Time of Death Book 2: Asylum (A Zombie Novel) (27 page)

When I couldn't take the monotony any longer,
I took another shower, and like the last time, I didn't emerge
until my toes and fingers were wrinkly. My mind was more present
this time, and I winced at the forest my legs and underarms had
become without regular access to a razor. That was another thing to
add to the list of must-haves. I was betting that Meg had similar
interests, but I questioned Jake. He'd always liked healthy stubble
on his face, but lately he'd stopped complaining about not having a
good set of grooming tools. He still showered whenever possible,
but had no interest in maintaining his appearance.

A lunch tray and fresh set of clothes were
stuffed through the hole in the door when I came out of the
bathroom. At least I wouldn't be walking around in flimsy cotton
pajamas. After pulling on the new clothes, I sat on the edge of the
bed eating and waited for the door to open.

The scent of freshly baked bread set my
salivary glands into overdrive, and I lifted the turkey sandwich to
my face and breathed the aroma, letting out a sigh of pleasure. The
turkey was chopped, not sliced like deli meat, and it was still
warm from the oven. I tore open a packet of mayonnaise and squirted
its contents into the sandwich. Savoring the first bite, I closed
my eyes and groaned with appreciation. Food was not something
Asylum scrimped on. I washed down the sandwich with a can of cold
orange soda—that's right, cold soda—and finished off the meal with
a gooey chocolate chip cookie.

I was in Heaven, and I was just fine with
drinking the Kool-Aid, but a small part of me kept thinking about
Striker's warning. What was Asylum hiding that could have been so
bad that he wouldn't step foot behind the gates, but not bad enough
that he wouldn't deter us from entering.

Then again, he barely knew us, so why would
he even care enough to keep us away?

Chapter 17: A Three Hour
Tour

I felt emotionally refreshed when the door finally
opened, like I'd spent the night in a sweat lodge doing Native
American rituals and smoking peyote.

"Wow," admired Meg when I stepped into the
hall where she and Jake stood with Michele. "You look like you've
been relaxing at the spa for the last twenty-four hours."

"I feel like it, too." I greeted Jake with a
kiss and searched his face for any hint of madness. I was appeased
to see him looking relaxed and clearheaded. "How about you? How was
your night?"

"Pretty uneventful," he replied, returning my
affection. "I missed you, though. I don't like being separated from
you."

"Me too," I admitted honestly. Even before
the world took a nosedive our preference was to do things as a
team.

"So," said Michele, "ready for that
tour?"

I looked to my husband and sister-in-law who
nodded their heads in approval before answering. "Sure, why
not."

We left through the same side door we'd
entered the afternoon before. My powerful skills of deduction had
me assuming it was about three in the afternoon, since that was
around the time we'd entered quarantine.

"Oof," exclaimed Meg when the temperature hit
us. "It's definitely starting to feel like winter around here."

"We've got a good supply of jackets and
long-sleeved shirts. After the tour, and after you get that tetanus
shot, I'll take you to the depot."

"The depot?" asked Jake.

"It just sounds exciting. I assure you, it's
not. We've dedicated one of the larger guest quarters to supplies.
Someone called it the depot a couple months ago and it stuck,"
Michele told us.

"How many people live in Asylum?" I asked,
noticing about twenty people outside.

Mark answered this time. "At last count there
were two-hundred and thirty-two people living behind these walls.
So, that puts us at two-hundred and thirty-five now. The first
month or so we would get a handful of people every day. That's
slowed down a fair bit though, and now we see new arrivals
sporadically. You three were the first in over a week."

"Wow," replied Jake. "Really puts things into
perspective."

"This place is majestic," I said. The mansion
was gigantic. It felt more like a palace with its Spanish-style
architecture. The pair took us around back first. A courtyard paced
in brick connected the mansion to the water. High-end outdoor
furniture decorated the courtyard in seating areas and umbrella
tables. Kids sat at the tables, and a woman stood nearby with a
rolling whiteboard writing out a vocabulary list. On the loungers,
other residents sat chatting or reading quietly to themselves. It
felt like I was at a Sandals resort.

"This is the main outdoor area for gathering.
As you can see, it serves double duty for relaxing activities like
reading or board games, and it is also where the children attend
school for three hours every day." Michele shared this information
with pride. By all accounts, she had every right to be proud. It
was amazing.

Standing there, gazing at the open water, I
was reminded of Sanibel Island. It felt like a lifetime ago that we
were safe from immediate danger. I knew, though, that safety was
nothing more than an illusion perpetuated by a deep-seeded need for
stability.

Boats of all sizes occupied the available
slips, and several more were anchored nearby. From kayaks to
Bayliners, there were more than ten crafts in the water.

Michele smiled warmly at us. "If you're
impressed by what's outside, then you're going to love what's
inside," she said.

I had to hand it to Michele. She hadn't lied
about the interior of the mansion. We entered through the largest
and most ornate front door I'd ever seen outside of a movie. Just
beyond the entry was a large foyer with marble pillars more than a
foot in diameter that provided a point of demarcation between the
foyer and grand hall. I followed the columns up to the ceiling,
which likely cost more to adorn than my entire house.

A honeycombed pattern, gilded in what looked
like gold, spanned the entire area. Each honeycomb framed a
portrait depicting various artworks of cherubs, angels, and
intricately crafted architecture and landscapes. The height of the
ceiling was humbling; my best guess was forty feet high.

Similar marble columns ran along the back of
the enormous room and a long row of windows spanned the back wall.
One thing I had noticed about the doors and windows was the iron
bars that covered the exterior surfaces. While I'm sure the feature
was indicative of the period in which the mansion had been
constructed, the added layer of security was comforting.

"How many people did you say lived here?"
asked Jake.

"Two-hundred and thirty-five," answered
Michele.

The great hall had been furnished with long
rows of mismatched dining tables and chairs. A quick calculation
showed enough seating for more than three-hundred.

"As you've probably guessed," said Mark,
slipping into tour-guide mode, "this is the main dining area for
residents."

Michele picked up where he left off. "Each
day, this room houses every resident of Asylum for breakfast,
lunch, and dinner. Buffet stations are set along either wall."

The first floor consisted of a variety of
service areas. The kitchen, which had been partially converted into
a gift shop when the building became a historical landmark, had
been repurposed back into a fully functional cooking area once
Asylum had been formed. Two large pantries lay beyond the kitchen,
and a third pantry had been provisioned out of the breakfast room.
The farther in we walked, the darker the rooms became. Long swaths
of thick fabric were tacked along the far wall of the breakfast
room, effectively blocking out the afternoon sun in an attempt to
keep food from spoiling in the heat its rays generated.

"Busy place," observed Meg. The entire first
floor was a hustle of activity as more than thirty women prepared
the evening meal. School must have let out, because some of the
children were stacking plates at the end of the buffet tables and
carrying baskets of clean silverware from the kitchen.

"Where are the men?" I asked.

Mark and Michele stole quick glances at each
other, and Mark answered my question. "The council believes in
old-fashioned values. Women prepare the food and keep the home
tidy, and the men keep Asylum safe."

My lack of a verbal filter prevailed, and I
blurted the first thing that came to mind. "That's a bit sexist,
don't you think?" As I said it, I noticed a man emerge from the
kitchen. He was dressed in a white chef's coat and directed the
ladies while they brought out steaming chafing dishes and set them
on the tables.

"What about him?" asked Jake.

"That's Zack, our head chef," said Michele
quickly.

"He's gay," added Mark.

My head snapped around, and I glared
intensely at the couple. There was no question that the expression
I wore was one of disgust, and I was about to go off on a rant when
Jake squeezed my arm and shook his head. I toggled my sights
between Jake, our tour guides, and Zack in disbelief, but I held my
tongue. My inner dialog, however, was not as silent as my outer
words and I screamed inwardly to whomever's ass-backwards way of
thinking had come up with this archaic mentality of
discrimination.

Michele looked at me, and her face told me
all I needed to know. She was a kindred soul and shared my
sentiment. Mark, on the other hand, appeared just fine with the
status quo, earning him a big fat zero in the respect department
from me. He sneered openly at Zack like he was a cockroach. I could
tell Michele was uncomfortable by their differing opinions, and in
a rare display of clemency, I let it go, at least outwardly.
Inside, I still seethed.

Meanwhile, Meg and Jake remained silent,
observing the tense exchange. There was one common personality
trait among the Rossi's: tolerance. It was one of the many things I
loved about them.

They respected people and their life choices,
and never judged someone based on race, religion, or sexual
orientation. And I don't mean just my husband and Meg. The entire
Rossi clan had been brought up that way. Jake's parents, and his
parent's parents, shared the same open acceptance of others. What
was wrong with these people?

* * *

By the time the first floor tour had
concluded, we'd seen everything the space had to offer. A solarium
was home to shelves packed with books. According to our escorts,
many were already there, while others were retrieved from the local
library on scouting missions. It wasn't difficult to tell the
collections apart. The newest looking books were the library
transplants and those that looked old and expensive had been here
for quite some time.

Situated between the great room and solarium,
a large adjoining reception area and ballroom remained untouched by
the clutter and modern conveniences that most other rooms now
housed.

"This seems like a pretty big waste of
space," observed Jake while he stood in the middle of the empty
ballroom. "Why aren't you using this as barracks?"

"Mack feels it's important to keep these
rooms true to their intended purpose. Once a week, we have a party,
and everyone not on guard duty attends. It staves off the boredom
and gives us a chance to mix with the other residents. Tomorrow
night you'll be able to attend your first mixer."

Mack. There was that name again. I bristled
at the mention of this elusive Mack. Striker's parting words of
warning not to trust Mack left me apprehensive and on high alert. I
still hadn't had time alone with Jake or Meg to share this
information with them, and I found myself beginning to feel anxious
to get through the rest of the tour and discuss it.

"So, who's this Mack I keep hearing about?" I
asked nonchalantly, not wanting to give away my skepticism.

"Oh," said Michele, "didn't I tell you? Mack
is the new president."

"President of what?" asked Meg.

"You know," she prompted. "The
president."

"Of the United States?" I asked, my voice
sounding shrill.

"Well, yes, and no. We aren't really the
United States anymore. Not since the former government was lost in
the battle of the capitol."

Jake, Meg, and me stared back, dumbfounded,
at the woman as she told us our country's government had fallen in
one day.

"Just...stop." I clutched the top of my head
trying to make sense of the words they spoke. "So you're telling me
there is no longer a United States of America?"

"Correct."

"So what the fuck are we then?"

They looked confused, like I had just asked
them to solve the Pythagorean theory. "Asylum," answered
Michele.

Now it was our turn to look confused. Meg,
having listened quietly to the exchange thus far, chimed in. "I
thought this house was Asylum? Are you saying that our country has
been renamed Asylum?"

"You didn't know?" Mark prodded.

"Uh, no," I said. "How would we? And what
idiot came up with that brain-child?" I felt the angry flush creep
up my neck and settle into my cheeks.

"What do you know?"

I looked to Jake. He had spent the most time
with the leadership of Sanibel, making him the best person to
convey our limited information.

He looked thoughtful. "In mid-October, a form
of the rabies virus began infecting the population. The mutated
strain of the disease caused death, and subsequent reanimation of
what we now call zombies. The disease spread like a plague up the
Eastern Seaboard and soon there were more undead than living. Back
on Sanibel, we were able to communicate with several dwindling
pockets of survivors via radio, but eventually they all went
dark."

"Rabies? Goodness no," exclaimed Michele,
taken aback by our outdated understanding of the events leading to
the annihilation of the world's population.