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

##

The employee parking lot of the shopping
center is underground and never secured. It is kept open for the
night-cleaners and stores with late hours. Dustin isn’t surprised
to find the dimly lit space practically empty; only five other
vehicles sit under the yellow sodium lights.

After parking his car, he heads up the dirty
concrete steps with their worn industrial non-slip strips. The
employee access is a sharp contrast to the festively decorated mall
beyond.
Welcome
to
the
dream
factory
. One flight takes him to ground level and to the
back of Ray’s.

The keypad beeps with every digit he punches
in. Then, to his delight, the lock releases so he can slip into the
pitch-black backroom. Dustin waits for his eyes to adjust. Though
he knows the place like the back of his hand, he can’t be certain
where new shipment boxes have been placed. Back when he worked here
he used to use his cell phone for light, but since the service was
pulled he stopped carrying it.

Shades of grey develop, revealing the
outlines of his surroundings, and most importantly the breaker.
Dustin feels for the handle to power up the shop’s lights. Throwing
the heavy switch blinds him momentarily, and a lasting snapshot of
the storeroom is stamped onto his eyelids. But just before he shut
his eyes, he caught sight of a person near the door that leads to
the sales floor. It’s far too early for anyone to be here, he can’t
imagine who it can be.

“Hello?” he says while trying to force his
eyes open. The unidentified figure doesn’t respond, so Dustin fears
they may have run to call the cops. “I’m Dustin. Are you new?
Brandon may have mentioned me…”

Slowly he is able to raise his gaze and focus
once his eyes adjust. And the familiarity of the form allows him to
relax. The mystery man is just a tee-shirt mannequin that usually
stands out by the front windows.
They
must
have
moved
him
to
decorate
for
the
holidays
.

The storage space is packed with boxes, but
not all of it is merchandise to go out. The owner of Ray’s refuses
to get rid of anything, having learned his lesson when vinyl made a
comeback. The boxes are stuffed with cassette tapes and VHS movies
in the event of retro demand. CDs will be the next items to be
mothballed. The store has been struggling to stay above water since
the advent of MP3s and pirated music, so they’ve had to expand the
selection to include more and more clothing and musical
instruments. They also have to suffer the indignity of selling the
very devices that are killing the industry: iPods and other
players.

The first place Dustin always goes when he
comes here, even when he was an employee, is the guitars. He had
fallen in love with a particular Gibson Les Paul in jet black the
moment he laid eyes upon it. It’s kept in a glass case to prevent
greasy fingered patrons from sullying its mesmerizing finish, or
heaven forbid dropping the thing. He whispers to the axe the same
promise every visit,
one
day
.

He walks among the ever dwindling music
selection. What was once wall-to-wall albums has been reduced to
one central rack of CDs. Entire genres have been excised due to
lack of interest, and only the most popular artists are available:
cheesy pop stars, rappers, and of course the gods of rock. A glass
cabinet to his left displays the reason for the decline--the music
devices. He glances into the case of impossibly diminutive
electronics; despite his initial disdain, he has developed an urge
to get one and create the ultimate playlist.

The shop phone is by the registers near the
front of the store. He has to call his work and let them know he
won’t be in today. As the line rings, he looks out through the
plate glass windows and into the dark courtyard of the shopping
center, surprised to see mall walkers so early, The open air
establishment is the perfect setting for people needing a safe
place to exercise, free of traffic, but they usually arrive later
than this.

Come
on
.
Pick
up
the
phone
ya
fat
fuck
, he
commands the third shift supervisor telepathically. The walkers in
the courtyard stare at him; some are coming closer to the door.
Dustin shakes his head at the individuals entering the pool of
light spilling out from the storefront.

“We’re closed!” he says loud and slow for
them, but they continue to approach the glass. He quickly turns
away from the early birds when the phone is answered. “Uh, nothing…
I was talking to someone else… This is Dustin from the small lathe
cell. I’m sick and can’t make it in today. Gotta go. Bye.”

The supervisor had started going on about all
the other workers who had called out this morning, but Dustin
couldn’t care less. He has approval and that’s all that matters.
Now all he has to do is kill time before Brandon gets in. So he
plans to veg out in front of a small selection of flat screen
televisions, because he certainly wants to get away from the creepy
folks in the courtyard. Dustin chalks their transfixed window
shopping up to the approaching gift giving season.

He wheels a swivel chair from the back to the
wall of TVs, drops into it, and elevates his feet on a speaker.
Then Dustin wades through news bulletins, trying to find something
light he can nap to. Though he’s been working this shift for three
weeks, he still hasn’t gotten used to the early hours. After
locating a classic cartoon of a cat and mouse in perpetual
conflict, he is able to fall asleep listening to the wholesome
violence.

##

A high-pitched tone whines in a steady
interval. Dustin blindly searches for his alarm clock with his arm,
finding nothing but air. He opens his eyes wide with shock,
forgetting he has been sacking out in his favorite place in all of
Waterloo after so cunningly ditching work. The sound persists.

The television displays a plain blue screen
except for a message the scrolls along the bottom in a black
banner. The ticker advises people they should avoid the downtown
area at this time. Spellbound, he stares at the warning, unable to
understand why such a drastic precaution should be taken. He waits
for the slow moving headline to impart more, but it just continues
to repeat.

He changes the channel to the other stations
that had earlier shown what looked like war correspondents on the
frontlines of some foreign battlefront. The same urban setting is
being displayed, only now, during the light of day, he sees
familiar landmarks.

“That’s Waterloo.”

Soldiers in green camouflage fatigues stand
by barricades with their rifles at the ready.

The reporter addresses the camera. “…
violence on the rise. We are told the best thing to do is stay home
and lock it tight. Don’t open your doors to anyone…”

Another channel shows the city under the
light of the rising sun. The angle is off because the camera is at
an intersection on its side. The street takes up a third of the
screen while pairs of slow moving shoes occupy the rest. The owners
don’t quite pick up their feet but rather slide them along.

A
riot
? Dustin wonders. The
areas shown on the screen are merely blocks away.
What
if
Ray’s
gets
looted
? The word 'looted'
echoes in his mind.

He gathers the greatest albums ever recorded
from the shelves and back room. Dustin knows getting out with the
piles of clattering cases will be problematic, but he also knows
how he can take them all and still fit the entire collection into
his pockets.

The case of music players is unlocked. Dustin
plans to compile his playlist, an ultimate catalog fueled by his
eclectic musical tastes. Classic rock and hairbands, new metal and
industrial, alternative, and a select few pop tunes he secretly
enjoys. The bothersome piles of plastic jewel cases and the modern
solution are dropped off at the store’s computer for the endeavor.
The process will take a while, since the computer itself hasn’t
been upgraded in the past decade. The tower’s cooling fan whines
noisily as he brings up the program needed to rip the tracks.

In the interim between songs, Dustin checks
the news to stay current on the situation. He’d go online but the
outdated computer slows dramatically when overtasked. No further
information is being relayed at the moment. The tedious hours are
passed between staring at the progress on the monitor and sneaking
peeks at the televisions. It isn’t until he is halfway through the
stacks of CDs that he realizes Brandon hasn’t shown up to open the
store.
He
should
have
been
here
by
now
.

A droning male voice brings his attention to
the sales floor. A man is speaking in a nervous monotone on one of
the flat screens. He sits behind a desk in a news room, and it
appears he was rushed in front of the camera. The broadcaster’s
hair isn’t very well coifed, and he fidgets to straighten wrinkles
in his dark blue sports coat. His eyes dart left and right, and he
is at a loss for words. Besides a few unintelligible noises, he
doesn’t commence speaking until a sheet of paper is handed to him
from off-camera.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. We have
breaking news…” The man struggles to continue his bulletin. “It
appears that the dead are walking… and attacking the living…”

“What the fuck?” He laughs at the absurdity
of the announcement, thinking it must be a joke, or a movie.

“We have been asked by authorities to advise
all of the viewing public to stay indoors and not to try to reach
loved ones. You should not answer your door to anyone. Avoid
contact with the dead for it has been confirmed that their bite is
contagious. Anyone bitten will become one of them. As an extra
precaution you should avoid being seen by the dead. Stay away from
windows.”

Dustin slowly looks away from the screen and
out through the display panes. Dozens of ‘mall walkers’ linger at
the glass, slapping their palms against the shatter-proof barrier.
They want in.

Dustin had seen a crazy man pound on the
transparent panes with a baseball bat once, so he knows he’s safe
as long as he doesn’t leave.
At
least
not
that
way
. He may love this store, but he sure doesn’t
want to stay here until this, whatever this is, blows over. He
definitely plans to finish his playlist before going, since he'll
need music to survive by.

He works as fast as the old computer will
allow to get the last of the songs onto his devices, and he’s just
a few tracks from completion when the power goes out. He groans in
dismay, but he actually has the last of the albums at his
apartment, so he just has to get there to complete his playlist.
The power outage reminds him that he’ll need a supply of batteries
to run his new players.

Dustin moves to the register to snag as many
packages of batteries as he can, but he has trouble taking his eyes
off of the threat in the courtyard. Their vacant gazes are hard to
break away from. Under the morning sun, he sees them better.
Patches of their clothing are tattered and bloody. One man looks as
if he’s been gnawed on by hungry dogs, and his face is a mask of
scarlet chunks that extends down his neck and over his shoulders.
As he takes in the details of the dead, they are erased magically
like an Etch-a-Sketch by a speeding white blur. He thinks the quick
object that cleared the corpses was a van, but he can’t be certain.
He does know it’s in for a bumpy ride, since it’s heading straight
for a long set of stairs that lead to Main Street.

The city of Waterloo has two main hospitals.
Olive Grove on the north side, near the industrial park, and
Memorial on the south end. There are also many clinics and urgent
care facilities, but if someone needs to be admitted they are taken
to one of these two. Memorial Hospital, being surrounded by the
ritziest of citizens in the prestigious area of the city known as
‘the Hills’ is often called the place where rich men go to die.

Doctor James Orville is cutting his teeth as
a physician in this unusually bustling ER, and he has also been
assigned to one patient whose care is his top priority. His
patient’s status in society lends him such special treatment, but
it is also given for his humanitarian efforts and charitable
nature. He has donated so much to hospital that they have named a
wing after him, even dedicated the chapel in his honor.

“So there you are in the prime of your life,
when most men are well passed theirs, about to catch an early
morning flight, and you just keel over.” The doctor stares at the
dead man on a steel examination table in the morgue.

It happened at 5AM. Freeman Wilkes, age 52,
collapsed in the terminal just as he was about to embark on another
business trip. Given the man’s age and the fact that African
Americans are statistically more prone to heart disease--coupled
with his hectic schedule--it wasn’t a surprise. People often said
the man could be in two places at the same time, always where he
was needed.

Orville wants to concur with the pronouncing
physician’s report, natural causes, but something about this
doesn’t quite add up. Doctor Orville had met Mr. Wilkes briefly
months ago, introduced by the man’s own private physician at a
marathon Freeman had orchestrated for cancer awareness.
I
got
winded
before
the
halfway
point
.
There
you
were
,
leading
the
pack
.