Life Among The Dead (Book 2): A Castle Made of Sand (5 page)

“Are the phones up?” Randy asks urgently.

“I don’t know. Why?”

“There is a guy out there who has just
massacred the group that has massacred the neighbors… He’s climbing
the gate.”

She has no choice but to look out the window
now. Randy is telling the truth, and she watches the man drop from
the top spikes of the wrought iron. He is coming up the walk.

“See! If we were in LA, we’d be far from
this,” Randy quibbles. “Even if it did happen, we’d have our panic
room to hide in.”

“Not the time,” she tells him as they back
away from the door.

Deep knocks cause them to draw ragged,
fearful breaths. The raps grow louder the longer they go
unanswered. It becomes evident that, at some point during his
beseeching entry, the man decided to use his foot rather than his
hand, because the door is kicked in.

He steps into the foyer, and the long blade
in his hand drops thick clumps of gore on the immaculate white
marble flooring. Scanning slowly, he sets his sights on the
cowering pair as they retreat backwards into Kelly’s office. There
is nowhere else to go from this area of the house. Before Randy can
slam the door shut, the man has his hand in the frame. The wood
rebounds off of his knuckles and it’s as if he can’t even feel
it.

Kelly and Randy search for a means of defense
against the intruder, but they come up with only award statuettes.
My
wife
may
be
leaving
me
, Randy thinks,
but
I
will
still
protect
her
,
or
at
least
,
more
than
likely
,
die
trying
. “Now see here, Mr. Voorhees, I’ll have you know that
I have been in more than a few action films, and have picked up a
few moves from some rather large and imposing men.”

The man takes a few steps into the room; he
doesn’t so much look past the scrawny British man but right through
him, at the petite woman behind him. He drops the machete.

“Don’t be scared.”

The voice is gravelly, the words seem
preposterous, and Randy is surely not one to let such a thing
slide. “I’m sorry… Did you really just say ‘don’t be scared’ in
that Swamp Thing voice of yours? Coming in here with a machete,
after butchering all the reporters in the entire mid-west, wearing
that mask, all covered in blood and… other stuff?”

“Reporters?”

“We are famous, you know?” Though the threat
may be over, Randy keeps himself between this man and Kelly.

“That’s why I’m here.” He looks around the
scruffy faced husband, to the songstress. “I’m here to save
you.”

“Save us from what?” Kelly leaves the
‘safety’ of her future ex’s protection to address the
gentleman.

“The zombies.”

Randy is compelled to ask the obvious
question. “Are you fucking mad?”

Though the suburbs are quiet, Dustin and
Corporal Silva proceed with caution. The heavy set commando is
perspiring in the cool afternoon, and Dustin has to wonder if it’s
his fitness level or the bite he has sustained.

A chopper flies overhead, circling before
heading back towards the city. The craft’s altitude is too high to
tell if it’s military.

“If you do stay at my place,” Silva huffs.
“Put a sign on the roof to let them know you and my wife are alive
inside.”

“’Kay.”

“If you decide to leave the area, head for
one of the nearby bases. Eagle Rock up north, or Foster west of
here.”

“Are you ok?”

The man has started to lag behind.

“Yeah.” Silva mops his brow. “We’re almost
there.”

“How long does it take to change?” Dustin
tightens his grip on his pistol.

“Couple hours.” He sees the kid’s tension and
smiles. “Don’t worry. I ain’t dying until I see my wife.”

They head towards West 8th on a road that
connects all the residential streets. With the exception of a few
solo zombies, the neighborhood is without movement. A yellow sign
warns them that they are about to enter a dead end, and Dustin is
apprehensive about this. Even more so upon seeing the bodies that
lay on the pavement. He and the limping soldier pass an abandoned
go-cart and a pair of wrecked cars. Smoke billows into the air from
a few of the properties. One such smoldering home adds vigor to the
injured man’s labored strides.

“Oh my god!” Silva hobbles quickly to a door
that hangs off of its hinges and enters. He disregards the charred,
twitching bodies strewn across his lawn and those hanging over the
sills of his blown out windows.

Dustin stops at the smoky void, unable to
summon the courage to enter. Dustin sets a hand on either jamb and
listens. The man is weeping inside, but the crying ceases after a
single shot rings out.

Dustin retreats off of the stoop. He has no
idea what to do and only shifts from foot to foot like a dog left
out in the cold. He stares into the hazy gloom at a shadow that
moves slowly toward him. Then he takes a step closer with his
pistol ready. “Hey… sir? Is everything all right?”

A charred hand’s emerges from the threshold,
followed by a second. The stiff and blackened flesh cracks as the
fingers flex, reaching for him, but he recoils backwards. In his
haste to evade capture, Dustin misses a step and falls onto his
back.

A crispy skinned man falls onto him. All of
the ghoul’s hair has been singed off, and his shirt has melted to
his torso. Dustin pushes the creature away, knowing not to let its
mouth near him. Lips like overcooked sausages split open as the
dead man attempts to widen his jaw for a bite. The kid fires his
weapon into the thing’s face.

Rolling the limp carcass off gives Dustin
little comfort, and more burn victims are exiting. He can easily
assume his companion had forgotten about him and their deal out of
grief, and in turn he must forget about the rifle he was promised.
Dustin heads for the street, dropping a round into the chamber of
his pistol. He is alone and on unfamiliar ground. Facing the city,
he sees zombies entering West 8th. Some stagger out of neighboring
homes and from the alleys between. He has no choice but to head
farther down the dead end street.

The superfluous merchandise slung upon his
back batters against his shoulders with every step. He must change
his course, moving from one side of the street to the other to
avoid clumps of walking dead that appear from behind objects that
obscure them. The interest of the dead has been piqued by the
gunfire.

He tries car doors but all are locked. He can
get into a delivery truck but there is no key in the ignition. He’s
running out of road as he nears the end of the cul de sac, and he
is losing hope until he sees one special car on the roundabout.
Dustin has never been a fan of late model Camaros, but he sees a
recent edition parked that he does fancy. He is drawn to its
grinning grill and rock star purple paintjob, but the greatest
attribute is its open door.

A peek inside reveals that the keys are in
the ignition. He quickly tosses his gear in the back before sliding
in. He prays that the battery has enough juice to start,
considering the door has been open for who knows how long.
Fortunately, it turns over.

“Thank you,” he says with a sigh, releasing
the breath he has been holding, but a slap on the window causes him
to swallow that air once again.

A distorted male face with blue shadowed eyes
and a crooked lipstick sneer stares into the purple car.

“Ahh! What the fuck?” Dustin screams as he
throws the car into drive and floors the accelerator. He races down
West 8th slowing only to negotiate the cars that block the way.

##

“Daddy?” a timid young girl calls from the
open front door.

Her father’s heavily eye-shadowed gaze turns
to her. “Molly, I said to stay inside,” he says in a calm
whisper.

“I am inside.”

“You know what I mean,” He ushers her farther
into the home.

“Where’s your new car?”

“Gone.” Before sealing the door, he looks
down the road. His week old vehicle has departed, but he is happy
to see the dead following it at least. They are heading away from
his home, and more importantly away from his daughter.

“Can we have our tea party now?” Molly
asks.

“Yeah, in a sec, honey.” The man had been
loading supplies for when they leave the burbs for a safer place,
but he’s struggling to concoct a new plan. Their block has been
quite chaotic all morning, and this has been the first real
lull.

“None of my friends’ dads play pretty, pretty
princess.”

“That’s too bad.” He stretches his thickly
caked lips into a forced smile. “Those daddies are sure missing
out. I feel beautiful.”

Randy Russell is known for having a sarcastic
comment for virtually every situation, from his stand-up routine
and film personas, to interviews and even in his day to day life.
This is what caused Kelly to fall in love with him, but it also
contributed to her falling out of it. When the man in the mask
started winding a small item in his hands, Randy had asked if he
was fishing.

Kelly rolled her eyes because she’s seen the
object before. “It’s an emergency radio, Randy.”

It took the man a while to locate a broadcast
that wasn’t dead or simply emitting a high-pitched tone. When he
found one, a pair of men reported on the zombie situation. The dead
were eating the living. The disembodied voice warned that people
should stay where they were and not make contact with the deceased.
Should they get bitten, they would become one of them.

The man in the hockey mask told them his name
is Griffin, but Randy has been calling him everything but. “Look,
Jason, it’s a hoax. It’s like the War of the Worlds. You’re just
over-reacting… Perhaps, ‘over-reacting’ is an understatement for
what you just did out there. I’m sure the authorities will go easy
on you considering…”

“We have to go,” Griffin says.

“Whoa!” The comedian puts his hands up.
“Didn’t your magic talking box tell us to stay put?”

“There are safer places.”

“This place was perfectly safe until you
entered, Mister… Mister…Fuck! I don’t know any more hockey players.
Those things, your zombies, weren’t bothering us. The only
dangerous thing to enter has been you.”

“I’m ready,” Kelly tells Griffin.

“You’re just as daft as he is!” Randy says
when he sees Kelly being sucked into the man’s delusion. “You can’t
seriously be considering leaving with this man, can you?”

“No, I’m not considering it. I’m doing
it.”

Randy feels he must leave as well. “If we are
seeking a safe place, I think we should try a hospital.”

“Hospitals are too dangerous,” Griffin
says.

“How exactly can a hospital be dangerous,
psycho? It’s where people go to take care of their owies, not
receive them.”

“Trust me.”

“Fuck that!”

“Randy, if you want to go to a hospital, go
to a hospital,” Kelly says.

“All right! I will!” he screams as he follows
his wife and her savior down the drive. “We aren’t married. I have
no obligation to protect you anymore.”

She ignores her estranged husband while she
lets Griffin lead her to the gate. Randy has stopped his pursuit in
favor of taking his red sports car. Even with the power out, the
gate is operational via his remote since it has an auxiliary
battery for emergencies. He hits the button for their escape from
the safety of the stone walls.

Seeing Griffin's car out on the street amidst
the slaughter makes him grimace. It isn’t the dismemberment that
disgusts him, it’s the vehicle. He dislikes the almond shape of the
headlights. He’s glad not to be riding in it, and he plans to tell
them as much. “What’s that, an Intrepid? Your conveyance looks like
it has bloody Down’s syndrome!”

Dustin has wheels again. All he needs now is
a direction to point them. Thoughts of finding a safe harbor are
set on the back burner due to contemplating the gig up north. His
band was slated to play at the Flag Pole, a gentlemen’s club
between New Castle and Fallen, in a few weeks. He can think of a
million reasons not to head there now, but all are thwarted by a
single question:
Why
not
?

The easiest northern route out of the city is
via the Washington Bridge. He’s having trouble reaching it, because
the closer he gets the more congested the roads seem. On several
attempts, he must backtrack away from the stalled cars that block
his passage.

Frustrated, he disregards many traffic laws
to pull a reverse U-turn in a clear intersection. He runs several
stop signs on his way back. Dustin pictures the city in his head,
trying to work out a new strategy that will take him to the
bridge.

During his exasperating trial of solving the
city-scale maze, he witnesses the undead. What once were citizens
are now mindless eating machines. The soldier had called them
‘sharks on land.’ Dustin is able to observe them up close within
the safety of his car like a wild animal park. Their eerily slack
faces and grotesque wounds have a desensitizing effect on him. But
when the ghouls no longer faze him, another sight in his rearview
still chills his blood--flashing red and blue lights.

Dustin pulls over. The dead are drawn to the
less than routine traffic stop, but they are far enough away that
the driver of the squad car can risk approaching the youth’s
vehicle.

Dustin rolls down his power window before
killing the engine.

“Do you know what you did wrong?” the cop
asks.

“I ran a stop sign?” Dustin keeps his frantic
eyes on the dead coming his way.