Life Among The Dead (Book 2): A Castle Made of Sand (13 page)

The civies are shown how to load and prime
their M-16s. Dustin can see an immediate difference between his
rifle and those of the real soldiers. Theirs are jet black, where
the borrowed weapons are grey in color and make a distinct rattling
sound when jostled.

“Is it supposed to sound like this?” one of
the drafted men asks.

“Yeah, it’s fine. The receivers are just
loose. Yours have been used for training, probably since Vietnam,”
Deatherage replies before continuing the truncated instruction
session. “Your weapons have three settings: safe, single fire, and
what’s known as rock & roll.”

Dustin’s ears perk up at the name of the
third position.

“…don’t use rock. It expels a three shot
burst and will just piss away your ammo. Speaking of ammo…” The
soldier holds up an ammunition magazine. “Call it superstition, but
tap the back of each mag on your helmet or boot before you load it.
It’s said it’ll line up the rounds and prevent a jam.”

Deatherage demonstrates what Dustin saw the
portly soldier do yesterday in his Altima. He tenses as the teams
are called off from a list. He’s on Team Alpha, so he’s bait. He
can’t decide which job is more dangerous--luring the dead, or
fetching the rides.

“Hey guys!” MSG Quincy calls to them. “Go
ahead and take your time. We got all day.”

The sarcasm ignites a fire under the
soldiers. Deatherage issues the order for them to get up the wall
using ladders. Dustin watches his teammates ascend, growing more
and more nervous. He has a brainstorm, an idea that may save them
from unnecessarily risking themselves. “Why don’t we just use a
flamethrower, or something?”

“The United States Armed Forces haven’t used
flamethrowers since your rifle was brand new, Chachi,” Deatherage
levels with him. “Get up the wall.”

Team Bravo heads to the corner of the wall
near the road, while the alphas move to the left. After their team
leader reaches the top, the men pull up the ladders for their
descent. Twelve men in all crouch on the narrow stone surface, and
even the seasoned soldiers are nervous.

“Let’s get this done,” Deatherage tells the
others.

He’s the first on the ladder. His
instructions are simple: lead Team Alpha in the task of luring the
zombies away from the base so that Team Bravo can make for the bus
station and the remainders can clear the road. Then they are to
double back so they can all evacuate.

He hasn’t had much experience with the dead
that have overrun the burning city. Deatherage was on post when the
call of duty was announced. His job in supply puts him low on the
action roster, and by the time his number came up they were
hunkering down in preparation to pull up stakes. He is more scared
than he lets on, but if not for the blazes he’d call this a ‘cake
walk.’ However, the fires are creating pockets of hot air that are
keeping the dead warm. The ambient temperature is well above
freezing, so the urban dead will be faster than those outside the
gates.

The team of six men travels on foot away from
the depot. Should they get pinned down, or find too many survivors
to walk back safely, they have a shot at an airlift home. Vehicle
use was secured around midnight, out of a desire to save fuel for
the trip to Fort Eagle Rock, but a chopper is on standby for
them.

Deatherage takes a breath so he can talk
confidently. He doesn’t want to show any signs of his own fear in
hopes of alleviating theirs. “Ready for your first shooting
lesson?”

The mob that loiters at the front gate has
not yet noticed the six young men meant to lure them elsewhere.
Deatherage explains the sights to the civies. He wants each to take
a shot before they take off.

“Headshots only, one shot each. Just relax
and take your time.”

The first man up is a guy named Ryan, who
drops the target pointed out to him on his first attempt. The next
shooter, Shawn, needs two tries; his first round deflects off of
the cheekbone of a corpse in blue sweatpants, shearing off its left
ear.

“I got him!” Dustin cheers after his first
shot impales his target’s chest. The hordes’ attention is being
drawn to the group.

“He didn’t drop,” Deatherage clarifies.
“Again.”

Dustin’s second round misses the mark
entirely, planting into the face of a different factory drone.
“That one fell.”

“You weren’t going for him, were you?”
Deatherage reminds the pupil. He knows rushing the kid will not
help matters though the advancing dead is starting to make his
heart race. “You’re going for the one in the blue hoodie. Take one
more then we gotta move.”

The mass of awkward bodies close the distance
at a snail’s pace. They are far enough from the fires that the cold
air from the previous night has affected their joints, making their
movements sporadic. The sights are lined up, and Dustin tries to
control his breathing and nerves before squeezing the trigger. The
result makes the zombie in the sweatshirt fall to the cracked
asphalt and causes the gang to cheer.

“Good job, Chachi!” Deatherage congratulates.
“Let’s do this.”

The men follow the centerline through the
cheaply constructed factories and warehouses. They travel at a
speed just fast enough to stay ahead of the dead yet still keep
them interested. The two other real soldiers, Jackson and Collins,
are in the lead, and the noobs are centrally situated. Deatherage
takes the rear, and he walks backwards to keep an eye on the
zombies. “Slow it up, guys. We’re getting too far ahead.”

“They were faster yesterday,” Dustin
says.

“How much time did you spend out here with
them?”

“All fucking day.”

“Movement ahead, Rage,” Collins reports from
the front.

The leader of the pack breaks ranks to see
the road before them. A few handfuls of mobile dead are rounding a
corner three streets down. “Move left. We’ll give them some space
and take ‘em head on.”

Collins and Jackson lead the rookies to the
side of the road while taking beads on the zombies. Deatherage
nudges Dustin. “Go get some, Chachi.”

At this close range, Dustin finds shooting
much easier. He scores three headshots before his weapon is lowered
by the team leader. “I forgot to tell you, your mags hold twenty
rounds. Try to keep track in your head. You don’t want to get
caught in a tight spot on empty.”

Dustin has to think about this, pondering how
many he’s fired. “Six? I’ve fired six, right?”

“Yeah.” Deatherage laughs. The soldier takes
a small pair of field glasses from his gear to look back toward the
depot, over the slack faces and bobbing heads of the deceased.
“There goes Team Bravo. The buses are on Main Street. We need to
get them heading away, lose them, and double back.”

With the rest of the inbound dead no longer
standing, Team Alpha continues moving away from headquarters.

The man named Shawn asks nervously, “How will
we know when to go back?”

“They’ll radio,” Collins answers, pointing at
a black device on his belt.

Jackson looks back over his shoulder to make
eye contact with Dustin. “Chachi, what can you tell us about these
things?”

The nickname no longer bothers Dustin; he’s
actually starting to like it. It makes him feel as if he’s a part
of something important. Like for the first time in his life he’s
making a difference. To answer the question he paraphrases what he
was told yesterday, “They’re sharks on land. Always on the move,
tracking food by sight, sound, and smell.”

“Smell?”

“Blood,” Dustin says. “They can smell our
blood.”

“How long does it take, you know, to change?”
the soldier asks.

“Hour or two. I haven’t seen it
firsthand.”

Tracking by sound, the dead appear ahead of
the soldiers. The very gunfire that cements their demise draws them
closer. The living walk casually, but are being forced to take a
diagonal path least they become intercepted by the zombies.

The civilian named Shawn tucks his rifle
under his arm and holds it against his body so his shaky hands can
light a cigarette. “Any word from HQ?”

Collins chuckles. “It’s only been ten
minutes.”

“Why don’t we grab a car?”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Dustin agrees. He
nods noncommittally, not wanting to appear weak. In actuality he
wants desperately to be protected by a vehicle.

“There.” Deatherage points to a wood paneled
station wagon. He must ask the obvious question before ordering the
men to double time over to it. “Who can hotwire?”

“I got it,” Jackson says. The door is
unlocked, so he slides under the steering column. With his lower
back resting uncomfortably on the floor, and his feet on the
ground, his compatriots take positions around the car.

“You should drop the ‘E,’” Dustin suggests to
Deatherage from their posts at the rear of the wagon.

“Huh?”

“Drop the ‘E’ in your name legally, and then
start a band.”

“Yeah, I’d be a real headliner: Calvin Death
Rage.” He laughs at the concept.

The smirk the soldier wears is erased by
moans of corpses sauntering closer to them on the passenger side.
He yells to Collins to cover the area, and Ryan comes around from
the right side to help. Shawn is nowhere to be seen. Over the wails
of the dead and the intermittent gunfire, Deatherage hears the
rapid plod of heavily booted feet. He follows the sound to see a
civilian running away. “Where the fuck is he going?”

“Looks like Mission Ave,” Dustin replies,
considering their present location. “Going home, I guess.”

The leader shakes his head with
disappointment at the coward before turning to the advancing
threats and taking aim. “I’ve heard that before. What you said
about my name.”

The man waits to tell Dustin more so he can
concentrate on his shot. “You see a lot of odd ones in the
military. I worked with this one Mexican fellow named Moises
Areola.”

Dustin just smiles while Deatherage laughs.
He doesn’t get it.

“The areola is the dark part around the
nipple…” Deatherage explains. “He was two ‘T’s away from a wet
tee-shirt contest… I hear it’s actually a common name south of the
border.”

Collins comes to the rear and sees the AWOL
man exploiting gaps among the dead in his retreat. “Prick got an
armed escort halfway home and a free gun.”

“What’s touching me?” Jackson inquires with
annoyance while working on the ignition, and then he screams.

“Shit!” Deatherage rushes to the driver’s
side door.

The scene makes the leader’s stomach drop.
One of Jackson’s legs flail wildly, while the other is being held
by a female zombie as if it was her lover, but instead of lavishing
it with kisses it gnaws insatiably.

Deatherage slams the butt of his rifle
savagely against the ghoul’s head, but it refuses to release its
lunch. The zombie has been stripped of any scrap of clothing from
the waist down, as well as any flesh. Bloody bones scrape on the
tar as Jackson writhes in agony. The corpse’s tattered shirt tears
away when Deatherage attempts to pull her off by her collar.

Jackson continues to scream out in horror,
for the woman’s teeth have made it down to the bone. Her teeth
crack his femur and chew on the marrow. The man’s rifle had been
set on the hood since he was expecting everyone would have his
back.

Deatherage had fallen backwards when the
woman’s shirt gave way to his yank. From this position, he yells
out, “Chachi!”

Dustin moves in, pressing the barrel of his
M-16 against the zombie’s head and firing. Not even he could miss
this close. The door panel becomes splattered with blood and
brains, as does the windshield and parts of the dash.

Jackson replaces his agony with anger. “Where
the fuck were you guys?” The man kicks the dead girl away. The
sight of his ravaged leg makes him shiver, and he must divert his
eyes. Collins kneels before him with an olive drab bandage to field
dress the injury. Dustin catches a glimpse of the devastation
before it is dressed, and it’s a bright red mess with white shards
of broken bone. He winces with sympathy pain.

“You won’t want to put any pressure on that
leg until we get a proper splint on it,” Collins advises.

The dead are closing in on all sides now, and
they still need the car started. Deatherage must get them back to
the task at hand. His voice wavers, and his confidence is failing,
“Guys, let’s stick closer to the door. Jackson, I hate to ask…”

“I still got this,” the infirmed man groans.
He eases himself back under the wheel, being careful not to bump
his leg. Once he has the station wagon rumbling, his friends get
him into the back after they push debris out of the way--a pile of
dirty work uniforms and empty soda bottles.

The radio Collins carries squawks, and the
Master Sergeant’s voice rasps, “Team Alpha! Come in, over.”

Collins is too busy trying to get Jackson
comfortable in the car that smells of industrial oils and stale
cigarette smoke. He hands the radio to Dustin. “It’s for you,
Chachi.”

“What?” he answers the handset without saying
over. To Dustin that just seems redundant,
he
knows
I’m
done
talking
if
I
stop
talking
.

There is a pause before Quincy comes back
over the line. “I need you boys to get those things around the bend
so my movers can get out there, over.”

“They haven’t even started yet.” Dustin’s
words are high pitched from the shock. “What the fuck?”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job, you little
shit! Nobody talks to me like…”

“You’re the douchebag that put me on the
payroll, so get used to it.” Dustin simply switches off the unit.
The others look at him with expressions that range from pride to
disbelief. “Wrong number.”