The parking lot is a mess, because folks had parked in the aisles of the Emergency Room entrance in their imperative times of need. He has to climb over the hoods of cars, and maneuver around one that stopped inside the lobby. The expensive luxury sedan had destroyed the glass vestibule and careened into the admissions desk.
The corridors are dark and eerily calm, and not a single echoing moan or shuffling foot stirs.
I’m here, now what? Gar asks himself, never being one for strategy. He presses on through the scary halls, wondering if there may be someone in need of help. Another joint is lit to ease his nerves, but the tension in his chest is compromising his breathing.
While tiptoeing around toppled gurneys and fallen bodies, Gar hears a rustle. He can’t lock down the origin, nor does he know where he is since it is his first time in this hospital, and his first time on this side of the city. Rifle pumped to its maximum pressure, he slows his steps and listens to what sounds like feet sliding along the floor. The person stumbles, spilling over a wheelchair that skitters into view from an intersecting hall.
Gar inches closer, keeping to the opposite side of his hall. He sidesteps at the corner, wanting to know if the individual is undead, but fearing what the truth may be. The shadow is too thick to see anything but the outline of a person hobbling his way. So he brings his rifle up to his shoulder and aims at the mystery. But just as he is about to pull the trigger he hesitates, because he doesn’t want to shoot a living person. Gar is aware his weapon isn’t exactly lethal, but he does know from catching a ricochet once that it hurts like hell.
“Hi,” he says
The simple greeting is answered by a flash of light and a mouse-like sneeze. Gar falls to the linoleum floor, covering his face to protect himself from the bullet. But the round whizzed past his cheek.
“Whoa! Stop shooting!”
“Keep your voice down,” a voice whispers.
“You’re the one shooting,” Gar counters defensively.
“With a silencer, putz. If you go around screaming, you’re going to bring those things down on us.”
Gar nods in the darkness, oblivious to the fact the man can’t see him. “Do you need help?”
“You want to help me?” the guy sounds skeptical.
“I think I came here for a reason, man. I don’t know what it is exactly, but maybe it’s to help you. I’m Gar. What’s your name?”
“My name is of no consequence,” the man groans. “Sorry for shooting at you. No offense, but you smell like shit. I thought you were one of them… Do you mind if I take a drag?”
“Not at all!” Gar answers proudly. He grabs some ganja from his pocket for his new smoking partner. “It’s my own creation. You’re gonna love it.”
“Help me walk, pal?” the man beseeches, with the joint pinched between his lips.
“You go ahead and enjoy that one, man. I have a whole stash in my bag. Sadly a lot of it was lost. But, I have seeds. I can rebuild it. Where are we going?”
“Even in a place like this that caters to the richest of the rich, they have a section reserved for VIPs. I need to get to the chapel.”
##
Veronica Wilkes still waits in the chapel named after her late husband. She is expecting news about his cause of death, and is ready to pay his killer if all has gone according to plan. He should have been here by now, she thinks to herself, keeping her distance from the others in the dimly lit place of worship.
For most of the day, she has been alone in the quiet hall, with only her cell phone to keep her company. Not long after her battery failed, the others arrived. A man in a wheelchair whose head is completely bandaged with gauze like the Invisible Man, and an apparently insane person in an orderly’s uniform that speaks nonsense about people coming back from the dead. The lunatic is so paranoid he actually moved several of the wooden pews against the door to protect them from his delusion.
The man she had hired to kill her husband said he had access to a poison that should go unnoticed. The virtually undetectable toxin degrades over time, becoming nonexistent during a postmortem, unless the examiner goes against the directions of a close friend and becomes too thorough for his own good. The hired killer said he could take care of that, assuring her that he could be very persuasive.
Veronica has been debating leaving for the past several hours, for she fears that the hitman has run into trouble. The same type of trouble she will be in for if the hitman surrenders her name to the police.
##
Gar takes the man’s weight onto his shoulders as he leads him through the dark halls, and his companion appears to gain weight with every step. The man is bleeding from his neck, badly. The well-dressed individual has his gun hand pressed against his wound to stave off the inevitable, but he’s looking weaker by the second. His insides are in knots, he confesses to Gar, cramping to the point he can barely move his legs without bringing sharp pain to his abdomen. His stomach muscles feel as if they are about to tear apart with each contraction, he won’t stop until he finalizes the transaction.
A short flight of stairs is a trial for the both of them, but they make it to the VIP wing, where private doctors and nurses tend to those who can afford such luxury and discretion. The entrance to the reserved ward is barred with a magnetic lock that can only be released by use of a keycard. Through a narrow window, they see there are lights on beyond the portal.
“Do you know how to open it?” Gar asks the man with no name.
“I got a key,” he replies, aiming his silenced pistol at the top edge of the barrier. Here, powerful electromagnets still hold strong due to the long life generator solely dedicated to this unit.
Another mouse sneeze accompanies the muzzle flash that knocks the seal from the door. Gar reaches for the handle and pulls it open with ease, but the hard part is keeping it open while aiding the man inside. They remain quiet, and the presence of the lights running along the ceiling above them in rows makes Gar feel vulnerable. While they walk, the man points with his gun, indicating the path he wants the stoner to take.
The sterile white walls are streaked with bloody handprints and splashes of red, and the floor is slick with it. Gar has to lead the man cautiously around the puddles of gore. The absence of bodies has the stoner concerned.
##
The three inside the chapel are startled by a sudden clamor behind them; the wooden doors are being rattled against the benches the orderly had moved in front of them. The medic jumps, his body shaking with anxiety. He saw what those things can do to people and is having nightmarish visions of it happening to him. The calming hand of his bandaged patient relaxes him.
Only one of those present seems happy about the sound.
“Finally!” The widow stands to answer the caller’s violent attempts at entry. She slings her purse over her shoulder, ready to make the final payment to the hitman and be out of here.
The beautiful blonde widow walks gracefully towards the doors. Once the transaction is complete, she has been assured she can’t be implicated in her husband’s death.
But her intentions turn the orderly’s concerns to terror. “Don’t open that door!”
She ignores him, attempts to move the heavy obstructions, but is unable to budge them. The doors continue to batter against the dark wood seats, where folks of affluence once prayed for their loved ones, but the brass handles turn in vain.
Watching the lady in the slim black dress struggle puts the medic at ease, he can actually enjoy the sight of her toned body at work, and how the short hem of her skirt leaves little to the imagination when she bends over.
His patient reaches up and pats his shoulder to get his attention, then he points to the widow. He gives the bandaged man a nod and a wink, but the patient shakes his head and points to the woman with more resolve.
“You want me to help her?” he asks with bemusement. The patient’s nod makes his stomach lurch.
But his patient makes a reassuring gesture to indicate it will be all righ
t. So he slowly makes his way to the woman to aid in opening the doors.
Once the pews are relocated, the medic has the duty of unlocking the only thing holding back the dead. His fingertips pinch the latch, slick with perspiration, and freeze in place. He takes several quick breaths while he bolsters himself before finally snapping his fingers and rushing away.
The tall double doors are swung inward by two figures; the light from the hall behind them counteracts the dim, romantic lighting of the chapel, shrouding their faces. The new arrivals dash in as more figures fill the archway. Then the men slam the heavy panels shut and relock the knobs.
They are both armed, and the one holding a pistol crumples against the door, holding a hand to his throat. The woman in black takes a step forward but recoils from what accompanies the two--a pungent smell coming off of the stranger that crinkles her nose.
She addresses her paid assassin while holding a finger under her nostrils. “Is it done?”
“Yeah.”
“It took long enough,” she snaps. “Don’t tell me that doctor gave you trouble.”
“Where’s my money?”
“You’ll get it, after you assure me that I won’t have problems with the authorities.”
He can only laugh at her concerns about the police, considering the state of things beyond this room. “Oh, I think you’re the least of their concerns now.”
“You’ve been bitten!” the medic says. He pulls his patient away from the infirmed hitman. The farthest he can roll the chair is to the pulpit, due to its elevated platform.
“Don’t worry, I’m not staying.” The hitman forces himself to stand under his own power. “As soon as she pays me for services rendered, I’m gone.”
“I have you on your word that I won’t be linked to this.” She crosses her arms, holding her clutch tightly against her breasts. “There are three loose ends in this room, eliminate them and I will pay you, Mr. Of-No-Consequence.”
Gar, not knowing what to make of all of this, joins the other two in silent observation of the transaction. He nods acknowledgment to his fellow survivors, oblivious to the concerned look on the orderly’s face or the bandaged visage of the man in the chair.
“I don’t have many rounds left,” the assassin explains. “I’m not about to waste them on these clowns.”
“You will do as you are told if you want your money. You came highly recommended. Now…”
The silenced weapon is pointed at the woman’s pretty face. “I had to kill your hubby twice, you bitch, after I watched him tear into that doctor we bought. I made it here through all sorts of crazy shit to get what’s mine. Give me my money.”
From the sidelines, three sets of eyes watch the drama play out. Gar can’t help but react with awe, and he whispers to himself, “Wow!”
“Take it!” She hands the man a bundle from her purse. “Wait… What do you mean you killed him twice?”
Cash in hand, the man smiles, but before he can answer her question he crumples to the floor. The widow just stares at his lifeless body for a moment before cautiously reclaiming her expenses.
“Is he…?” the orderly asks.
“Fucked if I know,” she says callously. “I’m not a doctor.”
Neither am I, the medic thinks to himself as he warily stalks closer to the fallen man. He fears the gunman may in fact be dead, and he knows what happens to those who have been bitten, but he also knows the man said he had bullets in his gun. The smelly newcomer with the rifle follows him to the body.
The medic places two fingers to the side of the hitman’s neck, but he can’t locate a pulse. “He’s gone.”
The medic claims the pistol, gaining confidence though unfamiliar with the weapon.
The hitman rears from his resting place, and his gloved hands wrap around the orderly who screams out in terror as he is forced to the floor. The pistol is useless to him now, for it is pinned between his chest and the hardwood. The nameless ghoul bites into the back of the medic’s neck to quell his growing hunger.
“Oh, shit!” Gar exclaims when he comes in range of the zombie. He fires a round that sounds like a whiff of air, and is just as effective. The lead pellet barely penetrates the undead man’s scalp, let alone his skull.
Repeated pumps of the hinged hand guard are needed to prime his next shot. Another barely audible discharge merely draws the zombie’s attention to him, and the creature disregards the prey that no longer fights him in favor of the living quarry that frantically readies yet another pellet.
During Gar’s attempts, the man in the wheelchair stands. He kneels near his dead attendant, flipping his body to get the pistol. The zombified assassin is almost to Gar when the bandaged patient fires again, standing his ground.
Two mouse-like sneezes, not much louder than Gar’s pellet gun, sound off. The bandaged patient has dropped the hitman, and put a preemptive bullet in the orderly. He stands before Gar, and the widow who now believes the impossible story about the dead roaming the hospital. As Gar and the woman watch, he removes the wrappings from his face. The long white strips of gauze slowly reveal a familiar face.
“Hey, I know you…” Gar says, unable to place the African American man’s name.
“Freeman?” the woman says.
“Hello, dear,” the man responds kindly.
Gar watches this new twist unfold before him. He continues to try and place how he knows this man, while tracking what’s going on.
“I… I was told you were dead.”
“I imagine that wasn’t much of a shock to you, now was it?” Freeman’s voice is calm and composed as he speaks to the woman “How much did it cost?”
“A quarter million,” she says quietly.
“I’m insulted.” He smiles. “Considering how much you stood to inherit, I’d think you’d spare no expense, employ a professional that might make sure he had the right man.”
“Who was he?” his wife asks.
“My brother,” Freeman Wilkes says solemnly. “My twin brother.”
“No way… ” Gar says. “That’s fucked up.”
“You don’t have a twin brother,” his wife says.
“Not one anybody knows about. Mason was always the black sheep of the bloodline, and accordingly was kept out of the public eye. He fell on hard times; addicted to illicit substances, in over his head with the wrong people. I gave him a means to escape all that and live the good life.”
Gar cannot believe the day he is having. First, he is saved from a burning building by Randy Russell and forced to travel through a city of real life zombies, then he has a close call with Jason Voorhees, and now he’s witnessing a soap opera before his very eyes.
“Wow!”
“How else could I be everywhere at once, always where people needed me the most?” Freeman continues. “The use of doppelgangers isn’t my invention; world leaders have been doing it for centuries. Even our country’s own president…”
“Ooh! And Doctor Doom!” Gar points out.
The woman is obviously angry with her husband’s life sustaining subterfuge. She’s a betrayer betrayed. “Which of the two of you did I sleep with?”
“It was me, at first…”
“You had me fucking a stranger?” she roars.
The much older man coyly responds, “That isn’t too dissimilar from you and I, now is it?”
Gar can’t help but laugh at that. Oh shit.
Freeman continues, “What was it Jackie-O said? ‘The first time you marry for love, the second for money, and the third for companionship.’ I do believe I am your second husband, not that you’d admit it. I did my research.”
“And I’m your third. I was just a companion?”
“More of an accessory really, for appearances. A man of my age and means is supposed to have that smiling young bride that makes all other men even more jealous,” he says. “The second I saw you in Vegas, I knew you’d make a fine piece of apparel. You being a Vegas born girl, I also knew one day you’d cash in your
chips.”
“You sacrificed your own brother.” She looks at him with obvious disdain.
“Don’t judge me. I gave him a better life than he could ever have provided for himself. I gave him money, respect, you. I let him enjoy all those carnal provisos in our prenuptial agreement, half of which I only added to see how deep your resolve truly was. For your follow through, you stood to receive a massive life insurance pay out.”
“I stood to get everything.”
“That isn’t entirely true.” Wilkes shakes his head. “You never did see my final will.”
She looks at him like a child that has been told a fib. “You said I was the primary benefactor…”
“We told each other many things. As I had quoted, the first marriage is for love. It is Vivian, my first wife, that would have received half of my wealth. I love her to this very day, and that’s actually what lead to our divorce. I was trying so hard to make sure she had everything she could ever want that I became obsessed by my work. She never wanted to be rich, she just wanted me around.”
After a few moments of silence, Gar’s curiosity makes him ask, “Who would have gotten the other half?”
“Well, my twin brother of course,” Freeman says, as if it should be obvious.
“Then, you would be him!” Gar says.
“Exactly. With his identification, I would emerge to take half of my own wealth. I would, in keeping with Mason’s reputation, put myself into a rehab facility. Upon completion, I’d make a sizable donation to a charity or two, most likely a children’s hospital. Then, after the media had had their fill of me and I was old news, I’d simply fade away.”
His wife doesn’t understand his reasoning. “Why would you walk away from all you have, settling for only half of your fortune?”
Life Among The Dead (Book 2): A Castle Made of Sand Page 7