It’s the loudspeaker, but not Butch’s voice behind it. Someone else’s. Someone much more robotic.
“ATTENTION CITIZENS…” it continues.
We go on, the hooves clopping and the wheels creaking. We stop ten minutes later. There are no more whispers.
Someone grabs me hard by the arm, making the bullet graze bark out in pain. A hand rips the burlap sack off my face.
I am in a room that might’ve once been a locker room. There’s rows of lockers, most of them are empty and open, but the smell of sweaty socks and gym equipment is full. Butch stands in front of a dusty chalkboard, a soldier on each side of him holding their AR15s.
“All right, Jupiter, this is how it’s gonna be,” Butch says.
Another soldier is behind me. He sticks a key into the cuffs. I hear a click and all the pressure around my wrists is gone.
Butch reaches in his waistband, brings out an old Western revolver, the kind I’d call a Colt Peacemaker but would probably be totally wrong because all I have to go on is my wealth of old Western movies I’d watched as a kid. Butch spins it on his finger. He throws it at me, the gun twirling in the air, catching gleams of overhead light.
I reach out and grab it, coolly, calmly. Like I’ve been doing this for years.
Butch and the soldiers take to laughing.
Just for the hell of it, I point the weapon at Butch.
Butch freezes up, the soldiers’s laughter stopping as abruptly as it started. I cock the hammer and pull the trigger.
Nothing.
A dull click.
I’m smart enough to know he wouldn’t give me a loaded gun, but I pop the cylinder out anyway. There are six bullets inside. I aim the pistol again, and pull the trigger.
Nothing.
More laughter.
“It’s a dummy,” Butch says. “Just like you.” He belts out another great burst, and the soldiers follow suit. “When the time is right,” he says, wiping the tears from his eyes, “we’ll get you hooked up with sound effects and smoke, so you don’t die looking like a complete pussy.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I ask.
“It’s all a set up,” Butch says, “I told you that. Spike may be unstable, but he ain’t playing with fire.”
My grip on the gun gets tighter. I feel the metal biting into my skin, drowning out the pains on my right arm. “I’m not surprised. Where’s Darlene? Where’s my brother and Abby and Herb?”
“Don’t worry about them. You’ll see them soon enough. Well…maybe not Herb. Spike sent him to the dungeon.”
“The dungeon?” My stomach roils. What kind of sick…never mind. I know who I’m dealing with now.
One of the soldiers snickers.
“It’s where we round up the stray zombies. We set a trap about a quarter mile from the gates. They pool up, it’s real — ah, never mind, Jupiter. Makes no difference to you. You’re gonna be dead. But don’t worry, you’ll see your friends soon enough.”
“I want to see them now,” I demand.
Butch grins. “In Eden, you get no say. It’s another country — hell, another world — far as you’re concerned.”
The hopelessness turns to sadness. I think of Darlene, how we are still not married. My brother with his own missing appendage, and Abby a girl who never got to live a normal adult life. It’s all sad. Too sad..
“In all seriousness, Jupiter, it’s out of my hands. I don’t like you, I don’t like your cunt-bag brother or the feisty bitches you associate yourself with, but I respect you and I respect them. Too often in these wastelands, people just bow down to the guys with big guns and numbers. You, Jack Jupiter, you gave us a little fight, you made it interesting. We still win in the end, but man, I doubt I’ll find any other assholes like you.”
I don’t say anything. In fact, I’m not exactly sure what to say. Thank you for respecting me but still ending my life, maybe? No, I just nod and look down at the prop gun in my hand.
“Then let us go,” I say. “Maybe we’ll meet again.”
“I can’t,” Butch says.
“Why not?”
“In about thirty minutes, you’ll see,” he says, that familiar smile on his face. “Until then, I say clear your head. When I was carving up towel-heads in Baghdad, my C.O. would have our platoon meditate. Now that was the most pussy shit I’d ever heard at the time, but you know not to backtalk your Commanding Officer if you want your tour to go peachy, so we all did it, and boy, let me tell you it is one of the greatest things a soldier can do. You don’t hear the explosions or the cries of pain, you don’t think about your wife and kid back home, missing you. None of that bullshit. You don’t think about anything at all. And when you come to, you’re only focused on the task at hand. In my case that was blowing out the brains of a few sand niggers, but it doesn’t matter if you’re doing that or if you’re killing zombies, or just trying to survive. Trust me, Jupiter.”
The soldiers on his sides have gone stone-faced. No doubt, Butch makes them do the same bullshit. Meditate…get real. Maybe back in the real world but not now.
“We’ll let you be,” Butch says, he opens the only closed locker on the top row. In it is a complete cowboy get-up, a few shades too dark to be Woody from Toy Story. Fucking great, really. “Put this outfit on, clear your head, but any funny shit, and my men standing guard will do worse than knock your lights out?”
He leaves, and when the door closes, I immediately start looking for an escape.
No luck.
I sit down on the floor, my head throbbing, my heart hurting, and I picture Darlene. It’s my own form of meditation. She is the only thing that calms me these days.
And I wait.
Forty
I sit there for what feels like fifteen minutes. There is one window in this room, and it is a lot like the window in the cell I have spent God knows how many nights in — a small sliver with bars on it.
I am trying to fit into this smelly, way too-starched, plaid shirt as something taps on the glass. My stomach clenches with the memory of Tony swinging by a rope, a bullet in his head, blood leaking down his face. I can’t look because I know it will be Darlene or Abby or Norm. I don’t know where I’m at. I could be on the basement level and Darlene could still be swinging lifeless with a noose around her neck. That’s just the way this world works now. Screw the basic laws of physics. Screw logic. Those things go out the window when people catch a killer virus, die, and come back craving brains and human flesh.
But the tapping grows more persistent.
It’s not the meaty thud of a body hitting the outside wall. No, this is the tapping of a finger, someone trying to get my attention.
I go against my stomach’s wishes and I look up to the small window. There, beyond the small pane of glass, I see Herb’s big, smiling face. My own face breaks into a smile. It’s great to see someone familiar…someone that’s alive.
“Jack! Jack!” he shouts, his voice much too loud. He is laying in the dirt and grass, I see the blades tickling his face. He is covered in blood and muck.
“Shh!” I say, my finger up to my lips. That smile disappears. Now’s not the time for fairy tale reunions.
“Jack! I came back. I told ya I would! I got out of that stupid, smelly dungeon and into the lab! Doc Klein told me to run as far away as I could, but I came to help you, Jacky! Help you!”
“Herb, you have to be quiet they’ll hear you.”
“But you won’t hear me through the glass.”
“I do, Herb, I hear you.”
“You do?” he says, cocking his head. “That’s great! Really! Remember when we met, it was a Thursday — ”
“Yes, I remember, Herb, but listen, we don’t have much time. I need you to help get me out of here.”
Herb’s eyes drift from the window to the grass. He starts plucking the blades and chewing on his bottom lip.
“Herb?” I repeat.
“I can’t, Jack. I want to, but I can’t. I may not be the sm
artest fella, but Butch is a mean old man and he’s guarding the door to the Arena with the whole army and if I get caught then Spike will know and he’ll cut my finger off. Oh, God! I don’t want my fingers cut off, Jack! How will I be able to play the guitar like my mammy taught me?” His face screws up, his head starts shaking with dry sobs. “Then I have to help Doc Klein escape. He says he’s been listenin on the radio and there’s a man out there who knows the cure to the z-zombie germ and his talents are wasted here in this crazy theme park. He wants to help the world, Jacky! And I want to help you! I just want to help you!”
A cure? Yeah, right, that’ll be the day.
I look him dead in the eyes and say, “Herb! Get ahold of yourself! What is going on? Where are they taking me?”
He looks up at me, a gleam in his eyes. “I-I don’t know what to call it. It’s…it’s like a show.”
“Good, Herb. Good. Keep going. Where’s Darlene and Abby and Norm?”
He smiles. “They are fine, Jacky. I just got back from seeing them. The doc is looking them over and then they’ll be at the show, too.”
“He didn’t hurt them anymore?” My eyes begin to water. It’s almost too good to be true. “Herb, please tell me that’s the truth.”
Herb nods his head excessively, if he does it any harder, I swear his eyes are apt to fling from their sockets. “No. No more. Spike said he doesn’t care about them. He only cares about you. Doc Klein talked about it in the lunch room while I was working on the bodies. I heard him, I did! He says you royally p-i-s-s-e-d him off. Made him look stupid in front of Butch and the soldiers. Said they don’t respect him no more and he feels like their respect is winning — no — waning already. Then he told the people that live here that you were one of those mean, old, nasty Carnivores. But I said, ’No, he ain’t!’ then I heard him talkin ‘bout the cure in Washington D.C!”
A smile creeps across my face, and somehow even that small gesture hurts me. I’m just hurting all over the place. “Thank you, Herb. That is really good to hear about my friends,” I say. “Now tell me what I’m getting into and how the H-E-double hockey sticks I can’t get out of it.”
“You’re welcome, Jacky,” he says with a big grin on his face. “Okay, they make all the citizens sit in the big place with the dirt floor, you know, where the dirt bikes go vroom vroom and there’s hills and old stands that used to sell hot dogs but don’t sell nothing no more.” He frowns at that.
I know exactly what he is talking about with Eden being an abandoned amusement park and all. I remember those days at a local fair or carnival where I’d be walking with Norm and the sound of the dirt bikes ripped through the air and the smell of diesel and exhaust almost choked me. I loved it. They came from the track where all the rednecks would gather around in their Confederate flag shirts, Budweisers in hand. I never got to experience it. Norm wouldn’t allow me — or rather he was too busy hanging with his friends and chasing the girls, which is odd to think about now knowing he’s gay. I guess it was all for show. Plus, I saw the arena from my cell window. That’s good.
“They did it with Alex and Tom. It was bloody, Jack, so bloody I had to cover my eyes like my auntie would make me do at them scary shows when the monster killed the good guys. Spike’s the monster, Jacky. He is. Lawd, he is.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ll be okay.”
But my voice is breaking up. I can’t lie to myself. I can lie to everyone else. Not me.
“I know you will, Jack, I just know it!” Herb shakes his head and puts his hands together as if he is about to pray. I’m expecting him to start giving me a spiel about the Lord up in the Kingdom of Heaven, how with God all things are possible, but he doesn’t. “I know you’ll be because I made sure of it, Jack. I did!”
“Herb, not so loud — ”
He snaps his head to the left.
Somewhere deep in the maze of hallways, I hear the clank and rattle of a door opening and closing.
“Oh no oh no oh no,” Herb says. He starts to get up. I can’t see much, but I catch a glimpse of boots quickly coming into focus. They are brown boots and they are dotted with drops of blood. Herb starts screaming out, “No, I’m sorry I’m sorry — ” while he tries to scramble up, but that boot strikes him in the ribs. He is a big guy, but he retreats into the fetal position like a man being attacked by a bear.
“Sneaking out, are we?” It’s Butch. “Tsk, tsk, Herbert. Spike will not be pleased. He might even have to take one of your fingers, maybe a toe.”
“No! Not my toesies! Please!”
“Herb!” I shout. “What was it? What did you do?”
He looks at me as the boot strikes him again, causing his face to bunch up in pain. I think I hear a crack of steel-toe against bone, maybe even breaking it.
“Stop it, you bastard!” I shout.
Butch starts laughing that laugh that I’ve grown to hate more than any zombie. He kicks him again and again. But Herb looks up, tears flooding his eyes, blood trickling down his mouth, and he says, “Salvation comes from the heart.” And as he is ripped up from the grass, he taps his chest on the left side.
Great, nothing like some religious babble before I die. Salvation comes from the heart, what the hell does that even mean?
“Remember Sal, Jacky! Remember Sal — ” Then he is screaming again, crying out for his auntie and his mammy, saying, “Please don’t take my toesies. Please! Please!” his voice fading.
Then it’s Butch, “All right, Jack, time’s up. No more of your bullshit.”
The door out of this place starts to open up. I think it’ll be Butch with his AR15, ready to beat the ever-loving snot out of me, teleporting like some evil wizard, but it’s not. It’s just another soldier. For a moment, I think I could take him. He is probably younger than me, his face patchy with a wiry beard. I’m guessing twenty, maybe twenty-two, definitely closer to Abby’s age. He snarls at me, baring teeth that have definitely been adorned with braces his parents paid for in the old world. It’s an empty gesture, and my confidence soars. Yeah, I can definitely take him, then I can get to Darlene and Norm and Abby, save the day. Just like Johnny Deadslayer.
“No need for that funny business,” the kid says. He has his gun raised, pointing straight at my heart.
Kid. He can’t be much younger than me and I’m calling him ‘kid’ like I’m an eighty-year-old asshole. Funny what the end of the world does to you.
“I know you’re thinking you can take me, and you’re probably right, but there ain’t no point in doing that. It’ll just end bad for the both of us. We know about you, we know you’re a smart ‘un. So don’t prove us wrong.”
The fire goes out of me as fast as it came. Still, in the back of my mind, I hear the dull thuds of Butch’s boots clobbering Herb as he cries out.
“You’re right,” I say. “I don’t plan on dying in this fucking get-up.”
The kid flashes a smile. “Ain’t your Sunday’s finest, that’s for damn sure.”
Butch comes in from out of the shadows. “Nice job, soldier!” he says.
“Sir, thank you, sir!” the kid replies.
Butch turns to me. “I know you didn’t plan on that little powwow with Herb, but it’s gonna cost him a few fingers, maybe even a hand. So I want you to think about that. Now, are you ready to die, Jack Jupiter?”
“Hell no,” I say.
“That’s too damn bad. You’re gonna die whether you’re ready or not.”
I smirk at Butch and his soldier and say, “Good luck.”
Forty-One
By the time they put the hood on me, the sun has gone down. They guide me to the horse and cart again, cuff my hands and throw me on a bed of straw. I land funny on my back, smashing my head, which aggravates every ache in my body.
Time goes by in a pain-induced haze.
Now, someone forces me up. “What’s with the hood over my head?” I ask. “I know where we’re at.”
“Intimidation,” someone says. I recognize it as the
soldier from the locker room, the kid.
Beneath the sack, I roll my eyes.
Then, I feel a gun in my back, and a different soldier tells me, “It’s showtime.”
I cannot see much beyond dim light coming through the cloth. I smell dirt and mud and my own fear draped all over me like it’s cologne. I hear a constant drone of babbling voices, of a crowd settling in to their seats before the show starts. When the dim light grows brighter and the heat from them is baking, the crowd picks up their decibel level. Beneath my feet, the ground changes from concrete to dirt.
Someone cheers to my right, and shouts my name, but the cheer is quickly cut off. To my left, someone else cheers. This one is not cut off. More people chime in. The noise begins to sound like the rolling and crash of tidal waves to my ears. It’s a small portion of the people, most of them seem too scared to do much of anything, but it helps ease the fear.
The gun’s pressure on my back vanishes, then a hand grabs the sack on my head — along with a handful of my hair — and yanks. White floodlights blind me. It takes a long time for my eyes to adjust.
The arena is a large circle of dirt. Stadium seats surround me, rising above the ten foot wall between dirt and seats, three-hundred and sixty degrees. There is people in almost everyone of those seats. My guess is around a thousand of them. I never thought a thousand people would’ve survived.
I am at one end of the dirt circle, dressed in my cheap cowboy outfit, and at the other end, raised on a platform, sitting in a makeshift throne made out of what looks like bone, is Spike. He gets up, his dark eyes blazing at me from across the way, which can’t be much more than two-hundred feet. He is wearing the same outfit he wore when he bashed my head in, except now he looks rested, shiny, and new. On each hip, slung low, are the heavy, old-school revolvers. They shine.
“Jupiter,” someone says from behind me.
I find that I am frozen in place. Even in the heyday of my writing career, the biggest event I did was around two-hundred and fifty people, and they were all spread out in a college auditorium, which didn’t make it intimidating at all. Now compared to this —
The Dead Collection Box Set #1: Jack Zombie Books 1-4 Page 35