Life Among The Dead (Book 2): A Castle Made of Sand (12 page)

It’s dark by the time Kelly finds the final
location on Griffin’s list, the Reserve Depot. The car grumbles and
complains, because it has been running on fumes for much longer
than the pop star can believe possible.

The gate is a mess of haphazardly parked
vehicles, and she has trouble finding a way to the entrance. Taking
the Intrepid onto the sidewalk, she manages to squeeze in, and she
spots movement in the dark between the car clusters.

Spotlights hit them from the top of the stone
wall. Randy speaks for the first time since being silenced by his
ex. “I’ll do the talking, honey.”

The comedian exits his side of the car to
approach the figures standing in the glare. He shields his eyes
from the bright glow, but before he can even say a single word he
is again silenced.

“We’re at capacity! We can’t admit any more
people.”

“Perhaps you don’t recognize me…” Randy takes
a step closer.

“I’ll put a round in your face if you don’t
back off, Ringo.”

Kelly feels exhausted and emotionally spent,
and she just wants to get inside where it’s safe. She knows just
how to do it. It’s her turn to step out of the car, and the action
makes her the new focal point of the sentry’s attention, just as
she wants. “Hiya, boys.”

“Holy shit! It’s Kelly Peel!” the guard says
excitedly. “Open the gate!”

Back in the sack, just in time for lights
out, Dustin finds it hard to drift off to sleep. Nightmare images
are conjured in his mind of the horrors he had seen that day, and
the drastic actions he had taken to survive it all.

Just as he is nodding off, he is stirred once
more by a clamor. More survivors are being escorted in the already
packed squad bay. With the bustle of the newbies settling in, and
their grumbling about being displaced for some VIP, he knows he
won’t be finding sleep anytime soon. He rolls onto his stomach to
look out the windows that surround the crowded room. The lights of
the base, powered by gas generators, filter in through a veil of
condensation. The room’s temperature rises due to all the body heat
contained within on the cold night. He can see the soldiers bundled
up outside, and is actually envious as he breathes in the muggy
air.

##

Dustin grabs a few hours of slumber before
the need to pee awakens him. But he is stopped at the latrine door
by a new soldier on duty who says he must hold off until a lady
finishes in there. The woman takes her time, oblivious to the
dancing Dustin outside. He must fight the urge to pound on the
door. She finally emerges and he rushes in, muttering his
frustration. “About fucking time.”

The anticipation of relieving his bladder
actually makes the act enjoyable, and he lets out a sigh that
echoes in the vast room of hard surfaces. Dustin hums different
tones, listening to the walls vibrate more and more the deeper he
goes. He daydreams of forming a new band and releasing an album,
and how this hypothetical LP could contain a bonus track of his
band and him in a room such as this messing around with
harmonics.

Dream over, he heads for the door, hoping to
catch some more sleep while he can. A reflection in the long
mirrors along the sinks catches his eyes, and he sees something he
needs. Dustin grabs the item thinking,
things
are
looking
up
. A small jar of styling gel. Not his
brand, but it’ll do. He opens the lid and smiles, because plenty of
the thick compound remains.

Three fingers of goopy product are added to
his thick black hair. While styling his cherished locks, the door
opens. Considering the rule, he knows it must be another guy.

Among the effects given to the refugees was a
pair of plastic shower shoes, and the cautionary footwear makes a
lot of noise upon the hard floors. Dustin fights against a cowlick
as the man who has just entered walks closer, one rigid sandal
slapping against his heel while the other scrapes along the
tiles.

“How’s my car treating you, Chachi?”

The voice chills Dustin. A ghost in the
mirror over his right shoulder glares at him. A rage powered hand
clamps itself tightly over the boy’s mouth, preventing him from
screaming for aid. Pain seals his eyes shut as the man he had
wronged punches him repeatedly in the kidney. “Tomorrow, when
you’re pissing blood, I want you to remember my daughter.”

The angry man releases the breathless Dustin,
who holds onto the sink to maintain his balance. A single blonde
pigtail is tossed into the basin before his tear blurred eyes.

The lights flare on, rudely awakening the
huddled masses pulled from the city. A bugle informs them that it
is indeed morning. Dustin lingers on his thin mattress until his
numerous roommates are almost gone. Then he slides down from his
high bed and takes his time, since he doesn’t want to run into the
man from the bathroom yesterday.

Disorderly masses of people wander to the
mess hall. Soldiers patrol the herds like shepherds. At breakfast,
people tell their respective tales while shoveling artificial eggs
into their mouths. The rumor mill buzzes about Kelly Peel and her
husband being on post, and about an alleged shortage of camo clad
individuals. Dustin’s own inspection reveals this to be true--the
ratio of soldiers to civilians is frighteningly low. There are only
a dozen in the hall, sitting together for breakfast, and a few
circulate among the dining civilians. Dustin knows there are
probably few outside keeping watch, and by his count there can only
be twenty or so.
That’s
not
good
.

Halfway through the meal a young soldier
stands up with a clipboard, and he taps his pen against the metal
clip to get everyone’s attention. “At zero nine hundred hours, all
of you must assemble outside for an announcement from our
commanding officer.”

Shortly after the word spreads, people start
to bus their trays to a square window in the wall. The soldier who
had spoken again attempts to be heard over the din. “The following
people must report to the armory before the morning meeting…”

The short list of names is read off; all the
while Dustin cites a mantra he often did during high school.
Not
me
.
Not
me
. His heart falters when
his name is read off among the rest of the roster. The drone of the
names and the clamor of the civilians becomes muted as his brain
races to divine why, of all people, he needs to report to the
armory.

##

Dustin heads to the designated muster as
instructed and is put in line with the other clueless men. He
notices they are all his age, and look equally nervous. They are
asked their shoes size as fatigues are held against their bodies to
determine size by comparison. Uniforms are handed to them, then
they are led through the pillbox building to receive equipment. At
the end the young men are handed new pairs of combat boots to weigh
down the unsteady loads they carry upon their forearms. The
clipboard wielding soldier, Deatherage by his nametape, takes a
look at Dustin’s work boots and declines to issue him the GI shoes.
“Those’ll do.”

Behind the building, the guys are instructed
to change into their fatigues. A handful of doughboys help the
wide-eyed gentlemen sling olive harnesses and belts around their
torsos properly. Gear is attached to these with metal clips. Heavy
canteens and pouches now weigh down their sides.

“Helmets and rifles will be issued after the
meeting,” Deatherage tells the drafted recruits before they are
dismissed.

Dustin can’t contain his objections any
longer.
If
the
others
won’t
speak
up
for
themselves
that’s
their
problem
. “I can’t do this. I’m no soldier.”

“Take it up with Master Sergeant Quincy at
the meeting,” he is told.

##

“Ladies and gentlemen, there has been a
slight mistake. I am not the actual commanding officer. I am simply
the highest ranking individual left on this base, MSG Quincy.”

Dustin stands in a row with the others who
had been called to gear up. They face the crowd of survivors, while
the gray-haired sergeant’s gravelly voice echoes in the chilly
morning air. He feels sick as he listens to the old war horse.

“We have lost many good people out there, and
there are no reinforcements on the way. This outbreak hasn’t only
stricken our beloved city. It’s spread coast to coast. As far as we
know, it’s global. We have no choice but to abandon Waterloo and
head to another facility, Fort Eagle Rock up north. We originally
wanted to fall west to Fort Foster, but as of 2 AM this morning we
have lost contact. Since we know Eagle Rock is still standing, that
is our goal.

“You may have noticed that, just beyond the
gates, we have a clusterfuck of vehicles. We have also accumulated
several fans. Between our helicopters, our lights, and our general
activities, the dead have conglomerated at our only exit. We have
heard rumors that the cold weather is actually slowing the zombies,
but we aren’t so lucky here. Our fair city is burning, so the
ambient temperature is much higher than freezing.

“We have enlisted the help of some volunteers
through a random lottery to aid us in our escape. Two teams: Alpha
and Bravo. Team Bravo will scramble to the Greyhound station to
procure buses that’ll make our exodus easier. Team Alpha will be
luring the dead away from our gates so the rest of us can clear the
congestion from the front door…”

Oh
shit
! Dustin thinks, looking
over the assembled mass depending on him and the other unqualified
‘volunteers.’ Amid the solemn faces, he sees the man whose car he
stole yesterday staring daggers at him. On Eli’s shoulders is the
blonde girl, and she has only one pigtail sticking out from the
side of her head and an equally venomous glare. Though he is
relieved to see her alive, the look she casts him is like a kick to
his groin. He knows about karma yet he can’t help mutter, “I don’t
deserve this.”

The gritty voiced leader glares at Dustin,
looking annoyed at his lack of respect. Obviously fuming, he stomps
over to stand inches from Dustin’s face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch
that.”

“I didn’t say nothing.”

“You didn’t say nothing? Well, that means it
was certainly something. Why don’t you enlighten me as to what that
something was?”

“I… was just wondering why I was chosen.”

“Were you not paying attention? I said it was
a random selection that has rescued you from the lugubrious task of
sitting on your ass, writing in your dream journal, and texting
your BFF. By divine fate you have been given a purpose, a meaning
to your existence. Of the available souls, we had to eliminate
those who have children to care for, and we further whittled out
the females…”

The man’s eyes flare with anger, though
Dustin hasn’t said anything. His seasoned senses seem to have
picked up on what Dustin is thinking.

“You want to know why, don’t you? Why in this
modern age would we opt to exclude ladies from these dangerous
assignments? Let me answer your unspoken inquiry with a question of
my own. Are you physically equipped to gestate a fetus in your
belly?”

Dustin’s response comes in the form of a
whisper. “No.”

“NO!” the man repeats loudly for all to hear.
“Humanity’s first defense against annihilation is procreation.
Children are the most valuable resource we have, as is the means to
create them. Any asshole can jizz. You’re living proof of that.
What’s your name anyway?”

“My daddy calls him Chachi,” a small voice
answers from the crowd, making the congregation laugh.

Quincy’s eyes gleam with delight. “Chachi!”
he repeats gleefully, pulling another chuckle from the crowd.

Dustin’s body feels hot from the
embarrassment, and the heat radiates up from his collar. The man
isn’t done with him, having just been handed great ammunition.

“Shit, son! I loved you on Happy Days.”
Quincy steps close to Dustin, dropping his voice to a whisper.
“Look, Chachi, one way or another you’re going over that wall. I
recommend you go willingly, well-armed, and with people who will
watch your back and ask only that you do the same for them.”

##

Teams Alpha and Bravo are told to hit the
latrines before departure. The remaining civilians are divided
between the mess hall and the armory to load supplies onto a pair
of deuce and a halfs.

The scarlet urine stream Dustin expels into
the urinal is a shock at first. He remembers the little girl he had
left for dead and her father who understandably wanted retribution.
When finished, he slowly makes his way to the west wall with his
head hung low. They were ordered to assemble at this location to
receive their weapons before they leave the safety of the base.

Dustin is the last to arrive. The one named
Deatherage is wearing a combat helmet while handing out similar
headgear and assault rifles. “Don’t let what happened back there
get you down,” he tells Dustin with a supportive smile. Despite his
surname, Deatherage is quite calm; he pronounces it for the group
again. “Death-er-ridge.”

He can’t make eye contact due to his residual
humiliation, and if he meets anyone’s gaze he may just burst into
tears. “What’s that guy’s problem?”

“You can’t take it so seriously, Chachi,”
another young soldier says, giving a laugh that tells Dustin they
have all been there. “He just wanted to motivate you.”

“That isn’t motivation. Motivation is a
pretty picture on a poster with words like ‘cooperation’ or
‘inspiration.’ That asshole is just sadistic.”