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

by Flint Maxwell

  The hands beat on the metal over and over again, drowning out my thudding heartbeat. I think of Darlene and how she’s dead without me, how it’s up to me to clear the dead and get us airborne so I can find her. I can’t lose her again. I just can’t.

  I scream and I don’t think; I just do. I slap my hand on the wing, sliding a little as my heart goes into my throat, and repeating the process.

  Something brushes my boot. My muscles tense up. Now, I can think. I have no choice not to think as I feel the slimy hands and gnarled fingers run their way up my leg. They grip my shoe and pull, dead weight. My nails screech on the metal. It’s almost cartoonish, almost unreal. I’m thinking of Norm without his index finger and Abby without her left hand, and now I think of me without my right foot. I think of me not able to run from the dead when that’s the only choice left as I fall farther and farther down the wing

  “No,” I wheeze.

  The door hisses as it opens. Straining to look out the corner of my eye, I see Norm. He raises his gun and lets a shot off. The hands and fingers scrabbling at my leg and exposed ankle disappear.

  “You crazy bastard,” Norm says.

  “T-Took you long enough,” I wheeze.

  He shoots again, then he holsters his gun and climbs up on the wing. He gives me his hand, pulls me up.

  “Thank you,” I say. “Thanks a lot.”

  “All the times I’ve saved you, little bro, did you really expect me to let you die?”

  I smile.

  Norm glances over the quivering mass of zombies below us. They stretch all the way to the airport’s main building. “Well, at least I’m not going to let you die alone,” he says.

  The propellers have pretty much stopped altogether. It’s not the engine that drowns out Norm’s voice, but the sounds of the zombies instead. I reach into my pocket and pull out bits of wet glass and a cap with the plastic covering still attached. In the other pocket, I pull the whiskey free and the rags. I pop the lid off and stuff the rag into the bottle’s neck, soaking it with warm alcohol. Norm looks at me with curiosity. He still has his gun up. I notice it’s not shaking in his hands. He’s cool and calm somehow.

  “Ever thrown a Molotov cocktail before?” he asks.

  “Only in the video games,” I say.

  “Let me do it,” he says, holding his hand out.

  “No way,” I say.

  Seeing these zombies, seeing all of them with their yellow eyes turned up to us, trying to get my family and the fact that they are somewhere eating Father Michael just pisses me off.

  No, these bastards are mine.

  With the rag soaked in the booze and hanging out from the neck, I take the lighter and run my thumb over the gear. A flame sparks, catches. I hold the rag over it. It catches, too. The warmth bathes my face and the bottle almost instantly heats up. I don’t let it linger in my hand. I cock it back behind my head and throw it.

  It sails through the air, the fire burning low in the bright sunshine. Zombie eyes follow its trajectory until it lands with an explosion of flame in the middle of the runway. Bodies light instantly. Death rattles turn to high-pitched shrieks. I know they don’t feel pain, at least I don’t think they do. I think it’s a semblance of their old selves remembering what pain is, remembering that fire means death.

  Old, stale clothes catch fire. Arms go up to the heavens and legs move around at the same pace they moved before. Bodies bump into more bodies and more fire spreads. Soon, it stretches the length of the horde, which in turn seems to stretch for miles. The flames are brighter than the sun and I feel the temperature of the world turn a few degrees hotter.

  Norm slaps me on the shoulder. I lunge forward, almost slip, but he grabs me. My plan worked, like it worked in Woodhaven. It would’ve worked in D.C., too if it wasn’t for the endless supply of dead.

  “Let’s go, boys!” George shouts from the door. “Daylight’s burning!”

  Norm gives him a thumbs up. The zombies below us have receded into the pile at the heart of the runway. I thought of throwing the Molotov cocktail somewhere completely out of the way so we could take off properly. I don’t know if my arm could’ve really gotten anywhere beside a target I knew I wouldn’t miss. Besides, I needed to hit something that would catch and the concrete would catch for as long as the whiskey provided fuel to burn and that wouldn’t be long. Imagine how much easier old petrified skin and sun-zapped clothes catch.

  Then Norm holds out his hand. My breath is momentarily caught. It’s not often Norm offers this kind of praise. If Darlene wasn’t gone, I’d be the happiest man on Earth right now. I take his hand and we shake. “Seriously, nice job, little bro,” he says.

  We head back into the plane, the sound of the propellers and the whipping wind spurring us forward, I smile and honestly can’t wait until we’re off of this Godforsaken coast.

  Forty

  “We took a little wing damage,” George says as I walk past the cockpit and back through the aisle. Herb sits next to me. He’s taken pillows from somewhere and blocked the windows nearest him. Faint sunlight and flickering flames stream in from between cracks, but the smell of fire is unavoidable. Herb sits with his gaze averted and his big hands stroking his hair.

  “It’s okay, Herbie,” I say.

  “I was a-scared,” Herb says.

  Whenever something goes bad, Darlene is the first one to comfort him. Now she’s not here and I don’t know what to do.

  Herb doesn’t look at me. He smells sweaty and full of fear.

  The plane lurches. Outside the glass, I hear the flames crackling and licking. I think I hear flesh splitting and eyeballs so heated, they pop. But I don’t. There’s no way. It’s just my imagination, the stories inside of my head trying to get out even at times like these.

  Abby sits behind us, peeking through Herb’s makeshift blinds. “Geez, Jack. Helluva throw. You didn’t play football in high school, did you?”

  I shake my head, not looking at her. I’m thinking about Darlene. I hope she’s alive.

  “Maybe all that working out at the Woodhaven Rec Center paid off,” Abby says. No one laughs. “Listen, Jack, Darlene is going to be okay.”

  I look at her. I don’t know what to say. I’m afraid of speaking, of unleashing the raw emotion inside of me.

  George comes on over the intercom. “Skies are looking clear. Flight should be smooth. So buckle your seat belts and prepare for take off.” There’s a faint crackle of feedback and then it’s silent. I buckle up. I move Herb’s shutter. The fire has consumed all, almost. Blackened corpses writhe on the ground. Zombies who are only half-burned shamble around. Some trip over the blackened corpses only to fall and not be able to get back up. It’s quite sad. There’s more who move around while the fire quickly eats away at what rotten flesh they have left on their skeletons. They move with about as much grace as drunken, three-legged dogs. Some of them are missing arms so I guess the comparison is a good one. Seeing this can only make someone feel shitty. Shittier than I already feel. It’s hard to believe the world has been reduced to this.

  The plane growls. I see through the cockpit that the front windshield is still soaked with blood, but enough has dripped away for George to make out the little stretch of runway we have to work with. I’ve never been a fan of flying. I’ve always hated how people will say, “Oh, the chances of crashing are much less than driving!” Yeah, because there’s no traffic thousands of feet in the air, but if your engine fails on the turnpike, you can at least pull off to the shoulder whereas if your engine fails a mile above ground, you’ll have a long time to think about your death before you finally crash and burn. I’d take a quick death over a long and drawn out one any day. Yeah, an airplane crash would be quick, but the falling wouldn’t. Give me a bullet to the brain instead of a zombie bite. Screw pain and suffering, man.

  But I’m suffering right now, right, Jack?

  No. I can’t let the dark thoughts get to me. I have to remain positive. Darlene is going to be okay. I’m
going to make sure of it. And Klein is going to pay.

  The plane takes off.

  The trees come at us in a rush and I’m gripping the armrests, teeth gritted, lungs pressed into my spine, finding it hard to breathe. For a second, I think we are going to hit the trees, think we are going to be cut down and I won’t worry anymore because I’ll be dead.

  But we don’t. We pass right over them.

  Forty-One

  It takes about eight minutes for us to reach a cruising altitude, and even longer for me to feel comfortable enough to unstrap my seat belt. Abby, on the other hand, is behind me flipping through a hunting magazine she found in a pouch on the back of my seat. She said her dad was a big hunter, though I remember her mentioning he wasn’t around much as she was growing up. How she can flip through a magazine at a time like this, I don’t know. I have to remind myself Abby is only nineteen. She’s still growing up no matter what she says. The younger you are, the harder it is to cope normally, I think.

  Norm comes out of the cockpit. His face is relaxed. “Don’t worry,” he says.

  “How can’t I?” I say.

  Norm shrugs. “We’ll get through this, we always do. Klein won’t kill her. He has no reason to.”

  “He had no reason to kill Father Michael,” I say.

  Abby flips pages loudly.

  Norm is silent for a moment. “He did it to buy time. He knew there was still a chance you’d shoot him if he had Mike, but there wasn’t a chance in hell you’d risk shooting him with Darlene in Mike’s position.”

  I shake my head. The anger rises. He won is all I can think

  I lean over the aisle. Abby stares at me over the open magazine on her lap. She holds it with her good hand and her bandaged stump and it’s an odd sight. She gets up and sits in the seat closest to us. “Listen to your brother for once, Jack. She’s okay. We’re going to get her back,” she says and she reaches out and grabs my arm, squeezes. She has an awkward smile on her face, like she wants to say more, but English isn’t her native language. I get it. It’s not her M.O.

  I lean back and close my eyes, ending this conversation of meaningless comfort. There’s nothing I can do right now a mile up in the air, nothing any of us can do except wait.

  As much as I hate it, it’s the truth.

  I try to sleep, and maybe I do, but it’s a dreamless sleep. I’m grateful for that — no dreams means no nightmares. I’m sick of nightmares because I’m living in one.

  We are still flying. No one is talking so when a voice fills the cabin, drifting back into the fuselage, I’m right to think it’s the voice of God.

  Forty-Two

  The voice says, “You are flying over unauthorized space. Divert your course or suffer the consequences.”

  Norm and I rush to the cockpit. George hunches over the speaker, looking at it as if it’s his worst enemies.

  “The hell I will!” George says. “Maybe if you ask me nicely.”

  Norm rests a hand on George’s shoulder. The tan farmer jumps at his touch, but he knew we were here all along.

  “Let me talk,” Norm says.

  Grumbling, George hands over the headset. “No one gets to talk to me like that and live.”

  I look to the tracking screen George has set up on the seat opposite him. I notice how close we are to the blip that represents Klein’s stolen plane. Hope fills my chest as I realize his blip is no longer moving. I point to it, but George is still too red in the face to give a damn. I slap him on the back to get his attention. Norm sees me and turns to look at what I’m freaking out about.

  “Look!” I say. “He’s here. Where the hell are we anyway?”

  Norm’s eyes narrow at the screen, then they blossom. “This is Eagle 12,” he says. Where that came from, I have no idea.

  Obviously, this is a trap. I’m grateful they haven’t shot us down. We’re probably too close for them to do that. Wherever we are.

  “Please divert your course, Eagle 12,” the static-y voice says again.

  “Requesting emergency landing,” Norm says. “Low fuel.”

  The static shuts off. There’s a large silence that follows. All of our eyes dart from each other’s faces to the screens to the open blue sky tinged with red zombie blood beyond the nose of the plane.

  “Request granted,” the voice says. “Landing bay — ”

  George slams his fist on the console, cutting the voice off. “I know damn well where to land. What? They think this is my fist flight? Hell no.”

  “C’mon, lets strap in,” Norm says.

  “Trap?” I ask him.

  “Most definitely,” he answers.

  My heart is beating abnormally fast. It’s the allure of human voices. Trap or not you don’t hear enough of them these days, but I know I need to be cautious. People are monsters, too.

  “How far are we from the Mojave?” I ask before leaving the cockpit.

  George glances at his instruments. “We’re right on the outskirts. We’re somewhere in Nevada,” he says.

  “I’ve always wanted to see Vegas,” Norm says.

  “Don’t think we will,” I say.

  I go back to the fuselage and strap in. Abby asks what’s going on and I tell her we’ve requested an emergency landing and we’re somewhere in Nevada. On cue, she flashes her pistol and I nod.

  We are going to have to fight. But that’s okay. I’ll do anything for Darlene.

  I feel the plane lurch downward on its descent and I also feel the desert heat baking me. I could be imagining that, or it could be my Ohio blood. I’m not used to heat like this.

  Forty-Three

  The landing is rough, and Herb cries out a couple times.

  The plane screeches to a stop on the runway. What I like most is that there’s no wait for the plane to taxi, or for all of the passengers to crowd into the aisle, trying to retrieve their carry-on bags from the overhead containers. We all get up when we stop and we don’t have any luggage besides the few weapons we have between us, and the clothes — bloody and a little smelly — on our backs.

  “Well, we’re here,” George says.

  “Stay frosty,” Norm says.

  Abby rolls her eyes at him.

  I look out the window and see what looks like a military base. The hangars are painted green and almost all of them are full of fighter jets and tanks. It’s like apocalypse Christmas.

  “Army base?” I ask Norm.

  “None that I know,” he answers.

  “Look!” Herb shouts. “It’s just like the little green guys I used to play with. Me and my cousin Bo would play every Sunday after church when Auntie would — ”

  “Whoa, that’s a lot of guns,” Abby says.

  “Friends of Klein,” I say. “What’s the plan?”

  “Best we hide our weapons,” Norm says, leaning to look out the window next to me. “Play dumb.”

  “Screw that,” George says, “I need my plane back!”

  “Won’t matter if you’re dead,” I say.

  George looks at me as if I’m crazy. I don’t think we’ve filled him in on Klein’s plans. I don’t think I want to.

  I look out of the window. The men who do in fact look a little like toy soldiers surround our small plane, their weapons raised. Half a year ago, I’d be shitting my pants, but right now, I’m okay. This ain’t my first rodeo, either.

  “Come on,” I say.

  “Play it cool,” Norm says.

  I nod, but know there’s not a chance of living if we play it cool. So I put my plan into action and I’m the first to make a stupid decision. I shoot out the window looking onto the men. A few of them cower, caught off guard by the shot.

  Abby follows suit.

  “Well, not what I was expecting…” Norm says. He draws his gun and aims out the window. “Ah, what the hell.”

  George shouts, “Hey! My plane!”

  All the soldiers now have their weapons raised. These are not Butch’s soldiers, either. These are not even the everyday people
from the village. These are the kind of soldiers you’d see recruiting on college campuses and around malls — cocky, arrogant.

  “We don’t want bloodshed,” one says. He has a camouflaged hat pulled low over his ears and he wears a sweat-stained shirt the same color of the surrounding sand and low mountains in the distance. He almost blends into the background, making him look like a floating head with sunglasses. “We’re supposed to keep you alive.”

  Bullshit, I think.

  “We don’t want bloodshed, either,” Norm says.

  “Yeah, this is between us and Klein!” I say. My heart beats hard. Herb whimpers behind me.

  “My names Mandy Duncan, Captain Mandy Duncan,” a woman says, stepping forward. She drops her gun and raises her hands. She knows we have the drop on them. We may be outnumbered, but we have the armor of the plane. We can pick them off one by one. I’m a good shot, so is everyone else.

  “Everyone drop their weapons,” I shout. Out of the corner of my eye I see George shaking his head.

  A long moment of silence follows my voice. Then Mandy says, “Very well,” and she waves to the other soldiers. One by one, they drop their weapons. Much to my surprise.

  The sound of a car in the distance turns all of our heads. A Jeep convertible, an Army-green color, comes toward us, kicking up a cloud of dust in its wake. I think about firing at it, but realize how stupid that would be.

  The Jeep stops a few feet short from the plane. A man wearing aviator shades and civilian clothes climbs out. He’s broad-shouldered and full of confidence, the type of guy you just want to punch in the face. Another man follows closely at his heels like a puppy. He holds a clipboard. He’s stooped, his face tan and wrinkled. He wears glasses almost exactly like Klein wears. They are both unfazed by this standoff.

  “Greetings,” the lead man says. His voice is about as confident as his stature. It makes you pay attention.

  “We want Klein!” I shout, “not small talk.”