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

by Flint Maxwell

  But as I step out onto the porch, carefully so as not to step in brains or guts, I am bathed in bright, blinding headlights.

  Butch Hazard is on the loudspeaker again, his voice grating and haunting, “Sometimes life is a bitch,” he says.

  Twenty-Eight

  The truck is the cause of the bright, white headlights. I am shielding my eyes, the pistol still in hand, and Darlene cowering behind me. But there is more than the trucks. I see four red lights hovering in the distance like glowing, red eyes. I think of some great beast lurking in the shadows. They are the trailers of semi-trucks, parked a ways off the road. One of the trailers are open. Zombies stream out from inside. Son of a bitch, I think. That son of a bitch flushed us out with zombies —

  That thought is banished once I hear the steady beep-beep-beep, and those red eyes get closer. It’s a sound I haven’t heard in the better part of a year, a sound I didn’t know I missed until hearing it just now. The other trailer backs up through the field.

  A few of the dead scramble. Just a few. We could take them. The bulk of the zombies are piled up behind us.

  “Welcome to Hell,” Butch Hazard says.

  Then, as if on cue, a flame lights up in his hands, so does the hands of his soldiers — and he made sure to bring more this time, their guns trained on us. I notice his shoulder is patched as is the bite mark on his hand.

  Butch tosses the flaming whatever at the house behind us. Glass shatters as what he throws meets the siding. Fire licks up the side.

  “Fire!” he yells to his soldiers.

  I involuntarily clench up as I step totally in front of Darlene, Abby, Herb and the Richards.

  “Excuse the pun,” Butch says as more fire engulfs the house. The back of my head feels singed. I am sweating. My heart racing. We have no choice but to step forward.

  A zombie shambles toward us, orange light glinting off of its yellow eyes. Tony raises his gun to put it down, but a burst of shots rips from one of the soldier’s weapons. Bullets thump the soft earth just inches away from Tony’s feet, sending a spray of dirt and grass in every direction.

  “Nope,” Butch says. “No weapons. Put ‘em down!”

  Darlene is shaking behind me. I wish I could hold her and tell her it’s all going to be okay, but I can’t because I don’t know if that will be the case. Reluctantly, one by one, we drop our weapons.

  Brian doesn’t throw the silenced pistol out in front of him. “You bastard!” he yells, then he takes off running.

  Tony makes a grab at him but misses.

  In the glow of the firelight, Butch’s harsh face raises into a smile. “Well, would you look at that,” he says.

  The soldiers’s guns crack, shooting at Brian’s feet as he rushes forward. But he’s not scared. He keeps running.

  “Brian!” Tony yells, and goes after him.

  As if there is an invisible wall, Brian stops about ten feet in front of Butch. I can do nothing but sit here and burn.

  The dead bushes are on fire, now. Heat radiates off of them in waves. Herb squirms behind me. He wants to run. I can practically feel the springs in his large legs readying themselves for a mad dash to freedom. I turn around and put my hand on his forearm. His eyes are wide and he looks at me like I’m a zombie, not a friend. I shake my head.

  He closes his eyes tight. A drop of sweat or maybe a tear rolls down his cheek.

  “Slowly,” I say. “We’ll walk slowly, our hands up.” I feel like I’m being forced to walk the plank on some pirate ship, the fall below is the field in front of me. Otherwise known as death.

  “We can’t just leave them,” Abby says. “Not Brian.” Her mouth is a thin, bloodless line on her face. She wears a dazed, traumatic look.

  “I know,” I say. But as if no one else notices the house is on fire, I point to the side where the flames have burned the bushes to a pile of ash and are now working their way up the porch guardrail. “We have to get away from the house before it collapses.”

  I lead the way, creeping down the porch steps, which are already dancing with small flames.

  “You remember me?” Brian shouts at Butch. “Do you fuckin remember me?” He has the pistol trained on Butch’s head. But Butch doesn’t seem to notice, or care. He looks tired, fed up.

  He blinks slowly then turns his head, sighing. I am close enough to hear his voice without the megaphone. He squints at Brian. “No, kid, I don’t remember you.”

  “You took my Tammy,” Brian says, his voice choking up. “You took her from me and she was pregnant.”

  Butch arches an eyebrow.

  Tony is on Brian’s side. He grabs his arm, tries to pull him away from the truck with its blinding lights and army of assault rifle toting soldiers. “Brian,” he says. “Let’s — ”

  “Ring any bells, soldiers?” Butch asks, leaning backward.

  A mustached man, wearing the familiar camouflaged outfit as the ones in Sharon answers. “Yeah, boss,” the man answers. “The blonde. Remember? The doc said the kid would’ve made it — ”

  “Oh, yeah!” Butch says. He starts laughing. Great, belly-shaking laughs. The kind of laughs you’d hear Santa Claus belting out on Christmas. Except, Butch isn’t an old and jolly fat man. He’s a stern-faced killer. The laughter escaping his throat is about as alien as Darlene with a gun. “Yeah, I remember her. She was a pretty young thing. If she wasn’t pregnant, I might’ve kept her for myself.”

  Brian lunges, but now Tony has both hands on him, holding him back.

  Where we are standing, we see this perfectly. For Abby, maybe too perfectly. She lunges too, but I grab her before she can do anything stupid. The center of attention might be on Butch Hazard and Brian, but the soldiers aren’t dumb. Half of them have their weapons trained on us. Where the large semi-trucks are, there’s more soldiers. Their guns raised.

  “You’ve all been summoned to Eden,” Butch says. “So cool it, kid. Drop the gun and quit being an idiot.”

  “Fuck Eden,” I shout. If I’m going to die, it’s going be on my own terms.

  “Yeah, fuck Eden,” Brian echoes.

  Butch laughs, looking at me. “Just like your brother,” he says. “You know, he’s still alive…barely. He held tough for awhile before he gave this place up. Only lost a few teeth. Maybe has a ruptured spleen. I don’t know, really, we don’t let the doctor utilize his talents on garbage.”

  It’s like a stab straight to my heart. I suspected torture, but I had no confirmation. My body starts to shake. I’m a rocket on the launchpad. The fire is burning through me. “I swear to God if you hurt — ” I begin, but Brian cuts me off.

  “This ain’t about them,” he says, making a move at Butch, breaking free from his father’s grip. But Butch is there, he wraps both hands around Brian’s neck and both of their faces start to turn red.

  Butch Hazard is a man of war. He’s planned this out. No doubt Norm had given him all the details in order to spare his fingers. I don’t blame my older brother for this, either. I would’ve cracked much earlier than he did. Thinking of Norm all bloodied and begging for mercy causes me to grit my teeth.

  “That was my wife,” Brian says. I can barely hear him.

  “Not anymore, kid. She’s in one of those dead bastard’s rotten intestinal tracts now.”

  Brian bucks, kicking his legs out, beating at Butch’s hands.

  No luck.

  Butch just smiles, but his eyes are harsh. Black onyx set in an aging face. His left hand goes to the knife on his belt, and he pulls it free. I think he’s going to cut Brian’s throat right here on the spot. But he doesn’t. He lets go of Brian, the gun dropping from his hand, and then he puts the blade, handle first, into Brian’s fist. “You’re welcome to try and find her chewed up remains,” he says.

  “You son of a bit — ” Brian says, but his voice is drowned out by thunder.

  I think, for a moment, as this registers in my head, that a storm has broken out above us. I remember smelling rain and the clouds seemed heavy,
ready to burst.

  But lightning does not come from eye level. It comes from above. And this lightning did not come from high in the sky. It came from Butch Hazard’s Desert Eagle. He moved so fast I barely saw him.

  I do see the rain, though. Not water, but blood. A thick curtain of it suspended in animation. Heavy, red, terrifying.

  My head hums with the shot.

  The zombies’s strained groans and cries for food are amplified. Yet, some of them seem muffled. In the burst of light, I see smiles on the faces of the soldiers. People who signed up to see exactly this.

  Behind me, Abby screams.

  I can’t believe this…any of it.

  Then, as if on cue, Brian spins around. I don’t know if it is because of the force of the bullet or because this is God’s cruel way of proving to me that what I hear and see is real, but Brian looks at me with one good eye. His other eye is missing. Gone, nothing but a gristly black void. A river of blood flows from a fist-sized hole in his forehead. Despite all of this, Brian looks calm, as if none of this has happened at all. As if I cannot see his exposed brains, pulsing pink in the dying moonlight.

  Tony cries out, reaches for his son who is falling over. This plays in front of me in slow motion as moments of tragedy often do. I want to reach for him, I want to grab Brian and stop him from hitting the dirt. Because once he hits the dirt, then it’s all but final.

  I can’t move.

  And Brian hits the dirt.

  Butch laughs, and like an old Western black hat, he brings the gun up to his mouth and blows the smoke away.

  Brian is dead.

  Twenty-Nine

  “Don’t look so sad, guys,” Butch says. “Now, he can go see his wife in hell. She was a dead fuck, anyway.” He laughs again. My vision is blacking out. The veins in my eyes feel like they are bulging. It’s taking everything inside of me not to run over and try to kill this bastard.

  Tony holds Brian in his arms, blood gushes from the wound.

  “You monster,” Abby says quietly from my side.

  Orange light seems to stretch high over our heads, casting this macabre scene in a warm glow. Beams and siding crackle under the wrath of the fire. I hear something crumble, glass shatter from the tremendous heat.

  “You bastard!” Abby screams.

  She takes off from her spot. This doesn’t play in slow motion. She is lightning quick, too fast for either me or Darlene to grab her.

  Butch’s laughter dies. He looks at Abby rushing over at him as if he can’t believe his eyes. She stops short once the soldiers' guns raise on her. It must be nice to have your own private cavalry.

  “Abby,” Darlene says. “Don’t!”

  Butch stands with his hands on his hips. He’s much taller than Abby, looking down at her. She swings at him, at his face, I’m assuming, but misses. Instead, she hits his chest.

  Butch doesn’t even flinch.

  “Oh, how cute,” he says as she hits him again.

  I am still frozen to the spot. I want to stop this before he can blow her head off, too.

  Abby swings again, catching the bottom of Butch’s jaw. The playful look of amusement vanishes.

  She swings again, and he grabs her fist. Abby cries out in pain as he twists. She crumbles to the ground and Butch stomps a boot down on her, pinning her to the dirt. She lays halfway in a pool of Brian’s blood. She’s screaming.

  That’s it. The rage wins out, and I’m rushing across the grass, the fire burning behind and inside of me.

  Guns come up in my direction, so many guns. Flames glint off the dark metal of their barrels. All these soldiers have murder in their eyes. That sharp look of recklessness, of hope. Maybe they’ll get to kill something that’s not already dead and moving around like a drunken three-legged dog.

  “Leave her out of this,” I say. I stand straight up. My mother always told me to stand up straight. People respect someone who stands up straight. That sentiment was echoed the more time I spent with Norm, except he didn’t want anyone’s respect, he wanted their fear, and that’s what I want. I want Butch Hazard to fear me.

  That doesn’t seem to be the case. He stands straight up, too. Perhaps even more straight than myself.

  I think we are going to fight again. A fist fight to end all fist fights. One that I will win.

  That’s not the case.

  Butch snorts laughter, looking at us as if we are not worth his time. He turns to his soldiers and says, “Round ‘em up. Put ‘em in the trucks. I’m sick of this bullshit. One wrong move and you shoot them in the foot.”

  I stand helplessly as twenty soldiers with AR15s swarm us.

  We are roughly handcuffed, except for Herb. He is too big for regular handcuffs. One man with war paint under his eyes holds him at gunpoint. “Put your hands out. Move the slightest bit and you lose a nut, my big friend. They want you alive, but they don’t need you with a full sack.”

  Herb obeys. They put these big shackles around his wrists. A chain dangles from these wrist cuffs and I realize, because the firelight glints off the rest of the silver, there are two other unoccupied cuffs for his ankles. They clasp those around him, too, and he looks like Florida’s biggest escaped convict. The whole time he sniffles and tries to hold down his sobs with not much luck. Seeing him like that breaks my heart.

  Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see the female soldier picking Darlene up.

  “Don’t you fucking hurt her,” I say, my heart breaking even more.

  Something rushes up on my other side.

  There’s a crack, a vibration through my cheekbone, and I realize it’s a fist — Butch Hazard’s fist. I stumble and fall over on my knees. “No talking to my troops, Jack.” He hunches down to look into my eyes. “I won’t hold back next punch. If she wants to hurt your girl, she will.”

  Then he’s back up, ripping me up with him, spinning his finger in the air as if making a tornado.

  The back half of the house collapses, leaving the the living room area with it’s blackened chimney jutting up like a dead finger. The siding has since curled off, the porch nothing but soot. I hear the splat of a zombie being crushed under the weight of the fallen walls. Sparks shoot up into the air. I am reminded of Woodhaven.

  Then, with a jerk, I am pulled away from the zombies and the ruined farmhouse.

  Darlene is, too. We look at each other. Both of our faces are bloodied, me more so.

  Somehow, through all the blood and pain and unknown, I smile at her. She smiles back. Right now, I am not Johnny Deadslayer.

  Thirty

  We are herded to the semi trucks like cattle. If I slow down the slightest bit, I get a boot in the ass. It is not a long walk, but the pain throughout my body makes it feel like one. I am in the lead. Herb is last, and he is flanked by two soldiers as well as led by two others.

  The air tastes smoky. My lungs convulse as if I am about to cough, but I know coughing will only make the pain worse, so I don’t.

  As we approach the semi trucks, the sounds from within them get louder while the sounds of the destruction and chaos are forced to the back of my mind. Behind this thin sheet of metal door are the groans of a hundred zombies. I would recognize those grunts from anywhere.

  One of the soldiers throws the door up, the metal rattling up the track. I jerk backward, running into Butch Hazard’s puffed up chest. A burst of pain goes through my midsection as the ribs that were once cracked and healed wrong are bumped again, reminding me to never trust my brother’s analysis. But that is the least of my worries. A hand, the flesh hanging off the finger bones like a ripped glove, makes a swipe at my head. Teeth and a dead face with those glowing, yellow eyes are pressed up against a bar. The jaw works. A smell like roadkill escapes the open maw of this monster. More zombies take notice and start pummeling into the lead zombie, smashing its face against the cage. I am reminded of an old Play-Doh set I had as a kid, one where you put a ball of the putty in between this masher and pushed with all your might and made Play-Doh spagh
etti. Except, this is not so fond. The soft flesh of the zombie’s head squishes through the bars. The cranium makes a popping sound then a hiss as dark goo escapes the crack. It falls, its arms still outstretched as it is eventually lost to the shadows and dark, ratty clothing of the other zombies using him as a stepladder.

  “First class ride for you assholes,” Butch says.

  Then his gun presses into my back and I’m forced to crawl up the few steps that lead into the semi’s trailer.

  The semi is spacious at first glance, but once you step inside and you feel the death pressing up against you, it gets claustrophobic real quick with the cages on both sides. I walk down the aisle between them. It’s wide enough for two men to stand side by side, but that would be pushing it. The zombies growl and utter that stupid death rattle. They reach out for me.

  “Now you,” Butch says.

  One of the soldiers throws Tony forward, and it’s like throwing an ice cube across a frozen lake. He has no will to stop. He thumps into the steps and falls over, his face coming dangerously close to the stomped zombie who now not only smells like roadkill but looks like it, too.

  Butch grabs him by the back of the neck. “Want to die, old man?”

  Tony doesn’t answer.

  “Leave him alone, you piece of shit,” I say.

  Butch looks up at me, a silver gleam in his black eyes. “Or what?”

  I don’t answer, just stare him down. Now’s not the time. Butch Hazard will get his, I’m sure of it, but I won’t get to see this if I’m zombie food.

  “That’s what I thought,” he says. He grips Tony harder and pulls him closer. “Answer the question, Richards. Do you want to die?”

  Tony still doesn’t answer. The way he looks, he might as well be dead — bloody clothes, dirt streaking his face, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, slicking his beard.

  “Yeah, old man, you do. But I’m not gonna give you your wish. You’re gonna have to suffer for now.”

  How nice of Butch Hazard. Fucking prick.