The Dead Collection Box Set #1: Jack Zombie Books 1-4

by Flint Maxwell

  After some reluctance, she nods.

  I grab Darlene and kiss her. “It’ll be okay, I’ll see you soon.”

  “Oh, Jack, just reason with them,” Darlene says. “Maybe they can help us, too.”

  I don’t tell her how unlikely that is. The type of people who shoot first and then call your name are not the type to reason with.

  Abby takes the Midnight Special, and the two of them go out of the back.

  “You got Herb in there?” Loudspeaker says. “You got him in there then we won’t make you pay the toll.”

  Yeah, right, I think.

  Norm ponders this question for a moment. A long moment.

  “Well?” Loudspeaker asks.

  Norm looks to Herb, their eyes meet. Terror in Herb’s. Understanding in my older brother’s.

  “Tick, tock,” Loudspeaker says. “Time’s up.”

  We all drop. The machine gun goes off, drilling the bar’s facade. What was left of the windows break apart. Old, dusty bottles of Jack Daniels and Absolute Vodka explode. The mirror behind the bar disintegrates into almost nothing. Somehow, I think that’s got to be more than seven years of bad luck for Loudspeaker and his gang outside.

  Then the shots stop. All is quiet.

  “Go check,” Loudspeaker says, but not over the loudspeaker. It’s so quiet, I hear it all.

  “No, you go check,” another voice responds.

  “Don’t be a pussy, Ramirez. They’re dead, no one could survive that,” Loudspeaker says. Even I can hear the uncertainty in the man’s voice.

  Norm looks to me. We nod, knowing what we have to do.

  “No,” Herb says. “Let me go out there. I will take my punishment.” He holds his hand up studying his fingers.

  “No,” I say. “Don’t be stupid. We can take them.”

  Outside, I hear the tentative footsteps of Ramirez coming to check on us. I risk a glance. He’s carrying an AR15, something straight out of a video game. These guys definitely have the heavy artillery. Next thing you know they’ll be lightning us up with a rocket launcher. All these weapons just laying around in this dead world, I guess someone had to take them.

  The footsteps stop. This man with his AR15 is scared of us. If only he knew what we’re packing. He’d be laughing if he saw me with a dull machete.

  “Step aside, I mean it,” Herb says, his voice rumbling over a whisper.

  The footsteps start again. Norm risks a glance over the window ledge, now minus its glass. A shadow dances on the wood panel walls — Ramirez’s shadow — and this shadow raises its weapon.

  Norm doesn’t hesitate. He takes aim with his Magnum, and lets a bullet fly. The shadow on the wall disintegrates, but not before a burst sprays from the man’s shoulder.

  I drop behind the cover of the brick door frame, peeking around to see who’s next.

  There’s no storm of bullets like I expect. There’s just calm. Unsettling calm.

  But it’s broken as Loudspeaker talks. “Well, damn, the bastards shot Ramirez,” he says. “Blew a fucking hole through his neck. Guess they mean business.”

  Someone else echoes his laugh.

  “You think Ramirez dying is funny?” he asks whoever laughed, not bothering to depress the speaker’s button.

  The laughter is quickly cut off.

  Norm gives me a look. It’s a look I know well thanks to our travels on the road. It’s the Time to fuck shit up look look.

  I take a deep, shaky breath. Killing is not something I enjoy doing, it’s something I have to do. Something I have to do for Darlene. To survive. I know these people won’t give us a slap on the wrist. They’re killers. We all are.

  We have to be.

  Norm aims for a man wearing a riot helmet. In the harsh sunlight, I can see the dried-on bits of brains and guts and blood on him.

  In the past year I’ve gotten much better at shooting — especially compared to my time trapped in the Woodhaven Recreation Center — but Norm has gotten even better.

  The soldier is only a young man.

  I lean forward and grab Norm’s arm. “No,” I say and take the gun from him. He’s smiling, probably thinking I’m craving blood.

  That’s not the case.

  I’m saving the soldier’s life. I’m saving all of our lives.

  I take aim and shoot the truck bed, the bullet sparks off the metal with a ding. The guy with the helmet drops down, hiding and probably not realizing if the shot would have hit him, shattering his bloody visor into a million shards which would’ve blinded him, his movement would’ve been much too late.

  Probably not realizing I spared him.

  Whoever’s driving the truck, someone I can’t see due to the sun rays bouncing back at me from the glass, decides the last shot was too close to home, and puts it into reverse. Tires squeal, sending little puffs of white smoke into the air. The truck clips the backend of a Kia, busting both of their taillights and then turns around by jumping the curb, coming dangerously close to smashing in a coffee place that’s a blatant ripoff of Starbucks, and heading in the direction they came.

  Herb is still behind me. He watches them go, his lips quivering.

  “We did it!” Norm says. “But your aim needs some work, little bro.”

  “Thanks. We can celebrate later. Let’s go get Darlene and Abby,” I say.

  Norm waves a hand. “Oh, they’re fine. Abby’s a tough son of a — ”

  “Yeah, but Darlene isn’t,” I say, turning toward the back door.

  Seventeen

  They are by the clock tower a few streets over. I wave at Abby, and we start walking toward them, keeping low to the derelict cars. We don’t know who else could be lurking in Sharon’s streets — dead or undead.

  I look at them from the mouth of an alleyway, Norm, Herb, and a stinking trashcan behind me. Herb has calmed down a little since our run in with Loudspeaker and his gang.

  “Let’s go,” I start to say, but distant gunfire cuts me off. Not as distant as I need it to be.

  Herb about falls down on the concrete and curls up into a ball.

  Abby, a mere fifty feet away from us, raises her gun, Darlene slumping behind her. At the top of the street, where dead traffic lights sway in a gentle but hot Florida breeze, I see the Army truck creeping through the intersection. One of the men wearing military camouflage and a riot helmet which sits on the top of his head stands up in the truck bed. He has a pair of binoculars up to his eyes, scanning the abandoned streets.

  Abby and Darlene are quick to take cover behind the tall brick surface of the miniature clock tower.

  “Jack,” Norm whispers. I turn to see him pointing at the end of the alley. A zombie has spotted us. It sways back and forth, bouncing off the sides of the buildings. It is missing an arm, the yellowish bone hangs from the stump. Its neck cricks back and forth as if he is a malfunctioning robot.

  “I got it,” Norm says.

  When Herb sees it, he shrieks out, and Herb is a big man, though he may not act like it. His shriek is earth-shaking. I shove a hand over his mouth, though I think it’s too late. His skin is somehow cold and clammy in this ridiculous heat.

  I glance around the brick’s corner. The truck is stopped. Loudspeaker gets out of the driver’s side.

  “Herbert Walker, this is your last chance!”

  Herb makes a move, but I push him back against the bricks. It’s not hard. He doesn’t put up a fight. Behind me, I hear the squish of Norm dashing the zombie’s brains, then the corpse falling to the concrete.

  “We will forgive you for your crimes of conspiracy. You will serve a small sentence. Nothing harsh. You will not be executed if you comply,” Loudspeaker continues.

  I shake my head at Herb. “Don’t believe them,” I whisper. “Don’t believe a damn thing.”

  I catch another’s voice. “More coming, boss,” a female says, then the microphone clicks off.

  “Should we fight?” Norm asks.

  I shake my head again. No, not yet. We can get ou
t of this without bloodshed. There’s enough of that going around.

  I jump as a horn blares. One, deep blast from the truck, then another. Feedback crackles from the speaker. The Eden man says, “All right, Herb, if that’s the way you want it to be.” The horn sounds again. “That’s right, come on, you grimy bastards,” he is saying. He’s not talking to us. I see Abby and Darlene staring at me with wide eyes. Loudspeaker holds something like a stick of dynamite in his hands. I’m about shit my pants. This crazy bastard is going to blow us all to hell. The first of the dead shamble through the intersection, their arms outstretched, their head nothing more than thin, gray skin pasted over a skull.

  I am not relieved to find out it isn’t a stick of dynamite in Loudspeaker’s hands. He yanks the top part of the stick off and then strikes it against what looks like his fist. It’s now I realize what it actually is. It’s a flare, and bright, fiery sparks of red fly out of it. Loudspeaker throws it down the street, and this man must’ve been a professional quarterback because he almost makes it to the clock tower. It’s not a crazy far throw, but it’s a decent distance. It bounces off of the road, still shooting flames and sparks that are somehow brighter than the Florida sun.

  “Oh, shit,” I say as the leading zombie turns his direction toward the flare and us beyond it. We have to go.

  I wave Abby down despite her looking at me fiercely. I point behind me. “Let’s go,” I mouth.

  She looks a little apprehensive, and Darlene is basically frozen to the ground, but Abby grabs her arm and pulls.

  The two begin to move across the street, low to the ground.

  A gunshot goes off. Bullets clobber the asphalt, digging up chunks of black rock and dust.

  “Oh no oh no oh no,” Herb says behind me.

  I hear a slap then Norm saying, “Get ahold of yourself and stop bleeding!” but it’s a distant echo because I’m already in the street, shielding Darlene and Abby from the bullets with my thin body. It is probably not the best idea, but what choice do I have? I cannot stand and watch them be cut down.

  I won’t let that happen. I would rather die instead.

  I push them, my fingers digging into their arms, not on purpose, and I spur them forward, then dive the rest of the way as more bullets whine off the sidewalk, and an entire brick is taken out of the corner of the building next to me.

  The shots stop, and the snarls pound my eardrums. I don’t look again because I know what’s coming. It’s a wave of zombies. They have started to hunt in packs, started to roll through the towns and fields like ravaging tornadoes. They are hungry.

  They are always hungry.

  I don’t know the layout of this abandoned town called Sharon. I do know we have no choice but to run.

  I take the lead, my hand gripping Darlene’s for dear life. Abby hands me the gun. Norm, her, and Herb are behind Darlene and I. We have two guns, but they are not good guns, though any gun is good in a zombie apocalypse, I guess. But in close quarters like this, something you have to reload is never a good thing. There are definitely more zombies than there are bullets between us.

  We are heading back to the bar. cutting through another alley, weaving between piles of discarded trash that will never be picked up.

  Two zombies block the end of the alley which spills out on Main Street. I raise my gun, the little Midnight Special, and blow their heads clean off. I don’t even see where I’m aiming as much as I feel where I’m aiming. I am no Jedi, I have no Force powers. I am just experienced.

  I am Johnny Deadslayer.

  The two zombies were once citizens of this town, I have no doubt. One wears a tattered skirt and a frilly, flowery blouse. She must’ve been the librarian or perhaps worked in the used book store across from the bar. The other is a man, the type of man you’d find working the nine-to-five at a factory then working his whiskey from five-to-one at the town watering hole. His beard is long, streaked with blood. I do this sometimes, give the zombies back stories, try to remember what their lives were like before they were mindless monsters, and sometimes its even more detailed, especially when I’m scared. Sometimes it helps, too, but other times it makes things worse. Harder. Darlene screams. Norm is grunting, pumping his legs, and Abby is cool and calm, dragging Herb along with us.

  I hear the dead behind me, I don’t know how far, but that is enough to know I don’t have time to be scared. I have to protect my family, get us back to safety. Without my family, I am nothing. I am just another statistic, another loner who ate a bullet when things turned really bad.

  I don’t want that.

  I want to live.

  The body of the military man who Norm shot is not in the same spot as he was when we left the bar.

  He is there.

  And here.

  There, too.

  It’s like the zombies tore him apart and took their meals to go.

  Then, tires squeal. A cloud of smoke puffs from the back of the truck as it turn the corner on Main, mowing down a couple zombies in the process. The body of the truck jumps a bit as it does this, fishtails on the blood, then rights itself.

  We are standing in the middle of the street.

  Another horde is coming down at us from my right. Not enough as the one behind us, but enough to make running through any of these places an act of insanity.

  We are surrounded.

  Fuck. I’ve failed.

  Failed my family.

  Norm sees all of this before I do. He does that sometimes. He can scope out enemies, formations, he can read people, too — it’s quite a talent.

  I know he sees this before I do because his gun is drawn. He fires three quick shots at the Army truck’s windshield. It is not going fast, but it is going and it is coming right for us.

  The bullets whine off of the metal. One hits the glass. It doesn’t shatter and the driver, who I can only make out as a vague, helmet-wearing figure, doesn’t even flinch.

  These are people who have their shit together, the types of people who used to read books on apocalypse prepping, who sat around the dinner table and talked zombie evacuation plans. The people everyone laughed at. Bulletproof glass. Armor. AR15s.

  We are out of our element. Over-gunned. Outmatched.

  Fucked.

  Norm doesn’t bother to fire again.

  He looks to me, our eyes reading each other’s thoughts almost perfectly. It was something we did as kids, lost for fifteen years since we have been apart, and now found again in this fucked-up world.

  I am the first to lay my gun down and stick my hands up in the air. Norm is the second. The rest follow.

  “It’s okay,” I say, my voice calm and steady, a perfect opposition to how I feel on the inside. Darlene whimpers. I look to her. Sweat is running down her forehead, tears from her eyes. “It’ll be okay,” I say, and she nods.

  I step in front of Darlene, putting my body between her and the unspeakable evil that comes at us from all sides.

  Eighteen

  Loudspeaker gets out of the truck first. He is wearing a full-body camouflaged suit, boots and all. He does not have a beard like most of the people I’ve seen roaming this wasteland. This is a man that not only accepts that the world has ended, but revels in it.

  Two others get out of the cabin, and another from the truck bed. Four people in all. They all wear military outfits, too. One of them is a girl, but she’s muscular, wiry, not the type of girl who takes shit from people.

  My group…well, we are a lousy bunch in comparison. For one, Loudspeaker’s group has weapons and cars, and it looks as if they’d had an honest-to-God meal every day, and a shower, too.

  I should probably quit calling him Loudspeaker because he no longer has it in hand. Maybe I should call him Asshole or Military Douchebag.

  “Ready, boys?” he asks his crew, leaning his head to one side and speaking over his shoulder.

  “Sir, yes, sir!” they answer in unison. All of their voices sound exactly alike. I can’t even pick out the female’s.


  “Fire!”

  Just like that, I think as they raise their assault rifles.

  Darlene lets out a little shriek. Herb hits the ground behind me.

  Just like that. I don’t even get a chance to beg God for forgiveness. Blink, and you’re dead.

  I close my eyes, expecting to be riddled with holes.

  Rat-tata-tata-tata-tata…rat-tata-tata-tata.

  I don’t fall to the ground like everyone else. I stand. I take it, tensing my body pointlessly in preparation of the bullets that will end my life.

  The shooting stops.

  I look down, expecting to see blood and smoking wounds.

  Nothing.

  I pat myself a few times, turn my head around and see everyone else is still alive. I want to fall on my knees and cry and thank God, but I don’t.

  With the Jugheads’s arrival — Jugheads, that’s what I’ll call them now — I had forgotten about the ever-present threat of the zombies.

  Now, that threat is gone.

  I turn around to look at the dead who were slowly making their way to us. They are nothing but heaps of twisted meat, scalps peeled off, features distorted not only by rot but by bullets, too.

  “Missed one,” Loudspeaker says.

  “Got it, sir!” the female answers. She brings her assault rifle up, squints one almond-shaped eye, and looks down the sight. A shots bursts to my left and a zombie’s head goes with it.

  “Fine shooting, Rockwell.”

  “Thank you, sir!” she answers.

  I also want to thank her, but I know that would be stupid.

  “Great, now that is over, I’d like to have a proper interaction with you clowns, understood?” the man formerly known as Loudspeaker says.

  None of us answer, we are just staring at him with fear, anger, hate, and misplaced gratitude on our faces.

  “All right, not the most talkative bunch, I see. Well then, I am Butch Hazard, and seeing as how I just saved your asses, I’d think it’s fair enough for you to save mine.”