Life Among The Dead (Book 2): A Castle Made of Sand (9 page)

“Sweetie… I know I haven’t been the best of
husbands. I know I have adulterous tendencies and have committed
countless trespasses against you and our wedding vows… many
occurred that same day, actually. But, I promise, never again… I
realize that I’ve promised that before, however this time I mean
it.”

His accent used to charm her, but now he is a
gnat in her ear. He keeps talking as if waiting for her to forgive
him, if only to shut him up. All she cares about is finding a safe
place. As far as she’s concerned, they are through and he is just
wasting his breath.

Randy attempts a new tactic. He speaks to her
like a parent trying to tell a child about the birds and the bees,
“When a man and a woman love each other very much, one of the pair
is often unfaithful. The terrible infidelity can actually lead to a
beautiful thing--forgiveness. The mistrust and betrayal can
inadvertently strengthen the bond between them.”

Kelly doesn’t speak, she just drives the car.
She is worrying she may not have enough fuel after all as she is
forced to backtrack occasionally due to obstructions.

“I’m in no way excusing my actions when I ask
you to look at it from my perspective, but we were, and still are,
newlyweds. This brings a certain urge for us to have sex all the
time. Where I would have preferred it to be with you, with your
hectic schedule, you were not always available. Please do not blame
yourself for my transgressions. I take a full 85 percent of the
accountability.” Randy draws a line in the air between them with
his hand. “I think the buck stops here. Or, maybe about here.”

He
can’t
be
serious
, Kelly fumes. The gnat in her ear has become a fat
bumblebee that is trying to squeeze its way into her brain. The man
beside her crosses his arms in a pout over being ignored, then he
falls into silence. Shot nerves make it difficult to enjoy the
hiatus from his droning, but she also knows it won’t last. Randy is
unable to go too long without making his thoughts known to all.

“Where’s Leatherface?” he asks in a snit.

“Dead.”

The delivery of the news is so blunt and
softly spoken he can’t think of what to say. The curse of needing
everyone within earshot to know exactly what is on his mind has a
tendency of getting him into trouble. He miraculously filters his
first impulse.
Good
.

He watches his wife steer the car, seeing her
sorrow over the man she had only met that day. He’s jealous of him,
and he has to wonder if she’d be as sad if he passed on. He buries
the thought and slips into a rant about Griffin, because he needs
to discredit the man to make himself feel better. Such deflections
are also his curse. “He was a complete nutter. Not keeping a
completely kosher house, if you catch my meaning…”

Usually, his berating of others and his mean
nature affects Kelly like water off a duck’s back. She lets his
unkind words slide, but now she is getting mad. What she once found
charming, just a part of his act, she now finds infuriating.

“He’s like Nyquil. Keep out of the reach of
children…”

A sudden application of the brakes tosses
Randy forward as Kelly chops his throat with the edge of her hand.
He gasps for air while holding his bruised windpipe, silent once
more.

She points her index finger straight at his
eyes. “Not one more fucking word!”

After he watches the semi cut a path of
destruction, Dustin sees a large military helicopter cruising
overhead. It makes him think how much he’s looking forward to
getting out of the city and heading north to the big gig, even if
it’s not there.
It’s
a
long
way
to
the
top
if
you
want
to
rock
and
roll
.

The light at the end of the tunnel approaches
when he nears the final intersection, but an olive colored obstacle
rolls into his path. He screeches to a halt, looking up at a
massive military truck that he almost collided with.

The soldier behind the wheel shouts down at
him while pointing to the corner of the road. “That’s a stop
sign!”

A second figure in camouflage rounds the
front of the troop carrier. A rifle, like the one he was promised
earlier today, is aimed at him, and the man pointing it looks to be
about Dustin’s age. He exudes confidence when he speaks. “Sir,
you’ll have to follow us.”

“I’m on my way north…”

“I’m not asking, sir.”

Dustin nods, willing to comply,
for
now
at
least
. The first opportunity he gets,
he plans to make a break for it, wanting nothing to do with this
city anymore.

The truck grumbles around the corner, heading
into the very place he has been trying hard to get out of. Dustin
has his foot poised over the accelerator; he knows that oversized
behemoth will have no chance of catching his car. But the truck
clears the way, revealing another set of headlights shining at him.
Now sandwiched between these two vehicles, Dustin has no choice but
to perform a U-turn and follow. The second vehicle flashes its
brights to indicate he should do just that, and he becomes a part
of the convoy that heads deeper into the very industrial park he
wished to escape.

Dustin Barnes has never been to this part of
the park. The unmoving traffic thickens as they near the high walls
of the National Guard’s recruit depot. Civilian vehicles clog the
entrance to the small base in a haphazard arrangement born out of
desperation. People wanted in, but those turned away for being
bitten now walk in the spaces between the tightly packed
bumpers.

The trucks pull up against the wall and
Dustin follows suit. Soldiers and civilians pile out of the back of
the carriers, while riflemen position themselves between them and
the meandering threats that advance, but most of the zombies are
thankfully trapped amid the congestion.

Dustin follows the living into the base,
where he and the other survivors are handed off to a new crew of
soldiers armed with clipboards and ballpoints.

The refugees are split up according to gender
and ushered into tents. They are told to strip down and surrender
all weapons. Dustin is told to extend his arms and turn around
while naked so he can be checked for bites. Though the process is
for everyone’s best interest, he feels embarrassed and demeaned.
His pistol, and the few rounds he had on him, have been confiscated
and placed in a clear bag embossed with his name in permanent
marker. Those who have passed the inspection are herded away once
dressed, and those who had failed are never seen again.

Among the battery of questions asked of the
survivors were personal inquiries: do they have children, and where
are their families? Dustin feels a twinge of guilt as he follows
the group, because he hadn’t even thought of his mom and dad until
he was asked about them. He hopes they’re all right.

The base makes him think of his grandfather.
The man had been in the army, and he wonders if this is where he
went to boot camp when he was Dustin’s age. He knows they used to
drill here before an influx in enlisters forced them to move
training to a larger facility. This base was given to the reserves
as a depot for drilling and disaster relief. The refugees are
brought to an open bay barracks that once slept sixty men
uncomfortably back in the day, yet is now deemed suitable for
ninety.

Three rows of steel bunk beds line the squad
bay with little space between. Men, women, and children who have
already settled into the shelter fall silent as the additional
occupants are led in and told to find an empty rack to sleep
in.

Dustin walks down the narrow rows of staring
people, making it halfway down one before he discovers an empty
bed. The moment he adheres the nametag they gave him to the head of
his mattress frame, the soldiers tell the mass of salvaged souls
that it is time to eat.

Gar has made his way to Memorial Hospital. He
didn’t need to evade the dead that followed him after fleeing from
the slasher, which is good considering a sharp pain in his side had
caused him to slow. For some reason, the zombies just passed him by
as he limped along. The stoner had to scratch his head over this
and wonder if they thought he was one of them by the way he was
moving.

The parking lot is a mess, because folks had
parked in the aisles of the Emergency Room entrance in their
imperative times of need. He has to climb over the hoods of cars,
and maneuver around one that stopped inside the lobby. The
expensive luxury sedan had destroyed the glass vestibule and
careened into the admissions desk.

The corridors are dark and eerily calm, and
not a single echoing moan or shuffling foot stirs.

I’m
here
,
now
what
? Gar asks himself, never being one for strategy. He
presses on through the scary halls, wondering if there may be
someone in need of help. Another joint is lit to ease his nerves,
but the tension in his chest is compromising his breathing.

While tiptoeing around toppled gurneys and
fallen bodies, Gar hears a rustle. He can’t lock down the origin,
nor does he know where he is since it is his first time in this
hospital, and his first time on this side of the city. Rifle pumped
to its maximum pressure, he slows his steps and listens to what
sounds like feet sliding along the floor. The person stumbles,
spilling over a wheelchair that skitters into view from an
intersecting hall.

Gar inches closer, keeping to the opposite
side of his hall. He sidesteps at the corner, wanting to know if
the individual is undead, but fearing what the truth may be. The
shadow is too thick to see anything but the outline of a person
hobbling his way. So he brings his rifle up to his shoulder and
aims at the mystery. But just as he is about to pull the trigger he
hesitates, because he doesn’t want to shoot a living person. Gar is
aware his weapon isn’t exactly lethal, but he does know from
catching a ricochet once that it hurts like hell.

“Hi,” he says

The simple greeting is answered by a flash of
light and a mouse-like sneeze. Gar falls to the linoleum floor,
covering his face to protect himself from the bullet. But the round
whizzed past his cheek.

“Whoa! Stop shooting!”

“Keep your voice down,” a voice whispers.

“You’re the one shooting,” Gar counters
defensively.

“With a silencer, putz. If you go around
screaming, you’re going to bring those things down on us.”

Gar nods in the darkness, oblivious to the
fact the man can’t see him. “Do you need help?”

“You want to help me?” the guy sounds
skeptical.

“I think I came here for a reason, man. I
don’t know what it is exactly, but maybe it’s to help you. I’m Gar.
What’s your name?”

“My name is of no consequence,” the man
groans. “Sorry for shooting at you. No offense, but you smell like
shit. I thought you were one of them… Do you mind if I take a
drag?”

“Not at all!” Gar answers proudly. He grabs
some ganja from his pocket for his new smoking partner. “It’s my
own creation. You’re gonna love it.”

“Help me walk, pal?” the man beseeches, with
the joint pinched between his lips.

“You go ahead and enjoy that one, man. I have
a whole stash in my bag. Sadly a lot of it was lost. But, I have
seeds. I can rebuild it. Where are we going?”

“Even in a place like this that caters to the
richest of the rich, they have a section reserved for VIPs. I need
to get to the chapel.”

##

Veronica Wilkes still waits in the chapel
named after her late husband. She is expecting news about his cause
of death, and is ready to pay his killer if all has gone according
to plan.
He
should
have
been
here
by
now
, she thinks to herself, keeping
her distance from the others in the dimly lit place of worship.

For most of the day, she has been alone in
the quiet hall, with only her cell phone to keep her company. Not
long after her battery failed, the others arrived. A man in a
wheelchair whose head is completely bandaged with gauze like the
Invisible Man, and an apparently insane person in an orderly’s
uniform that speaks nonsense about people coming back from the
dead. The lunatic is so paranoid he actually moved several of the
wooden pews against the door to protect them from his delusion.

The man she had hired to kill her husband
said he had access to a poison that should go unnoticed. The
virtually undetectable toxin degrades over time, becoming
nonexistent during a postmortem, unless the examiner goes against
the directions of a close friend and becomes too thorough for his
own good. The hired killer said he could take care of that,
assuring her that he could be very persuasive.

Veronica has been debating leaving for the
past several hours, for she fears that the hitman has run into
trouble. The same type of trouble she will be in for if the hitman
surrenders her name to the police.

##

Gar takes the man’s weight onto his shoulders
as he leads him through the dark halls, and his companion appears
to gain weight with every step. The man is bleeding from his neck,
badly. The well-dressed individual has his gun hand pressed against
his wound to stave off the inevitable, but he’s looking weaker by
the second. His insides are in knots, he confesses to Gar, cramping
to the point he can barely move his legs without bringing sharp
pain to his abdomen. His stomach muscles feel as if they are about
to tear apart with each contraction, he won’t stop until he
finalizes the transaction.