Dust of the Devil's Land

by Bryan Killian

  -that’s not good enough. I need information.

  -that’s all I have at the moment. Keep the line hot and ill give you updates

  -the army fucked over this town once. There is no one else left alive. Pass that along to whomever is overseeing your job. Redding is truly a Necropolis now. Don’t come here again.

  -maybe we got off on

  “Shit, the line went red again. Whoever that was, he’s pissed,” Dix states out loud, pointing at the new red line on the Northern California screen.

  “Try and get him back. Spook still wants some intel on that region.”

  “Intel? When did this all become a bad movie to you?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  ***

  Jack stands up from the desk holding what was left of the keyboard. The cable dangles to the floor where multiple keys now lay along with pieces of black plastic. The computer monitor is resting on the floor with multiple cracks in the screen and the surrounding plastic housing. He walks past the coffee pot straight into the master bedroom, dragging the keyboard along. He enters the large walk-in closet and stands before the hidden shelves where he removes the large humidor, picking a cigar from the top drawer along with a cutter and a pack of wooden matches. He picks up one of the larger flasks, unscrews the top and sniffs the contents. “Scotch. Not Laphroaig. Dead beggars can’t be dead choosers.”

  Jack takes the loot back to the control center, and sets it on the desk. He retrieves his iPhone, now attached to a long extension cord, and props it against a cup full of pens. He starts the first of the 27 videos. Ronan and Julia are so alive. Jack sits back in the chair listening to their voices, as he moistens then cut the tip of the cigar. He strikes a match and fires up the end. Burn with me. Jack recalls reading that line somewhere, maybe on a writer’s blog or elsewhere. He’s always liked that line. He tips the flask, pouring a healthy serving into his RABA coffee mug, and sips slowly while watching Ronan run with a kite. “Should I stay or should I go? Always the same story.”

  ***

  “I think I lost him for good.” Dix says not bothering to look up at the main screen. He sits waiting for a response that’s not coming.

  “Line’s still red. You better hope Spook doesn’t find out you said anything about the test bombings to clear the zombies.” Phillip has started pacing again from one end of the main screen to the other, looking for any new signs of open communication.

  “This line is nearly untraceable. It’s so old there’s nothing out there pointed at it.”

  “Key word being nearly. That man knows way more than he’s letting on. You yourself said he was the puppet master around here.”

  “Yeah, I know. I just think this type of comm is way beneath him.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I say so. The guy, if it was a guy, did say the city was dead. He called it a necropolis and told us not to come there.”

  “My guess, it’s a dude and he’s got one hell of a pot farm going for himself.”

  Dix looks up from his monitor at the last statement. “Never thought of that. Maybe we should send a team in.”

  “Like I said before, you better be careful what you say around here. Spook knows all.”

  “Whatever, Mr. Paranoid. What movie do you want to watch tonight?”

  CHAPTER 54.

  Driveway

  Phht. Sly’s silencer is buying the team much needed time. The sound of a firearm discharging would bring the dead walking, and in some cases running, to their location. Arriving in a truck with a loud motor, combined with the fact they’re alive, isn’t helping the current situation. Phht. A second zombie drops in the debris-strewn driveway. Putrid brain matter slowly drips from the opening in the back of its head.

  “The boys were right about the driveways. It’s like cattle chutes.” Sly speaks softly as she and Yonkey move deeper into the second driveway.

  The driveway has a sharp turn at the end and is bordered by a fence spanning from the neighboring property line to the rear of the house. Sly maneuvers the path with a fluid ease, her rifle shouldered at the ready, and her finger resting on the trigger. She stops at a blind corner, raises her right hand, giving Yonkey the hold sign. He follows the instruction. He isn’t carrying a silenced weapon, rather a 12 gauge, in case things go south. Sly steps out wide, gaining a view of a small covered area outside the back door of the home. She waves Yonkey over.

  “Take a look at this. It still wants to kill us even though it can’t move its arms and legs.” Sly kneels down, far from the reach of the immobilized zombie. The zombie’s head twists awkwardly on its grotesquely distorted body. Its legs are pointing the wrong direction and its back is completely twisted, displaying snapped ribs and decomposing organs, yet its head moves back and forth while its jaw opens wide. Gray foggy eyes lock on Sly, never blinking.

  “I’ll never get used to the eyes. They creep me the fuck out,” Yonkey says, leaning over Sly’s shoulder.

  “That’s Mrs. Mathews. She used to watch me a long time ago. She made really good chocolate chip cookies.”

  Startled, Sly and Yonkey spin around, finding Roger.

  “Didn’t mean to surprise you. Thought you’d hear me coming. We need to get up to the tree house soon. If the zombies don’t already know we’re here, they soon will.” Roger looks back down at Mrs. Mathews, shaking his head.

  “The rest of the driveway is clear. Let’s move towards your tree house and get you boys settled,” Sly says, looking Roger in the eye.

  Roger stares back at Sly for a second, then shifts his gaze back to Mrs. Mathews. “You go ahead. I’ll take care of her. It’s not right to leave her like this.”

  “You ok, Rog?” Sly asks, placing a hand on Roger’s shoulder while pressing the other against his cheek.

  Roger closes his eyes at the touch. She smells good. He lets the caress linger for a moment before answering. “I’m good, Sly. Thank you for everything and for looking out for Brett.”

  “Not a problem. I wish we could have all met under different circumstances, but it is what it is, I guess,” Sly says, removing her hand. She begins walking away, but looks over her shoulder.

  Smiling, Roger says, “We would’ve never met if this shit didn’t happen.” Roger is secretly proud he can use curse words around adults now.

  “You’re probably right. Too smart for me, young man, too smart,” Sly says, walking over to Papi.

  “Roger coming?” Papi asks.

  “He’s taking care of his old neighbor. He doesn’t want her to suffer any more.”

  “He’s a good kid. Mature beyond his years,” Papi replies, cradling his shotgun.

  Sly looks at Papi, a thought crossing her mind, “You’re right about that. He’s a survivor. Let’s get their supplies ready.”

  ***

  Roger steps close to Mrs. Mathews, watching her head turn and twist in an effort to reach him, while her eyes remain on him, never blinking. “I’m sorry this happened to you, Mrs. Mathews. You were nice, and don’t deserve this,” Roger says, sitting Indian style in front of his neighbor. Her head twists even further, but she loses eye contact with the meal. Roger places his right hand on top of her head, feeling the coldness of her skin, and gently rubs. “That’s right, Mrs. Mathews, I’ll be one of you soon. But I don’t think I’m going to let that happen, just like I’m not going to let you remain like this. It’s time for you to go back to your family and maybe when I see you again you can bake me some of those cookies.” Tears well in Roger’s eyes as he speaks to Mrs. Mathews. Her head continues writhing around. Roger allows his hand to linger for a moment longer, watching Mrs. Mathews’ black teeth snap shut a few times near his wrist. He stands and crushes her skull with his heel.

  Roger finds himself leaning against the fence along Mrs. Mathews’ driveway. He can see the tree house waiting for him. He wishes he could just climb up the ladder, find a new pile of comic books and get lost in their pages for the rest of time. He longs for a new Batman or Super
man story, wants to see another Iron Man movie or the new Avenger’s movie he heard was being made. He wants to play his X-box. He wants…to be with his family and friends, if only for one more day. Tears stream down his cheeks and he feels embarrassed. How would my dad have handled this? He would hold his head high!

  Thoughts of his father and his family bring Roger back to reality. His head clears, and he knows what he has to do. He walks up the driveway, finding Brett, just as Papi is moving the truck to Roger’s driveway. The boys walk side by side looking at their neighborhood. As they walk Roger can feel a coldness growing in his body. He can feel darkness coming. Not yet. I still have something to do.

  “You remember how when this all started, and we met in the tree house?” Roger asks as they continue walking.

  “Yeah, why?” Brett answers.

  “I said I would be with you through this whole thing.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Well, if something happens to me you need to promise me something.”

  “This better not be weird. If you’re coming out of the closet now you have really bad timing,” Brett says, looking at Roger.

  Roger laughs briefly. “No it’s not that, and I wouldn’t come out to you if that was the case.”

  “Thank God,” Brett says, smiling at Roger. “No really, if you want to come out go talk to Papi. He looks really understanding.”

  “Whatever. I need you to promise me. Don’t hesitate if you’re faced with danger. Go with your gut and act. If you hesitate in this world you’re dead.” Roger’s voice drops low, showing he’s serious.

  Brett stares at his friend, worried. “Dude, seriously. What’s gotten into you?”

  “Nothing. It’s just that over the last few days we’ve seen some shit and you never know when your time is up. If something happens to me…”

  “Alright. Nothing’s going to happen to you. You’re the cautious one, you’re the brains of this outfit.” Brett is growing annoyed at the lecture.

  “It’s not that. I just want to know you know how to take care of yourself. Your mom made me promise years ago I’d always look out for you.”

  “Oh man, that sucks. You mean I could’ve been away from you this whole time if my mom would’ve never talked to you? Boy, I have all the luck.”

  The boys stop at the mouth of the driveway leading to Roger’s backyard. “Shall we?” Roger asks Brett.

  “Let me get Sugar out and then we need to find a way of getting her up into the tree house,” Brett says, walking back to the truck.

  Papi walks up next to Roger, followed by Sly and Yonkey. Soon Brett and Sugar join the group. The six of them stand in silence peering down the driveway, watching their shadows stretch as the sun sinks in the western horizon. Roger knows this is the last time he’ll walk down his driveway. He savors the moment, remembering better times.

  “We’re home, Brett.”

  CHAPTER 55.

  Dance

  Stay or go. Jack rests his head on the desk, staring at the flask balancing on the rim of his coffee mug. He waits for the last few drops of the scotch to fall. The flask remains upside down on the coffee mug for some time, as Jack drifts from thought to thought. In the past he would, at times, drink a bit too much, but the slight addiction always prompted sudden and furious writing sessions, covering everything from poetry, short stories, novellas to the occasional apology letter to Julia. He considers the latter his best work. A familiar, but almost forgotten friend, arrives in the form of being quite drunk. He spins the chair once and stomps his feet to the floor. The room continues moving. “Won’t do that again.” His eyes roll back and forth a few times, before settling on the security monitors. He watches zombies gathering in front of the house and in the driveway. The low light cameras display the horror show brilliantly. I should make popcorn.

  Swaying in the large leather chair, Jack increasingly feels the effects of drinking too much scotch on an empty stomach. His thoughts are not processing; they are jumbled together, but Jack doesn’t mind. He’s blissfully ignorant with his head tilted back and gazing at the ceiling. Thoughts swirl then settle on Julia. He thinks of her face, her neck, and continues down her body. He can smell her and he can taste her. He remembers the last time they made love and the last time they just fucked. He opts for the fucking, remembering it was in the garage while Ronan slept. He caught Julia bent over, shoving laundry into the dryer. She was wearing an old hockey jersey of his over panties. He lifted the jersey high enough to expose her breasts, and then lifted her onto the washing machine. She half-heartedly attempted to stop him, by telling him the garage door was open but it didn’t matter to either of them. The memory plays over and over as Jack’s breathing grows rapid. He needs a release, he wants Julia and he wants his life back. He sits forward, staring straight at the monitors with his hand on his member.

  “FUCK!” Jack stands, letting his robe drop to the floor. He pulls up the loose black sweats, though the fever still rampaging thought his veins for his wife is clearly visible. He retrieves another cigar, strikes a match and puffs a few times until the end glows a bright orange. He tips the RABA mug to his lips, sipping the last bit of scotch. The combined flavors transport him further back in time and his mind spins.

  Jack. You need to leave this place

  Jack opens his eyes, looking through the faint shadow of Julia. Numbness washes over him. He doesn’t feel anger, sorrow, want or lust. He feels nothing. His is reacting with a rationale he thought he’d never possess again in this lifetime. He is through asking questions now that his new alcohol bathed reality has engulfed him. He will never see Ronan again and the ghost he speaks with often is just a memory. He watches the faint essence of his wife fade away without saying another word. He puffs on the cigar as his eyes drift back to the monitor and the abominations lit in an eerie green hue. He watches, realizing the number of dead is increasing much faster than he originally thought. There are several zombies walking together, all wearing what appeared to be military style combat uniforms. Jack sways again, attempting to shake the cobwebs out of his head. “They fucking know I’m in here, they always know I’m here. Motherfuckers always know!”

  Six zombie soldiers move together. The low light cameras make it difficult to determine the extent of decay, but Jack knows the soldiers were part of the original group or whatever they were called, sent to cleanse Redding. He breathes deeply in an effort to gain a little more clarity, and to stop the fucking room from moving. He has become used to the usual walkers hanging around the house but the new batch is generating all-new alcohol fueled hatred. Jack’s hands begin to shake at the sight of the zombie soldiers. “You fucking got what you deserved!” Spit flies from his mouth as he extends the middle finger on his right hand towards the monitor. He doesn’t dare flip off the zombies with his left hand; that would hurt like a son of a bitch.

  As quickly as his anger spikes, it abates. Jack pictures the soldiers with their families before the event. They were sons and fathers, brothers and friends, husbands and lovers all doing what they were told to do. He turns away from the monitors, falling to the floor. He laughs for a moment then regains his feet, charging into the bedroom. The end of his cigar is glowing orange as he puffs hard. He stands before the hidden shelves in the closet and removes another flask, tilting it back, and taking a healthy swig. The burn is satisfying. He feels alive and ready to take on anything the world throws at him. He tilts the flask back once more, intending on drinking himself into a coma.

  “Boom boom boom!” The pounding travels throughout the house, reaching Jack’s ears like giant drums. He almost loses his balance again as he turns to peer through the control center. “Someone’s knockin’ at the door.” The banging continues. Jack trots into the control center, bouncing off the wall and landing on the floor with a tremendous thump. He picks himself up and retrieves what was left of his cigar. He attempts to light the smashed end while looking at the front door on the security monitor.

  This place is not
safe…

  “Fuck! Give it a rest, Julia. The world isn’t safe.”

  “Boom.”

  Jack sees a zombie running up the driveway on the monitors. “What the fuck is going on out there?” Jack returns the cigar to his mouth chomping down hard on the soggy end. The banging on the front door continues, and then spreads to the garage door. The hollow sound from the aluminum doors echo loudly. They’ll wake the dead…I’m funny. Jack stands motionless as two thoughts come to mind, escape or fight. In one monitor he can see zombies now running up the driveway. He looks at the pile of weapons then back at the monitors, contemplating both scenarios. In the background of one of the monitors he sees the zombie soldiers standing together. “You fucks don’t give up, do you? No more escape plans, we dance tonight!”

  A heavy flannel shirt is donned first, buttoned all the way to the top, followed by blue jeans, socks and boots. Next Jack slips on his belt, carrying dual holsters, and holding the matching .357’s. The front of the belt is heavy with two speed loaders. Jack slips a .45 into the back of his waistband and shoves two full magazines in his front left pocket. His right front pocket is reserved for a full flask. He pulls his duster over his shoulders and in the deep left pocket, he places a 9mm Berretta along with two magazines. The right pocket holds the.22 semi auto pistol, with one spare magazine. Jack screams, “Fuck off!” as the banging downstairs grows louder. Lastly, he grabs his old Giants hat.

  Jack, you must leave.

  Jack turns, facing the ghost of his dead wife. His eyes grow heavy and his heart hurts. He presses his palms against his eyes for a long pause then opens them. She is still there. Instead of looking through her, Jack concentrates on her and she is clear. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Julia. I know you’re not here or at least I think you’re not, but you’re always here. When you died all I wanted was to see you again. I wanted to see Ronan one more time then all this shit happened. I don’t have…”