The Dead Collection Box Set #2: Jack Zombie Books 5-8

by Flint Maxwell

  I turn the corner. I don’t hear Abby anymore, and it’s just hitting me that maybe this fat guy wasn’t totally hopeless with his scattershot approach. I mean, yeah, it got him dead, but there’s a chance he actually hit something. Like Abby.

  Suddenly a million scenarios are whirling through my mind. Like maybe she’s been hit and she’s bleeding out as I’m standing here with my thumb up my ass. Like maybe she’s been fatally hit, like in the head. Or maybe—

  I turn the corner, and the answer is right there in front of my face.

  A flood of relief courses through me. After all these years, after all the depressing shit I’ve seen, all the people killed, all the ones I cared about gone, there is a ray of hope shining on me right now.

  It’s a small ray, sure, but a ray nonetheless.

  Abby is alive, but another District goon is behind her. He’s big. Not ‘big’ in the sense of fat, but ‘big’ in the sense that this guy must’ve found a hobby in bodybuilding after the world ended. The veins bulging from his bared forearms and biceps are about as thick as the barrel of my rifle.

  “Take another step, and I blow her head off,” he says.

  “Don’t you know who that is?” I ask.

  I’m trying to buy myself some time, trying to size this guy up. I think I have a shot at his head, which is about as big as the rest of him—steroids will do that to you, I guess. But he’s not very tall, and his head is about level with Abby’s. With one slight jerk, I could miss and blow Abby to hell with him. It isn’t worth the risk.

  Then again, I’ve been in worse predicaments. The memory flashing through my head now is one of Doc Klein, the crazy bastard who took Darlene hostage, who used her as bait so he could dispose of me and know I would no longer be in his hair, no longer try to stop him from blowing the world and all the zombies and disease straight to hell. I pulled the trigger and blew his head off in Central’s base, off the lake where Herb died.

  I was young and brash—and a little stupid. I’m smarter now. At least I think am. I know that the chances of me doing that again are slim. Very slim. Lightning never strikes the same place twice.

  “Yeah, I know who it is. And I know who you are. You’re my meal ticket. My way to the top of the totem pole. I bring you both in, and I’m a fuckin’ star. I’m the Overlord’s right hand man. I’m a king,” he says. “Maybe I could even get on the Black Knights. Oh, man—”

  “That’s lovely,” I say. “That positive thinking. But I have news for you: we’re not going anywhere. All we want is some fuel. You stand down, you get to live.”

  “You’re not in a position to negotiate, Jupiter.”

  “Wow, you weren’t lying. You know my name and everything.”

  Abby says, “Jack, probably not the time to be a sarcastic asshole…”

  The guy nods. “Yeah, Jack.”

  He’s got a murderous grin on his face and a finger on the trigger. That makes me uneasy. He says he wants to bring us in and get his reward, so that means he won’t kill us, right? Sure. But that doesn’t mean he won’t hurt us. Smack us around a little, shoot me in the foot or the leg. Maybe have his way with us.

  Yeah, I know, ‘Jack, maybe that’s a long shot,’ but I really wouldn’t put anything past these District people. They’re all kinds of messed up.

  Plus, he’s hyped; the adrenaline’s coursing through him. One false move, and Abby’s dead. Not hurt. Dead. Bullet to the brain. I know this and I don’t like it at all.

  This is when the backdoor bursts open, and Lilly screams our names. “Jack! Abby?”

  Perfect timing, I think. Not.

  That murderous grin on his face transforms into a snarl. He looks at me like this is all my fault, like I should’ve told him that our backup could show up at any moment.

  The guy presses the gun harder against Abby’s temple. She grimaces in pain.

  Running footsteps echo.

  “Lilly, no!” I shout, but she doesn’t slow down.

  I drop my gun and raise my hands up to show the guy I’m not trying any funny business.

  Lilly bursts around the corner of the pallets, her rifle raised. As soon as she’s in clear view, the guy takes the pistol away from Abby’s forehead, and pulls the trigger.

  Lilly yells out, “Fuck!” as the bullet sparks off of the concrete. The dry concrete, thank God.

  “Stop!” I tell him. “Do you want to blow us all sky high?”

  His gun is still aimed past my shoulder, in Lilly’s direction, his other forearm is pressed up against Abby’s throat. She’s turning a dark shade of red.

  But not for long.

  With the gun no longer pressed against her temple, Abby sees her opportunity. She’s fast. Really fast. Age hasn’t slowed her down at all. If anything, she seems more vicious than I’ve ever seen her. Then again, back in Haven when we were running things, we stayed away from combat for the better part of thirteen years. We lived comfortably—well, as comfortably as one can live while surrounded by millions of zombies.

  Her leg flies back between the guy’s legs, hits him square in the testicles. It might be a low blow, but when it’s life or death, low blows don’t mean a damn thing. She connects so hard that I swear I hear his balls pop; it sounds like logs in a campfire.

  He howls in pain and squeezes the trigger again. I dive out of the way, feel the bullet whizz past my arm. It hits the concrete.

  Sparks.

  The spark catches the gasoline on the ground, and a rip-roaring wall of flame blossoms in front of me, between Abby and I. It comes up to waist level, so I can see what Abby does next. I almost wish I didn’t.

  With her hook, she reaches behind her head. Luckily, over the roaring of the flames, I can’t hear the noise the guy’s eye makes as Abby stabs into it with the sharp point. But I do hear his screams. They’re terrible.

  He stumbles backward. Drops the gun. His eye hangs from its socket, the optic nerve thick and rubbery, swinging back and forth like an out of control yo-yo. A sheen of blood pours from the socket.

  “You fuckin’ bitch! You fuckin’ piece of shit!” the guy’s shouting. “I’m gonna rip your face off, I swear to God!” He hits the back wall, and smears a bloody handprint there.

  That’s his last signature, I think, because Abby is on him again, slashing the hook in front of her. The bloody edge tears the guy’s throat out, and he can’t do much of anything anymore besides wheeze. And die.

  He drops to his knees, clutching his throat with one hand and trying to put his eye back in its socket with the other. It’s a sad sight. I’m almost glad he can’t fully see himself.

  Abby kicks him in the chest, and he falls backward, convulsing on the floor. Then he doesn’t move at all. He dies.

  Now Abby runs through the flames, which have spread pretty far, which are heating up the barrels, which probably have enough oxygen trapped within to cause them to explode. We need to get out of here.

  She stumbles past me, and I grab her before she can fall. Her hook drips blood that sizzles when it hits the floor and the flames.

  “Lilly?” I yell.

  “Here,” she yells back.

  “We need to get out of here before it blows,” I say.

  “Clear a path to the back, c’mon,” Lilly says.

  “We need fuel!” Abby yells.

  I look at her like she’s crazy, like I’ve never even heard of fuel.

  “What was all this for?” she says. “We can’t leave empty-handed. We just need a couple of drums. That’ll get us to Ohio.”

  It’s the last thing on my mind right now, but she’s right. My arm around her, we stumble out into the main drag. There’s an overturned shopping cart by where I got into the scuffle with the lumberjack and the hyena.

  I hand Abby off to Lilly, who puts her arm around her. “Go on,” I say. “Get out of here. I’ll handle the fuel.”

  Lilly nods. They turn and head for the backdoor.

  I don’t watch them go because I have to act fast. The flames
are spreading.

  This side of the warehouse hasn’t been touched yet; that’s good, but it’s only a matter of time. I grab the cart and flip it upright, bring it back on all fours, push it toward the pallets. One wheel squeaks and drags.

  I’m thinking, That’s about right.

  I’ve never found a shopping cart that didn’t do that. Back in the day, on my trips to the grocery store, I was always the guy with the janky cart. I could be heard coming from about a mile away.

  In the now, when I turn the cart toward the pallet, I almost tip it over. Have to lift it partway. There’s a huge pool of blood, and the crumpled body of the lumberjack. I’m not surprised to see he’s dead; I messed him up pretty bad. Don’t feel too bad about it, either. But the other guy isn’t here. The hyena.

  Where the hell did he go?

  I realize the flames have spread to the walls now, climbed up to the ceiling. I feel their blazing heat all around me. My stomach drops, does this thing where I feel like I’m in a car and have lost control of the wheel, start swerving into oncoming traffic. Helpless to stop.

  I shake the feeling off, thinking, That’s the old Jack Jupiter. The new Jack Jupiter is ready, is prepared for anything life throws his way.

  I bend down and try to pick up one of the drums on the lower level. Grunt. Nearly throw my back out.

  Screw this getting old thing. I can’t do it. It’s too heavy. Dammit.

  I’m sweating now, it’s so hot in here. There’s a sound like a hissing somewhere, louder than the roaring flames. Then—

  Something explodes near the body of the guy whose eye Abby pried out. The whole damn warehouse shakes.

  Or at least, I think it does. Maybe it’s the explosion that has just thrown me off-balance.

  I stumble and knock into one of the drums pretty hard. It tips back, but doesn’t fall.

  This gives me an idea.

  As soon as my head stops ringing, I push the shopping cart with the rubber mat in its basket as close as I can to the pallet, and grab a hold of one of the drums on the middle level. I begin rocking it back and forth, back and forth, until it tips. I do my best to guide it down into the cart gently, but that’s a pretty futile gesture. The drum hits the cart and bends the wires until they’re almost bulging. The wheels stay on, though, thank God.

  Just as I’m about to go for the second drum, I hear, “Die, you piece of shit!” and I whirl around to see Hyena staring me down from behind the barrel of a gun.

  Four

  He’s smarter than most bad guys. Gotta give credit where credit is due, right? He doesn’t talk to me or goad me or tell me his master plan. He doesn’t give two shits about that. I think all he cares about is watching me bleed, watching me suffer, putting a few new holes in my body.

  He pulls the trigger.

  The problem he has is this: he’s pretty beat up. It looks like it pains him greatly just to hold the pistol, which is heavy, but certainly not that heavy.

  So his first shot misses. Ricochets somewhere near my feet.

  This, of course, frees me up for my own shot.

  I’m usually quick on the trigger. When it comes to gunfights, you really only get one shot. And you’d better not miss, because if you do—

  Before I can pull the trigger, there’s another explosion. This one is much closer than the first, and it sends a hellish wave of heat in our direction. The force of its energy tips a whole pallet to my left.

  Unfortunately for Hyena, he’s in the pallet’s fall zone. Barrels of gasoline and oil hit him, crush him into oblivion.

  I just stand and stare at the twisted remains of this guy for a moment—a moment I don’t really have to spare. But it’s just so gruesome, so unfortunate for him, I can’t really do anything else. He’s all smashed and bloody; half of his head is caved in, blood leaking out of his ears and dripping down his eyes like red, running mascara.

  He’s not dead, either. He’s just lying there, howling in pain. From one of the barrels, gasoline leaks and spreads to the left, toward the flames. With a whoosh, this new trail of fuel ignites, and the fire eats the guy up. I hear him scream louder and louder until the heat pops his voice box, and the only sound he makes is a bloody, ragged gargling.

  Poor bastard. My way would’ve been a lot more humane. One shot to the head, and boom, you’re dead. Guess that wasn’t in his cards tonight.

  As I stare at this dead guy, I realize I’m going to be next if I don’t hurry the hell up. I pivot, grab the handle of the shopping cart—which has turned pretty warm, along with the overall temperature of the warehouse—and push as hard as I can in the direction of the backdoor. It’s not easy, either. I’m grunting, driving as hard as I can, using muscles I’ve forgotten existed; the drum of gasoline has to weigh a few hundred pounds, no joke.

  But then, somehow, I’m out the backdoor and sucking in cool, night air. Tears are running down my cheeks from the smoke. There’s blood and soot on my clothes. My gun feels like it’s about a million degrees. I take a deep breath, telling myself I’ll never take this rot-tinged air for granted ever again.

  Another explosion behind me. Glass flies from one of the ceiling windows, rains down like hail. I’m trying to move the cart a few more feet away from the building before the structure blows and takes me with it, but it’s not easy. I’m weak, and the adrenaline that was once coursing through my veins has tapered off, replaced with a mild amount of fear.

  Of course, as I get farther away from the warehouse, dreading my trek around the opposite side of the building, back to Abby’s truck, a zombie stumbles across my path. His old shirt is soaked with blood, allowing the contours of his emaciated body to stand out sickly. Jagged ribs, jagged collar bone.

  “Fuck me,” I say. “Never ends, does it?”

  I raise my rifle, not in the mood to bash the thing’s head in.

  Just as I do this, just before I can pull the trigger, the roaring of an engine reaches my ears. The truck drifts around the corner, and takes the zombie out. Smashes it flat against the ground. Blood and guts spurt from its sides, an arm twists and cracks, the head explodes.

  Lilly is behind the wheel. She honks the horn, and rolls down the window.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here!” she yells.

  “A little help,” I say, motioning to the barrel of gasoline.

  A smile crosses her face. “Oh, what’s that? Big, bad Jack Jupiter needs help from a girl?”

  “Can it and help me,” I say.

  She’s still smiling as she climbs out of the driver’s side door, offering me a view of Abby in the front seat. She’s slumped over. Not hurt or anything—at least I hope not—just exhausted. I know how she feels. This wasn’t as easy as I thought it was going to be.

  Lilly and I navigate the cart toward the back of the truck. She opens the tailgate, and together, we heave the drum out. It’s not easy, but we get it into the truck bed, push it with a grunt. Momentum does the rest for us, and it rolls down.

  “I’ll strap it in,” I say. “Get back inside. We gotta get the hell out of here.”

  I climb into the truck bed and grab a bungee cord to secure the drum in place. The bungee cord almost isn’t big enough, but I’m able to use my brute strength to stretch it to the max.

  The truck lurches forward. I almost fall on my ass, but right myself at the last moment.

  Lilly whips the truck around the corner of the warehouse. We pass hordes of feasting undead, but only a few of them look up at me with their sickly yellow eyes.

  Out through the broken gate we go.

  We’re about a quarter mile away when the rest of the warehouse explodes in a flaming fury, painting the night sky in fire.

  Five

  “He’s not gonna like that,” Abby says.

  I’m leaning through the open back window, my side pressed against the gas drum as it wobbles and tries to escape the bungee cord confines I’ve strapped it into.

  “Who?” Lilly says.

  We’re on a bumpy str
etch of dirt road. I’m getting tossed and thrown all over the place, bumping my face on the sides of the open window.

  “Who do you think?” Abby asks. “Santa Clause.”

  “I know Santa Clause isn’t real, asshole,” Lilly responds. She whips the truck onto the pavement; it’s not much better than the dirt road. The city workers haven’t responded to a pot hole complaint in better than fifteen years.

  We’re on a stretch of country road. Overgrown fields on our left, thick forests on the right. The forest has been trying to reclaim the path of the road. You can see it in the cracks, where long blades of grass and weeds jut up to the sky. You can see it in the overhanging tree branches that stretch out, creating half a tunnel around us.

  “The Overlord,” I say. “That’s who. The one-eyed man.”

  “I knew that. Obviously.” Lilly glares at me in the rearview. “And why should we care what that asshole thinks?”

  “We shouldn’t,” I answer.

  “No, we shouldn’t,” Abby says.

  She looks relaxed, too relaxed. I don’t know how she could feel that way after ripping some guy’s eye out of its socket with her hook—which is still dripping blood, I might add. Whether it’s his or not, I can’t say.

  “But he’s not gonna like it,” she repeated. “He’s gonna think we’re waging a war.”

  “We are,” I say.

  “No.” Abby turns to me. “We’re not waging a war. We’re doing a hit job. We take him down, that’s all. If the District crumbles because of his death, then so be it. If it doesn’t…”

  “You can’t be serious,” Lilly says.

  She hits the brakes, and I’m thrown forward. If the window was any bigger I’d be up in the front seat.

  “I am serious,” Abby says. “Now get to driving. We got a long way to go before we’re in Woodhaven.”

  But Lilly isn’t listening. She throws the gearshift into park. “You’re joking.”

  “What part of ‘I am serious’ don’t you understand?” Abby says.