Jack Zombie (Book 2): Dead Hope

by Flint Maxwell

  “Words of a true genius,” I say. “Shakespeare would be proud.” I look at the bottle. “You’re not really going to drink — ”

  He downs a large swallow of whiskey as if it were water, not even grimacing, then he shrugs. “You pick up a thing or two in the Army,” he says. “Best thing for a hangover is more booze.”

  “Yeah, I bet,” I say.

  He holds the bottle out to me. “A little warm, but it’s better than nothing.”

  “No, thanks. I’m gonna check the back.”

  “All right, little bro. Just holler if you need me. I’m gonna do a little drinking…you know, drown my sorrows.” He pours the whiskey on the floor, then points to the ceiling. “That’s for Shelly.”

  Shelly was his Jeep. Ridiculous, I know.

  I push through a door that reads EMPLOYEES ONLY.

  The kitchen is about as quaint as the bar. There’s a microwave, a shelf of snack foods like chips, packaged brownies, and Slim Jim’s, some cans of nacho cheese, a refrigerator straight out of the 1970s. The health inspector must not have been due for another year because the counter is spotted with dry bits of chili and cheese, and other crumbs. Beyond the kitchen is a small hallway which leads to an emergency door. There’s a window where the Florida morning streams in, lighting my way, but there’s no people, dead or otherwise.

  I turn around to head out into the bar. The door squeaks, and Norm shushes me. He’s squatted down behind a couple of stools, waving me to do the same. I instantly drop. Maybe six months ago, I would’ve asked questions, but not anymore. When Norm is like this, or anyone in the group for that matter, it means the dead are near.

  I see a figure through the dusty bar window. A head bobs between the stenciled letters on the glass which read HOME BASE BAR AND GRILL, except it doesn’t move like the dead. It moves like —

  The figure turns toward the bar. I hear his voice, quiet, but deep. It carries on the wind. “…saw them go in here, I did. Maybe the book store. I”ll check it, yes I will!” Almost singsongy.

  Norm glances at me, that fiery look in his eyes. I nod. He pulls the hammer back on his Magnum, and I get to position with my machete, nimbly walking over the wooden floor, fearing for the creak that will put the nail in my coffin. No such creak comes and I put my back to the wall between window and door. My heartbeat thuds in my chest.

  The door opens.

  Norm is positioned at the bottom left corner of the bar, his gun raised.

  The man comes in through the door with his own gun leading the way. It’s a shabby revolver, something a widowed old woman would keep on top of her nightstand in a bad neighborhood. Still, a gun is a gun.

  “Drop your weapon,” Norm says. “We mean no — ”

  A gunshot cuts him off. My eyes jam close and when I open them, I see a chunk of the wood floor go up in a spray of splinters. Norm dives out of the way, takes cover behind a few chairs. He’s quick, and the table he’s nearest falls over, giving him more cover.

  I’m not as quick, but I act too.

  The person behind the revolver is a large black man, wearing a sweaty wife-beater tank top. His mouth is wide open, eyes closed in pain, as I swing the handle of the machete at his head.

  This guy lets out a blood-curdling scream, almost like a whining puppy. It makes me queasy, and when a spray of blood dots my face, I feel even sicker.

  The machete handle thunks against the guy’s skull. I feel the twanging vibrations of the metal.

  The gun drops to the floor, and I’m quick to kick it toward Norm. There’s a large gash in the man’s scalp. Fresh red dribbles from the wound.

  “Why did you d-do that?” the large man yells, blubbering. “Oh my god! My head, you broke-ed my head! Help! Lawd, help me!”

  Norm gets out from behind the toppled over table. He picks up the small revolver which pales in comparison to Norm’s Magnum, then he looks at the bleeding man on his knees.

  We are both stunned to see a man this size crying.

  Guilt invades me. “What was I supposed to do? He shot at you!”

  Norm shrugs. “I mean, couldn’t you have just punched him in the face? You didn’t have to rock his bell that hard, champ.”

  “He’s ginormous!” I say.

  “No, no, no, please don’t hit me a-g-g-g-gain,” the guy says.

  “You shot at us,” I say, this time calmly. “It wasn’t personal.”

  This doesn’t seem to register because he screams louder.

  I look to the wound. “Not fatal, I say. “It’ll be sore for a couple days, but some stitches will do the trick.”

  “Yeah, why don’t we just call 911 and have ‘em come over and patch him right up,” Norm says.

  I offer him a sarcastic smile. “It was an accident,” I say. Then I turn to the large man, “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry. You just spooked us.”

  The big guy nods, tears in his eyes. The blubbering has calmed to a constant buzz, so I lean down and help him up. Behind the bar is a stack of clean rags. I lead him over to it and hand him a wad. He looks at the towels like he doesn’t know what to do.

  “Let’s get you cleaned up,” I say.

  “It h-hurts,” he answers.

  “I know,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  I end up doing it for him the way I’d imagine my father would’ve done for me had he been around while I grew up. After a moment, the cries subside. So I say, “Do you know anything about Eden?”

  This large black man looks at me as if I’m talking about ghosts.

  15

  “D-Don’t take me back to Eden, mister. Please,” the man says. He is sitting on a bar stool, the legs groaning and creaking under his weight.

  Well, that’s two strikes. Three strikes and we’re out. It’s looking more and more like Tony Richards wasn’t as delusional as I thought. Eden might be lost, but that doesn’t mean I won’t fight for it.

  “I’m not gonna take you back,” I say, sticking out my hand. “I’m Jack, by the way, Jack Jupiter. This here is my older brother, Norm.”

  The man smiles. “I had a brother once. He was older, too! One time, he took me to the waterpark. I rode the slides until they closed! It was the best day ever!” He looks at his boots longingly.

  Norm gives me that scrunched-brow look.

  “That’s very nice,” I say. Obviously this guy is not all there. I just hope my whack to his head wasn’t the cause of it. “What is your name?”

  “I’m Herbert. My friends call me Herb or Herbie. You can call me whatever you like! Just as long as you promise not to take me back.” He looks up at me, eyes wide and shiny with tears. Man, it’s a tough sight to see — a man this big, this scared. Looking at him, I wouldn’t take him back now even you paid me a million bucks.

  I pat him on the shoulder. “No worries, Herb.” There’s a pause. “I am wondering, though, why don’t you want to go back?”

  Herb starts shaking his head. “Oh, it’s terrible, Jacky. They make me do the worst things for Spike and his army. I have to touch the bodies. The dead ones that aren’t really dead, like the movies, Jack. The movies! I have to cut their fingers off and remove their teeths. I don’t like it. No, sir, I don’t!”

  I look at Norm, his lips parting as if to say something, but the door explodes open. Herb shrieks and almost falls off his stool, the bloody towels escaping his grip and landing wetly on the bar’s floor.

  My hands go for the Midnight Special in my waistband, but once I see it’s Abby, they relax. She comes in with a broken pool stick in one hand. Darlene is not far behind her, holding the other end of the broken stick. When they see us, they relax. “What’s going on? Everything okay? I heard Norm’s gun — ” Abby says.

  “We’re fine,” I say. “Just made a new friend.” I point to Herb and he smiles again. “His name is Herb and he’s from Eden.”

  Abby’s eyebrows arch at that.

  “Go on, Herb,” I say.

  “Well they make — ” Herb continues, but he is cut off by D
arlene.

  “There’s a car! A car is coming!” she shouts, leaning out of the door. “It looks like an Army truck.”

  “Oh no, they found me! They found me! They’re gonna make me scoop the rotten guts. Oh no oh no oh no — ”

  “Shush!” Norm says.

  I rush over to Darlene, grab her around the waist and pull her inside. A bullet slams into the closing glass door seconds after I drag Darlene away.

  Then someone speaks over a loudspeaker: “We know you’re in there! Come out and we won’t kill ya.” But as if to contradict that very statement, the gun bursts again. Shit. Whoever is out there means business. Those were the shots of a sharpshooter. The bullets hit one of the many parked cars, thumping their metal bodies, breaking their windshields and windows. An alarm begins to go off, God knows how. Now Main Street in the small, Floridian town of Sharon is starting to sound like World War III.

  16

  Once the shooting stops, it’s quiet and I pull the Midnight Special free. I’m sick of bloodshed, but I’ll do what I have to do to protect my family.

  The gunfire ripples through the air again.

  The door to the bar shatters. Darlene screams. I roll away from the spray of glass and shield her with my skinny body.

  “We aren’t going to ask nicely again!” the voice from the loudspeaker booms.

  Is this what they consider asking nicely?

  “We’re gonna start using the heavy artillery, Herb,” the man says. “Just come out and we’ll let you keep your fingers…most of them.” Laugher erupts from the car, some of it caught over the speaker.

  I shoot a glance to Herb. He is frozen still.

  “It’s the bad men,” he says.

  Norm stands up, I try to grab at his arm, but it’s too late. He grabs the American flag off of its holder in the corner of the room, and sticks it out of the broken door.

  “Norm,” I say. “Get down.”

  I don’t know these people, these madmen with guns and heavy artillery, but I know they are madmen. This ruined world’s madmen will shoot you first and never consider asking questions. They don’t care.

  Thing is, I’ve always expected Norm to be a special kind of madman himself.

  Case in point, him half sticking out of the door, his boots crunching the shards of glass as he waves the flag in some sort of truce.

  “Surrender!” he yells. “We surrender.”

  “Herbert, that you?” Loudspeaker says.

  “No! Name’s Norman Jupiter. We don’t want any trouble. We’re just passing through.”

  “You’re passing through our town, buddy,” Loudspeaker replies. “You want to do that, you have to pay a toll.”

  I look to Herb. He moves like an animal caught in a trap, rocking back and forth on large boot heels. Frantic. Scared. It pains me to see him like that, so defeated. No human should ever have to feel like that.

  I help Darlene up, her face is wet with tears, then I turn to Abby perched behind an overturned table. “Go,” I say. “Out the back right now and hide until this is over. We’ll meet up back at the clock we passed on the way here.”

  Abby shakes her head. She knows a storm is brewing. She hates being treated like this — shielded. I’ve seen what she did in Woodhaven, and I’ve seen what she’s done in our travels. When the world began ending, she thrived. She’s saved me on more than one occasion and now I mean to save her.

  After some reluctance, she nods.

  I grab Darlene and kiss her. “It’ll be okay, I’ll see you soon.”

  “Oh, Jack, just reason with them,” Darlene says. “Maybe they can help us, too.”

  I don’t tell her how unlikely that is. The type of people who shoot first and then call your name are not the type to reason with.

  Abby takes the Midnight Special, and the two of them go out of the back.

  “You got Herb in there?” Loudspeaker says. “You got him in there then we won’t make you pay the toll.”

  Yeah, right, I think.

  Norm ponders this question for a moment. A long moment.

  “Well?” Loudspeaker asks.

  Norm looks to Herb, their eyes meet. Terror in Herb’s. Understanding in my older brother’s.

  “Tick, tock,” Loudspeaker says. “Time’s up.”

  We all drop. The machine gun goes off, drilling the bar’s facade. What was left of the windows break apart. Old, dusty bottles of Jack Daniels and Absolute Vodka explode. The mirror behind the bar disintegrates into almost nothing. Somehow, I think that’s got to be more than seven years of bad luck for Loudspeaker and his gang outside.

  Then the shots stop. All is quiet.

  “Go check,” Loudspeaker says, but not over the loudspeaker. It’s so quiet, I hear it all.

  “No, you go check,” another voice responds.

  “Don’t be a pussy, Ramirez. They’re dead, no one could survive that,” Loudspeaker says. Even I can hear the uncertainty in the man’s voice.

  Norm looks to me. We nod, knowing what we have to do.

  “No,” Herb says. “Let me go out there. I will take my punishment.” He holds his hand up studying his fingers.

  “No,” I say. “Don’t be stupid. We can take them.”

  Outside, I hear the tentative footsteps of Ramirez coming to check on us. I risk a glance. He’s carrying an AR15, something straight out of a video game. These guys definitely have the heavy artillery. Next thing you know they’ll be lightning us up with a rocket launcher. All these weapons just laying around in this dead world, I guess someone had to take them.

  The footsteps stop. This man with his AR15 is scared of us. If only he knew what we’re packing. He’d be laughing if he saw me with a dull machete.

  “Step aside, I mean it,” Herb says, his voice rumbling over a whisper.

  The footsteps start again. Norm risks a glance over the window ledge, now minus its glass. A shadow dances on the wood panel walls — Ramirez’s shadow — and this shadow raises its weapon.

  Norm doesn’t hesitate. He takes aim with his Magnum, and lets a bullet fly. The shadow on the wall disintegrates, but not before a burst sprays from the man’s shoulder.

  I drop behind the cover of the brick door frame, peeking around to see who’s next.

  There’s no storm of bullets like I expect. There’s just calm. Unsettling calm.

  But it’s broken as Loudspeaker talks. “Well, damn, the bastards shot Ramirez,” he says. “Blew a fucking hole through his neck. Guess they mean business.”

  Someone else echoes his laugh.

  “You think Ramirez dying is funny?” he asks whoever laughed, not bothering to depress the speaker’s button.

  The laughter is quickly cut off.

  Norm gives me a look. It’s a look I know well thanks to our travels on the road. It’s the Time to fuck shit up look look.

  I take a deep, shaky breath. Killing is not something I enjoy doing, it’s something I have to do. Something I have to do for Darlene. To survive. I know these people won’t give us a slap on the wrist. They’re killers. We all are.

  We have to be.

  Norm aims for a man wearing an riot helmet. In the harsh sunlight, I can see the dried-on bits of brains and guts and blood on him.

  In the past year I’ve gotten much better at shooting — especially compared to my time trapped in the Woodhaven Recreation Center — but Norm has gotten even better.

  The soldier is only a young man.

  I lean forward and grab Norm’s arm. “No,” I say and take the gun from him. He’s smiling, probably thinking I’m craving blood.

  That’s not the case.

  I’m saving the soldier’s life. I’m saving all of our lives.

  I take aim and shoot the truck bed, the bullet sparks off the metal with a ding. The guy with the helmet drops down, hiding and probably not realizing if the shot would have hit him, shattering his bloody visor into a million shards which would’ve blinded him, his movement would’ve been much too late.

  Pro
bably not realizing I spared him.

  Whoever’s driving the truck, someone I can’t see due to the sun rays bouncing back at me from the glass, decides the last shot was too close to home, and puts it into reverse. Tires squeal, sending little puffs of white smoke into the air. The truck clips the backend of a Kia, busting both of their taillights and then turns around by jumping the curb, coming dangerously close to smashing in a coffee place that’s a blatant ripoff of Starbucks, and heading in the direction they came.

  Herb is still behind me. He watches them go, his lips quivering.

  “We did it!” Norm says. “But your aim needs some work, little bro.”

  “Thanks. We can celebrate later. Let’s go get Darlene and Abby,” I say.

  Norm waves a hand. “Oh, they’re fine. Abby’s a tough son of a — ”

  “Yeah, but Darlene isn’t,” I say, turning toward the back door.

  17

  They are by the clock tower a few streets over. I wave at Abby, and we start walking toward them, keeping low to the derelict cars. We don’t know who else could be lurking in Sharon’s streets — dead or undead.

  I look at them from the mouth of an alleyway, Norm, Herb, and a stinking trashcan behind me. Herb has calmed down a little since our run in with Loudspeaker and his gang.

  “Let’s go,” I start to say, but distant gunfire cuts me off. Not as distant as I need it to be.

  Herb about falls down on the concrete and curls up into a ball.

  Abby, a mere fifty feet away from us, raises her gun, Darlene slumping behind her. At the top of the street, where dead traffic lights sway in a gentle but hot Florida breeze, I see the Army truck creeping through the intersection. One of the men wearing military camouflage and a riot helmet which sits on the top of his head stands up in the truck bed. He has a pair of binoculars up to his eyes, scanning the abandoned streets.

  Abby and Darlene are quick to take cover behind the tall brick surface of the miniature clock tower.