Life Among The Dead (Book 2): A Castle Made of Sand (16 page)

The woman is one of the hotel’s maids who
were scheduled to come in early to remove the food from the rooms
before extermination. Her babysitter had fallen through and she was
forced to bring Jeremy to work. Her name is Erica.

They reach the top floors, where Erica and
her child are placed in a penthouse so the boy can be fed. The
honor bars hadn’t been cleared, so the three adults raid the small
fridge for sustenance.

On the roof, Deatherage sets off a plume of
green smoke to signal command. They watch the amorphous spire rise
into the air. “It should be about 10-15 minutes.”

Dustin walks to the edge and spits off. “They
say, at this height, a gob can dent the roof of a car. I wonder
what it would do to a zombie?”

Deatherage joins him, pulling out a pair of
binoculars. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

Another loogie falls, missing a car but
hitting a zombie on the head. The dead man is staggered but doesn’t
fall. He just looks around puzzled. The ghouls are still crowding
the entrance like fish in a barrel.

“Still on his feet,” Deatherage says. “Let me
show you how it’s done. You need more volume. A denser wad.” He
snorts loudly, working a massive amount of thick mucus out of his
sinuses. They lay along the gravel roof with their heads hanging
over the side, and Dustin watches the payload fall. It hits his
mark, sprawling out an undead woman. Her limbs flail, tripping
others around her.

“Dropped one! But she’s still twitching,”
Dustin says. “My turn.”

He hands off the specs and removes a three
dollar soda from one of his cargo pockets. He shakes the can
vigorously before releasing it over the side. “Bombs away.”

The pressurized beverage rebounds off of a
zombie’s head and spins in the air, propelled by a spray of sticky
cola. The victim falls before the aluminum canister ruptures in a
haze.

“That was awesome!” Deatherage reports. “But
I have it beat.”

He rushes off, returning with two red fire
extinguishers.

The sight of the devices makes Dustin laugh.
“Oh shit!”

The safety apparatuses plummet, and two
concentric waves of foam expand upon landing on the hard surface
below. The walking dead around ground zero are thrown aside by the
released force.

“Nicely played, sir.” Dustin hands off the
field glasses. “I’ll be back in a sec.”

##

Jeremy is nestled on a pillow, napping while
Erica paces the luxurious room, unable to enjoy the extravagance of
it. She excitedly greets the kid who enters. “Is it time?”

“Not yet, ma’am,” he answers. “I’m just
seeing if you two are ok.”

“We’re fine,” she says dejectedly.

“Are you using this?” Dustin points to the
microwave in the small kitchenette area of the room.

“Well… No, the power is out.”

“We just need to borrow it for a minute,”
Dustin unplugs the unit and wraps the cord around it.

“You need a microwave on the roof?” Erica
asks puzzled.

“Yeah, it’s complicated… Official Army type
shit. Highly classified.”

##

Through their game of ‘bombard the dead’ the
boys wonder how original it truly is. They speculate if there are
others out there who are surrounded by zombies that they can take
their frustrations out on. The fun of the distraction wore thin
soon after the microwave landed upon the head of a corpse, door
first, encapsulating the ghoul’s cranium. Now they silently watch
the sky in the direction of the depot.

“So, I guess when we get back you’ll be
re-joining the civilians,” Deatherage says.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“I couldn’t blame you if you did. I think I
would if I had the choice.”

The wait has been longer than the fifteen
minutes Deatherage had predicted, much longer. Dustin can’t believe
they haven’t spotted a helicopter yet. “Perhaps we should pop
another smoke bomb.”

“The only other one I have is red. That’s our
signal to tell them to leave us behind.”

Both of the men have a flash of fear that
they have been left for dead.

Erica surprises them out of the thought when
she appears behind them. “Are they here yet? It’s been nearly an
hour.”

“They should have been here by now,”
Deatherage concedes. “We should get moving before it gets too
dark.”

“We have no way of getting there,” Dustin
points out.

“There’s a parking garage under the place,
right? They have a valet. They have to store the keys somewhere
until needed.”

“If we’re going out there, you have to show
me again how to load this damn thing.” Dustin holds up his
M-16.

The employee stairs lead all the way down to
the sublevels. Expensive luxury cars sit in extra roomy spaces to
avoid the accidental marring of their finishes. Deatherage enters a
small office and locates a cabinet full of keys. People would have
the desk call down to the valets, who would then bring their cars
up. Whoever was on duty at the time of the outbreak is long gone.
So he snags the keys to a Hummer.

The wide vehicle rolls up the ramps to street
level, and only a steel shutter stands between them and the city of
the dead. Deatherage parks, keeping plenty of room between them and
the barrier. Erica told him that the valets have special remotes to
open the gate, but the soldier has his own means.

He plucks a grenade from his gear as he exits
the high driver’s seat. Several dead citizens stand outside the
shutter, watching the meals about to be delivered.
They
won’t
be
standing
long
.

Deatherage is about to pull the pin when
Dustin stops his hand. “Wait! Can I do it?”

“Really?”

“I’ve always wanted to use one.”

“I don’t know.” Deatherage shakes his head.
“The first time can be kinda scary.”

“Please?” Dustin pleads.

“Fine. But, you have to do exactly what I
say.” He hands the kid the explosive sphere so he can give him a
quick lesson. “This is the pin. This is the spoon. You need to
squeeze the spoon before you pull the pin, so it won’t detonate
until you release it.”

The ‘spoon’ is a long metal handle that
extends down from the device’s top. Dustin’s chest tingles with
excitement as he goes through the procedure of pulling the pin and
bringing his hand back to toss the bomb. His right hand has the
spoon depressed but he doesn’t throw it, because he’s now too
afraid to follow through. The handle he holds against the round
shell doesn’t feel like it has much give, and he is
hyperventilating out of fear that he isn’t squeezing it right. His
throwing arm trembles.

“Am I squeezing it?” he asks in a panic. “It
doesn’t feel like I’m squeezing it!”

“It hasn’t gone off, has it?” Deatherage says
calmly as he waits for Dustin to hurl the grenade. “Just don’t pump
it.”

“Why?” Dustin’s eyes are wide. “Am I pumping
it?”

“The fuse will start. Just lob it at the gate
so we can go home.”

“Maybe you should do this.”

“You’ve already pulled the pin. Just do
it.”

Dustin faces his target, about to ask ‘what
if it rolls back,’ but Deatherage is getting frustrated and tries
to motivate him. “C’mon! Hot potato!”

The explosive is tossed underhand, and the
men rush to the vehicle for cover. The resulting blast takes the
rolling shutter off of its tracks and destroys the lock mechanism.
The dead that had assembled at the divide are on their backs, and
their clothes are smoldering.

The civilian Hummer is far more comfortable
than the military variety. Deatherage cruises over the floundering
corpses, meeting mild congestion on the street of scorched cars as
he drives them back to the base.

The gates of the depot are wide open, and the
disorder of refugee cars is gone except for the purple Camaro that
is still parked against the high stone walls. The post is
deserted.

“I fucking knew it!” Dustin screams in anger
and despair. The deeper into the base they travel, the worse he
feels. “They fucking left us!”

Corporal Deatherage can’t accept what his
eyes clearly reveal. “No. They couldn’t have.”

“You’re surprised? We weren’t exactly the
A-team, were we?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“What’s your job, Rage?”.

“Supply,” the soldier answers, looking
confused.

“And Collins and Jackson?”

“Mess cook and motor pool.”

Dustin exits the vehicle to pout, kicking
discarded objects as he goes. Deatherage follows him, leaving Erica
and her child onboard.

“So, a mechanic, a cook, and fucking Radar
O’Reilly took three punk civies out to be live bait. You don’t find
it at all suspicious? We were the expendable ones!” Dustin screams.
“I bet the military has a big fancy name for this.”

“Maybe we can catch up with them on the way
to the other base,” Deatherage says.

“Fuck the other base!” Dustin screams.

Erica has been watching, and she pokes her
head out of the Hummer. “Guys, is everything ok?”

Deatherage glares into Dustin’s eyes and
growls, “You lock it up. I need to get them to Eagle Rock. I guess
you’re off to Fallen. Good luck with the gig.”

At that, the soldier simply turns his back on
Dustin.

“Stop, Rage. I’m going with you. But, we’re
taking my car.”

The sole surviving member of the Dogs of War
declares his tour to be officially ended; he’ll be heading to the
base. He will not be doing so out of honor or duty, he will not be
travelling for his country, or the lady and her kid. He will be
going to Fort Eagle Rock for one reason, he wants blood.

Dustin guides the car out of the darkened
city, while Deatherage slouches in the passenger seat and Erica
cradles her sleeping son in the back atop a pile of blankets. The
black of the night and the stress of the day has them all feeling
exhausted. Dustin leans forward, as if it will allow him to see
farther into the abyss his headlights fail to illuminate. His eyes
slowly close and his head bows forward. Then he jolts awake once
his neck jerks downward.

He would usually blast music to stay alert on
the road, but with a sleeping child he hasn’t the option. The heat
coming from the vents threatens to lull him back into slumber
behind the wheel. He slurs, “Can someone else drive?”

Deatherage stirs from his own fight against
sleep. “Just pull over. We’re outta Waterloo. Someplace remote
should be safe.”

Dustin pulls off of the road after a few
minutes of traveling at a crawl, hoping to see a sign in his high
beams. The state fairgrounds should be the perfect place for them;
the vast field is only used a few times a year. The Camaro rolls
over the uneven plain of dirt. The lights and engine are killed,
stranding themselves in the black hole the world has become, so
like the lifeless void they feel in their hearts. Hopelessness.

They found virtually everything was taken
from the base when it was evacuated: guns, ammo, and food. They
will have to make do with what the car’s true owner had packed--dry
goods from Eli’s pantry, including crackers and toaster pastries,
juice boxes and gummy snacks.

The only item of use salvaged from the
abandoned fort is a battery powered heater that Deatherage always
takes into the field during training. He finds the luxury of warmth
when residing in a tent and sleeping on an uncomfortable cot makes
the ordeal almost bearable. The unit is able to put out a
surprising amount of heat, but to Dustin the close quarters is
insufferably hot.

“Can you turn that thing down?”

“It’s on the lowest,” Deatherage mumbles.
“Roll your window down a bit.”

The cold air outside brings Dustin relief
from the prickly heat around him. He wants to listen to music.
Seldom does he ever fall asleep without tunes. So he searches
blindly for one of his many MP3 devices and his ear buds, but an
odd sound stills his hand. “Do you hear that?”

The soldier is instantly on alert, hands on
his weapon while he listens for what his partner has detected.

“It’s getting closer,” Dustin says. His voice
gives away his fear, and his eyes dart to his door to make sure it
is locked.

“What is it?”

“It sounds like an ice cream truck.”

At Deatherage’s urging, Dustin accompanies
him outside. They follow the sound towards the main road. Clouds
that had obscured the moon earlier have parted, making it easier to
see a white panel van covered in lights, cruising along the road.
The vehicle emits a constant tune that stops after it pull up onto
the shoulder several yards away.

Deatherage leads Dustin closer to the
anomaly, using the cover of shadows and bushes to shroud their
activity. The truck starts to rock slightly, a loud, frustrated
grumble drifts to them in the still evening. The driver of the
vehicle has gotten out, but they can’t see him though they can hear
him pace on the other side. The footsteps sound odd, like a
periodic slapping of flip-flops.

The waddling driver rounds the back of the
truck, and his appearance gives Dustin a start. He shudders. The
man is dressed as a clown, from his bright blue hair to his
over-sized shoes. He fumbles with a large map that he tries to keep
straight against a slight breeze. The clown puts his back against
his ride, using the adorned lights to help him get his
bearings.

“I wish it was a zombie,” Dustin whispers to
Deatherage. “Clowns creep me out.”

The map being held by the festively dressed
man comes down with a sudden crumple. He addresses the night, “You
know, I’m getting really sick of hearing that! Nuts like John Wayne
Gacy and fucks like Stephen King give all in my profession a bad
name. If we’re not cartoon characters, or whoring ourselves to sell
burgers, people can’t freaking stand us!”