Jack Zombie (Book 4): Dead Coast Read online

  DEAD COAST

  JACK ZOMBIE #4

  FLINT MAXWELL

  Copyright © 2017 by Flint Maxwell

  Cover design by CRD

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions email: [email protected]

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The author greatly appreciates you taking the time to read his work.

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  To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.

  FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE

  1

  Fire rages.

  Doc Klein no longer sleeps in the seat next to me. He’s up now, clutching that damn bag to his chest, his eyes practically bulging from behind his thin, blood spattered glasses.

  I step on the gas pedal harder. I feel the floor beneath it, the thrumming vibrations of the Hummer’s engine going into overdrive. The road ahead of us is now lit up with golden sunshine. The grass has that fresh Spring-green color. Trees going by in a blur have sprouted new leaves and with them, a new lease on life.

  But not for me.

  “Watch out!” Doc Klein yells. His finger points at what’s beyond the dusty windshield. My heart no longer hammers in my chest. It’s frozen. That weird feeling of zero gravity hits me, like I’ve reached the apex and soon I’ll fall.

  I see Klein point at the curve in the road and the metal barrier blocking the asphalt from the forest.

  I saw it a long time ago. If we go around the curve, it’ll add an extra ten minutes to our trip. I don’t have ten minutes to spare. Hell, I don’t even have ten seconds. My family is in danger, in the middle of a war zone. I have to get to them, now.

  “You’re going to kill us!” he shouts.

  “Not likely,” I answer.

  I look to my left and see the black smoke rising, the inky black smoke, and I know then that time is an illusion.

  Klein screams now, turns in his seat so it looks like he’s spooning with the messenger bag. My hands grip the steering wheel so hard, I’m making new impressions on it.

  At the last possible second, I ease up on the gas.

  It makes no difference.

  The metal barrier is a blur as it goes up and over the windshield. I’m dimly aware that I’m screaming now, too. Glass tinkles. Metal crunches.

  The Hummer moves through the trees at around thirty mph. I’m careful to avoid the really large and thick ones. A metal barrier is nothing compared to Mother Nature — she’d surely sign my death certificate and not bat an eye while doing it.

  “Holy shit, you’re a mad man! They said I was crazy but you are truly — ” Klein babbles.

  “Can it,” I say. I don’t need to listen to any bull crap. I need to focus.

  The landscape slowly descends. Soon, we’ll be in the part of the forest where Croghan and some of the other Wranglers and I were attacked by zombies. The same part where Abby was bitten.

  Abby, I think, a queasy feeling invading my stomach.

  “What’s happening?” Klein demands. “Talk to me! Talk to me!”

  “Shit’s happening,” I say.

  “If you saved me just to kill me…I don’t get it!” A cluster of trees rise from the hill, blocking my view of the village in front of us. There’s no way I can go through them.

  “Damn it,” I say, stopping the car and throwing it into reverse. I turn to look over my shoulder and Klein grabs me.

  “Talk to me!” he says. “Please!”

  “No time.”

  “A man who rushes only rushes to his death,” Klein says.

  Screw that.

  The Hummer’s tires kick up rocks and sticks and dirt.

  Klein grips harder. “Talk to me!”

  “My family is down in that village,” I say, cutting the wheel. “And I’m stuck in the fucking woods with Bambi and a crying doctor.”

  “Jack,” Klein says, and the way he says it causes me to hit the brakes…well, that and the fact I’m driving a Hummer and not a wood-chipper. “If the village is under attack — ”

  No, Klein, don’t you dare say it. I have the urge to punch something. I feel trapped inside of a small box — claustrophobic, belittled. “If you tell me it’s too late, Klein, I swear to God I’m going to break your nose.”

  Klein shakes his head. He shows no fear and rightfully so. Who would be afraid of me? It’s the reason I’m in this mess in the first place. Trying to scare Froggy into being a better person. Laughable. Hilarious.

  Now look at me.

  “I wasn’t going to say that,” Klein says. I believe him. “I was going to say if you are outnumbered, it’s probably not your best bet to announce your arrival such as this way. Are you going to drive this behemoth into the flames, get out of the car with your pistol, and hope for the best?”

  I’m at a loss for words. He’s right. I look down at my hands on the steering wheel. They’re no longer clenched, now they’re lose and shaking.

  “Will you help?” I ask.

  Klein looks at me with intense eyes. For a moment, I think I do see fear, but then it’s gone. “You saved me, didn’t you, Jack?”

  I nod. “I had to.”

  “You didn’t have to do anything,” he says. “None of us do. That’s the beautiful thing about life. Everything is a choice.”

  I look away at the endless trees separating me from the village, but through the dense woods, I see the flames, moving bodies, and the smoke.

  “I’ll help you, Jack,” he says. “Then I’m on my way.”

  I nod. “Thank you.”

  He gets out of the car, slinging the messenger bag over his shoulder. I get out after him. I still have the pistol in my holster, the one that only has a bullet left and is covered in dried zombie brains. It’s not much, practically nothing at all, but it’s all I have.

  And I know I’ll make use of it.

  I lead the way, running through the bramble and sticks. Klein and I head toward the battlefield.

  2

  The closer we get, the more I smell the flames, the blackened buildings, the charred meat, and the more the momentary hope in my chest gets smaller and smaller. I see the husks of old structures, places I was at no less than twenty-four hours ago. The fences are downed in at least five spots that I can see. There’s a flipped SUV about thirty paces from the way I entered with Abby in my arms yesterday. Smoking bodies. People squirming and screaming. Gunfire.

  My pace picks up and with it, the hole in my leg from the meat thermometer. Klein is behind me, how far behind I don’t know and I’m not going to look back.

  I’m coming up on Mother’s hut. It’s just smoldering remains now. Seeing this almost stops me. All feeling goes out of my legs and feet. I don’t feel the ground beneath my boots or the cold metal of the bloody gun in my hands. I can’t linger though. As much as I want to search through this place for her, I can’t. I have to find my family first. She would understand.

  But where do I go? Where the fuck do I go? I can’t hardly see anything. People are running through yards and walkways, some with guns, some screaming, and some burning. Who’s on my side? Who isn’t?

  There are bodies at my feet, some are still smoking, all are bleeding. I can’t look down at them be
cause I’m too afraid of who it will be.

  God, help me.

  I run through the bandstand. The wood and rubble clatter. I’m on a beaten path. Then it comes to me. I know where I’m going. I was always going this way, my brain just finally caught up to my feet.

  The med center.

  That’s where they would go, that’s where they’d go to get Abby.

  If they’re not there, then the armory.

  I stop.

  There are two bodies strewn on the path. One of them moves. I slow down as my heart revs up.

  Not dead. But who is it? Who is —

  “Help,” a man says.

  It’s not a voice I recognize.

  More screams from farther away. Intermittent bursts of gunfire. I risk a glance behind me, see Klein moving in the distance, just now hitting the ruined remains of the bandstand. He clutches that bag to his chest so he can’t pump his arms.

  “Help meeee,” the voice again. The man is face down, the back of his head is slick with blood and mud — bloodmud. “Marian,” he says. “Marian.”

  I need to keep going, but I can’t. This man has seen me and I’ve seen him. He is hurt and maybe I can help.

  The doctor reaches me, breathing hard and fast. His face is red. Sweat droplets stand out on his forehead and gaunt cheeks like pearls.

  “Jack,” he says. “Jack, what did you get me into?”

  I barely hear him, but I understand. The chaos is just chaos from far away. When you get close, when you get into the heart of the heat and the smell of death and blood flood your nostrils and that screaming pierces your eardrums, it’s so different. It’s not chaos then. No. It’s hell.

  “Help him,” I say.

  Klein gives me a sobering look. “Help him?” He shakes his head. “Jack, look at him.”

  I don’t want to. I don’t want to because if I look back down at the man who is bleeding at my feet, he might change. He might become Norm or Herb or someone I recognize. I don’t want that. I feel like vomiting. I feel like crying.

  God, help me.

  The man tries to push himself up. He is kind of fat and his arms quiver as he does so. It is now that I see the blade handle sticking out from his solar plexus; a steady stream of goopy blood flows down it. His arms give out just as he says (or shrieks), “Marian!”

  I try to catch him, but he drops like a sack of bricks. As he hits the ground, he screams in pain. The blade handle buries itself farther into him. More blood.

  “Mari — ”

  And he dies right there on the spot.

  I blink away tears. I don’t know why. Yes I do. This is my fault. This is all my fault. I look around at the death and destruction and the missing members of my family and I can’t help but think that this is all my fault. Because of Froggy. Because I let him go. I should’ve killed that son of a bitch the moment I saw him.

  “Jack,” Klein says. His voice is loud; it has to be, because a building is roaring with flames and caving in on itself and beyond that a child is screaming out for his mother and a man dies shrieking Marian! But when Klein talks I barely hear him. My ears are somewhere else, reaching out across all the destruction, searching for a voice I recognize, or a scream or a whimper.

  But deep down I know none of them would scream or whimper, not even Herb. They’re all strong. They’re all alive.

  I flip the man at my feet over. His eyes are open, but he’s not seeing anything. This unnerves me. I don’t stop or pull away. I can’t. All I have is a gun with one bullet and a doctor who has the secrets of the universe in his messenger bag. I grab the knife handle. It is slick with the man’s blood. I pull it free, feeling like King Arthur excavating Excalibur from the stone. It’s only after the blade comes out that I realize I am screaming. The man’s blood spurts from his wound, misting my face, making me look like a crazy bastard.

  I feel like a crazy bastard, too.

  And when I scream louder and hold the bloody blade above my head while I run toward the med center, I prove that I am.

  3

  The med center is on fire and seeing this makes me pump my legs harder.

  “Stop,” Klein hisses behind me. “You can’t just go at them with no plan.”

  The sizzling of the flames, the snapping and cracking of wood and breaking glass are louder than his voice, but his has a way of carrying, or knifing right into my brain.

  “Don’t you see?” he asks.

  I’m running toward the smoking med center.

  All I see is red, and it’s not flames.

  “They’re everywhere. Open your eyes, Jack. Open them!” he says.

  He’s right. I stop. Men dressed in the ragged garb buzz through the pathways like busy bees. They run into the chaos. These are the enemies. These are the ones I’m after.

  I slow down as I really see this and Klein grabs me. He is not a strong man, neither am I. He pulls me behind the ruined husk of a house. Inside the destruction, I see a bed melted to the floor. Pictures curled and singed, barely discernible. It hurts. It hurts to see it, to smell it, to taste it. I can’t look long. I move to go again, but Klein holds me back.

  He points to the med center. Outside, in what would be the front yard, three large men in the rags of cannibals drag writhing bodies from the flames. They each have weapons. Not knives, but guns. Big guns. The people they are dragging are putting up a good fight and losing.

  Through the smoke, I can’t see who they are, just shadows. Then a fourth figure comes forward and I see a large hump. It takes me a moment to realize that it’s more than one person. They are dragging something as large as an elephant.

  My heart flutters. The dread consuming me seems to dissipate if only for just a moment. But it comes back once I hear the big man crying out.

  It’s Herb.

  I want nothing more than to rush the building, but all I have is a knife and a gun with one bullet. That wouldn’t be smart. I look to Klein, who is pale despite the orange flames bathing his face, then I look beyond him where the armory barely stands in the distance.

  “The armory,” I say.

  Klein nods. “Now you’re thinking,” he says.

  I turn to run and I realize I’m going back the way I came, but I have to. For my family.

  4

  The armory is blazing. There are three bodies in the front lawn. I was here less than twenty-four hours ago when the the building looked like an equipment shed, painted a forest green with a red door. And now…now it’s nothing but a blackened husk of wood.

  The three people who are dead on the front lawn might’ve made a last ditch effort to grab the heavy artillery, but they didn’t make it.

  Heat engulfs me as I get closer. Over the roar of the flames, I hear Klein’s whimpering. Smoke is thick over here. It stings my eyes, makes my throat feel like it’s closing up. I keep going and I go right to the bodies. I turn them over one by one while gunfire ripples in the distance behind me. I don’t even shudder at the sound.

  I exhale each time I turn a corpse over. Here, is a man with a half-burned gray beard; there, is a woman with green streaks in her black hair; and last, is a young kid, more ash then skin. I almost feel like vomiting, but it’s not any of my family.

  I turn back to the armory.

  The door is open. I stick the gun with one bullet into my waistband. It’s cold against my skin.

  A quick glance inside tells me the place has been cleaned out. There’s a few weapons, but nothing for me to really defend myself with.

  Damn it.

  I get about three feet past the threshold when the roof above starts straining. I have my shirt over my mouth, trying to filter out the black smoke. I’m getting lightheaded. The walls are bare, there’s blood on the floor. A few melee weapons, but nothing that will help me save the day.

  I start coughing, really hacking to the point where I think I’m going to cough up a lung. I run back outside, the blade from the dead man back on the path in my hand. I’m about two steps out of the buil
ding.

  It groans, a real deep, lurching kind of sound. A dying sound. Then the building collapses.

  I feel a great breeze of hot fire as it crumbles. I jump forward. Klein is already running for it. The hair on the back of my head singes. I feel trapped in an oven.

  Then it passes and I get up because I’m not going to sit around feeling sorry for myself. I’m going to save the fucking day.

  “Come on!” I say to Klein who is cowered up against an adjacent building.

  “Jack — ” he says, voice cut off. He is frozen, a deer in the headlights. “Oh, no,” he says.

  He stares at something behind me. I turn my head to look. It’s a group of men. They run toward us. I back up until I hit the building Klein is against. I’m readying my pistol. Preparing for a fight.

  Klein grabs me and I think he’s going for my gun, but he doesn’t. His hands dig into my pocket. “Hey, what the fuck?” I shout.

  He pulls the keys to the Hummer free, not saying a word. He is fast, lightning fast. By the time my hands snatches at him, the keys are gone and Klein spins off the building and runs through the labyrinth of fire. This time, he pumps his arms and it makes all the difference.

  “Get him!” one of the men shout.

  I spin around. It’s too late. The men have closed the gap. I’m no match for the gun that whirls through the air and cracks me on the bridge of the nose. Pain explodes up my face. Something splinters. The warm flow of blood runs from the wound and into my mouth. I fall to my knees.

  “Thought you got ‘em all,” a man says.

  “Guess not,” another one answers.

  “Hey, is that my knife? I was looking for that.”

  I’m trying to get up, but I’m feeling the earth’s rotation beneath my feet. It’s like I’m drunk and standing on a waterbed.

  “Thank you!” one of the men say. The knife is ripped from my hands. I open my eyes and stare at them through a sheen of blood. My blood.

  There’s three of them, the fourth one took off after Klein.