Life Among The Dead (Book 2): A Castle Made of Sand (11 page)

“You’re the richest man I have ever met.
Didn’t you just donate a shit ton of cash to Olive Grove
Hospital?”

“Two shit tons to be more accurate. That
facility is woefully out of date and in dire need of some TLC.”

“Wow! You’re voice sounds like smooth jazz,”
Gar says then immediately wishes he hadn’t. “Fuck, that wasn’t
racist, was it?”

The black man chuckles. “I have a feeling
you’re the type that couldn’t be offensive even if he tried.”

“Except for his smell,” Freeman’s wife
quips.

“Sorry about that,” Gar apologizes with
embarrassment. “My shower is broken. I usually go to the YMCA, but
I haven’t been able to get there for… a few months.”

“You haven’t bathed in months?”

“Or, done laundry.” Gar’s honest nature
doesn’t allow the omission.

The doors to the chapel are being slapped by
the dead things in the hall. They’re obviously drawn to the voices.
Freeman Wilkes ejects the magazine from the pistol and sees no
rounds. “I only have one in the chamber. I think we should probably
move on before they find a way in.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.” His wife
shakes her head.

Freeman is on the pulpit of the small chapel
named after him, and he has opened a small hidden panel just under
a large wooden crucifix. After a series of numbers are depressed on
a keypad, a secret door opens next to him. “Veronica, the world is
no longer a place for you. A woman who refuses to wear the same
outfit twice will never survive.”

He doesn’t wait for her answer, he simply
enters the opening. Gar follows with Veronica begrudgingly in the
rear. The three descend a long staircase after the covert door
closes behind them.

“When this wing was built, I made sure they
installed generators that would last for weeks in the event of an
extended blackout. I also had them add this for me,” Wilkes
explains.

“Where does it go?” Gar asks.

“My secret lab, where I make all my
pharmaceutical advances.”

“We have a lot in common,” Gar tells the
powerful man. “I have a secret underground place where I make
advances. I developed my own strain of weed, and it’s the dopest
dope you’ll ever smoke. Wanna try some?”

“Perhaps later, Mr. Colt.” The man smiles
kindly.

At the bottom of the stairs, they enter
another sterile white hall. Nothing stirs that they can see, and
all they hear is the gentle whoosh of the air conditioner. Veronica
shivers against the chilly air.

“Do you want my shirt?” Gar offers.

“Fuck no,” she snarls.

Undeterred by the disgusted face the
beautiful woman has made at his offer, Gar poses a question to
Freeman that has bothered him for years, “Who cleans it?”

“Pardon?”

“In the movies and on TV, I always see these
secret labs, you know, I’ve always wondered who cleans them. Are
there janitors with super-secret clearance? Or, do all you
super-secret scientist types just take turns mopping?”

Freeman Wilkes cracks up, and his laughter
echoes down the long, empty hall. “No, Mr. Colt, we don’t have
janitors with ‘super-secret clearance,’ no double-oh 4-0h-9s. We
scientist types try to pick up after ourselves.”

Deeper down the hall, they come to a bank of
windows smeared with blood on the other side. The panes are sound
proof, and they can’t hear the dead folks in lab coats pounding on
the glass. Wilkes stops to look at the remains of his research
team.

Veronica scoffs. “I guess you’d better grab a
mop, honey.”

He ignores her, leading them to a room
adjacent to the ghoulish chemists. They follow along the filthy
panes as faithfully as they followed the man in life. Once inside,
Wilkes hit a large button to seal the three of them in.

Gar is anxious about the presence of the
deceased in the next room, and his anxiety erupts from him in a
torrent of words that keeps his mind off of the zombies. “Like I
was saying, I developed my own strain of marijuana. I dream of one
day, when it’s legal, wandering the country, living off the land
and planting my seeds. Just spreading the love, you know. I think
most of the troubles of the world can be cured by Mary Jane. Being
in pharmaceuticals, what’s your opinion on its medicinal use?”

“I’m all for it,” Wilkes says, with his back
to the man as he peers in a steel cabinet. “It certainly has been
proven effective in helping a lot of people. So, you wish to be a
regular Johnny Appleseed?”

“Yeah, I would love that!”

Veronica sits on an examination table. She
ignores what she considers ‘asinine banter’ and elevates the
backrest so she can relax. The blood splattered inhabitants of the
other room are hard to look at, and even harder to ignore. She
can’t believe this is happening. All her planning has been for
nothing. The bundle of money she holds is worthless.

Freeman Wilkes is holding an object that
piques Gar’s interest. It’s a small glass vial filled with a bright
green substance. The wealthy man stands, holding the sample to the
light, pondering the contents.

“What is that?” Gar asks.

“A souvenir,” Wilkes says. “During the early
days of space travel, samples were brought back to Earth. These
artifacts were subjected to extensive sterilization as a
precaution. Upon one rock claimed from the moon’s surface was a
green speck that could not be killed. They attempted every means:
chemicals, radiation, gases, nothing worked. Once it was exposed to
oxygen, under controlled circumstances, it reproduced
exponentially. The only way to contain it is in a vacuum.”

“That shit’s from space?” Gar asks, his eyes
wide with amazement.

“Yes.” Freeman is lost in his own mind. He
returns with a laugh, “It’s ironic. It was never given a proper
name, just labeled ‘Sample Six.’ Since humans developed the ability
to do so, we’ve sought to name everything on the planet and beyond.
Leave it to the one thing without a moniker to be the thing to kill
us.”

Palpable silence follows. Gar looks to
Veronica, who appears to have actually taken an interest in the
discussion. She in turn looks to the dead at the windows. The
slaughtered flesh looks like meat under shrink-wrap. “You caused
this?” she asks.

“No.” Freeman alleviates her suspicion. “Six
years ago, the substance was accidentally released by one of my
researchers in a gaseous form. We held our breath, literally, as
well as figuratively… Nothing happened. Over the following weeks,
traces of the substance were being discovered all over the country,
then the world. It wasn’t effecting people in any way, though we
now all harbor it, but it’s just been taking up residence. We
continued to use it for its regenerative properties, and many
cutting edge drugs have been made with this as their derivative.
While the others chased the fountain of youth, I branched off into
experimenting with ways to counteract it, should it ever pose a
threat…”

“Like today!” Veronica shouts.

“The other shoe has indeed fallen,” Freeman
agrees. “And I have yet to find a way to fight it. It just sat in
our bodies, innocuous, until it finally decided to strike. I still
don’t know exactly what it is that I am holding. Is it some alien
life form’s means of conquering an entire planet? Or perhaps God
just sneezed one day and this is a mere germ, capable of
eliminating life as we know it.”

“Whoa!” Gar can’t believe how heavy this has
gotten. “There’s no cure at all? No vaccine?”

“Not yet, but I have a theory.” Freeman
punctuates his statement by firing the last round of his pistol
into his wife. The quiet bullet enters her chest, right between the
perfect breasts he had paid for.

Gar is horrified. “What the fuck!”

“I debated hard on this, Mr. Colt--which of
you two to use as which ingredient of my plan,” Wilkes tosses the
spent pistol absently onto a counter. “Though I can think of many
uses for her, I’d soon grow tired of her incessant bitching. You
amuse me.”

Gar can only stare at the still woman on the
exam table. Freeman Wilkes quickly binds her hands to arm rests he
raises and her ankles to retractable stirrups. He makes fast work
of securing her body, and then tosses Gar a bottle of pills. “Take
these.”

The words on the bottle might as well be in
another language, and Gar is shocked beyond the ability to read.
“I’m not into pills.”

“Don’t tell me a big time drug peddler such
as yourself is afraid to take a couple little pills.”

“I’m a Potsmith!” Gar makes the distinction.
“You’re a drug dealer!”

Freeman stalks toward him. His words are no
longer smooth jazz in Gar’s ears, but spine tingling slams of piano
keys. “Do you know why marijuana has the effect it does?”

“Because it’s awesome?” Gar cringes.

“No, Mr. Colt. Not because it’s awesome.
Marijuana does what it does as a means of reproduction. It entices
silly little creatures like monkeys, or yourself, to ingest of its
buds. Its aim is for them to spread the seeds in their scat, or as
you put it ‘spread the love.’ The herb that you revere, and
positively reek of, is just using you. Seriously, the stench coming
off of you reminds me of the Amorphophallus Titanum, also known as
the Corpse Flower. It mimics the smell of rotting flesh to attract
flies.”

The words hurt Gar, as if the man has hit
him. He feels like he’s just been told that Darth Vader is his
father. The foundation of his life is shaking beneath him, and he
has no way to stabilize it. “You are Doctor Doom.”

“Cute,” Wilkes says. “Take the pills. They’re
just immunosuppressers. I need to use you like you use the water
pipe you undoubtedly own. It probably has some clever name.
Bongzilla, perhaps?”

“King Bong,” Gar admits weakly.

“Once my wife arises, and the pills have
weakened your immune system, I’m going to filter the virus through
you. If my theory holds, and they usually do, you will be right as
rain.”

There’s no way to tell if this man is lying
about him surviving the process. Gar has too many questions to
comply. “Why? If the world is gone, why go on?”

“What do you give a man who has
everything?”

Gar remembers the answer to the question from
when it was posed upstairs. “Peace.”

“Correct!” Freeman cheers. “You leave him the
fuck alone! No hands out wanting to be filled, no bald-headed sick
children. I plan to make for my mansion and wait out the apocalypse
in peace… You are of course invited. As I told you, you amuse
me.”

The damage has been done, and Gar now knows
this man is truly a bad guy. So different from the kind hearted man
he had portrayed himself to be. Gar can’t help but formulate a plan
of his own, for he wishes to stop this evil doer and become a true
hero even if it kills him. The Potsmith rushes to the wall of
hungry corpses and slams the button to open the door that stands in
their way. Wilkes screams as the dead fill his personal lab.

The meal Dustin consumed from a
compartmentalized tray sits heavily in his gut. Any remorse he may
feel over the day’s events is pushed away. Now he just wants to
sleep, but the near constant whoop of the choppers and the din of
his fellow survivors make getting any shut-eye impossible. He
wishes he had his music. A pair of ear buds would lull him to sleep
like a baby. Making matters worse, he was saddled with a top rack
and now lays directly under a blinding fluorescent light
fixture.

He’s also waiting to use the bathroom. The
roving watches that keep a constant headcount of the evacuees, as
well as the peace, have told the people that to avoid problems men
will only be allowed to use the bay’s single, yet multi-user,
bathroom during odd hours. The women have the run of the lavatory
currently.

Impatient men who aren’t shy have been
relieving themselves into empty water bottles, but that isn’t the
kid’s problem. Dustin wishes to get cleaned up after relieving
himself in his pants earlier. His legs were saturated with urine,
and no they feel prickly. The smell emanates from his denim, and he
prays that it’s only noticeable to himself.

Quite a lot of other men are poised on their
mattresses awaiting their turn in the latrine too. Each counts the
minutes until they can rush in like hockey players headed for the
penalty box. They cradle thin towels wrapped around small army
issued bottles of Prell and bars of Zest. Everyone was given a
small white mesh bag of toiletries upon entry, and Dustin was happy
to find a comb in his but no hair gel. He wonders if he may be able
to borrow some from someone, or perhaps the base has a market.

The last lady exits the bathroom. Before the
sentry announces that the men can go in, Dustin bounds off of his
top rack, aiming to be the first through the door.

The large, poorly lit space is wall-to-wall
beige tile, and the room is divided in the middle by a wall with
banks of sinks on either side. Toilet stalls with no doors populate
the left portion of the latrine, but Dustin makes for the far end
where the showers are.

The showers aren’t what he is expecting.
Sprayer heads stick out from the tiled wall within a small room
beyond an antechamber of benches and hooks, and there are no doors
or curtains for privacy. His hesitation at the threshold raises a
grumble from the gentlemen assembling behind him, who also want to
get clean. Men begin to undress all around, and his eyes widen.

Dustin steps aside to let men pass him before
he commences to bashfully undress. He has lost his opportunity to
be one of the first to bathe. So he waits, third on deck to enter
the steam filled room with countless naked men behind him. He tries
to act casual around all the bare skin. Some of the guys make jokes
about ‘dropping the soap’ that he forces himself to laugh at.