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

by Cotton, Daniel

  Randy takes the weapon, wanting to be familiar with it. The barrel is rather narrow compared to the prop guns he has handled in the past. “Is this a pellet gun?”

  “Yeah.” The man nods. “You know, for home defense.”

  “What are you defending your home against, tin cans?” Randy hands the weapon back with disdain. “Do they really attack so often you felt it necessary to acquire this thing?”

  “No…?” the stoner sounds hurt.

  “I’m sorry.” For the first time in his life, he apologizes and means it sincerely. “I’m a bit irritable. I’m going through a small divorce. What’s your name?”

  “Gar,” the stoner answers, blissful once again.

  “Gah?”

  “No, Gar-r. There’s an ‘R’ at the end.”

  “That’s what I… Tell me Gah-err, where is the nearest hospital?”

  “There’s two that I know of and they are about the same distance from here.” Gar holds his arms out to point towards the general directions they can be found. “Memorial is south in the Hills, and to the north there’s Olive Grove.”

  “I detest olives. Take me to Memorial.”

  “They don’t have actual olives there… Why do you need a hospital?” The stoner tenses on his weapon. “Did one of the zombies bite you?”

  “No, I have a slight medical problem that I must address.”

  “You’re sick?”

  “Not exactly. I have a small addiction to morphine.”

  “I thought you went to rehab?”

  “That was for cocaine. I want morphine.” Randy rationalizes the distinction. “We should probably get going.”

  With a boost from Randy, Gar climbs out through his window. He hasn’t been out of his apartment in months. He’s just been cultivating his pride and joy, weighing out bags for customers, and hugging the small trees. Many plant lovers will tell you that talking to them makes them grow faster, but Gar feels a more physical expression of love does an even better job.

  Reeking of his musty den, he helps the celebrity up to street level. The area is clear. They had wasted so much time the dead had lost interest.

  “I was up for a role in a zombie picture back home, you know? They opted to go with some ginger headed fuck instead. Now he’s doing big budget blockbusters, and I’m getting stuck with shitty, supporting roles,” Randy angrily whispers.

  “You did the one with the monkey, remember?” Gar whispers back to cheer the man up. He feels like he’s in a movie right now; on a mission, armed, and being covert. “The funny one.”

  “I didn’t find it a bit funny!” the comedian speaks louder. “They gave that bloody simian top billing!”

  “Did you get paid more?”

  “Well, yeah…” Randy calms down, lowering his voice. “It was a monkey after all.”

  10

  The Hammond Grand is situated a few blocks south of Olive Grove Hospital. The Camaro pulls under the hotel’s awning, where valets once ran to open doors and take the cars of guests away. Superdad kills the engine, and Dustin looks at the gilded revolving door that leads into the darkened lobby.

  “We’re just marching in?”

  “That’s the plan," Eli, aka Superdad, says. He still hasn't told Dustin his daughter's name. "Staffing should be at a minimum since this sh… stuff happened so early.”

  “You said there’s a thousand of those things in there!” Dustin isn't certain he wants to tag along with them.

  Eli abruptly hushes him. He drags him down below the car’s windows so they won't be seen by a small band of wandering dead, and he whispers, “This isn’t only the biggest hotel in the city, it’s the oldest. They still use old fashioned keys and real knobs instead of electronic keycards and open-with-ease handles. Anyone dead in their rooms will be trapped there. That’s not to say we won’t have to deal with any threats inside. Some staff, janitors, but I suspect it will be minor.”

  Eli checks to see if the coast is clear before laying out the protocol. “We’ll leave our stuff here for now. I’m going to lead us in. Keep my daughter between us. After we secure the upstairs we’ll come back for the supplies, and then jam something big enough into that revolving door it loses its name.”

  The three sneak out, staying low. The car doors are closed gently for fear of making too much noise. They remain in their crouched postures all the way to the massive entrance. Having come here several times to research his quote and take a tour with the management, Eli plans to use that prior knowledge to guide them through the dark establishment.

  Light from the world outside enters, exposing an ornate fountain that resides quietly in the middle of the vast reception area. It's flanked by plush, curved couches that face it. They proceed through in a tight train, and their leader takes an adjustable lamp from a small table as they do. He steps on the cord and yanks it free from the base of the appliance. A hand is held up to tell the younger two of the party to ‘stay put.’ Eli sees a figure behind the concierge desk.

  The late attendant of the hotel paces back and forth in a pale pool of light let in from the front. Once Eli emerges from the shadows, the dead woman’s eyes lock onto him. The ghoul reaches for him as he approaches. He plans on battering the deceased with the heavy base of the lamp, and he does just that, letting it swing on its flexible neck like a blackjack until the zombie goes still.

  Emergency lighting illuminates the corridors. Through their glare, Eli can see figures within a large glass elevator. They move slow as they palm the smeared barrier that surrounds them, but they remain trapped and harmless.

  Eli inspects every possible hiding place on his way back to his companions. He needs to get them to the employees only staircase by going through the dining area and kitchen. They follow him under a walkway that spans over the reception desk and offices so guests can look down upon the pool area.

  Traveling through the gloom, they come to a restaurant in the hotel. The open space is recessed into the floor, with a bar in the middle like an island amid a sea of shadow. A stainless steel breakfast area glitters in the modest light.

  The management had shown Eli where his men would need to bring their equipment through, after breakfast hours and before final checkout. The owners wouldn’t want patrons seeing the tanks of insecticides coming in, or the men in coveralls depicting dead roaches. As much as possible, they would need to be discrete.

  The breakfast buffet is slick with blood, and a scarlet smear runs across the floor from a swinging door. It leads to the dark sitting area they have just navigated. Eli is about to warn his party, but is too late. His daughter shrieks out in fear. The sound stills his heart, and he pushes past the boy he calls Chachi to get to her.

  A man in a white apron has her by one of her blonde pigtails. The dead man has only one arm to use in this painful game of tug-o-war. Her resistance drops him to his knees. The girl hunches over, pulling away as hard as she can. The corpse loses his balance and falls to the floor, taking her with him.

  Eli howls an unintelligible roar as he pins the zombie with his knee and draws a blade from his belt. He has to saw through the rope of hair to free his little girl before plunging the blade into the ghoul’s skull.

  Dustin is more scared than he has ever been in his life. Near the point of hyperventilation, he feels his nerves abandon him. He becomes very aware of how full his bladder is. A thumping draws his attention to the swinging door that leads to the kitchen as more undead cooks push their way out. Folks who once made a living feeding others are drawn to the sounds of a meal.

  The small girl screams again, too petrified to run. The sight has the opposite effect on Dustin, who can run just fine. He rushes out of the nook and into the dark dining room, toppling over chairs and shrouded tables in his mad dash to safety.

  As he heads towards the lobby, two figures fall from the elevated walk, landing with a sickening crunch. Before the corpses can recover from the posthumous injuries, Dustin leaps over them like an Olympic hurdler. He doesn’t break
his stride until he exits the hotel.

  Alone in the Camaro, he tries to calm himself down. He notices his bladder no longer feels full and he smells the warm aroma of urine.

  The uncomfortable, cold wetness of his pants aside, Dustin’s hands cease trembling as he places them on the wheel. He is ready to resume his original plan. From here, all he needs to do is take a right and head to the bridge, and then north all the way to Fallen where he can live out his dream.

  A helicopter cruises along the street unusually low, taking the path he intends to follow. He watches it pass over the hospital and rows of unmoving cars that he knows will make his journey tough, but hopefully not impossible. The flying craft mesmerizes him as it curiously reduces its altitude once it approaches the expansion. A sudden nosedive transforms the chopper into a fireball.

  “Fuck me!”

  The motionless traffic becomes a chain reaction of explosions heading his way. His eyes are wide with shock, taking in the rapidly advancing carnage. His brain won’t engage and put the Camaro into gear. Glass shatters in the adjacent buildings due to the concussive force of the blasts. The chaos ceases as fast as it started, leaving Dustin dazed, but he is finally able to put the car into drive and edge to the road. He can’t believe he’s just witnessed such a disaster, or that he just sat there while it closed in on him. He feels ready to proceed, but he’ll just have to find a new route since the Washington Bridge appears to have fallen into the Charles River.

  A rumble coming from the right causes him to pause at the mouth of the hotel’s drive. A semi-truck is barreling down the road. It pushes vehicles aside, inadvertently blocking his progress.

  “Are you kidding me?” He watches the large vehicle depart. “Inconsiderate fuck!”

  He’s trapped. If he wants to drive out of here, he’ll have to get out and clear the cars in his way. Armed with his semi-automatic pistol that is no longer semi-automatic, he exits and cautiously examines the mess before him. It reminds him of a game he used to play on his phone, back when he carried the thing, it featured a parking lot full of cars, and the point of the diversion was to move the cars around so the player could drive one in particular out of the grid. The stakes were never as high as this, though.

  Dustin finds a powder blue sedan that isn’t completely blocked. He glances all around the scene while he reaches into the vehicle to steer it away. A white convertible is the next to be relocated, leaving a tight passage for him to squeeze through. Proud of his work, he turns towards the purple car he is about to steal for the second time that day, and comes face to face with a walking corpse.

  The dead woman’s throat has been torn out, nullifying the cautionary moans that would have warned him of her presence. The skin is gone from her jaw to her cheeks, revealing bloody teeth and gums. He is taken aback by the gruesome sight, and is about to fire his pistol, when a stomach-turning sound rains down around him.

  People are falling from the sky. Zombies are tumbling out of the devastated panes of glass above him, landing hard upon the asphalt, only to rise to their broken limbs. Carcasses smash hoods of cars. The mobile dead roll off and advance on him.

  Bodies fall from the awning his car is under, but he can’t get to it. Dustin has no choice but to run away without his music and means of escape. A mass of zombies grows in his wake, following on his heels. He hopes he can find a way to trick them, give them the slip and double back to the Grand. He takes a corner only to find more awkwardly footed ghouls heading his way, drawn to the commotion. Dustin slides under their grasp, scampering frantically to increase the distance between himself and the zombies.

  Dustin is up and running down the street. With a healthy lead, he decides to duck into an alley, but hands greet him immediately. He bats them away with revulsion, however these hands are not trying to get a hold of him. They push him away instead, and a voice tells him, “Get the bloody fuck outta here!”

  The owner of the British accented whisper hides behind a silver trashcan in a dead end alley. The gun he points makes it perfectly clear that protest and begging will get Dustin nowhere.

  He has to go. The dead are coming.

  Dustin trips over a trash receptacle as he retreats from the alcove. The drum clatters noisily onto the sidewalk. He grabs the circular lid as he dashes off.

  Dustin hides behind a car, biding his time as the hobbling threats near the mouth of the alley. He tosses the trashcan lid at the gap between buildings. The metallic discus propels into the divide he had wished to crouch in. It ricochets noisily off the brick walls like a pinball, and the clanging attracts the dead to the niche.

  Screams lure in the rest of the zombies, and it isn’t long until the sounds of resistance cease. Dustin sneaks back towards the hotel, using parked vehicles as cover. He tries to resist but can’t help glancing into the alley. Luckily he can’t see much more than the backs of the horde bent over their meal as they feast.

  11

  As a pop icon, Kelly Peel is used to obsessed fans. She’s received many letters from men declaring their undying love and devotion, and many from prisoners serving life sentences. She’s even encountered the rare fanatic that shows up on her property, hoping to get close to her. She’s never been this close to one.

  The man known to her only as Griffin had simply told her not to worry about all the fan paraphernalia on the backseat. He kept driving, periodically glancing at a crumpled, bloodstained sheet of paper in his hand as he guided them around the walking dead and stalled traffic.

  Kelly was uncertain what would be the worst case scenario: being devoured by the dead, or being forced to endure whatever fantasy may be brewing behind that hockey mask. She is determined to make a break from this man the first chance she gets, if she gets one.

  “Damn it!” the man growls, pounding a closed fist upon the wheel. He becomes more irritable the longer they are on the road; every turn they take brings more outbursts.

  He folds his crusted slip of paper and pinches it tightly between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand.

  Kelly wonders if appealing to his humanity will make a difference. “Griffin, what is that?”

  “A list,” his rough voice sounds distraught. “The radio told of some safe places for people to go. They’re all lost. It’s imperative that I get you to safety.”

  He had said such things at her home. He never intended to include Randy in his plan, and didn’t make a fuss when her husband decided to go it alone. “Why me?”

  “For my daughter.” Sorrow softens his raspy voice. “She was your biggest fan.”

  “All this stuff…”

  “Was hers.” He is a man who has lost everything he has ever cared about. The collection in his backseat brings a weak chuckle to his throat. His tear glazed eyes have trouble staying in focus. “She knew all of your dance moves. She used to make me dance to your rooster song. Not exactly age appropriate, but it was damned cute to watch her… It’s my fault she’s gone.”

  “Why do you where the mask?”

  “Burns,” he says simply. After a long pause, he explains further. “Because of an inconsiderate drunk driver, I lost my baby. The car was on fire after the crash. I was thrown from it, but I ran back to save her. I just couldn’t get her belt off. We were both burning, she was screaming for me to help, but a truck full of frat boys pulled me out before I could get her. They meant well.”

  The man has stopped their ride in the street. The dead in the city are hobbling closer by the second. He can’t go on like this. His armor covered face rests on the steering wheel so he can weep for his lost child.

  “If there was a drunk driver involved, you can’t…”

  “I was the one driving drunk,” he admits. “It was a family reunion. I thought I could handle it.”

  “What was her name?” Kelly collects as many of the relics belonging to her number one fan as she can grab, and a marker from the floor, intending to sign every last object.

  He turns to her, and the human eyes behind the mas
k bleed tears of sorrow while saying ‘thank you’ at the same time. “Shelly… My Shelly.”

  12

  “Not cool, man!” Gar scolds his partner on the roof of a building. They had been lucky to find a fire escape they could reach from the top of a dumpster, but the homeless guy that had popped out at the worst possible time wasn’t so fortunate. “That kid just wanted a safe place to hide.”

  “It was him or us,” Randy counters. Neither man can look down to where the street person is now being mauled, finding it bad enough to listen to the sounds of the feast.

  The stoner heads for the opposite side of the roof. Smoke is rising from the direction they had intended to travel, and he witnesses the aftermath of the gigantic explosion that had sent them for cover in the alley. The path to the hospital is blocked by burning wreckage.

  “Oops.”

  “What do you mean, ‘oops?’”

  “I was supposed to take you south to Memorial, but we’ve been going north. Olive Grove is down there, and I don’t think we can get to it now.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” The man known for his relentless mirth and acid tongue sits, feeling horrible. Even if he can get his hands on some morphine, it won’t dull the pain. He really has nothing.

  “Hey, didn’t you say back at my place you were getting divorced?” Gar asks.

  “Do you always kick a man when he’s at his lowest point? Can’t you see I’m depressed?”

  “I was just wondering what happened,” Gar sheepishly adds.

  “I’m a shit! That’s what happened,” Randy blurts the truth. “I cheated, and promised to clean myself up for her, but I am nothing but a liar.”

  “You cheated?”

  “Yes.”

  “On Kelly Peel? Were you high?” The stoner is suddenly not so innocent, and more cogent than Randy has seen him so far. “First, it’s a scuzzy thing to do to someone you love. Second, it’s Kelly friggin’ Peel! Who can compete with her? She’s perfect. What did this other chick have, three boobs?”