“Well, that’s just great!” he says, after his son splatters a paintball into the ghoul’s face. “I’m dead.”
“Sorry, Dad.” The boy passes his fallen father to check the room. He must step over the stunt zombie that lies in the doorway.
“So, what, can I leave now?” the dad says.
A muffled response comes from the dispatched zombie on the floor, “Just sit down and wait for the all clear.”
“They aren’t in there.” The boy emerges.
“Just remember,” the dad says, “if you win…”
“I know. We split the money. But I get the shirt!” The garment is all he really wants out of this. He pictures himself walking the halls of his school wearing it, being the envy of all his peers that have entered this house and have failed. However, his daydream is shattered by moans. From both directions, the dead are closing in on them.
###
Of the ten that have entered the Zombie House, a large team of six has been forged. Josh leads the pack with Brandon, but he whispers to him, “We need to split up.”
“No way. More guns means better odds.”
“It also means they’ll throw more zombies at us!” Josh rasps, raising his voice a bit. “If we can divide their attention, we’ll stand a better chance.”
Brandon can’t argue with his logic. It makes sense. But shedding the blondes will cost them Lloyd. He already feels that Vida is mad at him for some reason, so he can’t ditch her. The idea of sending one of his band mates, let alone his girlfriend, off to die doesn’t sit well with him. So, where do I make the cut?
###
Given permission to leave, Vicky sat up too fast, and she swooned as she raced through the door. She hit the dark halls and needed to hold onto the walls to avoid falling over. The disorienting head rush made it impossible to walk, plus she lost all feeling in her feet and couldn’t tell which way to go.
Being addicted to diet pills, she is used to these spells, and her already quick heart rate has increased to a thundering inside her chest that shakes her lightweight body. She has a trick to slow her palpitations, though--looking down and holding a deep breath. Letting the air leave her lungs slowly, she finds no relief. She takes another breath and holds it, releasing it slowly.
“They get you too?” a voice startles her in the foyer, not at all helping her affliction.
“Huh? Oh, yeah,” she answers the young boy she saw earlier, now being led out by his parents.
“Pretty intense game,” the father says.
Having trouble breathing, Vicky is left alone in the dark doorway. Her hummingbird-like heart has finally slowed. Actually it has stopped altogether. In a split second, she realizes this before collapsing among the shadows in the corner. She is dead before hitting the floor.
7
“All right, boys, we are past the point of no return.” Dwayne lets the actors know they are entering the final ten minutes of play. During the first half of every round, the dead go relatively easy on the survivors to give them a better show and reduce the likelihood someone will complain about dying so quick and demand a refund. “With the exception of the chick I told you about, it’s killing time! We have six heading for the third floor.”
###
The intrepid pack has made it to the third floor. They aren’t alone, for the dead are emerging from guest rooms now, and more are still ascending the stairs behind them. They have nowhere to run.
“Where’s the attic?” Brandon asks, firing his paintball gun at a corpse that gets a little too close for comfort.
“There’s a ladder at the end of this hall,” Josh tells him. “We need to get some of these guys off our backs.”
“Lloyd, take the girls down the other hall,” Brandon says. “We need to check those rooms.”
“Uh?” Lloyd hesitates. He has already exhausted his ammo and is taking rounds from the blondes’s supply.
“You want to win, right? Find the keys,” Brandon says before he and Josh push on down the other hall.
Vida isn’t sure if she was included in the command to ‘take the girls’ somewhere else, but she is certainly not leaving Brandon’s side. The dead have made it up the stairs and now amass as a horde between the splitting group.
###
Dwayne watches the monitors that cover the third floor as the dead converge on the two factions. He knows Trent is in position for his re-appearance. A second act most players never get to see.
Puzzling movement in his peripheral vision brings his attention to the display of dim halls on the first floor. There should be nobody down on his level, but he’s certain he saw an impossibly skinny shadow.
“Everyone, I might have a problem down here. I’m going offline to check something out,” he tells the crew before removing his headset.
Standing for the first time in hours, his legs feels as if they weigh a hundred pounds each. He won’t miss this sedentary lifestyle once he quits. He knows the gig has caused him to gain weight, since he’s been snacking all night while playing god.
Dwayne heads through the kitchen and to the dining room. His undead guards have gone upstairs to help bring the game to an end and prevent overtime.
He encounters someone who should be long gone--the skinny girl that briefly kept him company.
“You were supposed to leave.”
Dwayne shines a small flashlight on her. She looked sickly before, but now she looks as if she’s going to vomit. Her thin face is slack and set in a mournful grimace as she slowly approaches him from around the long table.
“Vicky, isn’t it? There’s a bathroom to the right.” He indicates a door with his light, but she doesn’t falter from her path. With her arms outstretched, the round’s first victim is almost to him. All right, he thinks to himself. She’s going to need help getting there.
During his years of service at the haunt, Dwayne has seen many physical ailments manifest themselves out of panic and extreme fear. Folks will pass out or retch. He’s even seen grown men revert to a childlike state and need to be pulled out of the house, all in the name of a good fright. Most in this line of work don’t consider their attraction a success until they have extracted a few frantic customers.
“Take it easy,” he says calmly to the girl. “You’re just coming down off the rush. We’re going to sit you down and get you some water.”
She is close enough to touch him, and a pitiful moan escapes her throat. Dwayne takes one of her offered hands and swiftly leads her to the bathroom. He shouldn’t have to worry about the game for the moment since his zombies are on autopilot, zeroed in on the survivors. But Trent will want an update on the body count soon.
Vicky may weigh less than half of what he does, but she exhibits surprising strength. Her free hand grabs his arm and pulls hard, wrenching him towards her. He fights against this sudden action, but she just lowers her mouth to his arm.
8
“I can’t believe I got beefed!” the boy complains as he pays for an overpriced t-shirt that states that exact sentiment.
“Don’t feel bad, kid,” the vender says as he hands back the change. “Nobody survives Zombie House.”
His parents wait off to the side for their son to finish his transaction. They huddle together against the chilly night air, looking forward to getting into their car and returning to their nice, warm house. The fortitude of those still in line waiting for their turn to play impresses them. The number of hopeful survivors has diminished, but they figure many have lost interest and gone elsewhere. However, these die-hard fans linger. A few who arrived dressed as victims nap against the wall, while one man rests on the pavement.
“Come on, Buddy!” the dad calls to his son, who scans through all the other items for sale. “You said you just wanted the shirt. It’s cold.”
The kid shrugs off the embarrassment of being called like a dog and rejoins his parents. “We missed all the excitement.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” His mother laughs. She will have nightmares
about the mauling. It was terrifying and a bit intrusive, and she can’t help but think some of the costumed actors took special liberties with her.
“No. I mean, while we were inside an ambulance came to take some guy away. And then the cops showed up to take some woman away that was biting people!”
“Wow! I’m glad we missed that,” the father says, shivering against the cold as he encourages his son to start moving towards the street where they are parked. “I’m sorry we couldn’t win you that shirt, sport. Maybe next year.”
“Can’t we come back this year? The t-shirt guy said they’ll be running for a few more weeks at least.”
“You’re lucky we stayed out this late on a school night,” the father says. If he had known the wait would have been so long, he would have never agreed to their spur of the moment family outing.
They pass the line of people where the slumbering man finally awakens. He must have realized he’s fallen behind in the queue, since he instantly heads towards the others that have left him behind.
“It’s already after one-thirty,” the mother says after looking at the time on her cell phone. “We’ll sleep well tonight.”
“I don’t know about that,” the dad says. “I’m expecting bad dreams about ghouls coming--”
Screams from the lot interrupt him, so he hurries his loved ones along through the cars as he prepares his keys. Figures in the shadows are between them and their SUV. A trio of shambling men dressed for the festivities in bloody bandages and shredded clothing.
“Excuse us,” he says. “We’ve had all the fun we can stand for one night.”
The people beg to differ, and as the dad moves past them to unlock his door they latch onto him with their hands and mouths, taking him to the ground.
9
“We dared each other to come here,” the blonde named Bri explains in a trembling voice. “Brandy and I have a ‘thing’ about zombies.”
Lloyd wasn’t able to get the girls very far down the hall before they were forced to seek shelter in one of the open rooms. Now they are stuck. He made sure there were no dead inside, checking the bathroom and closet, even under the bed. There is no danger in this suite, but no keys either. Now Lloyd feels he has let his band down. He knows how much the money would have helped them out, and how badly Brandon wanted to wear the ‘Zurvived’ shirt to their gig in Fallen. Not being a man of inventive thought, all he can do is wait.
The girls are prattling on about their phobia regarding the living dead while Lloyd takes stock of their ammo. A mere six balls among them, all loaded into his gun.
“We knew we wouldn’t win this. We just wanted to face our fear,” Brandy says, but Lloyd only half listens. “The whole people-eating-people thing has always given us the creeps.”
Lloyd just nods his understanding. He seldom talks much around new people, being afraid of saying something stupid.
“Thank you so much for coming back for us. Most people wouldn’t have cared.”
Lloyd takes a split second to decide whether to say ‘don’t mention it’ or ‘it was nothing.’ In his moment of deliberation, a door behind the girls open, and from an adjoining room the dead enter.
10
“What the fuck do you mean you got bit?” Trent demands over his radio from his hiding place.
“The first vic!” Dwayne says. “She didn’t leave.”
“She bit you? She weighs like 80 pounds!”
“Yeah, 80 pounds of fucking crazy! I’m outta here!”
He slams his headset down. Trent’s distant voice continues to implore, and Dwayne can’t escape it since he’s locked in the pantry at the moment. He holds one sleeve-covered hand over the wound on his other arm. He was able to get free of her and toss her over the dining table. Now he searches his monitors for sight of the lightweight lunatic so he can plan his escape.
She seemed so nice, he thinks, spotting her in the dark hall as she wanders towards the foyer. If he wants to avoid another encounter with her, he’ll have to go out through the kitchen. The haunt has one main entrance and exit for customers to use. All the other doors are for emergencies and staff.
“Dwayne!” he hears Trent calling still over his abandoned headset. “Where the hell are you?”
Trent is in the stairwell, awaiting his cue that seldom comes. At first Trent had insisted on being involved with the action, watching everyone have fun, but after a while he just stopped caring, opting instead to sit alone so he could check his stocks and other investments on his phone. Dwayne ignores him, easing into the kitchen. He creeps as quiet as he can, not wanting to attract Vicky’s attention or entice her to come back. Blood saturates the cloth he holds tightly against his wound and it drips onto the floor.
The cold air is bracing after coming from the warm house. Dwayne can see his breath as he heads around the lot. What he witnesses near the game’s finish line, the old blue truck, takes him a moment to process.
Folks are taking the zombie theme way too far. Many had arrived dressed as victims of the walking dead, many had shuffled around like them, but now they are all acting like them. Those still on their feet meander on the asphalt, while others devour their friends in a mess of fake blood and moulage. Dwayne can’t move. He is transfixed by the realistic carnage, and even the Zombie House staff are getting in on the action. Laurie the ticket taker, a woman that never seems to smile, is slumped over the dividing rope she has parted for those seeking admittance for years. Her limp body swings as the customers pretend to eat her.
Is it always like this? he asks himself, though he can’t answer his own question, being that he spends each evening sequestered in his tech room. I’ve had enough of this place, he decides as he walks to his car. He is a fan of all things horror, but working here once it transformed into Zombie House has ruined him for the living dead. I am so sick of zombies.
Nearing his ride, the Zombie House’s die-hard fans take notice of him. Shuffling feet and pitiful moans draw closer as he searches for the correct keys among the many on his ring in the poorly lit lot. “I hope you assholes know you’re killing a perfectly good sub-genre,” he scolds the encircling throng. “Doing to the zombie what Twilight did to the vampire.”
The chastised horde does not stop. Instead they relentlessly invite him to their blood orgy, as if he is just playing hard to get. Dwayne shakes his head as he slides into the driver’s seat, predicting that these fools are in for a rude awakening when they realize they are opening themselves to ridicule, as the hardcore sci-fi fans have. It kills him to watch. These were his people. Deep down he knows, if he wasn’t so jaded and left with such a sour taste for the genre, he’d be right out there with them, grinding his teeth on the guts and drinking fake blood by the gallon.
Enclosed in his car, away from the madness, he starts his engine and his headlights flare on, illuminating the assembly that surrounds him. A handful of them proudly wear amateurishly applied makeup on their slack faces, their clothes obviously shredded with shears since the cut edges are too neat. For his taste, they should have hand tore them. On the other hand, since the fanatics stop his departure, he has ample time to appraise them, and he sees several that he can commend on their work. Their wounds and blood spatter patterns look authentic. The appliances they are using are nice and moist, not too red.
It’s a damn shame, he thinks, looking at the ravaged meat of one guy’s face, depicting a wound all the way to the bone. Such a wonderful prosthetic is wasted because the rest of the man’s costume tells a conflicting story. He critiques the zombie like the judge of a special effects reality show. You’re in burial clothes that I can tell aren’t slit in the back. How the hell they got your corpse into those is beyond me! The dirt you rubbed on your skin suggests you came fresh from the grave, so why the fuck would you have been bitten?
Dwayne’s experience working at the haunt, creating so many scares and characters, has given him an eye for detail. Every aspect must tell a tale without words if you want it to look real. Custo
mers may never become privy to the full truth of every artifice, but it shows in the work. So many of these ‘dead’ just look like zombie fans that have arrived at a horror venue and inadvertently got bitten by a real one.
“That’s actually a pretty cool idea,” he admits, nodding farewell to the zombies that bat at his window. Clawing hands leave behind smears of what he assumes is corn syrup.
Despite their persistence to draw him into their shared fantasy, he refuses to stay. He bullies his car through the mass, figuring they can either move aside or get run over. He just wants to go home and hates the fact he must delay that by going to the hospital first.
His front bumper pushes them yet they won’t break character. Dwayne is tempted to live up to his ultimatum of running them over, but yields. Instead he scans the backyard for an alternate route.
Beyond the headstones he had helped construct are the real markers of the neighboring cemetery. Figures walk among the graves, just like the image on all their promos and the coveted ‘zurvived’ shirt. Under the light of the moon, the earth is disturbed. Hands sprout, clawing their way free, as if begging to be released from the soil.
11
Josh led Brandon and Vida down the hall to a panel in the ceiling at the far end. The opposition in their way was nothing compared to what follows them, so Brandon quickly pulls the cord to lower the attic’s retractable ladder.
“Go up!” Josh commands. “I’ll hold them back.”
Life Among The Dead (Book 3): A Bittersweet Victory Page 3