Life Among The Dead

by Daniel Cotton

  “You want meat? You want meat?” She implores the mass as she takes up a large butcher knife. “Take a fucking number!”

  She drags the blade hard across her wrist, slicing so deep it scrapes bone.

  11

  The missing motorists plague Dan’s thoughts as he builds his speed to 80 miles per hour. He would like to drive faster, but from what he recalls from the map he is in for some nasty curves. The lines that represent the roads almost look like cursive writing.

  Dan must travel even slower to negotiate the winding turns that are carved out of the hills and mountains. He is flanked by high walls of sheer rock face. Down the centerline, a cement divider separates the double lanes of traffic. A vehicle is coming up behind him fast.

  “A lot of traffic today.” Dan says, peering in his rear view mirror. A large black truck passes him. Dan is able to get a good look at the back of it before it speeds away. An NRA sticker is plastered to the back window next to one depicting a rebel flag. The soldier notices chains are attached to the tow ball that loop up over the tailgate and into the bed of the large pickup. The truck becomes a dot in the distance. Dan figures the driver to be a local boy who really knows the roads out here.

  The rear window behind Dan’s head shatters inward. The shock causes him to swerve slightly. A slight swerve in this canyon of rock is very dangerous. Dan’s front right fender scrapes along the stone face of the wall. Sparks fly as he regains control and starts looking for the cause.

  A red pickup is coming up behind him. A heavyset man is hanging from the passenger side with a rifle. Dan doesn’t dare to return fire in this narrow chasm. He must keep his eyes on the road.

  The road is like an asphalt snake. Dan takes the twist and turns faster than he should. His hope is that the gunman behind him won’t be able to get a clear shot again. That hope is dashed when he reaches a straight stretch.

  Ahead the black truck appears, heading towards Dan on a collision course. The soldier tries to change lanes, but the larger truck follows suit. It continues to mirror him in this game of chicken. Instead of slowing or stopping, Dan fastens his seat belt and accelerates.

  “Let’s just see how brave you are, shit head.” Pot shots are still being fired; stray rounds make sparks when they strike the canyon walls. Dan figures they are meant to scare him, the shooter doesn’t want to hit his buddy.

  The black truck isn’t slowing, it blares its horn as if warning he has no intention of stopping. Dan doesn’t either. He hits the horn button on the steering wheel and it emits a weak, almost embarrassing beep, unlike the behemoth’s manlier hoot. If I have to die here, he thinks. I’ll at least take one of you rednecks out with me.

  Time seems to slow down. A bullet enters the cab of Dan’s truck and imbeds itself into the dash. Another cracks his windshield. Dan ducks seeing that the red truck is getting more confident with his aim. He slides down in his seat and peeks over the wheel like an elderly driver. The crack in the glass spreads into a series of spider webs.

  Tires squeal as the black truck brakes. It is moving in reverse now. The soldier laughs, speeding up even more. His windshield continues to fracture to the point he can barely see out of it. He just follows the refracted image of the black truck. Dan’s bumper kisses that of the retreating local.

  Dan uses the .38 to make a hole in his useless windshield. The red truck has ceased fire. Dan and his buddy are too close to risk it now. The soldier has a clear view of the other driver now. The man has his arm draped over the passenger seat so he can twist his body and drive backwards.

  Dan rams him and fires a single shot into his opponent’s windshield for good measure. His shot is only meant to scare him. You’ve messed with the wrong fucking guy on the wrong fucking day.

  The black truck swings into a small rest area, a notch carved into the stonewall that allowed people to pull off in the chasm without disrupting traffic. Dan speeds past him. He knows they will be on him like rabid dogs as soon as the black one turns around.

  The enemy red truck takes the lead in the pursuit, firing again. The road warriors have left the passage cut through the rock and are now speeding on a tree-lined highway. Dan takes his scheduled turn. I have too much at stake to play around like this. He is working out the details of what he thinks is a brilliant plan to evade these marauders.

  These are probably the guys who attacked my friends in the Winnebago, Dan deduces. They must work in tandem, preying on survivors. He slows to let the red truck close the distance. He teases the vehicle that he notices is very similar to his. They are a smallish style of pickup truck that you see on the road and think. ‘Why even have a truck?’

  Coaxing his vehicle’s twin to speed up again, he wants it to match his velocity. They are traveling at 85 miles per hour when Dan slams on his brakes. The beefy men are going too fast to react in time, and they are too close not to crash. They plow into the rear of the soldier’s truck and the black one rams into his buddy. Dan drives ahead a little and notices the raiders aren’t moving.

  “Weren’t wearing your seat belts huh, fellas?” He fires his pistol, blowing out the red truck’s two front tires. He empties the pistol into the hood of the black truck. That should slow them down, if they are able to drive at all. Dan takes off.

  His truck is riding oddly; the bed is wagging like a fishtail. Dan knows one of his tires has been hit. He looks out his window to the side mirror. Sparks are flying on his right side; the vehicle is riding on its rim.

  He will have to live with it for now. Dan takes another scheduled turn. He wants to put some distance behind him before attempting to trade in his ride. He accelerates and finds the truck handles even worse at the higher speed. Dan turns onto a gravel road. Inside he prays to never see those yokels again.

  12

  Marko is in a daze. His head is throbbing as he falls out of his truck. He watches a red blur fade into the distance through his glazed eyes.

  “Fucker.” He spits. His hand inspects his forehead and comes back wet with blood. He dimly recalls his head bouncing off of the steering wheel. His friends are hollering to him.

  “Marko, are you all right?”

  Stupid ass Jessie, Marko thinks. Of course I’m not all right. His two buddies are behind him as he pulls objects out of his truck, it is completely disabled. Steam rises out of the holes in the hood that his would-be-victim had put into it.

  Marko’s cohorts just stare at him. His head swoons when he looks at them. Bright orange hunting vests strain to contain their bulging bellies. He tosses his things at the two.

  “Take this shit to your truck.” Marko commands. A chainsaw that he had stored behind the seat is lobbed to Jessie. The other big man receives a few boxes of ammo. The second man is Biff, who according to Marko is the dumbest man alive.

  “We’re taking ours?” Biff asks.

  “Obviously.” Marko replies through clenched teeth. Is the steam coming from the hood not enough to go on? He would have added, but he had learned long ago that sarcasm is lost on these two. They just aren’t bright enough to get it. Their stupidity is the reason they get along so well. Marko needs followers. He must be in charge.

  “What about them?” Jessie hitches a thumb to the bed of Marko’s truck.

  “Grab them after you change the tires.” The leader says as he lights a cigarette. He leans on the red vehicle while his patsies do all the work. They don’t use a jack to change the tires out. Biff lifts the light pickup while his brother works the iron. They’re actually faster than some pit crews.

  He watches now as the two men, who are much bigger than he is, unlatch the tailgate of the black truck. They look scared as they tentatively try to unhook the chains that hang down.

  “Just yank them out.” They are ordered. The orders are followed. Moaning, and the rattling of the chains, accompanies two solid thumps onto the pavement.

  “They woke up.” Biff’s voice cracks with terror.

  “Just hook them to the back. No need to load them.�
� Marko flicks his cigarette as he opens the driver’s side door. He lets out a sigh. It’s going to be cramped. He is feeling better now, back to his old self, pissed. With the world gone to hell they have been having a blast. No cops. No repercussions. They can do anything. He wants one thing right now, and that’s to locate that asshole and make him pay.

  “Long gone.” He shakes his head. He knows there is little chance he will ever see that prick again. What do we do now?

  “What was that, Marko?” Jessie asks as he slides in next to his best friend in the world.

  “Nothing, you dumb shit.” The truck leans to the right when Biff adds his girth to it. Jessie gets pressed even closer to Marko.

  Marko starts the engine. He waits for Biff to close his door as he looks at the crumpled front end of the small truck. Biff is having trouble shutting his door. On his second attempt the latch only catches partially. He opens it and takes a deep breath. The third time proves to be the charm.

  “Where are we going, Marko?” Jessie asks.

  “I want to see Carla.” Marko says, pulling away from his pick-up. “I fucking loved that truck.”

  “Didn’t Carla dump you?” Biff asks.

  “That don’t matter much now, now does it?” He gives the men pressed in close to him a wry smile. His smile fades when he realizes they don’t understand what he had meant.

  “Don’t she live way out in Fallen?” Jessie whines.

  “So?”

  “Can’t we eat first?” Biff asks.

  “Yes,” Marko answers his friend, letting the annoyance ring clear in his voice. “And, we’ll have some fun along the way.”

  Marko sees the large men are distracted before he can explain his intentions, slowly and with small words. They whoop and laugh at something behind them. They are trying to turn in the cramped bench seat to see the show, but have to resolve to watch in the mirrors.

  “Look at them dance.” Biff snorts. “Look at them.”

  13

  Dan’s truck is fishtailing horribly. His hurried pace only exacerbates the vehicle’s poor handling. He keeps catching himself looking in the rear view to see if the hillbillies are after him. It should take them a while to get going again, He figures. Dan slows down. Reducing his pace helps to cease the frigid breeze that pours over him through his ruined windshield.

  He is on a rural road that takes him through some very pleasant country scenery of rolling green hills and lush vegetation. The sky is a little overcast, but at least there isn’t a zombie in sight. If it wasn’t for the uncooperative vehicle it’d be a nice relaxing drive.

  “No crazy hillbillies, no flesh hungry zombies… Yup, I could sure settle down in a place like this.”

  He is surprised to realize he has passed the halfway point of his journey. Towns out here are probably fed their electricity from the dam, he thinks. He wonders what time it is. He guessed it to be around 2 or 3 pm.

  Among the sprawling nature a house comes into view. Dan has to slow to take it in the awe-inspiring dwelling, a large Victorian that is painted a serene sky blue. The landscaping is incredible.

  The blue house sits on top of a hill that had been cut into a series of plateaus, like a cake frosted with thick green grass. A word pops into the soldier’s head to describe the unique lawn. A ziggurat? He isn’t certain if that is the correct word to use, the shape of the landscape reminds him of pictures he has seen of old ruins.

  “Probably a bitch to mow.” He can’t tell how many levels there are to the alleged ziggurat, the bottom is surrounded by a high stonewall. Through a large wrought iron front gate Dan can see the driveway as he creeps up to the house. At the top of the drive two cars are parked.

  “It’s a fortress.” Dan smiles as he exits his beat up truck. He walks to a call box that stands next to the gate and presses the button.

  “Hello… I’m heading to New Castle. My truck has a flat. Is anyone in there…? Alive?” He waits, but no response is returned. He pushes the button again.

  “I’m coming to the door. I mean you no harm.” Dan leaves the box and walks to the gate. He is about to climb, but decides he should move the truck. If those bastards happen by here and see it, they will attack for sure.

  The truck cruises around the stonewall. Dan parks it behind a tree, satisfied that it can’t be spotted from the street. He doesn’t like entering this place bearing weapons, but needs to be prepared for anything. The .38 is tucked into his pants and the rifle is over his shoulder.

  The stone and mortar wall is at least ten feet high and topped with black iron prongs. The gate is even taller and topped with the same foreboding barbs.

  “It can never be easy, can it?” He drops the rifle through the bars of the gate and starts his ascent. Dan takes great care at the top as he attempts to straddle the pokers without damaging himself.

  On the ground, Dan raises his hands over his head and waves them so the residents know he means no harm. He drags his rifle as he climbs the steep driveway. His eyes dart from window to window, looking for movement. He is afraid any survivor inside might get worried and open fire. A house like this has to have at least one gun, he figures.

  Dan is six feet from the entrance and still not shot, he can see the front door is ajar and his only barrier is a screen door. The lightweight door is locked. He pulls the handle hard and it opens with a loud snap.

  It is very dark inside the house. Dan steps into a large foyer. He draws the .38 and leans the rifle against an umbrella stand. He leaves the door open to allow the sunlight to enter, what there is of it with the thick cloud cover. It’ll have to do.

  A staircase looms overhead that follows the curvature of the wall before him. It is too dark to see the top of the stairs. Rooms are to his left and right. He wants to call out, but is afraid to alarm anyone, living or dead. He can hear a slow creaking sound, but can’t determine where it is coming from.

  Dan has to choose which way to go and ultimately heads across the white marble floor towards the room to his right. There’s no rational reason to choose the right except for the fact he is right handed. He figures harder decisions have been made with less to go on.

  He holds the pistol with both hands as he enters the carpeted room of shadows. Sunlight casts a dim aura around the curtains of a window along the front wall. Dan grasps the thick sheet of fabric and yanks it down. The light reflects off of an almost entirely white room.

  He blinks until he can see the lavish furniture. Large plush couches are covered with white upholstery. The thick carpet he walks upon is white. The walls even match the furnishings except for the splotches of red that stand out against the bleached purity of the room.

  Dan walks to the blood spattered back wall for a better look. The splotches look like an eccentric painter had thrown them there. Someone had rubbed his or her body against the biggest splash, smearing a trail like the stroke of a brush.

  A pool of red soaks the carpet. Scarlet footprints walk away from the scene, and a smear along the floor indicates they dragged whoever’s blood that is decorating the wall. Dan follows the prints down a hallway; they grow fainter like a rubber stamp that needs to be re-inked.

  Shot and dragged, Dan says in his head. The evidence disappears into the darkness of the hall. The light from the window fails to illuminate that far in. Dan finds a light switch and flips it.

  They have power. The dam keeps these people juiced, thanks to my uncle. Uncle Bruce was one of the principal investors, and the man who conceived it.

  The hall receives light from inlaid fixtures above. Dan can see the smear and prints end at a door all the way down the hall, the only door on the left hand side of the passageway. Three doors line the right. In an effort to remove bareness from the wall, the owners had hung useless framed works of art.

  One at a time Dan checks the doors he passes on his way to where he presumes the body had been dumped. The first door is a well-organized closet. Coats and hats hang from the pole. Three rows of shoes line the bottom. Dan do
esn’t try to count the footwear, but figures there to be at least thirty pairs. How many people live here? He asks himself as he closes the door.

  The next mystery portal is a bathroom his wife would strangle him for. There is an enormous tub, dual sinks, and more storage and counter space than Dan has to himself in his entire apartment. The majority of his living area back home is reserved for his wife and child.

  The bathroom floor looks like a large chess board except many of the white squares leading to the sink are bloody. Droplets and smears indicate to Dan the person who did the dragging must have washed up after.

  The final door on the right is an office. All the walls contained bookshelves made of dark wood that are filled with leather bound literature. The room smells of the old volumes and of expensive cigars. Two plush leather seats face a large dark wood desk that matches the bookshelves.

  Dan is down to one last door in the hall. He puts his hand on the knob where the blood trail ends and turns it slowly, feeling the crustiness of dried blood. Through the narrow opening he cracks, light spills down a wooden staircase. He had figured it was a basement. His hand feels along the wall for the light switch.

  The creaking he has heard since entering the home is gaining in tempo. It seems to come from his left. Dan closes the door, wanting to get to the bottom of the sound before venturing elsewhere. It could be the house settling, he says trying to calm his jumpy nerves. This place looks relatively new. It shouldn’t be that, his mind debates the possibility. But, wouldn’t a newer house need to settle more?

  He travels back through the blood stained living room, and back into the breezeway. His hands clutch the pistol in a push/pull fashion to keep it steady. The sound slows upon entering the uncharted section of the house. He is unable to feel a light switch along the wall, finding himself once again wading through darkness.

  Dan pauses at the opening to this new room to let his eyes get used to the gloom. A sliver of light is visible on the wall furthest from him, the side of the house. Dan can’t tell for sure, but he thinks it could be a door to the outside. There is a distinct odor in the air he can’t quite identify.