Life Among The Dead (Book 2): A Castle Made of Sand (18 page)

After a generous head start is afforded to
the travelers, the thugs are dealt with. Deatherage and the others
have decided that they can’t take them into custody or execute
them, because they aren’t the police. They also realize that they
must release them with a few weapons; to do otherwise is a death
sentence. They have no guarantee these men won’t attack others,
only their word that they won’t after some parting words from
Brock, “Should you continue your wicked ways, the next person to
get the better of you may not be as lenient.”

Finally the team is ready to saddle up and
resume the last bit of their journey. However Deatherage can’t help
but see the forlorn look in Dustin’s eyes. “Cheer up, Chachi.
You’ll meet a nice girl one day. And may God have mercy on her
soul.”

The group arrives at Fort Eagle Rock and is
immediately separated; the men are ushered to one side of a large
tent, while Erica and her baby are brought to the other. An olive
drab sheet separates the space for privacy, and Dustin finds
himself once again told to strip down for an exam.

During the humiliation, they are asked intake
questions by a soldier with a clipboard. “Sir, we need you to
provide your real name.”

“It is my real name,” Brock Rottom insists.
“I had it legally changed years ago.”

The census taker moves down the line,
stopping in front of Dustin. “Name?”

Before he can draw breath to answer, he is
interrupted by a coarse voice that makes every muscle in his body
clench. “Chachi!”

His reddening face doesn’t deter the old
Quincy from continuing, “I am surprised as fuck and pleased as
punch to see you made it.”

The abrasive man exits the tent, leaving
Dustin vibrating with anger as well as shame. The nearly naked
clown standing beside him chuckles slightly. “That’s gotta be
embarrassing.”

Dustin is fuming, and his vow of vengeance is
reinforced within him. All he needs now is a plan.

Dustin surprised everyone, none more than
himself, with his dedication. During the cold winter months he
spent as a soldier, he took more patrols than anyone and eagerly
jumped upon tasks that most shied away from. Now as spring
approaches he has been assigned to the duty he has been striving
for--the mess mall. Kitchen patrol isn’t the most glamorous job in
the military; the work is hard and the hours are long, but it’s
been his goal since he first declared himself a soldier the very
day he arrived.

Deatherage earned his pick of assignments for
having not only survived the city, but also shepherding four
survivors to the base. He’s in the Armory. Erica and her son Jeremy
integrated with the other families in the civilian sector, while
Brock Rottom has become a one-man USO.

Wearing a paper hat and an apron stained by
countless meals, Dustin retrieves stacks of trays from diners who
have finished their food. He sprays the compartmentalized serving
ware with a high-pressure hose before sending them down the line.
His gloved hands quickly sort the silverware into green baskets so
they can be doused off as they are sent along the stainless steel
counter.

“Thanks, Chachi,” a sweet voice says from the
other side of the window, where he receives the dirty trays. He
recognizes it as belonging to a beautiful soldier girl named
Steele. Everyone calls her Rash.

“It’s Dustin, actually,” he says, leaning
down to offer her a smile.

“I’m sorry.” She sounds slightly embarrassed.
“I’ve heard folks call you Chachi.”

“It’s an unfortunate nickname,” he sheepishly
explains. “I was wondering if you’d like to go to the Kelly Peel
concert with me tonight?”

Before she can answer, a tray is tossed
carelessly on top of the stack, splashing Dustin with wet
leftovers. Baked beans stick to his face.

“Zee!” a glowering Rash scolds her friend,
who stands close to her. “Actually, Dustin, I already have
plans.”

“Another time?” he calls hopefully.

“Not likely,” Zee growls.

Dustin watches them depart. He has heard
rumors that the two are an item, but he has also heard to the
contrary. He figured he’d give it a shot anyway.

“Zee, why do you have to be so mean?” she
asks him. “He’s cute.”

“He’s a punk douchebag.”

“They are always the cutest.”

Dustin can’t wallow in his rejection, not
only since he has been shot down by every female on the base from
soldier to survivor, but because his true obsession is in the chow
line. He spots Master Sergeant Quincy, and this is what he’s been
waiting for.
It’s
time
.

The soaked apron is tossed down before he
dashes to the serving area, stopping at the beverage fountain to
implement the key component of his plan. The boy has studied his
prey’s habits well.

“Hey, Chance,” Dustin greets his fellow
kitchen worker as he moves behind the long steam table of items and
slips into a fresh apron. He hopes the items bulging in his pants
pockets aren’t noticed by the soldiers on the other side of the
sneeze guard. “Why don’t you sneak out for a smoke? I got the
line.”

“Really? You don’t mind?” the renowned
chain-smoking private asks.

“Not at all. The scullery is all caught up.
When you get back, I’ll go on break.”

“All right!” Chance smiles broadly on his way
out.

Dustin happily scoops food out for his
patrons, and each satisfied diner brings him closer to his target.
He casts glances periodically at Quincy over the transparent
barrier, trying not to look too suspicious.

“Chachi!” Quincy says with the usual vigor.
“I’ve been hearing great things about you… Why are you behind the
counter? Weren’t you just over in the deep sink getting
cock-blocked by Sergeant Lynton?”

“I was at that,” Dustin says with a
smile.

“I don’t want to get caught up in any
schoolgirl gossiping, but I hear they’re together.”

“I’ve heard that too. It never hurts to try.
What’ll it be?”

“Chili mac. Tatters. Mixed veg.” The terse
list is filled, then Quincy snags a few dinner rolls from the end
of the line before heading to the soft-drink dispensers.

Dustin watches the man draw his preferred
drink from all the available choices, ignoring the chain of
frustrated folks who clamor for food.

“SHH!” he tells the amassing throng of hungry
people. He absently acquiesces to their demands, slapping their
selections onto their trays while keeping his focus on Quincy.
“There! Now fuck off.”

As per his routine, Quincy carries his
tumbler of cola toward the tables. He takes a sip mid-stride and
makes a face. Dustin looks around people standing in his view,
because he has to see his plan in action. Despite Quincy’s
brass-balled bravado he is very picky; where most people would
accept the situation, the Master Sergeant returns to the service
line.

“Chachi,” he says. “The soda fountain is all
jacked-up, too much syrup in the mix. Can you give this a shot of
H2O?”

“Of course,” Dustin says, forgoing the dozens
in line to comply with his request by heading to the kitchen.

“Hey, don’t you have a sink right here?”

“Water smelled funny earlier. I have some
bottled water in the back.”

“Ooh! Fan-see,” Quincy retorts.

Obscured by a wall, Dustin pours off the top
eighth of the drink. He doesn’t add water just yet, but first
infuses the soda with a special ingredient--an entire bottle of eye
drops. One of his old band mates, Lloyd, told him about this prank.
‘It’ll make someone as sick as a dog’ the bassist had said, ‘He’ll
wish he were dead.’

“Here you go, Master Sergeant.” Dustin hands
over the cola. “Tell me how it tastes.”

“Perfect! Keep this up and you could be the
next Dr. Pepper.”

Once again the line of starved warriors is
tended to. Dustin minds his task, trying not to look at the future
victim of his wrath, but he has trouble not stealing glances at
him. As usual, the man sets himself among a fresh batch of
soldiers.

The young enlisted men make room for their
idol, looking proud to have him so close. The fools are about to be
regaled by war stories and funny tales. On more than one occasion
Dustin has heard his name mentioned--his nickname, that is. Similar
goofy looking bastards have chuckled at his expense, eyeing him
with their faces set in silly grins like this gaggle has now.

The
joke’ll
be
on
you
in
a
few
minutes
, Dustin
thinks.
You
left
us
without
seeing
the
red
smoke
.
I’ll
show
you
red
smoke
.

Private Chance returns, accompanied by the
crisp smell of spring air and the aroma of cigarettes. “Thanks. I
needed that.”

“No problem.” Dustin removes his apron. “The
line has gotten a bit out of hand.”

On his way back to the scullery, Dustin hears
Quincy imitating a young girl’s voice, “…My daddy calls him
Chachi…”

The receiving window has gotten ‘out of hand’
as well, and an uneven stack of trays has toppled to the floor.
Impatient people keep stuffing their dishes in. Dustin chuckles at
the disorganized scene awaiting him. The floor is slick with
refuse, but he isn’t bothered by the mess. He simply sprays the
rectangles clean while he leans casually against the steel counter
so he can see Quincy’s face as he toils.

“Oh!” the man exclaims, stopping his humorous
anecdote. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, my chili mac is trying
to make an encore.”

The military man rushes from his fans,
heading straight for the latrine. Dustin has never been so proud of
himself, and he congratulates himself on the victory by removing
his heavy dishwasher’s garment for the last time. After delivering
the coup de grace, he plans on joining the civies in their
leisurely lifestyle. But first he must make that evil man feel what
he and Deatherage had felt that day--hopeless, lost, with no
escape.

“Chachi!” the sergeant in charge of the mess
hall bellows angrily upon entering the scullery. Obviously the
disarray is completely unacceptable. “I thought I told you…”

“Eat shit! I don’t answer to you anymore.” He
tosses the sopping wet apron against the bewildered man’s chest.
“And, don’t call me Chachi!”

Dustin fingers a canister in his right pocket
as he heads to the latrine. He drags a yellow placard behind him
that tells people to use another restroom while whichever one it
stands before is being cleaned. He has no intention of cleaning up
the mess he expects to find in there, let alone the mess he intends
on making.

Quincy has been in the bathroom for ten
minutes by Dustin’s timekeeping, but he bides his time while people
flee from the echoing chamber. The sound of retching drives them
away. One guy snorts, “Got your work cut out for you. Someone’s
puking his guts out in there.”

Once the stampede subsides, the sign is
posted to ward off intrusions. Then the spoon along the canister’s
side is squeezed, and Dustin pulls the pin and drops the ring in a
trashcan between this restroom and the one dedicated to females. He
enters the foul smelling space, noticing the sickening groans and
splashes have gone quiet.

Dustin knows that there is about a five
second delay after the spoon is released to allow the user to clear
the landing zone. Then the smoke bomb will go off.
I
love
it
when
a
plan
comes
together
.

The stench wrenches his own stomach, and he
forgets every word he had rehearsed in preparation for this day. He
breathes through his mouth, filtering the odor of vomit through
pursed lips. If not for the visible shoes if his enemy, he’d think
he had missed his chance. He wonders if Quincy is taking a break or
if he has passed out. He had hoped to hear anguished moans and
pleadings with God for leniency.

Inching closer to the partially open stall,
he laughs because the man hadn’t had enough time to lock the latch
when the urge to purge struck him. The sight of the field weathered
face resting upon the stained toilet seat should make him giddy,
but his foe’s unmoving frame negates that.

“Oh, no!”

Not even several sharp kicks from his heavy,
well-polished boots arouse the Master Sergeant.

“Are you ok?” he asks, reaching down to grab
the sick man’s shoulder.

The victim slumps limply to the urine
splattered tile. Chunks of his dinner still cling to his chin, and
remnants disgrace the bowl and rim. Dustin loses the contents of
his own stomach all over the dead man’s perfectly creased fatigues,
unable to muster the respect to guide his regurgitation
elsewhere.

Killing this guy was never his intention. He
merely wanted to knock him down a few pegs. After several ragged
breaths of air, he realizes he needs to get out of here. Feeling as
if he is walking in a dream, he pushes through the haze fogging his
mind, desperate to escape his crime. As he passes through the door,
he absently tosses the smoke grenade into the rubbish bin that had
also received the pin. Shoving any who stand in his way aside,
Dustin heads for the exit, and the short walk now seems to take
forever. He doesn’t register Chance’s calls for help contending
with the horde of ravenous diners.

The night air eases the murderer’s fluttering
stomach, though his pace doesn’t falter. Dustin’s mind reels
through a flood of thoughts.
I’ve
just
killed
a
man
,
and
set
off
a
smoke
bomb
in
a
crowded
cafeteria
…
I
have
to
leave
the
base
,
get
outta
here
before
they
come
after
me
…
No
.
I’m
fine
.
If
Spinal
Tap
has
taught
me
anything
it’s
‘
they
can’t
dust
for
vomit’
…
I
need
an
alibi
.