Life Among The Dead (Book 2): A Castle Made of Sand (8 page)

“Why do you where the mask?”

“Burns,” he says simply. After a long pause,
he explains further. “Because of an inconsiderate drunk driver, I
lost my baby. The car was on fire after the crash. I was thrown
from it, but I ran back to save her. I just couldn’t get her belt
off. We were both burning, she was screaming for me to help, but a
truck full of frat boys pulled me out before I could get her. They
meant well.”

The man has stopped their ride in the street.
The dead in the city are hobbling closer by the second. He can’t go
on like this. His armor covered face rests on the steering wheel so
he can weep for his lost child.

“If there was a drunk driver involved, you
can’t…”

“I was the one driving drunk,” he admits. “It
was a family reunion. I thought I could handle it.”

“What was her name?” Kelly collects as many
of the relics belonging to her number one fan as she can grab, and
a marker from the floor, intending to sign every last object.

He turns to her, and the human eyes behind
the mask bleed tears of sorrow while saying ‘thank you’ at the same
time. “Shelly… My Shelly.”

“Not cool, man!” Gar scolds his partner on
the roof of a building. They had been lucky to find a fire escape
they could reach from the top of a dumpster, but the homeless guy
that had popped out at the worst possible time wasn’t so fortunate.
“That kid just wanted a safe place to hide.”

“It was him or us,” Randy counters. Neither
man can look down to where the street person is now being mauled,
finding it bad enough to listen to the sounds of the feast.

The stoner heads for the opposite side of the
roof. Smoke is rising from the direction they had intended to
travel, and he witnesses the aftermath of the gigantic explosion
that had sent them for cover in the alley. The path to the hospital
is blocked by burning wreckage.

“Oops.”

“What do you mean, ‘oops?’”

“I was supposed to take you south to
Memorial, but we’ve been going north. Olive Grove is down there,
and I don’t think we can get to it now.”

“It doesn’t matter.” The man known for his
relentless mirth and acid tongue sits, feeling horrible. Even if he
can get his hands on some morphine, it won’t dull the pain. He
really has nothing.

“Hey, didn’t you say back at my place you
were getting divorced?” Gar asks.

“Do you always kick a man when he’s at his
lowest point? Can’t you see I’m depressed?”

“I was just wondering what happened,” Gar
sheepishly adds.

“I’m a shit! That’s what happened,” Randy
blurts the truth. “I cheated, and promised to clean myself up for
her, but I am nothing but a liar.”

“You cheated?”

“Yes.”

“On Kelly Peel? Were you high?” The stoner is
suddenly not so innocent, and more cogent than Randy has seen him
so far. “First, it’s a scuzzy thing to do to someone you love.
Second, it’s Kelly friggin’ Peel! Who can compete with her? She’s
perfect. What did this other chick have, three boobs?”

“There were many, actually,” the comedian
admits.

“Whoa! How many did she have?”

“No, not… I mean, I cheated on Kelly with
several women,” Randy clarifies, watching the stoner light a fresh
joint. He doesn’t offer him any and he can’t blame him.

After taking a moment to return to his base
line, Gar continues to think about the pop diva. “I remember this
one video I saw online. She was in Iraq with the troops, and she
found out it was one of the guy’s birthday. She gave him a total
lap dance. She kept her clothes on, but I was like ‘I’m totally
joining the Army!’”

“She is beautiful.” Randy nods.

“She’s perfect.” Gar expounds the sentiment,
mentally picturing the woman in all her photos and stage
costumes.

“Are you thinking about my wife?”

“Yeah,” the stoner says in a dreamy
admission.

“Can you stop that, please?” Randy requests.
“Seriously, while I’m right here?”

“Sure, give me a second.” Gar squeezes as
many images as he can into his mind’s eye. “Kay! I’m done.”

“In my country, they often speak of people
‘marrying well.’ It means they’ve found someone that complements
them and takes care of them. Kelly can never be accused of that. In
fact, I’d say she married quite poorly. I’m here with you, chasing
a fix. She’s out there somewhere with the type of guy she should be
with. He’s all strong and heroic, probably looks like Brad Pitt
under that hockey mask. She deserves him.” Randy Russell stands
with indignation. “Not on my watch!”

“Where are you going?” Gar asks his famous
friend, who is heading for the fire escape.

“I’m off to find my wife amid this terrible
shit, and reconcile with her before she realizes what a mistake it
will be. Fare thee well, Gar. I shall remember you fondly.”

“Just speak from the heart, man!” the stoner
calls after Randy Russell as he descends the ladder, leaving him
sitting alone upon the gravel rooftop. It takes a while for it to
dawn on him that he is all by himself in a city overrun by the
dead. “Shit! Now what am I going to do?”

Gar hurries to throw his beloved bag of weed
over his shoulder. Armed with his air rifle, he follows the
comedian. Randy skitters from object to object in hopes of
remaining unseen by the carnivorous corpses. He rolls over the tar
like an action hero without the years of seasoning or the
athletics. Covering the comedian’s back, the stoner mimics the
man’s antics as they head east.

Randy had felt an initial sense of hope upon
deciding to locate his wife and make things right between them. Now
he realizes his chances of finding her in the urban jungle that
burns around him are slim, and slimmer yet is the chance she'll
forgive him. He finds it reassuring to have not encountered a
zombie yet during his selfless quest, until he rolls clumsily into
a cluster of them emerging from a cross street.

“Bloody hell!” he exclaims, trying to roll
away.

The dead fall upon him as he resorts to
scooting along the ground. His tight legged jeans threaten to slide
off of his hips. The man tries to bat away their hands when the
need arises, but it’s no use. A bloated corpse that looks as if he
was quite bloated in life too has him by the belt. The zombie is
wearing nothing but a robe and his unmentionables dangle, making
the already terrifying affair even more horrifying to the
victim.

Randy can’t pull free from the nearly nude
ghoul’s clutches, and a very hungry mouth draws near. Inches from
finding a soft place to bite, the dead man’s head wobbles,
distracting him from the task at hand. Buried below the moans of
the horde, another quiet shot is fired from an ineffective weapon.
The indecent zombie shifts his attentions to this other morsel that
pumps his rifle repeatedly, and it’s just enough for Randy.

The comedian can see the mass of dead are
torn between him and Gar, and he uses the precious seconds to
unbuckle his belt and slip free of it and the zombie. He takes off,
away from danger. With some space, he risks turning to see his
acquaintance. Between him and his friend is a wall of death that
follows the stoner towards the bombed out traffic to the north.
Randy isn’t sure what surprises him more--the fact he wishes he
could help Gar, or the fact he actually feels bad for continuing on
without him.

This
is
stupid
, he
thinks.
I’ll
never
find
Kelly
in
all
this
.
I
should
just
find
a
safe
place
to
stay
. The Hammond Grand Hotel is the only place he’s ever
truly felt comfortable in Waterloo. The expense and the opulence
appeal to his selfish nature. He was told he couldn’t stay there
any longer due to a scheduled fumigation of the penthouse floors.
They
can’t
kick
me
out
if
they’re
all
dead
.

##

Winded already due to his diminished lung
capacity, Gar jogs away from the zombies. On his return trip, he
sees corpses appear from all sides, undoubtedly drawn to the sight
of his and the comedian’s previous jaunt. The burning cars loom
ahead and he isn’t sure if there’s a way around them. He fears he
may become trapped, and it is no relief when a man steps in front
of him, holding a bloody machete and wearing a hockey mask.

“Oh, fuck!” The startled stoner skids to a
halt and scampers away. “Wrong movie.”

##

“Who was that?” Kelly asks her guide. A
shabby man is retreating from the sight of her companion and
heading towards where the Washington Bridge once stood.

“I dunno,” Griffin says, puzzled. “I told you
to stay in the car.”

Griffin had stopped to check on the viability
of yet another safe house that proved to be anything but. A local
homeless shelter was reportedly taking in those left out in the
chaos. People who had no way to get home and apparently never
would. But when Griffin looked in the window, he found the only
reason the place could be declared safe now was because it stopped
all of the zombies inside from harming anyone on the outside.

“I know…” Kelly Peel’s words are cut off when
Griffin thrusts her back towards the Intrepid.

“Get in!”

A throng of corpses are coming their way, and
he has no doubt they are looking for the shabby, odd-smelling man
he met briefly. The zombies are on him, pawing at his face. The
mask is removed in the clumsy assault, but Griffin can’t worry
about hiding his scars. He must protect Kelly. So he kicks them
back to gain room to swing his blade. He lashes at the dead with
vengeance until satisfied he has done enough damage to the pack to
slow them They trip over their fallen as he can races back to his
daughter’s idol.

##

In the valet circle of the Hammond, Dustin is
trying to squeeze his car through the gap he has made. He checks
both sides repeatedly to ensure he doesn’t scratch the paintjob. A
mob of dead are among the standstill traffic he reverses through,
and one slaps his hands on the windshield. Its face is shiny as if
it was made of pink plastic, and its features look melted and
distorted. Safe again behind the wheel of the Camaro, Dustin wants
to punish this one for startling him, and to make himself feel less
like a coward. He lowers his window halfway to poke out the barrel
of his pistol. Then he fires a single round into the candle wax
face before pulling onto the road.

##

Kelly screams from the passenger seat of her
savior’s late model steed when she sees him fall. Griffin had been
on his way to her when another vehicle appeared and cut off his
path. The driver just shot him. He lies motionless on the road, the
vow he had made on his daughter’s behalf unfulfilled. Alone, with
only a trove of her own pictures to keep her company, Kelly is
scared.

The pop star slouches in her seat, feeling
foolish for watching her guide’s lifeless body, as if he may pull
through. The zombies make it clear that he isn’t going to help her
as they begin to eat his flesh. She trembles in the idling car, but
she finally takes her eyes off of the man who was bent on rescuing
her and she cries. Her face is cradled by the man’s headrest as she
breaks down. Kelly hates to admit to herself that she would have
been better off at home with Randy instead of being here stranded
among the dead.

The crumpled slip of paper, the list Griffin
had compiled, is upon the driver’s seat. She looks at it through
tear blurred eyes, finding only two places are left--the local YMCA
and the Army Reserve Depot. She composes herself, planning to see
this through. If all else fails, she knows she can always go to her
home in the Hills.

Able to move with ease in her lounge wear,
she lifts herself over the center console and behind the wheel. By
her nearest estimation, she should have just enough fuel to see how
well the alleged rescue stations are faring. The car crawls away,
drawing the dead from Griffin’s limp body. The zombies follow
futilely, falling behind in her wake. Her own voice has been
playing on repeat very low since she autographed Shelly’s
collection; the man had asked if it was all right. Kelly switches
it off, not wanting the reminder of her fame. It’s not what she had
expected.

Every girl in her church choir had dreamed of
making it to the pinnacle of celebrity Kelly Peel ‘enjoys.’ They
all emulated the pop divas of their generation, hitting and holding
notes far too high and for way longer than desired by their choir
master. And their over the top hand gestures and affectations had
drove the man insane. Kelly has made it to the top, but all she has
been wishing for since hitting her apex is obscurity. She longs for
the ability to just sing for the love of singing and not the greed
that consumed her at first. Companies wanted to pay her obscene
amounts of money just so they could put her face and name upon
useless artifacts of the era, but she regrets selling out with all
her being.

She picks up speed, weaving around the
inanimate objects in her way, and those that are quite animated.
The thought of striking a walking corpse makes her sick, but the
urge to run over one shambling figure in particular makes her
smile. She sees her husband step into her path. He waves his arms
to make sure she sees him and knows he’s alive. She isn’t slowing
down.

At the last minute, she applies the brakes,
stopping mere inches from the unfaithful man. His wide eyes are
thankful as he rounds the front fender, keeping his hands on the
hood as if the vehicle may speed away without him. Randy collapses
breathlessly into the passenger seat, but that doesn’t last
long.