Dust of the Devil's Land

by Bryan Killian

  Both boys look directly at the glass door of the office. Even though the office is small, it has a large window. Candles flicker softly in two corners of the room. Roger looks down at his new white robe, knowing he is wearing nothing else. Brett is in the same boat. More screams echo, then shooting begins.

  “Oh fuck, dude, we need our clothes and we need to get out of here,” Roger barks.

  Brett stands motionless, “Why is this happening now? We just got here. They have food.”

  “Don’t know. We need to go.” Roger frantically searches the room as Brett stands motionless with tears welling up in his eyes.

  The office door flies open. Edward is standing, holding their clothes. “Didn’t have time to wash or press them. Sorry. But you really ought to get dressed. Trouble is brewing downstairs and it’s coming our way.” Edward tosses the dirty clothes on the bed. “I have your rifle outside the door. It’s been cleaned and I found some more ammo for it, plus I was able to grab a 20-gauge pump for you two. Don’t care who takes it, just use it wisely and be warned, it has a hair trigger. Almost shot my foot with it.” Edward stands with his back to the boys as they get dressed, watching both ends of the third-floor corridor. He is holding a Glock 9mm in his right hand. Edward’s well-spoken nature has vanished, which doesn’t go unnoticed by Roger.

  Roger pulls his dirty t-shirt over his head. “How do we get out of here?”

  “I’ll take you down the back stairs. We’ll make our way around whatever is going on and leave through the west doors. The trucks are just outside and I have the keys.”

  “What about the rest of the people? We can’t leave them behind,” Roger protests as he slips his belt through the last belt loop, not noticing he cinched it to the last notch.

  “The group you came in with, they’re planning on leaving anyways. One of them has most of the keys to the trucks but I still have one set. We’ll more than likely see them down there if they’re still alive. Now hurry you two, we need to go.” Edward raises his 9mm and shoots twice at a charging dog. The second shot strikes the shorthaired boxer mix directly in the chest, knocking it backwards. The dog thrashes briefly then stops. “Where did the dogs come from?” Edward asks, not expecting an answer. He doesn’t receive one.

  “Shit, Roger, I can’t get my belt through the back loops. Help me,” Brett pleads.

  Edward hears the plea for help. “Here, let me do it. We need to get out of here.” He drops to his knee, reaching around Brett’s waist, trying to fit the belt through the loops. “The loops are too small for this belt.”

  “It was my dad’s belt. They fit, but you have to work it through.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll get it.” Edward looks Brett in the eye. “We’ll be out of here in a minute.

  “Are you fucking kidding me, you monster?” Yonkey’s voice booms from the doorway.

  Roger, who had turned his back on the open door for just a second, spins quickly, seeing Yonkey standing in the doorway with the look of a mad man.

  “What are you talking about, Stanley? We don’t have time for your twisted ideas of me or anybody else. We need to go.” Edward turns back towards Brett and reaches around his waist. “There we g…”

  Yonkey’s reality fades away into a dark world of despair, death, chaos and foremost, guilt. He springs forward, striking Edward with a closed fist.

  Edward crashes to the floor.

  “What are you doing?” Roger protests.

  “Protecting you from this monster. You can’t keep your secrets in here, you can…”

  “What? He was…” Roger stares in disbelief, wondering why once again he and Brett were stuck with these crazy-ass adults.

  Yonkey pins Edward to the floor, wrapping his hands around his neck, “I’ve been watching you. You can’t be trusted.”

  “I don’t…know what…you’re talking about. I…m…help…them…”

  “Fuck you!” Yonkey clinches down with all his might as the shame he endured being gay, being kicked out of the Marines, being kicked out of his own father’s life, watching his mother watch him, finally breaks his conscience, providing the catalyst to become a monster in his own right.

  “Let him go.” Sly presses the barrel of her shotgun firmly against the back of Yonkey’s head. “Now!” She yells when he doesn’t yield.

  Yonkey releases his grasp from around Edward’s neck.

  Edward remains on the floor, gasping for air. “I don’t…understand. What did…I do?”

  “We don’t have time for this right now. Back away, Yonkey. NOW!” Sly continues pointing the shotgun directly at Yonkey.

  “He’s the one you should be pointing that at,” Yonkey protests.

  “Giant places his large right hand directly on Yonkey’s chest, pushing him against the wall. “You’re losing it, brother. Listen to the lady, it’s good for you.”

  “Whatever you say…brother.”

  Sly asks, “Can you move quickly?”

  Edward looks up at the leader of the Squad, admiring her blue eyes briefly, while still massaging his neck, “I can move. I know you were planning on leaving, but I didn’t say anything. Your gear is still tucked away behind the racks next to the west doors. Anderson has most of the keys, but I don’t know where he is.”

  Sly, staring Edward in the eye, thinks, Fuck, nothing stays hidden in this place for long. “Fine. You’re coming with us.” She stands, offering Edward her hand.

  “Fuck that. He can’t…” Giant raises a finger to his lips, indicating it was time to shut up, cutting short Yonkey’s protest.

  “Shh. You’re coming too, but you need to learn to play well with others. I don’t give a fuck what he reminds you of, he’s with us. Got it?”

  Reluctantly Yonkey nods in agreement. His shoulders slump as failure washes over him yet again. “Yeah, I got it.”

  “Alright, here’s what we got. There’s dogs running around out there and they’re infecting people. Giant watched Caroline turn fast after being bit. She didn’t appear to have any zombie bites on her, but we also didn’t have time to look her over completely. Kill any dog you see. We go down the back stairs to the lower level. I’ll take lead. Giant will take up the rear. We are going out the…” More gunshots ring out, followed by screams.

  “That’s Adam. Sounds like more survivors down on the lower levels with him. We should help them,” Edward states, looking around the room.

  The group turns to Sly. Her eyes shift back and forth between the members of her makeshift squad. She finally settles her gaze on Roger and Brett. Her heart sinks when she thinks of them, and aches further when she realizes they didn’t volunteer to be here. They would eventually die, this much she knows to be true, but they should die on their own terms, not the terms of a bunch of misfit adults from different walks of life, thinking they know best.

  “We stick to the original plan. This isn’t a search and rescue mission. It’s a let’s get while the getting’s good mission. I lead, Giant brings up the rear. Are we clear?”

  All eyes are on Sly. No words are spoken.

  “Good. Keep those two separated,” Sly says with a wave of her hand at Edward and Yonkey.

  “You stay in front of me. I watch the rear, you watch my back. Conserve ammo.” Giant looks straight into Yonkey’s eyes while pulling a short aluminum bat from the holder on his back. “Doesn’t look like much but it will cave in heads with the best of them.” Giant’s eye twinkle just a bit, sending a shiver down Yonkey’s spine.

  “10-4,” Yonkey answers, removing his .40 from its holster and pulling the slide back, checking the chamber for a round. The remainder of the group performs similar motions, including Roger and Brett. Roger pulls the pump slightly revealing a chambered shell in his 20-gauge. Brett knows the .22 rifle is loaded, but he checks it just in case. Satisfied, he straps a newly acquired sheathed camping hatchet to his right leg.

  Sly stands at the door, listening to the pandemonium coming from the lower levels. She cautiously opens the door, pee
ring into the dim hallway. Adam insisted on keeping the lighting in the Atrium dim in an effort to conserve fuel for the generators. Sly squints to see in the low light. With her right shoulder braced against the door, she raises her rifle to the ready. She doesn’t see any movement, so she turns her head to give Giant the high sign. Without warning, a flash of black darts into the room, sprinting past Sly and the boys, targeting Edward.

  Edward discharges his 9mm errantly, barely missing Yonkey’s head. The Doberman mix snares Edward by the throat, stifling his scream. Roger shoves Brett away from the scene and steps forward with the 20-gauge raised, having every intention to end the dog’s life. Sly’s hand reaches out, gently pushing down the barrel of his shotgun. Roger stares at the side of her head, failing to make any sense of her actions.

  Edward stares at the ceiling, gulping his last raspy breath. His lungs fill with his own blood as his airway collapses. He struggles to fight off the dog, swinging wildly, and thrashing about, but the fight ends quickly. It is no use; the dog had him before he knew it, and the others in the room proved useless, which he always knew would be his undoing. As darkness closes in, his arms and legs flail in one last effort to fight. His vision rests on Yonkey and he can’t help but think, “Why me, why did you target me? Stereotypes and misjudgments have made my last minutes on earth Hell. Thanks, asshole!”

  Sly watches the scene unfolding before her. After the dog entered the room she pulled the office door closed. It’s too late for Edward. She steps forward with her rifle raised at the ready, gently using her left hand to move Roger back. Once he complies she turns her attention back to the dog. Edward lay dead in the beast’s grasp. They need to investigate why the dogs are attacking and why people are changing into zombies at an accelerated rate. Sly moves forward, sliding her left hand towards the trigger guard. Her finger presses against a small button, instantly producing a focused beam of bright light on the black fur of the Doberman.

  The Doberman growls as its eyes dart back and forth. It’s jaw remains clamped firmly on Edward’s throat. His last breath has yet to escape, trapped deep inside his lifeless body. Sly moves the focused beam of light along the Doberman until its head is fully illuminated. Everyone in the room knows there’s something wrong with the dog’s eyes. They are foggy and graying around the corners, with significant amounts of fluid secreting from its eye ducts. This has matted down the short hair of the Doberman, leaving large, smooth, shiny patches.

  “I don’t think that’s rabies,” Yonkey says quietly to the group. Roger and Brett just nod their heads, while Sly gives a quick hand gesture to Giant indicating she had seen enough.

  In one fluid movement, Giant steps forward, bringing the bat down using both hands. The thud is accompanied by a nauseating squish. The Doberman slumps forward, easing its grasp on Edwards’ neck. Giant turns to the group, motioning for the door. He doesn’t say a word, just the way Sly likes.

  Sly moves back to the door, listening for a few seconds. From beyond the door it sounds as if Hell had finally arrived at the Atrium.

  “The party is getting bigger out there. It’s time to go. We stick with the plan. G, grab that set of keys Edward had in his pocket.” Sly turns to face the group as she says the last bit. “Fuck, G, move.”

  CHAPTER 30.

  Prepper

  Morning brings streams of sunlight. The night’s storm has passed. Jack sits on the floor with his back against the wall, his head slumped forward. His eyes begin to open, but instantly shut as light attacks them. He opens his eyes again, this time shielding them with his partial left hand. He spots one source of light coming from a slight opening in a blind at the end of the hallway. Oh what fresh hell is this? Jack rubs the back of his neck, feeling knots in his muscles. His bones and joints are sore, his wounds throb, and his soul is near death. His shoulders and upper back crackle and pop as he attempts to stretch his arms above his head. He peers upward, realizing the lights in the hallway are still on. His thoughts begin to gather and he realizes he hasn’t died. He fucking hurts all over. There is a logical reason behind the lights working, giving him something else to work towards, another task before life ends.

  Jack works his way into a standing position. He looks back and forth at the four closed doors, all of which appear to be the same. “Well, since I’m here I might as well look for my stuff,” Jack explains to the house, before stepping to door one, grasping the knob with his good hand. The knob turns easily. The door opens inward, revealing the girl’s bedroom. He doesn’t reach along the wall for a light switch, fearing the light will be visible from outside. Jack stands silhouetted in the doorway, looking at the two beds positioned along opposite walls. Both girls had their own styles and ideas on pop culture the days before the world ended. Jack doesn’t recognize any of the posters. He steps farther into the room, but refrains from looking through their belongings. He simply feels like a creep.

  Jack steps back out into the hall, leaving the door ajar. Impatient, he decides to skip the next two doors, making his way to the end of the hall toward what he intuits will be the master bedroom or at the very least, a large office. He reaches for the door handle, stopping, hearing, smelling… fresh coffee! Fuck, I’m dead. He hesitates, not knowing if he’s alone or if there is another person in the house. His hand trembles as he backs away from the door. His world is closing in again. “No, no, no, not this time!” He steps forward, grabbing the door handle.

  The room is well lit, not by sunlight, but by regular everyday fluorescent lights. Along one wall hang three 32-inch flat screen monitors. Each monitor shows four surveillance feeds. A small control box and keyboard rest on a shelf beside the last monitor. Jack continues scanning the room, spying in the far corner a microwave oven on a small counter, next to a freestanding two-burner gas stove. On top of the microwave sits a large pot of freshly brewed coffee. A red light blinks lazily at Jack, nearly hypnotizing him, come drink me Jack. He shakes the thought, putting aside the urge to walk over and pour a cup. He still needs to investigate the room further.

  Next to the stove, under a shelf fashioned with several coat hooks, Jack spots a propane tank. Different colored Hazmat suits hang from each hook, along with varying levels of gas masks. You have got to be fucking kidding me, this guy’s some type of doomsday prepper. Awesome. Jack ventures further into the room, studying the office-turned-surveillance-center. The room reminds him of a security office he worked in when he was much younger. The “Security Control Center” as it was called, guarded a large office building. The office, not unlike this one, contained CCTV monitors, a microwave and an old coffee pot. If it weren’t for the coffee pot Jack would never have graduated college and he would have surely been fired from the mind-numbing job. The very back of the room grabs Jack’s immediate attention when he spots daylight creeping through a crack in the blackout blind.

  From the window, in the distance, Jack can see old Hwy 273, still devoid of traffic. The aroma of fresh brewed coffee keeps slapping him in the face. Three mugs rest upside down on the small shelf next to the coffee pot. Jack picks up a white mug with the RABA or Redding Area Bus Authority logo emblazoned on it. Jack never rode the bus, but the mug was bigger than the rest. As he poured the coffee, he savored the smell and marveled at the calming influence the black liquid possessed. “Just like I like my women, hot, black and bitter,” Jack snickers at his dumb saying, and then looks around for the ghost of his dead wife, remembering she always hated that joke. There is no sign of her. Jack shrugs his shoulders and blows on the hot liquid before taking a sip. The lingering headache begins to ease. He wakes up, fully.

  A large desk is situated in the middle of the room, accompanied by a plush leather chair. Jack pulls the chair out from the desk, and looks underneath for monsters that may be hiding. Once satisfied there’s nothing waiting under the desk to eat him, Jack sits. The chair proves quickly to be the most comfortable he’d ever sat in. This is better than most mattresses I’ve slept on. He finds the chair tilts back, giving r
ise to the thought of sleep, and how he is in dire need of a good night’s rest. This will do just fine. He turns his head from side to side, noticing a second door in the office. “Hmm, what have we here?” Jack asks the house. “Don’t worry, I’m coming back for you,” Jack says, pointing at the chair. He listens for a moment, not wanting any more surprises. He takes another sip from his coffee then opens the door. He is prepared for whatever waits on the other side. One bad hand and arm, holding a cup of coffee and no weapon, he was ready.

  The master bedroom lies before him, large and naturally lit by sunlight filtering through up turned storm shutters. On the far wall Jack sees the outline of a large sliding glass door behind blackout shades. He steps to the shades, parting the middle, peering out onto the wooden deck. A large patio set sits against the wall, along with a covered barbeque resting in the corner. He scans the edge of the deck for signs of a staircase. There isn’t one, so he lets the blind fall back into place. He steps back to the middle of the room and stops. His eyes are wide, not unlike a child seeing his presents under the Christmas tree, He continues staring wide-eyed at the king size bed before him.

  “Jack pot!” Jack steps forward, taking in the booty before him. It is not unlike a picture you’d see in your local newspaper crime blotter or on the evening news. The bed is covered with a large green tarp, and on top of the tarp rests, not only Jack’s stash of weapons and ammunition, but also several more impressive weapons, none of which Jack can identify. Several loaded magazines and two menacing shotguns with filled bandoleers sit on the bed. A gun cleaning kit sits at the foot of the bed with a small pile of dirty white cloths on the floor. It appears the weapons have recently been cleaned. On top of a neighboring dresser, Jack spies more boxes of ammunition, different calibers for different guns. This guy was ready for WWIII. Too bad the world actually ended first.

  Jack doesn’t care how the man in white came to own so many weapons, or what he may have been up to before the dead rose. All he cares about now is figuring out what he can carry if he has to bug out. He tests the weight of the weapons and even attempts to load one of the machine guns with a magazine. He slaps the magazine, causing an all new adventure in pain in his left hand as it fails to fit. He tries the next magazine and the next until he finds the one that fits. They’ll eat me before I load one of these goddamn things. Jack sits the weapon down and retrieves Jerome’s Big Fucking Gun. He slides the top latch to one side feeling the satisfying thud as the heavy barrels drop down from the stock. He loads both barrels then snaps the end of the weapon upward. The weapon, locked and ready, is strangely satisfying. Jack notices his makeshift sling has been replaced with an adjustable leather strap, screwed into the butt of the weapon, with a swivel. Nice.