Dust of the Devil's Land

by Bryan Killian

  “It’s ok, Brett. I’m not quite dead yet. Can you help me up please?” Roger speaks in a breathless tone holding out his left hand.

  Brett takes Roger’s hand and helps him up, “I’m sorry, Roger. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “You did perfect,” Roger says, feeling his body giving way to the rapidly spreading infection. He leans against Brett and looks to Papi and Yonkey, both of whom have their weapons trained on him. Papi’s eyes are wet.

  “I’m really scared, Brett. I don’t want to die. Not like this.”

  “I know, man, I know. What can we do?”

  Roger looks at his bedroom window, “Can I go to my room? I don’t want to die out here or up there. I want to lay down in my bed.”

  “Papi, can you help me get him into his room?” Brett asks, guiding Roger towards the house. “Open the back door. The house is clear, or should be. We left it closed.”

  Papi and Yonkey look at each other, then to Sly. Sly nods her head up and down slightly.

  Papi walks over to the back door and opens it with Yonkey standing at the ready. Yonkey enters the house first and walks through the wrecked kitchen to the living room. The living room still holds the calling card the military left behind. Yonkey moves past the overturned couch and destroyed coffee table, and through the small hallway. He checks each room carefully, finding the room he knows is Roger’s. The various Batman and Avengers posters, along with the one intact shelf displaying several superhero and Todd McFarlane Monster action figures, is a strong indicator he is correct.

  “Clear,” Yonkey yells, waiting at Roger’s bedroom.

  “Ok, boys.” Papi allows Roger and Brett to walk into the house first. Brett helps Roger walk directly to his room. Roger leans against the wall, watching Brett grab his mattress and slide it back onto the box spring. Papi steps into the room and approaches Roger, placing both hands on his shoulders. Roger looks up with his graying eyes and a quivering bottom lip. Papi doesn’t say a word choosing instead to pull Roger in for a hug. He wraps his arms around the boy, pulling him close to his chest and whispers, “If I had a son, I’d want him to be just like you. I’ll see you on the other side my friend.” He kisses Roger on the forehead then walks him to his bed. “Remember, you throw a hell of a right cross. You can probably use that again.”

  “Thanks, Papi. I wish I’d known you and the rest before the world died. I…Brett’s mom, I…” Roger’s speech is labored, raspy and barely audible.

  Brett interrupts, “we’ve all heard that story. I’ll be fine Roger. You need to rest or save your strength or…you need to do something.” Brett begins to cry. Tears roll freely down his face and he can no longer find words.

  Yonkey remains outside the door and motions Papi over. “We need to finish this now and move on. It’s fucking getting dark out there.”

  Papi looks back into the room and says, “It’s time, Brett. We need to go.”

  “Fuck off. He’s my friend and we’ll do this my way,” Brett says without looking at Papi.

  “Ok. What’s the plan then?” Papi asks.

  Roger springs from the bed hitting Brett from behind, driving him through the doorway, straight into Papi’s chest. Before Yonkey can react the bedroom door is slammed shut. On the other side, Roger slumps to the floor. He reaches up and presses in the flimsy push button lock.

  “What the fuck? You need to open this door, Roger. You don’t want to become one of them,” Papi pleads at the door.

  “Leave me alone in here. I won’t be able to…get out…door…I…I wasn’t never…smart. I’ll just…stay…here…while and…look at my stuff. I…need Mom…I need you, Mom, Mama…MAMA, DAAAAD!” Roger’s head slumps forward as his thirteen years on earth ends. His lifeless body remains against his door as a long shadow spreads across his face.

  “I swear I’ll end it in the morning. Just leave him in there. You heard him. He probably won’t be able to get out anyways. We’ve seen a ton of zombies stuck in rooms because they didn’t know how to open doors or windows,” Brett explains standing directly in front of the door, not letting Papi or Yonkey near the handle.

  “I’m done with this. It’s fucking dark outside. We need to get back to the truck and move on,” Yonkey says as he leaves in a huff.

  Papi looks at Brett, barely making out his face in the darkening hallway. Just as he is about to speak they both hear the phht phht sound from Sly’s rifle. “Shit. We gotta go, son.” Papi ushers Brett along, ignoring Roger’s door.

  Yonkey stops short of the open door leading from the kitchen to the back yard. He hesitates, thinking of what to do next. He crouches and peers out the door looking up to the tree house. He can see the outline of Sly as she aims her weapon. Another phht. Yonkey hears growling. Must be the boy’s dog. He moves closer to the door and peers outside. A broad shouldered Queensland Heeler snaps its impressive jaw directly on Yonkey’s chin and pulls him from the doorway. He swings violently at the dog with a closed fist and the stock of his shotgun. He can’t gain a solid grip on his weapon long enough to aim it at the dog. He tries to scream but the sound is more reminiscent of a downing man’s plea for God’s forgiveness.

  ***

  Sly sits on the deck of the tree house watching Brett help Roger into his home for the last time, with Papi following close behind to ensure the job is completed properly. She watches the boy disappear, feeling her heart sink. She closes her eyes briefly; wishing Roger a speedy journey, she scans the tree house again. She is impressed by its construction and can’t help feeling the boys would’ve been better off on their own. She is angry with herself and feels somewhat helpless for the first time since the event started. There’s nothing she can do to help Roger, a young man, that over the course of just a couple of days, she’d come to know and respect greatly. Her hands feel clammy so she sets down her rifle and rubs them together. She gazes at the sky, catching the last glimpses of the sunset.

  Rustling sounds draw Sly’s attention away from the sunset. She can make out movement coming her way in the form of lumpy silhouettes. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Sly raises her rifle. Bang! The sound draws Sly’s attention immediately to the open kitchen door. She can make out Papi and Yonkey’s voice but can’t quite understand what they are saying. She keeps her rifle at the ready, and begins scanning the yard. She stops and focuses on a large dark mound in the middle of the yard then notices several more along the back of the driveway. The lumps have moved. “What the fuck is that?” She switches on the small powerful flashlight mounted on the bottom of her rifle. Oh shit! Her first three shots are true, finding their intended targets. Two of the dogs drop instantly, losing most of their heads. The third dog is grazed along the shoulder and manages to elude Sly’s sights. Her fourth shot is errant as well, finding nothing but dirt.

  Sly stands, knocking her head against a supporting tree branch, and her hand slips forward, forcing the barrel of the rifle straight down. She instantly places a free hand on the back of her head and rubs the fast forming lump. The next sound she hears is amongst the worst she will ever recall. She can make out Yonkey’s voice, or what’s left of it, as his muffled cry for help is lost in chaos. Sly raises her rifle, pinpointing the sound, and watches in horror, as Yonkey is drug by the face by a large powerful dog. He fights valiantly against the dog but is no match. Sly takes aim and shoots three rounds into the side of the dog, felling it, however it doesn’t release Yonkey’s face.

  Papi and Brett reach the kitchen door just in time to see Yonkey’s body being drug from the house. Papi races for the door but stops when he hears Sly’s rifle shots. He moves towards Yonkey after Sly’s last shot but stops when he hears growling in the dark. “Get up the ladder, boy!” Papi waves Brett out of the house and towards the rope ladder.

  Brett obliges and runs for the ladder. His quick movement draws much unwanted attention. Several dogs burst from the darkness, tearing after Brett. Papi opens fire with his shotgun, hitting one directly in the chest, sending it flying
backwards. He pumps another round, hearing the silenced shots of Sly’s rifle. Boom, another shot from Papi and another dead dog. As quickly as the attack begins, it ends. Papi scans the immediate area, not seeing any dogs. From above Sly scans the area with her rifle-mounted flashlight. In the distance she can see their eyes reflecting light. There are too many to count.

  “Papi, they’re everywhere. Move towards the ladder slowly and I’ll cover you,” Sly continues scanning with her rifle at the ready.

  Papi peers out into the darkness, then back to the tree house. The rope ladder is a mere twenty feet from him. He looks at the crumpled mound on the ground that is Yonkey and his attacker. Yonkey is continuing to struggle with his back to Papi. He is knelt over the dog with both hands firmly pressed against its head. Papi steps closer to Yonkey, not knowing what he can do for the young man but he feels he has to offer some assistance, then he hears a sound unlike any he has ever heard before. There is a short series of pops followed by moist tearing. Papi stops and watches Yonkey stand upright with his back turned.

  Sly sees the movement as well and trains her light on Yonkey’s back. Yonkey stands still.

  “Papi, get to the ladder, this isn’t right,” Sly doesn’t quite yell but speaks loud enough to draw Papi’s attention as well as Yonkey’s.

  Yonkey spins around locking eyes with Papi.

  “Fuck me,” Papi says, turning to run for the rope ladder. Yonkey’s entire lower jaw is gone along with his tongue. The only thing left is a grotesque opening. Long strips of flesh are missing from his neckline and the front of his jacket is covered in blood. His eyes are foggy and grey. Papi’s movement registers in his field of vision. Yonkey pursues his prey, then falls to the ground missing the back of his head.

  Sly watches the back of Yonkey’s head explode outward then shifts her focus back to the dogs. They are coming, all of them and they’re fast. “Hurry your ass up, Papi,” Sly yells opening fire on as many as she can sight. Phht phht phht phht phht phht.

  Papi reaches the ladder in a few strides. He grasps the rope sides, instantly regretting his decision. He should have raced back into Roger’s house. Unlike a standard ladder, the rope ladder swings freely making it difficult to maneuver unless you’re a kid, monkey or acrobat. Papi is none of the above. He makes the second rung and looks up to see the dimly lit face of Brett as he reaches down in an attempt to help Papi. The first dog reaches Papi, tearing into his left leg. The second and third dogs reach him, ending his life quickly. Brett, eyes wide, witnesses Papi’s last moments on Earth. Brett pulls the ladder up and secures the hatch door. He stands and looks to Sly, standing at the edge of the deck. He can’t tell if she is looking at him or off into the distance. Her soft words float through the harsh night air. “I’m sorry, Brett.”

  CHAPTER 60.

  Execute

  The door to the Monitoring Center floor opens silently. The usual squeak is no longer present, having been taken care of hours prior by a now dead maintenance worker. Sebastian Butler enters the room and walks along the dark shadows at the rear of the large room, just as he has done hundreds of times before, while Phillip Lodge and Jason Dix worked. Butler remains in the darkness, observing. He watches the large screens, just as Phillip is, periodically peering over to Dix, who is busying himself with his computer.

  The center monitor displays a security camera view from a corner bank, somewhere in Los Angeles. It is dark in Los Angeles, but Phillip is a master at his craft and finds a way to turn on the lights around the ATM. The dead come from every direction, drawn to the light. Phillip watches for a few minutes then types on the wireless keyboard he carries. The center monitor changes and now is completely dark, but for the alphanumeric sign CCVST 1 displayed in the lower right hand corner. Phillip continues typing commands as the screen comes to life.

  A commuter rail station, somewhere north of San Diego, appears. A single track running through a modest one-platform station can be seen on the monitor. Phillip types another command, then places his hand on the small joystick extending from the side of his specialized keyboard. The camera begins scanning the area, tilting downward and then back up again.

  “Another pan and tilt. Nice. Looks quiet there, wherever there is,” Dix says, looking briefly from his workstation.

  “Carlsbad. We went drinking there a few times. Remember?”

  “Oh yeah, the Boars Head or Trail or something.”

  “Yeah something like that. It won’t be quiet for long. I lit up the whole place. Maybe we’ll get lucky and spot a survivor. Spook still has teams in Camp Pendleton. Not too far away,” Phillip explains with some enthusiasm.

  “We saw what happened in New Mexico, Chicago and at the Greyhound station near Vegas. Unless the team is sleeping right there, don’t count on any rescue. Hell, we’d be better off not finding any survivors at this point. The New Mexico thing fucked with my head.” Dix looks back to his monitor, watching lines of code process.

  Butler sits in the dark, listening to the two men for a while longer. He looks down at his watch, stands, and walks out of the darkness. His steps are silent, never once alerting Phillip and Dix he was in the room. He steps up behind Dix, raising the Glock 21, and terminates the young programmer with one shot to the base of the skull. The sound of the shot, though silenced, startles Phillip. He turns quickly to see Butler pointing the weapon straight at him.

  “No…” Phillip’s body falls backwards against a low railing and tumbles to the floor. Butler removes the silencer from the end of his weapon and sets it down on an unused workstation. He releases the slide on the now empty weapon, and holsters it. He no longer has use for the sidearm, but he still respects the weapon and would never leave it lying about. He steps over the same low railing Phillip fell over, and walks up to the center monitor. He removes a handkerchief from the left front pocket of his sport coat and wipes Phillip’s blood away from the lower left corner of the screen. Once satisfied with the cleanliness of the screen, he sits at an empty workstation and begins typing. Several commands later the telephone sitting next to him rings.

  “Three. Butler, Charlie Delta 7876 Romeo. One is go.” Butler waits for a response. The voice on the other end is slightly out of breath, and seems a bit panicked. “Two. Howell, Mike Oscar 8932. One is go.”

  The line remains silent for close to a minute, then one by one; more voices arrive and speak in the same cryptic style. Different accents are detectable as well as different levels of calmness. As the call signs are given, Butler notes each one carefully on a pad of paper. He has numbers 1 through 30 written down the side of the page. After several minutes he reaches number 30. He places the receiver on the cradle and breathes deeply before setting the alarm on his watch for 0700. He has approximately six hours.

  CHAPTER 61.

  Past

  Jack searches the master bedroom, gathering his essential belongings. His mind is made up. He isn’t dying in this house, with this family. He is going home. He stuffs his blue backpack with weapons and ammunition he knows how to use, leaving the fancy machine guns for whomever or whatever can use them, because he just doesn’t give a shit anymore. He reloads his dual 357’s and the shotgun, retrieves Jerome’s Big Fucking Gun from the bottom of the steps, and walks back up the stairs as zombies continue knocking. The garage door echoes loudly, annoying Jack even further. He guesses the front door won’t hold for much longer due to the growing number of zombies, and he knows the door leading from the garage is heavily secured, but again, zombies roaming around the interior of the garage won’t be a good thing. Jack strategically places his backpack and a small black duffle bag near the front door.

  Jack is determined to find the best course for escape through the use of the monitors. He holds Ronan’s Hot Wheel in his right hand as he looks over the monitors. The dead are everywhere, even in the backyard. Motherfucker! The front of the house has already proven too difficult to pass and the backyard is becoming a sprawling zombie metropolis. The small blue spiral notebook, sitting
on the shelf near the monitors, glows in the reflected light from a nearby monitor. He picks up the notebook, realizing once again how forgetful he has become. This could have come in handy a couple of hours ago. Number 4 is already spent, so he looks over the list for something closer, preferably on the same street but away from the 4x4 next door. Bingo, number 3 is three doors up the street, leading away from the house and the exit out of the neighborhood. Jack finds the wire labeled 3 and makes the connection. He listens for a few seconds hearing nothing. “Where the fuck is the alarm?” He looks at the monitors and sees some zombies moving away from the driveway. The dead closest to the house continue their assault. He studies the monitors further, finally finding what was attracting them. A series of small fireworks, pinwheels to be exact, are on full display three houses down.

  Pinwheel after pinwheel ignites. One by one the colorful sparks dance, attracting the dead. They walk and run to the house, gathering in the driveway and front yard. Some fall over dormant hedges lining the yard. A pinwheel ignites directly in front of a line of zombies, holding their attention for only a few more moments. Soon the dead begin to walk away, bumping into one another, falling, stumbling, and in general, heading back to Jack.

  Jack watches all he can from the monitors, then looks back through the master bedroom to the covered sliding glass door. He thinks for a second he can gain a better vantage point from the deck but can’t decide if it’s worth the risk. He turns back to the monitors as the first explosion occurs. Four of the six IED’s placed by the man in white explode simultaneously, cutting down everything in the front yard and driveway. The man in white created shape charges, loaded with various bits of shrapnel, meant to sever limbs and cut bodies in half. The devices were extremely successful. The front of the vacant house is now on fire and the front yard is strewn with dead body parts. A few zombies pull themselves along the ground, using the stumps where their arms once were. The street leading up to the vacant house still crawls with zombie activity. They mill around not knowing where to go. The sight and sound of the fire is now drawing them closer to the vacant house. The zombies banging on the front of the house are finally attracted to something other than the promise of Jack meat. They fill the street and sidewalks, heading towards the fire.