Life Among The Dead (Book 2): A Castle Made of Sand (21 page)

Once the old woman is stilled, Sartori
returns to his car. Manny is shutting the backdoor where he had
loaded their supplies. He rests against the vehicle, and his weight
actually makes it lean. “Should we get gas?”

Benny can see his pal’s ankle is bleeding
profusely. A thin river runs off his shoe, pooling on the lot. “No,
should be plenty,” Sartori says in a sad tone, knowing what he has
to do.

“We should get going then, right?”

The capo doesn’t answer with words; he just
aims the gun at his friend. Manny’s hands go up, and his eyes widen
with shock. He begs for his life, but the pleas fall on deaf ears.
One does not become as powerful as Sartori by letting ties of
friendship interfere with survival. The capo thinks words he is
unable to say to the man who has killed for him, yet has such
innocent eyes.
Sorry
Manny
,
you’re
dead
to
me
.

The beanbags that issue from the shotgun may
be ineffective on the zombies, but they’ll kill a human under
certain circumstances. The large man falls, as does the capo’s
spirit. He slides behind the wheel with a case of warm beer on his
lap. One of the cans explode with an eruption when he opens it, and
he doesn’t care. He downs the remaining contents, and his other
hand is already reaching into the box for another. The thought of
life without Manny is one he has never considered. Never thought
possible.

The second can explodes with a similar geyser
as Sartori drives with his knees. His beer slick hands now guide
him home. Within the half-hour this last leg of his journey takes,
he has filled the passenger side floor with empties. The gate of
his massive home doesn’t open automatically like it had before he
was sent to prison, and it takes the drunk man a few moments to
figure out why.

“Oh yeah, the fucking zombies.”

His inebriated head wobbles like that of the
walking corpse as he moves to the guard shack. It’s empty, but his
bleary eyes can see that the monitors are all on. The estate still
has power coming from the dam up north. Though his sentry isn’t at
his post, Sartori hobbles in to see if his weapon is. He feels
around under the bank of monitors for a firearm that puts his
beanbag shotgun to shame. The Papa Bear of the Sartori family
locates a fully-automatic MP5, and the machine pistol makes him
smile as he slings it and opens the gate.

But a sight erases that smile. At the top of
the long driveway sits a car that doesn’t belong, a vehicle that
just doesn’t fit his style, a purple Camaro.

A growl builds in the Papa Bear’s throat,
“Someone’s been sleeping in my bed.”

Dustin Barnes has been living like a rockstar
for two months, all alone in his new mansion. It took his entire
first day to explore every room, from the wine cellar that reminds
him of something out of an Edgar Allen Poe tale, to the fourth
floor’s master suite that comprises about seventy percent of that
level’s floor space. The rest is his private bathroom and what he
considers a ‘drive-in’ closet. With all the stairs and the
exhilaration of taking up residence, he had to crash early that
first night on the double king-sized bed.

I’ve
made
it
! he has
been thinking to himself since discovering his new home. He has
everything he’s ever wanted, all he feels he deserves: a big house,
fully stocked kitchen, a massive pond sized pool that he can skinny
dip in, and he’s outlived the world. Dustin has inherited the
culmination of his ambitions, yet underneath all of the elation
there’s a kernel of sorrow that he has no one to share it with.

The deep seeded longing for companionship is
cast aside for the moment. Dustin is too busy shredding away on a
guitar solo. The chords he strikes aren’t coming from his amp, but
from a wide television screen on the wall of one of his large
living rooms. His fingers are clacking in frenzy, hitting color
coded keys prompted by the video game he’s made fun of in the past
but is now hooked on. He hasn’t even brought his Les Paul in from
the car yet.

He ends the song with a windmill, holding his
hand aloft to salute the invisible crowd that exists only in his
mind, or so he thought.

A slow clap stills his blood. He can’t tell
where the sound is coming from. Dustin turns fast but sees no one.
The creepy accolade seems to be coming from everywhere. Dropping
the game controller, he takes cover behind one of the plush ‘L’
shaped couches.

“Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum!” deep angry words boom. “I
smell the blood of a mu-si-shun!”

Dustin is in a panic, and he wishes he was
upstairs in his lavish bedroom since it’s equipped with a room
specifically for panicking. He peeks over the fat pillows in hopes
of spotting whoever it is that’s intruding on his fortress. Then he
tries to remember where he has left his M-16.

“I can see you, kid,” the mystery guest
reveals. Dustin had forgotten about the cameras. “Look, I’m not in
the mood for this. I had to kill my best friend in the whole world
today and I just want to be alone… I’m going to let you walk away
from this… Just walk away.”

Sartori watches the youth roll to another
couch and creep into the hall. The drunken kingpin follows him on
the monitors. It is apparent the boy isn’t going to leave when he
cautiously makes for the stairs.
You
son
of
a
bitch
!

Every instinct in Dustin tells him to do what
he always does and cut bait, to just take the deal. But the rocker
in him won’t allow it. This is his place now and he will defend his
claim to it for as long as it’s standing. His rifle is in the
bedroom, he remembers. For the first half of his stay he had
carried it around like a security blanket, but one morning he awoke
and decided it to be unnecessary.

The squatter on the screens is ascending out
of the frame of one monitor and appearing at the bottom of another.
Benito Sartori pulls a bulletproof vest on over his head and
cinches it tight over his chest. From the black footlocker where he
got this body armor, he takes as many ammunition magazines as he
can carry.

Benito taunts the youth, “You know, you look
a lot like Scott Baio. I’m coming for you Charles, gonna show you
who’s really ‘In Charge.’ The big bad wolf is on his way, little
piggy. I’m gonna huff and puff and blow your ass away.”

Dustin ignores the mixed references the
invisible man makes, focusing on the one that angers him the most,
“Gah! Again with the fucking Scott Baio. I hate Scott Baio!”

Continuing up the curving stairs in the wide
open foyer, Dustin is almost to the second floor when a thought
stops him.
What
if
he’s
is
up
there
? He pictures himself rushing into the bedroom for his
gun and the sanctuary of the panic room, only to find the intruder
waiting for him.

Frozen on the smooth stone steps, Dustin is
at a loss as to what to do. Automatic gunfire takes out the windows
below him, answering his dilemma. The boy rushes up the stairs in a
low crawl using the elegant banister as cover from errant rounds
that spark off and chip the granite and marble around him. Pock
marks follow him along the wall above his head as he desperately
climbs the risers.

“Do you know who I am?” the man screams in
through the destroyed windows and his voice echoes, chasing Dustin
all the way up to the top of the staircase.

“Evicted!” Dustin yells back.

“You little… I’ve killed many motherfuckers
for showing me less disrespect than that, my friend! I’m gonna make
you suffer! I know where you’re going. You can’t stay in there
forever. If you want blood, you got it!”

Sealed inside the impenetrable room, hugging
his assault rifle for strength, Dustin tells himself not to panic,
though that is exactly what the room is designed for. The bare
walls amplify his breathing, making it hard to calm himself down.
His eyes are locked on a bank of monitors that show the man
entering his home.

An intruder in his own house, Sartori takes
uneasy steps through the foyer. He feels he may have over imbibed,
yet the present excitement makes him crave another drink. The capo
slips upon entering the sitting room just off the entryway; the
largest of the home’s fully stocked bars was the first victim of
his initial attack on the manor. Liquor bottles have shattered,
their contents spreading over the marble floor. He picks up one of
the few survivors on his way to the kitchen.

Dustin watches on one of the many monitors as
the man curiously takes pots from their storage cupboards and
places them on the stove. A tall one is filled with water from the
faucet; into a saucepan he dumps the contents of a jar.

“Is he making spaghetti?”

A frozen log of hamburger is removed from the
freezer and placed into the sink to thaw, and steam rises from the
basin when the man turns the water on and leaves it running. Dustin
can see the guy’s mouth moving. Though he can’t hear him, it looks
as if he is singing. What strikes Dustin as really odd is the fact
the man has placed his gun on the counter.

As the hamburger softens under the scalding
tap, Benito prepares the other ingredients for his meatballs. He’ll
have to make substitutions; his eggs are rotten and his milk is a
thick sludge. The people who were supposed to tend to his home have
failed him, and he figures they must have abandoned the place not
too long after his incarceration. With his assets frozen by the
government, they’d need to look elsewhere for a means to make a
living.

“Fuck ‘em.”

Opera
, Dustin discerns what the man is
singing by how wide he opens his mouth and by his elaborate
movements.
It’s
definitely
opera
. A frozen
loaf of garlic bread is being sawed in half, but the task appears
to be very difficult, and this makes Dustin wonder if he can get
the drop on the guy. As he cracks the vault-like door open, he
keeps a watchful eye on the crooning cook, who doesn’t falter in
his preparations. He takes a break from the solid loaf to stir a
generous amount of red wine into his sauce.
It’s
like
he’s
forgotten
all
about
me
.
Stealthily, Dustin descends the stairs, listening to the off key
acappella.

At the swinging kitchen door, Dustin makes
certain his safety is off and his rifle is ready to fire its three
shot burst--the ‘rock and roll’ setting. He steels his resolve
before pushing the door open, ready to kill the stranger.

“Did you think I forgot about you?” the chef
stops his attack on the frozen bread. The serrated knife is removed
from the frosted crust and held menacingly.

“Don’t even think about it,” Dustin warns the
man at the end of his sights. He motions with the flash suppressor
for the guy to back away from his own weapon that’s just out of
reach on the counter. Now Dustin has two options: kill the guy, or
tell him to leave. Either way, he’s eating this food and keeping
the house.

“Get out,” Dustin says coolly.

“Nope,” the man responds with a slow shake of
his head.

“Then, I’ll shoot you.”

“No you won’t,” the man says, taking
deliberate steps around the kitchen’s island, closer to Dustin.
“You smell that?”

He does smell something in the air, and it
isn’t a fine Italian meal.
Gas
!

The man that vowed to make Dustin suffer
stalks closer still, armed with a long bread knife. “Papa Bear’s
porridge is too hot, Goldilocks.”

The stove was transported from the old
country by his grandparents; it’s all his Nonna would cook on. The
antique appliance has no pilot light, and once the gas is started
one has to ignite it with a match, or else. Dustin had tried the
relic, but he thought it was broken when it didn’t flame up. He
knows now that he’s been had, lured down to be killed. He has no
idea if he can fire or not.
Has
the
gas
been
on
long
enough
to
fill
this
big
ass
kitchen
?

“Shoot me,” the man says coyly. “Kill us
both.”

Dustin dashes out of the kitchen and across
the sitting room. The booze slick floor takes his feet out from
under him, and he hits the stone hard then slides into the bar.
Dustin collects himself fast in the puddle of spirits, then he
turns to see Sartori, airborne with the knife held high. The M-16
releases three fast shots into the lunging man’s chest.

The armor Benito wears takes the rounds but
leaves him winded. Both contenders for the estate get cut on the
broken glass beneath them, and burned by the alcohol that enters
their wounds.

Dustin takes advantage of his opponent’s
injured state to crawl behind the dark wood bar. He still doesn’t
know if his muzzle flash would have set off the gas in the kitchen,
but that doesn’t stop him from lining his sights on the groaning
man now.

With all the stovetop burners set to high,
and without a flame to consume the gas, the kitchen is still
filling with propane. Having just had its doors opened, the
refrigerator attempts to regulate its temperature. The compressor
engages, creating a spark that ignites the air in the room in a
flash.

Dustin has been waiting for the intruder to
compose himself in order to issue an ultimatum, leave or die. He
doesn’t have to. Before he can utter the words he has been
rehearsing, the swinging door of the kitchen is taken off its
hinges. Propelled by a rolling inferno, the wooden plane
decapitates the intruder.

Dustin’s ears ring from the blast. He had
shielded his face instinctively from the intense, searing air and
ducked down below the bar. His situation has not improved with the
removal of his nemesis, but grown far more dire. Fire is about to
rob him of his found home. Smoke pours out of the charred kitchen,
setting off whining detectors. The flammable vapors from the
alcohol that covers the stone flooring has combusted, and a pool of
blue flames blocks Dustin’s only way out.