Dead Nation: A Zombie Novel (Jack Zombie Book 3)

by Flint Maxwell

  “Look out!” he yells, aiming.

  I turn just in time to see a man whose face looks like a lump of dried clay, shiny maggots squirm around his right eye socket where an eyeball should be, teeth broken and sharp, lips peeled back by rot. He falls on Abby.

  She screams.

  The fog invades my brain. I’m in that long, dark hallway hearing her shout.

  A chunk of Abby’s arm disappears and it is replaced with a fountain of red and stringy tendons. She screams like she is on fire. It is the loudest sound in the forest, louder than the death snarls and gunshots — and louder than my own screams.

  I’m quick, as quick as I can be. My gun comes up and blows the zombie’s other eyeball away. It goes skipping across the beaten path, leaving a trail of black blood in its wake.

  Abby is bucking. Her gun is gone, lost in the wild grass. With her good arm, she squeezes the wound. I hold her as she convulses, my heart racing faster than my mind.

  She is going to be okay, she is going to be okay, I’m thinking.

  But that logical part of my brain — my own worst enemy — tells me what I thought earlier…a bite is fatal, Jack. It’s always fatal.

  16

  I scoop her up into my arms just as the horde of undead close in around us. The Wranglers have lost the battle. We have all lost the battle.

  Now, most are feasted upon, their guts hanging out of their bellies, their faces chewed away. I hear a young man shout, “Please, GOD!” and his voice mutes as four zombies come down on him.

  I weave through limbs and blood and corpses staring up at the dark sky with lifeless eyes. I’m not running down a picturesque hillside any longer; now, I’m running through a battlefield. World War III.

  “Darlene!” I’m screaming. “Darlene!” all while Abby’s life force pours from just above her wrist and down the front of my shirt.

  More Wranglers are rushing toward me as I’m rushing toward the valley. They are armed with weapons. One man has what looks like a homemade flamethrower made out of duct tape, a lighter, hairspray, and one of those E-Z Reachers immobile people often use.

  “Darlene!”

  Abby’s eyes are clouding over, she looks like she has cataracts — What an odd sight, I think to myself, she’s not old enough for that, then I realize the insanity of that thought. She’s okay, she’s okay, she’s gonna be okay.

  Darlene stands at the base of the hill near the fences and spikes pointing at me. I’m running so fast the wind is whipping through my hair. People are actually getting out of my way.

  “Darlene — ”

  I stumble and fall, but I turn my body so Abby doesn’t hit the ground first. We go sliding down the dirt. Pebbles scrape my back. Mud cakes my elbow. She is already smelling sick, like bile and heat and death. It floods my nostrils, overwhelming the smell of the forest and the earth.

  Gunshots explode behind me at the top of the hill. Someone says, “Die, you bastards!” and then machine gun fire chases the words.

  Another person shouts, “Fall back!”

  “No!”

  More gunfire.

  Norm bends down. He’s trying to take Abby away from me.

  “Let go, Jack! We gotta move! We gotta move!” he yells.

  People screaming now. My heartbeat thud-thudding.

  Somehow, I manage to bring myself up with Abby still in my arms.

  “Mom…mommy,” she says. “I’m sorry, I’m s-s-sorry.”

  “In here! In here!” someone says.

  I look up and see the older man and his wife standing in front of an open door. The man is waving us in. Herb and Darlene aren’t too far off. Norm grabs me by my elbow and pulls me along the rest of the way, which is about a hundred feet. Once we are past the fences, their metal gleaming in the dying sunlight, the older man named Jacob leads us to what looks like a cabin. It’s far. My legs are burning, joints screaming, but I keep going. I have to.

  There is light inside. And as I run in, holding Abby’s blazing body, I realize how sweaty I’ve become.

  “Abby?” Herb says, poking his head out from the front door of the building. “Abby, no!” He starts crying. Darlene is right there with him, thank God.

  I take her and lay her on the table across the room. The older man clears a few textbooks off by way of swiping the back of his hand over the surface and sending them scattering to the floor. Abby whimpers. She sounds like she is dying.

  “Fuck,” Norm says. “This is too much. I’m going back out there.”

  “No, don’t go, Norm!” Herb says.

  Norm doesn’t.

  Outside, I faintly hear the sounds of gunfire, but it’s intermittent. I think the battle is over and we won. How many casualties there are, I don’t want to know. Does that mean we really lost?

  “Turn away, Herb,” I say. “Think about your auntie and your brother. Think about all the good things.”

  His sobs soften, but he won’t turn away. He can’t.

  “Oh, my God. What happened?” Darlene says.

  “Shit happened,” Norm answers. “Shit happened real quick.”

  “Help me hold her,” the old man says.

  “Oh, Jacob, not in here,” his wife says. Her face is drained of all color, she’s shaking. I can’t imagine how I look. If I look as bad as I feel, I’m sorry for whoever lays eyes on me.

  “What do you expect, Marge? Do you want me to wait until we are able to get to the med center? If we don’t do something quick — ”

  “Just do it!” I shout. “If it’ll save her life, just do it.” I hear my voice as if through a speaker. It’s like my soul and consciousness has left my body and observes this gruesome scene from above.

  “There’s no anesthesia,” Darlene says. She starts shaking her head then her hands start going through her hair. She’s pulling it, kneading it.

  “What choice do we have?” I say. “If we wait — ”

  “She dies,” Jacob says. “Now help me hold her down!”

  “Momma, I didn’t mean to,” Abby says. “And the cat…Simba, I threw him off. He died. He died. L-Like me.”

  Darlene is by the table now, her arm is draped across Abby’s neck, pinning the top half of her to the wood. With her other hand, dirty and grimy with blood, she pets Abby’s dark hair. “Shh, now, honey,” she says. “Shh, it’s going to be okay.”

  Jacob runs around the room. His wife Marge bouncing from one foot to the other. Jacob knocks aside more books and chairs and a small card table in the corner until he finally stops. The racket inside is almost as loud as the one on the outside. “Here it is,” he says, on his knees looking under a small cot. He pulls a scabbard out, handling it by a frayed leather strap. He unclasps the holder and pulls a blade free. A very sharp blade. “Margie, get me the vodka out of the top cupboard! Quickly!”

  Marge looks as if she’s been kicked in the ass. She waddle-runs into the next room. I hear the rattle of pots and pans. A glass breaks. The noise of it shattering echoes throughout the cabin.

  One more gunshot goes off outside of the walls. I think it is the last one. I hope it’s the last one.

  Marge comes back with a clear bottle of some cheap vodka. It is about half-full. I am oddly reminded of Ben and Brian Richards’s world famous absinthe. Boy, we could use that now.

  “Okay, hold her down,” Jacob says. “Where was she bit?”

  “Can’t you fucking see?” Norm shouts. He is still by the cracked door, still wanting to go.

  I smell fire in the air, see the dancing shadows of flames on the cabin’s floor.

  “Her wrist,” I say, trying to wipe away the blood.

  Jacob can’t see. The bite is not pretty. Abby’s entire arm looks as if it has been painted in red. The teeth marks are not normal teethmarks. The zombie who bit her had a smile like broken glass.

  “All right,” Jacob says. He pours vodka onto the blade then onto Abby’s arm.

  She screams bloody murder, the sound loud enough to rupture ear drums and shatter mirror
s.

  “I’ll have to cut higher. She won’t lose the whole arm, at least I don’t think,” Jacob says. “Now hold her. Hold her!”

  “Oh please, Lord,” Herb says. He is standing in the corner, one large hand hovering over his brow, trying not to look at the horrendous scene playing out across the room and failing.

  “Have you done this before?” Darlene asks. “Please say you have. Please.”

  Jacob shakes his head.

  Then, like a butcher with a hunk of beef, the blade hand comes down, and Abby screams again. Not a clean hit. The blade comes down once more.

  Then again.

  And again.

  We all scream with her.

  17

  The detached hand hits the floor and rolls. Abby cries deep, wracking sobs. Darlene has taken to crying too, but she still holds Abby down from bucking.

  “Hand me a towel,” Jacob says. “Hand me a towel now!”

  His wife is quicker this time. There is blood everywhere. Some has sprayed across my face and my clothes, dotting me with misty drops. I feel queasy. This beats anything I’ve seen on a zombie, hands down. But it’s not the amputation that gets me the most; it’s the fact that it’s Abby, the sister I never had, the girl who got me through the chaos of Woodhaven and who stood by my side while Darlene was knocking on death’s front door.

  I realize I am crying. Tears stream down my face, warm tears. My hands are shaking. Abby’s screams are dull. The colors of the cabin — what would normally be a rich mahogany is gray. The red rug on the floor is gray. The blood spurting from Abby’s wound, soaking the towel, is gray. The world seems darker now.

  “Jesus,” Norm says behind me, very faintly. “I’m g-gonna step outside. You want to come, little brother?”

  I turn to face him and shake my head. “No.”

  “Herbie?” Norm asks.

  “Abby,” Herb says. “My poor Abby.”

  “C’mon, big guy, she’s going to be okay. Let’s get some fresh air.”

  “B-But the zombies,” he says.

  “They’re gone. It’s fixed,” Norm says.

  The two of them leave, closing the door. The flames outside have been put out. I smell the smoke on the wind. I hear the clamor of voices, not death rattles. The battle is over.

  Looking at Abby, I know we’ve lost.

  “Is she really going to be okay?” Darlene whispers. Blood runs from the corner of her eyes like teardrops.

  “Yeah, she is,” I say. I’m sure of myself. I know she is. And if she’s not, then I’m going to make sure of it.

  Jacob takes a deep breath.

  Abby has passed out, her eyelids fluttering. Her hair sticks to her forehead in sweaty clumps. I reach up and brush it away, the tears welling up again in my own eyes. Each day I go on in this wasteland, this zombie-ravaged world, my heart breaks. And a heart can only break so many times before one gives up. But I can’t. I can’t. If Abby dies, I have to go on because she would want me to, she would want all of us to.

  “I can’t say for sure,” Jacob says. His wife hovers, her hand over her mouth. Jacob pulls his belt from his pants and ties it around Abby’s stump which begins just above where her wrist used to be. Then he starts unrolling gauze from a nearby desk drawer. “Got to stop the bleeding, but this isn’t enough. She’ll need better medical attention, cauterize the wound…and maybe,” he looks up to the ceiling, “she’ll need a miracle.”

  “Are you a doctor?” Darlene asks.

  Jacob chuckles. It’s an odd sound, one completely devoid of humor. “Not even close. I was a garbage man before the world turned. Now, I build things here in our little village.”

  “How’d you know to cut the arm off?” she asks.

  “Darlene,” I begin to say. “Not now.”

  “No, it’s okay,” Jacob says. He begins wrapping the wound. “A story for another time, perhaps. We got to get your girl over to the med center if it’s all clear outside. Have Phyl take a look at her. She’s lost a lot of blood.”

  I stand up, and the movement causes Abby to stir. She doesn’t open her eyes, but mumbles something I don’t understand.

  “Let’s move then. Now,” I say. “I can carry her. How far?”

  “Across the village,” Jacob says. “Come on, I’ll help you.”

  I shake my head. “You’ve helped enough.”

  “No, no,” he says. “I’m helping. Life is the only thing that matters in this godforsaken world.”

  “Okay,” I say, “thank you,” and we head out to the door.

  18

  “Where you going?” Norm shouts as we barrel past him. The gates are closed now. I see the destruction, just a passing glance. Bodies scattered on the hill, rooted to the land like the trees. Zombies, people, stray guns and blunt weapons. But that’s not what draws my eye. What does it is the bright red smeared across the grass and dirt, flowing down the slope like a lazy river. I only see this briefly before I’m weaving in and out of people with shocked looks on their faces. Soft people. People who’ve forgotten what it’s like beyond fences and spikes. These are not like the people of Eden, though. Those people were crazy. Those people craved the blood. Had they seen what I’d just seen, they’d be jumping for joy, celebrating. The Wranglers, however, have tears in their eyes, looks of anguish on their faces.

  Maybe they haven’t completely forgotten. Maybe the wounds are still fresh, not fully healed. I know exactly how they feel. It’s times like these I think of all the ones I’ve lost. My mother, Kevin, Isaiah, the Richards family, and so many more I can’t comprehend.

  Jacob is navigating through the sea of people, leading me to the med center. “Up ahead,” he says, pointing to a shabby looking building with a gray and orange patched roof.

  Darlene is running with us. Not far behind, I hear Norm say, “Wait up!”

  Jacob moves quick for an older man. He is at the door, holding it open and waving us in. As I walk in, the smell of herbs and spices hit me. This place is not an emergency room. It’s as cozy as a library. There’s a waiting room and a woman behind a desk. She is cowering, though, holding a knife.

  “Brittney, where’s the doc?” Jacob says.

  “I’m here,” a voice says from behind a door. The door opens and the sterile white lights from a room beyond bleed out into the waiting area.

  “Phyl, I got a bite,” Jacob says. “I amputated the arm, but she’s losing blood. You gotta help us.”

  A young woman steps out. She is wearing a blue dress. Phil? I think to myself. Phyllis? But she’s not an eighty year old woman.

  “Jake,” she says, “is it safe out there?” Her eyes are big, looking past us at the open door. “What was it? The cannibals?”

  Jacob shoulders past her and waves me into the room.

  “Oh, not Eden!” she says. “Please tell me it wasn’t them.”

  “It wasn’t them,” Jacob says.

  I step into the room after him. It is not a hospital by any stretch, but it’s trying to be. If anything, this is a glorified garage. There’s cots lined up on the half of the room closest to the wall. There’s a few tables for the patients. Trays full of tools. A rack full of medicines and supplies.

  “What then?” Phyllis says, more like shrieks.

  I hear Norm and Herb come into the room behind us. Norm is out of breath, gasping for air and Herb’s heavy footsteps almost shake the very foundation of the building. Darlene helps me lay Abby onto the table. Abby is still zonked out. I hope from shock instead of blood loss.

  “It was the dead,” Jacob says.

  “The zombies? They were in?” Phyllis says. “Did you hear that Brit? The dead were in!”

  “Oh, my God,” the lady at the desk says in the other room.

  “No, they didn’t get in, just attacked,” Jacob says.

  The doctor is staring at Jacob with wide eyes. Jacob grabs her gently by the shoulders and says, “Doc, I need your help. This young woman was bit, but I cut the bite wound off with the rest of her a
rm. Now, she’s lost a lot of blood. I need your help.”

  “Lotta people gonna need her help,” Norm mutters. “Ones that survived, anyhow.”

  Jacob snaps his fingers in front of the doctor’s face. Once. Twice. Three times. “Doc?”

  “Bitten, you say?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I reply. “But the hand’s gone.”

  “You should’ve shot her in the head,” the doctor answers. Her face twists. “Put her out of her misery.”

  “Hey!” Darlene shouts.

  “What? I mean no offense…it’s just that the possibility of survival is slim. Especially since…” she trails off, looking at Jacob.

  “Now, Phyl,” Jacob says in a soft voice. “I’ve seen what you could do. Frank taught you well.”

  “Don’t talk about him,” Phyllis snaps.

  “Phyl, it wasn’t my fault,” Jacob says. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

  Phyllis bows her head, takes her glasses off, and wipes her eyes. “I know. It’s not even that. I don’t have the supplies. The proper anesthetics…we’ve been running low.”

  I think of the bag full of medicine we brought and know it won’t be enough, and I shake my head.

  “Just do what you can, Phyl,” Jacob says. “Do what you can and we’ll go from there.”

  Phyllis nods. “I will, but I’m not making any promises.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” she says. “Now everybody get out. I can’t work with you watching me like scientists watching some new species of bug!”

  We file out.

  Norm claps his hand on my shoulder.

  Jacob says, “Phyllis is a little…high strung — hell, we all are — but she’ll do a good job.” He looks out the door. A group of bloody and beaten people are walking toward the med center, lead by one of the men I recognize from the bridge. He is younger but grizzled looking, as we all are nowadays.