Life Among The Dead (Book 2): A Castle Made of Sand (14 page)

The men all board, and Dustin takes the ‘way
back.’ Jackson laughs at his lack of protocol.

“I’ll handle the radio, Chachi,” Jackson
says. “He’s gonna be pissed when you get back to base.”

Dustin isn’t concerned about Quincy’s wrath.
He plans on becoming a civilian once again as soon as the job is
done.

The wood paneled relic protests when
Deatherage tries to shift it into reverse, and he must force the
gearshift on the tree. The zombies are all around the car, yet they
are no longer a threat. The soldier makes no effort to avoid
striking the carnivorous pedestrians. He had hoped to see at least
a quarter of a tank displayed by the gas gauge, but they have less
than an eighth to work with as they roll down the street Ryan had
taken on foot.

To no avail, the dead try to grab the men who
cruise past. Considering the state of Jackson, and the fact they
have lost the other guy, Dustin has to ask. “Why don’t we just go
back?”

“We can’t. Not until we get the order,”
Deatherage responds. “Once they have the buses ready and a hole
made, they’ll call.”

Jackson switches the radio back on for when
the brass call them home. “I’m in no hurry. If I only have an hour
or two, this is how I want to go, cruising around with the boys.
All we’re missing is some brews.”

The look on the dying man’s face is serene.
His eyes are closed as he obviously imagines that he is touring the
strip on a Saturday night.

“I can’t believe there’s no cure for this
shit,” Collins says.

“Sure there is,” Jackson counters without
opening his eyes. “I’ll get my dose the second we pull into HQ. A
bullet to the skull.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Deatherage sadly
says.

“The fuck it isn’t. I know what they do to
folks who arrive with bites.”

“They stopped using bullets as of yesterday
afternoon,” Deatherage reveals. “I imagine they didn’t want to
scare the civilians with the constant shots, or didn’t want to
waste the ammo. They’re using a nail gun now. Requisitioned it from
supply around noon.”

“Good to know I’m not entirely screwed,”
Jackson bleakly quips.

The weight of the ‘cure’ fills the car,
pushing out all chatter. The men have fallen into despondent
silence. Deatherage turns on the radio for a distraction, but the
stations are playing nothing but static or repeating recorded
messages instructing folks to stay indoors. Aid stations are listed
for those who are out in the thick of things, and more than half of
the places named have fallen to the dead.

##

Without the comfort of music, Jackson decides
to utilize another form of male bonding, indulging in the tradition
of regaling his friends with a lurid story. The recount is of a
trip he and a buddy had taken to Tijuana a while back when he lived
in San Diego. Like most tales of TJ, it involves copious amounts of
alcohol and poor decision making.

“…There we were, drunk off our asses, not a
dime between us after paying this chick her asking price for what
we wanted. We didn’t have enough for the five dollar cab ride to
the border. We certainly didn’t have enough to buy condoms. So, we
decided to share the one we had, turning it inside out between our
turns. By the grace of God we found our way back to the states
afterwards.

“The next day we wake up, our heads are
splitting. Ironically, I found a condom in my wallet that had been
in there since junior high. Of course, by then it’s too late
because the two of us are pissing razor blades.”

The guys share a laugh at the volunteered
disclosure, and even more after Jackson adds fuel, “It seemed like
such a good idea at the time.”

The wagon is propelling itself in drive
without the use of the accelerator. Deatherage wants to keep the
zombies enthralled with them. The living are creeping out of the
industrial park and onto Washington Avenue with the dead in
tow.

A familiar face greets them just before it is
torn off by two ravenous ghouls. The man that had abandoned them
screams for them to stop and help him.

“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy,”
Jackson says, craning to see the gory scene better. He nudges
Dustin. “Can you believe that pussy just ran off like that?”

“No.” the Dustin hopes his eyes don’t give
away the true fiber of his own character.

“We’ll need gas soon if we want to make it
back,” Deatherage announces.

The wounded man shifts uncomfortably,
removing an object from below his rump. He looks at a coiled length
of tubing. “I’ll get us gas. Pull over somewhere safe.”

“Not on that leg,” Collins negates.

“That’s exactly why I’m the lucky duck. I’m
dead anyway.”

The wagon pulls alongside the cars parked
against the curb on the left side of the street. Deatherage guides
using his mirror to line up their tank with that of a Neon.

The condemned man strips off his H-harness,
and he leaves all of his gear and his weapon on the seat. At the
donor vehicle he begins the process. Jackson reaches back into the
car to take one item from his equipment--a hand grenade. He damn
sure doesn’t want to become one of those things, and he certainly
doesn’t want to be put down with a nail gun. “After I’m done,
you’ll want to get far and fast.”

Deatherage sees what the man has acquired.
“Are you sure?”

“It’ll be a blast.” He smiles devilishly. “If
I can wipe out the pack, you should be able to return to base,
right?” Jackson looks back to view the horde heading his way, then
removes the hose and hands it to Deatherage. “You may need this.
You have enough to cruise for a while and get home. It’s been
interesting, fellas.”

Jackson pulls the pin as the station wagon
takes a right out of view. They wait for the impending boom, but it
doesn’t come when expected. Back at the Neon, the bait hobbles to
the other parked cars, opening their gas tanks to let out the
vapors. He wants to achieve the maximum carnage possible.

The station wagon is well down the road by
the time the ground shakes from the explosion. After the initial
blast, they hear subsequent eruptions, like aftershocks. A wall of
flame fills the rearview, and Deatherage shakes his head. “Chachi,
call command. See if they’ve pulled their heads out of their asses
yet.”

“Hello?” Dustin says into the handset. “Is
anybody there?”

“Come in Team Alpha, over,” a new voice
greets him.

“Did you guys get your heads out of your
asses yet?”

“Roger that. The hole is made and the buses
are on route. Bring it in fellas, over.”

The men in the car cheer over the permission
to come home, despite the loss of men. The driver takes a right
that should take them all the way to the industrial park, but all
in the car are thrown forward when the brakes are slammed.
“Jesus!”

“That’s never a good sign,” Dustin says from
the very back of the wagon. “What’s wrong?”

“Exactly what I said.” Deatherage indicates
ahead of them. “It’s Jesus.”

Lying across the road is a massive wooden
crucifix that has fallen from where it once stood in a churchyard.
The top portion landed on a bus stop bench, and the depiction of
Christ in perpetual agony that once looked up to the heavens now
eyes a billboard advertising a local production of Cabaret.

“Looks like we’re backtracking,” Deatherage
says in a disappointed tone. He slings his right arm over the
passenger backrest to turn his body.

“Wait!” Collins says, laughing. “Look at JC.
He’s totally looking up that chick’s skirt.”

The four remaining soldiers look again. The
angle of the visage gives the illusion that the messiah is peering
up the female performer’s already short costume. Collins pulls out
his cell phone. “I’ve gotta get a pic of this.”

“Hurry up,” Deatherage says impatiently.

The soldier’s phone makes an unconvincing
shutter sound with every click of the button. Deatherage looks past
the photographer, his eyes drawn to the opening of the church’s
front door. A priest holding a shotgun emerges. The man of God is
trying to flag down the men in the car, and his black robes billow
as he runs to the wagon holding his weapon across his hips like a
commando. Collins, having snapped enough pics of the savior, rolls
down his window to hear what the man of the cloth is screaming. The
soldier also wants to capture an image of this guy that to him
seems to be surreal. Between this and his leering Jesus stills he
knows he’ll be a Facebook legend should the world ever recover.

“The day of judgment is at hand,” the cleric
announces before pivoting and firing into the window.

Deatherage is showered with remnants of his
companion. He must squint through a skull fragment in his right eye
to find reverse. He turns around fast. Glass rains down upon
Dustin, blown in by buckshot.

“All must fall if he is to return,” the
crazed priest shouts.

The car refuses to speed up as it travels.
It’s listing to the left, having lost a tire. Deatherage ducks
below the backrest as another shot takes away his side mirror.
“Chachi! Take him out!”

Dustin hears another burst from their
assailant. The tilting car levels out when the right rear tire is
obliterated, and the long backend of the wagon drags its bumper
along the asphalt, creating sparks. The front wheels are having
trouble pulling them; they are practically dead in the water.

Dustin pops up over the fifth door to take
his shot. He feels no need to adhere to the headshot only rule; he
just wants to stop the zealot from firing again. He also disregards
the ‘no rock and roll’ clause, releasing three rounds in rapid
succession to silence the sermon.

The station wagon’s front wheels are smoking
and squealing in protest of the demands being made on them.
Deatherage must give up. He picks through his friend’s corpse for
supplies, taking ammo and grenades. The leader has so many emotions
he doesn’t know what to feel, so he chooses to let frustration fuel
his decision to strike onward from here on foot. “Call command.
Tell them we need a pick-up.”

In the commotion, Dustin has lost sight of
the radio, and he frantically searches for the device in the way
back of the wagon. He’s anxious about their static position and
fighting the shock of what has transpired. He locates the handset
and quickly depresses the button. Speaking rapidly he says,
“Command! Come in, command!”

He waits but hears nothing. He attempts to
use the proper protocol, “Over.”

Deatherage slammed his door and now stands on
the street with his hands clasped on top of his head. Down the
intersecting passages, he can see the dead approaching.

“The radio is fucked,” Dustin says from
inside the vehicle. “Maybe the battery is dead.”

“A lot of that going around,” Deatherage
mutters. “Grab all you can carry. We’re walking.”

“All the way back?” Ryan asks in alarm.

“If we have to.”

A warm breeze reminds the three men that the
dead will be faster here than they were near the base, and several
of them are already congregating at the fallen cross. The zombies
are having trouble finding a way to the morsels that taunt them,
they reach over the wooden statue rather than explore for a way
around the obstruction. The stranded men know they can’t go that
way.

The team leader turns away from the corpses.
“Let’s try to find a new battery before we risk humping home.”

A scan of the streets reveals a clear path to
the business district. Deatherage turns the wagon’s radio way up.
He hates leaving his comrade’s body behind but he knows carting the
corpse will just get them killed. Between the drone of the radio
and the smell of the man’s blood, the dead will be lured here
rather than where he plans to lead the few remaining guys depending
on him.

The enduring members of Team Alpha cautiously
make their way through the stores and specialty shops. They stay
low to avoid detection. An electronics store is their best bet.
Like many of the businesses, it was not opened yesterday. A steel
shutter blocks their entry; the storefront window is protected by
bars.

“Now what do we do?” Ryan whispers.

“Get back,” Deatherage says, taking a grenade
from his gear. The distraction he had setup will be ruined after
this, but he feels desperate.

His men are huddled in an alley when
Deatherage comes rushing in to join them, making it around the
corner just in time. He hollers over the ringing in his ears,
“We’ll have to be quick!”

The men have to lift the twisted steel
barrier to enter the devastated glass door. In the darkness, they
need to split up to locate four ‘C’ cell batteries. Dustin sticks
close to the light entering from the front window. The glass is
cracked from the explosion but the brightness makes him feel safe
in the dark shop. Just yesterday, he encountered living souls
running around this very city. As far as he knows they’re all dead,
and today they’ve found only one survivor who didn’t fare much
better. Half of his team is gone now, and the world seems truly
lost.

He visually explores the shadows, expecting
lumbering, hungry zombies to emerge. But he sees nothing. The light
filtering in illuminates the check-out area, and he knows most
places keep batteries by the cash registers for the impulsive
shoppers.

A large display of various batteries stands
just beyond the aisles in the darkness. He tentatively takes small
steps towards them; his feet barely leave the smooth flooring.

Dustin stays in the pale pool of sun, leaning
to see the obscured packages. He snatches a four-pack the second he
spots the correct size. “I got ‘em!”

Dustin is in a haste to get away from the
unknown, so he turns away quickly but not quickly enough. His arm
is seized by an ice cold claw. The accoster moans, pulling on him
greedily. A panic induced shriek escapes him and he struggles to
get away. His efforts to free his arm succeed, but also land him
roughly on the linoleum. The dead man is on top of him.