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

by Flint Maxwell

  “So I’m guessing your death is gonna really suck,” I continue. “Maybe the right-hand man was going to go easy on you—certainly easier than the Overlord—but now things have changed. Thanks to me, the Overlord is coming, and you’re probably going to have your rotten intestines ripped out of your gut, and wrapped around your throat before you’re hung by them. After he rips out your eyes and fucks you with a jagged piece of glass, or whatever it is the Overlord does during his executions. I don’t know. Haven’t been part of one yet.” I pause for effect.

  I like what I see. It’s nice watching the guy crumble.

  “If you eat me, imagine what the Overlord and his goons will do to you. Man, I don’t even want to think about it,” I say.

  The guy sits back down.

  “There you go. That’s the right idea,” I say.

  It almost saddens me, seeing the effect the Overlord has on people, the fear he instills in them. It’s stupid. He’s just a man.

  Now I walk over to my cellmate, stick out my hand. He looks at it, but not like it’s appetizing.

  “I’m Jack,” I say. “Jack Jupiter. If you wanna live, I think it’s important that we team up and find a way out of this place.”

  It takes a moment for him to take my hand, but he does. We shake. His brow furrows as he searches for something inside of his mind. A name, probably. It’s been so long since he’s had to use his own that he’s forgotten it.

  I can relate; sometimes I don’t even remember when my birthday is. There’s certainly no celebrations nowadays. The cake, the candles, the balloons…forget about it.

  After another beat or two, the man says, “I’m Haley. Roland Haley.” He smiles again, and I think it’s because he has remembered his name, but I’m wrong. “So you’re the Jack Jupiter, huh?”

  Fifteen years ago, my ears would have perked up at this comment. I’d think this guy had read one of my books; maybe he was a fan of pulpy zombie novels, or maybe he was even clamoring for the werewolf book that I’d promised my few Facebook fans after the last Johnny Deadslayer release.

  I’d inevitably be wrong, of course. As you know, not many people read my books back then. None today, I’m sure. Plus, this isn’t fifteen years ago. I’m not known for my pulpy post-apocalyptic novels with the plucky, take-no-shit protagonist Johnny Deadslayer. Now I’m known for better things. Things I eventually lost.

  “Lotta talk about you,” Roland Haley says. “Them guards were talking about you just yesterday. Said the Black Knights were out and on your trail. I didn’t believe they’d catch you.”

  I shrug. “They did, but it was all a part of the plan.”

  Roland’s nostrils flare as he snorts laughter. “I don’t believe it was. Neither was throwing that bitch Helga over the edge of the platform.”

  “Not part of my plan, at least,” I say. “I can’t speak for Lilly.”

  Though I’m pretty sure she didn’t plan on that. She took a chance, and it paid off for her and us. Except I was fully expecting the guards to keep their promise of genital mutilation.

  So far, so good.

  That’s not to say they still won’t, but I think they’re pretty shook about what happened to Helga, and probably agree that it’s better to leave our fates up to the Overlord and Norm.

  The thought of Mason Storm’s reaction to Helga getting ripped apart by zombies brings me satisfaction. He hasn’t found out yet, otherwise he’d be paying us a visit. Maybe the guards are too afraid to tell him, don’t know how to say it.

  “Plan or no plan, it was pretty damn impressive,” Roland says. “You keep good company.” His eyes light up again, and I see hope in them. It’s good to see. “You really think you can get us out of here?”

  “I’m Jack Jupiter, aren’t I?”

  When in doubt, fake it until you make it. It’s worked well for me so far, and Roland doesn’t know that I pretty much have no idea what I’m doing until I start doing it. Even then, I’m sometimes still not sure.

  Roland nods.

  “So you’ve been in here six months,” I say. “You’ve seen a lot. You may not realize it, but you have. I need a rundown. Times the guards come in, which guard’s the nicest, which one is the meanest, zombie patterns, if they get fed or not. All that crap.” I’m staring at this old, weathered man like a teacher would stare at a bored student who’s close to failing.

  He blinks back. “I—uh, I don’t know much about zombie patterns, but they feed us once a day. Water bucket’s over there.” He points behind me. “Cameron is the nicest, but that’s like saying a hammerhead shark is the nicest. He’s the younger one. Skinny guy. But I don’t like Bryan, or ‘Bry’. He’s a dickhead, the one with the beard and the round belly like he’s eight months pregnant, but I think that might be personal preference.”

  I nod, roll my fingers in a ‘go on’ gesture.

  “So, you want at the Overlord, huh?” he asks. When I don’t answer immediately, mainly because I’m stuck thinking about what he did to my family and to Haven, he goes on. “ ‘Cause that’s what I hear from the guards. I heard you took out one of their gas operations. It was a big blow to the Overlord; he’s trying to get the jet planes up in the air. He’s trying to build an army, you know?”

  “Of course.”

  “And you took down their Chicago gig. That one really pissed him off. The Chicago gig was supposed to be one of the best.”

  I shrug. “That one wasn’t my idea, either. All credit goes to the crazy brunette in the car next to us. As for the gas operation, really, we just needed fuel for our ride. All the explosions and deaths were accidental.”

  For the first time, Roland’s cheeks show some color. He’s rosy beneath his papery skin. “I like you, Jack Jupiter. Sorry I called you ‘Meat’. Last time I had a roommate, he tried to eat me.” Roland lifts up his shirt, shows me a bite mark under his ribs that hasn’t completely healed. It’s a violent purple and red, like it’s infected. I choose not to tell him that. “I know what you’re thinking,” he continues. “But my last roommate wasn’t a zombie, so I’m not gonna turn on you, or nothing like that. He was just a pissed off soldier, half-starved and fully crazy. He was in the Pits before he was brought here. They mess you up big time in the Pits.”

  “I don’t even wanna know,” I say. “But I do wanna know how you got here.”

  The zombies continue thumping and bumping against our glass window. I hear the hissing of trapped air escaping from their throats, smell the tang of death. The car rocks ever so slightly. If the windows were covered, and I didn’t have to see their terrible faces, I could probably get used to this. The swaying of the subway car is actually quite relaxing.

  “I stole a loaf of bread,” he says finally, and he looks like he has just told me he’s murdered someone. The guilt on his face is overwhelming.

  “Bread? That’s it?”

  Roland nods. “During a festival in Crayton—er, well, what used to be Gary, Indiana. I put up a helluva fight, but—” he motions to his protruding ribs, his twig arms, “when you look like this, you can’t really put up too much of a fight.”

  “They’re executing you for that? For stealing bread?”

  He nods. “Crazy, right?”

  “More than that.” I shake my head. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. We’re getting you out of here.”

  I go to the opposite wall and knock three times, hard.

  After about a fifteen-second delay, the same pattern comes back to me. That’s good.

  “I’m escaping!” I yell.

  “Good luck!” Abby yells back.

  Twenty-Five

  It’s not hard getting out of the subway car. Not with Roland’s help. Together, the two of us are able to loosen one of the seats from its rusty bolts. I do most of the work, yes, but I couldn’t have done it without him. We stack the seat up against the window, as zombies scrabble at the glass the closer we get.

  “They don’t care if we get out of the cars,” Roland says. “I once saw a guy who s
traight up jumped to the edge and pulled himself up. He cut his fingers to hell—I think he even lopped his pinky clean off, matter of fact. When he got up there, he was losing so much blood that he got all woozy, like a drunk, you know, stumbling and bumbling about. If God was kind, He would’ve made it so that fella fell backward into the hole, then all he’d have to deal with was a sore back and a missing pinky. But no, our God ain’t a just God. The guy, when he passed out, went forward, right into the welcoming arms of the zombies. This was early in my stay, too. I couldn’t even look. But I heard. Oh Lord, did I hear.”

  I look out the window, past the swarm of dead, and next to Helga’s ripped and bloody clothes, I see another stain of blood on the concrete. The prisoner’s, no doubt. Maybe someone else’s.

  “So he got out, but he was injured. Let’s just make sure we aren’t injured,” I say.

  Roland shakes his head. “How you can have such confidence in a world like this, man, I just don’t understand.”

  “Me either, Roland. Me either.”

  I grab onto the seat and give it a wiggle. It’s not firmly in place, but it’s good enough. Then I take my shirt off. In the reflection of the window, I see what looks like the ghost of myself. I don’t look much better than Roland, here. It’s a tough old world.

  “Uh, son, I ain’t like that. I’m not that lonely,” Roland says.

  I laugh. “Don’t worry.”

  I tear off the sleeves of the shirt and wrap them around my hands. Not much, but it’s better than nothing. I put the shirt back on, my cloak on top of it. The cloth stinks to high heaven, and it’s wet—with what, I don’t know.

  I scale up the seat bench, careful to sway with its instability. It’s not easy, though nothing in this world ever is, but I’m up. At the top. Ladders always tell you not to stand on the top step. I wonder what the warning would be on this piece of work. ‘Just don’t do it’, probably.

  The thought makes me smile, which feels odd in all the gloom of this prison.

  Using the sleeves for cushion, I pull myself up. On the sharp edges, I see caked blood here and here, and there’s piece of flayed skin there. The metal stabs into my palm, but the pain is almost nonexistent. I roll over on top of the car and take a deep breath. The stench of the tunnel fills me up, and I cough it out.

  “Now you,” I say to Roland.

  He looks at the rickety bench with hesitation. For a moment, I think he’s going to cower back toward his corner. He’s been in here so long that getting out might seem crazy. But he doesn’t. He stands up a little straighter, puts his foot on an armrest, and presses downward, testing the strength of the ladder. There’s not much—I could’ve told him that—but he seems satisfied enough.

  I hand him the shirt sleeves, and he slips them around his fingers. He begins his ascent. When he’s halfway up, I grab him around the shoulders and ease him over the edge, onto the top of the car. I’m gentle, but he cries out and clutches his waist.

  He’s cut. Blood trickles down his dirty jeans.

  “You all right?” I ask him.

  Grimacing, he says, “I’ll be okay. I think before this is all said and done, I’ll have more than a drop of blood to worry about.”

  “True,” I say. “Just wait here for a minute.”

  Roland looks over the side. The zombies are staring back at him. Those that still have distinguishable features on their faces snarl. Their eyes light up, as their mouths hang open. The jagged bones around their lips are barely in the shape of teeth, but they get their point across…the point being that they’re hungry. Very hungry. Always hungry.

  “Sons of bitches, aren’t they?” Roland says.

  “The worst,” I reply, but even I know it’s not their fault. This is just their nature. They’re wired this way. It’s like blaming a lion for killing a gazelle.

  I go from my car over to Abby and Lilly’s. They’re sitting across from each other on rickety seats. The opening in their car is slim enough to make me wonder how they fit through without getting gutted by the sharp metal. Somehow they did, though, because they’re in there, which means there’s definitely a way to get them out. I’ll just have to be careful.

  The girls aren’t talking. Lilly’s eyes are closed, while Abby stares out at the zombies.

  The zombies have, pretty much, aside from a few stragglers, congregated around the car Roland is sitting on. I see him leaning over the side, looking at them with scientific curiosity.

  “About time,” Abby says. “How did you get out without cutting your hands?”

  I pull my cloak over and show her my ripped sleeves.

  She chuckles. “A muscle shirt is meant to be worn by people with actual muscles.”

  I turn around. “Okay, I’ll just let you hang out in here a little longer. Sound good?”

  “Jack, you know I’m kidding,” she says.

  Lilly snorts. “Your banter makes for some pretty solid entertainment,” she says.

  “Thanks,” Abby says.

  Now I have to figure out how to get them out. None of their benches look particularly loose. I tell Abby to feel around, see if she can knock any of them off their bolts.

  She says, “Don’t you think I tried that? If they were, I would’ve been out of here long before you.”

  From one of the other cars, a woman cackles. It’s a hair-raising sound. I’ve almost forgotten about the other prisoners. I think there’s about three more in their own cars.

  “Give me your coat, Abby,” I say. She’s wearing a thick leather jacket that’s dusty and grimy, despite being picked up only a few days ago.

  “It’s kinda cold in here, you know,” she says.

  I tap my wrist, indicating our lack of time. “Lilly, your pants, please.”

  “Is that how you talk to all the gals, Mr. Jupiter?” Lilly replies.

  I smile awkwardly. “Just trust me.”

  “I’ve heard that one before…” Lilly says. “At least buy me a drink first.”

  “When we get out of here. Promise,” I say.

  “Okay, don’t look,” she says.

  I turn away and begin unlacing my boot. About five seconds later, her jeans drape over my shoulder. I place it next to Abby’s jacket. Once my boot is off, I tie Lilly’s pant leg to Abby’s jacket sleeve in a knot that my older brother taught me many years ago, a knot that Norm Jupiter swears is unbreakable. I give it a tug, and am satisfied.

  “Roland?” I say.

  “Yeah?”

  “Come over here and give me a hand, please.”

  “Sure thing.”

  I place my removed boot on the edge of the upturned metal. The leather should hold up and protect the rope, otherwise I think the opening is sharp enough to saw right through Lilly’s jeans and Abby’s jacket. Now I lower the makeshift rope down the thin opening, making sure the boot doesn’t get dislodged.

  “Lilly, after you,” Abby says.

  “No, I insist, after you,” she replies.

  “Ladies first,” Abby says.

  “Will you guys just hurry up. We don’t have much time. They’re gonna come in here any minute,” I say.

  “Geez, Jack,” Lilly says. “At least you’re not the one trying to escape some demented prison in your underwear. You’re already out. Don’t complain.”

  “Lady’s got a point,” Roland says.

  I roll my eyes in the most Abby way I can muster, and Lilly grabs on first. She climbs until she’s at the edge. Luckily, her hands find a sliver of smoother metal—which is still pretty sharp—and Roland and I are able to drag her up to the top.

  “Lilly, Roland. Roland, Lilly,” I say, out of breath.

  “Hi,” Lilly says. She shakes his hand. “Don’t mind my ass hanging out for everyone to see.”

  Roland chuckles at this, but remains gentlemanly and doesn’t even glance below her waist.

  “Why couldn’t we have used your jeans?” Lilly asks, furrowing her brow as she gets up.

  “Well, I’m not wearing underwear,
” I reply.

  Lilly shakes her head. “Too much information, Jack.”

  With Lilly to help us bring Abby up, the second ascent goes a lot smoother. It takes a minute to get Lilly’s pants unknotted from the jacket, but once she gets her jeans on, she seems to be in a better mood.

  “Glad you’re making friends, Jack,” Abby says. “Even in prison.”

  I shrug. “We need all the help we can get.” I look in the direction of the cackling woman in the farthest car. The cackling soon turns into screaming.

  Lilly is brushing off the dirt from her pant legs. It’s not coming off. Whatever it is, it’s there to stay. “You can’t seriously be thinking—” she begins.

  “I am,” I say. “C’mon and help me.”

  “As long as I get to keep my pants on,” Lilly says.

  Twenty-Six

  We go around to the other cars and offer the prisoners a chance to escape. There are three left, all emaciated like Roland.

  The cackling woman doesn’t reply to me when I stand over her car and tell her I’m getting her out of here. She recoils into the corner, and hisses at me over and over again.

  I don’t hang around trying to convince her. I know a lost cause when I see one.

  Of the three that are left, two of them accept our offers. One is a small Mexican man. He has a terrible scar on the top of his head, parting his jet-black hair with pale flesh. He’s wearing an old US Air Force uniform. His name is Roberto, but he tells us to call him ‘Nacho’.

  I ask him how he got here, and he says, “I tell you the truth, man. I no lie any longer, I see no point. I killed many. They recruit me for the air fleet. I say no.”

  “Many what?” Abby asks.

  “Many District.”

  Abby steps forward and shakes his dirty hand. “Then you’re all right by me, Nacho.”

  “Also,” Lilly adds, “cool fucking name.”

  “Thank you,” Nacho says.

  Turns out that Nacho flew jets in the Air Force before the shit hit the fan. The Overlord sought him out for his own army, and Nacho refused, killing a handful of guards in his attempt to escape. He failed. That’s why he’s here.