Life Among The Dead (Book 2): A Castle Made of Sand (10 page)

A short flight of stairs is a trial for the
both of them, but they make it to the VIP wing, where private
doctors and nurses tend to those who can afford such luxury and
discretion. The entrance to the reserved ward is barred with a
magnetic lock that can only be released by use of a keycard.
Through a narrow window, they see there are lights on beyond the
portal.

“Do you know how to open it?” Gar asks the
man with no name.

“I got a key,” he replies, aiming his
silenced pistol at the top edge of the barrier. Here, powerful
electromagnets still hold strong due to the long life generator
solely dedicated to this unit.

Another mouse sneeze accompanies the muzzle
flash that knocks the seal from the door. Gar reaches for the
handle and pulls it open with ease, but the hard part is keeping it
open while aiding the man inside. They remain quiet, and the
presence of the lights running along the ceiling above them in rows
makes Gar feel vulnerable. While they walk, the man points with his
gun, indicating the path he wants the stoner to take.

The sterile white walls are streaked with
bloody handprints and splashes of red, and the floor is slick with
it. Gar has to lead the man cautiously around the puddles of gore.
The absence of bodies has the stoner concerned.

##

The three inside the chapel are startled by a
sudden clamor behind them; the wooden doors are being rattled
against the benches the orderly had moved in front of them. The
medic jumps, his body shaking with anxiety. He saw what those
things can do to people and is having nightmarish visions of it
happening to him. The calming hand of his bandaged patient relaxes
him.

Only one of those present seems happy about
the sound.

“Finally!” The widow stands to answer the
caller’s violent attempts at entry. She slings her purse over her
shoulder, ready to make the final payment to the hitman and be out
of here.

The beautiful blonde widow walks gracefully
towards the doors. Once the transaction is complete, she has been
assured she can’t be implicated in her husband’s death.

But her intentions turn the orderly’s
concerns to terror. “Don’t open that door!”

She ignores him, attempts to move the heavy
obstructions, but is unable to budge them. The doors continue to
batter against the dark wood seats, where folks of affluence once
prayed for their loved ones, but the brass handles turn in
vain.

Watching the lady in the slim black dress
struggle puts the medic at ease, he can actually enjoy the sight of
her toned body at work, and how the short hem of her skirt leaves
little to the imagination when she bends over.

His patient reaches up and pats his shoulder
to get his attention, then he points to the widow. He gives the
bandaged man a nod and a wink, but the patient shakes his head and
points to the woman with more resolve.

“You want me to help her?” he asks with
bemusement. The patient’s nod makes his stomach lurch.

But his patient makes a reassuring gesture to
indicate it will be all right. So he slowly makes his way to the
woman to aid in opening the doors.

Once the pews are relocated, the medic has
the duty of unlocking the only thing holding back the dead. His
fingertips pinch the latch, slick with perspiration, and freeze in
place. He takes several quick breaths while he bolsters himself
before finally snapping his fingers and rushing away.

The tall double doors are swung inward by two
figures; the light from the hall behind them counteracts the dim,
romantic lighting of the chapel, shrouding their faces. The new
arrivals dash in as more figures fill the archway. Then the men
slam the heavy panels shut and relock the knobs.

They are both armed, and the one holding a
pistol crumples against the door, holding a hand to his throat. The
woman in black takes a step forward but recoils from what
accompanies the two--a pungent smell coming off of the stranger
that crinkles her nose.

She addresses her paid assassin while holding
a finger under her nostrils. “Is it done?”

“Yeah.”

“It took long enough,” she snaps. “Don’t tell
me that doctor gave you trouble.”

“Where’s my money?”

“You’ll get it, after you assure me that I
won’t have problems with the authorities.”

He can only laugh at her concerns about the
police, considering the state of things beyond this room. “Oh, I
think you’re the least of their concerns now.”

“You’ve been bitten!” the medic says. He
pulls his patient away from the infirmed hitman. The farthest he
can roll the chair is to the pulpit, due to its elevated
platform.

“Don’t worry, I’m not staying.” The hitman
forces himself to stand under his own power. “As soon as she pays
me for services rendered, I’m gone.”

“I have you on your word that I won’t be
linked to this.” She crosses her arms, holding her clutch tightly
against her breasts. “There are three loose ends in this room,
eliminate them and I will pay you, Mr. Of-No-Consequence.”

Gar, not knowing what to make of all of this,
joins the other two in silent observation of the transaction. He
nods acknowledgment to his fellow survivors, oblivious to the
concerned look on the orderly’s face or the bandaged visage of the
man in the chair.

“I don’t have many rounds left,” the assassin
explains. “I’m not about to waste them on these clowns.”

“You will do as you are told if you want your
money. You came highly recommended. Now…”

The silenced weapon is pointed at the woman’s
pretty face. “I had to kill your hubby twice, you bitch, after I
watched him tear into that doctor we bought. I made it here through
all sorts of crazy shit to get what’s mine. Give me my money.”

From the sidelines, three sets of eyes watch
the drama play out. Gar can’t help but react with awe, and he
whispers to himself, “Wow!”

“Take it!” She hands the man a bundle from
her purse. “Wait… What do you mean you killed him twice?”

Cash in hand, the man smiles, but before he
can answer her question he crumples to the floor. The widow just
stares at his lifeless body for a moment before cautiously
reclaiming her expenses.

“Is he…?” the orderly asks.

“Fucked if I know,” she says callously. “I’m
not a doctor.”

Neither
am
I
, the medic
thinks to himself as he warily stalks closer to the fallen man. He
fears the gunman may in fact be dead, and he knows what happens to
those who have been bitten, but he also knows the man said he had
bullets in his gun. The smelly newcomer with the rifle follows him
to the body.

The medic places two fingers to the side of
the hitman’s neck, but he can’t locate a pulse. “He’s gone.”

The medic claims the pistol, gaining
confidence though unfamiliar with the weapon.

The hitman rears from his resting place, and
his gloved hands wrap around the orderly who screams out in terror
as he is forced to the floor. The pistol is useless to him now, for
it is pinned between his chest and the hardwood. The nameless ghoul
bites into the back of the medic’s neck to quell his growing
hunger.

“Oh, shit!” Gar exclaims when he comes in
range of the zombie. He fires a round that sounds like a whiff of
air, and is just as effective. The lead pellet barely penetrates
the undead man’s scalp, let alone his skull.

Repeated pumps of the hinged hand guard are
needed to prime his next shot. Another barely audible discharge
merely draws the zombie’s attention to him, and the creature
disregards the prey that no longer fights him in favor of the
living quarry that frantically readies yet another pellet.

During Gar’s attempts, the man in the
wheelchair stands. He kneels near his dead attendant, flipping his
body to get the pistol. The zombified assassin is almost to Gar
when the bandaged patient fires again, standing his ground.

Two mouse-like sneezes, not much louder than
Gar’s pellet gun, sound off. The bandaged patient has dropped the
hitman, and put a preemptive bullet in the orderly. He stands
before Gar, and the widow who now believes the impossible story
about the dead roaming the hospital. As Gar and the woman watch, he
removes the wrappings from his face. The long white strips of gauze
slowly reveal a familiar face.

“Hey, I know you…” Gar says, unable to place
the African American man’s name.

“Freeman?” the woman says.

“Hello, dear,” the man responds kindly.

Gar watches this new twist unfold before him.
He continues to try and place how he knows this man, while tracking
what’s going on.

“I… I was told you were dead.”

“I imagine that wasn’t much of a shock to
you, now was it?” Freeman’s voice is calm and composed as he speaks
to the woman “How much did it cost?”

“A quarter million,” she says quietly.

“I’m insulted.” He smiles. “Considering how
much you stood to inherit, I’d think you’d spare no expense, employ
a professional that might make sure he had the right man.”

“Who was he?” his wife asks.

“My brother,” Freeman Wilkes says solemnly.
“My twin brother.”

“No way… ” Gar says. “That’s fucked up.”

“You don’t have a twin brother,” his wife
says.

“Not one anybody knows about. Mason was
always the black sheep of the bloodline, and accordingly was kept
out of the public eye. He fell on hard times; addicted to illicit
substances, in over his head with the wrong people. I gave him a
means to escape all that and live the good life.”

Gar cannot believe the day he is having.
First, he is saved from a burning building by Randy Russell and
forced to travel through a city of real life zombies, then he has a
close call with Jason Voorhees, and now he’s witnessing a soap
opera before his very eyes.

“Wow!”

“How else could I be everywhere at once,
always where people needed me the most?” Freeman continues. “The
use of doppelgangers isn’t my invention; world leaders have been
doing it for centuries. Even our country’s own president…”

“Ooh! And Doctor Doom!” Gar points out.

The woman is obviously angry with her
husband’s life sustaining subterfuge. She’s a betrayer betrayed.
“Which of the two of you did I sleep with?”

“It was me, at first…”

“You had me fucking a stranger?” she
roars.

The much older man coyly responds, “That
isn’t too dissimilar from you and I, now is it?”

Gar can’t help but laugh at that.
Oh
shit
.

Freeman continues, “What was it Jackie-O
said? ‘The first time you marry for love, the second for money, and
the third for companionship.’ I do believe I am your second
husband, not that you’d admit it. I did my research.”

“And I’m your third. I was just a
companion?”

“More of an accessory really, for
appearances. A man of my age and means is supposed to have that
smiling young bride that makes all other men even more jealous,” he
says. “The second I saw you in Vegas, I knew you’d make a fine
piece of apparel. You being a Vegas born girl, I also knew one day
you’d cash in your chips.”

“You sacrificed your own brother.” She looks
at him with obvious disdain.

“Don’t judge me. I gave him a better life
than he could ever have provided for himself. I gave him money,
respect, you. I let him enjoy all those carnal provisos in our
prenuptial agreement, half of which I only added to see how deep
your resolve truly was. For your follow through, you stood to
receive a massive life insurance pay out.”

“I stood to get everything.”

“That isn’t entirely true.” Wilkes shakes his
head. “You never did see my final will.”

She looks at him like a child that has been
told a fib. “You said I was the primary benefactor…”

“We told each other many things. As I had
quoted, the first marriage is for love. It is Vivian, my first
wife, that would have received half of my wealth. I love her to
this very day, and that’s actually what lead to our divorce. I was
trying so hard to make sure she had everything she could ever want
that I became obsessed by my work. She never wanted to be rich, she
just wanted me around.”

After a few moments of silence, Gar’s
curiosity makes him ask, “Who would have gotten the other
half?”

“Well, my twin brother of course,” Freeman
says, as if it should be obvious.

“Then, you would be him!” Gar says.

“Exactly. With his identification, I would
emerge to take half of my own wealth. I would, in keeping with
Mason’s reputation, put myself into a rehab facility. Upon
completion, I’d make a sizable donation to a charity or two, most
likely a children’s hospital. Then, after the media had had their
fill of me and I was old news, I’d simply fade away.”

His wife doesn’t understand his reasoning.
“Why would you walk away from all you have, settling for only half
of your fortune?”

“What do you get a man who has everything?”
Freeman asks. “Peace… Even with my twin making half of my
appearances for me, bolstering the reputation I have for being
everywhere at once, I felt tired. So many people and causes, all
fighting for my attention. The charities, the government agencies,
even you, my dear, became incessant panhandlers.”

He says such awful things to her without a
shred of malice in his voice. Then the man’s kind eyes move from
his wife to manger, who watches in rapt attention. “How do you do?
I’m Freeman Wilkes.”

“That’s who you are!” Gar points at him,
happy to have a name to match the man’s face.

“That’s what I said.” He smiles with a
playful shrug. “Who might you be, friend?”

Gar shakes the wealthy man’s hand and says,
“Garfield Colt.”

“Is that Garfield as in the cat, or the
president?”

“My grandfather.”

“That would have been my next guess.”