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

by Cotton, Daniel

  “So, I guess when we get back you’ll be re-joining the civilians,” Deatherage says.

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “I couldn’t blame you if you did. I think I would if I had the choice.”

  The wait has been longer than the fifteen minutes Deatherage had predicted, much longer. Dustin can’t believe they haven’t spotted a helicopter yet. “Perhaps we should pop another smoke bomb.”

  “The only other one I have is red. That’s our signal to tell them to leave us behind.”

  Both of the men have a flash of fear that they have been left for dead.

  Erica surprises them out of the thought when she appears behind them. “Are they here yet? It’s been nearly an hour.”

  “They should have been here by now,” Deatherage concedes. “We should get moving before it gets too dark.”

  “We have no way of getting there,” Dustin points out.

  “There’s a parking garage under the place, right? They have a valet. They have to store the keys somewhere until needed.”

  “If we’re going out there, you have to show me again how to load this damn thing.” Dustin holds up his M-16.

  23

  The employee stairs lead all the way down to the sublevels. Expensive luxury cars sit in extra roomy spaces to avoid the accidental marring of their finishes. Deatherage enters a small office and locates a cabinet full of keys. People would have the desk call down to the valets, who would then bring their cars up. Whoever was on duty at the time of the outbreak is long gone. So he snags the keys to a Hummer.

  The wide vehicle rolls up the ramps to street level, and only a steel shutter stands between them and the city of the dead. Deatherage parks, keeping plenty of room between them and the barrier. Erica told him that the valets have special remotes to open the gate, but the soldier has his own means.

  He plucks a grenade from his gear as he exits the high driver’s seat. Several dead citizens stand outside the shutter, watching the meals about to be delivered. They won’t be standing long.

  Deatherage is about to pull the pin when Dustin stops his hand. “Wait! Can I do it?”

  “Really?”

  “I’ve always wanted to use one.”

  “I don’t know.” Deatherage shakes his head. “The first time can be kinda scary.”

  “Please?” Dustin pleads.

  “Fine. But, you have to do exactly what I say.” He hands the kid the explosive sphere so he can give him a quick lesson. “This is the pin. This is the spoon. You need to squeeze the spoon before you pull the pin, so it won’t detonate until you release it.”

  The ‘spoon’ is a long metal handle that extends down from the device’s top. Dustin’s chest tingles with excitement as he goes through the procedure of pulling the pin and bringing his hand back to toss the bomb. His right hand has the spoon depressed but he doesn’t throw it, because he’s now too afraid to follow through. The handle he holds against the round shell doesn’t feel like it has much give, and he is hyperventilating out of fear that he isn’t squeezing it right. His throwing arm trembles.

  “Am I squeezing it?” he asks in a panic. “It doesn’t feel like I’m squeezing it!”

  “It hasn’t gone off, has it?” Deatherage says calmly as he waits for Dustin to hurl the grenade. “Just don’t pump it.”

  “Why?” Dustin’s eyes are wide. “Am I pumping it?”

  “The fuse will start. Just lob it at the gate so we can go home.”

  “Maybe you should do this.”

  “You’ve already pulled the pin. Just do it.”

  Dustin faces his target, about to ask ‘what if it rolls back,’ but Deatherage is getting frustrated and tries to motivate him. “C’mon! Hot potato!”

  The explosive is tossed underhand, and the men rush to the vehicle for cover. The resulting blast takes the rolling shutter off of its tracks and destroys the lock mechanism. The dead that had assembled at the divide are on their backs, and their clothes are smoldering.

  The civilian Hummer is far more comfortable than the military variety. Deatherage cruises over the floundering corpses, meeting mild congestion on the street of scorched cars as he drives them back to the base.

  The gates of the depot are wide open, and the disorder of refugee cars is gone except for the purple Camaro that is still parked against the high stone walls. The post is deserted.

  “I fucking knew it!” Dustin screams in anger and despair. The deeper into the base they travel, the worse he feels. “They fucking left us!”

  Corporal Deatherage can’t accept what his eyes clearly reveal. “No. They couldn’t have.”

  “You’re surprised? We weren’t exactly the A-team, were we?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “What’s your job, Rage?”.

  “Supply,” the soldier answers, looking confused.

  “And Collins and Jackson?”

  “Mess cook and motor pool.”

  Dustin exits the vehicle to pout, kicking discarded objects as he goes. Deatherage follows him, leaving Erica and her child onboard.

  “So, a mechanic, a cook, and fucking Radar O’Reilly took three punk civies out to be live bait. You don’t find it at all suspicious? We were the expendable ones!” Dustin screams. “I bet the military has a big fancy name for this.”

  “Maybe we can catch up with them on the way to the other base,” Deatherage says.

  “Fuck the other base!” Dustin screams.

  Erica has been watching, and she pokes her head out of the Hummer. “Guys, is everything ok?”

  Deatherage glares into Dustin’s eyes and growls, “You lock it up. I need to get them to Eagle Rock. I guess you’re off to Fallen. Good luck with the gig.”

  At that, the soldier simply turns his back on Dustin.

  “Stop, Rage. I’m going with you. But, we’re taking my car.”

  The sole surviving member of the Dogs of War declares his tour to be officially ended; he’ll be heading to the base. He will not be doing so out of honor or duty, he will not be travelling for his country, or the lady and her kid. He will be going to Fort Eagle Rock for one reason, he wants blood.

  Section V. If you want blood

  1

  Dustin guides the car out of the darkened city, while Deatherage slouches in the passenger seat and Erica cradles her sleeping son in the back atop a pile of blankets. The black of the night and the stress of the day has them all feeling exhausted. Dustin leans forward, as if it will allow him to see farther into the abyss his headlights fail to illuminate. His eyes slowly close and his head bows forward. Then he jolts awake once his neck jerks downward.

  He would usually blast music to stay alert on the road, but with a sleeping child he hasn’t the option. The heat coming from the vents threatens to lull him back into slumber behind the wheel. He slurs, “Can someone else drive?”

  Deatherage stirs from his own fight against sleep. “Just pull over. We’re outta Waterloo. Someplace remote should be safe.”

  Dustin pulls off of the road after a few minutes of traveling at a crawl, hoping to see a sign in his high beams. The state fairgrounds should be the perfect place for them; the vast field is only used a few times a year. The Camaro rolls over the uneven plain of dirt. The lights and engine are killed, stranding themselves in the black hole the world has become, so like the lifeless void they feel in their hearts. Hopelessness.

  They found virtually everything was taken from the base when it was evacuated: guns, ammo, and food. They will have to make do with what the car’s true owner had packed--dry goods from Eli’s pantry, including crackers and toaster pastries, juice boxes and gummy snacks.

  The only item of use salvaged from the abandoned fort is a battery powered heater that Deatherage always takes into the field during training. He finds the luxury of warmth when residing in a tent and sleeping on an uncomfortable cot makes the ordeal almost bearable. The unit is able to put out a surprising amount of heat, but to Dustin the close quarter
s is insufferably hot.

  “Can you turn that thing down?”

  “It’s on the lowest,” Deatherage mumbles. “Roll your window down a bit.”

  The cold air outside brings Dustin relief from the prickly heat around him. He wants to listen to music. Seldom does he ever fall asleep without tunes. So he searches blindly for one of his many MP3 devices and his ear buds, but an odd sound stills his hand. “Do you hear that?”

  The soldier is instantly on alert, hands on his weapon while he listens for what his partner has detected.

  “It’s getting closer,” Dustin says. His voice gives away his fear, and his eyes dart to his door to make sure it is locked.

  “What is it?”

  “It sounds like an ice cream truck.”

  At Deatherage’s urging, Dustin accompanies him outside. They follow the sound towards the main road. Clouds that had obscured the moon earlier have parted, making it easier to see a white panel van covered in lights, cruising along the road. The vehicle emits a constant tune that stops after it pull up onto the shoulder several yards away.

  Deatherage leads Dustin closer to the anomaly, using the cover of shadows and bushes to shroud their activity. The truck starts to rock slightly, a loud, frustrated grumble drifts to them in the still evening. The driver of the vehicle has gotten out, but they can’t see him though they can hear him pace on the other side. The footsteps sound odd, like a periodic slapping of flip-flops.

  The waddling driver rounds the back of the truck, and his appearance gives Dustin a start. He shudders. The man is dressed as a clown, from his bright blue hair to his over-sized shoes. He fumbles with a large map that he tries to keep straight against a slight breeze. The clown puts his back against his ride, using the adorned lights to help him get his bearings.

  “I wish it was a zombie,” Dustin whispers to Deatherage. “Clowns creep me out.”

  The map being held by the festively dressed man comes down with a sudden crumple. He addresses the night, “You know, I’m getting really sick of hearing that! Nuts like John Wayne Gacy and fucks like Stephen King give all in my profession a bad name. If we’re not cartoon characters, or whoring ourselves to sell burgers, people can’t freaking stand us!”

  “Sorry,” Dustin timidly apologizes.

  “S’all right.” A gloved hand is held aloft to sign no harm. “Tell me, mysterious shadow voice, how do I get to Fraggle Rock?”

  “…Do you mean Eagle Rock?” Deatherage says.

  The clown confers with his map. “Yup! No wonder I can’t find the place.”

  “We’re heading there in the morning…” Deatherage tells him. He emerges from the gloom after receiving a sharp elbow to the ribs from Dustin. “Would you like to join us?”

  “I see…” The clown takes on a serious air, hitching his thumbs into the waistband of his wide and loudly colored pants. “You want someone tough watching your back. A certified bad ass. I’m in.”

  The clown is told where they are parked and how to get there. Then Dustin and Deatherage walk back to the Camaro, and Dustin complains through the entire stroll. “I told you he creeps me out. Why did you tell him he could join us?”

  His whining is ignored. Obviously Deatherage couldn’t let a fellow survivor go it alone, no matter how creepy he is.

  The clown’s van approaches over the dark rutted field like a UFO from space, pulling alongside the car. Instead of exiting the ice cream truck, the clown lifts its side shutter. His tiny brown bowler has been replaced by a white paper hat that sits atop his blue tresses. “What’ll it be, folks? I’m offering everything on the menu at Brock Rottom low prices.”

  “Don’t you mean ‘rock bottom?’” Dustin asks.

  “No. It’s like the sign,” he replies, pointing above his head.

  Letters in the neon sign have gone black. Dustin tries to make it out, but looks at the ice cream man and shrugs. So the clown sticks his head out of his window to see the dead lights. “Well, that’s embarrassing.”

  A few strikes against the sheet metal makes the sign flicker to life, declaring the van as Brock Rottom’s Traveling Treats.

  “Oh, your name is Brock Rottom,” it dawns on Dustin.

  “That’s what it says on my diploma from NYUK.”

  “Nyuk?” Deatherage asks while perusing the menu on the side of the van

  “The New York University of Klowning,” Brock says in a sophisticated tone. “It’s very prestigious. I can’t believe you haven’t heard of it.”

  “No one’s heard of it,” Dustin says, missing the joke.

  “Where did you go to school?” Brock asks, sounding offended. He puffs up his chest as if ready to fight.

  “I…I…”

  Deatherage laughs, and he pats Dustin on the back to tell him to relax.

  “What’ll it be, boys?”

  “It’s too cold for ice cream.” Deatherage still ponders the various flavors and novelties.

  “I’ve got hot stuff too.” Brock points towards the rear of his ride to a café style chalkboard, but the handwritten items are smeared and nearly illegible thanks to bloody handprints. “Friggin’ zombies.”

  Deatherage decides to wake Erica in case she wants something more substantial to eat. She gives a bewildered smile to the clown chef, and mumbles something about wondering if this is a dream.

  “I see a lady who wants a foot long wiener,” the clown jokes, handing her an over-sized hotdog.

  “Condiments are under the window,” Deatherage tells her.

  The survivors wrap themselves in blankets against the cold as they sit on their car eating. The clown tells them he is from Breckinridge, a town south of Waterloo.

  “So, you must have been working when this hit?” Erica says.

  “Nope. It was my day off.”

  The three others look to one another then back to the guy in grease paint. “In my spare time I entertain kids at hospitals. I also do parties and comedy clubs. No kids are allowed at the club shows, it can get a bit raunchy.”

  “Have you ever played at the Flag Pole?” Dustin inquires.

  “The strip club?” The clown raises a painted-on eyebrow. “That’s ridiculous… The point of preforming is to be noticed. Who the hell would pay attention to me there?”

  Dustin feels embarrassed as the others snicker at his expense.

  The clown sighs. “I was actually supposed to raise the spirits of some sick kids at Olive Grove Hospital, but… you know… zombies.”

  “I have baby wipes if you want to take your make-up off,” Erica offers.

  “Oh, no thanks. I never take it off.”

  “Won’t that stuff clog your pores?”

  “That’s the beauty of it. If it does break me out, no one will notice.” The clown laughs, but the others don’t. “I was a troubled teen. I was using every drug I could get my hands on. Even things that aren’t technically drugs. I once huffed gasoline until it was no longer flammable. It was all self-medication because I was horribly depressed. After my third suicide attempt my folks were at the end of their rope, so they sent me to this camp up north. The Foundation is a place for teens to rehabilitate and learn better coping skills.”

  “I’ve heard about that place,” Dustin pipes up. His own parents had threatened to send him there a few times.

  “It’s a great program.” Though a smile is painted on his lips and cheeks, Brock wears a serious expression under the thick make-up. “One step in our recovery was to perform at a children’s fair. They invited schools from all over the tri-state area to come and be entertained by us, and sick kids from the hospitals. I chose to do a face painting booth, because I figured it would be the easiest possible thing I could do to fulfill the requirement. To do it right I decided to look the part and painted my own face.

  “It was like I was transformed into the kind of person I always wanted to be. I was funny and outgoing, people loved me. Best of all I was happy. The grease paint was better than Prozac… I haven’t gone a day without it since
. I overcame multiple chemical addictions only to become hooked on clowning.”

  “No patch for that I bet,” Deatherage says.

  “Nor would I want one.” Brock Rottom says, sounding like his more jovial self. “I owe everything to the Foundation. So I work hard to pay back my debt to the world by sending donations to them. That’s all the place asks of those they help. Send what you can spare, if you have anything to spare. The counselors saw how well I was doing with the make-up on, and they sent a request to the chairman of the charity to pay my tuition to the university.”

  “That’s a great story.” Erica smiles.

  “What’s really great is that my truck is entirely paid for. Most of my transactions are cash, so I only declare what I have to. As far as the IRS is concerned, I’m below the poverty line. I have a lot to send to the Foundation and I still make a killing. When life gives you government cheese, make nachos.” Brock crunches a tortilla chip for affectation.

  2

  Sore muscles and stiff necks wake up Deatherage and the others. He groans as he pulls his rigid frame from the car and out into the surprisingly warm morning. The brightly colored clown greets him, and he squints his eyes as he speaks. “Brock, tell me you have coffee on your truck.”

  “Nope,” the clown says. “But, I have plenty inside of it. Along with many breakfast choices and pastries. How does a sausage biscuit sound?”

  “Great!” The soldier straightens his aching back. “How do you have such a wide selection in that little van?”

  “I’m a clown. We have a knack for packing as much as we can into a vehicle.”

  Everyone enjoys a quick breakfast before heading out as a small caravan. They hope to arrive at the base by late afternoon, barring any problems. The two vehicles head north, sticking to rural roads and avoiding heavily congested areas. Deatherage pilots the lead car as fast as his spotter declares an area safe. Dustin peers down the road before them through a set of field glasses.