Life Among The Dead (Book 3): A Bittersweet Victory (27 page)

The little survivors dissipate, already
chasing one another, working on boots now the furthest thing from
their minds. Brass is left alone in the motor pool with Abby,
though he knows Lady Luck is probably somewhere near, either under
or in one of the vehicles.

“Is this Vida’s?” Brass asks.

“Yeah,” Abby says, without looking up from
the black plastic he frames with tape to protect the areas he
doesn’t wish to spray with primer.

“I was hoping she’d be involved in this.”

“Why’s that?” Abby works fast, for he needs
the job to be done and dried by tomorrow. His vision is simple, and
the stencil he cut out of oak tag is basic. Most of the detail work
will be done freehand.

“Well, it’s her helmet after all.”

“We talked about it. I have an idea.”

“Did you two talk about anything else?” Brass
leads his young friend.

“Not much.” The answer disheartens Brass. “We
talked about what she’s into and stuff. I told her how I think my
life is better now than before the zombies.”

With Abby so focused on the task at hand, he
doesn’t catch Brass slapping his own forehead in dismay or the
shaking of his head. He doesn’t notice Lady Luck roll out from
under one of the many trucks to eavesdrop.

“You told her you like life better now?”
Brass cringes at how it sounds.

“Yeah. It was a dead-end before. It still is,
only now we can make a difference.”

Silently, Brass works the logic of what Abby
has said, ultimately declaring things not a total loss. “All right.
There’s still hope.”

“Exactly,” Abby says as he lightly applies a
layer of primer to the helmet. “You know I don’t like people
gawking over my shoulder when I work. Is there something you
need?”

“No, just killing time. You know me. Livin’
life, being awesome. Planning what to do next after this batch of
noobs graduate tomorrow. She’s cute, isn’t she?”

“5,6,7,8!” Brass says at center court of the
gymnasium. He wasn’t at the armory this morning, and the recruits
were told he’d meet them at the school for the final.

The dead moan and pound on the far doors.
Brass sits in a wheelchair at half court, completely vulnerable
without his armor.

Unlike the previous romp here, all the
overhead lights are on. Where shadows once shrouded chaperones, now
only bare corners and gleaming floors can be seen. Above Brass, a
timer counts down seconds on the scoreboard.

Abby armed the graduates as they left the
bus. They had to choose from two rifles and a long tire iron. Vida
readily chose the blunt tool, allowing the guys to take the guns.
Then Abby told them to head to the gym to meet Brass. Now they rush
to his chair before the dead can enter.

“Hey guys,” Brass says.

“What is this?” Vida asks.

“Oh my god, Vida, you look wonderful!” He
admires the picture his friend painted on her helmet--a Mexican
skull adorned with gleaming jewels and music notes. “Abby’s quite
the guy, huh?”

“Is this a test?” Player 1 says, even though
they’ve been told this is their final. His question is answered
once the timer reaches zero and a buzzer sounds.

The far doors open and dozens of zombies
enter. They fight and squeeze past one another to get at the
living.

“Yes, it’s a test. I am a survivor and you
all have to save me.” Brass takes on the persona of a housewife
from an old cartoon. He leaps on to the seat of his wheelchair and
shrieks, “Zombies! Zombies!” as if he’s just seen a tiny mouse.

“Player 1, get him out of here!” Vida
commands. “Malcolm, you and I will hold them back!”

“It won’t budge!” Player 1 says, after
shoving the chair only results in it skidding along the floor,
leaving scuffs of black rubber.

“Oops. I think I left the locks on,” Brass
says. “Sorry ’bout that.”

Vida and Malcolm spread out to divert the
attention of the dead. They want them to come their way so Brass
can be wheeled out to the bus. The throng separates down the
middle, each mass zeroed in on one of the two closest humans.

Malcolm fires his six shot weapon until it
clicks empty. The corpses trip over their fallen but don’t stop,
even as those bringing up the rear trample over them in their
zealous quest for food.

Vida swings and whacks with her tire iron.
She shoves back the zombies, toppling them like dominoes to get to
Malcolm where he lies under a heap of ravenous corpses. She drags
him out from under the writhing tangle. “Get out of here!”

The zombies reclaim their footing. As they
rise once more, Vida recognizes a few familiar faces. These are the
zombies they danced with. This is their school, and they have home
court advantage and superior numbers.
They
can
have
it
, she thinks as she dashes after Malcolm.

On the other side of the double doors, Vida
slides her weapon through the handles, turning it into a lock to
keep the threat contained. Malcolm is in the hall waiting for her
so they can head to the Gunship together.

Even though the school’s lights are on, the
daylight seems exceptionally blinding as they fly through the front
entrance. They lean against the glass doors to catch their breath.
Clapping hands brings their sore eyes to the top level of the
double decker bus. Brass, no longer wheelchair bound by some
miracle, gives the group an ovation next to Abby and Lady Luck.

“Great work, kids!” He beams with pride.
“Vida, way to take command. That’s a wrap! You’ve taken everything
I’ve taught you and put it all together. Faster and better than
real military training, I assure you. None of that breaking you
down to build you up garbage.”

“Have you encountered any military?” Vida
asks him once she is freed of her newly painted helmet.

“Oh yeah!” Brass says, sounding as if it
wasn’t the nicest of experiences. He unravels her protective
adhesive while the others get themselves un-taped. “They come
around periodically to entice us to join them down south. Now that
I think of it, we haven’t seen them in sometime.”

“Do they have a big base down there?”

“Not that I know of. These soldiers are
living it up at Story Book Land of all places.”

“And they haven’t tried to force you to move
down there? I thought they wanted to get all survivors on to the
bases.”

“They do. But they can hardly force us to
move when we outnumber them and have all the same toys that they
do, now can they?”

More than 350 miles south of Rubicon, Georgia
is a magical land. Within the stone walls that surround this
kingdom, high upon a hill is a castle of powder blue. Only the most
radiant princess in all of public domain can call this place
home--Cinderella.

Through the tall drawbridge and into the
ornate main hall, past empty suits of armor that stand bravely, all
the way to the throne room, everything is gilded in hues of blue
and gold. Once upon a time, visitors stood in awe of the high
ceiling and the tapestries that appeared to hang from a mile over
their heads. Now they would see it is all a sham.

Beyond the rich upholstered and elegantly
carved thrones is a door that was once guarded during visiting
hours to prevent the commoners from investigating the royal home
too closely, lest they be privy to the truth. If one were to make
it through the door, the illusion would be broken, the magic
lost.

Bare walls of plywood and a floor of concrete
would give way to the fact that corners had to be cut somewhere to
keep expenses down. Hand scrawled messages on the rough planes of
wood might contradict the belief that this seemingly cheerful realm
is one of the happiest places on earth. Here, over the years,
employees have jotted down their complaints about the management at
Story Book Land.

Along the walls, as if punctuating the
graffiti, are bits of dried chewing gum, since the actors weren’t
allowed to chew when under the scrutiny of the consumers. Many of
the gobs are off-white in color and contain traces of nicotine,
since smoking on the clock was also forbidden. A princess can’t hug
a child or get her picture taken with them if she reeks of
cigarettes. Or so it was written long ago.

Dressing rooms also line these corridors the
tourists never saw. Deeper down, beyond voids of space used for
storage of outdated props, is an office where the current ruler of
the land, Major Barnwell, sits upon a swivel seat of power.

Three civilians sit across from the
commanding officer’s desk. He who controls the army that occupies
the park. The major ignores them as he reviews papers on his desk.
To the only female of the summoned trio it feels a lot like being
called to the principal’s office. Her leg bounces rapidly until the
companion on her left places his large but gentle hand upon it to
still her nerves. The gesture makes her stop, but her other leg
bounces after a few grueling seconds.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” the major
apologizes for his rudeness. “I’m just going over the daily report.
I need to stay apprised of things: headcounts, supplies, reports
from our patrols…”

“What is this about?” the nervous girl
blurts

“Miss Thorne…” The man must refer to a
clipboard for her name.

“Carla.” It’s been a long time since she has
heard her last name, so long that it sounds odd to her.

“Carla, as you may have suspected, your New
Castle wasn’t the only settlement with life beyond our walls. We
have found strongholds all along the coast and have brought them
in. There is one exception--a town called Rubicon just beyond the
border of Georgia. A man has established a thriving community much
like your New Castle. Only instead of striving for as normal an
existence as possible, he has kept his encampment compact. Rubicon
has comparable numbers to your New Castle. From what we can tell,
at least half of his people are voluntary soldiers. He has formed a
militia that has ransacked every fallen military installation they
have come across, and confiscated the weapons.”

“What does this have to do with us, exactly?”
one of the men in attendance asks.

“I was getting to that, Mister…”

“Oz,” the large man says.

The major clears his throat. “We’d like you
three to go talk to this man. This is completely voluntary, but
since you have so much in common with him he may listen to reason
if it comes from you. He doesn’t seem to trust the military, though
he certainly likes our equipment.”

“And I suppose you want me on board to lead
this mission,” the third attendee of the meeting speaks up for the
first time. “Someone that’s proven himself in the field. A
registered badass. I’m in.”

“Not exactly, Mister Rottom,” the major says
to the man in full clown makeup. “This man, a Mister Brass, has a
flair for theatrics, from his over the top vehicles and the outfits
his people wear, to their G.I. Joe nicknames.”

“Sounds like a real freak,” the clown scoffs,
crossing his arms defensively.

“Please don’t use that word when you meet
him. Mister Rottom, your job will be to appeal to his most
cherished citizens, the children.”

Brock Rottom is thrilled by the prospect of
having a fresh audience to entertain.

Carla isn’t completely on board yet. “I get
why you chose Oz, and now understand why Brock’s here. Why me?”

Oz fields this one, “Because you’re adorable.
Everyone loves you. Well… maybe not the women.”

Carla pouts. “Like it’s my fault I’m young,
pretty, and have nice--”

“Time is a factor on this,” the major says.
“Miss… I mean, Carla, you have more time in the field against the
dead than most of my soldiers, from what I hear. Your people say
you were quite the sheriff.”

“I imagine you’ve already talked to Dan about
this,” Carla assumes from the use of her old title.

“Mister Williamson will not be joining you.
With your anticipated success in bringing these folks in, we’ll
need all the vaccine we can get to finish inoculating our current
residents and to cover the refugees. His blood is too precious to
spill.”

“Why the sudden urgency?” Oz asks. He feels
strongly that there is more to it. They’ve obviously known about
the encampment for some time. “Why now?”

The major shifts uncomfortably and
straightens his papers. “Though we had no scientific reason for
believing this, my colleagues and I think the dead are devouring
the flesh of humans as a means of prolonging their existence. We’ve
observed them migrating in search of food, but also settling in dry
climates and cold climates, which we suspect may also be an
instinctual effort to increase their longevity. They’ve found
another way.”

###

“What’s that Uncle Bruce?” an eight year old
Danny Williamson asked long ago.

“Dead guy,” the man said as he glued one of
the boy’s action figures to the inside of something they made
together. Typically it was race cars and rockets, but this visit
they had decided to work on a school project on alternative sources
of energy. Danny had been assigned nuclear power.

Nancy Williamson made a sound of disapproval
after she overheard the addition to the model. She quickly walked
over to try and remove it. “We are not sending him to school with a
dead guy!”

“Nance, I love you like a sister, but if you
touch my dead guy, I swear…” Bruce warned her.

“He’ll get in trouble! Or expelled…”

“Expelled? For historical accuracy?” Bruce
said. “What the hell kinda school are you sending him to?”

“Vermello Elementary, Bruce,” Wallace
Williamson, the boy’s father, said from the comfortable distance
his recliner provided. He’s already exhausted, having broken up too
many fights between his wife and brother. “Same place we went
to.”