The Dead Collection Box Set #2: Jack Zombie Books 5-8

by Flint Maxwell

  “We have—”

  I don’t let Rich finish, no time to listen to bullshit. If the District is here, I have to make them pay. So I push past him, cutting him off, and open the door to the fire-lit streets beyond.

  But when I look up, the man I see out there makes me want to go back inside.

  Six

  I don’t go back in the motel for obvious reasons, the biggest of them being that I’ve already made a big fuss about being brave and I have to stick to that.

  Still, it’s hard to be brave sometimes.

  The man I see has his back turned toward me then he disappears into The Jet.

  The man’s name is Brandon. He was there when Haven fell. He was there when Darlene’s throat was slit and my boy was shot in the back of the head. He was there laughing and cheering the one-eyed man on. He helped hold Darlene down. She had put up such a fight.

  I start to shake. Tears blur my vision. Not because I’m sad, but because I’m angry. More angry than I realize.

  I take a deep breath. Get it together, Jack. Compose yourself.

  I know if I go in there guns-a-blazing, it will not end well for any of us. Innocent bystanders will probably be killed. I’ll have to play this right.

  Going up the street, I pass buildings with blinds drawn and doors locked just like the Travelers’ Bay, except I see faces poking out through the curtains and shutters. Pale faces and wide eyes.

  My heels click on the old asphalt.

  I am a lone gunslinger (with a sword) coming down a dusty street to pick a fight with the black hat.

  Just before I get to the downed plane, I hear something that causes me to draw my pistol and raise it up. It’s a sound predisposed to make my trigger finger convulse. It’s the groans and moans of zombies. A pack, by the sound of it.

  I take cover at the corner of the abandoned post office. Gaze around.

  My jaw drops.

  The zombies are chained up, attached to a car. It’s not a normal car, though. It’s sawed in half. The front end of a convertible with an extra wheel added to the back part near the seats so it looks like a tricycle. The metal is jagged and dangerously sharp. The windshield is cracked and slick with dark blood. The hood ornament is gone, but judging by what’s left of the body, it’s a Chrysler. Another blast from the past.

  I now see why the zombies are there. I have to squint. They are missing their bottom jaws and the teeth in the upper part has been removed. Each hand is nothing but a bloody hunk of flesh, no fingers so they can’t scratch. Their eyes burn as fervently as ever, though, and as soon as they see me or smell me, they lunge forward, causing the car to creak. It goes nowhere. Thank God for the parking brake…I think.

  Still, I’m unnerved. Only people—hell, I don’t know if I should even call them that—who would be crazy enough to hook a pack of rotters up to a sawed-off convertible are people from the District.

  I holster my gun, knowing the zombies aren’t a threat and probably never will be unless someone has an irrational fear of being gummed to death, of which I do not.

  I go up the ramp to The Jet and push through the batwing doors. No piano plays, but the same man from earlier sits at the bench, his posture stooped, his eyes averted to the floor. Lilliana is behind the bar with another woman, this one older than her. They rush back and forth with drinks in their hands. I catch eyes with Lilly as she comes out from behind the bar with three glasses of flat beer, filled to the brim. Her eyes practically plead for me to get out of here.

  I’m not leaving. I’m thirsty.

  Thirsty for blood.

  Lilly brings those beers to the corner booth where the District have set up shop in the corner of the large room . Brandon has his back turned to me still, but I know it’s him. I could recognize that misshaped head a mile away. He’s a little younger. Probably in his early thirties. He has that certain kind of cockiness commonly seen in the big man on campus back in high school and college. As Lilliana sets the glasses down, he reaches out and slaps her ass with a big, dirty hand. Lilly stiffens at the gesture. I can only see the side of her face, but the way her eyes bore into him and her lips raise in a snarl tells me she is not particularly fond of Brandon’s greeting.

  One of the other District officers sees me eyeing the table and leans over and whispers to a different officer, who turns to look at me just before I make a show of hailing down the other bartender.

  I have to play this right. I’m outnumbered here.

  But how do I play it?

  “I’d like a Coca-Cola, please,” I say.

  The woman gives me a tired look. “I’m sorry,” she says, “Coca-Cola and other sweet beverages aren’t for public consumption.”

  Just as I’m about to argue and say Well, Lilly gave me one less than twenty-four hours ago, I feel a hand on my shoulder.

  “Jack. Nice to see you again. What’ll it be? The usual?” Lilly asks.

  I blink stupidly up at her. The usual? I’m not a regular. I’m not—

  “Whiskey, right?” Lilly says. She gives me a slight wink. The other bartender has lost interest in the conversation. I decide to just go with the flow. Can’t afford to stick out with the District here.

  I stammer, “Y-Yeah, the usual.”

  “Jack Daniels coming right up,” Lilly says.

  The other bartender rolls her eyes and moves out of Lilly’s way as a fresh highball glass is put in front of me and filled with smooth whiskey. I pick it up and put my mouth to the rim. It burns on its way down, feels like a fire in my belly. “Ah,” I say. “Thanks, Lilly.”

  “No problem,” she answers. Then she’s gone as quick as she came, back tending to the other customers, filling up glasses and smiling as well as she can with the added pressure of having stone-cold killers as her newest patrons.

  “Hey there, piano man!” Brandon yells. His other goons laugh. “Play us a song!”

  The man on the piano bench jumps at the sound of Brandon’s voice, then he stutters and stumbles over his words. “S-Sure, friends! What’ll it b-be?”

  “Surprise me,” Brandon says.

  More laughter from his goons. A sour feeling arises in the pit of my stomach. My grip on my glass tightens enough that I think I might accidentally shatter it into a million pieces. Talk about lying low, huh? I take another deep breath to compose myself, trying not to think about my dead wife and son, or Norm and Abby and all those other Havenites who had their lives taken from them.

  The piano starts up. It’s a song I don’t immediately recognize. My head is too fuzzy for me to pinpoint it. That’s okay. I’m not here to listen to music. I’m here to get one step closer to my ultimate goal of revenge.

  Judging by Brandon’s already slurring words, he and his friends have had more than a few drinks before coming to The Jet. A few more and I’ll make my move.

  Seven

  Then something happens, something that changes my plans.

  Brandon is up, screaming at the piano player. “Play Billy Joel!”

  And the piano player says “I don’t know any Billy Joel.”

  Brandon hits him, knocks him off his bench. “How the fuck don’t you know any Billy Joel? You call yourself a piano man?” Then he’s laughing and wailing on him.

  The other District guards stand up and draw their weapons, aiming them at anyone who makes a move to stop Brandon.

  “Lucky it’s not you on the ground,” one of them says as a man lunges forward. “Sit back down or you get a bullet in the brain.” He cocks the hammer.

  I may not have hope in humanity anymore, but that doesn’t mean I have to sit around and put up with this bullshit.

  So I move fast because I have to. I kick the stool out in front of me, and it careens in the direction of the goons. Wood splinters as it connects with the goon’s knee, taking his legs out from under him, and his gun hits the floor. It clanks and cartwheels off somewhere to my left. Most importantly, out of the goon’s reach. Then, because I really don’t want to waste my own ammunition on t
he likes of a grunt, I pull my sword free from its scabbard. It has seen a lot of zombie flesh in its line of duty, not much human. Today it meets the other goon’s neck. I do this in one quick motion, pulling the hidden blade out from beneath my cloak. The edge swipes across the area just below the man’s chin. I don’t think I have enough power behind it to kill him, but the spray of blood and the wheezing that follows tells me I’m wrong. This goon is big and as he falls, he makes quite the racket, though the screams from the bar’s crowd are much louder. Goon lands on other goon, pins him to the ground.

  Good. This buys me more time.

  Unfortunately, I don’t have much of it to admire the beautiful mess I’ve made. And though, I’m not a fan of killing humans, I understand these men deserve it for their affiliation with the District alone. Add the mountains of wrongdoings these men have done, the destruction they’ve left in their wake, the innocent blood they’ve spilled, and I’m doing the world a big favor.

  My heart plummets and my stomach flips as I whirl around.

  Here is Brandon. His mouth hangs wide open. He has stopped kicking the piano player. The man on the ground is unconscious, blood streaming from his chin in strings, rivulets leaking from his nose. Brandon fumbles at the gun on his belt. Probably the booze. Expired though it may be, it’s potent enough. Thank God.

  I throw my sword at him. For as big as it is, it’s surprisingly light. I aim for his gun hand, but my aim is off the slightest bit. Instead of the bicep, I hit him in the shoulder. The sword goes clean through, pins him to the wood of the piano. Right now, I’m grateful it’s there because there’s no way the blade is sharp enough to penetrate the metal walls of what used to be a military plane.

  Brandon yells in pain and anger. His gun clatters to the ground. One of the nearby drinkers is smart enough to kick it out of the way. I give him a thankful nod.

  Now I pull my own pistol free. Flashes of that horrible night come to me in a rush. Brandon is there holding Darlene down on her knees as the blood pours out from between her laced fingers. She holds the red smile beneath her chin. She gasps for air that won’t stay in her throat. How bright everything is, even in the darkness. Then Junior thrown to the ground. The man with one eye stomping his boot down on his spine. My son, my thirteen year old son. The boy. A part of me. Then the one-eyed man not even looking down at Junior as he pulls the trigger. Me screaming until my lungs burn and my vocal cords snap. The flash of the gunshot. So bright. The spray of blood. Brighter. My son’s screaming and crying cut off.

  Forever.

  The now is a blur, but I’m back, and I’m shaking the gun in Brandon’s face, crying and yelling at him about Darlene and Junior.

  Brandon grimaces and says, “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, you crazy motherfucker.”

  And I say, “Yes you do. You were there.”

  He opens his mouth to reply, but I don’t want to hear him talk anymore. Nothing he can say will bring back my wife and son. So I bring the gun across my body and slap him in the face with the jagged metal. A red cut appears instantly beneath his left eye, then his head lolls and his eyes roll back. He is unconscious.

  Movement behind me.

  Words thrown in my direction.

  “You son of a bitch. I’ll fucking kill—” the other goon yells.

  I don’t care to hear what this man has to say, either. I pull the trigger. My aim is true. The bullet released from my pistol blasts a hole in his face, and he doesn’t talk from this hole. He dies instantly, which is better than anyone from the District deserves.

  Now there’s a silence as the echo of my gunshot dies out. Every eye is on me.

  I look to Lilliana and the other bartender. Lilly isn’t scared anymore; she has seen this kind of death and destruction before, but the other bartender is petrified. I have never been good with people in the first place. In Haven, Darlene and Abby gladly took the diplomatic duties from me. Despite this obvious flaw, I offer up my voice.

  “I’ll help clean this up,” I say.

  No one else says anything. I wonder if they’re as afraid of me and I’m afraid of myself.

  Then I look to Lilliana and say, “Do you have any rope?”

  Finally someone else speaks up. It’s the man who has kicked Brandon’s gun out of his reach—not that that matters much now.

  “What do you mean rope? Just finish the job,” he says.

  “No. I got bigger plans for this one,” I say, and I do.

  Lilly disappears behind the counter. I think for a second that she is going to pull a shotgun out from beneath the bar and blow a hole through my sternum.

  She doesn’t.

  Instead, she pulls a thick length of rope out and tosses it in my direction.

  “Thanks,” I tell her.

  I pull my sword free and wipe Brandon’s blood off on his shirt. He stands for a moment then falls hard on the floor, so hard that a few discordant notes play from the piano. I flip him over with my boot. He groans. He’ll be conscious quick enough. Lucky for me my brother Norman has taught me how to tie knots that are all but impossible to get out of.

  I tie Brandon up in one of these knots. He’s not going anywhere. I take a step back to admire my work. Norm would be proud. I miss the son of a bitch.

  The end of the rope in hand, my gun on my right hip and the sword sheathed on my back, I drag Brandon out of The Jet. He leaves a trail of blood in his wake, and I turn around and tell Lilly and the other woman that I’ll be back to help clean.

  As I go down the ramp, two guards pull up to me on horses, their weapons drawn.

  I don’t flinch, don’t stop, don’t put my hands up. I just keep on dragging Brandon behind me. “Don’t worry,” I say to these guards. “I’ve got it handled.”

  “You’re in our jurisdiction,” one guard says and he has the gruff voice I recognize from the watch tower. I wonder if he has discovered the batteries I gave him were duds. Probably not. If that were the case, I think he would’ve shot me already. “Drop the rope. You’re under arrest.”

  The other guard’s eyes shift from me to his partner. The horses are spooked. They can smell the zombies waiting around the corner of the downed jet and the blood leaking out from the batwing doors.

  “I’m not under arrest,” I say. “I did your job for you. If anything, you should be giving me a deputy star and shaking my hand.”

  The nervous guard is older than me. There’s wisdom behind the nervousness in his eyes.

  “He’s right, Curly,” this guard says. “He ain’t under arrest. He’s obviously got business he’s got to handle—”

  “I don’t care if he is Jesus Christ reincarnated, Bill. He killed people. District people,” the guard named Curly says.

  “I did you a favor. Now quit pointing your gun at me and get out of my way,” I say. I really don’t have time for these post-apocalyptic rent-a-cops.

  Bill, the wiser of the two guards, dismounts from his horse. “Here,” he says, “he’s all yours. You get out of here and don’t come back, we’ll let you walk.”

  “Bill,” Curly snaps, but Bill holds up a hand to stop the younger guard’s protests.

  “Go on,” Bill says to me.

  I nod, bend down and lift Brandon up onto my shoulder. He’s still unconscious and though he’s quite scrawny, dead weight weighs a lot. I sling him over the horse’s backside while I tie the extra rope around the saddle. It has been a long time since I’ve ridden a horse.

  “Bilbo,” Bill says. “That’s the horse’s name. He’s a sweet thing. He’ll treat you right. I wish you the best of luck on your journey. Both of you.” Bill approaches the horse and rubs the space between his eyes. The horse whinnies.

  “No, I can’t take your horse,” I say.

  “Anyone brave enough to stand up to the District deserves more than this,” Bill says.

  I can see he’s not giving up.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  Slowly, I mount Bilbo. He doesn’t buck or quiver a
t my touch. In fact, he’s perfectly fine with me on top him.

  Curly is frowning, scratching his head, glaring at me. “You better not come back. We mean it.”

  I say nothing and tip an invisible hat in Bill’s direction. Now on the horse’s back, I snap the reins lightly and guide him back the way I came in. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lilliana and the rest of the bar patrons clustered near the ramp and the batwing doors. I can’t tell if there’s fear or admiration in their gazes.

  As I approach the gates, leaving two dead District goons and a trail of blood in my wake, I hear Bill shout, “Let him through! Let him through!” He’s now on Curly’s horse with him. They’re not far behind.

  The gate creaks open as whoever is up there cranks the handle that turns the tires and raises the fence.

  I spur Bilbo onward. He takes off at the sight of the open road. Then the wind snaps through both my too-long hair and my too-long beard.

  Eight

  It does not take long before a stray zombie appears on the path. I steer Bilbo out of its way. I think it’s a woman. Can’t tell for sure. The horse runs much too fast, but that’s good. Behind me, Brandon is starting to come back into consciousness, moaning in pain, mumbling something about the burning in his shoulder. I don’t answer him.

  Him and I will talk soon enough.

  I’ve seen the one zombie so I think it’s safe to assume there is more around these parts. There always is. I pull up on the reins to slow Bilbo down. He doesn’t seem happy that I’ve done it. The horse wants to run like the wind and I don’t blame him for wanting that. We go off the cracked asphalt, his steady clop-clopping is now muffled by grass and dirt. I guide him slowly through a path between the dark trees, which stand tall and vigilant like guards of the forest.

  The utter blackness here is nice. It’s home.

  We ride for nearly fifteen minutes before I find what I’m looking for.

  A clearing in the forest on a slight rise. There’s one dead oak in the middle of this clearing, as if God has put it there just for me, a notion I know is both ridiculous and borderline crazy.