Dead Lost

by Flint Maxwell

  We can faintly hear the rumble of its engine from our vantage point.

  Lilly is going, “Mmm, mmm, mmm. Told ya.”

  Thank God. A car. A real fucking car.

  “I’m very grateful for you, Lilly Wildflower,” I say, and this momentary slip of kindness is like the old Jack Jupiter, the one who died with Darlene and Junior.

  She rolls her eyes and punches me a little too hard. I’m taken to the past, thinking of Abby Cage and how she’d punch Norm and I the same way if we said something stupid or annoyed her—which happened quite often now that I think about it. A deep, paling sadness invades my chest and the smiling I had been doing vanishes. A car cannot fix the hole in my heart.

  Back to business, I think, wondering where this man named Bandit is going on this fine day. Then I realize it doesn’t matter, we’ll wait for him and his precious vehicle, no matter what.

  But he goes nowhere except out of the garage, backing up near the side of the house, clearing the driveway.

  Also curious.

  “What’s going on?” Lilly asks. She pokes her head up next to mine, squinting her eyes. I hand her the binoculars.

  “Hell if I know. He moved the car out of the garage,” I say.

  “Maybe it’s because he wants us to come steal it. You know, making it easier for us.”

  “Doubt that,” I say.

  Lilly shrugs. “It’s not a bad thing to hope, Jack.”

  I ignore this. Yes, it is a bad thing to hope. Hope leads to disappointment, and this world is nothing but disappointment.

  Coming from behind us, a sound like a jet engine. Fear spikes through me, raising my blood pressure and causing my heart to feel like it’s going to burst out of my chest. I’m so caught up in surveying this farm, I forget about any other threats.

  My hand goes to my gun, but Lilly already has hers drawn and aiming at the road.

  Then it comes, what the sound is. It’s a truck, one of those big-ass semis that always used to take up the highway, I think. I look out over the road and see that it’s not exactly as big as I remembered. It’s more like a U-Haul truck—in fact, it is a U-Haul truck—but in this silence, a cat’s meow could be mistaken for a lion’s roar.

  Another spike of fear ripples through me. “Shit. The horse,” I say. I get up to try to move Bilbo out of the view of the road, but Lilly’s hand clamps down on my arm and throws me back to my haunches.

  “No time,” she says. “Just gotta hope.”

  Hope. Enough about hope.

  I’m not hoping anymore and never will hope again.

  The sound drives Bilbo to whinny much too loudly. If I could just get over there to calm him, maybe even wrap him and wrestle him to the forest floor like the cowboys used to do in my favorite Western movies when they were hiding from outlaws or Indians, then it’d be okay.

  No time. Lilly won’t even let me. Her hand is still clamped on my forearm. I try my best to make myself as invisible as possible, blended in with the rock, but it’s not an easy task.

  Sure enough, as the truck approaches, it slows. The hydraulic hiss of its brakes are like death’s cold breath on the back of my neck. The hair there prickles and my shirt and cloak shake with my thudding heartbeat. I pick up the shotgun that was leaning on the mossy boulder.

  They’ve stopped.

  Damn it all to hell.

  The driver’s side door opens. I can make out a thin man in overalls wearing a well-worn White Sox cap and the front of the truck. It’s orange and white. The windshield is cracked.

  “That a fuckin horse?” this guys says, and he talks like he’s got something clenched between his teeth. I see a puff of smoke. The wind catches it and brings the smell of burning tobacco in my direction. Now the passenger’s door opens and a skinny black man slams it shut.

  “No way,” the black man says.

  “Hell yes, it is,” the driver says. He fumbles at his belt as he tries to free his gun. The sure sign of someone whose been protected by others rather than protecting himself. “Imagine how much jerky we can make from this beaut, Duane. Mmm. Been awhile since I’ve had horse meat. Hell, been awhile since I’ve had any meat.”

  “Put that shit away, you dumbass,” the man named Duane says. “You tryin to let every gusher in the forest know we’re here? Jesus, Paul, you really are only good for one thing.”

  “Uh-uh. I’m good for a couple. Ask your mom,” Paul retorts.

  Lilly and I exchange a look. By the paling expression on her face, she can tell I mean to do something fast. I raise my gun and nod.

  She shakes her head, motions to my sword. Even better.

  I can kill them slowly.

  14

  “Here, horsey-horsey,” the man named Paul says. He creeps through the copse of trees, his footfalls soundless across the forest floor. A practiced skill, one this man has learned in the apocalypse, no doubt. Lilly and I stay mannequin still, our bodies flattened against the rock as far as they’ll go, which is not far.

  Lilly makes a motion to me, saying she’ll go left. I nod, and then I motion to the right. I’m going to sneak up behind them. Take them out before they even know what’s coming.

  Lilly’s gun shakes in her hand.

  “The damn thing is fuckin strung up,” Paul says.

  “Someone left it here,” Duane replies. The cocking of his gun follows his voice. “Be on the lookout. Could be back soon.”

  “Think this big guy’s owners got eated by some gushers, I do.” Paul is still approaching Bilbo with his knife out as my boots reach the asphalt. I’m quiet just like Paul. Traveling the wastelands has made me that way. The slightest sound—a cracking of a twig, too-fast breathing, the creaking of hinges—is enough to alert any nearby zombies, and they always seem to come at the absolute worst time.

  “Don’t think there’s many gushers up here. Bandit keeps these woods clear. Matter of fact, this horse could be one of his,” Duane is saying. He scans the woods as I take cover behind a nearby tree. I’m probably visible to anyone coming down the road from the farm, but right now I’m not worrying about that. Right now I’m worrying about not being heard. Once Duane thinks they’re in the clear, he lowers his weapon.

  “Doubt it. No sane person would just leave a horse in the forest. Like leaving an open box of pizza ‘round a junkyard dog.”

  “I’m serious, Paul. Let’s just get this shit over with. I don’t like Bandit. He gives me the creeps.”

  Paul’s voice is louder. I can’t see him, but I’m guessing he’s not facing Bilbo anymore. “Damn it, Duane. You ruin all the fun.”

  “Hey, we unload this shit and find out it’s not his, then we can come back and cook some horse. Sound good?” Duane is saying. He isn’t the driver, but he’s obviously the one in control of this dynamic duo.

  “Soon as we mention a horse, that psycho is gonna come down here and cook it up hisself,” Paul snaps.

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Let me just cut a piece off. I’ll cook it up with the cigarette lighter. Small piece. They’ll never know. Jesus, Duane, I’m so hungry,” Paul says.

  I decide this is the time to make my move.

  Unfortunately, so does Lilly, except she hasn’t developed the kind of stealth that I have. She is used to the loud bar, the unruly drunks, and the rowdy visits of passing-through District soldiers. So the rustling she makes by stepping too hard in a spot that shouldn’t be stepped on is nearly nothing, but in the quiet of the forest and the situation, I hear it.

  So does Paul.

  So does Duane.

  “Ambush!” Duane shouts.

  Now Lilly’s rushing steps are amplified. She even grunts as she lunges at Paul. I don’t see her, but the struggle between them can probably be heard near the farm, which is not good. Not good at all. But what can we do about it? The concept of hope comes to mind. I won’t let it linger. Hope is dead. Hope has been dead since 2016.

  I step out on to the road, my sword in hand. I’m about fifteen feet
from Duane so it’s not a difficult throw. It’s not hard to keep my blade from staying straight as it flies through the air and burrows into his right arm. The gun he holds tumbles to the ground, lost to the dead leaves and spotty grass. The muted black metal is swallowed by browns and dark greens.

  He screams harsh and fast. I pounce on him, knees to his chest, breath whooshing from his lungs, cutting the scream off. I put my hand over his mouth for good measure, and what does this fucker do? He bites me. I grit my teeth with the pain and pull my hand away. He takes to screaming again.

  And again, I cut him off. Two punches to the temple. Hard punches. And he’s out like a light.

  I notice a dab of blood on my palm from where he bit me. The wound doesn’t look serious, just a chunk out of my index and middle fingers. It’ll heal, and the guy’s not a zombie, either. Thank God.

  The urge to examine this new wound is great, to sterilize and bandage it, too, but a voice makes that all but impossible.

  “Get the fuck off Duane, you bastard,” Paul says, except it doesn’t sound exactly like Paul. It sounds like a man who’s bitten his tongue and whose tongue has swelled up three times it size.

  I look to the direction of the voice. Sure enough, it is Paul, and his nose is bleeding, red running around his mouth. He holds Lilly by the hair. I’m surprised because her hair isn’t that long. He must have a piece of her scalp, too. There’s a shallow cut below her right eye that’s dribbling blood. Paul holds his own gun in my direction.

  Fear tries to freeze me. Not because there is a gun currently pointed at my head, but because Lilly is in danger. Not because I care about her or Bilbo, but only because I don’t want any more innocent blood on my conscience.

  I’m not scared of the gun, either. I’ve been in this situation many times before. All I have to do is draw my own revolver and pull the trigger. Odds are that I’m a lot faster than this man on the draw. I’d bet my life on it. Will have to.

  But I can’t give what I’m going to do away, so I raise my hands and slowly rise off of the unconscious Duane.

  “Stay there,” Paul says.

  My heart races. The smell of the kill is heavy in the air, like the smell and tang of electricity after a summer thunderstorm.

  I’m already picturing how this is going to go down in my mind. I’m going to draw and fire in one smooth motion. Paul is going to die before he even knows what hit him. Then I’m going to kill Duane. But I won’t shoot him. Better to not waste the ammo. No, I’ll cut him up with the sword. Slice and fucking dice.

  Lilly grunts. Something crunches. Paul lets out a high-pitched squeal.

  Then he screams.

  I’m too stunned to really comprehend what is going on. All I see is Lilly moving away from his grip and him falling over like a tree in a tornado. He drops his gun and holds his crotch.

  Holy shit.

  Lilly is on the gun, picks it up, and clobbers Paul’s head with the butt of it. Blood spurts from the wound. His screaming ends, and for a long moment I think Lilly has swung hard enough to kill him. But as I examine his body, I notice his chest rises and falls raggedly.

  Damn. Would’ve been better if she did kill him.

  “What did you think I was going to do, sit around and wait for you to save me?” Lilly asks, walking through the stretch of forest to the road. “I ain’t that kinda gal, Jack Jupiter. Not a damsel in distress. I can handle myself. Plus a gunshot would’ve given us away. I’d be fucking surprised if the screaming didn’t.”

  I nod. About handling herself…I believe her. After that gruesome display, I’ll never doubt her again.

  She brushes past me with a slight smile on her face. Blood trickles down the swell of her right cheek. She spins something on her fingers. It catches the sunlight, glints like a disco ball. I turn away from it, but the jingling tells me that it’s the keys to the U-Haul. I didn’t even see her take them off of Paul.

  “Let’s find out what these dummies were hauling up to Bandit’s farm,” she says.

  “You go ahead,” I say, stepping over Duane. “After you tie that one up.” I point to Paul. From my cloak, I pull out two lengths of rope, and tie Duane’s hands to his feet. Lilly sighs with an expression that says Do I really have to do that? But she takes the rope reluctantly and does the job.

  We’ll need at least one of them.

  So now I stand over Duane and raise my sword. He’s lucky to die by my sword. Lucky to not have to be torn apart by zombies or tortured by madmen like the one-eyed man or someone with the name Bandit.

  “What are you doing?” Lilly asks, interrupting me.

  “My job,” I say.

  “Leave him. For now. Could be useful,” she says.

  She’s right. Damn. I lower the weapon and begin to tie him up. Then I drag him over to Paul and into the cover of the forest.

  Lilly is back on the road, jimmying the key in the modified lock on the back of the U-Haul. I step into the forest towards Bilbo. The horse is spooked, but seems glad to see a familiar face, one that has no intention of eating him. His twitching slows and his eyes return to their normal sizes. I stroke his mane. “Sorry you had to be bait. Didn’t mean for that to happen.” I untie him and lead him out of the copse of trees.

  As I do this, Lilly says, “Holy shit. Jack, you’re not going to believe this.”

  My stomach drops. I’m trying to go through all the things that could possibly be in the back of the truck. Zombies? Corpses? Dead puppies? These guys seem like the type of people who might catch and kill puppies. I shake my head. No, that’s ridiculous. What would Bandit want with dead puppies anyway? I’m just spooked, a little shaken from the near firefight. If one of us had shot off our weapon, every soldier on the farm would’ve known something was up. They’d be preparing for an ambush as we speak.

  I round the corner of the truck and peer into the open space. What I see is like a gift from above. My jaw drops open. Lilly smacks me on the back.

  Holy shit is right.

  15

  “Looks like they’re planning to go to war,” I say.

  “This is the norm,” Lilly answers.

  On each side of the truck, there are racks and racks of guns—mostly assault rifles and shotguns, each one has either a tactical light or a ACOG scope attached to it. Heavy duty. In between the racks of guns are crates. A crowbar rests on top of one. I take it and pry it open. Inside the topmost crate is a bunch of straw. Inside the straw are grenades, about twenty of them. It makes me wonder what’s in the rest of the crates. More grenades? A fucking nuke?

  Lilly is tugging on my sleeve and this snaps me out of my surprise.

  “Let’s go,” she says.

  “Go?” I ask.

  “We got what we wanted and more,” she says, looking at me like I’m stupid. “A working car and an armory. We know where we’re going, too.”

  I don’t say anything for a long moment. I hadn’t even realized this because I’ve been too distracted by our unconscious and tied up friends Paul and Duane. But Lilly is right.

  “We move a few of these crates and Bilbo can fit in the back,” Lilly says. “Not ideal but better than leaving him.”

  I still haven’t said anything. I’m just kind of standing there with my thumb up my ass. Then Lilly is pushing me toward the front seat. “I’ll drive,” she says.

  “What about them?” I ask, cocking a thumb toward the two tied up delivery drivers.

  “Two choices and you know what they are,” she says. “And I’m not killing them because they have a taste for horse meat. I got Paul there good enough. Felt his left nut shatter, I think.”

  My face screws up at her gruesome description. “Leave them,” I agree. Their fate will probably be worse than the sweet relief of us killing them. I go back around the back and start moving the crates. They’re heavy and the cords in my neck stand out as I lift them. I’m happy to say I am still able to move them, though, just not as easily as I could’ve a decade ago. Father Time gets to all of us even
tually. And sadly.

  Lilly comes back from the forest, leading Bilbo by the reins. He goes easily enough into the back and fits almost perfectly, but if the ride gets rough, he might have a tough time. I’ll make sure to go easy on the turns.

  “I’ll drive,” I say to Lilly. “You get some rest. I’ll wake you up in a couple hours.”

  She nods and though she won’t say it, I can tell she’s grateful.

  I get into the driver’s seat and start the truck. The engine hums beautifully, music to my ears. There’s even a cassette tape in the middle console. It’s Metallica’s Master of Puppets. Literal music to my ears. I pop it in and keep the volume low.

  For now.

  Instead of backing up, I make a U-turn with the U-haul. Can’t risk the beeping noise being heard at the farm despite it being about a half-mile up the road.

  Something keeps nagging at my mind. I’m not the same man I used to be, but that man isn’t completely gone yet, and that scares me.

  He’s in there somewhere, and right now he’s screaming, telling me not to leave in the opposite direction of the farm, while the new Jack Jupiter, the tired, nihilistic Jack Jupiter who has lost everything is wondering what the fuck I’m doing. I can kick Lilly out, leave her with Bilbo. She’ll be all right on her own. I’ve seen she can handle herself. I don’t need the baggage weighing me down because this road ahead of me is not going to be easy; and if it ends in my death, I will be completely all right with that. That doesn’t mean Lilly and Bilbo have to die because of me, though. It may come off as rude, she’ll probably call me an asshole and say she hates my guts, but it’s better than her being dead because of my recklessness.

  I stop the truck, the brakes squeak.

  “What are you doing?” Lilly asks.

  I shake my head and hit the steering wheel with my open hand. “Damn it,” I say because a different Jack Jupiter brings up the image of the poor people who were dragging the tractor, being chased by a group of zombies. No human being deserves such a fate.