Eleven
I can’t hear what she’s saying so I have to lean down closer to her. She smells like death, like premature rot. I hate it. God, I hate it so much.
“Jack Jupiter,” she’s saying.
“Mother,” I reply.
“Can you move m-me, Jack? Can you move me to my garden?”
All sounds seem to mute. No longer do I hear the soft crackling of the low flames a few buildings down, or the groans of the zombies farther up the hill near the tree lines. I don’t even hear my own breathing or my heartbeat.
“What happened?” I say, and I barely hear my voice, too.
“Life happened, child,” she says. She tries to smile, her lips quivering. It’s a sad sight. There’s blood on her teeth. She has a smile of a woman half her age. Shaking, her hand reaches up toward me. “My g-garden, Jack,” she says. “Take Eugene and I to my garden.”
Eugene? I think.
She clutches the little pot closer to her chest. It takes me a moment, but I realize it’s not a pot at all. It’s an urn. The color is white and blue. I’m reminded of these special plates my grandma only got out for holidays. They were very elegant. But Mother’s urn is blue, white, and a little red from her blood.
“He was my husband,” she says.
I reach out to touch her. She is very cold. Chills go up and down my spine at the speed of light.
“The garden, Jack,” she says. “Please.”
“I can help you,” I’m saying, still not really hearing my voice. “I found the doctor in D.C., and he’s helping Abby. He can help you, too.”
Mother blinks slowly. A fat tear drops from her eyes, runs the length of her wrinkled cheek then down her neck. “No, Jack, he can’t. I’m afraid my time has c-come. It’s been a very good time indeed.”
I shake my head. “No,” I say.
Part of me realizes this is ridiculous. I barely knew this woman. I’ve maybe spoken a hundred words to her. It’s just…she gave me hope. She seemed invincible and if she can die…
No. No, Jack.
“I look forward to the journey that awaits,” she says. Then she starts coughing, really hacking. Blood flies from her mouth, dribbling on the urn. She clutches it tighter to her chest. “Y-You should…too.”
“What?” I say.
“The journey ahead,” she says. “Don’t take it for granted.”
Her eyes glaze over. I’m sobbing now. My hand, which is cupped under her, shakes. Does she mean I’m going to die?
She stiffens in my arms. Her milky eyes go blank. Then she starts shaking and as she’s shaking the blankness crackles with life. She’s smiling, grimacing, laughing, cackling and it happens all in a span of two seconds.
“No! NO!” she screams, and she screams so loud her dying seems far away. “Jack,” she says. I’m aware her eyes are focusing on me again. She’s here and somewhere else. “Jack, you will have to stop them…Jack, Jack.”
I hold her closer. Her voice drifts away, going raspy. “Stop who?” I ask. “What? Hold on, Mother. Hold on!”
“They will ruin it all. They will destroy…they will destroy it…all!”
I feel the life force leave her body. She jolts once, stiffens, then softens. Her eyes remain open. It’s now I realize how bloody I am. My hands are coated in it. My shirt is drenched, too. Mother has bled out, but I don’t think it happened slowly or anything like that. I think she held on just long enough to tell me to stop them. But who? Or what? The zombies?
I realize I’m crying again. I feel the warm tears rolling down my face. She is dead and I feel empty. Very empty.
I stand up, her limp body still in my arms. I take my shirt off, too, feeling the slow coldness of the Spring morning, and I wrap Mother’s frail, lifeless corpse up in it. It fits her almost perfectly.
I set her gently into the trunk and close the hatch.
Twelve
I drive the Ford to the med center. My head has cleared since I saw my reflection in the car’s windows. I looked like one of the zombies, all covered in blood and guts, emaciated, haggard. That’s not me. I’m not one of those bastards and I never want to be, either. I’m alive. My blood pumps and my lungs take in oxygen.
I choose not to tell them about Mother at first because I don’t think I can. She remains in the back.
As the Ford pulls up to the smoking building and I see Darlene, Herb, Norm, and Klein all huddled around Abby, the fog of the past clears.
Darlene stands up, her hair blowing in the breeze. She puts her blood-stained hands in her back pockets. Her eyes squint at the sun glaring down at her.
“Jack,” she says as I get out of the car. Her voice is awfully quiet until I think she really gets a good look at me. “What happened to your shirt?”
“Oh, I was just hot.” I walk over and hug her tight then start kissing her. She doesn’t kiss back, but her lips are moving. Soon, she gives in.
“How is she?” I ask, looking down at Abby.
“She’ll be better once we can get her in a bed,” Klein answers.
Abby’s stump is freshly wrapped. There’s also a bandage in the middle of her arm and the tube Norm had brought out from the med center is now red.
“Is she going to make it?” I ask, feeling my throat starting to close up again. Seeing Abby like this and narrowly escaping death gets me, I’ll tell ya.
“Yes, she will,” Klein answers. “Blood loss, but I see no signs of infection, zombie virus or otherwise.”
“You know all about that, huh?” Norm asks, eyeing the Doc suspiciously.
“Oh yes, quite a lot, actually,” Klein answers.
“Doc Klein is a very, very smart fella,” Herb says, smiling. “If anyone can fix our Abby, it’s him.” He goes to hug Klein, but Klein raises a bloody hand to stop him.
“Now, Herb, what did I say about personal space whilst I’m working?”
Herb looks down at the ground, the smile disappearing. “I’m sorry, Doc,” he says.
Klein looks at me. “I would like it if you took me to the garage, please,” he says.
“We got wheels,” Norm says. He gathers up the med supplies and starts to head toward the trunk. I stop him and take him off to the side, out of Herb’s earshot.
“Mother is in the back,” I say.
Norm drops the stuff.
Now all eyes are on us.
“What is it?” Darlene says and she says it loud. So much for going incognito.
“You mean…” Norm says.
I nod.
He looks at the Ford behind me. “Well, that explains how you’re acting. Did you see her — ”
“No,” I say, thank God. If I saw Mother get attacked, saw the blow that eventually killed her, I really would have gone crazy. “I got there as she passed,” I say. “I held her — ” My voice breaks. I have to look away from my older brother, from the kid who told me to sink or swim all those years ago. I have to look away because right now I’m sinking and I’m sinking fast.
“Mother?” Darlene says. She tears up, too.
I nod.
Darlene clutches her chest.
“Why’s everyone cryin?” Herb says. “I don’t like it when you guys cry. You hear me? I don’t like it, I don’t like it!”
Klein, still kneeling on the ground next to Abby, says, “I think, Herb, your friends have suffered a loss.”
Herb turns to him lightning fast. “But Abby’s okay. You said she was going to be okay!”
Klein nods. “And she will be, Herb. Come on over here and sit with her a minute. Keep her company.”
I’m shocked at how easily Herb obeys the Doc. Usually Herb protests. Sometimes, even, we have to persuade him with cookies and candy. Klein gets up, but he doesn’t walk over to us initially. Instead, he sticks his arms out, ready to embrace Herb. It’s funny, really. Seeing this. Herb, who stands almost a full foot and half taller than the doctor, and him hugging. They part and now Klein walks over to us. His face is solemn.
“I know trag
edy has struck, Jack, but we better get a move on. As far away from this village as possible. It’s only a matter of time until more zombies — or worse — see the smoke,” Klein says.
I agree with him. How can’t I? He’s right. We need to move and we need to move fast. I just can’t. Each step, each movement is a slog. The fuzz is back in my head. I feel like I’m hungover and I’ve not been hungover in a long time.
“Let’s move out, then,” Norm says. He speaks with the clarity and cadence of a man who has seen many battles because he has.
“Right,” Klein replies. “To the garage.”
“What do you mean?” I ask him.
“The garage. I need a car,” he answers.
“You’re not going without us,” I say.
Klein takes a step back. “I wouldn’t drag you into this,” he says.
“Either you’re coming with us, or we’re following you,” I say. “So why not save the environment by carpooling?” I smile.
Klein looks away from me. “You don’t know where I’m going,” he says. “It’s not going to be easy.”
“The Mojave Desert,” I say, “and it’s never easy.”
Klein narrows his eyes at me.
I shrug and say, “I saw the Mojave on a paper hanging from your bag before the smoke — ”
He jitters. “What else did you see?”
“Nothing?” Now it’s my turn to narrow my eyes at him. “Why?”
“It’s top secret data,” he says and he speaks like a robot. I’m bored already.
“Okay…point is,” I say, “you’re not going alone.”
“Very well,” Klein says.
“We’re a family,” Darlene says. She steps up next to me and wraps her arms around my waist. I melt. All the suspicion goes away. “You can never have too much family.”
“You’re right,” Klein says. “How rude of me. However, I’m warning you, it will not be an easy task.” He closes his eyes and looks up, inhaling deeply.
I offer him my hand.
“Then we’ll struggle together,” I say. “Besides, I want to get the hell outta here.
Norm fakes a shiver. “Yeah, it’s too cold. I’ve been in the Midwest too long. Not enough sun around here.”
Klein cracks a smile. It’s subtle but there. “I think you’ll regret saying that once we get there.” Then he grabs my hand and we shake.
“If that’s the case, we can regret it together,” I say.
Thirteen
Everyone is loaded in the car except for Darlene and I. She is holding her elbows, her arms crossed. She wants to say something, but I think she’s too afraid.
I lean in and give her a kiss on the forehead. Then I lick my lips. They are salty.
“You made it,” she says. “I can’t believe you made it.”
I’ve been back for nearly two hours now. I arch my eyebrow at her. “Did you think I wasn’t going to?”
“No — I don’t know. I barely slept last night, Jack. You were supposed to be back yesterday.”
I reach out and grab her hand. “I’m back now.”
“I had a bad dream last night. A really bad dream.”
“What was it?” I ask.
“I don’t want to talk about it. I went outside and looked at the stars like Mother told me to.” She looks over her shoulder at the tail end of the Ford, where beyond just a thin layer of glass and metal, Mother rests eternally. “And it didn’t help, Jack. If you died, I’d die.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” I say, but how do I know? If Darlene died, I’d die, wouldn’t I? I wouldn’t be able to keep going without her. She’s my other half. She’s the reason I get up in the morning. If it wasn’t for her, I would’ve been gone a long time ago. She gives me strength when I’m not strong enough to give it to myself.
“I would,” she says and she squeezes my hand tighter.
I don’t say anything because I don’t know what to say. Sometimes, there’s no convincing her. It doesn’t matter if either of us would die without one another. We are here right now. Together. And together we will remain.
“Where are we going, Jack?” she asks. “We should find a place to stay while Abby gets better.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “But I know we are going to make a difference. That’s all that matters.”
She smiles. “There’s my guy, talking with words too big for his mouth.”
I roll my eyes.
She moves closer. The humor leaves her face, mouth becoming a thin line. Then she says, “Seriously, Jack, if we’re going west, I would like to stop off and see my mother and sister.”
“Darlene — ”
“I know,” she says. “I know, Jack. The world ended and all, but I would like to go back to their house. Closure and all that crap.” The way she says it tells me she’s trying not to cry.
It’s times like these I’m glad Darlene isn’t oblivious. The chances of anyone of her family surviving are slim — very slim. I get it, I really do. She needs to see or not see her parents and her sister so she can get the idea of them suffering out of the back of her mind.
“I don’t know how far west we’re going,” I say.
“I heard. The Mojave Desert,” Darlene says. She’s smiling slightly.
I nod. “That’s a big place. San Francisco is far from there.”
“It was just an idea,” Darlene says and begins to turn away. I grab her before she can completely turn her back on me.
“Darlene, I can’t make any promises,” I say.
“I know,” she answers. She’s smiling again, but I can tell it’s false. “I just figured if you could find Doc Klein, then maybe I could find my mom and dad and Carmen.”
I grab her and pull her close. “I don’t see why not.”
You gotta have hope. Always. Can’t let it die. If hope dies, then you’re next.
She kisses me on one blood-spattered cheek and heads for the car. “Thank you,” she says.
Fourteen
We drive on the outskirts of the village. Norm, like always, is our chauffeur. Thankfully, the Ford is big because we’ve added another member to our team. In the back, Mother is still wrapped in my t-shirt and a blanket Norm recovered from the med center. I got a new shirt off a dead man. It has the Nike swoosh on it. I’ve always been more of an Adidas man myself, but it was the cleanest smelling shirt — and the least bloody.
Herb is in the front seat. Darlene, Klein, and I are in the back with Abby laying across Darlene and I’s laps. She is very hot, but the color has since come back in her face. It’s a good sight. She almost looks like the Abby of old. According to Klein, she’ll be up in no time. It’s just a matter of keeping her wound freshly dressed and cleaned. An infection can be deadly even if it’s not the zombie one, and especially in times like these.
As we drive the outskirts of the village, this terrible sinking feeling hits me. There’s not much left of the place I once dreamt of calling home. The few buildings that are still standing are uninhabitable, blackened and burned. Bodies lay across the various roadways, paths, and even the abandoned railroad tracks. The fences we came through two days ago, me with a bitten Abby in my arms, have been crushed, almost as if somebody ran a tank through them. I don’t know what happened. I could ask Darlene and Norm, but I’m not sure I want to know. What’s done is done. I couldn’t save them all. I know that. It hurts to think of that, but I have to move on.
Now, we are going up the hill that leads out of the valley. The sun is shining. The temperature is warming up as the hours stretch on. The Ford’s clock says 7 p.m., but I know that’s wrong. It’s more likely closer to noon. That’s the funny thing about time, now. It’s almost nonexistent. I’ve always heard people say it was an illusion, just another concept created by man to keep us stressed out, and now I agree with that sentiment. The only time time matters is when one of your loved ones is bitten or when your hanging upside down on a wire off a Washington overpass and a horde of the dead are sweeping the highway streets
below like the four-hundred Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
We crest the valley only to be greeted with a pack of roamers. Norm doesn’t freak out, doesn’t swerve or slam on the gas. He’s cool and calm. That’s why I love the bastard. I don’t know how he feels on the inside, though, and if I had to guess, after what happened at Eden and what happened here today, he’s probably a little unnerved as well.
I feel Klein tense up next to me. He hugs that bag tight to his chest again. Herb gives a yelp and covers his eyes. Darlene and I, we just kind of look out the window at their blazing yellow eyes. She takes her hand in mine.
Norm keeps going.
I direct him to the road. We go over the bridge, see our abandoned van with four flat tires. Instead of taking a left, Norm goes right. I keep telling him where to turn until we come upon the curve in the road where I barreled through the metal barrier with the Hummer.
We have the medicine, thank God. No need to go back into the woods; and in the dark forest, I see more glowing eyes. All I want is to get as far away from this place as possible.
“Where are we going?” Norm asks.
No one answers immediately.
“I’d like to know before we waste a bunch of gas,” he says.
I’m looking out the window. I see the ghost of my haggard reflection, Darlene next to me, and beyond the glass the swaying trees, the blue skies, the golden sunlight. “We’ll know it when we see it,” I say.
Norm doesn’t protest. He knows I’m right. We can’t just dump Mother off in the nearest ditch. When we come upon her final resting place, we will know it.
Norm picks up speed and we drive down the empty roads.
Fifteen
We see it when the sun is on its way down. Norm has taken us on the highway. We were westbound, but when Norm stopped the Ford and pointed out of the window, I said, “Yes, that’s it,” and Darlene squeezed my hand a little tighter.
By this time, Abby had opened her eyes and smiled at us. She looked to Doc Klein, still smiling, and said “Thank you,” in a raspy voice. She’s been sleeping ever since.
The Dead Collection Box Set #1: Jack Zombie Books 1-4 Page 63