“Lilly, cool it,” I say as calm as I can, but trying to hold her back has left me out of breath. “They’ll get theirs. It may not be from you or from me, but they’ll get it. Trust me. The assholes always do.”
“No. They don’t,” Lilly argues. Her face is red. There’s a sheen of sweat on her forehead. The longer bangs of her short hair stick to her skin. “So sometimes we have to give it to them. We have to give them what they deserve.”
She has changed drastically from when she was telling me to leave them. It’s funny what a guy spitting on you can do to your psyche.
“Yeah, which was exactly what I was going to do earlier, but you told me not to,” I say. “I thought we were going to do this a certain way—“
She shakes her head. All the anger on her face melts. “You’re right, gotta be better than them,” she whispers and tells herself to take a deep breath. She does. Then she takes another one, and another.
“The bitch don’t seem like she like me very much,” Duane says from behind.
“You’re going to regret messing with me,” Lilly says, but then she’s taking another deep breath. It’s almost comical, their exchange.
“And you two are gonna regret fuckin with the District. They do terrible things to bitches like you. Things I don’t even wanna talk about,” Duane says.
Lilly stays calm on the surface. Underneath…well, I think that’s another story.
“So you are District,” I say. Not a question. As if I didn’t know. I’m not surprised, the only bastards around left seem to be District.
“Damn it, Duane!” Paul hisses. “You just don’t know when to keep your big mouth shut, do ya?”
“Oh, c’mon, Pauly, these motherfuckers ain’t stupid. They saw what we’re carrying. They know whose farm that is up there,” Duane argues.
All Paul does in return is shake his head.
“Here’s the deal,” I say, taking my gun out of its holster. Both of the men get this look in their eyes, this look of fear that I like. I hate to admit that, but when you’re the one in control of a situation like this, it feels good. “We’re gonna do this delivery for you.”
“Good luck, buddy,” Duane says. He tries to shrug in his ropes. The movement is not very successful. “Bandit and the boys are expecting us. Me and Paul.”
“That’s fine. Paul will be there,” I say. Seeing Paul’s face twist up in confusion makes me happy.
“I will?” he asks.
“Sure. And I’ll be right next to you, holding a gun on your ribs, just out of sight of any District soldiers.”
“What about me?” Duane asks. “You just gonna leave me here all tied up like a fucking hog.”
There’s a moment of silence as Lilly and I exchange looks. She shrugs. I shrug.
“Yeah, I guess we are,” I answer. “Can’t have your wound and swollen face give us away.”
Duane’s dark skin goes a few shades paler. “You wouldn’t. I’ll scream and they’ll hear me up there.”
“So will the zombies,” Lilly says. “Who do you think is gonna get here first, the District preoccupied with a shipment of weapons or a horde of hungry zombies?”
“The lady has got a point,” I say. “We saw a pretty big horde not too long ago. They looked especially ravenous.”
Duane shakes his head, doesn’t say anything. I walk over to Paul and cut his binds. “All right, Pauly old pal, you ready to get this show on the road?”
His legs are shaky and there’s a deep fear in his eyes, but he nods. I hold my revolver to his back and force him into the car. Lilly comes around the side with me.
“Be careful,” she says.
“I will. You too.” Inside, I’m saying Look at you, Jack, caring about people. But I know this would make Darlene happy. I can feel it.
She nods. “What’s the signal?”
“If you get a clear shot on Bandit, take it, but if you don’t, I guess the signal is whenever you start to hear gunfire,” I answer. She smiles at that then turns to walk back into the forest. Duane is saying something I can’t understand, spouting off obscenities, bloody spit flying. I think, for a moment, that Lilly is going to lay into him, shut him up. She doesn’t. Instead, she takes a knife out. For the slightest of moments, I think she’s about to kill him in front of God and everybody.
Nope.
She cuts the bloody rags around his knife wound and rolls them up into a little ball. Then she goes over to the ropes Paul was wearing and then back to Duane. She stuffs the cut shirt into his mouth and ties the rope tight around his head. Looks like he won’t be screaming at all.
As I get into the truck, we catch eyes again. Hers are alive with adventure, with anticipation. She climbs up on Bilbo, the assault rifle slung over her shoulder, and nods at me. I nod back and shut the door.
“Start it up,” I say to Paul.
“You guys are monsters,” Paul says, never looking me in the eye. He does as he’s told. The cab of the truck rumbles to life. Metallica plays softly over the speakers.
“We’re all monsters,” I reply.
Seventeen
We arrive at the farm’s gates. Two men stand guard with weapons and grimaces on their faces. One of them sucks on a cigarette then exhales, gray smoke drifting up to the blue sky.
“One word about what’s going on,” I whisper, “and I pull the trigger.”
Paul gulps and nods. “Making a mistake, friend. This ain’t gonna end well for you or that girl.”
“We’ll see about that,” I say. Maybe he is right. Now that we are here at the gate I’m left wondering why I’m doing this. Sure, I’m doing the right thing, I’m going to save these prisoners and take out one of the District’s high ranking officers, but what if I fail? My mouth goes dry. I try to swallow but can’t. My ultimate mission is revenge. Not against this Bandit guy or the other soldiers here, but against the one-eyed man. I know he’s in Ohio. So what am I still doing here in Illinois?
Somewhere from the ether, I hear a voice. It sounds like Darlene’s. I know that she is gone forever and what I’m hearing is nothing but an auditory hallucination brought on by fear and stress, but it’s nice to hear her voice again so clearly. Even if it is my own imagination.
She says, You’re here, Jack, because you’re a good person. You’re one of the few good people left on this planet.
But am I? In the two years on the road, I’ve done some bad things.
If I was by myself, if I was anywhere else, I would be crying. I nod to that phantom voice and think, I miss you, Darlene. I miss you and Junior more than I can put it to words.
We miss you, too.
Now Paul is rolling down the window, his arm working the crank. The guard with the cigarette jutting out of his mouth approaches. The cigarette rises nearly to his left eye with his smile. “Pauly!” he says. “How the fuck are you?”
“Good, Chip. Real good. Got a big order for you today,” Paul replies. I no longer have the gun on him, but it’s in hand under my cloak; there’s also an assault rifle tucked between the side of the passenger’s seat and the door, any visible parts obscured by my body. I’m sweating, my skin sticking to my shirt.
I wish I could hear Darlene’s voice again. Not the hallucination, but the real one, the one that comes straight from her mouth because she isn’t really dead. She’s alive and we’re back at Haven with Junior and Norm and Abby and Tim and Carmen and Eve, all growing old together.
The guard leans in closer, putting a hand on the edge of the window. “Who we got here?” he asks. “Where’s Duane?”
An uncomfortable silence settles between us. There’s tension, too. I hope I’m the only one aware of it. I think Paul is about to answer so I wait. He doesn’t. I begin to open my mouth and just as I speak, Paul laughs and says, “This is Bruce. Didn’t the boss tell you about Duane?”
Another bout of uncomfortable silence. This one doesn’t last as long as the one before it. Chip rubs his chin and says, “No, I didn’t hear about Duane. He al
l right?”
“Got bit,” Paul says matter-of-factly. “Right on the shoulder. Couldn’t get him to the infirmary in time to amputate.”
The guard takes his hat off and shakes his head. “That’s too damn bad. That son of a bitch owed me coin. Worst Hold ‘Em player I ever met.” A gleam of reminiscence fills his eyes.
“I don’t think he’ll be paying ya back, Chip,” Paul says. “He’s gone. Put his own self outta his misery. It was bad. Real bad.” Paul’s lying ability throws me for a loop. This guy could be a hell of a storyteller.
“No sense in crying over spilled milk. What’s done is done,” Chip says. “He’ll be missed, but we got work to do. Hear the Overlord is planning on expanding soon. Very soon.”
“Heard that, too,” Paul says.
This catches my ear more than anything else. Expanding? Nazi Germany and Hitler’s plans for world domination come to mind, not for the first time.
“Heard they got a couple of jet planes up in the air on a test run,” Chip says.
Paul nods. Judging by his lax expression he’s heard this one. I haven’t. Fear stirs my insides, my stomach roiling greasily. Jet planes? Fighter jets? Jesus Christ, where does it end?
“Oh well,” Chip says. “Nice to meet you, Bruce.” He waves a hand and steps back from the truck. “You go on in. Unload in the garage. The boss’ll be out in no time.”
I raise a hand, subconsciously lowering my voice even though it doesn’t matter. Chip and his buddy, along with the rest of the District here, will be dead before the sun sets. “You, too,” I say.
The other guard pulls the fence open and Paul eases his way up the sloping gravel drive. It’s about a quarter-mile long, probably a bitch to shovel in the winters.
“Jets?” I ask.
“I’m not answering nothing for you, you piece of shit,” Paul says, not bothering to look at me.
I nod.
As we go up this drive, we pass the tractor. The zombies are still there, tethered to the front grill and tied to one another, but the humans are gone. I don’t see any of them around at all. A barn stands near the left corner of the house. I’d bet anything that is where they keep their human prisoners, like livestock. To the left of the barn, parallel to the driveway are stables and the garage. There are two horses leaning out of those stables, big and well-fed. The roof is patched and the wood is old.
Now that I have a front view of the farmhouse, I see just how nice it is, like one of those mansions so common in the South. It has a wraparound porch spotted with furniture. The paint job looks fresh and the outer walls are cleaned. The front yard is mowed in diagonal stripes all the way to the side of the half-plowed field we had seen from our forest vantage point. To our left and slightly behind us now is the windmill and a small pond with a rowboat in it. This brings back memories of the Mojave Desert and Central and Herb, but I push them out of my mind. Have to focus on the task at hand. There’s no room for screwing up.
I wish I could ask Paul more questions, but he won’t answer, especially now that we’re inside the gates and he knows if I shot him, the entire brigade would be on me in a matter of seconds. I mentally list off the threats on the farm. So far I’ve seen the two guards at the gate with their weapons, a few men on the porch with rifles, and then the man who was once behind the tractor. Nowhere to be seen is the head honcho, the one Lilly calls Bandit.
What is it with the world ending and everyone taking on these lame monikers? I should call myself Jack Deadslayer just to fit in.
Paul turns off the driveway and onto a paved road branching around the various structures. He stops near the garage and the parked Lincoln and shuts the engine off.
“I hope you have a good plan,” he says. His voice is chilling, quiet. “They are going to sniff it out as soon as they see you. You ain’t District. It’s written all over your face.”
“Just like Chip back there sniffed me out?”
“They put him on the wall for a reason,” Paul says. “Like the pawns in chess, man.”
He has a good point. A sinking feeling in my stomach hits me. I try to ignore it.
Three guards are walking toward us. The garage opens with a sound of clanking machinery. I haven’t heard a garage open in a long time, didn’t know I missed it until now.
“Don’t say anything you’ll regret and you might live to see another day,” I say to Paul. “Now get out.”
He does and then so do I, putting my gun back in its holster. It wouldn’t look too good if I got out holding my revolver with a white-knuckle grip, would it?
“Pauly!” one of the guards says with a smile on his face. The other two are already looking me over, confusion wrinkling their brows. These are the type of scared men I have seen following the District over the past two years, and it’s that fear inside of them that makes them dangerous.
“Who’s that?” one asks, pointing at me.
“Duane’s replacement,” I say coolly, but my right hand is ready to strike for my gun, while my left hand is itching to reach backward and pull my sword free. I don’t have it. I left it in the back of the truck, it’s just that old habits die hard.
As I’m rounding the hood, I notice out of the corner of my eye that Paul has stopped. He raises his hands, and this is where the sinking feeling present in my stomach bottoms out, and a spike of nausea hits me like a freight train. I almost double over with cramps, caused by fear, no doubt, but I can’t because before the words leave Paul’s lips, I have my hand on the butt of my revolver.
“He kidnapped me and killed Duane! Kill him! Kill him!” Paul screams, then he drops out of sight to the ground below, using the U-Haul as cover.
Eighteen
The first shot belongs to me, and I aim to kill. That’s something Norm has tattooed on my brain. You don’t waste your ammo, don’t pull the trigger, unless you mean to blow someone’s—or something’s—head off.
So that’s what I do. I don’t feel guilty about it, not anymore. There was a time when I felt guilty about killing, a time when I hated the fact that I had to do it in order to survive. For as long as I was in Haven, behind the safety of those walls, I didn’t kill another man. That was for nearly fourteen years. Then the one-eyed man came and did what he did and I was forced on to a collision course of rage and vengeance. I don’t have any reservations as I pull the trigger. Especially when it comes to District soldiers. I told Lilly we have to be better than them, but that was a lie, a front. I was just trying to calm her down.
There’s no point in staying on your high horse when survival is all that matters.
The first guard’s face peels away and he drops to the ground, his head a bloody mess. The other one is not so slow. The smile he wore when he greeted Paul is gone, replaced by a savage grin of murderous intrigue. His assault rifle barks and sprays bullets at me. I dive back, taking cover behind the truck. Metal whines and the U-Haul bounces with the shots. To my right, I hear voices, thunderous footsteps. More guards are streaming out of the house, one, two, three.
One by one, I pick them off.
C’mon, Lilly, this is the sign! I’m thinking as more shots blast the grille of the truck. I have two shots left in my revolver before I have to reload.
Another guard bursts out of the front doors, nearly trips over the bodies of the already-fallen. I shoot him, one slug to the chest and he goes flying into the screen, taking it off one of its hinges so it now hangs crookedly.
The shots to my left have stopped.
For the moment, all is quiet except for the groaning of the zombies, now enamored by all the noise, and the ringing in my ears. Then a shot hits much too close to my feet. A spraying of gravel nearly sends shrapnel into my arm. I spin around, see the guards who opened the gate running up the driveway, Chip in the lead.
One shot left.
Pressing my body up against the truck, I suck in a deep breath and close one eye. It’s a long shot and pistols aren’t known for being the most accurate weapon at a distance, but I don�
�t have a choice.
My last bullet takes Chip in the stomach. He drops, dead. His buddy isn’t too far behind him, though, and I need to reload.
What do I do?
“You’re cornered, man!” the guard from around the front of the truck says. I hear shouting near the other side of the house, coming from the back where the field extends.
I back up.
“C’mon out and face your judgment,” the guard says.
No fucking way, I think. I throw the passenger’s side door open, dive in and grab the assault rifle I’ve stored in between the seats.
Just as I’m about to pop back up and shoot through the bullet-starred windshield, the driver’s side window erupts in a deadly rain of glass. My automatic instinct is to cover my face and eyes, but I quickly realize having to pick shards of glass out of my flesh is a lot better than being dead. As I move my hands, I see the long barrel and the shit-eating grin of the guard.
“Told ya, man,” this guard says. “Now I gotta give you your judgment. Better me do it than the Bandit. He’s a—”
But the guard doesn’t get to finish. His throat bursts. An exploding fountain of red flies from a fresh hole below his right ear as thunder echoes behind me. I turn around, and through the passenger’s side window is Lilly on Bilbo’s back, the gun resting in the crook of her arm, the scope raised to her right eye.
Oh, thank God.
She waves a hand and then turns Bilbo around. They race along the fence, out of my view. I go out of the driver’s side door, glass biting into my palms and forearms.
Another spray of shots behind me and I hope that it’s Lilly taking out the other gatekeeper. No time to look. I need to beeline to the barn and set those people free. Easier said than done, of course. I take off and before I’m even three steps away from the truck, I hear someone say, “Hey, asshole!”
Shit, I forgot about Paul.
Nineteen
Paul is holding one of the assault rifles from the back of the truck. I hadn’t even heard it open. I guess I wouldn’t have with the shooting and all.
The Dead Collection Box Set #2: Jack Zombie Books 5-8 Page 31
