by James Dean
Next was Gerald. Gerald was a balding Jewish man with the palest white skin Alan had ever seen on a living person. Alan wasn't sure how Gerald had avoided bursting into flames in the sun. He was short and a bit pudgy, even after months of little to no food. He tended to whine and complain a lot and as a result people tried to ignore him. Gerald had been a blogger before everything ended. He would go to restaurants for meals and then go home and write about his experience. Supposedly he was held in high esteem in the foodie community and made a decent living off of it.
Then there was Stuart. Stuart had been the epitome of white trash. He even wore the white wife beater shirt and had a mullet. He had been unemployed and living off of welfare and the kindness and hard work of others. Alan disliked Stuart a lot. He didn't contribute to the well-being of the group and always complained about how the government was trying to screw over the little guy and how they were most likely behind this whole undead mess. It was all Alan could do to keep from going off on him.
There was also little Kenny. Kenny was ten years old with golden blonde hair and deep blue eyes. If the world hadn't ended Alan could see him growing up to be a total heart breaker. The group had found him wandering alone just a few weeks ago. Kenny didn't talk much but when they finally got him to open up and tell them his story he told them how he had escaped with his parents. They had been killed when they stayed in a home that they hadn't properly checked out. He wasn't sure how long he was alone before the group found him. Alan found himself admiring Kenny's courage.
And finally there was Shelly. Shelly was the eighteen-year-old daughter of Greg. Like her Dad she had soft brown eyes and dark hair but hers came down to the middle of her back. How some zombie hadn't gotten a grip on that and turned her into a snack was beyond him. Unlike her Dad, she was tall. Probably the tallest in the group. Alan thought she was captivating and immediately he began imagining her with pale cool skin and light blue lips. He shuddered. Maybe some other time.
After a few days of traveling together and watching each other's backs, he decided to drop the question that had been eating at him since they met. It was an uncharacteristically cold summer night and the sound of chattering teeth echoed through the minivan that they were huddling up in for the night.
"So this is going to sound really weird, but have you guys ever heard of someone named Adrian Ring?" he asked through chattering teeth as he rubbed his arms in an attempt to spread warmth through his frozen body.
The others exchanged an uncertain look amongst themselves before looking towards Alan.
"What? What's that look for?"
"Where did you hear that name?" Greg asked in a hushed voice so as not to draw attention to the van, in case something lurked outside in the night.
Alan smiled in the darkness. They had heard of him.
"Again, this is going to sound weird but I've been having these dreams recently. I'm sitting in my parent's dining room with them across from me. We sit there for I don't know how long but in the end, they tell me to find Adrian Ring. That he has set up some sort of 'Last Bastion of Humanity' and that I'll be safe there."
It was a lie. His parent's had died five years ago. The only people that anyone dreamed of anymore were people who had died after That Day. Of course, his new 'friends' didn't know his parent's had died years before.
Again they all looked to each other, unsure what to say before Greg spoke up again.
"We've all had those dreams, Alan. Loved ones who died after That Day have been coming to us in dreams, telling us exactly what you've told us. Find Adrian Ring, safety in Bastion. We don't know his exact location, but we've been heading north. It just seems like the right direction."
"So I'm not going crazy?" Alan said delightedly clapping his hands together. These people where going to take him right to Adrian and he'd be able to fulfill his mission.
"Nope, not in the least. Or if you are, we're just as crazy as you," Greg laughed.
The butterflies in his stomach were too much now. No way was he going to sleep tonight. He silently opened the door of the van and began to exit when he heard Shelly's musical voice quietly call out behind him.
"Where are you going Alan?"
In the dark he flashed her the friendliest smile he could muster.
"Just taking first watch, don't you worry."
Dead Rising
Day One
C. A. Hoaks
“Well, Mrs. Parker?” Karen asked, trying to hide the frustration in her voice.
“Young lady, you’re sure not the beautician your momma was. Now, Beatrice knew how to do my hair. She could make the curls just perfect. Too bad she died before she could train you better.” Mona Parker glared at Karen in the mirror while she patted at the wiry gray coils Karen had created.
“Yes, ma’am.” Karen sighed. “Sorry, I didn’t get the curls tight enough this time.”
“I guess it’ll just have to do. I’m meeting my sister for lunch at the Golden Corral." Mona jerked the drape from her neck and used her thick arms to push herself from the salon chair. "They have that all-you-can-eat buffet, you know. Maybe you need to check it out once in a while and put a little meat on your bones. You’re barely big as a minute.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Karen bit her tongue.
Mona jerked her purse from a hook on the side of the cabinet next to the chair and pulled the black plastic bag open. She scratched through the contents and pulled out a hot pink wallet. She fanned through several bills, selected a twenty and held it out to Karen as if it pained her.
“Don’t expect a tip, girlie. You just ain’t near as good a beautician as your momma.” Mona snapped her purse closed.
“No, ma’am. I can honestly say I’d never expect a tip from you.” Karen walked to the front door and held it open for Mona. “Maybe you’d be happier if you went to one of the other shops in town next week, Mona.”
“I was loyal to your momma. No point in changing my ways now,” Mona called over her shoulder as she walked down the steps to her car.
Karen flipped the open sign to “closed” and pulled the shade down to hide from the Monas of the world. She walked to the back room and retrieved the broom. A few minutes later the shop was back in order and ready for her afternoon client.
Sometimes Karen hated her life in a small hometown. She gave up her place in a high-end salon in the city to help her mother with the shop after her father’s heart attack. Two months later, he passed away, and her mother suffered a stroke a month after. She survived but needed time to recover and Karen to keep the shop open.
Her mother finally improved enough to take on a few clients a week but not enough to maintain the salon. Months turned into years, and Karen had to admit she was not going back to the city. She made a few upgrades to the shop and settled into her new small-town life, only to lose her mother a few months later. That was two years ago.
The beautiful Victorian home next door to the shop changed hands while Karen lived in the city. Harold Curtis transformed the building into a funeral home. When she moved back home, Harold came to her asking if she would be interested in working as a mortuary makeup artist from time to time. He would even provide a brand new professional makeup kit to do the job.
She accepted when he sweetened the offer by adding a quick hundred for each job. It was easy money and most of the time Karen could work it into her schedule without a problem.
She had gotten a call the day before telling her Mrs. Dunfries had passed and her viewing was that evening. With a full cut, perm, and style that afternoon at two o’clock, mid-day was the only time Karen had to ready the old lady for her viewing.
Karen locked the front door, transferred the shop phone to her cell, and turned around to walk through the shop into the house. She stopped in the kitchen long enough to grab an energy drink, then left through the back door. Karen crossed the wide driveway at the side of her house to the basement door at the back of the Victorian. She pressed the call button. A few minutes later the door
lock clicked open.
“Come on in, Karen. We’re down here,” a bourbon-rich baritone called out.
Karen pulled her bag through the door and closed it. She walked into the receiving bay and down the ramp toward the dressing room.
Both Harold and his recently hired assistant, Chris Hammond, were working. Harold was a copious-bodied sixtyish man with a full head of silver hair, thick glasses, and a perpetual smile. His cheerful demeanor was a contrast to the line of business he’d chosen forty years ago.
Chris was Harold’s polar opposite and not always as comfortable to be around. Chris was a six-foot-four, thirty-something man and weighed close to two hundred pounds. Karen felt sure his size was an advantage in some parts of the job, but she wondered if Chris should be doing it. It was a job that weighed heavily on some, and she imagined Chris would be one of those people.
Even though he’d never said so, Karen thought Chris had been in the military. He was one of those people that used manners almost to a fault, even calling her “ma’am” from time to time. Since he seldom talked about himself, she knew little about him other than he lived in the garage apartment above the Victorian’s three-car garage.
The Victorian was a large structure and when Harold bought the house, he started on a substantial renovation. He transformed the second floor into an apartment, he main floor into three chapels, a break room with small kitchen, two bathrooms, and an office with a half a dozen caskets displayed in a small alcove.
The back of the house included a loading dock for deliveries; human and floral. When they were brought in through the back, they could go up or down on ramps as needed. The front of the Victorian included a bank of windows along the hall that kept the somber purpose less foreboding.
Karen stepped into the backroom to the smell of cut flowers with a hint of formaldehyde. She looked to the left and saw dozens of floral arrangements.
“All these for Mrs. Dunfries?” she asked as she made her way down the ramp to the dressing room. She smiled at the two men standing over a withered old man lying on a metal table. They were adjusting a suit jacket that appeared at least two sizes too big for the corpse.
“No. We got a full house. Besides Mrs. Dunfries, there’s Buford Williams here,” He pointed toward a white-tiled embalming room and a shrouded figure lying on a metal gurney. “And the Dalton kid came in this morning.”
“Billy Dalton?"Karen asked.
“Yep. That kid finally managed to kill himself, last night. He missed a curve on the state highway. He’s going to take a lot of work.” He turned to Chris. “You finish up with Buford, and I’ll take Billy back and start getting him cleaned up.”
A few minutes later the sound of spraying water and a small pump could be heard behind the closed door. Karen walked over to where Mrs. Dunfries lay on a metal table. Karen rolled her bag to the side of the gurney and hefted it onto a small cart nearby. She opened the case front to expose a dozen trays and drawers.
“I’m glad I gave Miss Millie a perm last week. A little mousse and the curling iron and she’ll look just like she walked out of the beauty shop. She’ll be easy,” Karen said to no one in particular.
She glanced down at the bag with its assortments of trays and sections. She picked up a bottle of nail polish, held it close to Millie’s hand then put it back and took out a second container. She gave an unconscious nod, then turned back to retrieve a tube of foundation.
“When is the service for Mr. Williams?” Karen asked.
“Tonight,” Chris answered. “Have you got time to prep him, too?”
Before she could answer, Karen’s cell phone rang. She looked at the number and sighed. “Bee’s Beauty,” she replied with forced cheerfulness. After a moment of listening, she spoke again. “Well, of course. That’s perfectly alright. I’ll see you next week then.” After another pause, she continued, “I hope your husband feels better soon. Bye now.” She closed the phone with a sigh.
“Everything okay?” Chris asked.
Karen sat there for a moment before she answered, “The second appointment to cancel this afternoon. On the bright side, I guess I can get Mr. Williams ready for his viewing as well.”
“Good,” Chris replied with a smile.
Karen tucked a tissue under Millie’s frail hands and used a cosmetic sponge to apply makeup. The age and liver spots disappeared under matte color, and her hands took on subtle warmth. Karen moved around the metal table and repeated the process on her left hand. When she was satisfied, she retrieved the light pink nail polish and applied a coat to each nail.
Karen sighed. “When I agreed to do this, it was only supposed to be once or twice a week, never more than three. I’ve never had three in a day before. I guess it’s just as well with two cancellations this afternoon.”
She continued covering bruises and dark spots on Millie’s arms until she got to the edge of the three-quarter sleeves of her dress. Karen moved on to Millie’s face. Without defects requiring wax, she only needed natural colored cosmetics to look her best.
Harold had set her features to appear as if the eighty-year-old woman was just sleeping. Karen used a light brush of the sponge with makeup to cover the dark spots and imperfections but decided Millie only needed a hint of eye shadow, blush, and pale lip color to give that warm, peaceful look her family would hope for.
With the makeup done, she rolled the stool to the end of the metal table and used a soft brush to groom the tight gray curls. A few minutes later she freshened the curls with an iron around her face then stepped back to examine her work.
“I’m almost done with Millie. How soon can I start on Mr. Williams?”
“I’ll get the eye caps in. Then I’m done. We sure don’t want that old man’s eyelids popping open during the viewing. From what I hear he was a mean, old, bastard, and it would scare the hell outta people.” Chris chuckled.
“My mother used to do his wife’s hair. What you heard was true. I was just a kid, but I knew to go hide when he brought Velma to the shop. He’d sit there smoking a disgusting cigar and cussing about whatever had gotten him riled up that particular day. I always thought Velma died young to get away from him.”
Chris chuckled again. “Sounds like a real charmer.”
The chime of a doorbell interrupted. Harold called from another room, “That’s the Dalton family. I couldn’t put them off until tomorrow.”
“Want me to go meet with them?” Chris asked.
“No, when you get these two bodies settled will you work on Billy? I got him cleaned up. You’ll have to do some work to get his ear back in place. His arm will need to be stabilized, and the chest damage resolved. Just do whatever you can. We’ll finish after the visitations.”
“No problem,” Chris answered as Harold pulled off his apron and walked out of the room.
Karen glanced up in time to see Chris straighten Mr. Williams’ tie. “If he’s ready, I’m done with Millie.”
“I’ll take Mrs. Dunfries to her lovely pink casket upstairs and be right back.”
“If I need to touch up her hair just let me know,” Karen answered.
Chris pulled a comb from his pocket. “I got it covered.”
“I’ll be right back, fifteen minutes at the most.” Chris headed toward the door. “Will you be okay alone down here?”
“Sure. I'm all right.”
Karen spent the next fifteen minutes covering the old man’s hands with a thin layer of beige base color to lighten the liver spots. His nails were a nasty yellow from years of smoking, but nothing could be done without looking garish and fake. She moved to the head of the table and dabbed a slightly lighter shade of color on the old man’s face, neck, and bald head. She covered a large skin cancer on his pate with pale green concealer before adding base, then used a small brush to arrange the remnants of brittle gray hair over the malignancy.
She leaned back to examine her work and wondered if the drawn, pinched look on his face was created by Harold deliberately or just his na
tural repose. Either way, it didn’t look very peaceful.
With only his lips left to color, Karen chose a color only slightly darker than his face. He wasn’t a man one would imagine with a blush on his cheeks and rosy lips. She dabbed a small brush into tint and leaned in to darken his lips.
As she began the task, she noticed his lips pulling against the sutures ever so slightly. It was puzzling since Harold was known for his impeccable work. Karen dismissed it, then moved on with her ministrations.
“What were you looking at?” Chris asked from the doorway.
Karen straightened up. “Oh, nothing, I guess. Just his lips . . . I don’t know.”
Chris walked over and stuck his head near hers to look at the old man’s lips. “Hmm. Never seen that before. Maybe we didn’t get them pulled tight enough.” He pushed the lips closer together. “I’ll check it out after the visitation.” He stood up and brushed an imaginary piece of lint from the old man’s black wool suit. “Call it good. I doubt there will be half a dozen people show up.”
“What about Millie?” Karen wiped at the brush, dropped it along with other tools into a plastic bag.
“That’ll be another matter. I would think close to a hundred people. Maybe some will flow over to the Williams viewing. A few folks will stop since they’re here and the rest because Williams’ son owns the only bank in town and they may have a loan.”
“A little cynical are we, today?”
Chris smirked. “Every day. Besides, I know small town mentality.”
While Chris still smiled at her, Harold appeared at the doorway. “Karen, are you almost finished with what you’re doing?”
“Just finished,” Karen answered hesitantly.