Dead Coast: A Zombie Novel (Jack Zombie Book 4)

by Flint Maxwell

  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.

  The rest of the group is gathered around the freshly dug hole — except for Abby who sleeps on a bed made on one of the pews and Klein who’d offered to stay with her in case she woke up. He didn’t know Mother after all, though he’s sorry for our loss.

  The wind whips our clothes and hair all around us. The storm is nearly here. I can smell the moisture in the air. Leaves are rustling, now flipped, revealing their paler sides. Any minute, the dark clouds above us will burst and the downpour will drown us, but it won’t drown our sorrows.

  Herb is sniffling very loud. He was the last to know of her passing and naturally, he didn’t take it well. I hate seeing him like this. I hate this. Burying people I care about. It never ends. You get close to someone in the apocalypse and the next thing you know the rug of your relationship is swept out from beneath your feet. It almost makes me want to quit going on. But I can’t. I have to keep going. I have to keep surviving, if not for my family and myself, then for the ones who I’ve lost.

  Father Michael offered to read from his Good Book as we lay Mother to rest. I don’t know what her religion was. I don’t think any of us did. I know she was a big believer in God — which God, I couldn’t tell you. I like to think stuff like that doesn’t matter when you’re dead, at least to me. I like to think Mother was a big believer in the Universe and the way it’s all connected…somehow. Finding this beautiful place seemingly untouched by The End is evidence of something much bigger working behind the scenes. The fact we survived the plague and all the other hardships is also more evidence, I think. We are here for a reason.

  I give Mother to Norm, who takes her with wet eyes, and I crawl down into the freshly dug hole. It’s nowhere near six feet deep. We don’t have the tools or the strength and our time is shorter now because of the storm.

  Once I’m in the hole, I notice my arms are shaking as I hold them up and Norm gives me Mother. She is wrapped in a blanket Father Michael has given us. She weighs next to nothing. I set her down in the soft earth and pull myself up. Darlene is sobbing. Herb has one big arm draped around her. Norm stands next to Darlene. I crawl out of the hole, dirt getting under my fingernails. My vision is watery.

  Father Michael begins his sermon.

  We bury Mother, we hang our heads low, and cry together, knowing this won’t be the last funeral, but hoping it is.

  18

  The storm breaks as we file inside of the church. Doc Klein is sitting on the first pew, his head craned up at the statue of Jesus. He holds the messenger bag on his lap. He’s not crying. He’s not shaking. Hell, I almost think he’s not even breathing.

  Abby is behind him, laying under blankets, asleep. She twitches softly from time to time, but otherwise, she is out.

  Darlene and I hold hands as we enter the main part of the church. Norm decided to stay outside and chat with Father Michael. They are both smoking cigarettes under an awning. Funerals are sad. Death is sad. That’s one constant in this terrible world; one thing that never changes, I guess.

  Darlene excuses herself to go to the bathroom and before she disappears into the dark hallway outside of the church’s main part, she brushes Abby’s hair out of her face.

  I sit next to Klein, who remains impassive. Herb sits a little farther down the pew. He takes out a Bible from the side pocket. This book, I think he can actually read, but mainly out of memory. His large fingers scan over the pages and his lips move silently with the words.

  “Thank you,” I say to Klein as I settle in on the bench.

  “For what?” the Doc says.

  “For everything. For helping Abby, for helping me.”

  “How did I help you?” he asks. A smile is playing on his lips. He pushes his wiry glasses up his nose. “If I recall correctly, it was you who helped me in the Capital.”

  I shake my head. “You don’t understand — I’m not sure I could even explain it to you.” I lean over to Herb and put my arm around him. “After the sh — crap, I mean — that happened in Eden,” we are in God’s house after all so no cursing, “I was pretty sure there wasn’t anything out in this wasteland that could keep us going, and then Herb here told me about you and how you were going to save the world.”

  Klein arches an eyebrow at Herb as if to say it was a secret and Herb broke his trust, but he smiles soon enough.

  “I don’t know if I can, Jack,” Klein says. The smile disappears.

  “What?” I say. I feel like I’ve just stepped off the edge of a balcony ten stories up.

  “It’s not up to me, really. I’m more of a middleman,” he says. He clutches the bag absentmindedly. “I’m sorry, Jack.”

  “What do you mean? Middleman?”

  “I’ve developed something — it’s all technical and quite boring, so I’ll spare you the details — however I’ve not the facilities or the staff to achieve what we need to achieve,” Klein says. “Yet.”

  But he speaks as if he will achieve it and I’m going to help him to the best of my ability. Because I care about the future.

  “Doc Klein is the smartest,” Herb says, his face behind the Bible.

  I nod and pat him on the thigh. He’s solid muscle. I would say the apocalypse has treated him well, but I think Herb was probably like this long before the virus spread and the dead began to rise.

  “I am not, Herb. As much as it pains me to say it,” Klein chuckles, “I’m not. There are far greater minds out there. Still.”

  This, I find hard to believe. There’s not many minds left.

  “The Mojave?” I ask.

  Klein takes his glasses off, breathes on them, and wipes the lenses on a piece of unsoiled fabric of his shirt, then he nods. “Yes, the Mojave.”

  “What’s in the bag then? Explain that technical stuff as best as you can.” I say. My voice is calm. I’m trying not to pry, but I want to know.

  Klein clutches it tighter to his chest. “I — ”

  The door creaks as Father Michael and Norm walk in. They are smiling, but there’s no humor in their eyes. The smell of smoke comes in after them. Outside, the storm is raging.

  “Saying your prayers?” Norm quips. “Hate to break it to you, little bro, but you’re going to hell.”

  Klein seems to relax a bit.

  “Am I going to h-e-double hockey sticks, Norm?” Herb asks.

  Norm grins wide. “No way, Herb. Not a chance. You’re too kind of a soul. You’ll be just fine. Besides, that’s not something you have to worry about for a long time. Not something any of us have to worry about.”

  Herb shuts the Bible, brings it up to his face, and starts kissing it. “Good, good, good!”

  I turn back to Klein. Norm must sense the intensity because he squeezes in between us. “How’s everything going?” Norm asks.

  “Norm, I was — ” I begin to say, but he cuts me off.

  “Father Michael showed me his storage. You wouldn’t believe what he’s got down there. Enough food to last a lifetime, weapons, bottled water. A little bit, my ass. It’s a goldmine, Jack!”

  “Aw, you said the A-word!”

  “It’s in the Bible,” Norm says, rolling his eyes.

  “Really?” Herb asks.

  “Yeah, it’s an animal,” Norm says.

  Herb chuckles. “Ass, hehe,” under his breath, then covers his mouth. I’m really trying not to laugh, but
it’s hard.

  “That’s nice about Father Michael’s storage,” I say. “But it’s not ours. It’s his. I’m sure he doesn’t want total strangers eating his Ramen noodles and drinking his bottled water.” I turn back to Klein, the question about the plan on my lips.

  “He said we could help ourselves. He likes the company,” Norm continues.

  Klein smiles, clears his throat, and pushes himself up, the bag now slung over his shoulder. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I must use the restroom. This evening seems to have upset my stomach.”

  I get up, too. I’m about a head taller than Klein, looking down at him. “I think that can wait,” I say.

  “Nature calls,” Klein says, his voice higher than usual.

  “Jack,” Norm says. He gives me a harsh look.

  I sit back down. Klein walks up the aisle and as he’s walking, Darlene passes him, coming back from the bathroom herself. “You all right?” she asks him, but he just brushes by her, mumbling something I can’t understand. I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.

  Father Michael is on the altar, flipping through his Bible, but I see his eyes flicking up from the pages every so often.

  “What the hell are you doing, man?” Norm asks in a low voice.

  Darlene slides into the pew behind us, sits next to Abby. “Guess he’s not feeling well,” she says as she looks back over her shoulder at the empty aisle.

  “He knows something,” I say. My hands grip my thighs hard. My knuckles crack. “He knows something he doesn’t want us to know,” I say.

  “You’re just being paranoid,” Norm says. “You need a good night’s sleep and you’ll be fine in the morning.”

  I don’t know how I could sleep with the storm raging outside.

  “C’mon, Jack,” Norm says, getting up. “I’ll show you the Father’s bunker.” He raises his voice now and says, “If that’s okay with you, Mike.”

  Mike gives him a thumbs up. “What’s mine is yours,” he says, smiling.

  Maybe I am just being paranoid. Herb takes to Doc Klein easily enough and we all know Herb is a good judge of character.

  Norm throws his arm around me. We get up and head to the storage. Norm’s about as genial and comforting as a snake when he wants you to do something. That arm around the shoulder is the reason Sheriff Doaks arrested me for stealing Reese’s Cups when I was a kid.

  C’mon, bro, be cool like us. Fit in. Quit being a weirdo.

  I’m old enough now to realize I should follow my own gut, but truth be told, I don’t want to follow my gut. I don’t want to truly know if Klein has something up his sleeve because Klein is who got me through the terror in D.C. He is my savior. My own personal Jesus. Imagine finding out the man or woman you worship and look up to is really the bad guy. It would suck, wouldn’t it?

  “C’mon, bro,” Norm says, sounding almost exactly like his teenage self. “It’s important.”

  “Fine,” I say, sighing. I lean over the pew and look at Darlene. “When Klein comes back, watch him for me.”

  She tilts her head. “What do you mean?”

  “Just keep an eye on him, make sure he’s not doing anything — ” I’m saying, but Norm punches me kind of hard in the arm. I grab the wound. He hits me with his left hand, the one with all the fingers, and it stings. “Ouch!” I say.

  “Quit being paranoid,” Norm says.

  I shake my head. “You’re right,” I say.

  “No shit,” Norm says.

  “AW!” Herb says, bringing an accusing finger up. “That’s not in the Bible!”

  “Can it, Herb,” Norm says.

  Herb does, but he’s still smiling.

  We walk by the altar and Father Micheal starts coming down the steps, pulling keys out of his pocket. Then we go through a set of doors where the smell of the storm and dust hangs in the air.

  19

  Father Michael walks ahead of us as we move through the long, dank hallway.

  “It’s just he won’t show me what’s in the bag,” I’m saying.

  Norm still has his arm around me. His skin is hot beneath his shirt, damp with rainwater and sweat. “Maybe it’s none of your business.”

  “I think it is, especially if we’re his escort. I mean he won’t even bother lying to us,” I say.

  “Trust me, Jack, these military types — and I know this firsthand — are all a bunch of secretive assholes. Who ya think was the cause of this virus?”

  I shrug. “Leering.”

  “Yeah, but who was in charge of Leering? The government, the military, yada, yada. Big wigs, and big wigs have their heads so far up their asses, they can’t smell the real world,” Norm says. “They’re secretive when they’re ending civilization, and I’m damn sure they’re secretive when they’re saving it, ya dig?”

  I nod.

  The hallway curves left toward a stairwell leading down into darkness. The smell of mold and damp is more prominent here. It causes my nose to wrinkle.

  “If Klein has secrets, let him! He just met us after all. He might spill the beans in due time. Just give him space, man. We’ll find out,” Norm says, “because he won’t get to where he’s going without us.” He pats me twice on the back then gets in front of me.

  “Secrets are the devil’s work,” Father Michael says. “There are no secrets in the House of the Lord. He will talk.” The certainty in which Father Michael speaks unnerves me slightly. There are torches on the walls. He pulls a long-nosed lighter out from his pocket and lights one, then he turns the dial, causing the flames to rise.

  What I see causes my jaw to drop and all thoughts of saving the world and Doc Klein go out of the window.

  20

  The back wall is stacked with crates of nonperishable foods. Canned meats, canned corn, peaches, cherries, apples, Ramen noodles. There’s peanut butter, almonds, cashews, protein bars, dry cereals with oats and honey. A box of Twinkies, Ho-Ho’s, Nutter Butters. On the other side are two gallon jugs of Deer Park water, plastic wrapped sixteen ounce bottles. There’s blankets, pillows, spare clothes. There’s soaps, towels, scrubbers and washcloths. Shoes, boots, rubber galoshes, raincoats, ropes. There’s a box just full of gleaming pistols and another box full of ammunition. There’s grenades and blades. And there’s a first aid crate full of bandages, antiseptics, ointments. It’s apocalypse heaven.

  At first glance, you might think Father Michael is a pack rat, but once you’ve scanned through the items, you’d realize Father Michael is a fucking genius.

  Norm smiles. “Yeah, he’s the real deal,” he says, reading my face and my mind.

  Father Michael’s face reddens. I can’t really talk. My lips are moving and there’s a dry clicking sound coming from the back of my throat (death rattle), so all I can do is walk over to the priest and hug him tight.

  He grunts and pats me on the back. “Have as much or as little as you want,” he says, his words choked.

  “How?” I say as we part and I’m able to find my voice. “How the heck did you get all of this?”

  “Well, I have a bit of a guardian angel,” he says, looking up to the cobwebby ceiling. His face suddenly sags. He frowns and a gleam of tears fill his eyes. “But it’s been two weeks since I’ve seen him…or it could be more. I don’t know. Time is different now that it’s not needed.”

  A true statement. I’ve never been a firm believer in the alarm clock, but now that no one needs one — hell, there’s barely any electricity around to power them — it’s just weird thinking about time. No appointments need to be kept. No one’s late for work. You just get up with the sun and try to stay off the roads when the sun goes down. The zombies don’t care about time. They won’t wait until it’s supper to pounce on you and devour you.

  “Last I saw of old Georgie, he was making a trip up to Albany. He’d gone there before, but he always came back. I’d hear him in the air. You know it’s so quiet,” Father Michael says, “that you hear everything.”

  “Well, that’s a long ride,�
�� Norm says, trying to comfort the priest. “If he’s visiting family — ”

  “No, he didn’t drive,” Father Michael says. He looks at Norm and smiles at Norm’s puzzlement.

  “You mean he walked?” Norm asks, face twisted up.

  “He heard him in the air, Norm,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  “No, no. He flew,” Father Michael says.

  Norm gives me a look now that says this guy is crazy, like the priest honestly believes his friend has sprouted wings and flew to New York.

  “It’s just a small thing, nothing like the commercial airliners that used to rattle the windowpanes,” Father Michael says. “He has a few planes. He worked at the Butain County Airport. It’s not anything wondrous and was mostly used for private flights and flying lessons before…” he trails off and crosses the room, grabs a Butterfinger from an open crate, unwraps it, and takes a bite. “Alas, I fear something has happened to him.” He looks up at us. Norm stands next to me now, the flames causing shadows to dance on his face.

  “It’s dangerous out there, damn right, but I’m sure he’s okay,” Norm says. He stands on tiptoe to peer into the crate the priest now leans on. “You got any more of those candy bars?”

  I elbow Norm.

  “What?” he says, eyes wide, “I’m starving.”

  “Help yourself,” Father Michael says.

  I hear footsteps coming down the corridor. I turn, my hand going for my gun — that’s the way it is now. Every out of place noise. Every step. Every creak. We can’t afford any surprises.

  Father Michael must see me because he puts his hand up and shakes his head. “None of those come here,” he says. “They have moved on.”

  Sure they have. The zombies are gone until they’re beating the door down and killing us all.

  The footsteps belong to — much to my surprise — Doc Klein. He has a somber look on his face. The messenger bag hangs down by this pointy hip, slung across his body. He rubs the back of his neck and won’t look up to meet my eyes.