He visually explores the shadows, expecting lumbering, hungry zombies to emerge. But he sees nothing. The light filtering in illuminates the check-out area, and he knows most places keep batteries by the cash registers for the impulsive shoppers.
A large display of various batteries stands just beyond the aisles in the darkness. He tentatively takes small steps towards them; his feet barely leave the smooth flooring.
Dustin stays in the pale pool of sun, leaning to see the obscured packages. He snatches a four-pack the second he spots the correct size. “I got ‘em!”
Dustin is in a haste to get away from the unknown, so he turns away quickly but not quickly enough. His arm is seized by an ice cold claw. The accoster moans, pulling on him greedily. A panic induced shriek escapes him and he struggles to get away. His efforts to free his arm succeed, but also land him roughly on the linoleum. The dead man is on top of him.
Dustin puts his forearms instinctively between him and the hungry mouth trying to get close to his body. He has to be mindful of where his hands are. The zombie wants meat and fingers will do. The feel of the corpse’s lips grazing his digits makes him scream out for help.
Ryan arrives first. The fellow civilian pulls the ghoul away by its shoulders. The insatiable creature complies with ease, seeing another viable meal. It simply sets his eyes on the new menu item and wraps his arms around him instead. Now Ryan is on the floor under the zombie, before the prey feels the teeth he notices Dustin is gone.
Deatherage is charging out of the black void. In his rush, he slams into shelves and trips over the fallen boxes. He spots Dustin leaving the threshold. “What’s up?”
“Ryan got bit. Let’s go!”
The man in question is still alive, on the ground screaming in pain as he’s eaten. Deatherage won’t let Ryan end this way if he can help it. He nears the horrendous scene, and the agonized bellows turn his stomach, making him cringe in sympathy. Two shots are fired; one to silence the civilian, the other to still the beast that has robbed him of yet another man.
Dustin still stands in the door frame, hesitant to leave. The dead are approaching the store from every angle. He doesn’t want to go out there alone.
“We need to find a place to lay low. Call for a ride,” Deatherage says. His voice sounds miles away and his eyes are haunted. He was told the job would be easy; this has been far from it.
The deceased must have found a way to get around the fallen prophet, and the street they had come down is now clogged with them. But Deatherage has an idea. “Take out the closest ones.”
The two surviving men drop the corpses in their immediate vicinity. Dustin follows his leader into an alley where he is told to hide behind a dumpster. He watches the soldier line several empty beer bottles along the mouth of the passage before joining him.
“This is your plan?” Dustin asks.
“For now,” he whispers without further explaining himself. He hopes the dead that are farther back haven’t seen where they have ducked. The empties should give them a few seconds of warning should one of them enter the opening. But he doubts himself and mutters, “Big mistake.”
“What’s a mistake?”Dustin asks.
Deatherage silently removes the old batteries from the radio and inserts fresh ones. He peeks around the receptacle before whispering, “Joining the guard. I’m a fulltime student. Business school. I just signed up for another bullet on my resume. To show I have dedication and leadership skills… Look how well I lead.”
The sound of numerous zombies passing the alley silences the pair, and it freezes them with fear. Neither dares make a move, they hardly breathe. The petrified men can only listen to the shuffling feet and mournful moans, hoping not to hear the bottles rattle.
The procession continues down the road, being allowed a lengthy lead before the downtrodden soldier attempts to use the radio. Still nothing. The handset is placed in the trash. “Two pounds of uselessness that will just slow us down.”
“There’s no way to get a hold of them?”
“Smoke signals,” Deatherage answers. “I have smoke canisters to use as a beacon. It’s our only hope, if we can find a high flat place for a chopper to land.”
“How about the Hammond Grand?” Dustin offers.
“That place is huge. It’ll be a slaughter house.” Deatherage shakes his head.
“They should all be locked in their rooms,” Dustin says, knowing that the man whose car he had stolen and his daughter had survived. “And the top five floors are closed off for fumigation.”
“You know this for a fact?”
“I met the guy in charge of spraying it.”
“How do we get there from here?”
Dustin has to get his bearings before answering, “Three or four blocks east of us.”
“Lead the way.”
##
The two men move swiftly along the streets, keeping an eye out for dangers and avoiding obstacles that may shroud a potential threat. A mob of the dead follows them faithfully.
Cluttered roads force them to share the sidewalk with scattered corpses that need to be put down for them to advance. Dustin’s rifle runs dry on him and he can’t remember how to load it. The sense of vulnerability causes him to panic.
“Calm down, Chachi!” Deatherage commands, handing him Collin’s rifle. “Sling yours for now.”
The street in front of Olive Grove Hospital is chaos, but this charred and twisted wreckage is a shadow compared to the explosions Dustin had seen yesterday.
“What’s the game plan once we get to the hotel?” Deatherage asks.
“There’s a revolving door. We go in and jam it.”
The dead fall from balconies above them. Yesterday’s explosions had shattered the windows of the surrounding buildings.
Dustin and Deatherage charge into the dark lobby, and Dustin heads straight to the fountain, where he remembers large couches are located. Deatherage helps him shove one of the plush seats into the door’s swing zone. The dead enter through the narrow gaps and become trapped in the wedge shaped spaces.
“They still might bust through,” Deatherage points out.
“By then we’ll be upstairs.”
Wading into the dim reception area, Dustin leads his companion. “To the right of the desk will be a dining area, and we need to go through the kitchen to get to the stairs.”
“You’ve been here before I take it.”
“Once,” Dustin says in a low voice, but he’d rather not go into details over his experience. “We may see some zombies on our way.”
Deatherage’s L-shaped flashlight reveals the battered bodies of cooks in the breakfast nook; the stainless steel is splattered with blood.
Dustin’s confidence abandons him at this point. This is as far as he had gone yesterday. He cautiously pushes the swinging door open with his foot. The space beyond the portal is almost a solid wall of black, and he is relieved when his partner advances in first with his light.
Dustin sticks close to the solider, scared beyond embarrassment as he keeps a hand firmly clamped upon his leader’s shoulder. Passing grills and broilers, dishwashing stations and a preparation table, the men move like conjoined twins, or the Scooby gang on a case. They’ve reached the end of the service area, and now they must choose between continuing forward or heading down an intersecting and equally dark hall.
Deatherage whispers, “Which way?”
“Straight,” Dustin says, though he hasn’t a clue. He can’t remember if the man he met yesterday had mentioned the route exactly. The last thing he wants is to look incompetent, and this come second to his worry about dying here in the gloom.
Deatherage is too nice, or too afraid to complain, because he doesn’t tell him to stop stepping on his heels. Dustin keeps so close he can’t help but walk on the leader’s feet. The proximity causes him to plow into his friend when the man stops abruptly.
“Here’s a staircase,” Deatherage says, ignoring the invasion of personal space. “Sa
ys: employees only and it has roof access.”
21
By the ninth floor, Dustin’s legs are burning. He begins lagging behind Deatherage, who isn’t even winded. At the halfway point, they rest mostly for his benefit.
“You said I should start a band,” Deatherage makes conversation. “You got one?”
“The Dogs of War. With a name like yours, you’d fit right in.” Dustin sits upon the stairs. “We actually have--had--a gig coming up in Fallen…”
“Shh.” Deatherage shushes hears something. He strains to detect an echoing whimper accompanied by a voice weakly calling for help.
The sound comes from above them; it seems to be emanating from a vent well out of reach.
“Maybe it’s a service elevator,” he says, before bolting up the stairs to the next floor.
Dustin groans as he rises on his shaky legs, then he follows his partner up to a door. They enter halls that were once solely used by workers who would deliver room service and linens. Deatherage travels along the left wall, shining his light in exploration. He locates a steel door of an elevator that he must use his combat knife to pry open. Sounds from the depths of the dark chasm indicate that they have survivors to rescue.
The soldier tightens the strap of his rifle and asks for Dustin’s hand. Dustin complies without protest, until his friend reaches into the void for the cables. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“We’re supposed to pull out survivors if we can,” Deatherage says, clinging to the steel cables, tightly squeezing them between his ankles. He reaches for a ladder against the back of the shaft, and the move puts even more weight on his legs. “I’ll yell up what floor it’s trapped at. I need you to run down to that floor.”
“By myself?” Dustin asks, his voice trembling with fear.
“You said the dead should be locked in their rooms, right? You’ll be fine.”
The stiff soles of Deatherage’s combat boots clank on the rungs of the ladder, and each echoing clang takes him farther away from Dustin, who is on pins and needles. Dustin quakes with anxiety as he waits. Paranoia has him looking over his shoulders for fear of unseen hands in the shadows. He can feel the entombed zombies, like when he spots a roach in his apartment. That creepy crawling sensation spurned by the knowledge of so many thriving within the walls.
“Chachi! Seventh floor!” Deatherage’s words startled him.
Dustin descends, taking the steps two at a time, but he slows once he gets to the door. It takes him three attempts before he can lay his timid hand upon the handle. It takes several preparatory breaths and a burst of will to turn it.
Another dark hall, and Dustin takes baby steps through thick shadows he swears he can feel. Muffled moans in the air knot his stomach. He knocks upon the elevator door to alert his partner that he has arrived. The blade of Deatherage’s knife emerges through the crack at the bottom of the sealed shutters, and it twists to widen the gap.
“Use your fingers,” the soldier instructs.
Dustin pries the portal open with his hands, but they won’t remain open when he lets up pressure. So he uses one of his rifles as a brace. The lift is between floors, leaving hardly two feet of clearance between where he stands and the roof of the cabin.
“Chachi, how are you with kids?” Deatherage asks him.
“Huh?”
“I told you the wrong floor, but we’ll make the most of it. I’m going to hand you a baby. His mom and I will be dropping down to the sixth floor. We’ll meet you on the stairs.”
A very ripe smelling child is carefully handed to Dustin. The baby begins to cry almost instantly, filling the rescuer with a new kind of dread. Never before has he ever held a baby.
The child’s mom and the soldier are discussing their game plan, but Dustin only catches the gist. Deatherage says he will drop first to secure the area before the woman joins him.
The wailing sixteen pound baby tenses and squirms in Dustin’s arms. He tries to rock and lull the tyke to no avail. The uncontrollable howling covers the sound of feet shuffling towards him over the matted industrial carpeting. But as Dustin heads to the much anticipated rendezvous, he hears a moan between the cries.
Three slack faces appear in his flashlight beam, and men in coveralls with pictures of dead roaches on their chests bar the exit. Dustin struggles to maneuver the wiggling bundle to one arm so he can grab his rifle from his shoulder. He backs away, aiming at the closest of the ghouls, but the rifle is empty.
He hasn’t the time to yank his other weapon from the elevator, and he still can’t remember how to load. Doing so would also mean setting down the smelly, noisy child that undoubtedly is only drawing the zombies to them. He needs to buy time so he can get away. The beam of light he holds locates more figures in the gloom, zeroing in on him. Dustin needs a plan, and while looking down at the innocent tear soaked face he comes up with one.
##
Deatherage deems the corridor safe, so he reaches up to help the woman down. The fretful mother is worried about her child on the floor above them. It had been crying horribly since leaving her arms, now it’s silent. “I can hear those things.”
The two enter the staircase, and Deatherage literally has to race the woman to reach the door first. The woman is desperate to get to her child. They enter and see the dead by the elevator, huddled over a small bundle in a glowing pool from Dustin’s flashlight. Dustin is nowhere in sight.
The mom gasps, rushing forward. “My baby!”
“Wait!” Deatherage yells, unable to grab her.
He must take the zombies out before the woman makes it to the scene. So he fires carefully around her as the dead rise to their feet.
The mother is oblivious to the fallen corpses around the swaddled mess. She snatches up the blanket that unravels, dropping a wet object onto the floor with a splat--just a poop-filled diaper. “Where’s Jeremy?”
“So that’s his name.” Dustin emerges from a supply closet. “Well, Jeremy got shit all over me.”
He hands over the now sleeping tyke to the mom’s eager hands, wiping smears of feces from his arms afterwards.
“How?” the leader asks puzzled.
“I must be better with kids than I thought. He fell asleep as soon as his diaper fell off. Tuckered out I guess,” Dustin explains. “Luckily the supply closet was unlocked.”
22
The woman is one of the hotel’s maids who were scheduled to come in early to remove the food from the rooms before extermination. Her babysitter had fallen through and she was forced to bring Jeremy to work. Her name is Erica.
They reach the top floors, where Erica and her child are placed in a penthouse so the boy can be fed. The honor bars hadn’t been cleared, so the three adults raid the small fridge for sustenance.
On the roof, Deatherage sets off a plume of green smoke to signal command. They watch the amorphous spire rise into the air. “It should be about 10-15 minutes.”
Dustin walks to the edge and spits off. “They say, at this height, a gob can dent the roof of a car. I wonder what it would do to a zombie?”
Deatherage joins him, pulling out a pair of binoculars. “Let’s find out, shall we?”
Another loogie falls, missing a car but hitting a zombie on the head. The dead man is staggered but doesn’t fall. He just looks around puzzled. The ghouls are still crowding the entrance like fish in a barrel.
“Still on his feet,” Deatherage says. “Let me show you how it’s done. You need more volume. A denser wad.” He snorts loudly, working a massive amount of thick mucus out of his sinuses. They lay along the gravel roof with their heads hanging over the side, and Dustin watches the payload fall. It hits his mark, sprawling out an undead woman. Her limbs flail, tripping others around her.
“Dropped one! But she’s still twitching,” Dustin says. “My turn.”
He hands off the specs and removes a three dollar soda from one of his cargo pockets. He shakes the can vigorously before releasing it over the side. “Bombs away.”<
br />
The pressurized beverage rebounds off of a zombie’s head and spins in the air, propelled by a spray of sticky cola. The victim falls before the aluminum canister ruptures in a haze.
“That was awesome!” Deatherage reports. “But I have it beat.”
He rushes off, returning with two red fire extinguishers.
The sight of the devices makes Dustin laugh. “Oh shit!”
The safety apparatuses plummet, and two concentric waves of foam expand upon landing on the hard surface below. The walking dead around ground zero are thrown aside by the released force.
“Nicely played, sir.” Dustin hands off the field glasses. “I’ll be back in a sec.”
##
Jeremy is nestled on a pillow, napping while Erica paces the luxurious room, unable to enjoy the extravagance of it. She excitedly greets the kid who enters. “Is it time?”
“Not yet, ma’am,” he answers. “I’m just seeing if you two are ok.”
“We’re fine,” she says dejectedly.
“Are you using this?” Dustin points to the microwave in the small kitchenette area of the room.
“Well… No, the power is out.”
“We just need to borrow it for a minute,” Dustin unplugs the unit and wraps the cord around it.
“You need a microwave on the roof?” Erica asks puzzled.
“Yeah, it’s complicated… Official Army type shit. Highly classified.”
##
Through their game of ‘bombard the dead’ the boys wonder how original it truly is. They speculate if there are others out there who are surrounded by zombies that they can take their frustrations out on. The fun of the distraction wore thin soon after the microwave landed upon the head of a corpse, door first, encapsulating the ghoul’s cranium. Now they silently watch the sky in the direction of the depot.
Life Among The Dead (Book 2): A Castle Made of Sand Page 11