Life Among the Dead (Book 4): The End

by Daniel Cotton

  Steam spills from the bathroom like a sauna, Rocky always takes especially hot showers after a conquest. She dries herself in the room, starting with her short brown hair and working down her glistening body. “Oh, KB, you’re awesome!” she says joyfully taking the vodka. “I was just starting to sober up.”

  Killer B watches her Captain head to the beds, just dropping her towel on the floor and leaving wet foot prints behind her. She forgoes the use of a robe to conceal her wiry build. Curiosity forces the question, “What did Remy want?”

  “To fuck me,” Rocky answers. “More or less.”

  Nothing else is shared, Killer B knows there’s more to it than that. She waits knowing her friend will tip her hand eventually.

  Rocky cracks open the bottle and sips from it, the burn of the spirits on her tongue doesn’t even phase her as she lays on her bed and flips though the television channels. She’s looking for footage from tonight’s match on the upper sports networks.

  “Hey, I think I might let you take the star in Waterloo,” Rocky says meaning Killer B will be the lead Jammer. “Maxine can Pivot.”

  “You don’t want to play in the championship?”

  “I’m tired. Getting too old for it,” Rocky explains unconvincingly. “Don’t worry, you’ll be great.”

  Before Killer B can delve deeper into the decision Rocky speaks. “While we’re there, we can drive past you-know-who’s house,” the words are meant to entice Killer B into acceptance, like bargaining with a child.

  “This is just out of the blue, since when do you ever want to be benched? What did he say?”

  “Nothing.” The curt response is delivered intently to cease the subject. “Do you want to creepy stalk Kelly Peel, or not?”

  The pop star is Killer B’s idol, when she learned that the championship was being held in her hometown her first impulse was to ask if they could see her home. “Yes, but…”

  “Then drop it,” Rocky instructs. “Even with me off the track we’re going to win. You will lead the charge. Max will back you up. You can see that bitch’s home. Then, we will all head back to Bedlam, Mass reaping the rewards and training for next year. Sound good?”

  Killer B turns off lights and crawls into bed. She doesn’t have to know all the details of the conversation to know what it all boiled down to, the league doesn’t want Rocky to play anymore. Man’s Ruin still has the advantage over the other teams with her coaching from the sidelines and all their combined experience, what troubles Killer B now is how her friend will handle it. Rocky lives and breathes the game, brawling keeps her alive. If she can’t derby, how will she survive?

  8

  Fortunately for Gil Price the dead man had left his room key on the nightstand, the idea that he may need to unpack the suitcase had him a bit alarmed. He needs to slip down to the lobby to retrieve a cart. After splashing some cold water on his face, as casual as he can, he ventures down the hall and to the elevators.

  He moves through the lobby, consciously trying to act as if he knows exactly what he’s doing, like he belongs. It’s after eleven, no guest would need a cart at this hour, his brain screams at him as he wraps his hand around the thick brass bar of one of the rolling racks in the vestibule. Price can feel the eyes of the staff behind the desk on him as he makes his way back to the elevator. He ignores their curiosity without making eye contact, his main concern is being seen by the dead man’s burly body guards.

  He fights the cart’s swiveling wheels all the way to the lift, thankful for another guest’s need of assistance that prevents one of the staff from inquiring if he needs help. A man is at the desk complaining about stomach pains he attributes to the food he had ordered.

  He’s in the elevator and able to relax for a minute, half of his battle is almost over.

  “Hold the door!” a woman calls after him, he obliges out of reflex hitting the ‘door open’ button, cursing himself for his chivalry.

  “Thanks,” she says as she and her three friends crowd in around the empty cart. Their hair is wet and hanging straight down their damp bodies.

  “What floor?” Price asks, too concerned with getting back to the room to admire the ladies who have obviously just come from the pool, or give too much notice to all the bruises on their legs and arms. Had he the presence of mind he’d see they had jumped in fully clothed in their matching black short-shorts and tank tops, all embossed with the same logo, a silhouette of a woman in a martini glass.

  “Four,” one responds to the nervous man’s chagrin.

  The ladies talk amongst themselves during the short trip up. One has her back to him he happens to notice a tattoo that stretches across her shoulders: Penelope Bruise.

  “There’s no sign saying that we have to wear swim suits,” she complains. “Stuck up place.”

  “Should we say goodnight to Rocky and KB?”

  “No, Rocky’s probably already passed out for the night,” one quips. “KB will be busy making sure she doesn’t drown in her own puke.”

  “That girl is a saint for all she puts up with.”

  The lift comes to a halt with a ding that startles Price. He feels the doors are taking too long to open as he debates how to exit the small space. Once the panels slid open, he makes the obligatory gesture of holding them for the ladies to their pleasure before guiding his cart out to the hall.

  The man inside the suitcase easily weighs two hundred pounds, hefting him onto the cart is a chore. Every attempt Price makes causes the cart to roll away when he gets one side on the platform. He shoves pillows under the wheels to lock them in place in order to heave the heavy luggage onboard. The laundry bags are next along with his own effects, the satchel of cash and his new miracle cure.

  Already exhausted from his fight with the dead man’s body he takes one last look around making sure he hasn’t forgotten anything. He catches his breath, all that’s left for him to do now is to get himself and the case down to his car and load it all in without being seen by the thugs or questioned by the staff.

  The weighted cart refuses to move in a straight line, it wants to veer to one side and scrape the wall, when corrected it resolves to head in the other direction with the same purpose. He frequently has to halt the cart to redirect it, getting it moving again from a dead stop is problematic. All the way to the elevator he fights to get it moving only to have to pull it to a stop against the inertia he builds.

  During the trip to the lobby he pictures the layout and plans his route, he needs to be able to get the cart moving with enough forward momentum that he won’t look like he’s straining, yet not so fast that he appears to be rushing out. The added weight on the small wheels makes a racket as it rolls over the tiles, like a train clattering along a track. He chalks it up to paranoia and tries to act casual, keep his composure as he passes the desk.

  The doors to the vestibule open for him, once he’s through he feels the frigid night air. It’s bracing but feels glorious as he takes his first breath of freedom, exhaling a long puff of steam as he hurries to his car.

  The laundry bags are tossed into his trunk, the money and the sample are going up front with him. He realizes he has the man’s shaving kit and pistol tucked under his arm, these are both tossed onto the passenger’s seat. That leaves only the suitcase. The car’s back door keeps the cart from rolling away. Gil leans in from the other door behind his driver’s seat to pull the bag in. By the time he gets the enormous suitcase loaded he’s exhausted. The laundry bags will be easy to dispose of, he wonders how the hell he’s going to erase the body. I’ll dump it in the Charles River tomorrow, he figures. I have to get to the lab.

  With a chance to cool down the cold air now chills him. He shivers on his way back from returning the helpful cart to the vestibule. He wonders what he’ll say if the man’s men come asking questions. In this hypothetical he thinks he should play it dumb. We made our deal and I left, he’ll tell them. He thinks it might be a good idea to mention the sum he paid for his product and that the man s
aid in passing that he needed to flee the country. He can’t concern himself too much over what has yet to happen if it ever does, right now he just wants a cigarette and to get to work.

  9

  “He knows if you’ve been bad or good…”

  “Sing one more verse and I’ll break your fuckin’ jaw,” Santa warns a crooning drunk on the bus.

  The inebriate cuts his carol short and averts his attention with a dismissive whistle not wanting to test the not-so-jolly Saint Nick. Aside from the drunk’s mumblings Santa is allowed to peer out the window in peace. The world outside is far from peaceful, there’s flashing lights on almost every street. Police, paramedics, and fire trucks are out in force tonight, the city’s heroes are busy. It wasn’t long ago he’d be out there with them in the thick of things, it feels like a lifetime ago and at the same time feels like only yesterday.

  A part of him finds the strobe of the responding vehicles beautiful, as if they are decorating a world that’s lost its holiday spirit. In his years of volunteering, collecting for worthy causes, he has noticed a marked decline in Christmas cheer.

  The bus’s air brakes sigh as they come to an abrupt stop, too early for the next stop on the familiar route. Santa looks ahead to see what’s causing the delay, an ambulance bars their progress. The bus sits idle, awaiting its turn to proceed under the direction of a police officer while the cop’s partner gets a statement from a visibly shaken motorist.

  On his patent leather clad feet, Santa walks to the front. “I’ll get out here.”

  He sees his breath but can barely feel the cold through his padded red suit. The beard he began to grow right after retiring from the force protects his face, when he traded his blue uniform in for the red one.

  Sticking to the sidewalk until the city bus is allowed to roll past the scene he waits before heading to the wreck. He knows the officer taking the statement, a man that isn’t long from turning in his badge himself.

  “Santa,” the younger officer directing the congestion addresses him, “can you stay back please?”

  Santa ignores the request, heading to his friend. He hasn’t been on a scene in a while but it feels like he belongs. Only one survivor on his feet, he notes. Two bodies are slumped in the car as the medics tend to a woman on the street, from one passing look at the severity of her injuries the former cop guesses that she isn’t going to make it.

  “Santa!” the young officer leaves his post. “I said…!”

  “Relax, Murphy,” the seasoned lawman says to his partner. “Luke Stemmer, that you?”

  “Yeah. How’ve you been, Callahan?”

  “Have a seat on the curb over there,” Callahan tells the survivor, closing his notebook. “Can’t complain. You?”

  “Same. On my way home, thought I’d say hello.”

  “Wish I was home. It’s shaping up to be one crazy night. You’d think it was a full moon.”

  Luke smirks beneath his thick white beard, finding it ironic that he was just wishing he was back on the job, especially in this craziness.

  “Compact was trying to beat the light, but the truck had the right of way. The poor girl on the street was caught in the middle while crossing,” the cop recaps what Luke already surmised.

  The medics solemnly stop working on the girl, she’s beyond treatment. “She was young,” Luke says with a shake of his head.

  “Streetwalker,” Callahan reports, a fact one wouldn’t expect from her clothing. She’s bundled up against the cold. “Bad line of work this time of year. You know all about that, hanging out on street corners for money. At least the bells you’re ringing are actual bells.”

  The cynical comments distance him from the tragedy, keeps it from touching him too deeply. Luke was once like that, he still acts like things don’t bother him but in truth it makes him think of his daughter.

  A groan from the ruined compact brings bewildered looks from the responders. Through the fractured windshield they see one of the passengers moving.

  “You said he was dead!” Callahan yells at the paramedics.

  “He is… was,” one assures heading to the unexpected patient.

  They rush to the car, the door opens with a metallic creak where the metal has been twisted. The driver’s airbag didn’t deploy, without a seatbelt his head was thrown straight into the windshield killing him instantly, the passenger wasn’t so lucky. The right side bag did expand but the force was enough to drive the whisky bottle he held into his chest. The medics had checked his pulse when they had arrived and felt nothing. They thought he had died instantly as well.

  The man in the passenger seat fights to get out from under the deflated safety device, his eyes go from one rescuer to the next.

  “Sir, you need to sit back!” a medic instructs, not wanting the patient to make the situation worse. He already has a bottle lodged in his ribcage, so close to his heart it’s a miracle he is alive. They try to ease the man back but he resists, latching on to the helping hands with a surprisingly strong grip.

  The medics struggle to pry their wrists from the man’s cold, steely hands. He cranes his neck to lower his head closer to their forearms, the motion causes the bottle to move within the wound, sloshing its contents of blood and whisky. The rescuers surmise that the square glass container is probably the only thing keeping him alive, if it comes out and the wound loses its seal around the bottle he’ll surely die, but they can’t help him in their current predicament.

  “Help us!” one yells to the cops. “We need to get him to calm down!”

  “You got any sedatives on the bus?” Luke asks.

  “Diazepam. It’s in the cart.” The paramedic overlooks the Santa suit the Samaritan wears, just wanting to get free and get this man strapped down.

  “Argh!” the other medic cries out. “He’s biting me! Hurry!”

  The accident victim has his head bowed at a painful angle to reach his helper’s arm, he releases the other clenched arm, taking this one in both hands. The newly freed responder falls to the pavement, scrambling to get up and aid his partner. The victim in the car hungrily attacks the flesh.

  Callahan rushes to the driver’s side lunging over the dead man to pull the passenger from the medic. “Murphy, Get in here!”

  The rookie cop turns his back to the accumulating onlookers, unsure how he can possibly get in and assist. He rushes to where the medics wrestle against the combative patient.

  “Let me in!” Luke orders the overwhelmed rookie to move out of his way. “How much?”

  The medic takes the ampule and syringe from the helpful Santa to draw it himself. Luke takes his place pulling the other medic away from the passenger. A lot stronger he is able to wrench the panicked man from his attacker, somewhat. The biter can no longer sink his teeth into the man but he maintains his grip. Luke’s efforts result in dragging the passenger from the car.

  At this point the rescuers only want to quell the action. They rush the man, impaled or not, and take him to the ground. The injection doesn’t even faze him, another dose is drawn to no effect.

  “Fucker must be on PCP!” Callahan spits. They all hold the man to the ground, trying to keep their hands away from the bloody, gnashing jaws trying to bite them. “Or bath salts.”

  “Bring that stretcher!” the injured medic orders Murphy. “All we can do is strap him down and get him to Mercy.”

  The man writhes against them on the pavement, the bottle in his chest gurgles with fat bubbles as the contents drain into his chest cavity. He’s lifted onto the stretcher and put into four-point restraints. All the rescuers can do is step back, exhausted over the ordeal, and watch the man continue his attempts at getting them.

  “Why isn’t there another bus here?” Luke asks, hot in his suit.

  “They’re busy,” the bitten medic wraps his wound, he knows he’ll have to get it looked at when he gets to the Emergency Room. Human bites are especially nasty. “There’s a lot going on tonight, you’d think it was a full moon.”

&nb
sp; “Murphy, cut that guy loose,” Callahan tells his young partner. “We know where to find him if we need him. I’m thinking the fault lies with Hannibal here and his friend.”

  The berserk man and the two dead on arrivals are loaded into the back of the ambulance. Luke talks the medics into letting him drive their rig so the bite can be looked at and cleaned thoroughly. He bids farewell to his old friend before heading to Mercy General Hospital, it feels good to be back on the job so-to-speak. And, this will also give him a chance to check in on his daughter.

  10

  “Rocky, wake up!” the words fail to penetrate the deep alcohol induced slumber, as does the high pitched chirp of the fire alarm. “There’s a fire!”

  Killer B slaps her friend’s cheek repeatedly, too tenderly at first to arouse any awareness. Her fear helps her summon the courage to land one sharp strike that causes Rocky to sit up in bed. She’s too out of it to be mad, and about to check out from consciousness once again. Killer B shakes her shoulders. “Rocky! There is a fire in the hotel! We have to go!”

  “’Kay,” the woman slurs. “Get momma her medicine, wouldja, KB?”

  Killer B groans, she should have known to go to Rocky’s purse first, that she would need her ‘medicine’ to be able to function. The frantic girl unwraps the fruity hard candies and places them into Rocky’s mouth.

  “Hmm,” Rocky hums as she savors the sugary cubes, working them around her mouth with her tongue. She learned long ago that the trick to speedy sobriety, if only for the fleeting few moments she has the candy in her mouth, is sugar. She tricks her body into using the sugar as fuel rather than the alcohol that still floods her bloodstream, allowing her oxygen starved brain to get a breath of fresh air. “Let’s do this.”

  Rocky follows Killer B to the door where people are stampeding past in a hurry, the ladies need to time their entry into the current of bodies. Rocky’s eyes scan all around looking for her teammates. She snatches them from the herd to bring them close as she sees them, taking a mental role call she knows she’s missing a few. Most teams in the league have ten to twelve girls, it’s easier to market calendars and other merchandise with more pretty faces and toned bodies. Man’s Ruin has only the bare minimum needed to play, five on the track and one alternate, with Rocky slated to be riding the bench next season they will need to find a new girl.