Tears roll down his cheeks as he raises the ice pick. “I’m sorry.” Jack drives the pick straight into the forehead of the zombie mother.

  Jack wipes tears from his eyes and moves to the next zombie. He can’t remember if her name is Darla or Darlene. “I hope peace finds you.” Jack performs the same maneuver, breathing a sigh of relief. He studies the family all slumped against their bindings. He focuses on the boy for a minute, thinking of Ronan. His thoughts are torturous, driving wedges of guilt deep into his psyche and suicide flashes like breaking news. It’d be so easy to end it all…but the voice in his head, the voice of his dead wife, will never allow it.

  Jack climbs the short ladder, leaving the crawlspace behind. His body broadcasts every bruise, pulled muscle, and stiff joint he has. It’s all he can do to hoist the medical bag over his head through the door in the floor. He follows the bag onto the kitchen floor, remaining on his back, staring at the ceiling. Fading daylight slips into the kitchen through small openings in the shuttered windows. Light-headedness returns and he suddenly feels as though he’ll vomit. He rolls over onto his knees. He grasps the hatch, finding it heavier than h
e anticipated, or he is weaker than he realized. He takes a deep breath and hoists the hatch up and then over with a solid thud. It is secured with two sliding bolts at either end. Jack gathers the medical bag and makes his way out of the kitchen.

  Jack shuffles around the bottom floor of the house, checking each window and door. Blood drips from his hand and he feels a sudden tinge of guilt when he sees the stain on the carpet. He leans against walls to avoid falling down. Loss of blood is fast becoming his biggest enemy, yet he knows he has to secure the bottom floor. I’ll be damned if I’m going to become dinner after that. He makes it back to the kitchen, reasonably sure the house is secure, and decides it’s time to sit down and play doctor.

  Jack stands in the middle of a large open formal room with ornate furniture. He guesses the man in white’s wife decorated the room as some sort of show room. He never understood the practice, thinking it a waste of perfectly good space. He sits and rifles through the bag, finding several medical tools he suspects are for autopsies or cutting bone. In the bottom of the bag he finds sterile gauze, medical tape, and rubbing alcohol. He opens the alcohol, sniffing it. Oh this is going to hurt. The stinging smell of the alcohol keeps Jack from giving way to unconsciousness. He carefully lays the gauze flat, cuts several long strips of medical tape, placing them gently on the edge of a large glass topped coffee table that holds large coffee table art books. He removes his bloodied shirt, folds over the one sleeve that wasn’t soaked with blood, and bites down hard. He breathes deeply three times and pours the alcohol gingerly over the gaping wounds on his forearm and left hand. His teeth clench tight as he screams into the fabric. He pours more alcohol, watching the blood wash away.

  His head throbs, his breathing grows shallow and blackness creeps into his peripheral vision. He haphazardly wraps the wound in gauze, securing the bandage with the tape strips. He gingerly removes the covering from his amputated left fingers, repeating the process. His left arm now radiates pain like none he has ever felt. The thought of stitching the wounds come to mind but Jack knows he can’t do it. This would have to do.

  Jack attempts to stand, but falls back onto a rather uncomfortable couch. His dizziness is growing worse. He needs food and water. He forces himself to stand, this time able to keep his footing. He finds the wall guiding himself back to the kitchen. He doesn’t bother with the refrigerator, knowing the electricity has been out for some time now. He opens what appears to be the pantry door. Dim light seeps into the dark area. A bright yellow box of Cheerio’s beckons him. He grabs the box, feeling the satisfying weight of its contents. He pulls the top of the box open and scoops a handful of stale Cheerio’s. There are several other boxes of cereal lining the bottom shelf of the pantry. Above a box of Wheat Chex rests an un-opened bottle of grape juice. He picks up the bottle, twists the top off, smelling the contents. The juice is still good.

  Jack makes his way back to the formal room swaying a bit, but careful not to spill any juice on the carpet. He sits on the hard couch and continues eating stale cereal and drinking warm grape juice. He rests his head against the back of the couch and begins to drift. He thinks back to how he had come to this place, the men from the Military that allowed him to escape, the Suburban, the runner that wouldn’t leave him alone and the bag of weapons he’d brought with him. Where are my guns? He continues chewing stale Cheerio’s with his mouth open. Where’s my phone? The thought makes him sit up, but his body isn’t ready to search the house. He sets the grape juice on the large coffee table and attempts to stand. Cereal spills to the floor, grabbing his attention. He looks down at the little O’s on the carpet, then everything goes black.

  CHAPTER 23.

  2nd Floor

  “Didn’t there used to be a game shop here?” Brett asks, following behind Roger. “You know, where we bought the first Batman Arkham game?”

  “I think so. It was on the other side of the outdoor area. Next to the Chucky Cheese rip off,” Roger answers, following Yonkey to the second floor. They pass small indoor campsites containing mattresses, sleeping bags, open suitcases and the occasional camping stove. The stoves are for heating water only, strictly enforced. The Atrium is much larger inside than it appears from the street.

  Roger slows, letting Yonkey move ahead a few paces. He whispers to Brett, “I don’t like this. We need to go at first light or we get that girl, Sly, and her big friend to drive us back to the tree house.”

  “Why should we leave?”

  “Look around, too many people in here and those things out there know. It’s only a matter of time. We need to get while the getting’s good.”

  “What are you two talking about back there?” Yonkey asks with a slight smile on his face. Sensing he had interrupted an important conversation between friends he changes the subject quickly, “Call me Yonkey. I’ll be your guide and camp counselor for the short time we’re here. You know the drill because you were in the meeting. Not a word to anybody. I don’t care if you run into your pals from school, not a word. Now I’ll set you two up with your own bed. Sorry, you’ll have to share.”

  “Are there other kids here our age?” Roger asks, cocking his head to the side to gain a clearer view of the bottom floor.

  “I don’t know, what’s your age?”

  “Twelve and thirteen.”

  Brett protests, “I’ll be thirteen soon.”

  “No, I think the twins are ten and there are several more children all between, I would say three and six, but I don’t think we have any teenagers here.”

  Brett smiles at the thought of being a teenager, since he only has three months to go. Yonkey continues walking to the main staircase on the east side of the building. The boys quickly catch up.

  “You said we might have to share a bed?” Roger asks somewhat disappointed.

  “Yep. We only have one left and you two get to share it.”

  Roger and Brett stare at one another with obvious unease at the prospect of sharing a bed.

  “Sleep head to toe. That’s what I did with my brother for a few years when I was much younger. It’ll work; granted, if the other guy’s feet don’t stink.”

  Both boys laugh.

  “Good, you have a sense of humor. We’ll get along fine. If you need anything you come find me. I’m always around.” Yonkey sees Edward watching them closely. He nods at the man and begins speaking again. “So over here is the…” Yonkey leads Roger and Brett out of Edward’s sight. “You two listen closely. You’ll be sleeping on floor 3 tonight. There is a man up their named Edward. He gives me the creeps, freaks me out because he reminds me of the Tall Man.”

  “Tall Man?” Roger asks.

  “You never saw Phantasm? Whatever.” Yonkey walks the boys towards the staircase spotting Edwards legs just as they appear from the top. He’s wearing the same style of leather Top-Siders Yonkey wore in high school. Creepy!

  “Hey, Edward. These are the two boys Anderson told you about. I was thinking of taking them over to the showers and then getting them something hot to eat,” Yonkey explains with the boys standing directly behind him.

  “No need. I’ll handle it. I understand you two don’t wish to stay long. What a pity. It’s quite nice here. Consensus is we only have to wait out the zombies. Some are, for a lack of a better term, dying from starvation,” Edward said eloquently, often utilizing his hands to emphasize his speech. “Now whom do I have the pleasure of meeting?” He holds his hand out to Roger first.

  Roger steps forward firmly grasping Edward’s hand. He notices the man’s grip is strong but his skin is soft. “I’m Roger Girard and this is my neighbor and best friend Brett Bellman.”

  “Hi, sir,” Brett says, still standing partially behind Yonkey.

  “My name is Edward Rebney. I am a widower and I have no family left in this world, so I have dedicated the remainder of my life to this place. I am a planner by trade so this is right up my proverbial alley.”

  Yonkey stares at the middle-aged man, growing ever more wary. His thin face,
tall slouching stature and graying hair reminds him so vividly of one of the greatest nightmare inducing characters in film. The Tall Man scared the shit out of him one night back in the 90s and shortly after he came out to his mother. “We’ll keep this our little secret….” His mother’s words haunt him daily, and the Tall Man scared him. Both moments in his life fused together, forever reminding him he is a coward. The first time he met Edwards, the emotions spilled into his post event life for the first time giving rise to not trusting Edward.

  Yonkey ask nervously, “Can I show them the showers and get them something to eat before they fall asleep standing up?”

  Edward and the boys look at Yonkey for a few seconds. This moment reaffirmed Roger’s desire to get out of the Atrium and away from the bat-shit crazy adults. He starts to step back when Edward breaks the awkward silence. “I don’t see why not. Why don’t you take them to the showers and I’ll put together a couple plates of hot food. We have left over hot dogs from earlier tonight. Does that sound good with some Doritos, washed down with some root beer or Coke?”

  The boy’s faces light up at the prospect of eating hotdogs and chips. “You really have hot dogs and chips?” Roger’s halts his slow retreat.

  “We sure do. I’ll grab a couple for you guys. See you in ten.” Edward turns gracefully skipping down the stairs towards the bottom floor.