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Afterword
I had to do it. Had to write another one.
Jack Jupiter’s story has been a big part of my life for almost two years. I originally started his tale in the summer of 2016, but set it aside and wrote other stuff. I came back to Jack’s story in the fall of 2016, finished, wrote some more, and here I am. I thought Dead End would be the last tale in his saga.
Turns out I was wrong—I often am.
Since the last book was published, I worked on another series. An urban fantasy with portals and other worlds, and the entire time I was writing those stories, I kept thinking about Jack Jupiter. I wondered how he would be now, what he’d been up to. How he was handling being a father and a husband and a leader. These questions weighed heavily on my mind, so much so that I had to write to find out their answers.
I hope you liked it and I hope you are all right with me continuing the story. I would understand if you weren’t, if you thought Dead End was a perfect sendoff for Jack and the gang, but, like in real life, the story isn’t over until we’re dead.
And Jack’s got a lot of life left in him yet.
F.M.
February 4th, 2018
Preview: Dead Judgment
Copyright © 2017 by Flint Maxwell
Chapter 1-
Rewind a month ago and ask me if this is how I’d expect the day to play out.
It’s not.
But life is full of surprises, isn’t it?
I’m walking down a hill with a flare in my hand—a lit flare in my hand. Behind me, a swarm of dead follow. The sight of fresh meat reinvigorates them. Seriously, I don’t know why I agreed to do this.
I guess I agreed because we need gasoline, otherwise our trip was going to be cut very short. I’m somewhere in Indiana, near the Illinois border. That’s how far we got before Abby’s truck started to warn us that we’d be walking soon if we didn’t find a Speedway to fill up at.
The problem? There’s no Speedways anymore. No Circle Ks, no BPs—none of that stuff. The gas still in the ground at those places has either been siphoned and burned away or has expired. It’d do the truck more harm than it would do good.
Luckily for us, Abby had joined a murderous cult called the District and they have their own gas-guzzling operations going on in nearly every state. When Abby told us this, I felt like dying. Every state? The District is much bigger than I thought.
Now we’re outside of one of these gas-guzzling operations. It’s dusk, the soon-to-be-winter sun sinks behind leafless trees. A chill in the air prickles my skin…well, that or the fact I’m currently shepherding a horde of zombies to the front gates of this place.
Talk about a suicide mission.
Oh well. It’s all in the name of revenge.
I walk backwards now, the flare held low so the lead zombies can see it. Get them going and the rest usually follow. I can’t risk thrusting the flare above my head and getting spotted by District snipers, shot dead before I’m even a hundred feet from the gate.
This bad feeling comes over me, like I’m being watched, like I’m in the crosshairs of someone’s gun. I guess, I am. Lilly charts my progress from the tree line with the scope of her rifle. Abby is in the truck a ways off the entrance of the place. As soon as I’m close enough—
The truck revs to life and now the plan is really in motion. There’s no going back.
“Shit,” I mumble, and nearly trip over my own feet. If I did, the zombies would’ve been all over me. I catch myself and turn toward the gate. I’m running. The truck blasts by me, a burst of cold wind blowing my too-long hair from my brow. Abby’s ride is a behemoth, one of those Ford F-150s they used to advertise nonstop during football games and the like, the kind that could tow a hundred dead elephants and still somehow get thirty miles to the gallon.
The gates are thick metal, but that’s not a problem for Abby’s truck. It plows through them, ripping them off their hinges.
I’m grateful for this because the zombies turn their attention to the chaos ensuing behind me. Voices shout from inside the gates. I think I hear a gunshot. Can’t be sure, though, there’s too much going on for me to know for sure.
This is my cue.
“Hey, assholes!” I shout at the zombies. “Hey!”
Slowly, their heads turn in my direction. Yellow eyes glow in the darkness and in these yellow eyes, I see hate and pain and hunger and it’s my worst nightmare.
Every day in this apocalypse is my worst nightmare.
“Go get it!” Then I throw the flare into the compound and run away from the horde. As I’m running, of course I trip, and as I trip, a straying zombie thinks I look mighty delicious. Maybe this one has evolved beyond falling for cheap tricks such as the old flare routine. I don’t know. All I do know is that he’s on me quicker than a dead bastard like himself has any right to be.
I kick upward, hit him in the soft belly with the sole of my boot. The flesh there squishes and threatens to pop. I really don’t feel like finishing this mission in a pair of gut-soaked socks so I decide my best course of action is to draw my revolver. As I do this, a gun bursts to my left. Bullets take the zombie in the head, sending a spray of brains to my right. He drops dead, his skull mutilated.
I raise my hand to the trees, toward Lilly’s vantage point. “Thank you!” I shout.
Then I’m scrambling up and following the rest of the zombies into the compound.
Inside, it’s chaos. Men and women are running from their posts, guns in their hands. It’s amazing what fifty or so zombies will do to a group of people. Dust kicks up on the path ahead. That’ll be Abby’s truck.
I take cover behind the thick support beams of a nearby watchtower as gunfire erupts, going off like bombs. A man falls near the opposite watchtower and screams as a zombie pins him down. His throat rips away in meaty chunks of bloody skin. Another zombie sees this opportunity of flesh and doesn’t hesitate. Soon, five or so of the dead bastards are feasting on this District soldier. I can’t see it so much as I hear it. The gush of blood, the ripping of hair, the cracking of bones, and the absence of life.
I shake the queasy feeling from my gut. It’s not an easy task. I have to move; if I don’t move soon, Abby will be pinned down.
Who am I kidding? Abby can handle herself.
I spin out from the shadows of the watchtower and scan the camp. Large drilling rigs are set up all around this fenced in piece of land. I wonder if the District knows what they’re doing when it comes to drilling for gas. Probably not. The groundwater around here is probably so contaminated from their ignorance. But I guess it doesn’t matter as long as they get what they need. There’s not many people around to drink the water anyway.
Past the drills is a long building. A few guards are fighting off the oncoming wave of zombies there. This is where the gas is kept, Abby has told me.
I make my move toward it, running fast, keeping my head down. The phantom bullets bite at me. I’m running through the battlefield, just waiting to be shot down.
Stupid move, Jack. Stupid move.
As I approach the building, I catch the faint whiff of gasoline. It reminds me of the old world, of filling up at the local station, and this faint smell brings on a strong sense of nostalgia.
Then a guy’s getting his face ripped off and that about slaps me in the face and reminds me that shit has changed.
Shit has changed a lot.
About the Author
Flint Maxwell lives in Ohio, where the skies are always gray and the sports teams are consistently disappointing. He loves Star Wars, basketball, Stephen King novels, and almost anything falling under the genre umbrella of horror. You can probably find him hanging out with one (or all) of his five household pets when he’s not writing, reading, or watching Netflix.
Get in touch with Flint on Facebook
Also by Flint Maxwell
Jack Zombie Series
Dead Haven (Book 1)
Dead Hope (Book 2)
Dead Nation (Book 3)
Dead Coast (Book 4)
Dead End (Book 5)
Dead Lost (Book 6)
The Midwest Magic Chronicles
The Midwest Witch (Book #1)
The Midwest Wanderer (Book #2)
The Midwest Whisperer (Book #3)
The Midwest War (Book #4)
Something Dark: Horror Stories
Let Us Out: A Supernatural Horror Novella
Dead Lost Page 19