Race the Dead (Book 1): The Last Flag

by Cavanagh, Wren

  “Hey!”

  “I see them Carson,” replied his father. “I see them.”

  “Rivers and Byrne Funeral Home...” Carson shook his head in disgust. “They sent us to a funeral home, how droll.”

  The old funeral home aged by the weather and lack of care was also vandalized by graffiti and well aimed rocks that had made a memory of its windows. Throngs of the turned surrounded the building. They walked, staggered and collided with each other and whatever stood in their way, agitated by the constant call of the beacon attached to the dropped flag pole.

  “That places looks like it's been abandoned for decades,” said Amber, “It can’t have been in use when this all happened.”

  “Maybe storage, Mom?” Carson guessed. “They tried to keep the bodies here.”

  “I think you're right.” Tessa pointed at the mix of wood, plastic and chain link fencing — a rushed, make-do effort. “They tried to fence them in.”

  The wreck occupied a quarter of a city block and the rest of the adjacent space was almost a wild park, the grounds reclaimed by the vegetation over the years. The main entrance was a black gap against its dingy white-gray wall. On the roof, where it had been dropped by the helicopters the night before, stood the flag. The loud beacon had been calling nonstop, for days. On and on, it had been attracting and stirring up the dead. A multitude of the returned had trampled the fencing from outside and joined any that had been left inside it.

  “Alright.” Scott pointed at an abandoned bus further down the road, opposite to the funeral home. “Tessa, Amber you two go over there and close the door. We’ll be making some noise here soon.”

  “Carson,” Scott pointed to the side of the house. “Don’t go inside. The side of the building has junk with footholds you can use, by the left wall. I'm going to the other corner and try to get a car started. If I can’t, I’ll use the horn to draw them my way. When you get a free shot, get up there and get the flag, we’ll meet at that bus when done.”

  Carson nodded and watched his father run toward a knot of cars that had been abandoned in a disorderly line under the elements for months. He saw him try to start one after another with no luck, but Scott kept on, until he found one whose battery had enough of a charge to set off the alarm, and to add to the noise, he began to blast the horn.

  The tide of the dead surrounding the funeral home shifted, almost as a wave they moved for the new distraction.

  While Carson waited for an open space in the crowd he looked back and saw the door of the bus open, watched Tessa sprint to her father. She beat and butt slammed the cars along the way on the other side of the street. On some the alarms went off, and with her help, father and daughter easily doubled and then tripled the racket.

  Almost there, Carson thought to himself. Almost there...and...now!

  He had a clear path, and bolted from his hiding place. A mad dash to a junk heap on the side of the building, sidestepping or shoving the stragglers in his way. He scaled over cabinets, buckets, and tires — anything that held his weight — until got to the rusted but solid looking metal trellis that, along with ancient looking wood posts, held up the overhang sheltering the side door. It looked ugly but climbable.

  Should work, mused Carson and pulled himself up. The rust coated his hands, fouled his clothes and the old metal scratched his skin as he climbed up to the overhang and pulled himself to the roof; he ran to the flagpole and tore off the loud beacon attached to it and threw it to the floor, furiously stomped on it until it is was nothing but shards of plastics and bits of dead electronics.

  “Fuck you,” he mumbled to everyone and no one in particular.

  He bent the thin flagpole to the roof and retrieved the backpack, pulled a knife from it and cut free the flag. It looked like they had glued that thing to the pole. Carson ran back to the edge of the building, the ground was still in the clear. He climbed down a trellis and negotiated the refuse dump while mentally cursing the vandals and illegal dumpers that had dropped their crap at the place. He leapt to get away and his foot sank into what had looked like solid wood panels from construction refuse, rotten wood and given way under his weight and he felt a jolt of searing pain run up his ankle. With a loud whimper he pulled out his leg from the hole in the rotted wood. A long tear ran up his ankle and bled into the sock and sneaker. Fearful, he kicked the boards away and looked inside the hole: no one, nothing alive or dead. He groaned with relief and ran to safety.

  “Thank you, God! Just a damn, piece of rotted wood.”

  Exhilarated, he rushed for the abandoned city bus. They waited for him there, his father’s arm around Tessa’s shoulder — proud of her, but this time, proud of him too. And mom looked better for the brief rest.

  “Good job, Carson!” His dad extended his hand for a manly shake that turned into a manly hug. “You did good, son.”

  The rare compliment and show of affection made Carson grin happily from ear to ear. I could really love you dad, he thought. If only there were more moments like this, but what he said was: “Thanks, Dad! Good job, sis.”

  Scott let go of his kids and upended the backpack on the ground. Together they rummaged through the spilled contents. Ian, their cameraman, came in closer, reminding them that the world was watching.

  “Map and key,” exclaimed Scott and lifted the items to the camera. “A duplex on a street corner: 2981 Elm Street; a key, Carson. Looks like the next time around we're going inside.”

  Slow and steady won't win this race

  “Well, that wasn’t too bad — no one got bit.” Tom relaxed a bit and took a drink. “Let’s look at Striker.”

  The video engineer in the van brought up Striker's video streams from the cameraman and the drone and put them on the main displays. They were looking at an old, country-elegant, mostly residential area. The homes here were older, usually two stories highs and built in solid wood, and their lawns ample. The trees in the yard — majestic, tall and ancient — established the creation of the neighborhood as sometimes around the 40s.

  Tom imagined that a lot of the homes and stores in this area would have been passed down from generation to generation, with pride and love. At one time this would have been an upscale area, with lawyers, doctors, and professional men that put the GI bill to good use after World War II. Now leaves were everywhere. Plants and weeds reclaimed ground they once were denied. There were signs of disorder, windows open, doors ajar, too many tumbled over trash cans and fences. Not obvious, but still there.

  The team was walking down the center of the street. Joe’s limping was holding them back.

  “Jesus, my grandma can walk faster than those three,” said Tom, but just looking at Joe walk made him wince, his limping along looked grotesque. “In case of an emergency, what's the evacuation plan?”

  The managers and editors in the van looked at each other and shrugged. “Sorry, you’d have to ask someone else, we don’t know.” Said the senior man.

  Tom pointed his finger at a youngest guy. “You. Go find out. Report back.” He then turned to the lead editor. “Patch me through.” Tom’s voice came through their headsets loud and clear.

  Emma brought them to a halt with a raised hand, as she heard Tom address her. “Emma, looks like you are Striker’s new leader.”

  Joe the war vet from Mississippi was to have been the leader, but his injury now made that impossible. He trailed behind and tried to keep up. Lew had taken a position in the middle and to the side, protectively keeping an eye on all of them like a dutiful sheepdog.

  “It looks that way Tom, but we're still a team and we're all watching out for each other.”

  “You agree, Joe?” Tom pushed for weak point; a good fissure could bring good drama, it could also get Joe out.

  “I do man, I completely do.”

  Well, shit, thought Tom. No help there. “Team Striker, you'
re lagging behind. Do you still think you're going to make it? Cobras and Righteous have picked up their first flag.”

  They looked at each other, then Emma lied for all of them. “We can do it.”

  “Joe, the limping looks worse. Do you want out?” Tom pressed.

  “No, I’ll be fine.”

  Jesus, thought Tom, not a chatty team. This is television, people! Were you not paying attention at the on boarding sessions?

  “Let’s review what happened!” He exclaimed energetically and signaled the video editors, who replayed the fall, the twisted ankle — multiple times from multiple angles — with dramatic music in the background, so Tom could have the time to speak privately to the team.

  “Guys, this is TV…we need a little bit of drama. No terse answers please. And Joe, if it's really bad we’ll get you out — you can’t spend your money if you're dead okay? Because right now…right now my grandma with her smoker lungs and fallen arches could run rings around you. And right now, you are all making for boring TV. Think it over. We're going to go back live now.” He paused briefly and signaled the engineer to switch feeds. “Joe, I'm having serious doubts here! You really think you’ll be able to make it one more mile to the first flag?”

  Joe spoke up, “Absolutely Tom, we are in this to win it! My ankle got a bit of a twist, but we’ll rest once we get that first flag and we’ll win this thing!”

  “Joe's right — the others don’t stand a chance and we’ll be flyin’ home! With their money!” Emma added with a punctuating war yell.

  “That’s the spirit! We’ll check back with you later, team Striker.”

  The door to the trailer swung open and an heavy breathing junior engineer came back in, his breath condensed in the air.

  “Jesus it’s cold.”

  Tom nodded. The chill had followed the man into the trailer and made itself at home, the small heater wasn’t going to cut it. “And?”

  “Sorry, Tom, I couldn’t find anyone who knows of a specific plan; but we got helicopters...We can get them out.”

  Tom felt his stomach clench like a fist. “Go back out. Grab my personal assistant and have her get together with the safety manager and the pilots. They need to work out a plan. ASAP. Tell her to come here and brief me when she's done.”

  As he waved the engineer on to his new task he couldn't help but think of Alvin. No way did he want on his conscience the deaths of the contestants. The network couldn't pay him enough. He grabbed his phone and called Fats. It rang and rang then went straight to voice-mail. Angry, Tom cut off the call without leaving a message. The man wasn’t answering his calls— what the hell?

  Don’t forget about me when you're gone.

  Emma turned off her headset and signaled the two men to do the same then drew them into a huddle. The cameraman could get a group shot, but not what they said, they were breaking the rules...But not by too much.

  “Joe, really, you gonna be okay?”

  “It hurts," he grimaced, “A lot. He’s right: I'm a ball and chain for this team. Yeah, me getting out would be the best for you, but damn. I really need that money.”

  His teammates nodded. “Wanna do one more mile?” Asked Lew. “See how things turn out?”

  “Behind you!” Emma shouted.

  Two of the turned had walked within a few feet of the group. Their silence and lack of vitality sometimes allowed them to slip well below someone's guard. In exchange for their lives, it seemed at times that death had provided them with camouflage to protect them from the living. They had a knack for going almost unnoticed until it was too late for whatever held their attention. Unless they were in large numbers they could sneak up on you with a vengeance

  Lew didn’t even blink. He flipped his Bo around and thrusted it at the man’s head. The solid hit landed directly on the dead man’s temple, breaking bone and sinking past it into the brain, it dropped him like a rock, his head slamming hard on the ground. Lew repositioned himself and aimed another focused shot at the head the second man. But this one staggered or stumbled at the right time and didn’t get the full impact of the attack. The grazing blow shoved the man’s head aside and pushed him off balance, he tripped on his feet and fell to his knees and there he remained. He knelt like a supplicant dazed on the cement sidewalk, his head twitched back and forth, the two dry dusty marbles that were his eyes had rolled upward and fixated on a far away invisible presence in the sky.

  “I think that concussion just did him in. He’s like a stuck record.” Emma leaned in a bit and looked into the man’s eyes. The opaque marbles whose pupils were constricted to pinpricks seemed not to see her. The man blinked and twitched. Finally he tried to get up. Lew walked to the man’s side and swung the staff. The blow landed at the base of the dead man’s cranium with a thick final noise. This time he didn't get up again.

  They all stood looking at the two bodies. Years of martial arts training had given Lew’ actions an elegant and smooth delivery, but the assurance and certainty that normally followed a righteous action wasn’t reflected on his face. On any of their faces.

  They all looked perplexed, confused. Emma guessed they were all wondering — how could this not be a homicide? Self defense or not, if even a shred of thought and humanity remained in those corpses, if they could move, act with forethought, want and need, were they really dead?

  Hell, a body could go into livor mortis and most cells still wouldn’t be dead, and she knew pathologists that didn't feel right calling a patient brain dead until that brain's cell walls had broken down.

  Was ‘dead’ as they had known and understood it, itself a dead concept nowadays? Was death evolving and in a race to catch up to life? After all — if life evolves, why not death?

  Behind her, the cameraman snapped his fingers to get their attention and then pointed at his ear. Emma nodded.

  “Turn on the headsets, guys.”

  ----------

  “Are you done in the kitchen? If you are done you can sit with us and watch a little TV.”

  Even snakes love their moms.

  “Honey! Well, hello! Fancy hearing from you.” The voice over the phone had the rasp of a committed smoker with an added layer of roughness provided by steady alcohol consumption.

  “Hey, ma. Love you too.”

  “Oh, honey…I love you. I just haven’t heard from you in over a decade.”

  “I’m going to make this short. I ran into some problems and…you're in my will. My lawyer will contact you personally and give you access to funds that are,” she paused, “off shore.”

  Her mother was mute. Cheryl had heard her sharp intake of breath and wished she had been kinder to her. The silence over the line was almost tactile; a palpable painful thing.

  “What’s wrong? Are you okay, hon? Can I help you?”

  “You, you wanna help me? The daughter ‘that’s as mean as a snake’? I’m quoting here, mom,” Cheryl said.

  The silence was even longer this time, heavy and thick.

  “Okay, bye mom.”

  “NO! No...” The older woman almost yelled, she sounded fearful and sad at the same time, when it was clear that Cheryl hadn’t hanged up she laughed an incredulous but gentle laugh. “Honey I love you. You are mean as a snake. It’s just how you are — you know, fighty. You have always been fighty, but not to me and I still love you. You are my daughter. Always loved you, always will. I might not like you, but I’ll always love you. Are you okay, do you want to come home?”

  “I can’t, I just can’t. But you’ll read about me soon, I love you too mom. ”

  She cut off the call.