Back to the disease. Like I said, we didn’t know much about it when it first broke out. Over the years, I discovered more. There was a woman who came to Haven who had been affiliated with the US government. She worked in the CDC. They were tasked with finding a cure after Central failed to weaponize it. The disease affected, by their estimates, nearly half of the world’s population. What she meant by affected was that the disease killed them and brought them back as undead nightmares. The other fifty percent of the world’s population, especially in the beginning, were caught off guard. The disease is easily spread through a zombie bite.
So this other half of the population had been unprepared as most of us undoubtedly always are. They were bitten by loved ones on their deathbeds, they were attacked while looting grocery stores and pharmacies, they were gunned down by the military by accident, by bombs in larger US cities and foreign countries.
But who knows if that woman was telling the truth? I don’t even remember her name.
All I know for sure is that the outbreak originated near my hometown of Woodhaven at the Leering Research Facility and that I’m still here while seventy to eighty percent of the population is probably either dead or a zombie.
So I got a lot of shit going against me, but that’s nothing new.
Jack Jupiter knows adversity. Like I’ve said, I’ve seen it all, taken down warlords, saved the fucking world.
Still walking, I turn a corner and what I see causes me to stumble to a stop. Well, at least I thought I’d seen it all.
3
It’s not a zombie or the one-eyed man—as much as I wish it were him. It’s never that easy.
It’s actually a downed plane. One of those big military types. I’ve only ever seen one in the movies, but they’re bigger in real life than they are on the big screen. This one is a weather-faded green and big enough to haul a couple tanks. Probably. I really don’t know. Crumbled brick and rubble gather at the plane’s nose. It crashed into this poor building. I wonder how many people died during the incident. Too many, I’m sure.
What’s weird about all of this—besides the fact that the crash is still here—is that the plane isn’t some abandoned accordion of metal. It looks lived in.
To confirm my hypothesis, a group of men stumble out of a makeshift door just under the broken wing. Coincidentally, the piece of metal that was the wing is now a ramp and these guys nearly fall over the railing. They’re laughing and patting each other on the back. I watch from about twenty feet away. I have my cloak on, hood still up, and I’m in the shadows. Even if I was stark naked and the sun was beating down on me, I don’t think these men would notice.
They’re drunk off their asses. Spent the whole night hammering down flat beer and old whiskey. I envy the sense of camaraderie and togetherness these men share. It’s something I once had with Norm and Abby, and, of course, my wife.
Now they’re off the ramp and heading toward a building at the end of the street. It’s a three story brick place with a swinging sign over the door. I can’t read it. My eyes aren’t as good as they used to be.
Although it doesn’t take someone with perfect sight to realize that’s the town motel. A place for weary travelers and warlords.
I look back to the downed plane. I now notice the sign in one of the windows. It reads: THE JET in a cursive letters, a pub, the local watering hole. Funny how society tries to hold onto the things of the past.
Then part of me is thinking, Well Jack, that’s exactly what you’re doing…
I try to ignore that part of myself.
I could really use a drink, though. Places like that always accept batteries and the other types of useful trinkets I keep in my pockets. I can go in there and find out about this place, maybe even find out about the District this far east. Haven’t heard of them in a while. People out here either don’t bend their knees to crazy warlords or they’re just too stupid to care.
At least, I hope.
I cross the quiet street and head up the ramp, into the corpse of an military airplane.
4
Batwing doors. It’s like an old west saloon. As I push them open and the current of upbeat piano music runs over me, I resist the urge to throw my cloak back to reveal the pistol on my hip and spit tobacco into a brass spittoon with a resounding ding. Yeah…I’ve seen way too many Westerns.
Couple things wrong with that scenario anyway. First, I like to keep the pistol on my hip a surprise. It’s a last resort, if you will. When you’re trekking through miles of zombie country, the last thing you want to do is draw more of the bastards toward you by pulling the trigger of your hand cannon.
Lessons learned in the wasteland.
Inside the bar, the atmosphere isn’t as sleepy as the town, but it’s not very lively, either. I’m not surprised to see they’ve extended the interior of the plane, knocked out a back wall and built around it. Other than the metal walls and floor, this place is quite the standard Western saloon. In Illinois, I might add.
There’s a pretty bartender behind the counter. She’s got short dark hair and sharp cheekbones. Her blue eyes glow in the low light. She smiles at me. I wonder if she works for tips and just what the heck people tip her with. I smile back and she looks away as soon as I do it. It’s been too long since I’ve smiled at another human being. Zombies don’t give a shit whether my smile is as idiotic as it feels on my face. Apparently pretty bartenders do.
I survey the room.
Always do that. Weed out any threats.
The place is mostly dead, though, like the world. In the back right corner a couple of men sip from mugs with heavy eyes. Even the piano player to my left hits the keys with as much force as a ghost. At the bar is a man who has not starved. His girth causes the stool beneath his massive behind to creak and groan with the slightest movements. He’s the liveliest patron in here, and that’s also really not saying much. The bartender pours another beer into this guy’s mug. It doesn’t froth, as flat as ever. The man gulps it down regardless. My experience with beer is, after you start feeling a buzz, your taste buds go ‘Aw, screw it!’ and you can down as much beer as possible without noticing that bitter taste .
I walk up to the bar and take a stool three spaces down from the guy. A couple signs hum behind the bartender, an old neon Bud Light and a Heineken. The Bud Light is the more vibrant of the two with its red, white, and blue—America’s beer, right?
“What’ll you have?” the bartender asks. She speaks in a cutesy voice I know is not the voice she uses outside of work.
“What do you got?”
“Name it.”
I’m not much of a drinker. As I’ve said, after Darlene and Junior died, I drank more than any man who still has a functioning liver should. I’ve had enough.
I lean over the bar and peer down. It is a sound that has drawn my attention, the hum of a refrigerator. It’s a sound I haven’t heard since Haven. Our budding community had running electricity, running water, central air and heat in some of the compounds. We were spreading, too. It was the council’s goal to bring San Francisco closer and closer to what it once was with every generation. We had something good. I had something good.
The sadness strikes me hard, and I feel my eyes filling with tears. I look down at the floor, bringing the back of my hand up to swipe at them. Little moisture. Damn it, keep it together, Jack.
I thought I’ve gotten better at that—putting it to the back of my mind. It just never stays there. Comes sliding up behind you, like a legless zombie.
“You looking at the fridge?” the bartender asks, snapping me out of whatever haze I’m currently in. Suddenly, I’m self-conscious. She’s close to me, too close. It’s been a long while since I’ve been this close to a woman, and she smells nice, like perfume and mouthwash. I can’t imagine what I smell like. I’ve been on the road for two years, but it’s been about a week since I’ve slept under a roof or had a shower. Sure, I rinse off whenever I find a body of water, but that’s not enough to get ri
d of the funk clinging to me.
“Yeah, I am. You have any old cans of Coca-Cola in there. I’m willing to pay.” Been fifteen years since the Coke factory’s made a fresh batch, but that doesn’t bother me. When you live off of old cheese and stale crackers, a flat Coca-Cola is a treat.
The bartender smirks. “Not much of a beer drinker? It’s rare for someone to ask for a pop.”
“Not anymore.”
“Let me see what I can muster up for you.” She turns and makes a big deal about swinging her hips. I roll my eyes. The girl will do anything for tips, it seems.
Then she bends over and I direct my attention to the Heineken sign, wonder if the Heineken execs are smiling down from heaven at this unnecessary advertisement. The fridge’s door closes. I can feel the bartender’s eyes on me.
As coolly as I can, I turn back to face her. I see she has a can of Coke in hand.
Sweet relief.
“Here you go, honey,” she says.
I’m obviously older than this woman. She’s probably in her late twenties so I have her by over a decade, I’m guessing. It’s weird that she calls me honey. Always thought that was something reserved for couples and grandmas.
She pops the tab on the can. It makes a weak fizzle that both breaks my heart and brings back my hope in humanity. It’s been so long since I’ve tasted Coca-Cola.
“Do you have a cup and some ice?” I ask. I know I’m really pushing it here. Ice? That’s practically unheard of. Sure, they have a refrigerator, but why waste the electricity on freezing stuff, right?
“Sure, hon,” she answers.
She gets a glass and scoops a few small cubes out of a bucket in an old sink. Health codes be damned. I don’t care. This is great.
Then she’s pouring the Coke into the glass and there’s hardly any bubbles at all.
“It’s cold already,” she says.
“No, I’ll wait until the ice does its job.”
She smirks. She can see how hard that is for me. Waiting. I’m practically drooling. “All right,” she says, “if there’s anything else I can get you, just let me know.”
“Will do,” I say.
But the bartender doesn’t go away. She hovers, like she’s waiting for something. It takes me a moment to realize what that something is.
“Right,” I say, never taking my eyes off of the glass. The man three stools down chuckles. “What’s the damage?” It’s a tough question. There’s no such thing as paper money anymore. That stuff isn’t worth anything. I knew a guy in Haven who once lived in a trailer park converted to a zombie defense outpost. He said him and his squadron ran out of toilet paper. The nearest store was cleaned out. But there was a bank. These guys broke into a vault and took cases of twenties, fifties, and hundreds back to their camp just so they wouldn’t have to wipe their asses on old leaves. Imagine that. People literally wiping their asses with Ben Franklin’s face.
The bartender is almost surely going to answer my question with—
“Well, what do you have? And you better not say nothing. There’s hell to pay for people that steal drinks,” she says. She speaks with a bit of good humor in her voice, but her eyes tell me she’s not kidding.
I put my hands up defensively. “No worries,” I say. I dig into my pocket again and pull out a small bottle of Excedrin. It’s green and the label is a bit faded. The expiration date has long since passed. Doesn’t matter much. They’re not making it anymore. This stuff is vintage, and it still works. “Good for pain and aches, especially those of the head,” I say. “Chew ‘em for faster relief.”
She picks it up and holds it to the light, then she shakes it. The pills rattle and cause a few curious heads to turn in our direction. “Still works?” she asks.
I nod. “Still works. Like a charm, I might add.”
“Something like this is good for more than a Coke.”
“I’ll see how I’m feeling after this. Been a long time since I’ve enjoyed one of these. The sugar might not sit well with me,” I say.
She laughs like I’m the funniest guy in the world, then she turns around, slipping the pill bottle into her front jeans pocket. She busies herself with cleaning, but this place needs more than a wipe down by a graying rag.
I sit on the stool and stare at my drink, thinking of my dead wife and son, thinking of Norm and Abby. That’s what you do in a bar, right? You drown your sorrows, even if it’s with Coca-Cola.
The day gets brighter and the few drunk guys inside leave.
“Excuse me, miss,” I say.
She turns around, smiling. “Want a refill, sugar?” That last word just sounds wrong coming out of her mouth.
“No, thanks. I was just wondering where I could get some sleep.”
“Travelers’ Bay right on down the road.” She points to the wall on my left as if she can see through it, no doubt talking about the place I saw those men stumbling to earlier.
“How much for a room?”
She seems to contemplate this for a long moment, tonguing the inside of her cheek. She answers with what I think is her real voice, the one she uses when she’s not trying to butter people up or get them drunk enough to let their most prized possessions slip into that front jeans pocket.
“For you,” she says, “I can get you two nights free of charge.” She pats the pill-shape in her pocket.
I nod. The Excedrin isn’t a dud like the batteries I gave the guard, but it’s not like old headache medicine is that hard to come by. Surely this woman knows this. Even if she’s a little annoying, her deep blue eyes scream intelligence. So, instead, I take it that she likes me.
“Thank you,” I say.
“No problem. Just go on in and tell the fellow there that Lilly says you’re paid for.” She sticks out her hand. I shake it.
“Jack,” I say, “Jack Jupiter.”
“Nice to meet you, Jack. I’m Lilliana, but you can call me Lilly like everyone else in Freeland does.”
I smile. This one doesn’t feel as bad or awkward.
I get up. The fat guy to my right is still nursing his beer, but his eyes are closed to slits. Judging by his slow, heavy breathing, he might be sleeping.
“I’ll see you around,” I say.
“You better.”
I turn and head out the batwing doors, down the ramp, and back to the road. The town inside the walls is waking up. People walk along the street, most of them workers. Older men and women with harsh faces and worn clothes about them, some parents and their offspring—or most likely their adopted offspring. Nobody drives a car. The place isn’t big enough for that, and I doubt they even have a working engine here or a means to get gas.
A couple people smile and nod at me, tipping their invisible hats. I have since lowered the hood of my cloak. I take it seeing an unfamiliar face, one as shanty as mine, with a hood on would not bode well with the locals. Might draw too much unwanted attention.
I get to the Travelers’ Bay not too long after I pass a young lady clutching books to her side. Going to school, I think, and that’s good. At least this place is trying to do some good.
Even if it doesn’t matter much in the long run. We all die in the end. We all get our throats slit and our heads shot.
Inside the motel or hotel or whatever it is, a cloud of smoke rushes out to meet me as I open the door. More smoke than The Jet had. I cough a couple times and wait for it to stop stinging my eyes before I go to the front desk. Behind it, sits an older man with a beard much grayer than mine. He is the cause of all this smoke. He has three cigarettes in his mouth. They look homemade, crooked, fat with tobacco in some places, skinny in other places.
“What can I do you for?” he asks, barely understandable with the cigarettes in his mouth.
“I need a room.”
“That’ll be eighteen shidings,” he says, holding out his hand.
Shidings? I think to myself. That’s a new one.
“Lilly down at The Jet says I’m paid up.”
The old ma
n squints at me, takes his feet off of the front counter. His boots hit the tiled floor heavily. Now he’s leaning forward, squinting so hard he reminds me of the fat guy in the bar. “Paid up? Who does Lilly think she is? Paid up!” He barks laughter, which quickly morphs into a hacking fit of coughing. One of the cigarettes falls from his mouth, careens onto the floor, lost to my eyes behind the counter.
“Yeah,” I say. “Lilly says I’m paid up. She says you can take it up with her if you don’t believe me.”
Squinting again. He doesn’t care that he’s lost a cigarette, there’s two more still smoldering in each corner of his mouth. He waves a hand now, fanning away a fresh screen of smoke. “No, no, young man, I believe ya. Lilly wouldn’t be dumb enough to lie to me, and neither would an outworlder like yourself.” He grins, showing black and yellow teeth.
Outworlder. Another term I’ve heard before to describe me. I’m a vagrant, a drifter, the type of guy who bounces from place to place seemingly without a destination. That’s okay. Let them think that. Let them all think that. But I do have a destination.
Revenge. Vengeance.
The man opens a drawer. It squeaks terribly, making me want to shove my fingers into my ears. Keys jingle as he pulls out a small ring. Attached to it is an orange tag that reads 213 and a long, black skeleton key.
“Here ya go, son,” he says, handing it to me.
I take it, my mind already lost in the thoughts of a mattress, a pillow, and a blanket. A roof over my head. The only thing better than this would be the one-eyed man’s head on a stake.
Dead Lost Page 2