Jack Zombie (Book 2): Dead Hope

by Flint Maxwell

  I start to drift off moments later. This is probably not the smartest thing I have ever done, but my body is in command now. Bye, bye, brain.

  The last image I see in my head before the blackness takes over is of Darlene. She is dressed in a white gown. I am not a man who appreciates the girly things in life — fashion, wedding dresses, make up, and so on — but this dress is beautiful. It is made for Darlene. She smiles the slightest bit beneath a veil. Her eyes glow bright in the dim light surrounding us. I am moving closer. My hands go out in front of me. I realize I’m wearing long-sleeves. I look down, see my reflection in the polished, dark shoes on my feet. I am wearing a tuxedo. Candles dance lazily behind Darlene. I am not walking as much as I am floating. I smell flowers and people, the scents of many of them crowded into a room — perfume, mint chewing gum, coffee-breath. I look to my left and see we are in a church with a high-vaulted ceiling. All the pews are full. People wear their Sunday’s finest, packed shoulder to shoulder. People I don’t recognize at first, but when I squint my eyes and scan the front row, I see my mother. She is how I remember her, not how I last saw her. My brother is there, too, as his eighteen-year-old self. Abby, Kevin, James, Sheriff Doaks behind him.

  “Good job, little brother,” Norm says to me, and he smiles.

  I lean closer, feeling my eyes getting wider, but not seeing clearly. From Norm’s mouth spills a wave of black sludge. I scream. No sound comes out. I want to move, but I am nailed to the floor.

  This is when the lights go out and my heart drops to my knees. I smell smoke, but something else overpowers it. The smell of rotting corpses.

  The lights kick back on. Everyone in the crowd is different. Their Sunday finest has changed into their burial clothes, and they’ve been buried a long time. Dirt cascades off their shoulders in thin clouds as they stand up. Worms wiggle from their eye sockets. Some of them have no lips, their faces smiling forever.

  My mother is opened in the middle. She has not rotted yet. Her organs hang out of her like candy in a half-busted piñata. A chunk of her nose is gone, in the flesh is little teethmarks — I can’t tell if they are from a human or from some animal like the sheriff has told me (When?) (How?) (Help).

  I try to scream again. Nothing.

  Rustling of papers behind me. I turn to look. It is the same priest who spoke when I buried Mother. He is flipping through his bible. It is moldy and dank. Like him. Maggots squirm in his dirty eyebrows. He smells like rotten milk and sweetness. I want to throw up.

  “Ah, yes, here we are,” he says, and he smiles. The folds of his flesh crinkle with the sound of wrapping paper. One eye rolls back in his head. “Do you, Jack Jupiter, promise to take Darlene Christie as your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold until someone bashes out your brains, for worse or for worser, in sickness and in squelch, to love and to cherish, from this day forward until life do you part?”

  I don’t answer. I am screaming in my head, screaming until I feel nauseous. Suddenly, I feel everyone’s eyes on me. I look down at my feet, see a rotten toe sticking out from a hole in the leather. Worms wiggle from it. Maggots shift beneath my loose toenails.

  I look to Darlene.

  “I do,” I say, if only to stop this madness.

  “You may now kiss the bride,” the priest says.

  My hands begin to work on their own. They reach out grab the veil, and lift.

  Now, the screams escape my lungs. Darlene’s face is gone. What remains is a shiny, pulpy, bloody mess. Her skeleton shows through. Her teeth are mostly gone. Those that remain are broken and cracked.

  Darlene Darlene Darl —

  “Darlene!” My scream wakes me up. The inside of the trailer is hot and I am soaked through with sweat, but somehow I am shaking, chilled to the bone.

  My vision is blurry, still coming out of the sleep. I don’t know how long I slept for, but I know I never want to sleep again.

  The zombies rustle and groan around me. They are no longer quiet as they were before, but they are also not as loud. In fact, it is not very loud at all inside of the trailer. I realize we have stopped moving. The idling sound of the running engine is off. I hear footsteps, boots thudding concrete, outside of the thin metal walls.

  Then I hear Tony’s voice as he yelps and the door rattles on its hinges. “Watch it, asshole,” he says.

  My vision has cleared enough for me to see him almost tumbling into an abyss of great, white light. Then I am blinded.

  It is not Butch Hazard who comes into focus. It is just one of Butch’s soldiers. He is a middle-aged man who wears spatters of blood on his face like it’s a new fashion.

  “Both of them?” he asks someone I can’t see.

  “Yep,” a gruff voice answers back. “Spike’s orders. Get the young one, I’ll take this old fart to him.”

  The soldier seems to quiver at Spike’s name, then he says, “All right,” and makes his way into the trailer.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  The soldier digs something out of his waistband. It resembles a gun, but I know it’s not. It’s too technological looking for that. As he gets closer, I see the syringe on the end. That’s when I start bucking and kicking out to him. But I am no match with my hands cuffed behind my back and with the zombies all around us, who’ve now started to match my intensity with their shrieks and groans.

  The syringe plunges into my neck. My head cricks and I feel a great burst of coldness dancing through my entire body. He moves out of my way. I see Tony doing much the same thing as I am.

  He screams, “Don’t let them stick you, Jack! Don’t let — ”

  But it is too late.

  The brightness doesn’t fade as much as it cuts out. And I am back in slumberland, but this time I don’t dream of a zombie wedding.

  33

  The cell I wake up in is about six feet by six feet. There’s straw coming out of the mattress, which is an inch thick set on a concrete slab that takes up most of the right side of the room. There are bars in front of me, like a robot’s smile, too close to even attempt to squeeze out of. I hear nothing and almost see nothing.

  It is early morning, I think, judging by the sun’s faint rays streaming in through a small window at the top of the back wall. I am dazed, hungover, in pain…you name it, and if it’s bad, then I probably feel like that.

  There is no sign of my group. I start shaking. God, where are they? How many prison blocks would a place like Eden have? I think of shouting out for Darlene, but decide it’s not the best thing.

  I smell shit and blood and sickness.

  In the corner of the cell on the left side is a bucket overflowing with mucky brown water. My own private bathroom — just what I’ve always wanted.

  I stand up on shaky legs, climb up to the bed, and look out the window.

  What I see takes my breath away.

  Mainly because it is not what I have expected.

  A rusty roller coaster sticks up high into the sky, a cart on the track stuck at the top of the hill. There’s a larger structure beyond, written down it reads, TOWER OF POWER. I see a circular stadium, rolling mounds of dirt inside of it. I see a Ferris wheel, the green and red paint splotchy and peeling. I am on the fourth or fifth floor of some building, looking out onto an abandoned theme park. There are walls constructed around the edge of land, made of wood and metal, patched and unprofessional, but some of these walls almost reach the midpoint of the Ferris wheel’s height. I wonder if they are really there to keep the zombies out and not to keep the people in. Near the back of the fence are houses, the type of houses the government would construct in a low-income area. I’ve seen many of them in Chicago. They were once nice here, but now they are falling apart. Shattered windows. Shutters hanging crooked. Doors covered by plywood.

  Sad.

  Closer, I see shuttered buildings with signs like: GAMES, FOOD, & FUN! ENJOY AN ICE-COLD COCA-COLA! I see some people milling about. They don’t look like your typical amusement park goers. There are no smilin
g faces. Everyone walks like the weight of the world is on their shoulders.

  It might of once been a place of fun, but now it is a place of oppression.

  “Welcome to Hell’s theme park,” a voice says, I faintly recognize.

  “Tony?” I say. “Tony, is that you?”

  “Yours truly,” Tony answers. “Heard you shuffling around like a drunk in the dark.”

  He must be in the cell next to me. I don’t see him, but I hear him loud and clear.

  “Where is the rest of the group?”

  Tony makes a nasally noise like he’s weighing the question. “Could be they’re dead.”

  No. No, they’re not. Somehow, I know they’re not. I’m shaking me head as Tony starts talking again.

  “But I doubt it,” he continues. “Spike is like a big, dumb cat. He’ll play with his food before he eats it. Like Tom and Jerry, remember that cartoon, Jack?”

  “I do,” I say, trying to ignore how crazy Tony sounds.

  There’s a moment of silence, heavy silence, the kind that feels like it’s suffocating you.

  I break it with another question. “Who is Spike, Tony, really?”

  Tony chuckles. “Best I don’t say here. He’s always listening.” He pauses, the silence deafening. “Eh, fuck it. Spike is a petulant asshole. Rumor has it that he worked here before this shit went down.”

  I picture a large, muscular man working security or helping build roller coasters.

  “Worked in the Old West part of the park as a Black Hat impersonator, you know, the bank robber, the merciless killer.”

  That image in my head shatters.

  “Funny, isn’t it? I heard he got so tired of losing in the staged gunfights, he threw a tantrum and shot his cap gun off at the good cowboy, then turned on the crowd and shot the caps off at the families watching. A couple kids burst out in tears and suffice to say, some mommies and daddies weren’t very happy ‘bout that. He gets the pink slip and it’s bye, bye, bad guy.”

  “So how’d he take over if he’s just a punk playing dress up?” I ask. I am leaning up against the wall, a little too close to the slop bucket.

  “Because he’s crazy and when someone is crazier than a world where the dead are walking around, that person always wins…but I’ve said enough, I think. You’ll meet him soon — ”

  A door opens at the end of the long, dark corridor. My heart hammers in my chest. Am I going to meet him now? I hate myself for not being ready, for being caught off guard. I will fight if I have to, fight until I am reunited with Darlene and my group.

  It is not Spike, but Butch Hazard carrying an AR15 instead. He’s smiling, thin skin stretched over his skull, making him look like Death.

  He opens the door. Metal grinds as the gears click open

  I stand my ground. No longer cuffed. I can fight back.

  He raises his rifle. I don’t even get to speak before the butt of the gun cracks me against the side of the head. I hit the floor hard, loose straw sticking to my face.

  The darkness comes again.

  34

  I regain consciousness an eternity later. Dim lights come on with a dull click that echoes in whatever room I’m in. It echoes harder in my head. With this sound, my eyes open. My head is swimming. I feel both tired and rested. Mostly I feel hungover.

  It doesn’t take long for my eyes to adjust because of what I see in front of me.

  It is Darlene and I am relieved she is not a zombie. I lunge forward. “Darlene!” I shout, trying to jump the table and hug and kiss her. No luck. Metal bites into my wrists. I’m handcuffed to the chair, not going anywhere. Go figure.

  Darlene doesn’t wear a wedding dress and a veil like in my nightmare, but a tank top, the kind with spaghetti-string straps. It is normally a light blue, but has been blackened by blood and sweat and dirt. She is asleep and she always looks even more angelic when she’s sleeping.

  Between us is a long table made of shiny metal. There are scratches on the surface from what looks like forks and knives. Or maybe this was actually a chopping block.

  The fear starts creeping back into my brain, drowning out the relief of seeing Darlene. I try to shake it away but can’t.

  The door opens, letting in a flood of more light. I catch glimpses of the walls — brick, stained with red, cracked and falling apart.

  A shadowy figure is in the doorway. It is either a very large person or two people.

  When the figures cross through I see that it is two people. One of Butch’s soldiers and Abby. She is awake, stumbling and groggy-looking, but awake. Blood has since dried on her upper lip and from the corners of her mouth.

  “Abby,” I say. Now the fear goes, replaced by fury. I grip the arms of the chair hard.

  She looks at me with a blackened and swollen eye and manages a smile. The soldier guides her into the seat next to Darlene. He pulls the chair out for her and it makes a terrible screeching noise that is enough to rouse Darlene out of her daze.

  Darlene takes in a deep breath and her eyes flutter. “Jack?” she says. “Jack, where are we?”

  “I don’t know,” I answer. I feel like I might cry. There’s a cloud of happiness swelling inside of me, but inside that cloud, there are streaks of black fear and sadness, threatening to burst.

  “My head hurts,” she says. “Did we drink another box of wine? I thought we were gonna quit doing that.”

  I laugh, the sound bursting from my lips. It hurts. Darlene and I used to go to Walmart and buy a couple boxes of Franzia, then at home, we’d put on a B-movie horror flick, get drunk off our asses, laugh at the terrible acting, and fall asleep in each other’s arms. Of course…we’d wake up with terrible hangovers and even worse breath, but hey, those nights were fun.

  “No, honey,” I say.

  Darlene’s muscles twitch as she tries to bring her hand up to rub her head. She is stopped short by the cuffs.

  The soldier offers us a lopsided grin, as if to say, “Ha-ha, you ain’t going nowhere.”

  We’ll see about that.

  More people shuffle in through the open door where the blinding, outside light has dulled to something resembling normalcy. It is Tony being pushed by another of Butch’s soldiers. He is thrown into the chair next to me. The cuffs click a million times before the soldier stops pressing down on them. Fresh blood spills from his nose. Through all of this, Tony doesn’t show that he is in pain or that he is even out of control. I can’t help but admire the man and feel bad for him at the same time.

  “Stop, you’re hurting him,” Abby croaks. Her head lolls back and forth. The soldier pays no notice to her pleads.

  “What’s going on, Jack?” Darlene asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say, in a whisper. I truly don’t and it makes me feel like I’m walking a tightrope between the tops of two skyscrapers, no harness.

  “Someone please tell us what’s going on!” Darlene squeals.

  No answer.

  The soldiers make for the door. It starts to shut behind them, the little bit of daylight getting slimmer and slimmer.

  We are left without an answer. All four of us are handcuffed to our chairs. There are no windows, only brick walls stained with what I imagine to be blood. And our one escape is closing slowly.

  Just as I am thinking this, the door swings open.

  Hope swells in my chest, but it’s quickly dashed when I see who strolls in through the door. All barrel-chested, standing too straight. Butch Hazard.

  “Welcome to Eden,” he says. “Bring in the other one.”

  One of the soldiers appears in the doorway.

  I try to jump from my chair, but I’m not going anywhere. Instead, the cuffs cut into my wrists, making a rippling burst of pain shoot up my arms all the way to where the bullet graze wound pulses.

  “Norm!” I shout.

  It’s like he doesn’t even hear me. His chin touches his chest, head moving back and forth like a bobblehead. Butch grabs a handful of his hair and pulls him up so he is facing me.
What I see almost burns me from the inside out. Norm looks nothing like he did when I last saw him. His face is a pulverized piece of meat. A chunk of his bottom lip is missing. His cheeks are swollen, eyes puffy. He looks like a man with a bee allergy who’s fallen in a human-sized nest and has been stung over and over again. I can’t help but think this is my fault. Somehow, someway. My fault. I want to scream. I want to cry. And I can’t do either of these things. I have to remain composed. Calm. Collected.

  “Norm,” I say.

  “My God,” Darlene says. “You’re a monster.”

  Butch chuckles. “No, sweetie. The monsters are outside of these walls. Look on the bright side. If you can stomach a couple punches to the face,” he lifts up Norm’s hand, which is wrapped with a grimy and blood-soaked bandage, “and a few missing fingers, then you’ll be safe from the real monsters.”

  This is when I realize Norm is missing the index finger on his right hand — his trigger finger. It is cut off to the middle knuckle, causing it to be even shorter than his pinky. The graffiti I saw in Sharon flashes inside my mind: HIDE YOUR FINGERS. I feel like vomiting.

  He unhooks cuffs from the back of his pants, and puts them on Norm in the chair next to Abby.

  “Hang tight, guys,” he says, “Won’t be long. Spike likes to make these grand entrances sometimes.” He rolls his eyes and shrugs. “What can I do about it? He’s the boss. I just follow orders.”

  With that, he leaves.

  “Norm,” I say. “Norm!” There’s a happiness in my voice even I can hear despite our current circumstances. He is not dead. He is fucked up, beaten and broken, but he is not dead. And if he is going to die, then at least we can die together.

  When the door shuts — and it actually shuts this time — Darlene breaks out in a loud sob.

  “Don’t cry,” I say. “It’s all gonna be okay.” But I’m lying. I’ve done more lying to her in the past six months than I have in the prior five years before that. It’s something I have to do. I have to give her hope even when all hope is dead.

  She looks up at me, then turns her head to Abby and Norm. “Look at them. It’s already not okay. I thought I could handle this. I thought I could be tough and take whatever they threw at me, but can’t, Jack. I’m not like you.”