Jack Zombie (Book 3): Dead Nation

by Flint Maxwell

  “NO!” I shout.

  Danny says, “Yes!” and Billy falls over the edge. For a split second that feels like an eternity, he is suspended over the crowd, his lips pulled back and revealing a death grin, his eyes all but pools of blackness.

  Then, he drops.

  Now I’m up, not following his descent, but going for Danny, who is close to the edge, watching what he did.

  The splat saves Danny’s life. It is the single most disgusting and disturbing sound I’ve ever heard. My knees turn to water and I drop to the rooftop again before I can reach the man who threw Billy over.

  The chanting has stopped.

  Now, they’re cheering.

  I lied — that’s the most disgusting noise I’ve ever heard.

  40

  Steph is on me. She chops down with the butt of the pistol, hitting me between my shoulder and neck. My whole body quivers. I feel like I’m stuck with pins and needles.

  I can’t move.

  But I’m screaming. I don’t know how. But I am. “WHY? NO! WHY?”

  “We had to,” Danny says. He sounds so far away. I’m at the bottom of the ocean and he is the bloodthirsty shark hovering near the surface, smiling at me with big, sharp teeth. “We had to.”

  “Spare him the philosophical bullshit,” Steph says. She sounds closer. I can’t see. I can’t see much of anything. The day is getting dark, dark, dark. I have to get home before the dark. I have to get back to Darlene, let her know I’m okay, see how Abby is doing. If she’s sick and getting better. If her hand has grown back like a lizard’s tail —

  No. That can’t happen.

  Got to get the medicine. Got to find Jacob and Grady and Sean and Billy. Hummer. Bridges. The zombies with their yellow eyes and bloody, smiling faces.

  No not billy billy is dead

  “I’m too hungry to hear you prattle on about that,” Steph is saying.

  Billy.

  I hear them ripping his flesh. I hear them fighting over his limbs. Pulling him apart. Lapping at his blood, their stomachs grumbling, craving more. Inside of my head, I’m screaming because my vocal chords no longer work. It hurts. My brain feels like it’s on the verge of exploding.

  Billy.

  The rooftop is gone. I am feeling weightlessness. I hate it.

  “He’s not heavy,” Steph says. “Carry him yourself.”

  “We gotta help each other,” Danny says. “It’s not far.”

  The sun is gone. Oh, no, the sun is gone. They’ve killed the sun and it’s gone. Darlene is gone. We will never get married and she’ll hate me no matter how much she says she loves me. And Norm, he’ll laugh because I failed.

  Should’ve took me with you, little brother. I’m not meant to babysit. I’m meant to kill.

  Kill.

  Kill.

  Death.

  I’m dying.

  A door closes, rusty hinges squeaking.

  “Just slide him down the steps,” Steph says.

  Danny is grunting.

  The smell is soap. I smell soap and polished floors. I’m not dead. Through blurry vision, I see white tiled ceilings. A desk. A door to my right marked PRIVATE.

  Danny grunts.

  My head. My head and my neck. And my knee. It burns and cools. I’ve scraped it. I’m dying.

  “He’s coming to,” Steph says. “It’s easier if he’s not awake.”

  “Hit him again.”

  My eyes shoot open. The blurriness goes away. I’m in a small hallway. In front of us is a tunnel covered with debris and garbage, beyond that, more steps. I blink once, twice. Steph invades my vision, dried blood at the corner of her mouth, looking haggard and starved.

  Looking hungry.

  The butt of the SIG is above me now, too.

  I see it coming down — hear the CRACK before I feel it.

  Then I feel it.

  Blackness.

  41

  “You sure he ain’t dead?”

  A voice.

  One I recognize, I think. Steph. The girl who hurt me.

  My head throbs, my knee throbs, my neck throbs, but what hurts worse than all of this is the fear.

  “He has a heartbeat, doesn’t he?” another voice. This one I definitely recognize. This one is Danny. I think of Billy going over the edge, the sickening crunch and splatter of his bones. The squelching of hands and faces plunging into his gore, of fabric ripping. Did I dream it? Was that all it was, a horrible nightmare?

  “If he’s dead, let’s just eat him.”

  “He’s not dead!” Danny again.

  I’m trying to open my eyes, but it’s not happening. I’m trying to move my arms, but that ain’t happening, either.

  “I’m hungry. You gave them food, and they’re nothing but prawns. Look at them,” Steph says, “like animals. Like the fucking Sick.”

  “You would eat like that, too, if you lived off of garbage,” Danny says.

  “Where are they? They were supposed to meet us at four!” Steph whines, but the whines are stopped fast.

  Who? What is this, a dinner date?

  “Look at his eyes! Look! He’s not dead. They’re twitching!” Steph shouts.

  Somehow, she sounds disappointed. She’s going to be really disappointed when I get up and fight my way out of here.

  “I already told you that,” Danny snaps. Then, in a quieter voice, “Hey there, big guy. Glad you’re all right.”

  “Oh, my God, Dan! Look at them!” I hear her tap on glass. “Mutilating the zombies and eating. They really are savages.”

  “Again, you would do the same if you were in their position.”

  She laughs. “They’re killing each other now!” She sounds fully amused, like she’s at the zoo watching monkeys fight over a banana.

  Welcome to the jungle, I think.

  Danny ignores her.

  “You want to open your eyes, Jack? You want me to help?” And as he says help, cold and rough fingers scrape across my eyelids. The light hits me like a nuclear bomb. I see dirty glass, sunlight streaming through it. I blink on my own. Motes of dust float around the room.

  “Wh-Where am I?” I ask.

  My voice is sandpaper.

  I look around the structure I’m encased in with just my eyes. Can’t turn my head. Glass. There are dead plants lined in rows all around me. Rotten strawberries and shriveled peppers hang over white bins that stand and stretch the length of the room with countless legs. They look shrunken, deflated, like the rest of the world. They smell old and sweet. Dead. I can see buildings surrounding us. I’m back on the roof — roof, Billy, my mind says, whirling — and I’m strapped to a table. Four leather straps, thick, across my shoulders, stomach, shins, and my head. I can’t move, but I’m not paralyzed.

  “We call it the Buffet Table,” Danny says.

  “Stupid name,” Steph says. She is at the far end of the room, leaning over blackened leafs, her hands pressed up against the glass, shielding her eyes from sour sunlight.

  “No one asked you,” Danny says, turning away. I make a move, thinking I can break out of the straps. I’m about as strong as a piece of chewed gum, not the Incredible Hulk I think I am sometimes. I get nowhere. The metal buckles rattle and the table wobbles on both legs. That’s about it. Damn it. But what did I really expect?

  Danny chuckles. “You aren’t going anywhere, except,” he points to his stomach, “here.”

  “You don’t want me. I got a bunch of things wrong. I’ll just upset your digestive system,” I say.

  Danny grins. Shark teeth. “Not likely.”

  “I mean, you guys seriously can’t find something better than human to eat? There’s gotta be chickens and cows out there somewhere, you know, that survived.”

  “I’m a vegan,” Steph says, turning toward us. She shrugs. “Like, besides people. Plus animals are cute. People aren’t. They just taste really, really good.”

  Danny shrugs half-heartedly. “She’s right. We do taste absolutely delicious.”

  I
take it these types of people were doing this long before the virus hit. Just secretly. You know, at some dinky shed deep enough in the woods where no one can hear their victims scream. It’s horrifying. Truly horrifying.

  “I just don’t get it,” I say. “You know who I am, and yet you still think it’s a good idea to do this to me,” I say.

  “Don’t get too full of yourself,” Danny says. “Leave that to me.”

  Steph bursts out laughing. I, for one, am not a fan of stupid puns, especially when the pun’s subject is me being someone’s dinner. Steph wipes her eyes. “God, laughing just makes me hungrier. How long has it been?”

  “Too long,” Danny answers. He looks into my eyes. Each time he does it I try to lie to myself that I’m strong, but truth is, this bastard unnerves me far more than someone like Spike or Butch Hazard did. “We don’t know you for any other reason than being a killer of our own people.”

  “Who are you talking about?” I ask. “I’ve killed tons.”

  Not true, but I try to make myself sound a little scarier because I think somewhere deep inside them, they are frightened. Then again, I might just be an idiot.

  “We’re everywhere,” Danny says. He puts a hand on my arm. It’s cold and sweaty — I don’t know how. My body ripples with goosebumps.

  “Yeah, and so is your name,” Steph says. “That’s all the rest of the group from I-95 talks about. Jack Jupiter, this. Jack Jupiter, that. Truly, it’ll be a pleasure to eat you.”

  I guess my brain isn’t as right as I thought it was. The hit in the middle of my forehead and on my neck messed me up worse than it feels, somehow. The massacre on I-95, the massacre I created, had been blacked out from my memory. But I had to do what I had to do. That’s what this world is all about. You have to survive. Sometimes, you have to kill to do it, and that’s what I did. I don’t think these assholes would understand. You don’t have to eat humans to survive. They’re not zombies.

  “See, we have a friend,” Danny says.

  Steph comes over from the window, rustling the dead leaves which sounds an awful lot like charred papers rubbing together.

  “I wouldn’t go that far, Dan,” she says.

  He ignores her. My eyes strain to read her face, but I can’t because of the strap across my forehead. It’s like I’m about to be airlifted to the hospital.

  “He is someone we’re acquainted with, someone who sought us out. And he should be here pretty soon,” Danny says.

  My mind starts rolling with the possibilities of who it might be. And I’ll admit, being a former author of horror books, my mind starts digging up pictures of Spike with his face blown open and Butch with his chest bubbling red.

  But I know who it is. This is exactly what I get for being merciful. A group of people who want to devour my family and attack us. I fight back, which I’m sure anyone would do in that situation. I keep one of them alive, I give him medicine and a knife for protection, and let him go. I spare him and it comes back to bite me on the ass…possibly literally.

  Not funny.

  The door begins to open, as if right on cue. These hinges don’t squeak, they’ve been used regularly. I wonder how many stragglers were left in the city, how many people were taken off the streets by these cannibals. The thought sickens me.

  The face that emerges from the shadows is gaunt, dirty, lead by a thin and pointy nose. A face I recognize.

  It is Froggy.

  He is smiling. And in his hand is the big knife I gave him. The same knife that’s going to strip the meat from my bones.

  42

  “Yeah, that’s him,” Froggy says.

  He smiles, but there is fear in his eyes. Rightfully so. I murdered all of his friends, and now, as the gravity of the situation really starts to hit me, making my skin crawl, and the leather straps around my legs, arms, chest, and head get tighter, I feel no remorse. Bring those bastards back as zombies and I’d kill them dead again. Double dead, and that’s the end. The end of the end.

  It’s not like if Froggy said I wasn’t Jack Jupiter they’d let me go. No, these bastards would eat me no matter what. But now, I’m not just a regular Applebee’s frozen steak; now, I’m a fucking filet mignon. Top of the line. Trophy eats.

  “H-He’s the one who killed the rest of my group, and my Frog Mom,” Froggy says. The stammer in his voice was minuscule, but I caught it. Despite, the pain in my head and the fear in my heart, I smile, and I make sure I look as crazy as I feel.

  Can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, right?

  “Well, my friend,” Danny says, “your sentence has been passed. Punishment: Eaten alive.”

  “Don’t worry,” Steph says, smacking her lips, practically drooling out of the corner of her mouth, “once we dig in, you’ll pass out. They usually do.”

  “Yeah, it’s not like the old days. Back then, you know before all of this, we had anesthetics,” Danny says.

  “How sweet of you,” I say. My voice is barely audible. The fear is choking me out.

  “Not really,” Danny says. “Much easier to eat a person if they aren’t screaming and kicking, hence the straps and the gag we are about to shove in your throat.”

  “No,” Froggy says. “Let him scream. I want to hear the screams.”

  The other man behind him — this man can’t be more than thirty years old and balding — steps out from behind Froggy and nods. He wears a suit coat and white button-up, open collar, no tie, like a Wall Street Business man or and eighties cocaine kingpin, except the front of his shirt is dotted with blood. Great, he’s dressed up for the occasion. Dinner for four. The main course consists of Jack Jupiter. And I notice how big this man’s belly is. It’s bulging like a pregnant woman’s. He’s not got the gaunt and starved look about him. I wonder how many meals he’s been apart of, how many others like me have been trapped and beaten, only to end up in the very same place.

  Danny looks to his sister. He rocks his head back and forth like a pendulum, weighing the options. “Sis?” he says.

  “He’s a guest, isn’t he?” she answers.

  “I think I’m technically the guest,” I say.

  Here I go making jokes. Usually happens when I’m on the brink of death.

  The fat man chuckles, but the rest ignore me.

  “Only if you promise not to scream too loud,” Danny says.

  I don’t answer. I won’t give them the satisfaction of my screams. I will bite my tongue off before I do that.

  “No answer,” Danny says, smiling. “Good enough for me.”

  “Buddy, will you get us the utensils?” Steph asks.

  The fat man says, “Sure thing.”

  He moves out of the room and seconds later comes back with a bag and a wooden box. One is a duffel bag made of leather. It is scuffed, very used. There are drops of dark liquid on it. I see this as he passes my field of vision, then he drops it on the floor. It clinks. Metal. He hands the box to Danny. He sets it on top of my stomach. It’s heavy. And he opens it. Inside, silverware gleams. Not the type of silverware you’d see in your mother’s kitchen drawers. No, these are the types of utensils used for a big cookout. Pitchforks. Blades like the one in Froggy’s hand. Tongs.

  Seeing them is like seeing my death. I’d imagine what I’m going through right now is waking up during surgery to see the doctor holding a buzzsaw up to the light. You don’t know if you’re dreaming or in hell.

  “Is the fire set up?” Danny asks no one in particular.

  “Yeah, it’s burning low right now. I brought marshmallows. We can have s’mores for dessert,” Buddy says.

  Really fucking great.

  Danny grins, but it’s not the shark grin from before. This is a genuinely happy grin. “Aw, Buddy, you know me so well.” Danny has a steak knife and grill fork out, and if the grill fork was a little bigger it would be a perfect zombie weapon — long handle, two sharp prongs. He rubs them together, creating a noise like two swords clashing against each other. My heart is beating ridiculously fast, now. If h
e pricks me, I’m going to spurt a fountain of blood. I feel my face growing hot, but my skin feeling like ice. I close my eyes, summoning up an image of Darlene. Her standing at the altar, wearing a white wedding dress, low cut, both pure and impure at the same time, her blonde hair flowing in a light sea breeze. When I was younger, I never thought I’d get married. I think this was a result of the fact that most girls wouldn’t give me the time of day. Then, I met Darlene and five years (going on six) later, I still can’t believe she agreed to marry me. And I think I’d like to get married on a beach. On a warm day, calm day. That’s where this image is coming from.

  I try to block out the scraping noise, but I can’t. It’s too loud, too prominent. A heavy, black thunderhead hangs above me, signifying death.

  I smell disinfectant, maybe dish soap — two scents I haven’t smelled since the apocalypse happened. It’s coming from the utensils. Gee, that’s super kind of them. I might get eaten, but at least I won’t catch Hepatitis.

  “Froggy, would you like the inaugural piece?” Danny says.

  I open my eyes. Froggy no longer looks scared. Now, he looks hungry, perhaps even anxious to eat. His eyes are big, lips are wet, hands are shaky with anticipation. “Yes,” he says, “I would.” He crosses the room. I see he is still limping, still wearing the dirty, soiled clothes he was wearing when I sent him home on the bridge away from Wrangler territory. The blood on his shoulder is caked, dark as mud. He smells like vinegar and dirt and body odor.

  “I call the balls!” Buddy says.

  All fight goes out of me when I hear that. The balls? Seriously? There’s got to be cannibal etiquette, got to be something that says you can’t eat someone’s manhood.

  “I’ll split them with you,” Steph says. “I love how they just…pop!”

  I’m in an episode of The Twilight Zone.

  “Let’s make sure he’s at the perfect temperature,” Danny says. He speaks lightheartedly, like this is all some big joke. He rummages through the box of barbecuing utensils until he finds a long, thin metal stake. In a blur, he raises it up. Things go slow motion here as they often do in times of great stress for me, and I’m faintly able to recognize that it’s a meat thermometer and this has got to all be some huge, sick prank.