The Lost Castle

by Nick Cole

  Mindlessly, the dead would come at the sounds and flashing headlights. And life to be found in those things.

  Mindlessly they would die again.

  All the mercs had to do was wait.

  Braddock watched as the gray and dusty corpses flooded the main road, struggling up it to reach the convoy. He mentally calculated the point on the road where the intersecting fields of fire would meet from each vehicle’s weapon. He estimated it was about half a mile out.

  “Sergeant Cooper,” said Braddock over the radio.

  “Coop reads you loud and clear.” Cooper had been a Ranger NCO with the 75th.

  “Order the MK19s to engage at best range. Target the road and sweep the sides.”

  “Roger that.”

  Two minutes later, the MK19s opened up on the crowd. Hundreds of spinning grenades whirled out onto the field, exploding amidst the hapless corpses who came on regardless of the mayhem and flying dirt. Regardless that their legs and arms were missing. Or that flaming hot iron had ripped their guts to shreds.

  The explosions, though muted by distance, were enough to draw the bulk of the corpses now swarming out of the town toward the convoy.

  Toward the kill zone.

  “Why don’t we just go around, Captain?” asked Watt. Braddock could see his driver’s fingernails tapping out some rhythm on the overly large steering wheel. Everybody here had seen combat. Everybody here didn’t rattle easily.

  But sometimes they do, thought Braddock. Because everyone’s got limits. Sometimes... you’ve had enough. Too much even.

  What about you? Darling. When is enough... “enough?”

  “Don’t want us to get swarmed in there or break down on some side road,” replied Braddock. “Survivors might have even blocked things off. We could end up in a trap. Better to keep to the road. We’ve got a long way to go today.”

  “Fo’ sho’,” whispered Watt and seemed not to care beyond that.

  In front of them a small battalion of corpses exploded and flew into the air, or were just disintegrated, half a mile away. Even at this distance the details were clear. Some of the others in the surrounding Humvees had their scopes and ‘nocs out. Watching. Because it was grimly fascinating. How many times in your life are you going to see eight hundred people effortlessly done to death by modern technology?

  How many times? Once? Twice?

  When is “enough” enough? Darling.

  “Cease fire,” ordered Braddock.

  Beyond the muttering engines of the Humvees, all was silent.

  A small haboob of dust drifted off with the barest of morning breezes. Shaking itself out into nothing over the desert and leaving a field full of corpses revealed.

  There wasn’t much damage done to the road. But many of the corpses were still crawling or thrashing about.

  Even though their legs had been blown off.

  Their intestines spilled out onto the ground.

  Dried bloody stumps pawed at the dirt and the hot surface of the long gray highway.

  Faces enraged.

  Remaining teeth bared and jaws working as though already at table.

  Now the main force, as Braddock was thinking of them, swarmed out of the town.

  He keyed the mic. “Standby minis...”

  They came on. Mindlessly.

  How many?

  Two to five thousand, everyone’s minds guessed. You don’t want to see this, said some small voice in each of their heads.

  Yes.

  Yes, I do.

  “Engage.”

  Seven mini-guns, each spending between two to five thousand rounds a minute, opened up for an eternal-seeming thirty seconds.

  Brrrraaaaaappppppppppppppppppppp...

  Brrrraaaaaappppppppppppppppppppp...

  Brrrraaaaaappppppppppppppppppppp...

  Brrrraaaaaappppppppppppppppppppp...

  Brrrraaaaaappppppppppppppppppppp...

  Brrrraaaaaappppppppppppppppppppp...

  Brrrraaaaaappppppppppppppppppppp...

  The hilarity, yes... hilarity, as in ironically funny despite the utter horror, was that even after all that... what... twenty-thousand rounds??? There were still a few standing amidst the drifting dust and field of bullet-riddled corpses.

  Three in fact.

  “That’s some lottery winners right there, Cap,” crooned Brees from atop the vehicle in the turret.

  “The road is clear,” came the voice of Mr. Steele over the pop and crackle of the radio. “Move forward, Paladin Six.”

  They drove through the sea of wounded corpses.

  They still moved.

  Still gnashed.

  Still whisper-rasped up at their destroyers. Their prey. The lucky living ones.

  The convoy passed over their bloody scabbed and stringy matted-hair skulls. Crushing them.

  Riddled by all the bullets the world had to give away this morning after the end of everything anyone ever knew.

  Beyond all that...

  ... Near Victorville, near the interchange along the freeway running through the high desert, they found what was left of Hotel.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jesus was absorbed, overly so, by his chocolate bar, from the moment he had it between his fingers. And after the end of that moment, when it was completely gone, he continued to chew-hum some singsong little melody as though the contentment provided by the chocolate might just last forever.

  Holiday eyed the camp as he took alternating sips of the refreshing cold tea and then bites of the sweet chocolate. He could see a large tin water jug near an old hand pump, and he guessed “Hey-sus” was most likely the one keeping so many of the plants in the nursery watered and tended despite the ongoing end of the world. Despite that sack-faced thing with its blind hounds roaming the grounds.

  He’s safe here, thought Holiday. No one is getting through that cactus patch easily, especially the dead.

  The dry rattle locust sound seemed to rise up all at once as though it were a swelling, swirling buzz approaching. Jesus closed his eyes tight and began to whisper softly in Spanish. He rocked back and forth. His eyes again squeezed so tight, Holiday feared the man was on the verge of a sudden aneurysm, or attempting to fight his way through a terrible ice cream headache by sheer force of will.

  Holiday could hear the soft pad of large dog feet out beyond the cacti past the bend in the narrow crevice that kept them hidden. Sniffing, snuffling and a low keening mewl, like anxious worry, came from there, near the locust-rattle. The accompanying hiss, and Holiday was convinced this was coming from the sack-faced thing, rose and then eerily faded as though following some conversation only it understood.

  By the sound of it, the blind dogs and the sack-wearing monster were getting closer to the cactus-hidden passage, as though they were just on the other side of the crevice.

  Jesus continued to mumble silently. His lips moved swiftly. His breath was soundless. His eyes and face contorted in pain. His fingers were still covered by the sticky remains of the sweet chocolate from better times just a moment ago.

  What, thought Holiday, tin cup held halfway between his mouth and the dust on the ground, is going on here? And what is that thing, he thought, thinking of the sack monster. Knowing that he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what was under that sack.

  Then the keening and rattle-hiss faded. Passing over. Moving beyond them. Leaving them behind, hidden in their little homestead within the crevice.

  They’ve lost the scent, thought Holiday.

  Whoever... or whatever, yes whatever was the right word, they’d lost the scent of the Mexican gardener and his new friend.

  In that moment, Holiday knew the “why” of Frank’s walls. They were secure. Known. Could be trusted. Hidden behind.

  The opposite of now.

  Surrounded by unknown d
angers.

  Exposed.

  Well beyond the perimeter. Out here in the unknown.

  And there was something in that, something about the “unknown” that was more real than it should have been. More real than it had ever been. The unknown had always been a concept you could dismiss. Since it was unknown, it could not be known. So why bother? The less you thought about it, the less it toyed with you.

  Until you were knee deep in it, and sinking.

  Until it was heart attack real.

  Until now.

  Then... it was truly frightening once you were in the middle of it.

  In the silence Holiday had to remind himself, twice, to drink from the cold tin cup in his frozen hand. Twice as he waited, ears cocked. Listening and waiting for that horrible alien rattle-hiss to return. Coming for them again. And this time that sack-faced monster would glide through the cactus patch, knowing the way, and that would be horrible.

  And, Holiday knew, it would not end well.

  When he finally took a sip of the cold tea, Jesus was smiling at him over the rim of the tin cup. Smiling and getting up. Raising his hands toward the hot dusty skies.

  Holiday stood and moved toward Jesus who was now packing things into an old canvas newspaper delivery bag. A blanket. A coffeepot. A crowbar. A book.

  “I have to go,” said Holiday slowly. As though overpronounced words at a slower cadence might somehow surmount the language barrier.

  Jesus nodded.

  Holiday pointed toward the west. Toward the low dusty hills and the remains of the old Marine base.

  Jesus nodded and tapped his barrel chest, his baby-fat face jiggling ever so slightly.

  And a moment later he was leading Holiday out through a narrow crack in the back of the arroyo. Jesus stopped at the last shelf before the crack narrowed and continued on. It was loaded with seashells and beautiful quartz stones. He reached up, standing on tiptoes, his squat legs straining, and pulled a straw hat from off the top shelf.

  And then they were gone from that place.

  Chapter Twelve

  Frank grabs one of the ladders and repositions it while Dante goes after the fire axes.

  “Frank!” shouts Ash over the death din beyond the nearby wall, rising and unbelievable at the same time. Still unbelievable all these weeks after the end of the world. “What’re you going to do?”

  Frank is pulling on work gloves and casting about. Checking on everyone as best he can. Candace is scurrying across the rooftops and calling out strength numbers at various points along the wall.

  “Thirty in front of unit twenty-seven!” she shouts, denoting the number of the townhome and the estimated number of dead piling up in front of its outward-facing barricaded doors and windows.

  How do they know or recognize, wonders Frank. How do these zombies understand entrance points like doors and windows? There must be some kind of intelligence still left inside their rotting skulls.

  And... what if they’re not dead? What if this is some sort of crazy super flu? Or a bioweapon version of the Black Plague?

  “Frank!” screams Candace. “They’re piling up on top of each other in front of fifteen. They’re almost to the second story!”

  “Ritter,” yells Frank.

  “Here boss!” calls out Ritter, as he hauls spears from where they’re kept in a makeshift rack near the front gate over to the eastern wall where all the action seems to be centering.

  Kid’s thinking ahead, notes a quiet voice inside Frank’s head. There’s more there than he lets on, that’s for sure. And maybe more than he wants people to know.

  “Check the second story from the inside of fifteen. Make sure that plywood over the window is good. Check the braces thoroughly, son,” shouts Frank, his voice echoing across the townhomes and off the closed garage doors of the hot inner ring of the castle.

  “On it,” shouts Ritter as he grabs a spear and a hammer and goes loping off toward fifteen’s garage.

  Searching about, looking for Dante, Frank sees Cory near the pool. He’s rocking back and forth on his large feet, staring at some bee hopping from bush to bush.

  What can I do with him? thinks Frank bitterly. And the answer is... nothing. Just make sure he doesn’t get in the way.

  And then... that other voice inside his head.

  He’s a liability.

  Frank hates himself for even thinking that. But facts are facts, not feelings. The kid is little more than a useless child who needs to be constantly watched. And that draws from assets Frank needs right now to hold the walls.

  Ash is still talking to him. But he can’t hear her because he’s trying to figure out how to clear unit twenty-seven and reseal the wall. And he’s thinking that in time, those things could start coming up over the walls if they stack up on top of each other. Eventually they’ll be inside the perimeter. But twenty-seven has to be cleared first. It has to be.

  “Where’s Dante with the axes?” he growls.

  “Frank!” Ash grabs him by the shirt with her tiny hands. “Why don’t you just clear it the way we did last time?” she whispers.

  “Listen, sweetie...” he sees the look on her face. The look that says don’t call me that. She has, thinks Frank, no idea why I call her that.

  And...

  I should stop.

  Because she’s not sweetie.

  No, she isn’t.

  “Ash,” he begins anew, and low so only she can hear. “We’ve got to conserve ammo. These zombies we can handle if we do it right and work together. In time we might need ammo for other... y’know... others. People. Not nice people who might start coming around, know what I mean?”

  Ash stares into his face for a moment. It feels like they’ve known each other for longer than they actually have. Much, much longer.

  She’s thinking about the AK-74u in the green canvas bag back in her townhome. The bag she’s keeping ready for when it’s time to run. Again. She could clear those things in a heartbeat and still probably have at least one full mag left.

  But it’s headshots that stop them. They’re not Russians like back in the war, she has to remind herself. Neurological cessation, she thinks in surgical terms. That’s what stops them. The AK fires on full auto. So it’s wild and erratic. Bad for headshots.

  He’s right. But still...

  “We don’t know that it will ever come to that, Frank!” states Ash defiantly. “And it won’t matter if one of us gets bit trying to clear those things out. Tomorrow won’t matter to whoever that is.”

  Dante comes running up with the axes. He’s sweaty and his breath is ragged and Frank knows that’s more because of the fear than the exertion. But it is hot and they need to be drinking water.

  And they need to clear the walls.

  It’s only a matter of time before the three hundred-plus dead on the other side of the wall find a weakness they haven’t planned for, and exploit it.

  They’re like water. They’ll take the path of least resistance and then just flood inward...

  ... and drown us all.

  Only a matter of time.

  “Ash, we...” Frank stops himself. “Ash. I need you and that kid Skully to do something once we go into twenty-seven.”

  Frank is looking at her with an intensity she’s never seen. This is not nice Frank, or hitman Frank... this is real Frank. Desperate Frank.

  He doesn’t want to have to say this. She can read that. Clearly.

  “I need one of you, preferably him... I need you to go down the eastern wall toward the orchard. I need one of you to go over. Take something you can make noise with and get the ones along the wall up here to chase you down that way. Only the ones nearest you. Don’t try to get them all.”

  Ash doesn’t know what to say. She’s just listening. This is suddenly real and very scary, and all her concern for Frank going
into a townhome overrun with walking corpses is replaced by the fact that someone else needs to go over the wall and distract the dead out there. Alone.

  If you trip or twist an ankle, she’s thinking. Then that’s it. They’ll get you.

  “One of you goes over and the other holds the ladder to get them back up,” Frank is telling her. “Just get their attention and once they start down toward you, go back over the wall again. At the same time, I need Ritter and Candace to make noise along the southern wall. Have them hang over the side and get the ones down below focused on them. That should draw them away from the hole in twenty-seven. Dante and I will go in there and clear it and then repair the hole.”

  “Awww, hell no!” shouts Dante.

  Frank gives him a hard look. A look that says, “Really?”.

  “Whatever,” growls Dante angrily.

  Frank straps on a tool belt and walks over to some sheets of galvanized metal they’d taken from Home Depot. He quickly unboxes a pneumatic gas powered bolt driver, screws in a propane cylinder and loads a bolt. Then he fires it into the steel sheet. It punches through like butter

  He grunts.

  “Okay.”

  “Frank, this is crazy,” says Ash.

  “True dat,” says Dante.

  “Yeah, it’s that kinda day, kid.” Except he’s thinking every day. Every day is some kind of crazy. Some fight for survival.

  Every day is... just every day after all.

  “If we all do what we’re supposed to do, we’ll pull this off. All right?” he says to Dante and Ash. And they know he’s right because there’s nothing else on the table right now. This is the meal. Nothing in their mouths tastes like a better plan, or even a brilliant argument against. And even this doesn’t taste all that good.

  This is the way it has to be.

  That’s pretty clear. Even to those who don’t want it to happen this way.

  “Aight, big man,” Frank says to Dante and nods toward the sheet metal. “We’ll carry this up to twenty-seven’s garage courtyard balcony there and then go in through the sliding glass door. We’ll go downstairs and clear them out. Then we’ll see about the hole. Got it?”