Life Among The Dead (Book 2): A Castle Made of Sand (25 page)

He considers the possibility of smashing a
window, but doesn’t want to leave himself vulnerable when sticking
his body parts into the house. Then he realizes he’s holding the
key. The silent revolver is placed against the lock, and he winces
as he pulls the trigger.

The penetration of the brass knob is louder
than he had anticipated, but it effectively destroys the mechanism.
The orb on the opposing side of the door falls to the floor and
rolls across the hardwood. Dustin must wiggle the door to loosen
the bolt from its locked position. Once the small block of steel is
visible, he pries it away with his finger. Remaining on the porch,
he pushes the door wide open, mimicking the stance he’s seen
countless police officers take on television.

The old farmhouse invites him in with its
warm and homey décor. Dark wood accentuates the shadows the
lowlight casts into recesses, but it isn’t foreboding. Instead it
looks cozy, safe. He doesn’t detect any movement. If the porch is
any indication, he should be able to hear if someone is walking
towards him. He slowly enters.

The front entry expands outward to his left,
becoming a living room with rustic furnishings. An afghan covers
the back of an antique sofa. He spots a coffee table that was once
a small wooden wagon, and a couple of recliners. All the seats face
a well-used hearth that serves as the room’s focal point. Above it
hangs a large plasma TV.
The
Waltons
got
an
upgrade
.

Dustin ignores the staircase he passes that
leads up to the second floor. There is something in the air that he
finds out of place, a whooshing sound. The noise is slight and
rhythmic, like the breathing of someone in a deep sleep. He follows
it back to the front of the house and into the next room.

He explores a sitting room that probably was
never intended for sitting. The old wooden chairs, with their
elegantly carved high backs, look as if they would collapse if he
sits in one too hard. Artifacts of a stranger’s existence must be
ignored so he can locate the source of the noise. In the corner of
this room, amid the shadows, Dustin finds a door that is out of
place. The home is old and nearly everything in it is wood, but
this portal is a thick sheet of plastic.

He inspects the dividing curtain. A seam runs
down the middle, and the ends are held together by strong magnets.
He pushes through the crease, letting it reseal itself with a
series of clicks once he is on the other side. He is in a short
hall made of the same material.

Bright bluish lights flash on overhead. He
fights against blindness, but even when his eyes adjust he can’t
see past the transparent walls due to the glare reflecting against
their surface. The hall he is in has aseptic looking benches lining
the right side.
What
is
this
place
?

The other end of this tunnel has an
identical, magnetically sealed curtain. Cupping his hands against
the plastic film, he tries to see through, but all he sees on the
other side is darkness. The barrel of his weapon leads the way as
he pushes through the barrier. The blue illumination dims on its
own, until the light abandons him all together.

Lingering in blindness, he tries to make
shapes out in the dark. Shades of grey and black start to reveal
themselves to him. A black rectangle is before him, which appears
to be a table, and it’s
set
against a large shiny oval on the wall to his right. He is closer
to the weird breathing sound, but above that he hears
movement--slow steps coming closer and an odd rubbery sound.

“I need light.”

Lights flare on, as if the old house is
answering his plea. He finds himself once again blinded for a few
seconds, a few too long. He doesn’t see the owner of the powerful
hands that seize him. His shoulders are gripped in strong vises of
pain as the heavyweight takes him to the ground and robs him of his
gun. Dustin falls back through the curtain, lying halfway in the
short hall as his assailant’s mass crushes him.

Those peculiar blue lights flicker on again
above him in the antechamber. Dustin tries to keep the invisible
foe at bay, but can’t muster the strength. He feels the being’s
giant head pressing against his cheek. Panic and fright give him a
burst of power, and he shoves the contender away. The lights above
eclipse the figure, keeping it an amorphous silhouette.

Dustin is losing his endurance, just like he
lost his pistol when the attacker first laid hands upon him. He
hears the heavy revolver slide across the floor beyond the plastic
curtain. He struggles to keep the being away and roll to his left
side. The enemy he fights is wearing an all-encompassing suit, like
a deep sea diver, complete with helmet. The front plate is obscured
by a sheen of condensation, making it impossible to tell if the
person inside is male or female. The aggressor’s face thrashes
inside the helmet, pressing against the glass plate, looking like
raw meat tightly packaged in shrink wrap. It writhes, emitting a
constant and maddening sound as the synthetic material rubs against
itself.

Dustin sets his feet against the outfit that
reminds him of a hazmat suit. He pushes with all of his might to
get out of the being’s grasp, and unslings his rifle in one
move.

Though he is aiming directly at the face
plate, he hesitates.
For
all
I
know
this
person
is
alive
and
can
help
me
. The condensation that clouds the
glass has beaded, and droplets release their hold on the surface,
running down with aid from gravity. Both Dustin and the spaceman
are on their sides, but finally he can see clearly enough through
the helmet to spy green, moldy flesh. So he takes his shot.

An explosion of blood fills the cramped space
the zombie’s head has been contained in for so long. Then it lays
inert until Dustin kicks the corpse away. His action causes the
airtight suit to collapse, releasing months’ worth of built up
gases created by decomposition directly into his face. The gust of
putrid fumes makes Dustin’s gorge rise and his eyes water. He
battles his nausea to flee the noxious odor, returning to the room
he had lost his revolver in.

After wiping away tears in the now fully lit
room, he sees no further threats. His gaze scans the floor for his
silver gun. Everything around him is sterile white, from the floor
to the ceiling with the exception of a china hutch that matches the
house’s wooden motif, and a similarly normal dining table that is
set against a wide oval window. Two places are set on the table,
complete with cloth napkins, two wooden chairs, and a butter dish
in the shape of a rooster resides between the settings.

Under the seat closest to him, he locates his
pistol where it had been kicked during the struggle. He feels wiped
out from the brawl with the spaceman zombie, and his knees buckle
as he leans to retrieve his piece. His hands vibrate as he comes
down from the adrenaline rush. His breaths come as gasps of
exhaustion, and in time with the rhythmic aspirating sound he still
has to locate.

The sturdy table aids him in rising to his
feet, and it gives him stability on his wobbly legs.

From the corner of his eye he sees a sight
that causes him to freeze in place. A figure stands beyond the oval
of glass.

“Daddy?” asks the most radiant girl he has
ever seen. “Where’s my dad?”

At some point following the plague, someone
had sealed the town of Raleigh. Trees from the surrounding area had
been felled and stacked to block access. Not only were the roads
barred, the entire perimeter is enclosed by lumber. Lumber was once
this town’s livelihood, and it very well may be what has kept them
alive. Where they are now, the outcome still remains to be
seen.

Dan and Carla are the last to arrive, joining
seven men at the stack of wood that stands over ten feet high. Oz
is among the assembled, layering duct tape from his work glove clad
hands all the way to his elbows. He has parked Mater against the
wall to serve as their ladder. The barrier is to be left
intact.

“Town’s been scoped out,” Oz reports. “Not a
creature is stirring.”

“Let’s do it,” Dan says.

The nine from New Castle ascend the beat-up
tow truck’s boom in turn, being mindful not to scuff it as Oz
warned. From the crested wall, they descend into the eerily calm
town by way of the wrecker’s cable. If anyone is alive here, they
must be lying low. Weapons at the ready, they advance toward the
heart of town in a police line.

Crossing a clear-cut field, they spread out.
Carla rebukes Dan’s attempt at distance, sticking close to him.

“Let me guess,” he says, feeling a bit
emasculated. “Heather’s orders?”

“I promised to stay close to you,” she
explains apologetically.

“The team isn’t as big as I expected.”

“I brought the best of the best. Each has an
exemplary service record,” she explains.

“You’re keeping service records?”

“More like notes in a Strawberry Shortcake
notebook,” she admits. “But, they’re solid.”

Despite the warm temperature this day, they
all wear full sleeves made of heavy fabric. Some of them don hooded
sweatshirts with the drawstrings pulled tightly to protect their
ears.

They press on to Main Street, finding the
business district consists of a small five and dime and a market.
They can see a barbershop with a traditional striped pole. The team
halts when they detect movement.

A lone figure hobbles across the street. It’s
a female in a torn nighty. One strap dangles off her shoulder. Her
direction alters when she sees the living, and her irregular pace
quickens. There’s plenty of distance, so they hold their fire for
now.

Carla inspects the woman through a small set
of binoculars. She notes the paleness of her flesh. A bellow echoes
through the town, interrupting what Carla wishes to say. The
hollering belongs to a burly man who enters the scene. He charges
the shambling figure, swinging a double edged battle axe. The wide
blade is buried into her back. She falls to the ground where the
man commences to savagely chop her head and torso, too busy to
acknowledge the citizens of the nearby town that approach.

Half a dozen blows land in the corpse before
Dan clears his throat loud enough to be heard by the man over his
frenzy. The shock registers as this man scans the line of armed
intruders. A full, thick beard covers half of his face, while blood
is splattered over the rest of it. A broad smile forms behind his
pelt. “Good marrow, travelers.”

“Huh?” Dan has to ask.

“That’s geek for good morning,” Oz offers,
quickly wishing he hadn’t due to the embarrassment of knowing such
information. “A friend of mine dragged me to a Renaissance fair
once… I had to stop hanging out with him after that.”

“Well… A good marrow to you, sir,” Dan says.
“We’re from New Castle. Just checking out nearby communities… Looks
like this one gave you some trouble.”

“Nothing I could not handle.” The man sets
the business end of his weapon on the pavement, leaning on the long
handgrip. “I am Eric Shale, King of Raleigh.”

“Nice to meet you, Eric.” Dan extends his
hand for a proper greeting only to have his forearm seized by the
large man in a Viking-like ritual. “I’m Dan Williamson…”

“King of New Castle!” Carla announces to
Dan’s chagrin.

“It’s more of a title…” he explains. “Like
Mayor or Governor.”

“Or Emperor,” Carla chides.

“That’s an interesting axe,” Dan changes the
subject. He points to the wide blade that drips a pool of blood
onto the pavement. “Don’t you think, Oz?”

“It sure is a beauty.” He steps closer,
towering over the large Eric. “May I?”

“Most certainly.” the King of Raleigh hands
over his prized axe. “A fellow warrior…”

Oz, the once janitor, tosses the imposing
weapon away the second he takes possession of it. “Zombies don’t
bleed, asshole.”

The speechless monarch is instantly
surrounded by armed men. He finds his words, “What manner of
treachery is this?”

“She’s warm.” Carla reports sadly from her
inspection of the body. The still woman’s wrists and ankles are raw
from restraints. “And she smells like the sock.” The puzzled
expressions she garners forces her to elaborate. “Guys, I have a
teenaged brother going through full blown puberty. I know what the
sock is.” She shivers from the memory of reaching under her
brother’s bed for errant laundry and discovering a crusty tube
sock. That was the day Sid learned to do his own wash.

“Good people, I implore you…” King Eric
attempts.

“Shut the fuck up,” Dan warns. “Where do you
call home?”

“Seriously, guys,” the man takes on a more
modern manner of speaking, dropping his grandiose lilt. “You’re not
the cops… I need to see my wife before you do whatever it is you’re
planning. Just let me go.”

“You’re right. We aren’t the cops,” Dan
admits. “But knowingly leaving you to continue as you are would
make us no better than you.”

“The only reason to kill a fellow survivor is
if they are about to become a zombie,” Oz tells him the rule. “Or
if they’re already something much worse.”

The man looks pleadingly into the eyes of any
who will listen to him. “I just want to see Bethany one last
time.”

“Where is she?” Carla asks.

“Just let me go to her, alone. I will
return.”

The team disregards the man’s promise. Oz
scans the town for where the man might hang his crown. “Town
hall?”

“The bed and breakfast is bigger.” Dan points
out a quaint inn, which is the largest building in town. The man’s
victim most likely escaped from there. “We’ll start there.”