Dead Lost

by Flint Maxwell

  My heart plummets and my stomach flips as I whirl around.

  Here is Brandon. His mouth hangs wide open. He has stopped kicking the piano player. The man on the ground is unconscious, blood streaming from his chin in strings, rivulets leaking from his nose. Brandon fumbles at the gun on his belt. Probably the booze. Expired though it may be, it’s potent enough. Thank God.

  I throw my sword at him. For as big as it is, it’s surprisingly light. I aim for his gun hand, but my aim is off the slightest bit. Instead of the bicep, I hit him in the shoulder. The sword goes clean through, pins him to the wood of the piano. Right now, I’m grateful it’s there because there’s no way the blade is sharp enough to penetrate the metal walls of what used to be a military plane.

  Brandon yells in pain and anger. His gun clatters to the ground. One of the nearby drinkers is smart enough to kick it out of the way. I give him a thankful nod.

  Now I pull my own pistol free. Flashes of that horrible night come to me in a rush. Brandon is there holding Darlene down on her knees as the blood pours out from between her laced fingers. She holds the red smile beneath her chin. She gasps for air that won’t stay in her throat. How bright everything is, even in the darkness. Then Junior thrown to the ground. The man with one eye stomping his boot down on his spine. My son, my thirteen year old son. The boy. A part of me. Then the one-eyed man not even looking down at Junior as he pulls the trigger. Me screaming until my lungs burn and my vocal cords snap. The flash of the gunshot. So bright. The spray of blood. Brighter. My son’s screaming and crying cut off.

  Forever.

  The now is a blur, but I’m back, and I’m shaking the gun in Brandon’s face, crying and yelling at him about Darlene and Junior.

  Brandon grimaces and says, “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, you crazy motherfucker.”

  And I say, “Yes you do. You were there.”

  He opens his mouth to reply, but I don’t want to hear him talk anymore. Nothing he can say will bring back my wife and son. So I bring the gun across my body and slap him in the face with the jagged metal. A red cut appears instantly beneath his left eye, then his head lolls and his eyes roll back. He is unconscious.

  Movement behind me.

  Words thrown in my direction.

  “You son of a bitch. I’ll fucking kill—” the other goon yells.

  I don’t care to hear what this man has to say, either. I pull the trigger. My aim is true. The bullet released from my pistol blasts a hole in his face, and he doesn’t talk from this hole. He dies instantly, which is better than anyone from the District deserves.

  Now there’s a silence as the echo of my gunshot dies out. Every eye is on me.

  I look to Lilliana and the other bartender. Lilly isn’t scared anymore; she has seen this kind of death and destruction before, but the other bartender is petrified. I have never been good with people in the first place. In Haven, Darlene and Abby gladly took the diplomatic duties from me. Despite this obvious flaw, I offer up my voice.

  “I’ll help clean this up,” I say.

  No one else says anything. I wonder if they’re as afraid of me and I’m afraid of myself.

  Then I look to Lilliana and say, “Do you have any rope?”

  Finally someone else speaks up. It’s the man who has kicked Brandon’s gun out of his reach—not that that matters much now.

  “What do you mean rope? Just finish the job,” he says.

  “No. I got bigger plans for this one,” I say, and I do.

  Lilly disappears behind the counter. I think for a second that she is going to pull a shotgun out from beneath the bar and blow a hole through my sternum.

  She doesn’t.

  Instead, she pulls a thick length of rope out and tosses it in my direction.

  “Thanks,” I tell her.

  I pull my sword free and wipe Brandon’s blood off on his shirt. He stands for a moment then falls hard on the floor, so hard that a few discordant notes play from the piano. I flip him over with my boot. He groans. He’ll be conscious quick enough. Lucky for me my brother Norman has taught me how to tie knots that are all but impossible to get out of.

  I tie Brandon up in one of these knots. He’s not going anywhere. I take a step back to admire my work. Norm would be proud. I miss the son of a bitch.

  The end of the rope in hand, my gun on my right hip and the sword sheathed on my back, I drag Brandon out of The Jet. He leaves a trail of blood in his wake, and I turn around and tell Lilly and the other woman that I’ll be back to help clean.

  As I go down the ramp, two guards pull up to me on horses, their weapons drawn.

  I don’t flinch, don’t stop, don’t put my hands up. I just keep on dragging Brandon behind me. “Don’t worry,” I say to these guards. “I’ve got it handled.”

  “You’re in our jurisdiction,” one guard says and he has the gruff voice I recognize from the watch tower. I wonder if he has discovered the batteries I gave him were duds. Probably not. If that were the case, I think he would’ve shot me already. “Drop the rope. You’re under arrest.”

  The other guard’s eyes shift from me to his partner. The horses are spooked. They can smell the zombies waiting around the corner of the downed jet and the blood leaking out from the batwing doors.

  “I’m not under arrest,” I say. “I did your job for you. If anything, you should be giving me a deputy star and shaking my hand.”

  The nervous guard is older than me. There’s wisdom behind the nervousness in his eyes.

  “He’s right, Curly,” this guard says. “He ain’t under arrest. He’s obviously got business he’s got to handle—”

  “I don’t care if he is Jesus Christ reincarnated, Bill. He killed people. District people,” the guard named Curly says.

  “I did you a favor. Now quit pointing your gun at me and get out of my way,” I say. I really don’t have time for these post-apocalyptic rent-a-cops.

  Bill, the wiser of the two guards, dismounts from his horse. “Here,” he says, “he’s all yours. You get out of here and don’t come back, we’ll let you walk.”

  “Bill,” Curly snaps, but Bill holds up a hand to stop the younger guard’s protests.

  “Go on,” Bill says to me.

  I nod, bend down and lift Brandon up onto my shoulder. He’s still unconscious and though he’s quite scrawny, dead weight weighs a lot. I sling him over the horse’s backside while I tie the extra rope around the saddle. It has been a long time since I’ve ridden a horse.

  “Bilbo,” Bill says. “That’s the horse’s name. He’s a sweet thing. He’ll treat you right. I wish you the best of luck on your journey. Both of you.” Bill approaches the horse and rubs the space between his eyes. The horse whinnies.

  “No, I can’t take your horse,” I say.

  “Anyone brave enough to stand up to the District deserves more than this,” Bill says.

  I can see he’s not giving up.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  Slowly, I mount Bilbo. He doesn’t buck or quiver at my touch. In fact, he’s perfectly fine with me on top him.

  Curly is frowning, scratching his head, glaring at me. “You better not come back. We mean it.”

  I say nothing and tip an invisible hat in Bill’s direction. Now on the horse’s back, I snap the reins lightly and guide him back the way I came in. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lilliana and the rest of the bar patrons clustered near the ramp and the batwing doors. I can’t tell if there’s fear or admiration in their gazes.

  As I approach the gates, leaving two dead District goons and a trail of blood in my wake, I hear Bill shout, “Let him through! Let him through!” He’s now on Curly’s horse with him. They’re not far behind.

  The gate creaks open as whoever is up there cranks the handle that turns the tires and raises the fence.

  I spur Bilbo onward. He takes off at the sight of the open road. Then the wind snaps through both my too-long hair and my too-long beard.

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  It does not take long before a stray zombie appears on the path. I steer Bilbo out of its way. I think it’s a woman. Can’t tell for sure. The horse runs much too fast, but that’s good. Behind me, Brandon is starting to come back into consciousness, moaning in pain, mumbling something about the burning in his shoulder. I don’t answer him.

  Him and I will talk soon enough.

  I’ve seen the one zombie so I think it’s safe to assume there is more around these parts. There always is. I pull up on the reins to slow Bilbo down. He doesn’t seem happy that I’ve done it. The horse wants to run like the wind and I don’t blame him for wanting that. We go off the cracked asphalt, his steady clop-clopping is now muffled by grass and dirt. I guide him slowly through a path between the dark trees, which stand tall and vigilant like guards of the forest.

  The utter blackness here is nice. It’s home.

  We ride for nearly fifteen minutes before I find what I’m looking for.

  A clearing in the forest on a slight rise. There’s one dead oak in the middle of this clearing, as if God has put it there just for me, a notion I know is both ridiculous and borderline crazy.

  I guide Bilbo up the hill to the dead tree. I whisper, “Good boy,” to him. I’m not sure how one talks to a horse, so I go off of instinct. I once had a dog in Haven. His name was Cupcake. We had many good years before old age eventually took him. He died in my arms, peacefully. Though not a horse, Cupcake responded very well to praise. Seems like Bilbo does the same. He likes me and I don’t like that. Can’t get attached. There’s no point in getting attached in this world.

  At the top of the hill, I dismount. I tell the horse to stay, he doesn’t listen. I have to tie him up to the other side of the tree without much slack. He’ll get a front row seat to this show.

  Then I’m dragging Brandon to the base of the tree, sitting him up against the trunk. He’s groggy, but his eyes are fluttering open. I start working on his binds, untying everything but his hands and feet. With the extra rope I have, I’m able to wrap it around the tree’s trunk and knot it. Just as I’m doing this, Brandon says, “Where the fuck am I?”

  I round the trunk and reply, “I wouldn’t be too loud if I were you. These woods are crawling with the dead.”

  “Who the fuck are you?” he spits.

  “You know who I am.”

  “No, I really don’t,” Brandon says.

  I kneel and draw my blade.

  “Oh, I see, you’re some wacko with a sword. Pinch me, I must be dreaming.”

  A grin spreads on my face. That’s cute. Brandon hasn’t lost any of his asshole-ish charm.

  I flip the sword around and press on Brandon’s wound with the hilt. He screams loud enough to stir the birds out of their sleep. They take to the sky, flapping their wings furiously, as they caw into the night.

  I ease up.

  “You piece of shit,” he seethes. “As soon as I get out of here, I’m going to slit your throat like the Overlord slit your wife’s.”

  Rage blinds me. Those words he spoke bring a taste of hot bile up my throat. In this blind moment of fury, I am not sure what I do to him. Distantly, I hear his screams, I hear thuds, skin connecting with skin, the horse whinnying.

  As I come back down to earth, I am panting. My fists are slick with blood. They sting and burn, like cracked and bleeding lips.

  Brandon has a smile on his face. Red outlines each tooth like extended gums. He laughs. It’s a wet laugh, thick with blood, pain.

  “Yeah, I recognize ya. Took me a minute to realize it was you with that raccoon’s ass of a beard on your face.” Brandon laughs again. I resist the urge to kill him right here on the spot. Somewhere in the forest, I am dimly aware of a twig snapping underfoot. He leans over, still tied, still at my disposal, and spits a wad of blood onto the long blades of grass. It shimmers in the moonlight. Somehow, though, it feels as if I’ve lost control of this situation, just as I had lost control of the situation at Haven.

  No. No, I can’t let him get in my head.

  “Shut up,” I tell him. “The dead will hear you.”

  “Bring ‘em on,” Brandon says. A wild look invades his eyes, almost zombie-like in nature. “Hear me? Bring those cocksuckers on!” he shouts. His voice carries, echoes in the hills.

  Jesus, this guy is crazier than I remember.

  There’s a momentary lull in our conversation. I’m staring at him, unsure of what to do. I should just kill him. Just end it so I don’t have to see that terrible face any longer.

  But deep down inside I know I’ll never forget his face for as long as I live. I won’t forget any of the faces that had a hand in killing my wife and son, in kicking my life right out from beneath me.

  “What you want with me? Jupiter, is it?”

  I nod.

  “What you want with me, Jupiter?”

  “Information,” I say.

  Brandon grins again. “Only information I have that you would wanna know is what me and the boys did to your wife’s corpse when you was passed out.”

  My blood freezes. I resist the urge to double over and be sick. Nausea has invaded me, nausea and hate. More hate than I knew I was capable of.

  “Yeah, that was quite a fun time. How we passed her back and forth. The dead chicks will let you do anything to them. And I mean anything—”

  I hit him, can’t listen to that any longer. Then I breathe slowly, trying to keep cool.

  “Any position. Any hole. You name it—”

  I hit him again. It’s hard not to kill him right now. It’s possibly the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I have to change the subject, have to get down to business.

  “I want information on the one-eyed man,” I demand.

  “Good luck finding it.”

  I smile now. I’m in control here. I have to remember that. “How much more pain do you think you can take?” I ask. How calmly these words come out surprises me. “I’ve only just pressed your wound with the hilt of this sword here. What do you think will happen when I stick the blade in and twist?”

  Brandon’s face goes stone-smooth.

  “Let’s find out, shall we?” I turn the sword on him and aim for the bleeding gash in his shoulder. He winces, tries to pull back away from me, but is blocked by the tree. I hover right above the wound. The edge winks in the moonlight. Behind, a groan creeps up the hill.

  “Ah, our first guest has arrived,” I say, turning around. “It’s a dinner party.” I give Brandon a wink. “You’re the main course.”

  A zombie in tattered clothes shambles toward us. Her eyes are blazing with hunger. As she gets closer, I see her jaw hanging by strands of sinew, muscle, and bone. It swings back and forth like a pendulum. She may not be too successful in chewing on Brandon, but her upper teeth are as sharp as ever.

  More flood out from the surrounding trees. Luckily, we have the high ground. If we didn’t I would have already gotten the hell out of here.

  I look to Brandon. His stony expression has vanished. Now his eyes are wide, full of tears. Seeing this man quivering like a frightened puppy almost makes me feel bad for him.

  Almost.

  It’s the sight of all the zombies that make him look this way. There’s a lot.

  I wonder if these zombies are locals, people infected by the virus or bitten by their loved ones, doomed to roam these woods until someone comes along and puts a bullet or a blade between their eyes.

  “Let me out of here, man,” Brandon suddenly says in a weak voice. It surprises me.

  Bilbo, on the other side of the tree, whinnies and wickers. Time is short. I’ll have to act fast.

  “Not until you tell me what I want to know,” I say.

  The first zombie is only a few feet away from me. Her sights are set on Brandon—thankfully. The zombies seem to evolve, at least the slightest bit. They know when getting their sustenance will be a challenge. To put it simply: don’t attack the guy holding a large sword.

  I step out of the way and let the zom
bie get close enough to Brandon for her smell to engulf both of us. It’s a terrible smell. I’m sure I’ve described it before. It’s the smell of spoiled meat, of sickness.

  Just as she lunges at Brandon, I stick my foot out and trip her.

  She lands with a wet thud in the grass. One arm is outstretched. Dead, sickly-gray fingers wrap around Brandon’s boot. He kicks out, but she’s not letting go. She’s practically superglued on. It seems she has some upper body strength left, too, because she pulls herself closer to him despite all of his kicking.

  As this is happening, more are making their way up the hill. They are only coming up the same way this first zombified woman has come up. Not the smartest creatures, these zombies. I scan around the rest of the hill to make sure. So far, we’re good. None are coming for neither I or Bilbo.

  After what Brandon said about Darlene and Haven, I suppose it’s all right for me to have a little fun with this. After what he did.

  Yes, get answers. I know.

  That’s the next step.

  Now the other hand finds his crotch and Brandon squeals like a pig.

  “Please!” he shouts. “Please! I’ll tell you anything you want.”

  “Where is the one-eyed man?” I say.

  From the crotch, this dead hand finds a coil of rope wrapped around Brandon’s chest. A firm grasp and a desperate pull, and this zombie is breathing death right into his face.

  “Ohio!” he shouts.

  I suddenly think I’m going to be sick again.

  Ohio? I thought I was done with that dreadful place.

  “Where at in Ohio?”

  Brandon tries to flatten himself up against the oak. No luck. “P-P-Please! Get it off me!”

  I grab the zombie by her greasy, dirt-caked hair and yank backward. She lands on the tip of my blade. Brains leak from this fresh hole and the death rattling in the back of her throat ends along with her second life.