Dext of the Dead (Book 3): We Are The Entombed Read online

  WE ARE THE ENTOMBED

  Dext of the Dead – Book Three

  By

  Steve Kuhn

  “Fans of The Walking Dead are going to love this series. The characters are realistic and witty, the dialogue is great and the writing is quickly paced. The series should do well. Recommended.”

  ~ Weston Kincade, author of A Life of Death

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  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, events, dialog, and situations in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of reprinted excerpts for the purpose of reviews.

  WE ARE THE ENTOMBED

  BOOKS of the DEAD

  Copyright 2014 by Steve Kuhn

  Edited by Wake Editing

  Cover Design by Small Dog Design

  For more information, contact: [email protected]

  Visit us at: Booksofthedeadpress.com

  Read All 5 Books In Steve Kuhn’s Amazing

  Apocalyptic Series Dext Of The Dead:

  WE ARE THE PLAGUE

  WE ARE THE INFECTED

  WE ARE THE ENTOMBED

  WE ARE THE EXTINCTION

  WE ARE THE END

  Entry 82

  Murphy got this Freightliner going, and I gotta say, it’s been a comfortable ride for the past couple of days. We ditched that diner a lot sooner than I thought we would have but, much like Hope’s place, it was more painful to stay than go. Cutty, JC, and Fool are on point up ahead of us, and Rebecca has been keeping Kylee company in the sleeper of the new rig along with the Fart-meister.

  Murphy has rediscovered the ancient art of C.B. radios and even installed one in the jeep that we ripped out of another rig at the truck stop. Listening to Murphy, Cutty, and Fool on these fucking things is hilarious—almost as funny as the “funeral” Murphy had for his truck as we left it behind at the truck stop.

  The C.B. radio crackled, and he began, “Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today to both celebrate a long and prosperous life and to mourn the end of an era. I remember when I first saw her. She was beautiful, sexy… classy, in a half-ton kinda way. She sparkled when I put my hands on her, and she purred when I got her motor runnin’. She was loyal, reliable, and I hoped that we’d grow old together.”

  He let his finger off of the button on the radio, and I heard Cutty on the other end chime in with, “Yes, Lawd! Preach it, Mista Murphy!”

  Murphy smirked at me and continued, “But it was not to be. I knew she was always worried that I would trade her in for a newer model, and I could never quite make her understand that she was my one and only…”

  Fart growled from the sleeper cab as if disgruntled that Murphy would even imply that she wasn’t his favorite, and Murphy told her, “Oh, knock it off, you! I haven’t left you behind yet, have I?”

  She huffed a snort of seeming disbelief and laid her head back down.

  “We had a lot of good times, me and that baby-blue slice of heaven. I loved that fuckin’ truck. May she rest in peace. Father, Son, Holy Spirit, Amen.”

  Cutty crackled back, “Amen, brotha. Amen!”

  It reminds me of a few of the good times we had with Junior and Wyatt. I wish Kylee was with it enough to laugh with me.

  Shit… that was a pretty selfish thing to say.

  Earlier in the day, though, we came across some pretty troubling shit. We saw the smoke on the roadside, so we approached cautiously as the jeep pulled over to investigate. When we hopped out, it was clear that some pretty serious shit went down.

  I can only imagine the size of the highway herd that once roamed here. There had to be hundreds. What was left of two enormous fires smoldered in the morning dew, and the stench of biters, burning flesh, and wet leaves mixed to form a strange and sickening smell of week-old cookout leftovers.

  Between the dying fires was a sizable row of makeshift graves—not the ones with bodies buried in them or whatever, though. These were more like markers. They were made up of machine guns stuck into the wet ground with helmets atop them and a pair of boots next to each one. A set of military dog tags hung from each marker.

  I don’t really know what we were thinking, to be honest. I guess Cutty, JC, and I were blowing off steam. Cutty window-shopped along the markers until he found a suitable pair of boots before removing his own and trying them on.

  He called over to me, “Heeell, yeah! Got a nigga stylin’ now, son!”

  I grinned, snagged one of the helmets off of a marker, and threw it on my head. I told Cutty, “Wish I had one of these back when Kylee was always smackin’ me on my fuckin’ nugget-piece!”

  Worst idea ever!

  Fool came running over and snapped at us angrily, “Hey! Da fawck is wrong with you? Take it off! You, too, Cutty. Take that shit off, and put it back exactly how you found it.”

  I pulled off the helmet, sat it back on top of the rifle I got it from, and shot a glance at Cutty.

  He was untying his new boots and muttering, “I don’t know wat da problem is, Fool. Dey don’t be needin’ ’em anymore, an’ I been wearin’ dese worn-out muhfuckas for too damn long any damn way.”

  Fool stalked over to a crouched-down Cutty and pushed him, causing Cutty to fall back onto his ass with a thump. He put his finger in Cutty’s face and said angrily, “Respect, Cutty! Respect for fallen marines! You don’t understand, and yous neve’ will, know what I’m sayin’? But, so help me, if you don’t put that stuff back, we’re gonna have a fawckin’ problem—you an’ me, know what I’m sayin’?”

  It hit me.

  These men were his friends. Biters were in one fire… and the marines were in the other. We were laughing and playing with the things that belonged to his fuckin’ friends—his fellow marines. I felt like an asshole. I just stood there staring at him and Cutty like a complete and utter idiot.

  Cutty looked up at Fool as he realized the same thing and sighed heavily. “Damn, Fool. Ma bad, man. Ma bad,” he apologized.

  Fool held out a hand and helped Cutty to his feet. We put everything back as neatly as possible while Fool walked down the row of markers reading every tag.

  He stopped at about the sixth or seventh one and hung his head, saying, “Dilz. Damn. Dilz is dead.”

  Wiping his face and taking a deep breath, he told me, “That was my boy, know what I’m sayin’?”

  I looked at Fool, threw my arm around his shoulder, and told him, “Yeah, Fool. I know what you’re sayin’. I know exactly what you’re sayin’.”

  Entry 83

  I miss Mom and Dad. There’s a tough guy out there somewhere who would call me a fag for saying that. Hey, tough guy… if you’re readin’ this, go fuck yourself.

  A few months ago, in the beginning, I knew where they had more than likely ended up, and I was at peace with that. They were among friends, in a secure spot, with plenty of ammo and food and all that. I wrote all about it. What I didn’t think about was how long all that food and ammo would last and what they would do after it ran out. Eventually, it would be gone, right?

  If the geeks came, fine. If raiders came, fine. If rescue came, awesome! They could handle almost any threat because of their preparedness, but what if nothing came? What if they just sat there and nothing happened? And then, one day, they were out of everything.

  They would have to move, scavenge, and run like the rest of us. They would eventually come across the
biters and the raiders… the guys like JC.

  Dammit.

  It’s like my mind is just fucking with me. I want so badly to have hope and to have the will to fight the good fight. I want so badly to protect my friends and to show them that we can still be human and good and manage to survive without being animals. Every time I actually think it through, though, I come to a different conclusion. More and more often, I picture us in this never-ending loop of being on the road, chasing a military that we’ll never catch—running around looking for the refills of supplies we need to keep fighting for our lives, only to use them up while fighting for the next refill. It’s retarded. I just want to quit.

  And then, when I’m in a particularly good mood, I imagine the day that we do catch up with Kilo and the rest of the marines. Then that little glimmer of hope turns to shit immediately when I actually consider that they’re running just like we are. So, we’ll catch them one day, make new friends, and fight new battles, until what? Until our new friends are in a fucking bonfire and all their shit’s lined along the side of the road for some asshole like me to desecrate.

  Why can’t you wake up, Kylee? Why do you just sit there motionless, staring into space? What the fuck are you thinking about? Why don’t you understand that I’ve lost nearly everything I’ve ever cared about, and I continue to lose what little I have left with each passing day? Why can’t you understand that I need you? And you do this now!

  No… You’re being selfish, Dext. You’re being a selfish fucking child again.

  Mom would’ve told me that, too. She’d have said, “The world doesn’t revolve around you, Dext. You are not the center of the universe. You might think you are, but you’re not. You need to be there for Kylee and for your friends. You need to stand up and lead them or, at the very least, you need to be there to help them.”

  And I would’ve nodded and argued that I was being selfish because I was hurting. I would’ve come up with about fifty reasons why I was justified in being a selfish, little prick at that moment. I’d try and make it make sense. I’d fail, and I’d know I’d failed.

  Then she would smile, and she’d say, “It’s not easy. I understand how you feel, but I also need you to know that you have to put others before yourself if you love them.”

  It was right about then that Dad would walk in, catch the tail end of the conversation, and say, “Hey, get your shit together! Your mother’s right.” Then he’d grab something from the room and walk back to whatever he was doing before. I’d probably hug Mom and thank her for settin’ me straight. Then I’d walk out of the room, only to find the old man waiting on me. See, Mom was great at calling me out and making me realize I had fucked up. That was crucial. Then Dad would tell me how to fix it or, at the very least, what not to do.

  His approach was more to the point, because he knew exactly how I was thinking. Let’s face it, he’s just an older and wiser version of me. Or am I just a younger and more naïve version of him? Meh, same thing…

  He’d say, “Dext, it’s normal. There’s nothing wrong with feeling the way you do, but you’re actin’ like an asshole. That’s the difference, man. You can feel however you want to feel about shit, but when it comes down to how you act, you need to do the right thing. You need to be a man—not that whole tough-guy, meat-head shit either. By ‘man,’ I mean you need to use those insecure feelings to motivate you. You won’t always do the right thing. Shit, I used to fuck up daily and still do. But you have to try to do right by the people around you. You’ll learn that if you put people ahead of yourself, one day they’ll do it for you.”

  Right about here, I’d go, “But what about when I put someone ahead of myself and then they don’t do the same when I need them?”

  And he’d look me straight in the eye and say, “That would suck, wouldn’t it? Yeah, it’s gonna happen sometimes. Point is, you weren’t that guy. Don’t ever be that guy, Dext.”

  That’s why I miss Mom and Dad. They were a team. I needed them both, and they always did their jobs.

  Don’t be that guy, Dext.

  Entry 84

  We found a pretty sweet garage this morning while on a short scavenging mission. Cutty, Rebecca, and JC stayed back at the tractor trailer with Kylee. She’s going on about a week of this bizarre, catatonic behavior. Murphy said it was purely stress related, but he’s not convinced we have the knowledge or the means to bring her back around. So, for now, we just sit with her and talk to her as if she were normal. It’s weird, but it gets us through.

  This garage was full of tools, parts, and all kinds of awesome shit that we can use to hook up the new truck. The most pleasant surprise of all was that the welder was in order and still had stuff in the tanks!

  Now, as usual, none of this shit came easy, and we had some action while securing the place. It was nothing that we couldn’t handle but still, every time you come across the dead, you run the risk of some nasty shit goin’ down.

  Fart was at Murphy’s side, as always, and her haunches went up almost as soon as we hopped out of the jeep. Murphy patted her on the neck and told her to lead the way, saying, “A’ight, girl, let’s get ’em”

  Fool had his rifle across his back, but opted instead to use his sidearm. I did my best gangster impression and drew my two pistols from behind my back, dual wielding like some Lethal Weapon wannabe.

  Murphy shot me a sideways glance and said, “Christ’s sake, Sally, you ain’t no fuckin’ Rambo. Last time I saw you take a shot at a dumbshit, you almost hit the last survivor in the next state over. Maybe you oughtta stick to using one at a time, eh?”

  I mumbled something about teabagging him while he sleeps as Fool chimed in, “He can’t shoot, but he punches like a fawckin’ boxer, know what I’m sayin’? Maybe you shouldn’t bust his balls like dat, Murph… Might end up like JC ova here.”

  We all chuckled at the joke as I stashed one back into my belt.

  I was about to say something else, but I didn’t get the chance. From out of the parking lot beside the garage, a two-piece emerged and started moaning and creeping towards us. We’ve been calling out our geeks by number like that for the past couple of days. It makes me laugh sometimes.

  The other night, I drew the short straw yet again and had to stand guard while Cutty took one of his famously disgusting baked-bean shits. While he was in the middle of dropping this massive deuce, he looked up and went, “Awww shiggity! Got us a three-piece and a biscuit.”

  I was like, “Knock it off, dude. You’re gaggin’ me with your funky ass, and you wanna talk about a chicken box? If I even think about food right now, I’m gonna barf.”

  He was like, “Naw, nigga. Right there! Three biters and a crawlin’ muhfucka, right across da way—three-piece… and the crawler’s da biscuit.”

  Why was that funny? Fuck if I know, but it made me forget for a second that Cutty was takin’ a crap and three and a half geeks were within twenty feet. That’s when Kylee would have normally smacked me across the back of the head for not seeing them first. There was no smack this time. Instead, Cutty just tossed me a machete and said, “On ya own, homie.”

  I worked it out. It wasn’t all badass like Cutty’s machete skills, but I managed to run around the small group, swinging when I saw an opportunity, until they were down. It took me about ten minutes to get them all finished off while fat ass sat there merrily stinkin’ up the countryside.

  Anyway, back to today. This two-piece was headed at us, so I posted up and took a shot. Naturally, it missed. Fool took a long look at me and said, “Nah, you’re doin’ it all wrong, know what I’m sayin’? Hold it like a titty.”

  Now, my first thought was, Did I just hear that right? And I’m sure my face showed my confusion, so he reiterated.

  “Ya know, like a titty. Your holdin’ the fawckin’ gun like it’s ya dick and jerkin’ it all around. Be gentle, know what I’m sayin’? You don’t grab a titty like that. You grab a titty all soft an’ shit. Try again.”

  I shrugged and to
ok aim again, but this time I let the weight of the weapon sit comfortably in my hand. I looked over at Fool, and he nodded his approval.

  He added, “Now, hold your breath, and squeeze nice an’ easy. Juuuust like a tiiittttiiieeee.”

  Boom!

  That fuckin’ bernie’s head exploded like Gallagher with a watermelon.

  Murphy spat on the ground and said, “Sum bitch! Not bad, Sally.” He clapped me on the back as Fool casually smoked the second one for us.

  Dumb and dumber are scrounging around right now for this and that, but I think we’ll just bring the tractor over tonight and get to work. We’ve got some ideas on how we can make the trailer secure and comfortable, and Fool is confident that he can figure out where we can make gun ports. We’ll slap some armor on that bitch and make us a for real tractor-battle-tank-mutha-fuckin’-awesomesauce vehicle.

  I figure if we have to roll on across this shit hole of a country against hordes of undead sack biters, we might as well do it in style.

  I will call it—Dextimus Prime!

  Entry 85

  All right, straight up, Dextimus Prime is the shit! Problem is, Murphy’s being a bitch, and he won’t let anyone else drive it.

  We got the doors on the cab, the trailer all reinforced, and Murphy attached this badass wedge to the front for pushing cars and debris out of the way. It’s working like a charm.

  Inside the trailer, though; that’s where life gets a little lovelier. It was hot as balls inside, so the first thing we did was cut some ventilation holes in the sidewalls, near the top, down the length of the entire trailer. We tore out some bench seats from some junkers out back of the garage and made a little living room back there, too. The bedrolls fit near the rear comfortably, and JC made some sweet gun racks to hang from the walls.

  Lighting was an issue at first, but it didn’t take Rebecca very long to MacGyver up a solution to that little problem. She snagged a few old car batteries and some light fixtures from the adjoining office and did some wiring magic. The finale was accompanied by her usual, “Voila!”

  So, yeah, it’s pretty much a mobile living space. I think tomorrow we’ll try and figure out how to put a ladder and hatch up to the roof of the trailer just in case the shit really hits the fan one day and we’re completely surrounded. For now, though, I’d say it’s pretty well sorted out. We’ll keep two bodies in the jeep as a pilot vehicle, and hopefully we won’t draw much attention from the dead. Although, I do worry that the living would take one look at this hotness and want it for themselves. If that should happen, we’ll be as ready as we can be.