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

by Flint Maxwell

  Lilly mumbles her agreement.

  “Can you describe the hobgoblins to me?” I ask the woman.

  I realize I’m really grasping at straws here, but what else do we have going for us? The rest of the place is sealed shut. I could follow the power lines that connect to the lights, but whatever hole they are funneled through will be too small for us to squeeze into. Not to mention that in order to reach those power lines, we’d need the ability to scale the walls like Spider-Man. So if talking to a crazy woman on borrowed time is my best shot at getting out of here before the Overlord can come and kill us, then by God, I’m going to take that chance.

  She purses her lips, and moves them around, thinking. “Are you insane?” she asks me.

  “Pot, kettle,” Mandy says, and Nacho laughs, but I don’t think he fully understands the meaning of that saying, with his broken English and all.

  “They’re right there!” the woman says. She turns her head so fast she’s a blur. It’s like she’s following a hummingbird that’s zigging and zagging around her backyard. “Oh geez, you missed it. It was right there, the little stinker. I call that one Bruno. He’s always getting into my fresh bread.”

  “Fresh bread,” Abby whispers. “The craziness thickens.”

  “My eyes aren’t what they used to be,” I say. “Please, just describe them to us.”

  The woman caresses the loose skin of her face with a shaky hand, thinking deeply. “It’s not easy,” she says. “Describing them. They’re tricky little bastards. Sometimes they look one way, and then a few hours later, they look entirely different.”

  “Cuckoo,” Abby whispers, covering her mouth as she speaks. I do my best to ignore her. It’s not easy.

  “Sometimes they look like little green men—you know, like those aliens in Roswell, New Mexico?”

  I nod.

  “But they’re much uglier, like they have diseases or something. They won’t talk to me. They just make these terrible faces, and stick their tongues out and blow raspberries.” The woman’s features becomes pinched. “Oh God, do I just wanna rip their little faces off, the clever bastards. The zombies don’t notice them. They weave in and out of their legs like rats, except they’re much bigger. Uglier, too.”

  “Thank you,” I tell the lady.

  Unlike the rest of the people in my group, I’m managing a straight face. Abby looks close to bursting, but she’s never been one to humor bullshit. I, on the other hand, was a writer of fiction before all the world went to hell, so it’s safe to say I keep an open mind. I mean, how can one not, when the world is overrun with zombies, these fantastical creatures meant for fiction?

  Still, hobgoblins? There must be some place where I draw the line, right? Keeping that straight face, it’s tough, I’ll admit.

  I say, “Where do they come from?”

  The lady points into the darkness of the tunnel. “Back there,” she says. “There’s a door about this high.” She raises her hand about two feet from the car’s floor. “And this wide.” This time, she uses both hands to make a foot-wide gap between her palms. “They come and go as they please. I holler at them a lot, tell them they need to start paying rent or I’m telling the Overlord, and the Overlord doesn’t take too kindly to squatters, but they just laugh and make their faces at me.” She crosses her arms and sticks her bottom lip out. I see her top teeth in this expression—or rather, her lack of top teeth.

  “I think they locked her up and sentenced her to death for insanity,” Roland says. I look at him out of the corner of my eye. There’s no smile on his face. He’s serious. The disgust I have for the Overlord and his terrible District is almost overwhelming. What kind of government executes people because they’re crazy?

  “That would make a lot of sense,” Abby whispers. “I mean, she is crazy. Not that I agree with her getting executed for it.”

  “Do you think I can fit through there?” I ask the woman.

  She shakes her head. “You don’t look like much of a hobgoblin, son.”

  “Well, I’m not—” I begin.

  “Unless…you are a hobgoblin!” She shoots up from the bench and raises her hands high above her head, shrieking. The sound causes a few of us to step back. Not me. I stand my ground.

  “Hobgoblin!” the lady yells. “Evil hobgoblin!”

  This goes on for a solid thirty seconds. The zombies take notice of her screaming, and like one large mass clumped together, they sway to the left, their leaking bodies trailing blood and muck behind them.

  “Uh, Jack,” Abby says in a subdued voice that still manages to carry over the shrieking woman. “Can we have a moment?”

  I almost can’t turn away from the car. I’ve seen a lot of weird things in my time on the road, but this, a woman in a makeshift prison shouting ‘Evil hobgoblin!’ at me, is definitely near the top of the list. Not exactly at the top, but definitely up there.

  “So, you do realize she is completely crazy, right?” Abby asks. “Like completely off her rocker, talk-to-the-birds-and-think-they’re-talking-back crazy. Like tinfoil hat crazy. Like—”

  “Why don’t you just say she’s thinks-she-sees-hobgoblins crazy?” Lilly chimes in.

  “Okay, guys,” I say. “This isn’t a joke. Mental illness is a real thing.”

  “So are zombies, but we joke about them, don’t we?” Abby replies.

  I see there’s no arguing with her, so I just nod and say, “Yes, I know she is crazy.”

  “And you know there’s no possible way that little hobgoblins are running around this place, completely unnoticed by us or the zombies, right?” she continues.

  I don’t answer instantly. My head is somewhere else; where it is, I just can’t say.

  “Jack?” Lilly is snapping her fingers in front of my face. “Jack, don’t tell me you’ve fallen off your rocker, too.”

  I shake my head, blink a couple of times. “Yes, I understand there are no hobgoblins around here.”

  “Or anywhere…right?” Abby intones.

  “Well…” I say, “that’s a completely different argument.”

  Abby throws up her arms as if trying to get God’s attention. As it has been for the last fifteen years or so, He’s not answering.

  “Listen,” I say, “this is all I’m thinking. Craziness is somewhat grounded in reality. There are cases where the person suffering from mental instability is too far gone, yes, of course, I know this, but this woman doesn’t seem too far gone to me. Not yet.”

  “So the hobgoblins are something?” Roland asks.

  I nod. “Not exactly hobgoblins, but something is tricking her brain into thinking that’s what it is. Something tangible.”

  Everyone is just looking at me like I’m the crazy one now. I can’t really blame them.

  The woman continues her wailing, but now she’s saying, “EVIL GREEN HOBGOBLINS! ALL OF THEM! EVIL GREEN HOBGOBLINS!”

  “I don’t know about goblins,” Nacho says, “but there’s green light everywhere. No?”

  Roland nods.

  And that’s when another idea invades my head like a comet plummeting through the atmosphere. It hits me so hard, I almost fall backward.

  “That’s it,” I say. “The radioactive-ness or whatever.”

  “Very scientific, Jack,” Lilly says.

  “Don’t act like you know what to call it, either,” Abby says. Lilly rolls her eyes at this; she’s picking up on Abby’s mannerisms more and more.

  Anyway, I see that I have Abby’s attention.

  “She’s seeing green light wafting in from an opening in the tunnel,” I say. I point into the blackness.

  No one speaks again. It’s quiet except for the zombies.

  “Okay…” Abby says. “Say there are radioactive ghosts floating in here or something, and say she’s right. Do you really think you can fit through the opening she described?”

  “That’s just it,” I say. “She can’t see the opening from here. Her mind is filling in the blanks. She’s taking the ordinar
y and making it extraordinary. Remember? Grounded in truth?”

  “Filling in the blanks by completely fabricating all of that bullshit,” Abby says.

  Lilly nods. She’s smiling, unsure. “I mean,” she says, “it makes sense.”

  “Yes!” I say. All eyes are on me.

  Abby says, “Okay, I’ll admit it makes sense. If you wanna bet your life on the odds that a crazy woman gave you, be my guest.”

  “There’s also another huge problem,” Roland says. He taps a scrawny finger at the corner of his mouth. There is dirt beneath his too-long nails, and this dirt seems to be glowing as well.

  I wonder to myself how this place is affecting my health. Will I develop cancer from my short time here? Will my hair start falling out? Will I sprout a third leg somewhere from my midsection? Will I, at the very least, have nightmares? Well, I have nightmares anyway, when I find the time to sleep, that is.

  I shake my head, trying to put these dark thoughts to the back of my mind. I’ve had enough time with dark thoughts; I have to keep moving forward. Life never stands still, so neither can I. We must get out of here.

  Now all eyes are on Roland. He subconsciously takes a step backward. I imagine he doesn’t like the spotlight, after being cooped up in that little tin can for half a year.

  “What?” Abby asks him. “What’s the other thing?”

  He moves the finger away from his mouth and points to his left, over the edge. We turn our heads collectively, the same way the monsters sometimes move.

  “Oh, fuck,” Abby says. “He’s right.”

  The zombies. We forgot about the zombies. How is that even possible?

  I look at their glowing yellow eyes, and a feeling of sinking despair freezes my body.

  Twenty-Nine

  Mandy is the first one who moves. She peers over the edge with squinted eyes. “Maybe a hundred in all,” she says. “Some aren’t threats. Too burned or maimed to get around much. So let’s say about seventy, maybe a sixty if you’re an optimist.”

  “Seventy?” Nacho repeats. Mandy nods, and Nacho whistles through his teeth, shaking his head. “That’s a lot.”

  “Thanks, Nacho,” I say. “We know.”

  “You’re welcome,” he replies.

  I see he hasn’t mastered the concept of sarcasm yet. We’ll have to work on that, I guess.

  “No way we can take on that many zombies, Jack,” Lilly says.

  “This is the part where he says, ‘Well, you don’t know who I am…’ Am I right?” Abby says.

  I shake my head with an exasperated look on my face. “We don’t fight them. Obviously, Abby.”

  She makes a sound like a cat hissing, and with her good hand, hooks her fingers to mimic claws.

  The whole time this is going on, the woman below us is hooting and hollering. Loud. It’s mostly just become background noise, though. Eventually, I think she’ll wear herself out. Well, hopefully.

  “All we have to do,” I say, “is distract them.”

  “For you?” Nacho says. “Oh, good, amigo. I say no, no for me. I’m not going to see hobgoblins.” He’s shaking his head.

  “Thanks, Nacho.”

  “Same for me,” Mandy says. “No offense, Jack.”

  “None taken.”

  “I’m mighty good at distractions,” Roland says. “Worked as a party magician in the nineties.”

  “Geez,” Abby says. “That’s one party I wouldn’t want to be at.”

  “Hey, I was quite good. Could pull a rabbit out of my hat, the colored handkerchiefs out of my sleeve, a bouquet of flowers out of thin air, you name it. I made good money back then,” Roland says.

  “I’m assuming this kind of distraction won’t involve magic,” Lilly says. “Although I do love magic tricks.”

  “You got a deck of cards?” Roland asks.

  Lilly shakes her head.

  “Well, if we get out of here and we find a deck of cards, I’ll show you some really cool stuff.”

  “I’ll hold you to that,” Lilly says.

  “Okay, enough magic talk,” Abby says. “Back to Jack. Let’s say you somehow manage to make it up the tunnel—I know, I’m playing devil’s advocate a lot today, but someone has to. Anyway, you make it into the tunnel. The zombies are catching on to your scent. Our distractions—or magic tricks—aren’t working.” She offers a sly smile to Roland, who is nodding and smiling to himself. “The zombies are closing in. First one, then two, then a dozen, then bam! a freaking hundred of those bad boys. You get to the end of the tunnel, and there’s no opening, or the opening isn’t big enough for you and your big noggin to fit through. What then?”

  Roland is no longer smiling. Nacho shakes his head, mumbling some Spanish I don’t understand.

  “That’s an easy answer,” I say. I pause for dramatic effect, even though I know we don’t exactly have time for this. “I die.”

  Nacho whistles again. I barely hear it over the lady’s moans below us. They’ve at least tapered off some…not much, though.

  “All because you trusted the word of a crazy woman,” Abby says. “What would Darlene say?”

  And this strikes me harder than I thought it would. Then again, the mention of my dead wife will always strike me in some type of way, no matter how much time passes.

  I mull this question over. Abby isn’t trying to be a jerk, She’s honestly wondering about my thoughts. Maybe she thinks I’ve gone crazy, truly gone crazy, and I should be sharing the car with the woman below instead of leading all of them up here.

  I say, “Darlene isn’t here, but she’d tell me I’m an idiot.”

  “Then what?” Abby asks.

  “Then I’d do it anyway.”

  Thirty

  Do it is what I do.

  We split up and go back into the subway cars. Everyone gets something heavy, some sort of blunt object. Roland has a piece of metal handrail, Nacho has the back of a seat, Lilly and Abby both have strips of steel that had fallen in through the hole, Mandy has her massive fists, and I’ve got nothing. I decide it’s best to travel light. I don’t know how long the tunnel stretches, nor where this opening—if there is one—lies, but I know I have to get there fast, before the zombies catch my scent.

  On the farthest car now. There is a metal ladder on the outside, something used for servicing the train or maybe it’s an emergency escape, I don’t know. The metal is twisted and charred, bent out of its ladder shape, but I’m standing on the top rung, looking at the rest of the zombies.

  Abby hands me a spare piece of steel, and I lean down and jab a zombie who’s strayed to this side of the tracks through the head. The blackened brains don’t ooze out so much as they wheeze, like a puff of dust. The zombie drops and another one ambles over. I do the same to this one. I think it’s a man, but it’s pretty burnt. Shoving the steel through its head reminds me of the papery feel of a bees nest. It lands near the first downed zombie. For the moment, this side of the subway is clear. I nod and say, “All right. Get as loud as you can.”

  Abby nods back, all business. Lilly, though, she takes my hand and looks into my eyes like it’s the end of the world.

  “Be careful, Jack,” she says, and she puts her hand on my forearm, gives it a squeeze.

  “I will,” I say. I look to the rest of the group. “Do it!”

  They nod back with fear in their eyes, more fear than in mine, probably. Then the vast cavern fills up with the terrible raucous of metal on metal, of shouts and screams, and Nacho’s high-pitched whistling. The zombies pressing up against the car move like a herd of cattle.

  I look behind me, see nothing but fractured ground and the dead bodies of the two stragglers. Quickly, I begin my descent. Abby is turned around, still banging the metal against the top of the car. She’s watching my back.

  As my feet touch the gravel and the crooked tracks, this feeling comes over me like I’m stepping in hot lava, like the game Norm and I used to play when we were young. We’d jump from couch to chair to coffee table,
trying to throw each other off onto the carpet. In our imaginations, the carpet was lava. Norm always won, him being older and stronger, and we never played it when Mother was home, otherwise she would’ve kicked both of our asses. Even though I always lost, it was a hell of a lot of fun.

  I look down at the dead zombies, their toasted corpses, their leaking brains, and I realize I can’t say the same thing about this. This is no fun at all.

  The passageway in front of me, aside from a few downed rocks, is clear.

  For once, I’m thinking, something is going right for me. Can I luck out two times in a row? Can I find the hobgoblin’s secret doorway? Bad thoughts, bad thoughts. Don’t want to jinx it.

  I weave in and out of luggage, crisped by fire, half open, spilling fossilized items out from inside: a hair brush, clothes, running shoes missing their laces.

  Just as I’m getting into a groove, moving as fast as an Olympian, I somehow pinpoint a rattling much too close. I don’t know how I hear it over the chaos. But I do. My adrenaline, already spiked to begin with, shoots off the charts. I stumble, but I don’t fall. Not yet, at least.

  It’s important to always be aware of your surroundings, especially when running from zombies.

  I seek out the threat. Between the broken cars, there is nothing, no zombie, and I’m starting to think I’ve imagined it.

  I freeze. That’s almost unheard of. I never freeze.

  “Go, Jack!” Abby yells, shocking me back to the present.

  She’s right. I need to get going. I take a step.

  That’s when a hand grips me around the ankle, cold and harsh.

  I stumble backward and trip over a Gucci bag so burned I can hardly decipher the double ‘G’ logo. My ankle makes a terrible snapping sound; for a second, I think I’ve broken it, but I don’t have time for a broken ankle.

  On my ass now, I look up, and here’s the upper half of a zombie, a woman. She has long, stringy hair on one half of her scalp. The rest was most likely burned away by the fire that tore into this cave. Her cheek has a large hole in it, and her tongue snakes out like a malignant tumor, bloated and black.