“Hold this,” I say to Lilly and hand her the reins. I unholster my revolver, cock it, and shoot at the fence. Then one more time, aiming at the bottom piece, weakening it. I kick out with my bloody boots and make a hole big enough for Bilbo to squeeze through.
Lilly shoots once behind me. Unfortunately, I turn around in time to see the face of a too-young-to-die-zombie evaporate into a mess of pink and white and black. It drops headless and trips up a few of its buddies.
Now we’re running, Bilbo trotting along with us, keeping pace, the wind whipping his mane back. I risk a glance over my shoulder and see the wave of zombies get tripped up by the fence. Some fall and spear themselves on jagged pieces of wood.
Good riddance, I think to myself.
As we approach a tree just off the side of the road, Lilly and I bend over, hands on our knees, catching our breath. She looks up at me and laughs like a lunatic. I can only stare at her cross-eyed, confused. This is no laughing matter.
“What?” I say, winded.
“What. A. Rush!” she shouts, shaking her head.
I’m slightly pissed off she’s not taking this seriously, I say nothing and begin to saddle Bilbo up. I’ve never done this before and it shows. After about two minutes of embarrassing myself, Lilly sighs and says, “Here, let me help.”
I let her, watching her as she does it. It’s as confusing as I thought it would be. It doesn’t matter as long as it gets done.
“Go ahead,” I say, motioning to Bilbo’s saddle. “I’ll walk.”
Lilly shakes her head. “No way, Jack. I got some sleep in the silo. You didn’t. About time you did.”
Taking another glance over my shoulder, I see the zombies behind us. They’re a small black cloud against the backdrop of the sky, but they won’t stay that way.
They’ll keep coming. They always do.
Until then, I guess some sleep would do me good.
Twelve
Rough hands jolt me awake.
“How much farther do we have to go?” I ask, sleepily. The sun is closer to setting. I’ve slept longer than intended, but I needed it. I really needed it.
My hand comes to the locket around my neck.
She points past my shoulder. On the horizon, is a forest of trees bisected by a curving road. Past the trees, a large windmill—that looks minuscule to us from here—turns lazily with the breeze. Through the trees is a few acres of farmland, the fields are perfectly neat, plowed or harvested—not sure what the correct term is. Something moves within one. It looks like a small vehicle, but from this distance, I can’t exactly tell.
“That’s where we’re going,” Lilly says.
I take out a pair of binoculars and look at the place. Many people are walking about, people who walk with a purpose. Busy worker bees. Almost all of them have guns. I see a black vehicle moving away from us toward a red barn. With the binoculars I can plainly see that its a tractor. The only thing off about it is that I can’t hear it—and in this quiet countryside, you can hear damn near anything. I can’t see any exhaust coming out of its exhaust pipe, either.
This gives me a bad feeling. My logic tells me that it’s safe to assume a place with a working car would also be able to have a working tractor.
For now, I put it to the back of my mind. Working car or not, we are heading to one of the places run by a high-ranking District officer. This means there’s a chance of finding out more information about the one-eyed man and what became of Norm and Abby.
At worst, the car turns out to be a dud.
At best, it doesn’t.
Either way, I’m killing every District soldier in this place.
Thirteen
We’re closer now, and what I see disgusts me. The answer to the riddle of the moving tractor not giving off exhaust or making noise presents itself. I look through the binoculars and shake my head.
“What?” Lilly says. I hand them to her. “Poor bastards,” she says and hands them back. “But what did you expect?”
I take another look. Part of me thinks I might recognize the prisoners currently attached to the front of the tractor, acting as the engine. Maybe it’s Norm or Abby or Tim or Carmen. I know that won’t be the case. If it was Tim or Carmen, I would probably scream. They’re dead. I buried their bodies myself in a shallow mass grave. If I had more time, I would’ve buried them one by one, their own plot, headstone, flowers—the works. But the border was compromised by the zombies and there was no telling how long I had before the District came back. I thought of waiting, of sticking it out. Maybe the one-eyed man would come back. I mean, who would be crazy enough to pass up the land Haven was on? Aside from a few broken fences and walls, this place went untouched for the better part of thirteen years.
Like Brandon said, it wasn’t about land or safety or expanding the District’s borders. No. It was completely about domination, about destruction, about sending a message. The one-eyed man just wanted to torture us, to show he was better.
But he made a big mistake. He left me alive and I’m so close to catching him that I can practically smell his festering, empty eye socket.
The men and women dragging the tractor along wear harnesses. Attached to these harnesses are sticks for them to bite down on. I’m guessing it’s to curb their screaming. Now that we’re closer, I realize I can’t hear their screams. I wonder if they even have enough energy left in them to scream or cry. They are ragged, as emaciated as the oldest zombies. Their skin is riddled with wounds and pockmarks, bright red slashes across their backs. Behind them, in between the grille of the tractor and themselves, is a group of zombies. They are only a few feet behind these poor souls, their arms outstretched. If one of the people slip up and fall, they have about three seconds to get back up before they become zombie chow, and I’m betting these zombies haven’t had their jaws and claws removed.
I shake my head and hand the binoculars back to Lilly. A large rock in the nearby woods is our cover. Bilbo is currently tethered to the trunk of an oak in a copse of trees. No one could see him through all the branches, not even me and I’m about fifteen feet away. I can hear his soft whinnies and slow chomping. Apparently the expired horse feed didn’t fill him up nearly as much as I expected. The saying ‘You eat like a horse’ makes a lot more sense to me.
“There he is!” Lilly shouts, her voice entirely too loud. “Right there!”
I shush her and pull us both down behind the rock, afraid our noise will carry on the wind. Velvety moss tickles the back of my neck.
“That’s the guy. They call him Bandit,” Lilly is saying.
“Bandit? What a dumb name,” I whisper.
“Okay, Jack Jupiter,” Lilly says and snickers.
I sigh. I’ve been doing that a lot since I’ve met Lilly. She’s annoying, but I’ll admit…she has proven to be useful.
“Like I have room to talk,” Lilly mumbles.
“Huh?”
“My name is Lilliana Wildflower. Did I ever tell you my last name? I don’t think I did. It’s not like it really matters anymore. I’m surprised I remember it. I’ve forgotten so many things. My social security number, my old addresses, schoolteachers I had. All of that seems like another life ago.” She’s still whispering, but I wish she’d just be quiet. I’m trying to listen to the wind and her voice rattles around my head.
I put my hand on her arm and this surprises her enough to quiet her rambling. It’s unexpected by both parties. Been awhile since I’ve shown any sign of gentleness. Mostly because it’s been me, myself, and I. Really, I’m not trying to be gentle; I’m just trying to find a more effective way to get this woman to shut up.
Slowly, I poke my head up over the rock, looking through the binoculars. Nothing has changed at the farm. Prisoners are still running from the zombies which is pulling the tractors and the plow behind it. A man sits in the tractor’s cabin, smoking a cigarette and smiling big. He has sunglasses on.
“Where is he?” I ask.
“Older guy near the house.
He was standing with another fella with bright red hair,” Lilly answers.
I scan the horizon. I see the guy with the bright red hair. He can’t be much older than Lilly. His shirt is off and he has a cringe-worthy tattoo of a crucifix over his heart. It’s not the content of the tattoo that makes me cringe, but rather the design. It’s like he got drunk and did it himself, shaky lines, mismatched lengths and all. If one was to go to hell for a tattoo, it would be this one.
“Don’t see him—” I begin to say just as something gets my attention. It’s the garage door rising, off to the side of the house. I focus my binoculars there, turning the wheel in the middle to adjust the sight. Sure enough, there’s a car. The taillights flare up red and the exhaust pipe spits out a fresh cloud of smoke. I’m nearly giddy with excitement. A car. A real, working car.
We can faintly hear the rumble of its engine from our vantage point.
Lilly is going, “Mmm, mmm, mmm. Told ya.”
Thank God. A car. A real fucking car.
“I’m very grateful for you, Lilly Wildflower,” I say, and this momentary slip of kindness is like the old Jack Jupiter, the one who died with Darlene and Junior.
She rolls her eyes and punches me a little too hard. I’m taken to the past, thinking of Abby Cage and how she’d punch Norm and I the same way if we said something stupid or annoyed her—which happened quite often now that I think about it. A deep, paling sadness invades my chest and the smiling I had been doing vanishes. A car cannot fix the hole in my heart.
Back to business, I think, wondering where this man named Bandit is going on this fine day. Then I realize it doesn’t matter, we’ll wait for him and his precious vehicle, no matter what.
But he goes nowhere except out of the garage, backing up near the side of the house, clearing the driveway.
Also curious.
“What’s going on?” Lilly asks. She pokes her head up next to mine, squinting her eyes. I hand her the binoculars.
“Hell if I know. He moved the car out of the garage,” I say.
“Maybe it’s because he wants us to come steal it. You know, making it easier for us.”
“Doubt that,” I say.
Lilly shrugs. “It’s not a bad thing to hope, Jack.”
I ignore this. Yes, it is a bad thing to hope. Hope leads to disappointment, and this world is nothing but disappointment.
Coming from behind us, a sound like a jet engine. Fear spikes through me, raising my blood pressure and causing my heart to feel like it’s going to burst out of my chest. I’m so caught up in surveying this farm, I forget about any other threats.
My hand goes to my gun, but Lilly already has hers drawn and aiming at the road.
Then it comes, what the sound is. It’s a truck, one of those big-ass semis that always used to take up the highway, I think. I look out over the road and see that it’s not exactly as big as I remembered. It’s more like a U-Haul truck—in fact, it is a U-Haul truck—but in this silence, a cat’s meow could be mistaken for a lion’s roar.
Another spike of fear ripples through me. “Shit. The horse,” I say. I get up to try to move Bilbo out of the view of the road, but Lilly’s hand clamps down on my arm and throws me back to my haunches.
“No time,” she says. “Just gotta hope.”
Hope. Enough about hope.
I’m not hoping anymore and never will hope again.
The sound drives Bilbo to whinny much too loudly. If I could just get over there to calm him, maybe even wrap him and wrestle him to the forest floor like the cowboys used to do in my favorite Western movies when they were hiding from outlaws or Indians, then it’d be okay.
No time. Lilly won’t even let me. Her hand is still clamped on my forearm. I try my best to make myself as invisible as possible, blended in with the rock, but it’s not an easy task.
Sure enough, as the truck approaches, it slows. The hydraulic hiss of its brakes are like death’s cold breath on the back of my neck. The hair there prickles and my shirt and cloak shake with my thudding heartbeat. I pick up the shotgun that was leaning on the mossy boulder.
They’ve stopped.
Damn it all to hell.
The driver’s side door opens. I can make out a thin man in overalls wearing a well-worn White Sox cap and the front of the truck. It’s orange and white. The windshield is cracked.
“That a fuckin horse?” this guys says, and he talks like he’s got something clenched between his teeth. I see a puff of smoke. The wind catches it and brings the smell of burning tobacco in my direction. Now the passenger’s door opens and a skinny black man slams it shut.
“No way,” the black man says.
“Hell yes, it is,” the driver says. He fumbles at his belt as he tries to free his gun. The sure sign of someone whose been protected by others rather than protecting himself. “Imagine how much jerky we can make from this beaut, Duane. Mmm. Been awhile since I’ve had horse meat. Hell, been awhile since I’ve had any meat.”
“Put that shit away, you dumbass,” the man named Duane says. “You tryin to let every gusher in the forest know we’re here? Jesus, Paul, you really are only good for one thing.”
“Uh-uh. I’m good for a couple. Ask your mom,” Paul retorts.
Lilly and I exchange a look. By the paling expression on her face, she can tell I mean to do something fast. I raise my gun and nod.
She shakes her head, motions to my sword. Even better.
I can kill them slowly.
Fourteen
“Here, horsey-horsey,” the man named Paul says. He creeps through the copse of trees, his footfalls soundless across the forest floor. A practiced skill, one this man has learned in the apocalypse, no doubt. Lilly and I stay mannequin still, our bodies flattened against the rock as far as they’ll go, which is not far.
Lilly makes a motion to me, saying she’ll go left. I nod, and then I motion to the right. I’m going to sneak up behind them. Take them out before they even know what’s coming.
Lilly’s gun shakes in her hand.
“The damn thing is fuckin strung up,” Paul says.
“Someone left it here,” Duane replies. The cocking of his gun follows his voice. “Be on the lookout. Could be back soon.”
“Think this big guy’s owners got eated by some gushers, I do.” Paul is still approaching Bilbo with his knife out as my boots reach the asphalt. I’m quiet just like Paul. Traveling the wastelands has made me that way. The slightest sound—a cracking of a twig, too-fast breathing, the creaking of hinges—is enough to alert any nearby zombies, and they always seem to come at the absolute worst time.
“Don’t think there’s many gushers up here. Bandit keeps these woods clear. Matter of fact, this horse could be one of his,” Duane is saying. He scans the woods as I take cover behind a nearby tree. I’m probably visible to anyone coming down the road from the farm, but right now I’m not worrying about that. Right now I’m worrying about not being heard. Once Duane thinks they’re in the clear, he lowers his weapon.
“Doubt it. No sane person would just leave a horse in the forest. Like leaving an open box of pizza ‘round a junkyard dog.”
“I’m serious, Paul. Let’s just get this shit over with. I don’t like Bandit. He gives me the creeps.”
Paul’s voice is louder. I can’t see him, but I’m guessing he’s not facing Bilbo anymore. “Damn it, Duane. You ruin all the fun.”
“Hey, we unload this shit and find out it’s not his, then we can come back and cook some horse. Sound good?” Duane is saying. He isn’t the driver, but he’s obviously the one in control of this dynamic duo.
“Soon as we mention a horse, that psycho is gonna come down here and cook it up hisself,” Paul snaps.
“You don’t know that.”
“Let me just cut a piece off. I’ll cook it up with the cigarette lighter. Small piece. They’ll never know. Jesus, Duane, I’m so hungry,” Paul says.
I decide this is the time to make my move.
Unfort
unately, so does Lilly, except she hasn’t developed the kind of stealth that I have. She is used to the loud bar, the unruly drunks, and the rowdy visits of passing-through District soldiers. So the rustling she makes by stepping too hard in a spot that shouldn’t be stepped on is nearly nothing, but in the quiet of the forest and the situation, I hear it.
So does Paul.
So does Duane.
“Ambush!” Duane shouts.
Now Lilly’s rushing steps are amplified. She even grunts as she lunges at Paul. I don’t see her, but the struggle between them can probably be heard near the farm, which is not good. Not good at all. But what can we do about it? The concept of hope comes to mind. I won’t let it linger. Hope is dead. Hope has been dead since 2016.
I step out on to the road, my sword in hand. I’m about fifteen feet from Duane so it’s not a difficult throw. It’s not hard to keep my blade from staying straight as it flies through the air and burrows into his right arm. The gun he holds tumbles to the ground, lost to the dead leaves and spotty grass. The muted black metal is swallowed by browns and dark greens.
He screams harsh and fast. I pounce on him, knees to his chest, breath whooshing from his lungs, cutting the scream off. I put my hand over his mouth for good measure, and what does this fucker do? He bites me. I grit my teeth with the pain and pull my hand away. He takes to screaming again.
And again, I cut him off. Two punches to the temple. Hard punches. And he’s out like a light.
I notice a dab of blood on my palm from where he bit me. The wound doesn’t look serious, just a chunk out of my index and middle fingers. It’ll heal, and the guy’s not a zombie, either. Thank God.
The urge to examine this new wound is great, to sterilize and bandage it, too, but a voice makes that all but impossible.
“Get the fuck off Duane, you bastard,” Paul says, except it doesn’t sound exactly like Paul. It sounds like a man who’s bitten his tongue and whose tongue has swelled up three times it size.
The Dead Collection Box Set #2: Jack Zombie Books 5-8 Page 29