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

by Flint Maxwell

  “Hey, Doc!” Norm says. “Look at all this loot!”

  The Doc nods, but largely ignores my older brother. He finally looks up at me. I see his eyes flinch, just a moment’s worth of hesitation. “Jack, I wanted to apologize,” he says, sticking out his hand.

  I just look at it.

  “Apologize for what?” I ask.

  “For the way I acted — the way I’ve been acting,” he says.

  Father Klein shifts uncomfortably, but I see his eyes are distant as if he’s thinking about his friend George.

  “No need to apologize,” I say. “A man’s entitled to his own thoughts and opinions…and, I guess, secrets.”

  I walk past him, leaving him standing there with his hand out. No, I didn’t shake it, and no, I still don’t think he’s being totally honest with me.

  But as I’m leaving, I hear him ask if they were talking about airplanes and how Klein’s father flew fighter planes in World War II and how he always dreamt of flying planes himself. Michael says something about his friend George and the Butain Airport and the aircraft there.

  I couldn’t give two shits.

  21

  As I walk back to the church’s main part, I hear a voice that wipes the frown from my face. In fact, it causes me to smile, smile wide. It’s Abby’s voice, and she’s saying, “I feel fine, Darlene, seriously. You can get your hand off my forehead. It smells like beef jerky.”

  My pace picks up.

  Firelight spills out from around the corner. Darlene has since lit a few candles to combat the growing darkness outside.

  When I get there, I see Abby is sitting up. She still has blankets wrapped around her body and she looks considerably thinner, but she’s sitting up. By God, she’s alive! Her stump is hidden beneath the blankets and she holds the bundle with her right hand.

  “Hey!” she calls when she sees me.

  I’m beaming, my face more teeth than flesh.

  “Abby!” I shout.

  Herb sits next to her, his large arm draped over her shoulder. On the other side is Darlene, her face uneasy.

  “‘Bout time you woke up, kid,” I say.

  “Don’t call me a kid. You’re only about nine years older than me,” she says. She gets up now, shedding the blankets. Beneath her clothes, her body looks frail. Her back slightly hunches, and her bandaged stump is a queer pink color. When she walks, she has a slight limp. I really try not to notice because it’s heartbreaking to see her like this. But I keep reminding myself it could be worse. She could be out in the cemetery next to Mother or she could be in the rotten bowels of some undead nightmare.

  We hug and Darlene says, “Careful, Jack!”

  I ignore her and so does Abby.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask as we part.

  Abby smiles wanly. “I’ve been better, that’s for damn sure.” She brings the stump up and examines it with all the scrutiny of a scientist studying some new specimen. “And this is pretty freaking weird.”

  “It’ll be okay,” I say. But it won’t. It’ll take getting used to. I couldn’t imagine being without my hand. Poor Abby.

  She shrugs. “Yeah, it will. Could be worse.”

  “Abby, you really shouldn’t be up. Come back over here and rest,” Darlene says.

  With her good hand, Abby waves Darlene off.

  The storm outside seems to be subsiding. Sheets of rain which were rocking the roof and drenching the stained-glass windows have slowed to a dribble. But it’s dark out and I know I said time doesn’t matter and all, but I’m getting tired.

  As if on cue, Darlene yawns and yawning is about as contagious as whatever this zombie disease is. Herb yawns and then I yawn. The exhaustion hits me full force.

  Not long after Abby’s and I’s reunion, Norm and Doc Klein come back from Father Michael’s storage below the church’s structure. Norm is happy to see Abby, but he won’t admit it. He says something along the lines of I knew you’d make it, Abby and you’re a tough son of a b — gun.

  We laugh for awhile. We talk for awhile. Father Michael tells us the sad tale of what happened to the town of Butain and we all put on sad faces. Truth is, what happened to Butain isn’t any different than what happened to a million small towns all over the world. Someone got sick and died and came back, that someone bit someone else and that person got sick and on and on until everyone was eating everyone and the world seemed to be ending. He also tells us of his friend George and how he’d been wanting to go down to the airstrip and check on him but has been too afraid. He knows there’s dead in the town — just not as many as there once was — and he thinks once he’s off the church’s grounds, whatever holy charm has kept him safe this long will be broken.

  Norm tells him because he let us stay here and he let us bury our dead, that we would go down to the airstrip with him when the sun rises tomorrow and check on his friend…just as long as Father Michael was willing to share the rest of his Butterfingers, to which Father Michael replies, “What’s mine is yours,” a sentiment he’s been expressing since we’ve arrived. It bothers me. I’m all for helping people, but sometimes, I think you can do too much of a good thing. Besides, Norm didn’t even ask for my thoughts on the matter.

  I have to say I’m not happy with either Norm right now or Doc Klein who is listening to our conversation near the altar with that stupid bag at his feet.

  Father Michael nods and smiles and asks Norm if he means it, will we really go on down to the airstrip to check on his friend? Norm doesn’t even look at me for approval. He just says sure thing.

  22

  We are supposed to be sleeping, now. Father Michael said he would take the first watch, seeing how we are his guests and all. I can see him at the front of the church. A single candle glares near the pulpit where he sits and reads his Good Book, or some book — but I’m guessing it’s the Bible.

  Darlene is above me. She sleeps on a pew. Abby is across the aisle on that pew. She took awhile to get back to sleep and she talked a mile a minute after she asked us to catch her up. So many questions. I did my best to give her the scoop. She said she remembered fighting the zombies at the top of the hill and how there were so many — there always are. She remembered getting bitten, likened it to having your skin dipped in kerosene then lit on fire only to be cooled off with dry ice. She said she remembered seeing an older man above her with a blade who cut her hand off — that would be Jacob, I told her, rest in peace. She remembered reading one of those crappy girl magazines (her words) like Cosmo or People because she woke up in the middle of the night with pain and Phyllis was asleep and Brittany was somewhere else and not out in the front with a paperback. That was when she heard the gunshots. A barrage of them, and it sounded like they were right outside her window, they were that loud. Then she heard something louder than the gunshots and that was cars hitting the fence from all sides. Some of them got through; some of them didn’t. But in the end, I knew what happened. I came upon the aftermath when I got back from D.C.

  I was beginning to feel guilty because I’d stopped off and parked on the side of the road and fell asleep for a couple hours and if I’d not done that then maybe I could’ve been there to help fight them. Abby assured me it wouldn’t have made a difference. All of this crap went down while I was still in the big city. I know I said time doesn’t matter, but it did when she told me that. Besides, I saved them — not the whole village, but my family — and I hate to say it, but that’s all that matters.

  No, I’m not up in the middle of the night because I’m guilty or anything like that. I’ve learned to live with guilt, for the most part. The reason I’m up while everyone else is sleeping is because I had the most terrifying dream.

  It was bad enough for me to wake with a start, my fingernails digging into the wooden back of the pew in front of me. I didn’t hear Father Michael turn a page in his book for a long time. We aren’t on good enough terms for him to actually come over and check on me. Anyway, the dream. I can’t get it out of my head.
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  I lean out of the aisle again to check that he is still there. And he is. Doc Klein hasn’t moved since the last time I checked on him and that was around half an hour ago. He sleeps with his glasses off in the farthest pew. He doesn’t sleep with covers over him, just that stupid bag full of top secret information that has something to do with the Mojave Desert.

  I hate him right now. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t, but my dream was about Doc Klein and his bag.

  It was one of those dreams that make running from the living dead seem tame. The living dead, I can at least outrun or bash their heads in or blow them up by way of a found grenade.

  The fire that consumes the world, well, that I can’t outrun.

  I’m getting up now because I’m letting the fake fire consume me in reality. Darlene stirs, opens her eyes. She looks sleepy and I must look worse than I feel — which is saying a lot — because Darlene shoots up.

  “What’s wrong?” she says in a harsh whisper.

  “Nothing, go back to bed,” I say.

  “Zombies?” she asks and it’s almost as casual as if she were asking if I was feeling under the weather. I hate to hear her say it. Zombies. It’s now become a bad word and it sounds ugly coming from her pretty lips. I wish life wasn’t like this. I wish it was how it used to be where if Darlene woke up, it would be because I was getting up from my desk to get a snack or a drink. The zombies she’d ask about would be the ones in the book I’d be currently writing. Not real ones.

  “No,” I say, shaking my head.

  The light at the end of the aisle, Father Michael’s lone candle, flickers and starts growing closer.

  In the dream, the fire came from a button and the Devils were below ground — not as far as Hell, but deep enough. I remember the cave’s jagged teeth and the moisture dripping somewhere far off in the darkness, the beads of water on the handrails. I remember them chanting in their slithery tongue, but I can’t remember what they were saying. I remember them bowing down to Klein and the horns sprouting from his head, his true face showing. He finally unveiled what was in his bag in my dream and to tell you the truth, I wasn’t surprised when I saw it.

  I was heartbroken, but not surprised.

  My savior turned out to be a destroyer.

  I’m crossing the aisle now, ignoring Father Michael’s questions. Are you all right? Why does he have a gun?

  And I don’t know how I have a gun. I don’t know when I picked it up or unholstered it. I’m sure I didn’t sleep with it actually in my hands, did I? Then the face from my dream hovers in front of me again — this one ten times worse than Froggy’s after I riddled it with bullet holes.

  It’s Klein’s face, but it’s the face of the Devil. And the Devil carries around a button that will destroy the world, that will bathe us in fire, turn us to ash.

  That will bring Hell on earth.

  I stand at the end of Klein’s pew. His eyes flick open at the sound of Norm’s voice yelling, “Jack, what the fuck are you doing?”

  I don’t know what I’m doing, but I don’t answer my older brother. That slithery voice is laughing at me while the dormant nuclear missiles are slowly awakening.

  I grab Klein’s bag. He grips it with a dead man’s hand. I’m too fast, too strong, too determined.

  I should’ve done this a long time ago. Really, I should’ve and I should know by now to check all of my bases.

  Then, the voice of reason is speaking in my head and it’s saying, It’s just a silly dream, Jack.

  But is it?

  23

  “Please,” Klein is saying, “please, I didn’t know, I swear.” He has both hands up and he’s shaking his head. Tears spill from the corners of his eyes.

  Bullshit. If he didn’t know, he wouldn’t be so protective of the bag. It wasn’t just a silly dream. No way.

  What I hold in my hands is not a button that will end the world — it’s not that simple — and it’s not something I can fully comprehend. My mind is not advanced enough to decipher the technobabble printed in the files. It is smart enough to see the signature at the bottom of one of the sheets; it’s the President’s. And the technobabble is called PROJECT RESET, written in red ink.

  It starts with: “In the event of a global scale catastrophe…” and that’s all I need to read before my stomach clenches with nausea. I bend over, but I don’t let my gun leave Klein’s face.

  “What is it?” Darlene shrieks.

  Herb is crying somewhere in the corner. Father Michael is close enough for me to feel the warmth of his candle and the smell of melting wax. Norm rips the file out of my hand. He’s not careful and a few pages spill and are lost in the dark shadows around our feet.

  “What is going on?” Abby shouts, her voice sleepy, her hair tousled. Herb continues to cry, the sobs growing louder.

  “Tell me this is a lie,” Norm says. His voice is very steady and very calm. I wish it was a lie, I truly do.

  “Uh,” Klein grunts. He’s still shaking his head, which is two horns short of a nightmare. Then he brings his hands up to his face and starts sobbing himself. “I-I — ”

  “Gimme the gun, Jack,” Norm says.

  “No,” I’m saying, and it doesn’t even sound like me. I can barely stand up straight. “The bastard needs to die. We need to burn this stuff.”

  “There will be no killing in my church!” Father Michael shouts. His voice is strong. I imagine it’s his preaching voice. It bounces off the walls and echoes up toward the roof.

  We largely ignore him.

  “I know, Jack,” Norm says, “but I’m going to be the one to do it.” I really don’t care who does it as long as Project Reset is prevented.

  “Y-You don’t understand,” Klein says between sobs. “It’s the only way. There’s no cure. There’s no coming back from this…whatever this is.”

  Bullshit, again. How many zombie books and movies have I consumed where there was a cure? If we live in a world where the dead can rise, then we also live in a world where some scientist can cook up a solution.

  “You liar!” I shout, jamming the gun in his face. I feel tears stinging my eyes. “You were supposed to save us. I trusted you.”

  “Gimme the gun, Jack,” Norm says. “You’re shaking so much you’re liable to miss. Besides, you don’t want to get blood on Father Michael’s nice walls.” I’m still in awe of how calm his voice is.

  Now, Darlene starts crying. It’s enough for me to take my eyes off Klein. I turn my head and see how haggard and pale Father Michael looks. I can’t imagine I look much better.

  “So gimme the gun, little bro,” Norm says again.

  Herb goes on crying.

  Abby gets up and goes over to comfort him. We aren’t in immediate danger, not anymore. I won’t call it prescience or knowing the future or any of that fantastical bullshit, but I will call my dream about Doc Klein a hunch. That’s all. And maybe I’ll indulge myself with thinking Mother is paying me a visit from the afterlife.

  Abby hugs Herb, who buries his face in her chest. He sobs so hard — now muffled — that she jumps up and down with his movements. Darlene has her hand gripped on my bicep. She’s squeezing hard, digging her nails into me. She doesn’t want bloodshed, either. I think to myself, do we have to kill Klein? Do we really have to kill him? Can’t we just let him go? He won’t make it on his own and without his precious bag, we’ll save the world. Then that voice of reason is talking to me again, saying, Yeah, Jack, let him go and those loose ends will come back to hang you. You want that? You want what Froggy did to that nice little village to happen to the entire world? All because you want to be the good guy and let this mousy, rat bastard walk. No, Jack, you aren’t that dumb. Listen to me. Listen to your gut just like you listened to me about the dream.

  I cock the pistol. Norm steps away. He must know I mean business.

  Klein slides off of the pew now, lands on his knees with a bone-jarring thump. He’s got his hands up again, saying, “Please, please, you don’t unders
tand. They are going to save the good ones — ”

  But that’s as far as he gets because I press the gun to his head.

  24

  Klein is more of a rat bastard then I initially realize.

  He bends over, almost as if he were about to pray for God to give him peace in death or some bullshit like that, and as he’s going down, his fist strikes out in front of him like a rattlesnake catching a mouse.

  He hits me so hard below the belt, I feel something pop and move in a way it probably shouldn’t. I have become stronger since the world ended, but I’m not strong enough to withstand a shot to the balls…yet. And they’ve already had their fair share of torment not even twenty-four hours ago — fucking cannibals.

  So I double over again. Not before I squeeze the trigger and shoot up into the rafters. A chunk of ceiling cascades down upon us. My ears feel like they’re bursting with the sound. Herb graduates from sobbing to screaming. Next thing I know, Father Michael drops the candle and the carpet lights with flame. Darlene screeches and dances over the fire, stomping and trying to put it out.

  Then Klein shouts, “Stop moving!”

  We do because he somehow has my gun. My vision blurs and my groin is on fire. Norm tries to rush over to where his stuff is, to probably grab his gun — Never sleep without it nearby, little bro — and winds up being unsuccessful.

  There’s much more of us than him and I think about advancing on the Doc despite the pain and the icy fear freezing my joints, but he grabs Father Michael around the throat and presses the gun to his head.

  “You don’t understand,” Klein says.

  “Now, Klein, there’s no need,” I say. My words are choked out by the pain below my belt.

  “Yeah, there is. They’re going to let me live with them. They’re going to let me be a founding father of a new society after the bombs drop,” he says.