Among the effects given to the refugees was a pair of plastic shower shoes, and the cautionary footwear makes a lot of noise upon the hard floors. Dustin fights against a cowlick as the man who has just entered walks closer, one rigid sandal slapping against his heel while the other scrapes along the tiles.
“How’s my car treating you, Chachi?”
The voice chills Dustin. A ghost in the mirror over his right shoulder glares at him. A rage powered hand clamps itself tightly over the boy’s mouth, preventing him from screaming for aid. Pain seals his eyes shut as the man he had wronged punches him repeatedly in the kidney. “Tomorrow, when you’re pissing blood, I want you to remember my daughter.”
The angry man releases the breathless Dustin, who holds onto the sink to maintain his balance. A single blonde pigtail is tossed into the basin before his tear blurred eyes.
18
The lights flare on, rudely awakening the huddled masses pulled from the city. A bugle informs them that it is indeed morning. Dustin lingers on his thin mattress until his numerous roommates are almost gone. Then he slides down from his high bed and takes his time, since he doesn’t want to run into the man from the bathroom yesterday.
Disorderly masses of people wander to the mess hall. Soldiers patrol the herds like shepherds. At breakfast, people tell their respective tales while shoveling artificial eggs into their mouths. The rumor mill buzzes about Kelly Peel and her husband being on post, and about an alleged shortage of camo clad individuals. Dustin’s own inspection reveals this to be true--the ratio of soldiers to civilians is frighteningly low. There are only a dozen in the hall, sitting together for breakfast, and a few circulate among the dining civilians. Dustin knows there are probably few outside keeping watch, and by his count there can only be twenty or so. That’s not good.
Halfway through the meal a young soldier stands up with a clipboard, and he taps his pen against the metal clip to get everyone’s attention. “At zero nine hundred hours, all of you must assemble outside for an announcement from our commanding officer.”
Shortly after the word spreads, people start to bus their trays to a square window in the wall. The soldier who had spoken again attempts to be heard over the din. “The following people must report to the armory before the morning meeting…”
The short list of names is read off; all the while Dustin cites a mantra he often did during high school. Not me. Not me. His heart falters when his name is read off among the rest of the roster. The drone of the names and the clamor of the civilians becomes muted as his brain races to divine why, of all people, he needs to report to the armory.
##
Dustin heads to the designated muster as instructed and is put in line with the other clueless men. He notices they are all his age, and look equally nervous. They are asked their shoes size as fatigues are held against their bodies to determine size by comparison. Uniforms are handed to them, then they are led through the pillbox building to receive equipment. At the end the young men are handed new pairs of combat boots to weigh down the unsteady loads they carry upon their forearms. The clipboard wielding soldier, Deatherage by his nametape, takes a look at Dustin’s work boots and declines to issue him the GI shoes. “Those’ll do.”
Behind the building, the guys are instructed to change into their fatigues. A handful of doughboys help the wide-eyed gentlemen sling olive harnesses and belts around their torsos properly. Gear is attached to these with metal clips. Heavy canteens and pouches now weigh down their sides.
“Helmets and rifles will be issued after the meeting,” Deatherage tells the drafted recruits before they are dismissed.
Dustin can’t contain his objections any longer. If the others won’t speak up for themselves that’s their problem. “I can’t do this. I’m no soldier.”
“Take it up with Master Sergeant Quincy at the meeting,” he is told.
##
“Ladies and gentlemen, there has been a slight mistake. I am not the actual commanding officer. I am simply the highest ranking individual left on this base, MSG Quincy.”
Dustin stands in a row with the others who had been called to gear up. They face the crowd of survivors, while the gray-haired sergeant’s gravelly voice echoes in the chilly morning air. He feels sick as he listens to the old war horse.
“We have lost many good people out there, and there are no reinforcements on the way. This outbreak hasn’t only stricken our beloved city. It’s spread coast to coast. As far as we know, it’s global. We have no choice but to abandon Waterloo and head to another facility, Fort Eagle Rock up north. We originally wanted to fall west to Fort Foster, but as of 2 AM this morning we have lost contact. Since we know Eagle Rock is still standing, that is our goal.
“You may have noticed that, just beyond the gates, we have a clusterfuck of vehicles. We have also accumulated several fans. Between our helicopters, our lights, and our general activities, the dead have conglomerated at our only exit. We have heard rumors that the cold weather is actually slowing the zombies, but we aren’t so lucky here. Our fair city is burning, so the ambient temperature is much higher than freezing.
“We have enlisted the help of some volunteers through a random lottery to aid us in our escape. Two teams: Alpha and Bravo. Team Bravo will scramble to the Greyhound station to procure buses that’ll make our exodus easier. Team Alpha will be luring the dead away from our gates so the rest of us can clear the congestion from the front door…”
Oh shit! Dustin thinks, looking over the assembled mass depending on him and the other unqualified ‘volunteers.’ Amid the solemn faces, he sees the man whose car he stole yesterday staring daggers at him. On Eli’s shoulders is the blonde girl, and she has only one pigtail sticking out from the side of her head and an equally venomous glare. Though he is relieved to see her alive, the look she casts him is like a kick to his groin. He knows about karma yet he can’t help mutter, “I don’t deserve this.”
The gritty voiced leader glares at Dustin, looking annoyed at his lack of respect. Obviously fuming, he stomps over to stand inches from Dustin’s face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that.”
“I didn’t say nothing.”
“You didn’t say nothing? Well, that means it was certainly something. Why don’t you enlighten me as to what that something was?”
“I… was just wondering why I was chosen.”
“Were you not paying attention? I said it was a random selection that has rescued you from the lugubrious task of sitting on your ass, writing in your dream journal, and texting your BFF. By divine fate you have been given a purpose, a meaning to your existence. Of the available souls, we had to eliminate those who have children to care for, and we further whittled out the females…”
The man’s eyes flare with anger, though Dustin hasn’t said anything. His seasoned senses seem to have picked up on what Dustin is thinking.
“You want to know why, don’t you? Why in this modern age would we opt to exclude ladies from these dangerous assignments? Let me answer your unspoken inquiry with a question of my own. Are you physically equipped to gestate a fetus in your belly?”
Dustin’s response comes in the form of a whisper. “No.”
“NO!” the man repeats loudly for all to hear. “Humanity’s first defense against annihilation is procreation. Children are the most valuable resource we have, as is the means to create them. Any asshole can jizz. You’re living proof of that. What’s your name anyway?”
“My daddy calls him Chachi,” a small voice answers from the crowd, making the congregation laugh.
Quincy’s eyes gleam with delight. “Chachi!” he repeats gleefully, pulling another chuckle from the crowd.
Dustin’s body feels hot from the embarrassment, and the heat radiates up from his collar. The man isn’t done with him, having just been handed great ammunition.
“Shit, son! I loved you on Happy Days.” Quincy steps close to Dustin, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Look, Chachi, one way or another you’re
going over that wall. I recommend you go willingly, well-armed, and with people who will watch your back and ask only that you do the same for them.”
##
Teams Alpha and Bravo are told to hit the latrines before departure. The remaining civilians are divided between the mess hall and the armory to load supplies onto a pair of deuce and a halfs.
The scarlet urine stream Dustin expels into the urinal is a shock at first. He remembers the little girl he had left for dead and her father who understandably wanted retribution. When finished, he slowly makes his way to the west wall with his head hung low. They were ordered to assemble at this location to receive their weapons before they leave the safety of the base.
Dustin is the last to arrive. The one named Deatherage is wearing a combat helmet while handing out similar headgear and assault rifles. “Don’t let what happened back there get you down,” he tells Dustin with a supportive smile. Despite his surname, Deatherage is quite calm; he pronounces it for the group again. “Death-er-ridge.”
He can’t make eye contact due to his residual humiliation, and if he meets anyone’s gaze he may just burst into tears. “What’s that guy’s problem?”
“You can’t take it so seriously, Chachi,” another young soldier says, giving a laugh that tells Dustin they have all been there. “He just wanted to motivate you.”
“That isn’t motivation. Motivation is a pretty picture on a poster with words like ‘cooperation’ or ‘inspiration.’ That asshole is just sadistic.”
The civies are shown how to load and prime their M-16s. Dustin can see an immediate difference between his rifle and those of the real soldiers. Theirs are jet black, where the borrowed weapons are grey in color and make a distinct rattling sound when jostled.
“Is it supposed to sound like this?” one of the drafted men asks.
“Yeah, it’s fine. The receivers are just loose. Yours have been used for training, probably since Vietnam,” Deatherage replies before continuing the truncated instruction session. “Your weapons have three settings: safe, single fire, and what’s known as rock & roll.”
Dustin’s ears perk up at the name of the third position.
“…don’t use rock. It expels a three shot burst and will just piss away your ammo. Speaking of ammo…” The soldier holds up an ammunition magazine. “Call it superstition, but tap the back of each mag on your helmet or boot before you load it. It’s said it’ll line up the rounds and prevent a jam.”
Deatherage demonstrates what Dustin saw the portly soldier do yesterday in his Altima. He tenses as the teams are called off from a list. He’s on Team Alpha, so he’s bait. He can’t decide which job is more dangerous--luring the dead, or fetching the rides.
“Hey guys!” MSG Quincy calls to them. “Go ahead and take your time. We got all day.”
The sarcasm ignites a fire under the soldiers. Deatherage issues the order for them to get up the wall using ladders. Dustin watches his teammates ascend, growing more and more nervous. He has a brainstorm, an idea that may save them from unnecessarily risking themselves. “Why don’t we just use a flamethrower, or something?”
“The United States Armed Forces haven’t used flamethrowers since your rifle was brand new, Chachi,” Deatherage levels with him. “Get up the wall.”
Team Bravo heads to the corner of the wall near the road, while the alphas move to the left. After their team leader reaches the top, the men pull up the ladders for their descent. Twelve men in all crouch on the narrow stone surface, and even the seasoned soldiers are nervous.
“Let’s get this done,” Deatherage tells the others.
He’s the first on the ladder. His instructions are simple: lead Team Alpha in the task of luring the zombies away from the base so that Team Bravo can make for the bus station and the remainders can clear the road. Then they are to double back so they can all evacuate.
He hasn’t had much experience with the dead that have overrun the burning city. Deatherage was on post when the call of duty was announced. His job in supply puts him low on the action roster, and by the time his number came up they were hunkering down in preparation to pull up stakes. He is more scared than he lets on, but if not for the blazes he’d call this a ‘cake walk.’ However, the fires are creating pockets of hot air that are keeping the dead warm. The ambient temperature is well above freezing, so the urban dead will be faster than those outside the gates.
The team of six men travels on foot away from the depot. Should they get pinned down, or find too many survivors to walk back safely, they have a shot at an airlift home. Vehicle use was secured around midnight, out of a desire to save fuel for the trip to Fort Eagle Rock, but a chopper is on standby for them.
Deatherage takes a breath so he can talk confidently. He doesn’t want to show any signs of his own fear in hopes of alleviating theirs. “Ready for your first shooting lesson?”
The mob that loiters at the front gate has not yet noticed the six young men meant to lure them elsewhere. Deatherage explains the sights to the civies. He wants each to take a shot before they take off.
“Headshots only, one shot each. Just relax and take your time.”
The first man up is a guy named Ryan, who drops the target pointed out to him on his first attempt. The next shooter, Shawn, needs two tries; his first round deflects off of the cheekbone of a corpse in blue sweatpants, shearing off its left ear.
“I got him!” Dustin cheers after his first shot impales his target’s chest. The hordes’ attention is being drawn to the group.
“He didn’t drop,” Deatherage clarifies. “Again.”
Dustin’s second round misses the mark entirely, planting into the face of a different factory drone. “That one fell.”
“You weren’t going for him, were you?” Deatherage reminds the pupil. He knows rushing the kid will not help matters though the advancing dead is starting to make his heart race. “You’re going for the one in the blue hoodie. Take one more then we gotta move.”
The mass of awkward bodies close the distance at a snail’s pace. They are far enough from the fires that the cold air from the previous night has affected their joints, making their movements sporadic. The sights are lined up, and Dustin tries to control his breathing and nerves before squeezing the trigger. The result makes the zombie in the sweatshirt fall to the cracked asphalt and causes the gang to cheer.
“Good job, Chachi!” Deatherage congratulates. “Let’s do this.”
The men follow the centerline through the cheaply constructed factories and warehouses. They travel at a speed just fast enough to stay ahead of the dead yet still keep them interested. The two other real soldiers, Jackson and Collins, are in the lead, and the noobs are centrally situated. Deatherage takes the rear, and he walks backwards to keep an eye on the zombies. “Slow it up, guys. We’re getting too far ahead.”
“They were faster yesterday,” Dustin says.
“How much time did you spend out here with them?”
“All fucking day.”
“Movement ahead, Rage,” Collins reports from the front.
The leader of the pack breaks ranks to see the road before them. A few handfuls of mobile dead are rounding a corner three streets down. “Move left. We’ll give them some space and take ‘em head on.”
Collins and Jackson lead the rookies to the side of the road while taking beads on the zombies. Deatherage nudges Dustin. “Go get some, Chachi.”
At this close range, Dustin finds shooting much easier. He scores three headshots before his weapon is lowered by the team leader. “I forgot to tell you, your mags hold twenty rounds. Try to keep track in your head. You don’t want to get caught in a tight spot on empty.”
Dustin has to think about this, pondering how many he’s fired. “Six? I’ve fired six, right?”
“Yeah.” Deatherage laughs. The soldier takes a small pair of field glasses from his gear to look back toward the depot, over the slack faces and bobbing heads of the deceased. “There goes Team Bravo.
The buses are on Main Street. We need to get them heading away, lose them, and double back.”
With the rest of the inbound dead no longer standing, Team Alpha continues moving away from headquarters.
The man named Shawn asks nervously, “How will we know when to go back?”
“They’ll radio,” Collins answers, pointing at a black device on his belt.
Jackson looks back over his shoulder to make eye contact with Dustin. “Chachi, what can you tell us about these things?”
The nickname no longer bothers Dustin; he’s actually starting to like it. It makes him feel as if he’s a part of something important. Like for the first time in his life he’s making a difference. To answer the question he paraphrases what he was told yesterday, “They’re sharks on land. Always on the move, tracking food by sight, sound, and smell.”
“Smell?”
“Blood,” Dustin says. “They can smell our blood.”
“How long does it take, you know, to change?” the soldier asks.
“Hour or two. I haven’t seen it firsthand.”
Tracking by sound, the dead appear ahead of the soldiers. The very gunfire that cements their demise draws them closer. The living walk casually, but are being forced to take a diagonal path least they become intercepted by the zombies.
The civilian named Shawn tucks his rifle under his arm and holds it against his body so his shaky hands can light a cigarette. “Any word from HQ?”
Collins chuckles. “It’s only been ten minutes.”
“Why don’t we grab a car?”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Dustin agrees. He nods noncommittally, not wanting to appear weak. In actuality he wants desperately to be protected by a vehicle.
“There.” Deatherage points to a wood paneled station wagon. He must ask the obvious question before ordering the men to double time over to it. “Who can hotwire?”
Life Among The Dead (Book 2): A Castle Made of Sand Page 9