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

by Flint Maxwell

  Mary closes her eyes as if she’s fed up. Slowly, she opens them and takes a deep breath. “You’ve always been so competitive, my dear,” she says with mock sweetness.

  “Hey, how many times does a husband get to say he’s right? This is a monumental day for me here. Cut me some slack!” Ed leans over and kisses her cheek.

  She smiles as he does it, a genuine smile, a lovey-dovey smile. It is the kind of smile Darlene and I used to sneak at each other, the kind reserved for people who are truly in love.

  Sighing, Mary begins. “There’s an old woman down the way from us. She says she’s clairvoyant.”

  “And Mary here never believed her,” Ed adds in a whisper.

  Mary rolls her eyes at him.

  Psychic? Clairvoyant? I’m thinking about how weird this is all getting.

  “She apparently said she saw a group of heroes come to the town to topple the Overlord and his District.”

  Abby and I exchange a look. Of course, we have some experience with this. Long ago, in the village outside of D.C. where Abby lost her hand, we met an old African-American woman calling herself Mother. She, too, claimed to be clairvoyant. She died at the hands of some bad people. I was too late coming back from D.C. to save her, but she had said to me how they would ruin it, how they would destroy it all.

  At the time, I had no idea what she was talking about or whom. Later, after I found out Doc Klein’s true intentions, it became clear to me that Mother had known. She had a vision, a dying one, and she warned me. Without that warning, I would’ve never been on my guard about Klein and the clandestine group controlling his strings, Central. So I do believe there are people out there who have the ability to see into the future, at least slightly. I don’t believe it’s as pronounced or as powerful as, say, a Jedi Master in Star Wars, but they can see some things. That, I do believe.

  “What does she call herself?” Abby asks.

  “Mother,” Ed answers.

  And my stomach drops far and fast.

  Twenty-Six

  I nearly knock over my chair as I shoot up from the table. “I have to see this woman,” I say. “I have to speak with her.”

  Lilly, Ed, Mary, and even little Nick look at me in confusion, furrowed brows, slitted eyes.

  “She’s just a crazy, old woman,” Mary says cautiously. “Don’t tell me you believe in all of that stuff.”

  I get defensive, though I probably shouldn’t. “Why not? We live in a world where the dead can rise and psychotics with one eye can take over half of the country, all while brainwashing his followers.”

  “He’s got a good point,” Ed says, smiling.

  “Watch it, mister,” Mary replies, poking her husband in the chest. “You haven’t been going out to the woods every night for game, have you?”

  Ed looks guiltily away. Being caught in a lie burns his cheeks red.

  “Here I thought I was gonna have a nice dinner of deer or rabbit, but you’re out there every night, looking for these three,” Mary continues.

  “Tree! Tree!” Nick says.

  Scratching the back of his neck, Ed says, “I guess you got me, darling, but look, it paid off! Here’s our heroes!”

  Nick looks like he’s going to try to repeat this word, but he can’t, it’s too difficult for him.

  “Coincidence,” Mary says.

  Lilly, Abby, and I exchange looks then look elsewhere. This has all the makings of a marital fight between Mary and Ed, not exactly something we want to be a part of, considering we hardly know them.

  “Whatever you say,” Ed says. He looks at me. “You want to meet Mother? I’d be glad to take you there. Perhaps she can give us a little more information, some guidance.”

  “I’d love to, Ed,” I say. “As soon as—”

  I’m cut off, not by the voices of Ed or Mary or even Nick repeating my words, but by the ringing of a bell. Following this ringing are the sounds of hundreds of scared people. Screaming, scrambling, and the slamming of doors.

  “What is that?” Lilly asks.

  The newfound color in Ed’s cheeks disappear. He now looks as pale and as gaunt as a zombie. Even his hair has lost its silver shine.

  “You need to hide,” he says. “Right now.”

  Moving like a blur, he pushes the rickety dinner table out of the way.

  I’m confused, and fear is starting to seize my muscles, but I take a deep breath, and ask, “How can I help?”

  “You can’t, Jack, not yet,” Ed says.

  Outside of the hovel, a gunshot roars in the distance. A warning. The hip-hop music that had been steadily playing through the boombox cuts off abruptly. A woman screams.

  Ed falls to his knees and peels the old, dingy rug up from the dirt floor, revealing a trap door. He pulls it open. Below is a small room, no bigger than five feet tall and eight feet wide. There’s a ladder on the side made of rope and wooden planks.

  “Go,” he orders us. “Hide.”

  Another gunshot ripples through the air outside.

  Someone says, “Jameson. Where is Ed Jameson?”

  There’s no hope for secrecy. The people out there, the ones who live in this little community, will spill the beans as quick as they can in the hopes of not being killed or taken for their experiments. I understand. When it comes to survival, noble acts come few and far between. I’ve been there. I’ve killed for food. I’ve betrayed for my own safety. I’m not proud of it, but you do what you have to do.

  I’m the first one down into the secret room. I don’t use the ladder, I just hop in and then reach out to help Lilly and Abby. Lilly accepts my help; Abby doesn’t, which is expected.

  “You too,” Ed says, looking at his wife.

  Mary clutches Nick to her chest so tight the boy looks to be losing consciousness.

  “I’m not leaving you,” she says.

  “You have to. Don’t worry. I’ll be okay. Hide. Hide now!”

  Closer, another gunshot, the breaking of glass. Someone screams bloody murder. Have they been shot?

  Someone else shouts, “Ed Jameson!”

  Ed gives his wife a gentle push. She stands her ground, there are tears in her eyes, and Nick is starting to cry, too, the poor kid.

  “Here,” Lilly says, her arms out. “Give me Nicky.”

  Reluctantly, Mary hands the boy over.

  Lilly takes him and holds him close to her face, whispering, “Shh, shh, Nicky. It’s okay.”

  My hand reaches up for Mary. Still reluctant, she takes it, and I help ease her into the hidden room.

  “Over there?” that same voice outside. “You ain’t lying?”

  “No, no, I promise. He lives there. The hut with the red door,” a woman says, her voice jittery and wet with tears.

  “Good. I believe ya,” says the man.

  Then there’s a gunshot as loud as striking lightning, and the woman screams. Another gunshot. She screams no more.

  “Go, go!” Ed whispers. “Get down, stay quiet.” Looking at Mary and then his son, he says, “I love you both. Don’t worry.”

  Pounding on the door.

  “Ed Jameson!” the same voice yells. “Ed Jameson, you are ordered to open up in the name of the Overlord and the entirety of the District!”

  Ed eases the trap door down, flips the rug back over it.

  We are in total darkness. The air down here is earthy and thick. Things sound like they are crawling behind me in the dirt. Even as my eyes adjust, I can’t see anything. My heart beats so loud, I fear whoever is above us will hear it.

  There’s a soft thud and a creak as the table settles.

  “Shh,” Lilly whispers to Nick.

  “Give him here,” Mary says.

  Her own voice is unsteady. A rustling to my left. Nick’s crying gets slightly louder and then stops. He must be back in the arms of his mother; to a boy his age, there are no arms more comfortable.

  “Ed Jameson—”

  “What?” Ed responds, his voice slightly muffled. “What in God’s name
are you doing here at this hour?”

  “Where are they?” the man asks.

  He steps in without an invitation, his thudding shoes making dirt fall on our heads. Lilly reaches over and squeezes my hand. I squeeze back. Then I hear the cock of a handgun, slow, deliberate. Abby is gearing up for a fight; she always is.

  “Where are who?” Ed replies.

  More footsteps above us. I count four people in total, the man talking, two of his cronies, and Ed. Not many people, but they have the advantage here. I’m sure the Overlord doesn’t supply his soldiers with squirrel shooters and pocketknives.

  “My wife and child are visiting friends on the south side,” Ed continues. His voice is convincing, I’ll give him that. “You can check if you want. Sylvia Deatz’s place.”

  “Oh believe me, we will,” the man says. “But I don’t care about your wife and son. I’m talking about the three people you found out in the woods earlier tonight.”

  “Sir, I have no idea what you are talking about. I found nothing out in the woods. Not even any game.”

  “Show him,” says the guy.

  I hear rustling, then something slamming down on the table right above us.

  Nick squirms and lets out a muffled cry. My heart drops and I feel my thumb resting upon the hammer of my pistol. We wait a few beats, staring at each other, probably, in the darkness. Nothing happens.

  “What’s this?” Ed asks.

  “Open it up and find out.”

  Footsteps across the board, more rustling. “Oh good God,” Ed says. “Why would you bring such a thing into my house?”

  “You call this a house?” another man says, and then he laughs.

  “Quiet,” the leader snaps. “Now what is this?”

  “I have no idea…a mutilated head? I don’t know. Did you do this? Did you beat this poor soul to death?” Ed says breathlessly.

  Jesus, the guy could win an Academy Award if Hollywood was still around.

  “He don’t know, boss,” a different voice says, this one is high, reedy, but still a male’s.

  “He does know,” the leader says.

  I could picture him. He’s a wiry man covered in scars. He wears a buzzcut, some kind of matching outfit, a District soldier’s outfit. Ex-military, probably, now crazy and dishonorable. He’s the quintessential villain in my mind, the puppet dancing on his strings. Maybe he’s one of the Black Knights.

  “I assure you, sir,” Ed says, “I don’t know anything about this.”

  I can picture him, too. His face flushed, the look of mock surprise and confusion on his features convincing enough, but wholly see-through if you know the man—which these people don’t.

  Come on, Ed, just hold on a little longer. We’re almost home free.

  “Where are they, Jameson?” the leader asks again.

  “I don’t know whom you are speaking of.”

  We’re so close.

  “You do, I know you do,” the leader says. I picture him squinting, teeth bared.

  “Maybe he don’t know, boss. The longer we dick around here, the farther those assholes are getting,” says the one with the reedy voice.

  Here’s where I expect a thudding blow, the leader punching his crony for stepping out of line. Or even a gunshot—this leader trying to prove a point, that he’s a crazy son of a bitch, that he’ll kill his own just for shits and giggles. I’ve met many people like that. Spike and even Butch Hazard at Eden, Froggy, and the female cannibal who played that game of chance with the dice when they invaded Mother’s village…fuck if I remember her name, though.

  But no blow or gunshot comes. The leader acts like this man hasn’t spoken at all.

  “You have a few seconds to answer me, Jameson. The clock is ticking,” the leader says.

  “Or what? You can’t charge me for anything without proper evidence. The Overlord isn’t so unfair, is he?” Ed says.

  I think the act he’s been putting up starts to fade. Now he’s the real deal, scared, unsure. The worst combination for a person hiding his family and a few strangers just below his feet.

  “This is a matter of treason, my friend. We can do whatever the fuck we want,” the leader says.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything!” Ed shouts.

  “Five…”

  “I swear to you. I swear on the Man Upstairs. I know nothing of treason or traitors!”

  “Four…three…”

  The laughing of the cronies.

  “Two…”

  “You can’t kill me. That’s not fair. I’m telling the truth!” Ed shouts, his voice so loud that it’s shaking the table.

  Next to me, Mary weeps softly. She lunges forward, I feel her movement in the darkness, thank God. Before she can do anything drastic, I grab her with my left hand and hold her back.

  As softly as I can speak, I say, “Don’t.”

  Then I hear the blow, the sound of skin coming into contact with skin.

  Ed doesn’t cry out, but he falls, hits the table, and thumps part of the hatch. Anger erupts in me. I’m so angry that I find myself lunging forward, too, like Mary was, my finger on the trigger, thinking how I’ll put a bullet in all of them and that’ll be the end of it, but a firm hand holds me back.

  It’s Abby. I can tell. Even though I can’t see her in the dark, I can tell. She’s holding me back with her iron grip, the kind a person with only one hand can develop over time.

  “One,” the leader says with finality.

  I have to bite my lip in preparation of the gunshot that will kill Ed. I bite it so hard that blood floods my mouth.

  Twenty-Seven

  No gunshot comes, thank God.

  The leader says, “I’m not going to kill you. Not yet, Mr. Jameson. For now, you are safe. What we are going to do to you is much worse, so much worse.”

  More footsteps, the cronies coming forward.

  “What? I’m telling you the truth. I don’t know any traitors. I don’t! I d—” Ed screams.

  “Cuff him,” the leader says.

  Steel jingles, and I hear another striking blow. Ed cries out in pain.

  The poor bastard, I can picture his hair all disheveled, his face bloody and red. I lunge forward again, but Abby’s grip on me tightens. Deep down, I know that if we give up our hiding spot, even worse things will come to this small family. The toddler will be taken. Mary will be beaten or worse. Ed will be killed for being a liar. It’s too late. We’re in too deep now.

  As much as my confidence is telling me that I can take these bastards, I know we’re not in a position to do so. By the time we throw the table off of the hatch and peel back the rug, a barrage of bullets will rain down upon us. Kill us. Mutilate us. Problem solved for the one-eyed man and his District, right?

  So I have to play this cool, I have to be smart. Can’t let my emotions get the better of me. I think if Norm was still around, he would tell me that, though I’ve known Norm to act on his emotions many times before. It didn’t always pay off, true, but…

  No, I can’t. I have to keep everyone else safe. If it was just me, I’d no doubt start shooting, not worrying about the consequences, the searing hot pain of a bullet slicing through my flesh. I’d do what I have to do the same way I’m doing what I have to do right now.

  “We’ll get some answers out of you yet, Mr. Jameson,” the leader says. “Where we’re taking you, you’ll have no choice but to talk.” To his cronies, “Continue to search the camp. Start south at the Sylvia bitch’s place. If anyone backtalks you, you are to kill them by orders of the Overlord, understood?”

  Two answering voices. “Yes, sir!”

  Twenty-Eight

  We wait a long moment after they leave. Each second stretches on for an eternity.

  When I think it’s safe to talk, I turn toward where I think Mary is and tell her in a low voice, “We’ll get him back. Don’t you worry about that.”

  “Of course I’m worrying,” she says. “The Overlord is ruthless.”

  I know
this. I know it all too well, but I don’t say anything. Bringing up my past right now will solve nothing.

  “Think it’s safe?” Abby asks.

  “Yeah. Think so,” I say.

  Even though I do think it’s safe, I keep my gun close, the hammer still cocked. Judging by the sounds, I think Lilly and Abby do the same thing.

  We push the board up together; we have to because the weight of the table is still settled above us. After much struggling and grunting, the sound of the clattering wood breaks the silence above. Light from a candle burning very close to the end streams in. I never thought I’d be so glad to see light again.

  Using the ladder, I climb out and help the others. Mary passes Nick to me and I hold the boy. He squirms, his face wet with tears, and it reminds me of my own son, when he was this small all those years ago. A heavy sadness weighs down my heart.

  God, how clueless I was back then. I didn’t know the first thing about children. It took me a while, but I think I eventually became a good father. I learned, I grew along with my son, only to have it all taken away by the one-eyed man, the same way he has taken away countless others’ loved ones.

  That sadness in my heart changes to rage. I’m burning again.

  The feeling passes—mostly because I’m holding a toddler, and thinking the way I am can get dangerous sometimes. I don’t want to hurt the kid, don’t want to scar him for life, if that hasn’t happened already.

  Once Mary is up, I hand Nick to her. He seems happy to go, which only breaks my heart the more.

  “They took him!” Mary says. “They took my husband.” She borders on hysterical.

  Per usual, Abby and I step away, the emotions too high for us. I don’t know what to do, I’ve never been good at this. Neither has Abby. Thankfully, we have Lilly. She crosses the room, navigating around the upturned table, and puts a comforting arm around Mary’s shoulder, pulling her close.

  “It’s going to be okay,” Lilly says. “We are going to get him back. You did good. You both did good.” She’s looking at Nick, who’s crying, red in the face. She grabs hold of one of his little fingers and gives it a reassuring squeeze. The boy responds well to the gesture; he even smiles.