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

  In other news, Kylee hasn’t said or done anything yet. She’s still just wistfully staring into space and barely acknowledging anyone. We’ve managed to keep her safely tucked away, though. I talk to her sometimes. Even if she isn’t listening, I think it’s good for her to know we’re here and that she’s still with us.

  Rebecca has been really stepping up to help with her. She makes sure Kylee’s cleaned up and sort of… bathed. No such thing as a real ‘bath’ lately, but we make the effort with what we have on hand.

  Tomorrow should be an interesting day. We’re going to try to push through another full day and drive for as long as possible in an effort to catch the Kilo boys, or what’s left of them. The entire chase scene is wearing on the others as well. There’s been some idle chatter about giving up on them completely and trying to settle down somewhere. The work we did on the truck seems to have bolstered confidence in the group, but at what cost? I wonder if we’re getting a little too big for our britches.

  Maybe. But still… Dextimus Fuckin’ Prime, baby!

  Connection Attempt II

  …………….

  …………….

  Spark2 Secure Shell> open

  ( to ) Spark1

  Connecting to Spark1…

  …………….

  …………….

  Connection established!

  Spark1> Chalmers, I should have your ass in the glass house for this! Direct and obvious insubordination, disregarding higher command, and misuse of military personnel and armaments! I am highly pissed off!

  Spark2> Sir, we tried several times to establish a connection so that we could request through the proper channels. Dr. Morofsky was a dead man out there alone and, with the latest support the army and the national guard provided, we were in a good position to send a few men with him. I made a judgment call, sir.

  Spark1> Chalmers, your judgment isn’t the issue here! Morofsky was to go alone for another reason altogether. This is a matter of national security.

  Spark2> Sir, permission to speak freely?

  Spark1> Well, since you’re making a habit of ignoring orders lately, I’ll grant it. You’re going to do whatever the hell you want anyway, apparently. Make it good.

  Spark2> Off the record, sir, Morofsky told me everything. I know about New Mexico, I know about what they do there, and now I know the full story of Donald Peel, aka Subject 17.

  Spark1> Jesus, Chalmers. Who else knows?

  Spark2> Just me—for now.

  Spark1> What do you mean by ‘for now’?

  Spark2> It means I like the sound of “Captain Chalmers,” and when we have this problem under full control, I am looking forward to my new post under your command. You know? The real cushy and safe one that pays well? I’d hate for the men to find out that the country they’re fighting to save sold them out on a bogus vaccine.

  Spark1> Chalmers, you little shit! Are you blackmailing me right now?

  Spark2> Not at all, sir. We’re negotiating.

  Spark1> Look, I can probably pull some strings, but I need to know everything that snake told you—everything.

  Spark2> I know that government officials were convinced that we could unlock the ‘Fountain of Youth.’ Morofsky says they spent years breeding humans until the genetics were able to accept the Spark substance properly. I know that Subject 17 was the first major success, and I know that once that was locked down, only the very wealthy would be able to afford the procedure to negate the effects of aging.

  Spark1> Not entirely accurate, but close enough. Go on.

  Spark2> Oh, but there’s more! You have a lot of dirty, little secrets, sir. Awfully convenient that your daughter was married to the first successful subject, isn’t it? I mean, surely a grandchild with an innate ability to age at a fraction of the rate as the rest of us, and who contains the genetic material to ensure it can be sold to the highest bidder, would be a very valuable commodity indeed! It comes as no surprise that a man who would sell out his own daughter would sell out his men and his country as well.

  Spark1> I’ve made a lot of tough decisions in my life, Chalmers. We all have. My reasons for making those decisions were always in the best interests of the country. Don’t you ever think otherwise. Now that I know my grandchild is dead and I have no idea what Kylee’s status is, my priorities have… shifted. I’ll see to that new post of yours, but so help me, if you open your mouth about this to anyone, I’ll have you burning corpses to stay warm in Bumfuck, Alaska once we complete the mission. Are we clear?

  Spark2> Crystal, sir. In fact, I’ve already ensured the escort that accompanied Dr. Morofsky will not be returning from the Roswell Facility.

  Spark1> I won’t ask how. Just see to it that this stays between you and me.

  Spark2> Sir, yes, sir. Good day, sir.

  Spark1> Knock it off, Chalmers. Smartass. One last thing. Did he tell you where the Spark material came from?

  Spark2> That’s the part I don’t quite understand, sir. He said that Groom Lake made it, but Groom Lake is just a testing facility for experimental aircraft. All the Area 51 stories are smoke and mirrors, right?

  Spark1> Of course it is, Captain Chalmers—smoke and mirrors. I want you to take the trip to the Albuquerque facility and see to it that Dr. Morofsky is looked after. Also, see to it that Mr. Baxter’s diary entries continue to transmit until the document is completed. Put your best person on it. There is still the matter of Kylee, and I need to know if she’s still alive.

  Spark2> About that, sir. I’ve finished reading the diary. I’m sorry to tell you this, sir, but your daughter is dead. She was with Mr. Baxter when @#$^ #&*@^ @*&%#

  Connection lost.

  Retry? Yes

  Spark2 Secure Shell> open

  ( to ) Spark1…

  …………….

  …………….

  Connection failed. Could not open connection to the host on port 5651.

  > Quit

  Entry 86

  We found her cowering in a closet. She was with the other girl… Dana, the babysitter, or whatever. Right now, she’s with me and Cutty in the trailer sleeping—fitfully. But at least she’s sleeping. I have no idea how she’s doing it considering the day she’s had.

  I hate shopping days. Shopping days suck because it almost always ends up with a close call. A sleeper makes a grab for Rebecca’s foot, Cutty ends up in a five-on-one machete match, JC and Fool come up with some half-cocked plan that ends with us all running out of town. It’s always something on shopping day. Today was no different.

  We followed JC and Cutty into this wealthy suburb in an effort to loot some houses for whatever could be found. We’ve been doing the quiet thing a lot lately to conserve ammo and to keep attention to a minimum. It was crawling with the dead, and every fucking house was a chore. Remember Chuck? How he made his way home? It was like everyone in this entire town died, turned, and walked their stinky, dead asses right back home.

  I find that interesting, come to think of it. They gravitate to shit they did or places they stayed when they were alive, yet they have nothing stopping them from roaming free until they rot away… or meet a motherfucker like Cutty, hehe. Shit, man, we even saw one in a work uniform dragging a paint can that was bone dry. He just stood there at this one house, painting it over and over and over again. No telling how long he had been doing it. When Fool put the ax through its forehead, we noticed that the paintbrush he carried was worn all the way down to the wooden handle. Stupid fuck. If I ever turn, I hope I’m cool enough to walk my ass off a cliff somewhere.

  The main drag through the community, which ended in a cul-de-sac, held about twelve to fourteen geeks and a further six on the various front lawns. I bet that place was super nice at one point, but it had been so long that all the grass was overgrown, and the bushes and trees had gone wild. There looked to be about six houses on either side of the street—big houses.

  We kept D-Prime at the mouth of the community and sent JC, Fool, and Murph
y down the main road in the jeep. JC honked the horn and shit so all the street geeks began following them; then he slowed down enough so that Murphy could pick them all off with his bow while hanging out of the window. It took some time and more than a few passes, but it was safe. That’s all that mattered.

  Clearing houses is a breeze, more or less. Between what Kylee taught me and what Fool knew from the corps, we were well sorted. Murphy kept Fart out ahead of us and showed us all that they had a few tricks we hadn’t seen yet. He could make her press forward or stop by blowing on one of those little, brass dog whistles he kept on a chain around his neck. That was the shit, because Fart alerts us if there are dumbshits in the room, and then we can make the entry and clear. With JC and Rebecca keeping watch on the front porch and Kylee safely locked away in D-Prime’s trailer, we were a fuckin’ straight-up wrecking crew.

  The first house offered up nothing more than a bloody mess as Cutty minced up an entire family, grandparents included. Luckily, that was all in one room, and every one of the dead was sort of in sleep mode. The kitchen was fucked up, and everything was contaminated and moldy.

  The second was worse, though. A two-piece, which I assumed were parents, shambled around inside, but there were also kids—three of them. Cutty refused to finish them and left it to Fool and me, saying simply, “Nah, nigga. Bitin’ or not, I ain’t doin’ that shit. I cain’t sleep as it is.”

  I’m not going to write anymore about that.

  So, we were thinkin’ by this point that the third time’s the charm—umm… not so much. The downstairs was clear, but there were three geeks in the family room with their heads already popped open. That struck me as odd but nothing to worry about. I mean, anytime you have less deadheads to worry about, you should just count your blessings.

  Fool’s radar went up, though, and he said, “Somethin’ ain’t right here, know what I’m sayin’? I can feel it.”

  Murphy gave Fart a glance and said, “Yep. She agrees.”

  I didn’t feel anything but the usual. I had to poop. I always have to poop when we clear houses. Don’t judge me.

  We worked our way upstairs, and as soon as we reached the top, Fart’s haunches went up and she froze. Staring at the only closed door in the entire house, she hung her head low and rumbled a growl.

  Fool moved to the door and knocked with the butt of his ax. That may sound retarded, but it’s actually the best way to determine if there’s dead inside. Dumbshits will immediately start scratching at the door and shit. There was only silence.

  Cutty whispered, “Aigh’t, Mista Murphy, what now?”

  Murphy answered, “How the hell do I know? She never did that before for no reason. Somethin’s in that room, I’m tellin’ ya.”

  He turned his attention to me. “Go kick that door in, Sally. I’ll turn her loose.”

  I held out my hand, and Fool passed me his ax. I traded him my rifle, which he shouldered as he backed off to stand next to Murphy and Fart. He took aim at the door as I bashed the ax head next to the door knob. The door swung open to reveal a little girl’s room.

  The room was full of princesses and unicorns, and everything was pink as fuck. Fart shot past me and into the room and posted up right in front of the closet door, where she sat and stayed until the rest of us entered.

  Cutty swaggered in and pointed a machete at the closet door, saying, “Only place left, y’all.”

  Fart scratched at the door and sniffed underneath in an effort to let us know something was clearly inside, so Murphy said casually, “I’ll pull the door open, and we’ll just wail on anything that’s inside. On three, ready? One, twoooo… three!”

  “Wait, wait, wait, please!” a female voice cried out as Murphy whipped open the door. I pulled up mid-swing, and the ax stopped short a mere six inches from this chick’s forehead. She looked to be about twenty years old or so—blonde, blue eyes. Not much to look at, to be honest.

  Cutty roughed me out of the way and moved to approach the scene, but the sight of a gigantic, black man in this day and age did exactly what you’d expect it to do to a white girl in a rich neighborhood. The girl freaked out and started cryin’ and shit, begging us not to rape her and saying we could have anything in the house we wanted.

  Then I heard this little, tiny voice from somewhere in that clothes-filled closet ask, “What’s ‘rape’ mean?”

  We all just sort of backed away and gave the girl some space, leaving that question unanswered. We assured her that we weren’t a threat and coaxed her out of the closet and into the room. She asked us, “Are you here to save us then?”

  Cutty answered her calmly with, “Honey, we all need savin’. Now, who else you got in that closet witcha?”

  The girl told us, “Lilly. She’s only five years old…”

  She was able to tell us her name was Dana then began blubbering again and spewed forth her story. To be honest, I couldn’t make out half the shit she was saying because she was so upset. It was that obnoxious, sniffling and sobbing sort of upset. I was able to piece together that she was the local babysitter, and they were holed up here with the little girl’s parents, but the food had recently run out. The father of the family saw a deer the other day and ran outside to take a shot at it, but the dead came.

  With the biters flooding into the neighborhood, not to mention how many in the other houses they didn’t know about, the situation got desperate. The older folks locked the girls in and went for help, but haven’t been back yet. I don’t know. I guess that’s what happened, but like I said, it was hard to figure it all out.

  I called into the closet for Lilly, and the hanging clothes parted to reveal the adorable form of the young girl. Her hair was a brown, filthy mess, and her eyes matched. She was just cute, hungry, and scared. What else can I say?

  She shuffled out into the room as Fool told Dana, “Go downstairs and out to the porch, know what I’m sayin’? There’s more people outside. Tell ’em Fool said you was with us now. We gotta move, and we gotta move quick, ladybird, know what I’m sayin’?”

  Murphy nodded his agreement and added, “We’ll get these girls safe inside the trailer and then finish up the rest of these houses.”

  Cutty asked us, “What about the parents? We can’t just take these two outta here without the parents, right? What if they come back?”

  Lilly chimed in and asked, ”Did the monsters get ’em?”

  Fool looked down at the little girl and said, “No. No, the monsters didn’t get ’em, know what I’m sayin’? We’ll find ’em.”

  Dana nodded and wiped her face. She told us, “We have some things in the other rooms. I’ll just grab what we need.”

  We stalked out of the house and made a beeline for D-Prime with Dana between us.

  Lilly? Well, Lilly took a ride on Cutty’s shoulders. He hoisted her up with one hand and perched her up there, saying, “Aigh’t, li’l Miss Sunshine. You hold on to ol’ Cutty, ya heard?”

  Straddling his massive neck, she clasped both hands under his chin, squishing his face comically as he jogged his fat ass back to the truck.

  The others are finishing up the last of the houses right now. Rebecca sorted out Dana in the sleeper while we fed Lilly and got her down for a nap in the trailer with Kylee.

  It’s quiet now.

  Entry 87

  Lilly calls them monsters. I can’t think of a more appropriate term. Matter of fact, out of all the horror movies and scary shit I’ve watched in my time, I am almost disappointed that not a single writer, director, or producer thought of how scary it would be if dead people got up and started trying to eat everyone alive. Maybe in some alternate universe, if there is such a thing, there are a whole bunch of movies and books and television shows about monsters like these. Maybe we could’ve been somewhat mentally prepared for it, but no one in this world has ever seen or heard of anything like this.

  I guess if you look at it at face value, it can sound a little dumb. I can hear the pitch now… “Okay, Mr. Producer
nutz, here’s next summer’s blockbuster hit. For some unknown reason, the recently deceased begin to return to life!”

  Then Mr. Producernutz at the desk goes, “Return to life? That’s not scary. Gimme more.”

  So, Johnny McWriterballz says, “I got it! They eat anyone who is still alive!”

  At this point, Mr. Producernutz strokes his chin evilly and says, “I think you may be onto something, McWriterballz! But we still need to make it scarier. Whatta ya got?”

  Then, in a flash of horror show-genius, Johnny McWriterballz exclaims, “Anyone that gets bitten by a living dead person actually becomes one of the living dead themselves!”

  And right about then, Mr. Producernutz tells him, “Sounds good, sounds good. Run with that, but don’t call them the ‘Living Dead.’ You sound like an idiot when you do that. It’s like jumbo shrimp… or civil war… Whatta you educated people call that? An oxy-clean? A foxy-maroon?”

  McWriterballz frowns and says, “An oxymoron, sir.” But he’s all pissed on the inside because he thought it was a clever play on words.

  Yeah, I can understand why there were no movies about that. It sounds stupid as fuck. Yet, here we are, living the most horrifying set of circumstances.

  We used to worry about nukes back in the day. Remember that shit? Duck and cover?

  Yeesh… I need some sleep. I just read that back to myself, and I am out of it.

  They are monsters, though. I think even the dumbest monsters in the entire fantasy world of make-believe could be scary as hell if you just put yourself or people you care about in that situation. It’s not really the bad guy who is scary, but what they can take from you when they kill someone you love.

  The trouble is, by that logic, even a unicorn can be scary if it’s mad as hell and stabbing you in the throat with its horn, right?