Life Among The Dead

by Daniel Cotton

  His brief report written, he now reaches back into the bed and frees a single bird. His large hand is wrapped around the back of the pigeon to keep it still while he inserts the rolled paper into a small carrier attached to its foot.

  “Fuck off.” He tosses the bird up through the sunroof, hitting send on his first B-mail home. The gray bird climbs into the sky, circling until finally settling into a flight plan, heading west.

  3

  A military truck rumbles along the deserted streets. Ordinarily, such a large vehicle, dubbed a deuce and a half, would be full of soldiers. This particular truck carries only two. The sun is shining down upon their ride from a cloudless sky. It is a comfortable 60 degrees; most people would consider it a glorious spring day. The two in the deuce fail to see the glory.

  Sergeants Steele and Lynton have just come from Fort Scott. They wanted to find an active base, all they had found there was a lost cause. Inside the high walls and barbed wire the dead now roam clad in fatigues. All the soldiers, who once so proudly wore crisp clean uniforms, are gone. In their place mobile corpses in wrinkled, blood stained garments meander on the tarmac. Just a week ago their own base, Eagle Rock, was lost.

  The winter had felt like a vacation. The search and rescue missions were ceased once the snow began to fall. They didn’t want to risk losing soldiers for something as mundane as inclement weather. They held the primary goal of maintaining the fort’s integrity, and training the civilians.

  A refugee had died on the toilet one day from a simple aneurysm. He had risen and bit someone, who turned and bit someone else. It spread within the walls exponentially like a metastasizing tumor. Just in time for spring.

  Rashida Steele and Ezekiel Lynton had to take shelter in the motor pool. They stood no chance against the rising numbers of the dead. Their world inside the base fell around their ears as hell rose up in its place. They had to watch helplessly as the zombies chased the few remaining survivors around the parade grounds. They couldn’t chance giving up their position.

  They had to subsist on food harvested from the vending machines in the garage’s break room. They took as much gas as they could out of the other vehicles that were suspended on lifts or parked off to the side, still waiting their turns. When the utility personnel carrier was ready, they smashed it straight through the large hanger door of the motor pool. It careened across the parade grounds not stopping or swerving to avoid the pedestrians. They just rolled through the clusters of zombies like they were bowling pins.

  Lynton guided the olive green truck to the southern gate. During the winter months the soldiers had worked to reinforce all the entrances onto the base out of the plain need to keep busy. The two hopeful deserters couldn’t risk wrecking the deuce, one of them would have to get out and open the gate from the guard shack before their once fellow soldiers and undead civilians could converge on their location.

  “I’ll go.” Lynton said. “You cover me.”

  “I’m faster. I should go.” Rash countered.

  “You’re a better shot. I want you here.”

  “We’ll both go.” Rash compromised. “Increase the odds one of us will get out.”

  They had spent most of their ammunition just trying to stay alive. They didn’t have a full magazine between them when they jumped down from the driver’s side. Lynton had brought the deuce as close as he could. They saw discarded weapons lying on the pavement, but didn’t have time to check for more ammo. They had to assume the rifles and pistols were empty.

  The entire undead population of the base had set upon them, their interest and appetites peaked by the vehicle’s movement. It held for them the promise of food.

  The soldiers made note that the dead seem faster now that the weather was better. The brutal winter had given them a false sense of hope. The zombie activity had appeared to have just vanished.

  The guard shack was made of corrugated steel and not much bigger than a phone booth. The large window was cracked and behind the spider webbed glass a figure moved. Bullet holes freckled the thick pane, they weren’t sure if the person inside was still a person at all.

  “What’s your first general order?” Lynton pointed his rifle at the figure and asked a question that in his opinion, everyone in uniform should know. It’s from a list of orders that gets drilled into the heads of recruits in boot camp.

  “Fuck, Zee. I don’t even remember those.” Rash said beating the glass with the butt of her rifle until it finally gave. The figure was clearly not one of theirs. It was at one time a female soldier who had joined the other side. One of her arms had been removed rather forcibly from the look of the dangling meat and bone.

  The zombie’s good arm swung trying to grab a hold of Rash. Lynton held it back with the muzzle of his weapon so his partner could reach in and activate the gate. He didn’t want to waste a bullet if he didn’t have to.

  The gate rolled aside and they high tailed it back to their getaway vehicle. The ghouls were coming around the fenders as Lynton shut the door. The soldiers drove away looking at the dead in their mirrors. They weren’t able to run, but the things were definitely much spryer.

  The two have been on the road ever since. They aim to keep moving until they find a viable headquarters. Rash has been doubting that a military facility is the best choice. Since Fort Scott turned out to be a bust, she is almost convinced that they should try something else.

  Lynton’s hope is dwindling. He had looked through the gates of Scott, and his heart sank. It was a lost cause, a dead zone. “Perhaps there are people inside? Keeping a low profile?” He said, about to propose a risky option.

  “I think we should move along, Zee.” Rash had said.

  “One more. Just give me one more. Then, we can do it your way.”

  Rash’s way goes against everything Ezekiel Lynton believes in. She just wants to find a place they can settle. A place that is secure and has everything they need to survive. It doesn’t have to be a military base, or a fort, or a port. She would actually prefer it to be a civilian location.

  Lynton at first balked at her idea. He grew up in a rough neighborhood in Waterloo. If it hadn’t been for the Army he would either be in jail or dead right now. He feels he owes the uniform everything. Without it he doesn’t feel complete.

  “Fort Breyers is about seven hours away.” Lynton reads from a map.

  “Sounds good.” Rash doesn’t sound enthusiastic about having to play obedient soldier again. She has grown to abhor following asinine orders, having to adhere to restrictive standards in behavior and appearance. Lynton lives for it.

  Rash’s wavering dedication is the only source of turmoil in their friendship. They hardly ever disagree on things. Everyone, even people in their own unit, thought the two were a couple. Apart from one drunken night, hanging out together, they’ve never even kissed.

  They’ve always had more of a brother and sister relationship that they wouldn’t trade in for a careless fling. They look after one another, and keep each other out of trouble. Rash sometimes ponders if that will ever change, and if such a change would be worth the risk.

  4

  “Fuck this is boring.” Bruce has been on the road for hours. It is only six PM and he already needs another break. “I don’t know what Dan was going on about. This is such a cake walk.”

  There isn’t anything remotely interesting aside from the occasional abandoned car on the road or in the ditches. All of the scenery he passes looks the same. He sees identical farms and pastures. It’s like being in an old cartoon where they run the same backgrounds behind the running characters in a repeating cycle.

  Bruce keeps drifting off to sleep, his head performs touch and goes as it droops forward and suddenly jolts up. It’s just a matter of time before he keeps it down just a few seconds too long and crashes. It’s too dangerous to proceed.

  “I better pull over.” He knows he should nap. “When I was younger I could drive for forty-eight hours straight without a break. Now look at me. I�
�m 53 and have to nap like some snot nosed kid, or some kind of pot smoking slacker. It’s a damn shame.”

  He figures it won’t hurt to eat either. He reaches behind his seat for a brown paper sack full of provisions that some of the woman in Bruce’s life had prepared. The king peels apart the bread to open one of his sandwiches. He looks at the contents and groans.

  “I should have told them no ‘blow-me’ sandwiches.” Bruce isn’t a fan of bologna. He eats it anyway not wanting to waste it, especially when it is all he has on hand.

  His large truck is on the side of the road as he has his dinner. To his right he sees the remains of a cornfield. The soil is still rough from last year’s harvest. No one is around to take care of it or plant more this season. The dirt is still littered with dry leaves and stalks.

  Across the field that once yielded the regions staple crop, Bruce spots long abandoned farm equipment. He considers the chances of finding anyone alive are slim to none. The only person he has seen since leaving his kingdom is the scarecrow out in this depressing field.

  The guardian stands his never-ending vigil over his field, dressed in someone’s worn out clothes and a big straw hat. Its arms are at its side, probably collapsed under the weight of the snow during the winter. Black birds mock the once proud statue; they sit upon his shoulders and peck at him.

  The sight of what the faithful farm hand has been reduced to saddens Bruce. If it wouldn’t be such a waste of ammo, he’d pick the crows off one by one. The birds scatter into the air as if they had heard the old man’s thoughts.

  The dummy is moving. Bruce lifts his binoculars from his chest where they hang by a strap around his neck. It isn’t a scarecrow at all, but an old man. Bruce thinks this is probably his land. He must have died during last year’s harvest, Bruce thinks. The scavenging birds are returning to take away morsels of his flesh.

  Bruce slowly finishes his unsatisfactory meal as the old zombie walks towards the road. He takes his eyes off of Old Macdonald to look up at the sky; it will be dark in a few more hours. The break has left him a little peppier.

  He decides to push on, to cover as much road as he can before nightfall. After sunset he can send out another pigeon and get some shuteye. Some decent shuteye, he corrects himself. He hasn’t slept very well since the settlers arrived. All those tired, poor, huddled masses, yearning to keep breathing are noisy as fuck.

  Bruce would really like to hit the halfway point before sunset. He has been able to push the truck hard without any speed limits to worry about, or obstructions to deal with. He only gets tied up when near major towns and cities. Stand still traffic binds the passages through and around the more densely populated regions. But on the highways and interstates he can travel over 100 miles per hour to make up the lost time.

  The zombie farmer continues to cross his useless acreage, but will never make it in time to catch Bruce. Even if he did, he could never reach him in his high profile vehicle. The massive tires start to roll just as the farmer reaches the embankment that leads up to the road. He stares blankly as his meal drives away, and the crows return to resume theirs.

  “Sorry old timer.” Bruce says as he builds speed. The exhausted fields start to fly by again. He disregards the signs on the side of the road. Bruce pays no mind to the intersecting roads. His course is set, due east. The driver reaches behind his seat for a soda. While searching for refreshment his hand feels a familiar shape, a rectangular object similar to a deck of cards.

  “It’s my lucky day.” He says as he brings a soda to the front along with a stale pack of cigarettes. He had quit them many years ago. It wasn’t only due to his doctor’s urging, or all the antismoking campaigns. It wasn’t because of the rising cost. The main reason he had quit was that he hated thinking some corporate peon was in control of his life.

  Bruce lights one of the stiff cigarettes and draws from the butt. The caustic smoke burns his lungs that have long been rid of the carcinogens. The cilia had repaired themselves and are now protesting as if there has been a breach in an unwritten ceasefire between them and their host.

  Bruce’s body wants to expel the invader by coughing. The truck swerves slightly while his body convulses involuntarily. He has to slow down until the fit subsides. He takes a smaller puff that makes his lungs tingle and his head swoon. He feels as if something other than tobacco is in the white tube.

  He doesn’t even know why he had lit the thing in the first place. He used to chain smoke while on the road, but that was so long ago. He chalks it up to boredom. That killed about a minute, he thinks as he pitches the cigarette out the window. It still has a lot of life left to go, but he is done with it. His ribs hurt from coughing.

  Bruce sips on his soda to get the taste out of his mouth. He deliberates the pack of cigarettes on his dashboard and sends the rest of them out the window to join their friend.

  “I’m so fucking bored.” Bruce says aloud just to hear himself. The monotony is killing him. Looking out the window depresses him. Every stitch of open and empty land reminds him that life, as he knows it, is over. There is a new way of life outside the walls of New Castle, and it’s horrible.

  Bruce wants to get his mind off of the veritable wastelands around him and keep himself somewhat occupied. He takes his eyes off of the road to view a selection of CDs the previous owner of the Road Master stored in a big black book. There is a little of everything, he just isn’t sure what he’s in the mood for.

  The old man slips a disk into the slot, deciding some classic metal should do the trick. He hopes it will amp him up enough to carry him the last stretch of the day.

  The CD player whirs and the cab is filled with the thunder of an electric guitar. Bruce returns his full attention to the road. He glances in the rearview, and sees them.

  “What’s this, now?” Bruce asks the mirror. Their speed surpasses his, though their vehicles are much smaller. Two dirt bikes riding side by side are closing in fast.

  “Bogies on my 6, huh?” Bruce says. The accelerator is floored already. His massive engine has to work much harder than the small motors propelling the bikes.

  “Better be friendlies.” Bruce warns the mirror image of the twin green bikes; his .44 is on his lap just in case they are not.

  The bikes flank Bruce on either side, and match his speed. The old man checks his mirrors. The bike on the right has two riders on it; the passenger is attempting to reach the truck’s bed.

  “Are you high?” Bruce gives the wheel a slight back and forth motion and the heavy vehicle starts to weave. The nimble bikes match his pattern as if prepared for it. The king of the road skips a beat and changes his tempo.

  The big tires of the Road master have large treads that project forward and curve like a swimmer’s hand. One of these off-roading treads catches the left cyclist’s handlebar and causes the worst end over end somersault Bruce has ever seen in his life. The lightweight contender rolls alongside the black heavy weight before bouncing violently into the air and crashing to the pavement.

  “That’s why you don’t fuck with the king of the road.” Bruce says laughing. He can’t see the driver of the bike in his mirror, but recalls a slight bump as the accident occurred. He decides not to feel too bad for the guy if he did run him over. They started it.

  The bike on Bruce’s right continues the side-by-side chase. The passenger has managed to latch onto the rim of the bed. The combatants are passing a stretch of woods that separates two neighboring farms. Bruce guides the black truck to the right and glides onto the shoulder of the road. He takes his truck down the sloping embankment and runs along the edge of the woods.

  The rogue motorcycle that had delivered the hitchhiker has dropped back and is following from the highway. Tree limbs are slapping the helmeted person who clings to the truck. Each time he tries to climb up, branches pelt him, making it difficult to proceed. Finally, a large branch scrapes the raider off completely.

  The woods come to an end at another deserted farm. Bruce looks out at
the field and for a few seconds he forgets all about the pursuer. He would love to settle this land, throw a wall around it, and put it to good use. The planning of Brucetopia will have to wait. The king wants to get rid of this last thorn in his side.

  The Road Master takes a right and speeds along the dried old farmland. With no one to take care of it or irrigate the soil, it has become brittle and cracked. Sun exposure has left the land so dry that dust rises up and fills the air in Bruce’s wake.

  The cloud means he can no longer see his two-wheeled assailant, but he can hear it. He has to open the window to listen over the sound of his own engine, but there is a distinct whine. Small particles are flying in through the opening. Bruce has to squint to protect his eyes from the dust.

  The Road Master’s tires are cutting deep furrows into the unused earth. Bruce turns left and his wheels lose traction, exactly what he wants. He rotates 180 degrees and is aimed the way he had come. His skid has spread an expanding smoke screen that he hopes obscures his maneuver.

  “Now, we’ll see how dumb you are.” Bruce says driving back towards the road. He is blind from the cloud. Within seconds he hits something. Green pieces of the bike fly past his windshield, and a helmet bounces off of it. The shards and debris get lost in the dissipating cloud.

  Pretty fucking dumb. He never should have followed me that close, Bruce thinks as he guides his truck out of the fading fog.

  “That was bracing.” Bruce says. “Just the kind of action I was hoping for.”

  The brief bit of excitement doesn’t feel as satisfying as he thought it would. Those people must have been very desperate to pull such a stunt, he considers. He wonders if there are more like them out there. He decides he will have to push into the night as well. He wants to get the New Hampshire as soon as possible.

  Bruce accelerates on the dusty plain. He is about to drive up the embankment, but it proves to be too steep. He hits the incline with his front bumper. The truck bounces up and comes to a rest on it’s under carriage. His front wheels are suspended over the shoulder of the road.