Life Among The Dead (Book 3): A Bittersweet Victory (2 page)

“Gross,” Vida says, before Lloyd startles her
by springing up from the backseat.

“It’s not a rumor. It’s true!” the bassist
says. “My lab partner, Jake’s best friend, had an aunt who was
treated by him. He told me that she smelled weird at the funeral.
You know, like she was full of Mortie’s…”

“Your lab partner is a fucking moron!”
Brandon says. “Of course she smelled weird. She was fucking dead.
It’s just a rumor that got out of hand, like the one about the
Baily brothers and their sheep.”

“Actually…”

“If you’re about to tell me that you know
someone who knows someone else that can confirm it, I’m dropping
you off at Mortie’s.”

“Never mind.” Lloyd hangs his head.

Being so close to the Zombie House excites
Brandon, so he picks up the beat Vicky is putting down on her legs,
tapping his fingers on the wheel. He’s been a zombie fan for as
long as he can remember. This opportunity is what he has been
dreaming about for years. The moment he learned they were changing
the old haunt into a survival horror scenario he knew he had to get
tickets.

It pains the vocalist to slow down, but there
are cars parked along both side of the road, giving him no choice.
He doesn’t want to risk hitting one of the vehicles or a person
stepping into the street, thus delaying his adventure. It’s all
spill over from the parking lot. People who decided to pay a higher
price at the door, rather than pay for passes like Brandon had. The
forethought includes parking privileges.

A man waves them into the lot with a glowing
green baton after seeing the laminated badge Brandon proudly holds
out. The panel van is parked in an available spot. Farther away
from the house than Brandon likes, but it’ll have to do.

He takes in the old haunt. It looks the same
as it does every year, with the exception of new stockade fencing
that was strategically erected to block the view of the dwelling.
Brandon suspects it is meant to shroud the points of entry used by
the dead from the public.

Even this late in the year, so far from
Halloween, there is a line of folks waiting to get in while
watching the complimentary horror flick projected on a sheet
hanging from an oak tree. The horror classic flutters in the
breeze. The image of a man’s face splattering with gore as he lops
off his own hand with a chainsaw is distorted by the waves in the
fabric.

The Dogs of War exit their ride and are
stunned by the chilly air and the sounds of the roaring
chainsaw.

Lloyd blows into his hands. “They say we’re
in for a cold snap.”

“Who says that?” Brandon speaks up. “Your lab
partner’s best friend?”

“Um, yeah, actually…”

“Just think, guys, in fifteen minutes we’ll
be able to jump in front of all these chowderheads and enter.”
Brandon can barely contain himself. Purchasing a pass in advance
allowed them to choose their start time, and grants them head of
the line privileges. The line in question is composed of the usual
horror aficionados, but this year a lot of them are dressed up.
Some wear rags and grotesque makeup, others decided to come as
their favorite zombie-fighting heroes, and there are some that
chose a more simplified costume, the bloody bandages of zombies yet
to be.

The house rivals the funeral home they had
driven past in size, though the sprawling graveyard that starts at
Mortie’s extends to the backyard of the Zombie House. All the
conventional clichés have been removed from the rear of the
property and replaced with tombstones that seem to blend in with
the real ones in the cemetery. Only a short stone wall breaks the
illusion. Brandon hopes the layout inside hasn’t been altered too
much. He’s done the old haunt enough times he can find his way
around blindfolded.

Shivering from the cold, Vida asks, “So we go
in and get attacked by zombies, then what?”

“We try to survive,” Brandon tells her. “See
that old truck? The keys are somewhere in the house. Whoever finds
them and gets into the truck wins!”

“$500 dollars,” Lloyd says. “That’s each.
Right, Brandon?”

“Yup, anyone in the truck when the ignition
turns over wins. If one of us dies in there, we’ll still split the
winnings out equally. But that’s the real prize.” Brandon points
above the concession area.

At the center of the lot behind a counter
made of folding tables, above all the over-priced snacks and
drinks, is a piece of plywood that wobbles in the breeze. Upon this
shabbily constructed wall are t-shirts. One proudly hangs at the
top, announcing:
I
ZURVIVED
THE
ZOMBIE
HOUSE
.

The shirt’s intentionally misspelled
proclamation has been silkscreened above a black and white image of
the house, minus the wooden barrier. From a graveyard beyond,
zombies stand in awkward poses. Below it is a shirt those who fail
to win must settle for. Pre-stained with bloody handprints, it
reports the person donning it got ‘Beefed’ at the Zombie House.

“What’s ‘beefed?’” Vida asks.

“Killed. Eaten. Mauled. Mutilated--”

“Thanks, Lloyd!” Her stomach turns from
apprehension.

“Don’t worry, Vida.” With his thin blue
hoodie, Brandon envelopes his girlfriend from behind to warm her up
and ease her nerves. “Stick with me and you’ll make it out
alive.”

“Promise?” She snuggles her back against his
body. She isn’t dressed to be out in the cold, but she had expected
to be alone with her boyfriend on a date. Not that she doesn’t love
her band mates. It just would have been nice to have her man to
herself.

“Cross my heart,” he swears. “Even if it
means sacrificing these two.”

“Hey!” Vicky says.

“Just kidding,” Brandon says, but the manic
drummer still shoots him a scornful look.

Upon meeting Vicky for the first time, Vida
noticed a peculiarity to her face that she couldn’t put her finger
on. The girl has a unique look, an ‘endearing oddness’ that she
hasn’t been able to discern until this very moment.
It’s
her
eyes
, Vida thinks to herself as she regards her
friend’s dark eyes that are cute and small like a mouse. She’s the
only member of the quartet that doesn’t seem affected by the cold.
Even Lloyd is rubbing his well-developed arms against the chill.
Vicky practically vibrates, but it’s more as if standing still is
painful for her.

With plenty of time to spare, they casually
stroll to the head of the line. Those who have been waiting for
hours scowl at them since their move to the front can only mean an
even longer wait.

“We’re here for the 1 AM,” Brandon tells the
greeter.

“You’re on deck,” the ticket taker says
without passion. She allows them to pass by, parting a weathered
cable end from a post. The haunt’s equivalent to a velvet rope.
“There’s a group finishing up, but they may go into overtime.”

“This can go into overtime?” Vida asks, not
really looking forward to the allotted time let alone the idea of
being in there longer.

The woman groans. “Tickets are good for half
hour increments. If anyone survives beyond that they have another
half hour to find the keys and get out. It’s rare, but it…” She
looks away, distracted by a voice in her earpiece. “Beefed? All
right.”

She performs a quick count of the people in
the on-deck area, the four new arrivals and three others that must
have also purchased passes in advance, then addresses the fans in
the pay-at-the-door line, “All right, screwheads, listen up! I can
take three more!”

A man and wife in their late thirties, and
way out of their element, step forward with their teenaged son. Mom
and Dad are nervous, but junior is grinning from ear to ear as they
pay for their admittance and are allowed past the rope.

Ten wait in the wings: the Dogs of War, the
newly admitted family, a pair of nearly identical blonde ladies,
and one serious looking young man standing off to the side
alone.

Brandon plans to talk to everyone he can
about their upcoming experience inside, and his attention is first
drawn to the loner who is wearing one of the ‘Beefed’ shirts.
He’s
been
here
before
, he thinks as he
removes his arms from around Vida to approach his peer, muttering
that he’ll be right back.

“Hey.” He extends a hand to his fellow
competitor. “I’m Brandon.”

The young man eyes him suspiciously but
accepts the greeting. “Josh.”

“You’ve been through the house before, I
see.” Brandon points to the young man’s shirt, hoping to keep him
off-guard with the unexpected pleasantry.

“Yeah.” Josh takes back his hand.

“Any pointers?”

“Don’t die.”

“C’mon, man. We’re in this together. My band
and I are about to enter the valley of the blind here, Cyclops.
Let’s be friends.”

Josh looks away. A slight shake of his head
tells Brandon he won’t be easily cracked. He needs to try a new
tactic. “We have a deal in my group. Split all winnings even if
some don’t make it out--”

“I want the shirt,” Josh says.

“You stand more of a chance getting it with
us, right? I’ve talked to dozens of people who have left here with
the one you have on.”

“I’m listening.”

Vida watches her boyfriend talk secretly in
the corner with another guy. He had left her and taken his warmth
with him, leaving her colder than before. She finds it baffling
that he can be so sweet to her one moment and completely oblivious
and insensitive the next. It was his sensitive side that first
attracted her to him, when they had met at Ray’s Records after she
had first moved to Waterloo in the spring. She still remembers the
soulful, powerful lyrics he sang when he should have been working.
Now she wonders if he wants that t-shirt more than her.

The greeter that let them in enters the
cordoned area. “All eyes here!” I’m going to introduce you to your
weapons.”

She holds a paintball gun over her head.
“Some of you may have used one of these before. Others probably
not. It’s fairly simple…”

“Should we get Brandon for this?” Vida asks
Lloyd while the woman recites her practiced tutorial without
emotion.

“Naw, he’s used one before.”

“Everyone starts off with twenty shots.
Hopefully you can find one of the ammo bonuses hidden throughout
the house. Head on through the front door. There are clipboards
with waivers that you need to sign or you can’t play. Your time
begins when the hero arrives and starts the story. Good luck.
You’re gonna need it.”

“More lambs for the slaughter, Trent. You’re
on in five.”

The owner and self-appointed hero drops
himself into a swivel chair beside his technical producer, Dwayne,
hoping to catch a breath before the next set. He appraises the
newest batch that enters on one of the many monitors that oversee
the action. “Good looking group. Very photogenic. Record on all
cameras with this bunch. We’ll use their footage for next year’s
commercials.”

Trent Tilden bought the impressive property
as a foreclosure when he was just a nineteen year old horror fan
with a dream. His goal was to open the greatest haunt around. The
place was once a hotel until a wealthy man bought it for his home.
The gentleman’s abhorrence for parting with his money robbed him of
his riches, and the place just sat in disrepair for the better part
of a decade until Trent came along and invested a modest
inheritance in it.

The place has come a long way since, though
it has rarely been cleaned. A lot of the original dust and cobwebs
still remain. The home’s uneven, creaky floors and stairs have
never been repaired, and their hardwood remains scuffed and worn.
The walls are still marred from abusive repo men who were called in
to remove anything of value. What started with just Trent and his
buddies dressed in costumes, jumping out at visitors from closets
and around corners, evolved. The basement became an unholy
slaughterhouse with rattling meat hooks hanging from the rafters.
People once had to avoid these while trying not to step in the
carnage strewn on the floor. The rotting remnants of a massacre
were but scraps salvaged from the dumpsters of butcher shops.

Floor by terrifying floor offered frights
aplenty for years to any who dared enter in search of a good scare.
Every horror mainstay was employed, every staple character and
cliché, and a few new creeps. All the way up to the attic, where
Trent himself would often play the obligatory mad scientist in his
laboratory. While Jacob’s Ladders and strobe lights dazzled the
eye, he would cackle in maniacal glee as his sheet draped creation
rose from his steel table. Year after year people would come,
knowing just what to expect. They would try to spot the new
additions, but not this year. This year he’d transformed the haunt
into a Zombie House survival horror scenario.

“So, we’re doing this again next fall?”
Dwayne asks with disappointment evident in his voice.

“Of course! Actually, I want to start it up
again mid-spring,” Trent says. “I have a pair of independent
filmmakers already interested in the old props--”

“You’re selling our props?” Dwayne sounds
shocked. “What if this whole zombie thing is just a fad?”

“I’m fairly certain it isn’t. You’ve seen the
people outside. They come dressed as zombies and heroes like the
hardcore sci-fi fans. People are willing to pay big time for the
fantasy. It’s like what inspired me to do this in the first
place.”

“The zombie run,” Dwayne says with
disinterest, having heard about it many times.

“People paying to run away from zombies. It’s
brilliant! There’s no reason not to continue with it. Next year
will be mostly profit after hiring on more staff and buying tons of
paintballs. We’ll raise the ticket price and run the attraction
longer. We can even add other money makers.”