Jack Zombie (Book 3): Dead Nation

by Flint Maxwell

  Three pops. Three bottle rockets. I think of Woodhaven, the roof and Freddy Huber. My stomach roils with fear. I don’t know who’s shooting who, and right now, my life depends on it.

  A thud against the wall. A meaty thud.

  Another pop. A spray of wood. The knife hovering above me disappears as Froggy prepares to defend himself. The door bursts open so hard, the hinges seem to bust off and the door knob rattles. Bud is still standing, he has a weapon in his hand. A one handed machine gun, something like an UZI.

  Another pop.

  Bud screams. He stiffens, goes rigid, and falls backward into the room. As he falls, he squeezes the trigger of his UZI and shots ripple upward, breaking wood and ceiling until he thumps hard onto the dirty floor. Shards of glass fall down on top of us like rain. I close my eyes. The bits bounce off of me.

  “Don’t come in! I’ll kill him, I swear to God and all things holy I’ll kill the son of a bitch!” Froggy is saying.

  Dimly, I’m aware of the knife pressing into my gut.

  “I mean it, I’ll — ”

  Two quick shots. The knife is gone. Froggy cries out, goes flying backward, scraping glass and crinkled leaves with his body.

  Dead.

  “Jesus, Jack,” Grady says, “cover yourself for Chrissakes!”

  I’m beaming, smiling so wide, I must be all teeth. “Grady, holy shit, I’ve never been so happy to see you.”

  He walks into the room, his head turned, not at the blood and gore, not at Danny who’s been shot and bled out all over the floor or Steph whose head has thermometer poking out from right between her eyes. None of that. He’s turned away from my bloody dick and balls. It’s a weird world we’re living in.

  He undos the straps. It feels so good to not have anything holding me back. I sit up and pull my pants back on. I use both her and her brother as stepping stones as I get down walk over to my boots. I put them on, tie them tight. I think we’ll be doing a lot of running, but that’s okay. I take Dan’s belt and cinch it around the hole in my thigh. It hurts like hell, but I have to get it to stop bleeding.

  “Hurry up,” Grady says. “There was more outside.”

  “Zombies?” I say.

  He nods his head. “Isn’t it always?”

  “Thank you,” I say. I try not to show just how grateful I am. If I did that, I think I’d be on my knees, kissing his feet. I was so close to death and not even normal death — but cannibal death. They were going to eat my balls, man! My balls!

  Grady looks at me, a smile on his face. “Don’t mention it.”

  I’m thinking of Darlene and Abby and Norm and Herb, thinking about how I’ll never leave them ever again. Thinking, maybe I can’t save the world now anymore than I could’ve saved it before the zombies came. The only way to save some things is through destruction. Starting over. Maybe that’s what happened to the world before. Our society was broken and someone — God or the scientists at Leering outside of my hometown — thought it was time to hit the reset button. I realize too late that I am crying, tears are rolling from the corners of my eyes.

  “Jack?” Grady says. He is reloading his AR15. “It’s okay, man. You’re safe.”

  “I know,” I say. “It’s just…I’m happy to be alive. They killed Billy. This bastard right here.” I nudge Danny with the toe of my boot. “And that one over there, the one you shot last, is one of the cannibals that jumped my group and me on I-95.”

  “You’re not very popular,” he says, grinning. The AR15 is loaded and he turns to the door. “But there’s at least one person who likes you in this city.” He waves to Jacob, Jacob waves back.

  I walk over to Bud and take his UZI. It’s much heavier than I expected, a little bigger, too. Again, I’m going by video game experience, but I don’t think this will be a good weapon to fight zombies with. The range isn’t far enough and it’s too erratic. Oh well, it beats a steak knife.

  Jacob whistles twice, both low and droning.

  “Zombies,” Grady says. “Stay frosty.”

  I turn and head toward the ruined door frame, ready to take out all of my pent-up aggressions on some dead motherfuckers.

  44

  I’m halfway out of the greenhouse and in a shadowy stairwell when a voice says from behind me, “This isn’t over.” I turn back to see Froggy half-propped up on his elbows. Two red roses have blossomed on his chest and stomach and they’re are getting bigger and bigger. “I’m g-gonna haunt you, you p-piece of shit. You think this is over? I-It’s j-just starting.”

  “Grady, hold on,” I say.

  I have to finish this.

  He doesn’t say anything back, but in the faint light streaming in I see understanding in his eyes.

  “Yeah? Haunt me?” I ask. I walk right up to him, trying not to show the limp in my strides.

  “Yeah,” he answers. “Even as we speak, they’re coming for you. C-Comin for all of you and that little village and your girls.” He smiles with teeth stained red. His eyes are dark and hollow. “If I don’t c-come back, that village is fucked.”

  “Then,” I say, raising the UZI up to his face, “I’ll just kill them again because I’m not making the same mistake twice.” He’s smiling wider. He doesn’t think I can kill him because I didn’t do it the first time. But I’m done being nice, I’m done leaving loose ends. I have a family to protect. I have a village to defend. I have a life to live. Besides, I can always tell when someone’s bluffing.

  Through that devious smile Froggy starts to say, “We’ll see ab — ” I don’t let him finish the thought because I do what I should’ve done the first time. I squeeze the trigger. It’s sensitive, but I’m able to let go before I waste the whole clip. A barrage of shots take him in the face, turning his smile into a bloody pulp. Not only do I see the light go out from his eyes, but I see the eyes go out from his face. It’s gruesome and dark.

  It’s not me.

  Or is it?

  He made me do it. If he would’ve never came back for me, would’ve never grouped up with the D.C. cannibals then he might’ve been able to live out the rest of his miserable life.

  I stand up, thinking of Darlene, thinking of what Froggy had said to me: I’m gonna find that pretty blonde bitch with the nice tits and pass her around and gut her when I’m all done. No man or woman would ever get away with saying that about Darlene. I did what I had to do.

  I give Froggy one last look and wipe his blood from my face.

  “Geez,” Grady says.

  “Don’t,” I say. “It wasn’t as bad as I wanted to do to him. Plus, he wanted to die. I could see it in his eyes.”

  Grady nods. “Let’s just not tell anyone about this when we get back home.”

  I agree.

  We head to the stairwell.

  The rampant sounds of the dead are already revving up. The gunshots and breaking glass and whistles probably had a lot to do with that, not to mention the city was already swamped with dead to begin with. As we make our way down the stairs, I see bodies and brains and shadowy blood stains. “Let’s not talk about this, either, ” I say to Grady, motioning to the destruction.

  “Wasn’t me,” he says, laughing. Then, after a moment, he says, “Yeah, let’s not tell anyone about this, either,” in a serious voice.

  We get into the lobby. There are three bodies on the floor. Near one of them is an M16, probably my M16. In the corpse’s belt is my SIG. I check the ammo. Almost full — good. From the lobby, I can see the street. Thankfully, I can’t see the alleyway Billy and I ran to because it’s the alleyway that wound up being his cemetery. That is, if there’s anything left of him. But with the street, I can see the dead. There are more of them than I expected. Much more than we can handle.

  “Shit,” Grady says.

  The lead zombies are a man in construction gear, jumpsuit, yellow hard hat, tool belt, and a woman with dreads and a tattoo on her sallow face. Her nose piercing gleams in the dying sunlight. There’s blood in her hair. I shudder…as if white-peopl
e dreads weren’t already terrifying enough. As she gets closer I see the tattoo is a crescent moon over her eyebrow, or at least it was. Half of her forehead has peeled off, the skin flapping with every shuffled step. And each time she moves with the jerky movement so common with zombies, yellowish-white bone shows through.

  “What’s the plan?” Grady asks.

  “Me?” I say, incredulous. “I thought you knew what we were doing.”

  “Dude, I don’t know anything,” he says. “All these zombies wouldn’t be in my plan.”

  “Well, what did you think would happen when we lit up that greenhouse like it was the Fourth of July?”

  He shrugs.

  Oh, c’mon, Grady.

  The lobby’s facade is virtually all glass. Most of the windows and doors have been boarded up with thin plywood but not all. It’s maybe enough to stop a few dead, just not enough for this army coming toward us. Two pieces have already fallen over. I guess you can’t trust cannibals to do anything right.

  I switch the M16 to full auto, feeling a weird mixture of fear and excitement. “Okay,” I say, “here’s the plan: We kick some zombie ass.”

  Grady looks into my eyes, snarls, and says, “That’s a good plan.” He releases the AR-15’s clip or magazine (I’m not sure what you call it) and let’s it clatter to the floor, barely audible over the groans and moans of the dead.

  “It’s the best we can do,” I say.

  Grady dips into his vest and pulls two more magazines out. He tosses them to me. “Found these on my way up here. You’ll need ‘em.”

  The tension in my chest eases. I wasn’t sure how many shots I had left, now I’m set.

  “That’s good for about forty shots, give or take. I’d say use them wisely, but fuck it, Jack. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Where?” I ask. “The hospital?”

  He shakes his head, smiling slightly. I flick my gaze over his shoulder to the zombies. Construction Hat is coming up the steps toward the lobby doors. Dreadlocks isn’t far behind. And behind them are scores more, their faces blending together. Rotting skin hanging off the bone. Blood-stained. Walking with crooked legs and arms outward. They look extra hungry, maybe extra-pissed, too, after missing out on Billy. “We got what we could from the hospital,” Grady says. “Not much, but enough to last us until next winter. And we saw someone, Jack.”

  “Who?” I ask, but the question isn’t answered.

  Construction Hat clinks his head against the glass. His yellow eyes glow like headlights in the dusk. He claws the door, leaving streaks of blood and black muck.

  “Ready?” he asks, ignoring my question.

  I get it, now’s not the time and all, but I say, “Ready,” anyway. “We make a run for it. Kill as many as we can.”

  Grady nods, raises his pistol out of the holster and pulls the trigger. The glass shatters, the top half glittering with red and white brains. Construction Hat takes the bullet in the face, and with the bullet goes a chunk of his cheek. I’m reminded of Spike after I shot him. The zombie drops to its knees and falls forward.

  We make for the door, the stench of death and acrid gun smoke in the air. And in the back of my mind, I’m thinking about Darlene, praying to God she’s safe in that little village.

  45

  Most of the dead don’t seem to look at us. Their heads are bent low, looking at the cracked asphalt, but their eyes are a glowing piss-yellow.

  Construction Hat’s tool belt is mine for the taking. I see a red wrench and a hammer. I pull them free from the belt. I have to conserve ammo now because I know we aren’t even in the thick of it yet.

  Standing on the top of three concrete steps, Dreads looks up at me, growling, greasy hair slapping at her rotten face. I take the hammer, and swing with all my weight. The growl is cut short by the blow. Skull cracks like an egg, pink and black yolk runs out, and she drops.

  Grady has his pistol in hand, AR15 on the strap around his shoulders. He lets off two shots, taking down three zombies. Two birds, one stone or something like that. I’m impressed, but too scared to be too impressed.

  “There,” I say, pointing across the four-lane street. On the opposite side are parked cars. Almost all of them have aged and weather-worn pieces of paper underneath their windshield wipers. Parking tickets, I think. Are you serious?

  Grady blows the brains out of another zombie.

  A priest comes at me, outfit almost completely unsoiled. I think this is a test of God. Of all the possible zombies that could be closest to me it has to be a priest. He’s so close actually, I can smell the overwhelming stench of booze (somehow stronger than the rot) hanging around him. When the apocalypse hits, not even priests can stay away from the bottle. I can also see a smudge of blood in the middle of his forehead and streaking down his nose. I’m guessing this fellow managed one last sign of the cross before turning. He chokes out a noise so animalistic and guttural I’m almost caught off-guard.

  Almost.

  The wrench in my left hand bitch slaps him upside the head. I hear his neck snap like dry wood. The spinal cord sticks out to the Heavens and I swear it’s a perfect crucifix. Not only does this make me feel uneasy — and a little queasy — but cements my place in Hell.

  Wonderful.

  I kick him out of my way. He goes toppling over the last two steps, squirting blackish blood, eyes burning out. But there’s no break and my heart is thudding fast while my brain sends me images of hands knocking on the inside of a coffin. It’s chillier outside now and night is coming, but I’m sweating. I feel it trickling down the sides of my ribcage. I smell my own body odor, though it’s nothing compared to the rotting guts of the zombies — some of them exposed.

  They keep coming. That’s one thing I’ve learned in the almost seven months this hell on earth has been happening. They never stop because it’s all they know. Food, brains, flesh. I think we as living, breathing humans aren’t far off. We never stop trying to survive because it’s all we know. I don’t know death and I don’t want to. So can I blame these monsters?

  I grab the M16 and I line them up in my sights. Maybe I can’t blame them, but I sure can blow their heads off.

  “Grady!” I shout.

  We catch eyes. Just for a second and that’s probably too much time — all it takes with these bastards is a second. One second, blink and you’re dead.

  Grady catches the drift, pistol whips a fat man dressed in the pale blue and safari hat of a postal worker. There’s a spray of dark blood suspended in the air for what seems like an eternity and then it falls. Grady holsters the pistol and brings out the big guns.

  We are going to clear a path.

  A zombie with no lips, face frozen in a perpetual snarl lifts its head up just as I pull the trigger. Vibrations thrum through my upper shoulder. Smoke puffs from the sides of the muzzle. My aim jumps from heads to torsos to feet before I can regain control. The gun barks madly. It sounds like wicked strikes of lightning. Heads explode, bodies shake, limbs flail. The bullets cut through flesh and embed themselves in the brick beyond. They ding off the cars, shattering glass and popping tires. Sparks flash on the road, muted by the red liquid pouring from the zombies’ wounds.

  My gun stops firing. With shaky hands, I fish out another magazine, release the empty one, letting it fall to the concrete, and shove the new one in. Grady is faster than me. His gun barks more shots.

  Each shot has been a hit. When you’re aiming at a wall of flesh, it’s hard to miss. But that doesn’t matter. We’ve barely cleared a path in the dead, not one I’d feel safe crossing. And if I’m going to get back to my family, to Darlene, then I will not cut corners.

  Some of the downed zombies still squirm. Arms reach toward the bottom step, caked in blood. They groan weakly, their eyes flickering on and off like dying lightbulbs. I take aim, pull the trigger. More lead explodes from the gun, and in turn, more heads pop, more zombies fall.

  As the path widens, I’m faintly aware of the dead filtering in from the ends of
the streets, from the alleyways and sewers, from everywhere.

  The gun empties. The shots stop from both of our weapons. Two zombies jump me, their tongues lolling, dirty fingernails aimed for my throat. Their skin is burning up, but somehow it’s so cold. I swing the butt of the gun and crack one on the chin. The jaw dislocates, teeth shatter and fall as it staggers backward. Three more take its place. I feel like I’m in quicksand. Sinking, sinking, sinking. I smell the blood, the putrified guts. My stomach roils, my heart makes a thunderclap in my chest.

  Help me. God. Help. I’m drowning.

  “Jack!” Grady yells. I can barely hear him over the snarling, the zombies’ groans and shrieks.

  “Jack! Jack! JACK!”

  The sun is completely gone now, not fully set but blocked out by the bodies around me. I swing again, twirling the M16 around like a helicopter blade. It doesn’t get me far, but daylight peaks in, vanquishing the black shadows of the dead. I stumble backward, nearly falling on my ass, reaching for the SIG in its holster.

  One shot, two shots, three shots. Blood, blood, blood.

  Then, click-click-click.

  Empty.

  More are coming for me, and I’m not advancing. I’m regressing, going back toward the construction worker and the blown open doors. My foot catches in a square of soil where a broken tree stands, and I fall.

  No.

  I can’t stop. I can’t. I have to keep going.

  A zombie wearing a jean skirt and ripped leggings stumbles at me, her spine like a bent piece of wire hanger. She falls, lips bright red from either too much lipstick or too much blood. And as she falls, one deflated breast pops from her shirt, claw marks are raked across her flesh and maggots drop from her once-blonde hair. I kick out and catch her in the forehead with the heel of my boot. Her face caves in.

  I catch a glimpse of Grady. He is making his way toward me, his face almost a mask of red. From a distance, you’d think he was wearing a mask. Zombies are chasing him, now flooding the steps.

  A man walks at me, his head almost completely twisted around, looking like he really woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. There’s a large gash across his stomach. The button-down dress shirt is stained with blood, and his innards snake out of of him like spaghetti. I push myself up, using the tree for leverage and the skirt-wearing zombie as a step. If I’m going to get eaten, it’s not by that motherfucker. But I’m weaponless. All I have is the empty SIG and M16, my legs to keep me moving, and the thoughts of my family back at a village I could one day call home keeping hope alive.