Dust of the Devil's Land

by Bryan Killian

  In his excitement Jack fails to notice the window to left of the bed is open. He is focused on the weapons stash. He begins packing weapons and ammo into two separate duffle bags. His left arm and hand throb and the headache he thought he’d banished returns with a vengeance. He wonders if his left arm has an infection. He decides to tend further to his wounds, which means going back downstairs.

  Jack sits on the edge of the bed as the thought of carrying the bag of weapons downstairs proves exhausting. He collects his thoughts while placing his hand over the wound on his left forearm. It’s not warm to the touch, ruling out infection. As his thoughts move away from his mutilated arm, Jack discovers something pleasant. The bed is soft under the crinkle of the tarp. He stands, pulling back the corner of the tarp. The bed is made and the comforter appears clean. He pulls the bottom corner of the comforter back and stares at the perfect hospital corners tucked in. Julia always made our bed perfectly. His desire for a bit of normalcy outweighs all other immediate needs. He wants to sleep in a real bed in a real room. He wants to forget about the family of ghouls under the house because there’s a real bed with sheets, blankets, and pillows.

  This place is not safe, Jack

  The voice is behind Jack, breaking his enchantment with the bed. He turns just in time catching a glimpse of Julia’s ghost dissolving in the filtered sunlight. “Julia.”

  She does not answer. Jack stands a moment longer, trying with no luck to shake from his head the thought of his dead wife. “I know you’re here. I heard you. I can see you. Fuck, Julia, we’ve had conversations. Why are you playing this ghost shit now? I’m tired darling. I just need to get out of these clothes and sleep. Tell Ronan I love him.”

  Jack walks to the in-suite bathroom. He sets down his coffee and stares at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t recognize the man staring back. For a moment he thinks he might be dead, a zombie walking around in a stranger’s house. His eyes are sunken, his beard ragged and patchy. Mucus has crusted under his nose and throughout parts of his thick mustache. He spreads his lips apart then closes them quickly as he spies his own decaying teeth and gums. Looking for a quick distraction, he glances down and sees a half-used bar of soap, resting in a fancy soap dish. Two toothbrushes hang from a holder, next to a nearly full bottle of Listerine. Two washcloths are folded neatly near the edge of the sink, and an electric razor is cradled and charging.

  Jack stares at the products, allowing his mind to catch up with reality. He reaches out touching one of the washcloths, finding it damp. He picks up the soap, noticing the typical soap puddle left under a wet bar. Pushing the test further he turns on the cold handle first, watching clear water flow from the faucet. He grasps the remaining handle and turns it, knowing it’s too good to be true. The water remains cold for a few seconds, and then steam begins to rise. “No fucking way. Hot water!”

  The shower stall beckons. Jack stands at the clear glass door, hesitating, once again feeling his luck’s about to run out. He opens the door, turns the knob and presto, hot shower. He quickly strips off his soiled clothes, and pulls open drawers looking for anything to cover his wounded left arm and hand. No luck. “Fuck it,” he mumbles, as he steps into the glorious hot water, holding his left arm outside the shower. Some water splashes onto the wounds stinging a bit, but he doesn’t mind. The water is refreshing, exhilarating and he can feel the human side of himself coming back. He squeezes a generous amount of shampoo over his head. Using his right hand he works it into his hair and his beard. He scrubs his feces and urine covered lower body as the suds rush down, feeling his manhood grow. Am I really doing this? One, two, three and on the fourth stroke he releases and he drops to his knees, body shaking. Water runs down his left arm, but the stinging is overshadowed by his climax. He leans forward pressing his head against the warm tile and watches a stream of his ejaculate mixed with dirt and grime circled the shower drain. Soon the water clears.

  CHAPTER 31.

  Dogs II

  The Doberman’s death grip releases from Edward’s neck as the light that was once his life begins fading into oblivion. Sounds of people speaking, shouts and other activities become a murmur, and then fade. The last remaining thoughts Edward has are lost, swallowed by darkness. Light floods back in, although Edward doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know anything now, except a basic instinctual need to feed. There is movement as something crosses his field of vision. He shoves the dead dog from his chest, rising to his feet. Something big is within reach.

  “Fuck, G, move,” Sly yells, seeing Edward coming for Giant.

  Giant spins and attempts to backhand Edward with his right hand. His feet cross and he stumbles, causing his right hand to grasp Edwards’ shoulder for support. This natural move costs him dearly as Edward grabs his arm, biting down just above the wrist.

  Giant screams and strikes Edward with his left fist, driving the new zombie backwards. Edward trips over the dead Doberman, landing flat on his back. A sickening gurgling sound blurts out from the gaping hole in his throat as the air trapped in his chest is forced out. Edward is back on his feet in less than a second. Sly can’t find a clear shot around Giant’s massive upper body. The boys stand in shock, motionless, while Yonkey moves towards the door.

  “Giant, get down!” Sly yells.

  “No. I’ll take care of this one.” Just as the words escape Giant’s mouth, Edward pounces. Giant catches him in midair, spins him around, and tosses Edward’s tall lanky body though the air. Giant has intended on throwing Edward against a hard wall then finishing him off with his bat. Instead, Edward crashes through the office window, dragging most of the blind with him.

  “Shit!”

  Outside the office dogs sit waiting patiently, listening to the ruckus inside. Fresh meat, though it’s already dead, lands near them. Two of the seven dogs attack Edward, dragging the zombie down to the floor. They tear open his abdomen and begin feasting on the still warm flesh. The remaining five stare at the band of survivors.

  “Back up, boys. Move to the back door of the office,” Sly says calmly, barely motioning the boys to move. Yonkey stands closest to the dogs but is half hidden by the doorjamb. He slides further behind the door, but finds he is trapped. He looks at Giant, making eye contact, and breathes a sigh of relief when Giant motions him to get behind him.

  “I’m a dead man. You guys use the back stairs. I’ll stay here and make myself useful,” Giant said puffing out his chest and broadening his shoulders.

  “No, G, you’re coming with us. We’ll figure this thing out. We’ll cut off your fucking hand if we need to,” Sly begs her friend to follow. Her voice cracks and the sound rips through Giant. He has never heard her cry.

  “Don’t, Sylvia. If you cry, I cry, and I don’t want to go out that way.”

  “Please Vernon, come with us.” Sly continues shuffling the boys to the rear of the office. Roger and Brett watch the big man in amazement, as he seemingly appears to grow bigger, similar to the Hulk.

  “Did you see that?” Brett whispers.

  “Yeah.”

  Giant stands his ground. The five dogs, all big and baring their teeth, begin moving towards Giant.

  “You will always be with me, my friend. Remember what I taught you about rugby. Even when you get knocked down, you get back up. TRY TIME!” Giant screams, sprinting forward. He removes the 12-gauge pump shotgun slung over his back and fires. The first dog over the wall catches a full load of buckshot in the face, disintegrating its head instantly. The second shot hits two dogs, both collie mixes. The buckshot spread is effective. Giant is smiling, knowing the shortened barrel is doing the trick. Third shot removes the front legs of a black lab mix just as it leaps into the air. The final dog turns to run. Its graying eyes blink rapidly, forcing out more sticky secretion. Giant hops over the wall and removes his .45. He leads the dog for three long strides, then removes the top of the dog’s head with one shot.

  Giant takes a second to check if Sly and the rest did what they were told. Giant smil
es at the empty room. “Good girl.” He walks to the top of the stairs, peering down at the Atrium’s main floor. Several more dogs are spotted eating survivors, while some run back and forth with blood flowing from open wounds. One dog is dragging one of the ten-year-old twins by the arm. His head is dangling at an awkward position. The boy twitches, then takes a swing at the dog. The dog drops the twin. He remains on his chest for a moment as the dog nips at his side. Without warning, the boy springs sideways, snaring the dog. He attempts to bite the dog in the face but misses. The dog squirms, breaking free and running away, disappearing down the hallway leading to the sub level doors. The boy stands and Giant can see, from his vantage point, his eyes had already turned grey. Giant shakes his head in bewilderment, stepping towards the main floor, when a large crashing sound erupts from the south side of the Atrium.

  A breath-stopping cramp runs up Giant’s chest, causing him to clench his fists. It lasts a few seconds, then the cramp eases. He knows he doesn’t have long. It took Edward a few minutes, if that, to change and Caroline seemed to take less time. “Fuck it, time to meet Hell!” Giant’s chest is puffed out, weapons are drawn, and he is ready to die as he steps down, meeting Hell.

  CHAPTER 32.

  Ice Cream Parlor

  Raul Garcia Jones was adopted when he was five. after spending two years in the Shasta County foster care program. An age where his social worker was about to tell him he was too old to be adopted because families wanted babies. The Jones family came along looking for just that; they wanted a new baby. They never intended on adopting a five year old, but they met Raul by accident. Or, as his new mom said, “It was fate you came into our lives.” Raul came home with his new sisters and one brother, who were all older than him. He was the youngest by three years and definitely closest to his brother Jordan, who was eight years old when the adoption occurred.

  When the event started Jordan was a sophomore in college. Raul was in his junior year of high school and excelling. He was on the fast track to a college of his choice and he wasn’t even the smartest sibling in the family. They were all high achievers and now they were all dead, completely dead. Only Raul was left to roam the face of the earth as part of the growing legion of zombies. He’d suffered a fatal bite from his best friend while doing what he always did, helping others. He’d ended his best friend’s second term on Earth with a garden gnome—not the most heroic way of destroying a walking abomination—then crawled behind a large shrub, living out the rest of his natural life in silent self-conversations. Is this all there is? Is this life, is this death? The answers never came.

  His breathing grew shallow, his vision blurred. The sun shone through a low layer of clouds, drawing Raul’s fleeting attention. Emerging from the shrubs, Raul stood on a manicured lawn strewn with bloody corpses, some of which moved. He swayed back and forth as his breath became shallow and rapid. His eyesight continued to blur as he stared at the sky. “Life is beautiful…” Blackness.

  The body of Raul Garcia Jones stood motionless, head tilted towards the sky. His chest ceased moving as his last breath escaped. Several zombies walked past without paying him any attention. Suddenly his head cocked unnaturally to one side. A sickening pop sounded as he continued turning his head. His arms began to move up and down and he stepped forward, testing his motor skills. His head swung around forward to the natural position for a human and most zombies. His grey foggy eyes didn’t blink.

  The Jones family routinely gathered at the ice cream parlor next to the Atrium. Even after the girls left for college, the remaining members always made it a point to find time in their busy schedules to get together and laugh. Raul had taken to walking to the parlor. He found it relaxing and it always gave him time to think of amusing anecdotes to share. He walked the same route every time, leading him around a few of the city’s landmarks and a small park where a few homeless people hung out. He spoke with them often, and brought them leftover sack lunches from the High School. It was part of his helping ways. After he died, he wandered his neighborhood for a few days before venturing out. He found his ice cream parlor path, sensing some familiarity, walking to the front door, and bringing several new friends with him.

  Sudden screams of the living, mixed with barking dogs, grab Raul’s attention. His hand has been resting on the ice cream shop’s door handle for hours. He shakes the door handle vigorously, finally shoving his full body weight against the door. The gathering zombies around him, sixty strong, all begin doing the same. They push against the wall and some push against Raul’s back. The combined weight forces the door in. Raul falls to the floor but quickly finds purchase before being trampled. Others are not so lucky. One older zombie, a former senior citizen forced to work at the local Target due to rising health insurance costs and a lack of complete coverage, falls directly behind Raul and has his rotting head crushed instantly by an obese woman in a frenzy.

  Outside the large bay window of the ice cream parlor, the dead pile onto one another, creating a zombie wall of sorts. Soon they scale the mere five feet and crash through the window. The breaking glass severs, deteriorating appendages, sending an arm here, a leg there; one well-placed head now rests on the counter next to the cash register. Next to the head a notice is posted: Sorry, no Checks or Credit Cards Accepted. CASH ONLY! Zombies pass the sign and severed head, paying them no attention. They rush the back of the store following Raul. Having blindsided the on-duty guard, who was in the midst of abandoning his post as a result of the pack of death dogs, they are in the Atrium within seconds. The guard is thrown to the floor and soon becomes a bloody mess of bones and uniform bits. His right hand, long ago removed from the rest of his body, still rests on the trigger of his M4A1 rifle. A scavenging zombie picks up the hand, inadvertently pulling the trigger. The single shot ricochets off a marble columns lining the first floor of the Atrium. The bullet strikes the left ear of Adam McCaw as he is yelling out completely useless orders.

  “Mother Fucker!” Adam yells, cupping his hands over his left ear. Blood pours from between his fingers. He raises his .40 and shoots at another dog running by, missing. He shoots again, this time at an approaching citizen-turned-zombie of the Atrium. The shot is true. From behind him he hears a familiar voice. Liz.

  “We have to go, Adam.”

  Adam doesn’t turn. He chooses to watch his kingdom end from the second floor. The vantage point allows him to pick off approaching dogs with ease and provides a complete view of the chaos below. He notices the dead rise quickly after being attacked by the dogs. It’s hard to believe at first, but it’s true. The damn dogs are spawning new zombies at an accelerated rate. His mind feverishly works on a solution. He doesn’t want to lose the Atrium to fucking dogs or the dead. He wants to stay and wait for real help to come. He wants to lay low and survive this hiccup in human history. He scans the bottom floor then the floors above for any members of the so-called Squad. Just when he needed them most they are nowhere to be seen.

  The rest of Hell enters the bottom floor, drawing Adam’s attention from the top floors. They swarm the remaining living, having already eaten the only posted guard at the ice cream parlor. “That fucking Ice Cream shop. I knew that would be the death of me,” Adam yells at Liz. The bonus of the situation, there will be less people to contend with and life will be much easier with less population. In Adam’s mind, this is a dream come true.

  “Oh dear god we really need to get going,” Liz explains, tugging on Adam’s shoulder. “I have no idea where Edward or Anderson is and they’re not answering their radios. If the Squad beats us to the trucks we’ll be left with crap. Now, let’s go!”

  Adam spins around watching Liz withdraw quickly. Her eyes told him she feared he was going to strike her. He stands motionless, blood continuing to seep from his left ear.

  “Oh my, are you ok?” Liz asks apprehensively.

  “Yes. I’m fine. You’re right. We need to get out of here.”

  Liz smiles then turns to go. Adam watches his robust Directo
r of Logistics walk away. She is correct, if the Squad beats them to the trucks, they’d be fucked, and by ‘they’ he meant him. There is no way Liz will make it out of the building, being that she’s his sacrificial lamb. He follows behind her until she stops at the top of the stairs. He steps next to her.

  “I didn’t expect that,” Adam states out loud, raising his .40. At the bottom of the steps stands zombie Anderson. On his belt hangs several sets of keys. “He has my keys, Liz.”

  CHAPTER 33.

  Sleep

  Jack stands in the doorway of the control center. A ghostly glow penetrates the darkness from monitors hanging on the walls. He stands wearing a long black robe and slippers he found in the bathroom. A steaming cup of coffee in his right hand, while his left hand and forearm remain uncovered with the sleeve of his robe pushed up. For the most part the bleeding has ceased and scabbing has begun. He walks through the center, studying the monitors, gaining some bearing on the camera locations and his current zombie situation.