Jack Zombie (Book 4): Dead Coast

by Flint Maxwell

  “Where are we going, Jack?” she asks. “We should find a place to stay while Abby gets better.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “But I know we are going to make a difference. That’s all that matters.”

  She smiles. “There’s my guy, talking with words too big for his mouth.”

  I roll my eyes.

  She moves closer. The humor leaves her face, mouth becoming a thin line. Then she says, “Seriously, Jack, if we’re going west, I would like to stop off and see my mother and sister.”

  “Darlene — ”

  “I know,” she says. “I know, Jack. The world ended and all, but I would like to go back to their house. Closure and all that crap.” The way she says it tells me she’s trying not to cry.

  It’s times like these I’m glad Darlene isn’t oblivious. The chances of anyone of her family surviving are slim — very slim. I get it, I really do. She needs to see or not see her parents and her sister so she can get the idea of them suffering out of the back of her mind.

  “I don’t know how far west we’re going,” I say.

  “I heard. The Mojave Desert,” Darlene says. She’s smiling slightly.

  I nod. “That’s a big place. San Francisco is far from there.”

  “It was just an idea,” Darlene says and begins to turn away. I grab her before she can completely turn her back on me.

  “Darlene, I can’t make any promises,” I say.

  “I know,” she answers. She’s smiling again, but I can tell it’s false. “I just figured if you could find Doc Klein, then maybe I could find my mom and dad and Carmen.”

  I grab her and pull her close. “I don’t see why not.”

  You gotta have hope. Always. Can’t let it die. If hope dies, then you’re next.

  She kisses me on one blood-spattered cheek and heads for the car. “Thank you,” she says.

  14

  We drive on the outskirts of the village. Norm, like always, is our chauffeur. Thankfully, the Ford is big because we’ve added another member to our team. In the back, Mother is still wrapped in my t-shirt and a blanket Norm recovered from the med center. I got a new shirt off a dead man. It has the Nike swoosh on it. I’ve always been more of an Adidas man myself, but it was the cleanest smelling shirt — and the least bloody.

  Herb is in the front seat. Darlene, Klein, and I are in the back with Abby laying across Darlene and I’s laps. She is very hot, but the color has since come back in her face. It’s a good sight. She almost looks like the Abby of old. According to Klein, she’ll be up in no time. It’s just a matter of keeping her wound freshly dressed and cleaned. An infection can be deadly even if it’s not the zombie one, and especially in times like these.

  As we drive the outskirts of the village, this terrible sinking feeling hits me. There’s not much left of the place I once dreamt of calling home. The few buildings that are still standing are uninhabitable, blackened and burned. Bodies lay across the various roadways, paths, and even the abandoned railroad tracks. The fences we came through two days ago, me with a bitten Abby in my arms, have been crushed, almost as if somebody ran a tank through them. I don’t know what happened. I could ask Darlene and Norm, but I’m not sure I want to know. What’s done is done. I couldn’t save them all. I know that. It hurts to think of that, but I have to move on.

  Now, we are going up the hill that leads out of the valley. The sun is shining. The temperature is warming up as the hours stretch on. The Ford’s clock says 7 p.m., but I know that’s wrong. It’s more likely closer to noon. That’s the funny thing about time, now. It’s almost nonexistent. I’ve always heard people say it was an illusion, just another concept created by man to keep us stressed out, and now I agree with that sentiment. The only time time matters is when one of your loved ones is bitten or when your hanging upside down on a wire off a Washington overpass and a horde of the dead are sweeping the highway streets below like the four-hundred Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

  We crest the valley only to be greeted with a pack of roamers. Norm doesn’t freak out, doesn’t swerve or slam on the gas. He’s cool and calm. That’s why I love the bastard. I don’t know how he feels on the inside, though, and if I had to guess, after what happened at Eden and what happened here today, he’s probably a little unnerved as well.

  I feel Klein tense up next to me. He hugs that bag tight to his chest again. Herb gives a yelp and covers his eyes. Darlene and I, we just kind of look out the window at their blazing yellow eyes. She takes her hand in mine.

  Norm keeps going.

  I direct him to the road. We go over the bridge, see our abandoned van with four flat tires. Instead of taking a left, Norm goes right. I keep telling him where to turn until we come upon the curve in the road where I barreled through the metal barrier with the Hummer.

  We have the medicine, thank God. No need to go back into the woods; and in the dark forest, I see more glowing eyes. All I want is to get as far away from this place as possible.

  “Where are we going?” Norm asks.

  No one answers immediately.

  “I’d like to know before we waste a bunch of gas,” he says.

  I’m looking out the window. I see the ghost of my haggard reflection, Darlene next to me, and beyond the glass the swaying trees, the blue skies, the golden sunlight. “We’ll know it when we see it,” I say.

  Norm doesn’t protest. He knows I’m right. We can’t just dump Mother off in the nearest ditch. When we come upon her final resting place, we will know it.

  Norm picks up speed and we drive down the empty roads.

  15

  We see it when the sun is on its way down. Norm has taken us on the highway. We were westbound, but when Norm stopped the Ford and pointed out of the window, I said, “Yes, that’s it,” and Darlene squeezes my hand a little tighter.

  By this time, Abby had opened her eyes and smiled at us. She looked to Doc Klein, still smiling, and said “Thank you,” in a raspy voice. She’s been sleeping ever since.

  Now, Norm has gotten off an exit and we are facing south. It is not choked with cars, but there are a few in our way. Norm swerves through them easily enough. We are not near any big city. Nothing like Washington D.C.

  The place Norm has pointed to is a church. It’s rather large, and it’s easily the nicest thing around. The steeple juts high in the sky, a glass facade glimmers in the fading sunlight. It’s as if this holy place has been untouched by the apocalypse.

  The town, I see, is called Butain. I’m not sure what state we are in anymore and I really don’t care. The concept of states are pointless now. Same with towns, districts, and borders. The dead know no boundaries.

  “This is it,” I say.

  “I know,” Norm says.

  “I don’t like it,” Darlene says. “It’s…gothic.”

  “Some churches are, but I think Mother would like it,” I say.

  Darlene gives me an uneasy smile. “I hope so.”

  We pull into the parking lot. There are a few cars left, but I don’t see any zombies inside of them or any dead bodies. The grass is green and full. Flowerbeds line the walkway to the large oaken doors. All the windows are intact and clean. I get this feeling in the pit of my stomach. Not a good one. I’m no idiot and neither are any of my group. Someone has been taking care of this church during the apocalypse, but who?

  Norm parks between a pickup truck and a Chevy Volt. Both vehicles are sparkling clean and waxed.

  “It’s so pretty!” Herb says from the front seat. “I wish Abby would wake up so she could see it.”

  “She’ll be awake soon enough,” Klein says, leaning forwards and patting Herb on his shoulder.

  “Weapons?” Norm asks.

  I give him a nod and hear Darlene scoff softly next to me. I don’t have to explain to her that beauty isn’t everything. The way society is now, without any police forces or rules or laws, you have to be cautious. Sure, the building is nice and the grounds have been kept, but that doesn’t mean the people
inside of the building will be the same. They could be dead. They could be zombies, recently turned. I know, I know, my head is going through all these scenarios and you’re probably thinking I’m a pessimist, but wouldn’t you be, if you’d gone through all the bullshit I’ve gone through?

  I think so.

  Norm checks the pistol he has for ammunition. I get out of the van. My heart is beating faster than I’d like it to be. I feel like I’m about to give a big speech or something, all sweaty under my arms and my hands are all swampy.

  I turn to Darlene, expecting a kiss and her ritualistic good luck wish, but she’s crawling out after me. She sets Abby’s head gently down on the seat, takes her jacket and sets it over her torso.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Going with you,” she says.

  “No — ”

  “Jack, I love you, but you don’t control me. You know that, right?”

  I chuckle. If anything, it’s the other way around. I smile. “Darlene, I think it’s best you stay behind. Let us — ”

  “Let the men clear out the place so the little old ladies can be safe.” She snorts. “Gimme a break, Jack. Have you forgotten what I did to that creep Blade already?”

  I shudder. I don’t think I could ever forget that. She stabbed the cannibal in the neck with the same pen she used to write these really beautiful poems. It’s weird to think that a tool used for such delicacy could also be used for such barbaric purposes. Then again, when I was younger, how many screwed-up horror stories did I write in my composition notebook? A good amount. Still, though, I don’t think I’ll ever get the image of Blade’s blood spurting from the pen-sized hole in his neck. Yuck.

  So I shake my head.

  “Let the gal tag along,” Norm says. “She’s proven her worth.” He says it jokingly enough. “And with Abby a little under the weather, we could use all the help we can get.”

  I turn to Klein, giving him a look that asks if he’ll come with us, but he just shakes his head and clutches that damn bag against his chest tighter. I hate that bag, I don’t know why. It just pisses me off. I think because he almost got us both killed when he wouldn’t drop it. Sometimes, I don’t even think the Doc knows what’s in that bag. Not really. Then again, I think of what he went through to get it and I saw D.C. firsthand. I know exactly what he went through to get it.

  I think about the Mojave Desert now, how I’ve never really been out West. It sucks that the first time I saw Washington D.C. and now the West Coast will be once the damn world has ended. Go figure, just my luck.

  Then, I look to Herb, but he has the glove box open and is reading the Ford’s owner’s manual…upside down. This causes me to smile. I would never ask Herb to help us kill zombies. In a way, he’s like the family’s youngest — but biggest — kid. I sigh. “All right,” I say to Darlene, reaching out to help her from the SUV. She doesn’t take my hand. Guess she doesn’t need my help and apparently chivalry is dead and all that.

  “I got it,” she says.

  I pull one of the guns I have from my waistband and hand it to her. “Be careful,” I say.

  She rolls her eyes and says, “I got it.”

  “Just stay behind me,” I say.

  Norm walks over to us, claps me on the back, and says, “And you stay behind me, little bro.” Now, it’s my turn to roll my eyes and as I do, I see Herb peeking at us from the front passenger’s window. He still holds the owner’s manual upside down. There’s beads of sweat on his face despite the coolness in the air. It’s a perfect day by my standards — not too hot, not too cold, a little sunshine, a little breeze. If all that shit didn’t go down in Washington and the village, I’d imagine I’d feel pretty damn good. Alas, that’s not been the case. Still, seeing Herb with the upside down owner’s manual slays me and I find myself smiling.

  I lean into the window and give his hand a squeeze. He jumps a little despite seeing me coming from a mile away. “We’ll be right back, Herb,” I say.

  “I know, Jacky,” he answers.

  “Keep Doc Klein and Abby safe for me, okay, big guy?” I say.

  “What if…what if all those runny dead guys come for us?” he asks.

  I get lower so I’m almost face to face with Herb. “They won’t. We would’ve seen them on our way up here and if they do — but they won’t, I pinky promise — we’ll be right there. Just a few steps away.” I put my pinky out and he takes it.

  “Okay, Jacky, I trust you,” he says. He finally puts the owner’s manual down.

  Norm leans on me. “You hear or see anything, Herb, you beep the horn, all right?”

  Herb nods.

  “Don’t worry, Herb,” I say. “It’ll all be okay.”

  He smiles. I can tell it’s not real, but what more can I do? So I smile back at him and turn toward the church’s doors.

  It’s now I notice the darkness bleeding into the blue sky farther away. A storm’s coming. I think I can feel the electricity in the air.

  We all tighten our grips on the weapons we have and climb the church’s front steps.

  16

  The smell is lilacs.

  There are three candles burning low in the darkness at the altar. A large statue of Jesus Christ hangs on the wall. He is on the cross, his ribs sticking out, his face in anguish, tears of blood stream from the corners of his eyes.

  I’m unsettled, but I’ve always been unsettled when walking into churches. My grandmother, who used to attend Christmas Mass with us a very long time ago, had once called me the Antichrist. I don’t think I’m that bad. I certainly don’t burst into flames or anything like that once I’m past the threshold. I think my grandma was just a bitter old woman.

  Darlene does, in fact, stay behind me. I feel her tensing up.

  Norm turns around and gives me a look that says we should probably get the hell out of here. I nod back to him. He’s right. It was just too perfect, I guess.

  We spin around and head for the door and just as I’m reaching out to push the heavy oak open so we can head back to the car, I hear a voice behind me.

  “Welcome! Welcome!” the voice says.

  I close my eyes and think so close. We almost made it without any bloodshed. The fact the door wasn’t locked should’ve been my first sign that whoever’s in here is crazy.

  “Where are you going? What’s the matter? Is it the smell? I can burn different candles. Please. Just give me a moment. Just give me a moment to go down to the basement and get more candles. Please…please… Please!”

  I turn around, flicking the safety off the pistol I’m holding. If the voice is any inclination, we’ve stumbled into a crazy man’s web.

  A man dressed in a monk’s robes stands at the altar. He has a book in his hand, the Holy Bible, and a weird smile on his face. His eyelids are virtually nonexistent, his eyes are so wide. It’s as if he hasn’t seen live people in years, not months. I find myself taking my finger away from the trigger, mainly out of pity.

  Darlene even straightens up and relaxes a bit. Norm, though, doesn’t. He eyes the robed man wearily. I think Eden still haunts him. It certainly haunts me so I can’t imagine how he feels about it.

  The robed man makes his way down the few altar steps. I step back, shielding Darlene more as I do so.

  Norm raises his weapon. “That’s far enough,” he says.

  The man drops his Bible. It makes a loud oomph as it hits the carpeted steps and goes cartwheeling out of sight beneath the front pews. He puts his hands up. “I don’t have anything, really. I have a little bit of food. A little bit. Please.” He falls on his knees, cups his hands together, and looks up to the ceiling beams. Faint sunlight is streaming in. I see motes of dust floating all around us. How long until the sunlight is gone…for good? I shake my head.

  “We don’t want anything,” I say. “We have someone special to us we would like to bury.”

  The priest’s eyes light up. “You mean it?” he smiles, then promptly covers his mouth. “I’m sorry, I do
n’t mean to smile. It’s just that I’m happy you aren’t here to kill me…or worse.”

  I can’t think of what’s worse than that, but I don’t pry.

  “Stand up, man,” Norm says.

  The man does.

  “We saw the cemetery in the back,” I say. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” the man says. “I’ve spent many hours out there tending to it — the whole grounds, in fact…there’s not much else to do.”

  I holster my gun into my waistband. Darlene does the same. This man isn’t dangerous. He’s just alone and I feel for him.

  Now he looks like he is thinking very hard. It almost puts Herb to shame, furrowed brow, tongue hanging from the corner of his mouth. Except this man is much older and, from what I gather, mostly all there. “But I don’t have many spots left. When the…the…”

  “I know,” I say.

  When the virus hit, this man had to bury his loved ones. Had to see them either turned to walking monsters or meals. It’s a wonder all of us aren’t mentally fucked up.

  “I’m sure we can find a place,” he says. He looks away from us. I see tears welling up in his eyes, hear the hitch in his voice. “Just please don’t leave,” he says. “I hate being alone.”

  17

  The man’s name is Father Michael. He has since stopped crying. We have promised to stay the night with him under the shelter of his church’s roof. The church is called Our Lady, Victorious, and I think to myself how perfect of a place it is to bury Mother. Even in defeat, she was victorious.

  It’s weird how much it hurts me to think about her gone. And her last words echo in my head, especially now that I’m carrying her to the grave we’ve dug.

  “Jack, you will have to stop them. They will destroy it all!”

  Who will and what will they destroy? I don’t know.

  I’ve told no one about what Mother said to me. I don’t think I could. Besides, I don’t think anyone would know what she was talking about anyway. As much as I shouldn’t worry, as much as I should brush those last words off as death babble, I can’t. There was just something about her face and her eyes. They were so intense, almost looking through me into a future only she could see.