Jack Zombie (Book 2): Dead Hope

by Flint Maxwell

  “That was my wife,” Brian says. I can barely hear him.

  “Not anymore, kid. She’s in one of those dead bastard’s rotten intestinal tracts now.”

  Brian bucks, kicking his legs out, beating at Butch’s hands.

  No luck.

  Butch just smiles, but his eyes are harsh. Black onyx set in an aging face. His left hand goes to the knife on his belt, and he pulls it free. I think he’s going to cut Brian’s throat right here on the spot. But he doesn’t. He lets go of Brian, the gun dropping from his hand, and then he puts the blade, handle first, into Brian’s fist. “You’re welcome to try and find her chewed up remains,” he says.

  “You son of a bit — ” Brian says, but his voice is drowned out by thunder.

  I think, for a moment, as this registers in my head, that a storm has broken out above us. I remember smelling rain and the clouds seemed heavy, ready to burst.

  But lightning does not come from eye level. It comes from above. And this lightning did not come from high in the sky. It came from Butch Hazard’s Desert Eagle. He moved so fast I barely saw him.

  I do see the rain, though. Not water, but blood. A thick curtain of it suspended in animation. Heavy, red, terrifying.

  My head hums with the shot.

  The zombies’s strained groans and cries for food are amplified. Yet, some of them seem muffled. In the burst of light, I see smiles on the faces of the soldiers. People who signed up to see exactly this.

  Behind me, Abby screams.

  I can’t believe this…any of it.

  Then, as if on cue, Brian spins around. I don’t know if it is because of the force of the bullet or because this is God’s cruel way of proving to me that what I hear and see is real, but Brian looks at me with one good eye. His other eye is missing. Gone, nothing but a gristly black void. A river of blood flows from a fist-sized hole in his forehead. Despite all of this, Brian looks calm, as if none of this has happened at all. As if I cannot see his exposed brains, pulsing pink in the dying moonlight.

  Tony cries out, reaches for his son who is falling over. This plays in front of me in slow motion as moments of tragedy often do. I want to reach for him, I want to grab Brian and stop him from hitting the dirt. Because once he hits the dirt, then it’s all but final.

  I can’t move.

  And Brian hits the dirt.

  Butch laughs, and like an old Western black hat, he brings the gun up to his mouth and blows the smoke away.

  Brian is dead.

  29

  “Don’t look so sad, guys,” Butch says. “Now, he can go see his wife in hell. She was a dead fuck, anyway.” He laughs again. My vision is blacking out. The veins in my eyes feel like they are bulging. It’s taking everything inside of me not to run over and try to kill this bastard.

  Tony holds Brian in his arms, blood gushes from the wound.

  “You monster,” Abby says quietly from my side.

  Orange light seems to stretch high over our heads, casting this macabre scene in a warm glow. Beams and siding crackle under the wrath of the fire. I hear something crumble, glass shatter from the tremendous heat.

  “You bastard!” Abby screams.

  She takes off from her spot. This doesn’t play in slow motion. She is lightning quick, too fast for either me or Darlene to grab her.

  Butch’s laughter dies. He looks at Abby rushing over at him as if he can’t believe his eyes. She stops short once the soldiers' guns raise on her. It must be nice to have your own private cavalry.

  “Abby,” Darlene says. “Don’t!”

  Butch stands with his hands on his hips. He’s much taller than Abby, looking down at her. She swings at him, at his face, I’m assuming, but misses. Instead, she hits his chest.

  Butch doesn’t even flinch.

  “Oh, how cute,” he says as she hits him again.

  I am still frozen to the spot. I want to stop this before he can blow her head off, too.

  Abby swings again, catching the bottom of Butch’s jaw. The playful look of amusement vanishes.

  She swings again, and he grabs her fist. Abby cries out in pain as he twists. She crumbles to the ground and Butch stomps a boot down on her, pinning her to the dirt. She lays halfway in a pool of Brian’s blood. She’s screaming.

  That’s it. The rage wins out, and I’m rushing across the grass, the fire burning behind and inside of me.

  Guns come up in my direction, so many guns. Flames glint off the dark metal of their barrels. All these soldiers have murder in their eyes. That sharp look of recklessness, of hope. Maybe they’ll get to kill something that’s not already dead and moving around like a drunken three-legged dog.

  “Leave her out of this,” I say. I stand straight up. My mother always told me to stand up straight. People respect someone who stands up straight. That sentiment was echoed the more time I spent with Norm, except he didn’t want anyone’s respect, he wanted their fear, and that’s what I want. I want Butch Hazard to fear me.

  That doesn’t seem to be the case. He stands straight up, too. Perhaps even more straight than myself.

  I think we are going to fight again. A fist fight to end all fist fights. One that I will win.

  That’s not the case.

  Butch snorts laughter, looking at us as if we are not worth his time. He turns to his soldiers and says, “Round ‘em up. Put ‘em in the trucks. I’m sick of this bullshit. One wrong move and you shoot them in the foot.”

  I stand helplessly as twenty soldiers with AR15s swarm us.

  We are roughly handcuffed, except for Herb. He is too big for regular handcuffs. One man with war paint under his eyes holds him at gunpoint. “Put your hands out. Move the slightest bit and you lose a nut, my big friend. They want you alive, but they don’t need you with a full sack.”

  Herb obeys. They put these big shackles around his wrists. A chain dangles from these wrist cuffs and I realize, because the firelight glints off the rest of the silver, there are two other unoccupied cuffs for his ankles. They clasp those around him, too, and he looks like Florida’s biggest escaped convict. The whole time he sniffles and tries to hold down his sobs with not much luck. Seeing him like that breaks my heart.

  Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see the female soldier picking Darlene up.

  “Don’t you fucking hurt her,” I say, my heart breaking even more.

  Something rushes up on my other side.

  There’s a crack, a vibration through my cheekbone, and I realize it’s a fist — Butch Hazard’s fist. I stumble and fall over on my knees. “No talking to my troops, Jack.” He hunches down to look into my eyes. “I won’t hold back next punch. If she wants to hurt your girl, she will.”

  Then he’s back up, ripping me up with him, spinning his finger in the air as if making a tornado.

  The back half of the house collapses, leaving the the living room area with it’s blackened chimney jutting up like a dead finger. The siding has since curled off, the porch nothing but soot. I hear the splat of a zombie being crushed under the weight of the fallen walls. Sparks shoot up into the air. I am reminded of Woodhaven.

  Then, with a jerk, I am pulled away from the zombies and the ruined farmhouse.

  Darlene is, too. We look at each other. Both of our faces are bloodied, me more so.

  Somehow, through all the blood and pain and unknown, I smile at her. She smiles back. Right now, I am not Johnny Deadslayer.

  30

  We are herded to the semi trucks like cattle. If I slow down the slightest bit, I get a boot in the ass. It is not a long walk, but the pain throughout my body makes it feel like one. I am in the lead. Herb is last, and he is flanked by two soldiers as well as led by two others.

  The air tastes smoky. My lungs convulse as if I am about to cough, but I know coughing will only make the pain worse, so I don’t.

  As we approach the semi trucks, the sounds from within them get louder while the sounds of the destruction and chaos are forced to the back of my mind. Behind this t
hin sheet of metal door are the groans of a hundred zombies. I would recognize those grunts from anywhere.

  One of the soldiers throws the door up, the metal rattling up the track. I jerk backward, running into Butch Hazard’s puffed up chest. A burst of pain goes through my midsection as the ribs that were once cracked and healed wrong are bumped again, reminding me to never trust my brother’s analysis. But that is the least of my worries. A hand, the flesh hanging off the finger bones like a ripped glove, makes a swipe at my head. Teeth and a dead face with those glowing, yellow eyes are pressed up against a bar. The jaw works. A smell like roadkill escapes the open maw of this monster. More zombies take notice and start pummeling into the lead zombie, smashing its face against the cage. I am reminded of an old Play-Doh set I had as a kid, one where you put a ball of the putty in between this masher and pushed with all your might and made Play-Doh spaghetti. Except, this is not so fond. The soft flesh of the zombie’s head squishes through the bars. The cranium makes a popping sound then a hiss as dark goo escapes the crack. It falls, its arms still outstretched as it is eventually lost to the shadows and dark, ratty clothing of the other zombies using him as a stepladder.

  “First class ride for you assholes,” Butch says.

  Then his gun presses into my back and I’m forced to crawl up the few steps that lead into the semi’s trailer.

  The semi is spacious at first glance, but once you step inside and you feel the death pressing up against you, it gets claustrophobic real quick with the cages on both sides. I walk down the aisle between them. It’s wide enough for two men to stand side by side, but that would be pushing it. The zombies growl and utter that stupid death rattle. They reach out for me.

  “Now you,” Butch says.

  One of the soldiers throws Tony forward, and it’s like throwing an ice cube across a frozen lake. He has no will to stop. He thumps into the steps and falls over, his face coming dangerously close to the stomped zombie who now not only smells like roadkill but looks like it, too.

  Butch grabs him by the back of the neck. “Want to die, old man?”

  Tony doesn’t answer.

  “Leave him alone, you piece of shit,” I say.

  Butch looks up at me, a silver gleam in his black eyes. “Or what?”

  I don’t answer, just stare him down. Now’s not the time. Butch Hazard will get his, I’m sure of it, but I won’t get to see this if I’m zombie food.

  “That’s what I thought,” he says. He grips Tony harder and pulls him closer. “Answer the question, Richards. Do you want to die?”

  Tony still doesn’t answer. The way he looks, he might as well be dead — bloody clothes, dirt streaking his face, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, slicking his beard.

  “Yeah, old man, you do. But I’m not gonna give you your wish. You’re gonna have to suffer for now.”

  How nice of Butch Hazard. Fucking prick.

  With a shove, Tony goes over the steps and into the aisle where I’m standing, about a foot or so from my feet. Like me, his hands are cuffed behind him so he can’t brace the fall with anything but his face and I can’t catch him.

  The zombies’s growls pick up. They are like hungry dogs locked in a kennel. The noise is enough to make you want to dig your eardrums out with a blade. I bend down to Tony, my knees popping with the motion, my ribs shrieking in agonizing pain. “Come on,” I say. He barely moves, but he does move. So he’s not dead, that’s a good sign.

  A hand grasps him around his ankle, the fingernails caked with old blood and dirt. I move fast, faster than my wounds should let me, and I kick the hand at the wrist. It snaps against the bar with a sickening crack. Think dry wood breaking over someone’s knee. That kind of crack. But the zombie knows no pain. It knows nothing besides food and making horrible, terrifying guttural sounds. It continues to wiggle its broken arm out at Tony. The others are not as close, and this one can’t really do much with a dangling wrist.

  “Admirable,” Butch says. “But we got a long ride ahead of us. I’d save that energy for when it really matters, friend.” He smiles.

  This exchange — but most likely the sound of the breaking bones — snaps Tony out of his fugue state. He scrambles up, eyes the zombies all around him, then looks at me. His expression is one of gratitude and I nod in return.

  “Put the two bitches in the other trailer,” Butch says.

  “Watch your fucking mouth!” I yell at him.

  Butch ignores the remark. “Put Herb in with me,” he continues. “He’s gonna get a long talking to. Maybe Spike will put him in the pits after I’m done with him.”

  Some of the soldiers laugh as if they’re all in on some joke. Then one of them says, “Yes, sir!,” and grabs the handle of the door and begins to pull it down. In the distance, a shot goes off. Just one burst. I see the lightning bolt of gunfire and the exploding head of a zombie that has strayed too far from the fire.

  “Wait!” I yell, my voice raspy and grating. The shout causes a spike in my blood pressure, which sets the wounds all over my body ablaze. “Don’t split us up, please.” I’m reduced to this, to begging.

  Butch still wears the same smile. “Just following orders, Jack. Before you know it, we’ll all be eating dinner together in Eden. Like a fucking fairy tale.”

  Darlene looks at me. There is no worry on her face, only determination. And the door closes.

  31

  There is no light inside of the trailer. No airflow, either, besides the little bit of hot wind that slips through the cracks of the metal — and it is not much. I stand sideways in the aisle, Tony next to me, matching my same position. Each bump we go over sends us to the bars, where the faintly glowing eyes of the zombies wait for us.

  So far, we are okay.

  “I’m sorry,” I say to Tony.

  I feel like this is my fault, I feel like if I would’ve stayed the course, none of this would’ve happened.

  “Don’t be,” he says. “Brian was my boy, but he’s gone now. Nothing I can do. I am old enough to have loved and lost before. It hurts, yes. Life goes on.”

  We have to talk loud over the rumble of the engine, the constant jangling of the bars, and the moans of the zombies.

  “Besides, It’s not your fault. Ain’t no one’s fault. I loved my son, don’t get me wrong.” He sniffles. I can’t tell if he’s crying and I’m glad for that. If I saw the tough, old Tony Richards cry, this crazy-looking man who keeps corpses in his basement and who can shoot an ant’s balls off from five-hundred yards away, I’d start crying myself. And Johnny Deadslayer would never cry, so neither does Jack Jupiter by default.

  “If we would’ve never came to the farmhouse — ” I begin to say.

  “But you did. That’s the way things happened. That’s the way life is. We can’t change it. We have no control. Butch Hazard is a sick son of a bitch and he will get his, that I’m sure, Jack. Whether it’s by me or you or these damn monsters or a freak lightning bolt, he’ll get it. I take comfort in knowing that.”

  Me, too. Tony is right. Butch is going to get his, I’ll make sure of it.

  The truck lurches, and we are launched to the left. I don’t resist, I go with the motion, kicking my leg out and finding purchase against one of the metal bars. Tony does the same. A little less gracefully, but I don’t hear any chomps or screams, so he’s all right.

  “Eden ain’t what it used to be, Jack. I told you that once before.”

  “I know, if I would’ve listened and gone somewhere else — ”

  “You’d never be in this mess,” Tony says. “Brian would still be alive, yada yada yada. That’s bullshit. Butch and his gang would’ve found you or you would’ve found Herb and they would’ve found you then. It was meant to be this way because it happened this way.”

  “I — ” Another bump, this one sends the floor out from beneath me. I land with a jerk and stumble to the left. A zombie is there to greet me, smashing its face against the bars. This one is a girl with hair the color of old b
ones. I only know this because, like moonlight, it seems to glow in the darkness. I am quick to back away and regain my footing.

  “You okay, Tony?” I ask.

  “Just peachy,” he answers. “Well, I’d had enough standing for the day. Frankly, I don’t feel very energetic. I’m getting up there in age. Before you know it, Jack, it’s just gone. You lose it. So I’m gonna sit down, put my back up against the door…” I hear his bones cracking, somehow louder than the constant drone of the truck’s engine, as he sits, “And maybe take a nap.” A zombie screeches. “Aw, shut the hell up, you devil!” The zombie does, in fact, they all do. It’s eerie.

  Goosebumps prickle up my skin, but I can’t complain. The momentary quiet is nice, but with it comes the worry and fear. Darlene is essentially by herself. Abby is beaten and broken, of no help to my fiancé. Herb is in the cabin, riding first class with Butch Hazard. I have no idea where my brother is, and I am suffering from multiple injuries, trapped in a trailer with about a hundred creatures that crave human flesh and guts.

  Things are not looking good.

  Like a kid during a long car ride, I say, “Tony, are we there yet?”

  “We got a ways, cowboy. Rest up while you can and make sure you bring your six-shooter.”

  “What?” I ask, but he never answers me. I chalk it up to trauma. When people go through messed up times, they don’t stay right in the head. Understandable. But the calmness in his voice scares me, too. He speaks like a man who has never suffered at all in his life. I know that’s not true. Tony Richards has suffered. He is suffering now.

  Hell, in this dead, piece of shit world, we all suffer.

  32

  I have just garnered up the courage to sit down on the other side of the trailer, my back against the side closest to the front of the semi. Tony snores opposite of me, and the zombies make no noise. How any of this is possible is beyond me. But I’ll take it.