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

by Cotton, Daniel

  2

  The city of Waterloo has two main hospitals. Olive Grove on the north side, near the industrial park, and Memorial on the south end. There are also many clinics and urgent care facilities, but if someone needs to be admitted they are taken to one of these two. Memorial Hospital, being surrounded by the ritziest of citizens in the prestigious area of the city known as ‘the Hills’ is often called the place where rich men go to die.

  Doctor James Orville is cutting his teeth as a physician in this unusually bustling ER, and he has also been assigned to one patient whose care is his top priority. His patient’s status in society lends him such special treatment, but it is also given for his humanitarian efforts and charitable nature. He has donated so much to hospital that they have named a wing after him, even dedicated the chapel in his honor.

  “So there you are in the prime of your life, when most men are well passed theirs, about to catch an early morning flight, and you just keel over.” The doctor stares at the dead man on a steel examination table in the morgue.

  It happened at 5AM. Freeman Wilkes, age 52, collapsed in the terminal just as he was about to embark on another business trip. Given the man’s age and the fact that African Americans are statistically more prone to heart disease--coupled with his hectic schedule--it wasn’t a surprise. People often said the man could be in two places at the same time, always where he was needed.

  Orville wants to concur with the pronouncing physician’s report, natural causes, but something about this doesn’t quite add up. Doctor Orville had met Mr. Wilkes briefly months ago, introduced by the man’s own private physician at a marathon Freeman had orchestrated for cancer awareness. I got winded before the halfway point. There you were, leading the pack.

  He ponders the corpse from a swivel stool, his elbows upon his knees to support his chin.

  “Nathan said you’d outlive us all.” Orville stands and paces around the table in frustration, recalling his mentor’s words regarding Freeman’s health: the body of a twenty year old, blood pressure to die for, strongest heart I’ve ever listened to. “Then why would Nathan say it was a heart attack in his preliminary?”

  For a rich man, personal staff is always considered ‘on-call,’ which includes doctors. It was Nathanial Grey, MD, that called the time of death, and all Orville has to do is concur. No autopsy is to be done, because the widow requested it be forgone, stating that it was ‘just his time.’

  “No, it wasn’t,” Orville says.

  His reverberating words fade but seem to leave behind a trace, a residual metallic clang. He can’t tell where the knocking is coming from, but it’s the least of his concerns. It must be the pipes, and, besides, he has a decision to make. Though he was instructed to forgo an autopsy, that’s just what he is about to do, after gathering samples for a full toxicology report. Another crucial step he was informed was unnecessary.

  “I can always work at Olive Grove,” he jokes to himself. Nathanial had pulled strings to get him into Memorial, and he is lucky to be here working from the ground up. The hospital typically employs only the most esteemed and seasoned medical staff, and he himself has only been off his internship for a year. Not quite ‘top of his class,’ but Orville knows to trust his instincts. “I certainly won’t write a false report.”

  “Perhaps, I can force your pen, Doctor Orville.”

  The sudden presence causes him to start. He turns with a gasp to see a well-dressed man standing at the door, his face hidden by the shadows cast by the small hallway. The doctor doesn’t recognize the voice, but he knows its owner shouldn’t be in here. He steels his nerves and his resolve.

  “You need to leave, sir. If you are family, you’ll find his wife in Wilkes Chapel.”

  Over the metallic clatter that increases in its rhythm, the man laughs slightly. He knows exactly where to find the widow because she hired him. With his current employer, the notorious Benito Sartori, incarcerated, he has been allowed to freelance. The young doctor’s report is the one loose end he must tie up. “I’ll pay my respects after you sign off on that report. It was simply his time.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is of no consequence.” The man approaches. His left hand is clad in a black leather glove and holds a small pistol trained on Orville’s chest. “Please, make this easy on yourself.”

  Every fiber of Orville's being tells him not to falsify the report. As a doctor he has taken an oath, but he also wants to live.

  He has one ace up his sleeve. The morgue is equipped with a recording device for attendants to use during their examinations, but he just needs to activate it without this man seeing him. If I can get him to talk on tape, I can comply with his demands, and just take the…

  Before the doctor can get his plan into motion, Freeman Wilkes moves. The dead man lunges from the table, sinking his teeth into Orville, who screams as blood saturates his white lab coat.

  The man with the gun can’t believe his eyes. The amount of poison he had slipped into Wilkes' coffee was enough to kill a water buffalo, but now Freeman's eating his loose end.

  The metallic clanging becomes a violent battering, and the steel doors that contain the cadavers are forced open from the inside.

  “This complicates things.”

  ##

  Just a few blocks away, still in the Hills among lavish penthouses and gated homes, a local girl who has done very well for herself lies in bed. She’s been depressed since filing for divorce from her husband of only six months. She has chosen to wade through it alone, sending away all her help in favor of solitude. The young woman of twenty-two casts off the comforter that has lived up to its name for her for the past three days, sending aluminum chocolate wrappers flying.

  Dressed in frumpy flannel pajamas that she hasn't worn since inviting him into her life, she slips her feet into a pair of warm house shoes. She is finding it hard to feel sorry for herself when an odd rustling sound comes from somewhere inside the house.

  Known for her grace and poise, she tiptoes stealthily through the upstairs hall. She listens and detects the ruckus comes from downstairs. Her voice has been equated to that of angels, but she dares not use it now as she slowly descends the stairs, using the banister to lighten her already modest weight.

  At the landing, she listens and finds the sound to be coming from her office. The office she once shared with her horrible future ex-husband, though he had no use for one. The door is partially open, so she creeps to the crack and pushes it the rest of the way. There he is, standing near her displayed platinum records and Grammys. Randy Russell, Kelly Peel’s estranged spouse.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” she demands.

  The man is startled by the beautiful woman he had married in Vegas and later wronged. Later that night, actually. The British comic stammers his explanation. “I… I’ll have you know, they kicked me out of my usual suite at the Hammond Grand. Some bullshit about fumigating it. I don’t plan to stay. I’m looking for something… Unless, you’ll let me stay here? Have you cooled off?”

  “The fact that you have a usual suite at a hotel when we own--sorry, I own--a house in this city should tell you that I will never cool off, you bastard.”

  “Right,” he says simply, still looking around the office. “I’m looking for my joke book. I have that USO thing up north in a few weeks…”

  Kelly knows the man doesn’t care about his upcoming gig for the troops. He hardly ever writes in his so-called book of jokes. She knows exactly what he is looking for. “I flushed that shit.”

  “What? All of it?” He makes a desperate grimace, and his hands wring the air as if it were her neck. “Fuck!”

  “Get out!”

  “I can’t.”

  “We’re never going to get back together. Just go before I call the cops. That’s the last thing you need.”

  “No. I can’t because the paparazzi are outside. They’ve been tailing me all morning.” He flings a finger toward the windows facing the main entr
ance to the gated property.

  Kelly Peel, Waterloo native turned pop sensation, uses two fingers to delicately separate the white lace curtains. The road beyond her wrought iron is populated by figures that stare at her home. She finds one thing odd about this herd of reporters, no cameras. “I don’t care. You’re not staying here.”

  “You can’t kick me out,” he explains to her. “This is my home too. Until a judge determines who owns what, it is all shared property.”

  “You don’t own anything!” she asserts. “Everything is in my name. I bought this house before we even met! What little you earn with your disgusting mouth has been spent on drugs, booze, and whores!”

  “Escorts!” Randy corrects her pointedly. His pride is bruised by her words, no matter how true they may be. She is the top earner in their relationship; she’s the top earner of most in her field currently. After they finalize their divorce, should his infidelity come to light, his already lack luster career will be over. “Why would you purchase a home here, of all places?”

  She shakes her head at him in disbelief. “I’m from here.”

  “You’re amazing. You should live in a city that befits your greatness, not one named after one of the most crushing military defeats in human history. Cities that have songs about them sung by Sinatra, Elvis, or the Chile Peppers. Not Abba. You’re better than Abba.”

  His words make her laugh. He sees hope in that chuckle, because it was his humor that won her heart not too long ago. Randy takes a few steps closer to embrace his wife. He is halted by a palm against his chest, and the smile he had earned is now a sneer.

  “I’m better than Abba.” She nods slowly. “I can’t believe that’s actually the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. Out!”

  Randy is dumfounded. His wife leaves the room and he is alone, surrounded by the trophies of her greatness and fame. He stares at a blown up, framed magazine cover depicting her. Though she is beautiful this morning, without all of the make-up or skimpy attire she is known for, the image looking down on him is positively radiant. She is posing seductively in a black teddy and white feathered wings. The reporter of the magazine used all the usual phrases to describe Kelly Peel; angelic voice, stunning eyes, and the body of a porn star.

  Fuck, I’m stupid.

  3

  The loaded MP3 players are put in a backpack along with a few pairs of ear buds and as many packs of double A's as he can carry. Dustin's current goal is to get home, then he’ll try to get out of the city.

  Typically, no visit to Ray’s can conclude properly without saying goodbye to that beautiful Les Paul, but not this time. Today is the day, he tells the guitar as he smashes the case, using a lesser quality instrument. The marvelous Gibson is slung over his shoulder by its strap. He also claims a small portable amp and heads for the back door.

  With the electricity out, the stairs are even darker than before. Only half of the overhead lights are on, running off of emergency power. The auxiliary system provides just enough power for employees and patrons to make it to the exits safely if the main source doesn’t resume. So he proceeds slowly all the way to the parking garage.

  Pockets of darkness shadow the subterranean space. Dustin had fortunately parked his Altima under one of the few fixtures that are illuminated. But his steps are halted by a noise echoing within the concrete enclosure. The shuffling of feet signals a figure emerging from the gloom.

  Dustin holds his breath when he sees a policeman meandering his way with his head hung low. His first thought is that he’s going to jail, and he wonders if the stolen merchandise will net him a felony or just a misdemeanor. He can’t imagine that petty theft will be a top priority for the cops with everything going on, so he loads his goods into the back of his car.

  Dustin opens his door and is about to take off when he notices the law man is approaching, limping faster and more deliberate. Oh my god! Is he one of them? The only thing he has that he can use as a weapon is the black Les Paul, and smashing it is a painful thought.

  “What’s the trouble, officer?” He poises the guitar to strike. When he receives no response he decides to jump into the driver’s seat rather than damage his Gibson.

  The officer is at the front fender. Dustin’s hesitation gives the man the opportunity to get a hand on the door, barring its closure. “Have you seen an ammo clip?”

  “Huh?” Dustin is relieved to hear him talking.

  “I lost a mag.” The cop sits upon the Altima’s hood, setting down his pistol and a box of ammunition.

  Dustin has never seen a policeman who wasn’t completely in control of himself, but this one cradles his face with shaky hands.

  “Don’t you guys have shotguns?”

  “My partner had it…”

  Past tense, Dustin thinks. Not good.

  “I had to get off the streets,” the cop continues. “They’re everywhere…”

  From the box of bullets, he takes a single round that he feeds into the breach of his weapon. The slide is returned with a metallic sound that is magnified in the cement cavern. “I just lost count. I ejected the mag and had to run. I dropped it!”

  “You don’t have a spare?”

  “It was my spare.” Despair makes his voice crack. Before Dustin can stop him, the cop places the barrel under his chin and fires the round. Blood and brains plaster the beams above, raining down red clumps. The light source overhead is coated with crimson, casting the hue over everything below.

  Dustin is in shock over the grisly occurrence. He has never seen a dead body before, let alone witnessed a suicide firsthand. He stands staring at the corpse on his hood, unable to move though he hears moans from the street. He snaps himself out of it once long shadows from the afternoon sun stretch along the concrete floor. Dustin is afraid to move closer to the fallen officer, but he must overcome his fears to retrieve the weapon. Still he shivers when he takes the pistol from the cop’s dead fingers. He snatches up the box of ammo and shoves the body to the ground, pulling his sleeve up over his hand to minimize contact with the dead man.

  Once safely inside his car, he must contend with another first: holding a gun. The weapon feels hot in his hands as he scrutinizes it. He has seen plenty of them in movies and video games. The slide is all the way back, leaving a gaping rectangular hole in the side; the He had watched the cop insert the round that he had killed himself with, so he duplicates the action, but is at a loss as to how to mimic the metallic sound. Dustin cautiously attempts different buttons and levers until the hole is sealed with a startling jolt. That’s it, he thinks with triumph and fear. It’s ready to go.

  After turning the engine over, he maneuvers the guitar through the backrests and sets it on the backseat. He sees the approaching figures coming down the ramp from street level. They walk at a jog, aided by gravity until straight ground takes them off guard, causing one to clumsily fall.

  He pulls away from the parking spot, running over the policeman’s corpse on his way to the ramp. As he drives he ponders what he heard on the news, and, considering, he doesn’t feel bad at all as the bodies crumple and slap upon his hood.

  The sun is bright compared to the gloom of the parking lot, and it shines down warmly, chasing away the morning frost.

  The Altima enters bedlam, and Dustin punches buttons on his stereo to scan through the discs in his changer. He wants something to suit the carnage, to match the strewn bodies and walking corpses, the abandoned cars and smoky air caused by nearby fires. He finds the next selection more fitting. Angry sounding rock. The kind of music that, when he isn’t careful, always results in a speeding ticket.

  He cruises the streets in this living nightmare, trying to get home. He has to backtrack several times after becoming trapped in dead ends of traffic. Groups of ghouls trail his movement. They accumulate into a horde in his rearview as if he’s the Pied Piper of the undead. He knows he can’t have them on his heels should he make it home, because he’ll have no way of getting out of the car. Losing them isn’t an
option, and he can’t get enough speed to drop from their sight.

  Dustin pulls his car next to some abandoned military vehicles and sandbag barriers then hops into the backseat. The factory he works at had given all its employees coats with the company name embroidered across the back. So now he wiggles down against the floor, among his plastic shopping bag of trash and empty bottles of wiper fluid, and he covers himself with the coat, praying the dead just pass him by.

  ##

  A desperate man hunkers in the back of a deuce and a half. He’s a soldier, part of the time. The reservist’s typical 9 to 5 is as a claims adjuster. Today is beyond anything he had signed up for. He got the call of duty that morning to help maintain the peace since the first to fall were the first responders, then the mission failed epically. He ran, just as the others had. As far as he knows, he is the last one alive.

  Corporal Silva had climbed onto the back of the truck to hide. He is low on munitions, and if he wants to make it home he needs all the rounds he can salvage. The man was gathering magazines from the abandoned rifles of his comrades. The recovered ammo now lays on the street beyond usefulness, lost in the man's haste to get away from a horde that seemed to come out of nowhere. Dozens by his panicked count.

  Locked-in on his location, the dead clamor for him. He must cover his ears against the maddening pleas of the hungry dead, who seem to be begging to be fed. Roaring above their wailing, drowning them out, comes the most glorious sound he has ever heard. He knows it will be his salvation.

  “Is that the rooster song?”

  ##

  Dustin can’t believe his ears. It’s the very same singer he had listened to earlier this morning, only now she is being played loudly in the middle of the street. He can’t fight the urge to look, so he slowly rises from the cramped and filthy floor of his car to kneel with his hands upon the crumb dusted seat. He looks over the backrest and out his window, watching a man dance to the music, drawing the zombies towards him.