The Dead Collection Box Set #1: Jack Zombie Books 1-4

by Flint Maxwell

  We make for the door, the stench of death and acrid gun smoke in the air. And in the back of my mind, I’m thinking about Darlene, praying to God she’s safe in that little village.

  Forty-Five

  Most of the dead don’t seem to look at us. Their heads are bent low, looking at the cracked asphalt, but their eyes are a glowing piss-yellow.

  Construction Hat’s tool belt is mine for the taking. I see a red wrench and a hammer. I pull them free from the belt. I have to conserve ammo now because I know we aren’t even in the thick of it yet.

  Standing on the top of three concrete steps, Dreads looks up at me, growling, greasy hair slapping at her rotten face. I take the hammer, and swing with all my weight. The growl is cut short by the blow. Skull cracks like an egg, pink and black yolk runs out, and she drops.

  Grady has his pistol in hand, AR15 on the strap around his shoulders. He lets off two shots, taking down three zombies. Two birds, one stone or something like that. I’m impressed, but too scared to be too impressed.

  “There,” I say, pointing across the four-lane street. On the opposite side are parked cars. Almost all of them have aged and weather-worn pieces of paper underneath their windshield wipers. Parking tickets, I think. Are you serious?

  Grady blows the brains out of another zombie.

  A priest comes at me, outfit almost completely unsoiled. I think this is a test of God. Of all the possible zombies that could be closest to me it has to be a priest. He’s so close actually, I can smell the overwhelming stench of booze (somehow stronger than the rot) hanging around him. When the apocalypse hits, not even priests can stay away from the bottle. I can also see a smudge of blood in the middle of his forehead and streaking down his nose. I’m guessing this fellow managed one last sign of the cross before turning. He chokes out a noise so animalistic and guttural I’m almost caught off-guard.

  Almost.

  The wrench in my left hand bitch slaps him upside the head. I hear his neck snap like dry wood. The spinal cord sticks out to the Heavens and I swear it’s a perfect crucifix. Not only does this make me feel uneasy — and a little queasy — but cements my place in Hell.

  Wonderful.

  I kick him out of my way. He goes toppling over the last two steps, squirting blackish blood, eyes burning out. But there’s no break and my heart is thudding fast while my brain sends me images of hands knocking on the inside of a coffin. It’s chillier outside now and night is coming, but I’m sweating. I feel it trickling down the sides of my ribcage. I smell my own body odor, though it’s nothing compared to the rotting guts of the zombies — some of them exposed.

  They keep coming. That’s one thing I’ve learned in the almost seven months this hell on earth has been happening. They never stop because it’s all they know. Food, brains, flesh. I think we as living, breathing humans aren’t far off. We never stop trying to survive because it’s all we know. I don’t know death and I don’t want to. So can I blame these monsters?

  I grab the M16 and I line them up in my sights. Maybe I can’t blame them, but I sure can blow their heads off.

  “Grady!” I shout.

  We catch eyes. Just for a second and that’s probably too much time — all it takes with these bastards is a second. One second, blink and you’re dead.

  Grady catches the drift, pistol whips a fat man dressed in the pale blue and safari hat of a postal worker. There’s a spray of dark blood suspended in the air for what seems like an eternity and then it falls. Grady holsters the pistol and brings out the big guns.

  We are going to clear a path.

  A zombie with no lips, face frozen in a perpetual snarl lifts its head up just as I pull the trigger. Vibrations thrum through my upper shoulder. Smoke puffs from the sides of the muzzle. My aim jumps from heads to torsos to feet before I can regain control. The gun barks madly. It sounds like wicked strikes of lightning. Heads explode, bodies shake, limbs flail. The bullets cut through flesh and embed themselves in the brick beyond. They ding off the cars, shattering glass and popping tires. Sparks flash on the road, muted by the red liquid pouring from the zombies’ wounds.

  My gun stops firing. With shaky hands, I fish out another magazine, release the empty one, letting it fall to the concrete, and shove the new one in. Grady is faster than me. His gun barks more shots.

  Each shot has been a hit. When you’re aiming at a wall of flesh, it’s hard to miss. But that doesn’t matter. We’ve barely cleared a path in the dead, not one I’d feel safe crossing. And if I’m going to get back to my family, to Darlene, then I will not cut corners.

  Some of the downed zombies still squirm. Arms reach toward the bottom step, caked in blood. They groan weakly, their eyes flickering on and off like dying lightbulbs. I take aim, pull the trigger. More lead explodes from the gun, and in turn, more heads pop, more zombies fall.

  As the path widens, I’m faintly aware of the dead filtering in from the ends of the streets, from the alleyways and sewers, from everywhere.

  The gun empties. The shots stop from both of our weapons. Two zombies jump me, their tongues lolling, dirty fingernails aimed for my throat. Their skin is burning up, but somehow it’s so cold. I swing the butt of the gun and crack one on the chin. The jaw dislocates, teeth shatter and fall as it staggers backward. Three more take its place. I feel like I’m in quicksand. Sinking, sinking, sinking. I smell the blood, the putrified guts. My stomach roils, my heart makes a thunderclap in my chest.

  Help me. God. Help. I’m drowning.

  “Jack!” Grady yells. I can barely hear him over the snarling, the zombies’ groans and shrieks.

  “Jack! Jack! JACK!”

  The sun is completely gone now, not fully set but blocked out by the bodies around me. I swing again, twirling the M16 around like a helicopter blade. It doesn’t get me far, but daylight peaks in, vanquishing the black shadows of the dead. I stumble backward, nearly falling on my ass, reaching for the SIG in its holster.

  One shot, two shots, three shots. Blood, blood, blood.

  Then, click-click-click.

  Empty.

  More are coming for me, and I’m not advancing. I’m regressing, going back toward the construction worker and the blown open doors. My foot catches in a square of soil where a broken tree stands, and I fall.

  No.

  I can’t stop. I can’t. I have to keep going.

  A zombie wearing a jean skirt and ripped leggings stumbles at me, her spine like a bent piece of wire hanger. She falls, lips bright red from either too much lipstick or too much blood. And as she falls, one deflated breast pops from her shirt, claw marks are raked across her flesh and maggots drop from her once-blonde hair. I kick out and catch her in the forehead with the heel of my boot. Her face caves in.

  I catch a glimpse of Grady. He is making his way toward me, his face almost a mask of red. From a distance, you’d think he was wearing a mask. Zombies are chasing him, now flooding the steps.

  A man walks at me, his head almost completely twisted around, looking like he really woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. There’s a large gash across his stomach. The button-down dress shirt is stained with blood, and his innards snake out of of him like spaghetti. I push myself up, using the tree for leverage and the skirt-wearing zombie as a step. If I’m going to get eaten, it’s not by that motherfucker. But I’m weaponless. All I have is the empty SIG and M16, my legs to keep me moving, and the thoughts of my family back at a village I could one day call home keeping hope alive.

  My legs pump, brain-slick heels slide on the concrete as I plow my way past reaching limbs and gnarled hands. Grady’s gun lets out two more shots, the sounds echoing off the looming buildings. He pulls a long blade free and swings, but then he’s gone, swallowed up by the masses.

  I hit the zombie with the turned around head full force, my hands digging into his soft chest. Cold, wet guts splatter the front of my shirt. They chill me to my very core, and it’s not just a physical feeling. The zombie utters a cry. It so
unds confused by my counterattack. I bet in this thing’s lifespan (deathspan) as a zombie it’s never seen a human rush it like I have done, but what choice do I have? There’s an opening at the foot of the steps, past a crookedly parked Mercedes Benz now riddled with bullet holes. What it comes down to in this fucked-up world is not having a choice. Only then will we do the things we need to do to survive.

  Just like I’m doing, as this bastard’s cold guts jiggle against me. He’s my inhuman shield, and I’m laughing manically — mainly out of fear — as I push him through the crowd. Zombies snarl and reach and claw, but they do it to him. I’m grunting, feeling like a football player going up against weighted sleds in practice. With one final push, giving it my all and possibly throwing my back out in the process, I break free from the pack. My M16 is slimy with blood. I swing it anyway. Grady is to my left, just beyond the Mercedes. He hacks and hacks as zombie after zombie rush him, but he’s pressed up against the hood of a delivery truck. Slicing faces. Spraying blood. I can hear his ragged breathing from twenty feet away.

  I crawl over the Mercedes, run across the roof, slipping in the process.

  Grady cries out. He has his blade horizontal, blocking four biters, their jaws unhinged. With a great leap, I take off. The empty M16 is cocked behind my head. As I’m in the air, I realize two things: one, this is probably a really fucking bad idea, and two, it’s too late.

  I come down like I’m swinging Thor’s Hammer. I manage to bash one zombie’s head in, but at the same time, my heart bottoms out because the feeling of weightlessness overtakes me and I hit the concrete hard. Breath whooshes. Vision blacks out. There’s a moment where I think I’ve died, ears ringing, arms and legs tingling. If I’m not dead, I might be paralyzed.

  Then my vision rushes back in all its HD glory. Blood spurts from the zombie’s accordion’d head. Grady gives his best war cry and slashes the others zombies’ heads off with the little daylight my aerial assault has given him. It takes about three seconds before I hear a growl from behind. I turn to see a big motherfucker tottering over me. It’s yellow eyes bore into my soul, lips twitch, teeth gnash. The bastard doesn’t reach as much as he throws all his weight toward me. A scream is building up in my throat —

  Gunshot.

  The scream never escapes my mouth because my jaw clamps shut. Light shines through the big zombie’s head as a smoking hole suddenly appears out of thin air. He lands on his knees, lips still twitching. And now through the hole I see a figure the same shape as the one I’d seen on the rooftop opposite the greenhouse. It’s Jacob and it’s about fucking time.

  The muzzle of his rifle lights up his face. The gray beard confirms who it is. Another zombie drops nearby. Jacob puts up a fist. I return the favor, a distant and silent thank you. Then I stumble back up, fill my hands with the slimy M16, and take to chopping another path clear.

  Five zombies smash to smithereens and then my hand grips Grady’s arm. It’s slick with blood. He is trembling. We are both scared. The adrenaline coursing through my veins doesn’t do much to quell the fear.

  “To Jacob!” I shout.

  As we stand in a sea of twisted and mangled limbs, blood, brains, bashed skulls, Grady looks dazed. He doesn’t respond, so I have to grab him again and pull. We run, our boots squishing and crunching, blood spraying from beneath our soles, dotting hubcaps. Jacob takes aim with his rifle and from our vantage point, me in the lead, it looks as if he’s going to gun us down. The muzzle lights up. Delayed thunder from the barrel. The whooshing snap of a bullet whizzing by us. The wet thwap of it hitting a zombie much too close. We are running and running and Jacob is getting bigger. The shadows are disappearing from his pain. I’m seeing the stern look of concentration and equal disgust. But as the shadows on his face disappear, more emerge from around the corner. Tall, black giants projected on the walls of the bank behind him. I stop on a dime, another scream caught in my throat. Grady hits me hard, but I don’t move.

  Zombies. More zombies. It’s always more.

  “Jacob — ”

  But it’s too late. They’re on him like rabid dogs on a scrap of meat. His rifle blasts off two more time. Shot hits nothing but the open, darkening sky. He screams. He gurgles. They crawl over him. They claw. He is bucking and kicking and I can’t do anything but stand there with my mouth open.

  No. This isn’t happening. Not again. No —

  Grady’s voice in my ear: “Jack! We have to go, Jack! We have to go now!” I barely hear him. I feel like I’m falling. Like darkness is enveloping me. I like Jacob, he’s so nice. I like him —

  Grady tugs on my blood and brain soaked shirt, trying to pull me to the right where a thin alley stretches for what seems like miles. I’m thinking about Jacob’s wife Margie, about how if we make it back alive I’ll have to tell her I couldn’t save her husband, how I had to watch him die.

  The zombies tear his arm off. Another plunges their hands into his gut. A volcanic eruption of blood. Screams. The snapping and stretching of innards.

  Now, I’m moving, but not toward the alley. No. Now I’m moving toward the chaos.

  When will I learn?

  Forty-Six

  I shrug Grady off. Dead traffic lights move gently with a cold breeze. It hits my hair, sends it off of my forehead. The smell of Jacob’s innards blasts my nostrils. It’s like a wall of stench, but I plunge right into it.

  “No!” I’m shouting. “No!”

  The zombies don’t pay me the smallest bit of attention. They are too busy ripping Jacob apart, smearing blood and guts all over their faces and necks. One armless zombie dives headfirst into the open chest cavity, not needing to come up for air. Jacob screams and screams.

  I’m about ten feet from this gruesome scene when I realize I can’t save him. Through a crack in the flailing limbs and huddled shoulders, Jacob and I catch eyes. His face is twisted up in pain, his beard streaked with blood, but you couldn’t tell any of this if you just saw his eyes. His eyes are calm. Wise. They are saying, ‘Don’t be stupid, Jack. Get the hell out of here.’

  But I keep walking. The duffel bag he’d had sitting by him as he scalped a few zombie heads and saved Grady and I’s lives is away from it all. I see the bag is half-open and it’s filled with white-capped antibiotic bottles. Medicines they scavenged from the hospital. Medicines that could keep Abby’s wound from getting infected, that could save lives. I have to get it. And maybe his gun, but I don’t think I can get that. It’s in the thick of it.

  My pace picks up as I break farther away from Grady.

  The zombies don’t notice me behind them, inches away. Jacob has stopped screaming. I can see over the hunched dead that he is staring up into the dark sky with glassy eyes and as I’m seeing this the armless zombie takes a bite from his cheek, tearing away flesh and hair with a sickening snap. Blood floods the grayness of his beard. My stomach clenches and I quickly turn away.

  More zombies are coming toward the group, their yellow eyes not focused on me or Grady, but on the man who saved my friend’s life, the man whose life I couldn’t do the same. With the duffel bag slung over my shoulder and the M16 in my hand, I take off toward the alleyway. Grady peeks around the corner as the dead slowly amble by. Despite the bag’s weight, I’m quick.

  Grady looks at me with tears running down his face, slicing the bloodstains in two long streaks. “Jacob,” he says.

  And all I can say is, “I know.”

  But I won’t cry. Now’s not the time to cry. We got the medicine and we’re still alive, that’s all we can ask for. This whole mission was a suicide mission to begin with. We’ve tempted our luck on more than one occasion and it’s time to go.

  If Doctor Klein is out there, I hope he’s safe and I hope he figures out a way to save the world without me. The sounds of the snarling zombies, the tearing of the flesh, and Jacob’s dead screams still hang in the air behind us.

  And we move on.

  Forty-Seven

  We are on a street I can’t remember i
f we’ve been on before. With the sun gone it’s pitch black. I can hear our breathing, ragged, pained. We need to get to the Hummer. We need to get out. Our boots crunch broken glass and the sound is almost defeating. We have avoided the zombie block party for the time being…just barely.

  As we walk up the sidewalk, clouds move overhead. A white moon glares down at us, lighting the glass like stars. The glass once belonged to a pair of cars. A black Dodge and a pickup truck. Now they are bent at odd angles, the metal crumpled and ripped. There’s a flipped ambulance not far from the crash. Two skeletons lay crushed beneath it. It’s been about six months since the fall of mankind, so I doubt those corpses have decomposed. Their arms are outstretched as if they’re reaching for the sidewalk, as if that would’ve saved their lives. My stomach roils again as I think about what happened to them and so many other people in this great city. They were devoured, ripped apart, eaten.

  We move as close to the buildings as we can, heading toward the bridge and the highway that started this all.

  “We had him, you know?” Grady says quietly.

  He has stopped walking and stands beneath a ripped awning that belonged to a bakery of some sort. The plate glass windows are gone and so is about everything else in the store, but the faint scent of baking dough is there. I catch a whiff. It makes my stomach grumble and sour, knowing the days of fresh baked bread are long gone.

  “We had him,” Grady says. He holds up two fingers. “Twice.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Klein.”

  “You had him?” My voice is a whiplash. I advance on Grady. He holds his ground. “Where is he?”

  “He was with Jacob. You should’ve seen him. Those…those cannibals fucked him up really good,” he taps his forehead, “up here. He was near the hospital. He asked me for my gun and kept saying, ‘I can’t do it! I can’t do it! I’ve failed.’ But I wouldn’t give him the gun. His eyes said what his mouth wouldn’t. He wanted to die. He wanted to put a bullet in his brain.”