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

by Flint Maxwell

  “This really sucks,” Lilly whispers. “Like, the worst thing we’ve ever done.”

  I shush her gently, but I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing myself silly. She’s right: this is easily the worst thing we’ve done, and I once jumped from a window twenty stories up.

  I don’t laugh, though. I just think to myself, Oh Darlene, Junior, and Norm, if you guys could see me now.

  And then we wait.

  Thirty-Three

  Each minute that ticks by in the back of the collectors’ truck is an eternity, it’s another second I get closer to vomiting, to blowing our covers.

  When I think I can’t take it anymore, the sounds of footsteps fill my ears.

  “You get the bitch?” a voice says. It’s Driver. I can tell because he still has that cigar in his mouth, and it makes him mumble.

  Fat Guy replies, “No. She got away. But I ain’t forgetting about her. The dumb broad cut my face with her dirty nails. Next time I find her or her fuckin’ family, I’m gonna cut their fingers off one by one.”

  “Sure you are,” says the third guy. “Come on, help us get these bodies inside. The doc’s gonna love this haul.”

  “Brady’s a crazy bastard,” Driver says. “Fuck him. I don’t care about the haul, just as long as I get to eat.”

  I keep my eyes closed. I try not to breathe. Try not to twitch. Suddenly, with the guys this close, I’m aware just how stupid this plan is. We are hiding in plain sight, barely covered by dead bodies. On top of the fact that it’s disgusting, there’s also the chance of contracting disease. I’m not too worried about that, but if Abby and Lilly got sick somehow, I’d blame myself.

  Drastic times call for drastic measures, little bro. You need a way into that lab, you need to get closer to the Overlord, and since I’m just a figment of your imagination and I can’t kill these assholes for you, you need to do something drastic. There’s so much damn security near the old Leering facility that you’d be shot dead before you got within a hundred yards of the place. Maybe that’d be a blessing, though, because if the Overlord gets his hands on you while you’re alive…oh boy, that wouldn’t be good.

  I mentally tell this voice to shut it, since I can’t risk talking aloud, can’t risk a slip-up. Now it’s time to focus.

  Concentrate.

  I listen to their voices, their footsteps, their breathing.

  “One, two, three,” Driver says, and then all three of them are grunting.

  A body comes down on top of me, but I’m prepared, flexing, expecting pain. Dead weight is heavy weight. The body crashes atop my sternum, crunches ribs and brings a flaring pain where it always hurts, but I’m okay.

  They count again. Another body drops. This time, closer to the tailgate. Then another on Abby’s side, and I think she’s going to say something, get pissed or shoot up and start kicking these guys’ asses.

  That doesn’t happen. None of us make a sound, none of us give ourselves away, and before I know it, the collectors are walking around the truck, getting in. Doors slam, the engine starts, and then we’re moving, the wheels crunching over ruined hovels and bouncing on the uneven dirt roads.

  I move a bluish-gray arm out of my face, look at Lilly and Abby. “Almost there,” I say to them. “Almost.”

  Abby looks back and shakes her head. There’s fresh blood running down her face, snaking around her mouth like a bend in a river. With hard eyes, she says, “I hate you, Jack Jupiter. I really, really hate you.”

  “I love you too,” I reply.

  Thirty-Four

  God, it feels like we drive forever. How much farther can this place be? Of course, being covered with bodies, blood, flies, and squirming maggots doesn’t help.

  The collectors. How stupid. What a shitty job, really.

  A few minutes go by, a few minutes and I am almost completely numb. The world is cold, and the corpses colder. In the cab, the speakers blast some nineties’ grunge music I’m not particularly fond of. I wish my ears would go numb instead of my body.

  The truck slows and screeches to a halt. I exchange a look with Lilly, my eyes wide. We’re here. Have to be. Unless these motherfuckers decided to drive the dead bodies halfway across the state.

  A fence rattles. Somewhere in the distance there’s a constant beeping, like a semi backing up with its cargo. I look up and streetlights hang above me. They’re lit, bright. The Overlord may be a piece of shit, but he does get things done.

  Then again, if I could brainwash people, I might be able to get a bunch of things done myself. Not that I ever would brainwash someone against their will…just saying.

  Footsteps outside of the truck bed. Heavy, like those of a soldier’s boots.

  Someone gags. “Got quite a load today.”

  “So did your mom,” Driver says.

  “Really fuckin’ funny, man. Really, you’re a hoot, Dean. The fuckin’ funniest,” the guy outside the truck bed says.

  “I know I am,” Driver Dean replies. “Now c’mon, let’s get this shit on the road.”

  “Such a way with words,” says another voice, this time coming from my left, the opposite side of the bed. “You know the drill, Dean. All of you get out of the truck and stand in the spectators’ zone.”

  “Fuck,” Dean says, and I can practically hear his eyes roll. “This shit is real fuckin’ old, man. You know that. What happened to Simon? He was the best.”

  The guy to my left says, “Simon didn’t follow the rules, so Simon got gutted by the Overlord himself, mate. Is that what you want?”

  Dean shuts up after that.

  The doors open, the three assholes inside the truck shuffle out somewhere to the left. Another gate glides on its track and then closes with a hiss.

  I don’t know what’s going on, but I can harken a pretty good guess. The truck is getting searched for stragglers, for illegal contraband.

  Shit.

  I didn’t think they’d do this. All the District assholes I came into contact with out west were never this thorough.

  Abby looks over at me, stretching her neck so she can see over Lilly’s head. I wish she wouldn’t do that. I think if we’re stock-still, we can pass for corpses. There’s so many in the truck bed that I doubt they’ll check every single one.

  Do you? Norm asks.

  Shut up. Shut up.

  I’m just sayin’, little bro. You never know. Better safe than sorry. Draw your fuckin’ gun and show them all how the Jupiters roll.

  Stop it.

  Abby, for the first time since we’ve disguised ourselves as corpses, looks worried.

  My fingers still rest on the gun in my waistband, but now they’re tensed, ready to pull it free.

  “Jesus,” someone says to my right, by Abby. I close my eyes, hope to God they didn’t see me do that. “How many of these poor bastards did you kill yourselves?”

  Fat Guy answers, “A few. But who cares?”

  “Well, you’re gonna make a lotta people very happy with this score, my friend,” says the guy to my left, the one who I presume is the leader.

  “That’s our job,” Dean says.

  His speech isn’t muffled any longer. The cigar is probably in the truck. Maybe the son of a bitch swallowed it…it’s just too bad he didn’t choke and die.

  “Guess so. Just like it’s my job to check to make sure you idiots don’t mess up,” the leader says.

  Then suddenly, I’m being prodded with a metal stick. Fuck. I didn’t expect this, I wasn’t ready. The stick seems to linger.

  “Some of these are nice and fresh, huh?”

  “Yup,” Dean answers. “Fresh meat.”

  “Great. Really great. They perform better with fresh meat. The Overlord’ll be pleased.”

  “Well,” Dean says, “put in a good word for me. Get me off food detail.”

  Food? Oh, shit.

  Mary was wrong.

  These corpse collectors aren’t out collecting bodies for scientific experiments.

  They’re coll
ecting bodies to feed to the experiments.

  Thirty-Five

  “Looks good to me,” says the leader, the bastard who poked me with his baton or whatever the hell it was.

  I’m still reeling from the realization that I’m not heading to a lab for experiments, but instead heading to the place to have my flesh devoured by said experiments. I try my hardest to send my mental thoughts toward Abby and Lilly.

  Steady, steady, remain calm. We got this.

  But it’s hard. I’m almost ready to pull my gun out and start shooting. I’m suddenly aware that I’ve fished my weapon out just a little farther, for a better grip.

  “You three stooges did well. Overlord’ll be very, very proud,” the leader says.

  “Yeah, whatever,” Dean says, and his speech is muffled again. He’s either chewing on a fat wad of gum or he’s found another cigar to start sucking on. “Can we go now?”

  The leader doesn’t answer, but I hear the gate slide open again.

  Dean says, fleetingly, “If there’s a scratch on my ride, I’m coming back here and kicking all of your asses.”

  The men laugh.

  That’s the last I hear of Dean. Too bad. I would’ve really loved to kill him myself, maybe light him on fire the way he did that lady’s photograph. Watch him burn and squirm, hear him squeal.

  Bigger fish to fry, Jack, remember that.

  Someone gets in the truck’s driver’s side. The engine starts, rumbles, vibrates us in the back.

  Then we’re moving again.

  A low alarm beeps, more gates rattle as they slide open, and then I’m not seeing the dark sky above me any longer, I’m seeing the sterile-white of a ceiling and large, slow-moving fans.

  We’re inside.

  Finally.

  Thirty-Six

  “Follow my lead,” I whisper. I’m so quiet that I can barely hear myself over the engine, which is now idling.

  “Because that always works,” Abby says. “Fuck it, follow my lead.”

  She sits up, shedding the corpses covering her body like a snake sheds its skin. She pulls her weapon before I can get mine out, before I can even sit up. Way ahead of me.

  “What the hell?” Lilly says.

  “Hey!” someone says, I think it’s the leader, but before he can say anything else, Abby’s gun blows his mouth away.

  I’m up now and I get to see his face eviscerated by the bullet. A wave of blood and bone blows from his cheek. Teeth rattle down on the concrete, tinkling like wind chimes.

  “Well, fuck,” I say, and then I’m shooting, finger on the trigger, aiming and blasting away.

  I count six guys still standing, but since the leader took a bullet to the face, the others don’t seem like they know what the hell they’re doing. We’re in a big warehouse-looking place, crates stacked all around, drums in one corner, a forklift parked crookedly in the other.

  At any rate, the shooting is loud, explosive. All chances of a sneak attack are officially gone.

  Lilly pops up next to me and she’s holding her rifle, the stock nestled on her shoulder. She shoots and hits a guy right in the gut. He doubles over and falls into an ever-growing pool of his own blood.

  Abby makes mincemeat of the others. She drops three more with her remaining ammunition, then vaults over the side of the truck, her hook raised above her head. She powerslides past a guy with wide, frightened eyes, and as she does this, her hook drags across his shins, metal grating against bone.

  He collapses, and Lilly finishes the job.

  I hit the last guy in the back. I don’t feel very good about it, but he’s running toward a big, red button on the wall—an alarm, a way to notify the others. Not today, my friend. I picture the alarm going off, wailing, alerting everyone that some major shit is going down in the feeding zone. Wouldn’t be good. If we still have a chance, that alarm would ruin it.

  The bullet hits him in the middle of the spine. He cries out, his gun goes clattering off to the side. Blood seeps from the wound. I shoot once more for good measure, to put the poor bastard out of his misery, and his screaming’s cut off. I’m not surprised to see that he dies only half a foot from hitting the button, a bloody handprint smeared down the wall as he falls.

  I cut it pretty close.

  “I need a shower,” Lilly says.

  I look at her and laugh. It’s not because I think it’s funny, it’s because I think I’m going insane, or that I’ve already gone insane. I don’t know.

  “For once,” Abby says, “something went our way.”

  I look around at the dead bodies. Bleeding, unmoving, no longer breathing. I guess it did go our way, at least this time, but that doesn’t mean much of anything, not yet. Killing these bastards wasn’t the final test. It was a precursor to what’s yet to come. And there’s still Ed—

  “Jack?” a voice says. Muffled. It’s coming from behind a door.

  “Is that Ed?” I say.

  Lilly crosses the battlefield, tracking blood. She tries the knob. It’s locked, so she pulls her sidearm and blows the handle off. The door swings open. I can’t see inside, but I hear moans and groans. Zombies.

  Ed stumbles forward. He’s beaten, bloody, barely able to stand.

  “Ed!” I rush over and catch him before he can fall. “Are you all right?” What the hell did they do to him? What lies behind that door?

  Actually, I don’t want to find out.

  His silver hair is disheveled, but he swipes a hand through his mane to try to calm it. “I’m okay. Thank you for coming. Thank—”

  “Not much time,” Abby says. “They’ve definitely heard us. We gotta go. The ones outside won’t be able to get in without a code, but it’s only a matter of minutes before someone does come through.”

  Once Ed seems like he’s able to stand on his own, I step away toward the guy I shot in the back. I flip him over with the toe of my boot. Search him. He doesn’t have anything worthwhile besides some extra ammunition. I trade up to his M16, the old faithful. I search his pockets, find a knife crusty with blood. What I’m looking for is the same thing Norm gave me when he died, that little cellphone thing. Mandy died before she could tell me what it was for, and if I found one on this guy, this grunt, then maybe I wouldn’t fret too much over it.

  Unfortunately, I don’t find one. I’m thinking it was reserved for the higher-ups, the second-in-commands, like my older brother. What’s even worse is that I’m thinking that it’s important, more important than I’d given it credit for. That’s Norm for you, though: dying before he can tell me anything useful, the little bastard.

  On cue, Norm says in my head, You loved me. Don’t lie.

  I did, I loved you very much, man. And I miss you.

  “We need to go, Jack!” Abby warns. “More are gonna come.”

  “Load up,” I say, handing Ed a gun. “And let’s kick some ass.”

  We do. We strip the guards of every bit of ammunition we can find. We ditch our dirty, gunked-up handguns for gleaming chrome pistols. We’re doing pretty well for ourselves, and I’m feeling more confident.

  As I’m thinking this, a garage door behind us opens. I spin around, my heart in my throat, pissed that I’ve been caught off-guard. We scurry for cover behind the truck, take aim with our new rifles. Someone has gotten the code.

  The streetlight illuminates the bodies pouring in only slightly. I expect some dickhead guard to threaten us, to tell us to come out with our hands up. That’s how it usually went in the movies, wasn’t it? We get a chance to live only to be punished for the havoc we’ve wreaked on the bad guy’s lair.

  Wrong. This isn’t Goldfinger we’re dealing with; this is the District and the one-eyed man. I shouldn’t have expected anything less than what comes through the garage door right now.

  I guess it’s that fickle thing called hope still hanging around. I need to accept the fact that we’re beyond hope.

  “This is not good,” Lilly says.

  We’re facing a lineup of beefed-up, undead mo
nsters, like the one we saw in the forest when we snuck into Woodhaven, the ones we were on our way to get fed to.

  “Steady, steady…” I say.

  Totally cliché.

  About a dozen of the bastards step into the light. They are snarling, nasty mouths dripping, arms and legs bulging beneath their patient jumpsuits.

  Worst of all, though, each one of them wears a chrome helmet atop their heads.

  The garage door comes down with a bang, and I think I hear someone laughing behind it.

  Thirty-Seven

  Abby and Lilly and Ed start blasting away. So much for my call of ‘Steady.’

  The bullets rip through the zombies’ flesh, slow them, but they’re still coming. They tilt their faces down, drive forward. Shots ricochet off their helmets, spark, fly back at us. One hits the truck in a taillight. I hear the bulb explode, the glass evaporate, and the metal crumple.

  “Stop!” I yell. “Stop!”

  They do, but not because of me saying so. They’ve run out of ammunition. Now they’re digging in their pockets for another magazine.

  The echoes of the gunshots hang in the air, my ears pounding, blood pulsing. We’re fucked. We can’t finish these guys unless we get their helmets off.

  “Get in the truck!” I shout. “Start it!”

  I rush forward, in the direction of the dead. The zombies walk with pronounced limps. Some have had their knees blown away, their thighs cut to ribbons by the bullets, yet they’re still standing, still coming toward me with their disfigured faces, their sharpened teeth.

  You are insane, Norm says.

  But I’m not right now. I’m doing the only thing I can think of at this time. I grip the tailgate’s handle, shoes crunching the red glass of the broken light. I give the handle a tug, but it doesn’t budge. It’s gummy with congealed blood.

  A zombie is much too close to me.

  I aim the pistol at his face, which is only partially exposed by the helmet. Partially, yes, but enough. I’m nearly at point-blank range.