The Jack Zombie Collection: Volume 1, page 25
I look over to Darlene, Abby, and Norm. They are all looking at me with shocked expressions on their faces. I just shrug and head out to the backyard where that big, beautiful tree sways in the light breeze.
I find a shovel near the shed, and I begin to dig.
I dug until the sun started to go down. Not long after my shovel had hit the dirt, Abby, Darlene, and Norm came out to help me. We dug two graves, side by side, right in the tree’s shade.
At first, they questioned me, but once I told them about the bodies in the basement, they understood and went right to work. Tony and Brian Richards, like the rest of the world, have begun to lose their sanity. Their loved ones rotted away in the basement of an abandoned farmhouse. If it isn’t for us, I believe they would take their own lives. Norm, Darlene, and Abby agree with me.
There is already enough death in this world. If we have any hope of surviving this plague, we must help each other out, we must keep each other alive.
Norm and I helped Tony and Brian wrap Wendy and Ben Richards into sheets. They said their goodbyes. We helped carry them up the steps. They weighed next to nothing and I hardly noticed the smell.
We laid them to rest before the sun went down.
Tony and Ben helped cover them up.
We all cried.
And the remaining members of the Richards family moved on.
As the group gathers up what remaining belongings we left in the farmhouse, Tony and I stand on the front porch. He has two beers in his hand and he gives one to me.
It is cold.
It’s been too long since I’ve had a cold drink. I almost cry.
“Thank you,” I say. I down it in three big gulps.
He smiles at me. I notice how much younger he looks. In just the span of a few hours, it seems as if a huge weight had been lifted from Tony Richards’s shoulders. “No. Thank you,” he says.
He shakes my hand.
Darlene comes out with Norm and Abby behind her. We have all our stuff ready to go. Eden is our next stop. I don’t care what stands in our way. We are getting to safety — true safety, not a farmhouse without borders, but a safe haven.
Tony looks them up and down, the happiness on his face melting away. “Anyway I can talk you guys out of it?”
I shake my head. “We’ve come too far. If it’s like you say it is, then we will fix it.”
“It is, Jack,” he says. “And you might not be able to fix it.” He pauses, sensing my seriousness, then says, “You may be able to scavenge in Sharon. I don’t think Spike and his army have taken much from there yet. Grab all the weapons and medicine you can find. You will need it.”
“We’ll see,” I say.
“Sorry I can’t offer you more help, but you understand.”
I nod.
Tony did not have weapons to spare aside from a sniper’s rifle none of us really knew how to use. Norm claimed he did, but I think that was the booze talking.
“What about the car? You sure you don’t want to take it?” Tony asks.
I shake my head. “No, you keep that sweet ride. Walking is good, less noise, less attraction.”
“True,” he says.
“Well,” I say, “it was nice to meet you and your son. May your days be long and prosperous.”
Tony smiles. “And yours, too,” he says as he begins to shake our hands and say his goodbyes to Darlene, Norm, and Abby.
“Got anymore of that booze?” Norm asks.
Tony chuckles.
Abby grabs Norm’s arm and drags him away. “You’re never drinking again,” she says.
I walk off the porch, and give Tony one last wave.
I am leading my group to the small town of Sharon. Beyond that is Eden and what Eden holds in store for us, I do not know. But we will find out.
12
We walk in silence down the same dirt road we entered. All we have are two guns between us and a bag of blunt weapons.
All signs of last night’s storm have vanished. That’s Florida for you. Back in Ohio, a summer thunderstorm would leave the ground sopping wet and the sky a depressing gray for a couple of days. Not the case here. Now, the sun shines and the sky is a clear blue. There’s a few clouds which look like puffs of white smoke floating lazily above us. No storm on the horizon.
I think that's a good sign.
The perfect sign to combat the bad ones I saw in the farmhouse. Seeing the two corpses and seeing how it affected Tony — bringing him to a sobbing shell of a man — and Brian hurt me more than I care to admit. In The Deadslayer, Johnny Dunbar is a character I tried to write without emotional attachments because that is the perfect character to go around bashing zombie skulls. Turned out, that I couldn’t do it in fiction so how could I do it in real life?
Everyone cares about somebody — something — and to try to deny that would make us as bad as the zombies themselves.
But it’s so much harder trying to survive with the people you care about. Any small thing can ruin it — an impromptu stay at a crazy man’s farmhouse, a morning stroll in the fog, a bottle of pure absinthe that fucks your militarily-skilled older brother up beyond recognition.
Abby breaks the silence as she is so apt to do. “What if he is right?” she asks. “Like what if this Spike guy is crazy and Eden is a madhouse.”
I look at her, my face a stone slate of seriousness. “Then we’ll deal with it. We didn’t come all this way and go through all this shit to give up now.”
“Damn right,” Norm says. “It happens and we deal with it. We all saw it back in Indianapolis. People go crazy when shit hits the fan, it’s a basic law of the universe. That’s why we can’t let it get to us.”
I nod.
Norm smirks. “By the way, little brother, that was a good thing you did back there with Tony.” He scratches his sunburned neck, a gesture that tells me he’s going to give me praise. He’s never really comfortable when it comes to that. “Helping them, I mean. If that would’ve been me who saw a couple of mutilated corpses in the basement of the house I slept in the night before I woulda shot first and asked questions later.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I just saw how bad they were, how bad they were getting. I remembered when I buried Mother, I felt a little better. Not a whole lot, but it took me in the right direction.”
Norm nods and claps me on the back. “You’re a good man, Jack. Smart, too. Always have been.”
I smile at him.
“Sorry, that booze messed me up. Haven’t drank like that since Bangkok. Whew. My head is still spinning.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say.
Abby and Darlene snort, holding back laughter. I look at them and they both are grinning ear-to-ear. “Still,” Abby says, “it was funny seeing you like that.”
Norm smiles back and gives her a playful punch on the arm. “Can it, Abby,” he says, then starts rubbing at his head.
We walk for what seems like half an hour, joking, laughing, and almost forgetting what dangers lie ahead of us. But through all of this, our eyes are sharp, always scanning the surroundings for enemies — human or zombie.
The neglect of these roads is clearly visible in they myriad of cracks running through them. The white line in the middle faded. Grass grows from between the deeper splits in the asphalt. No car has driven these streets in a long time. A tree has fallen across the way about thirty feet ahead of us.
We go over it carefully. It reminds me of the tree behind the farmhouse where Wendy and Ben Richards are now buried beneath.
Darlene puts her hand on the small of my back, leans in and kisses me on the cheek. She can always read what’s on my mind. Sometimes I hate it — it never lets me win fights…never — and sometimes I love it.
Especially now. Maybe everything will be okay.
13
We get to the town about fifteen minutes later. The town is called Sharon, but someone has so cleverly crossed out the name on the sign with bright, red spray paint and wrote DEATH.
A town called Death. I like it. Sounds like it’s from a Clint Eastwood western.
As we pass the empty buildings, I notice more signs and symbols spray painted on the bricks and the show windows.
Mostly it’s religious babble: JESUS SAVE US, GOD’S WRATH. But one in particular catches my eye. It says, SPIKE IS GOD! SPIKE IS ANGRY! HIDE YOUR HANDS! and it’s written across towering church doors. I don’t point it out to anyone else, and I hope they don’t see it. We don’t need to be demoralized. Not now.
It gives me chills. As Darlene turns her head to read the sign, I grab her chin and kiss her. I feel her lips turning to a smile beneath mine.
Farther up ahead, as we break onto the Main Street, the town seems almost untouched. Frozen in time. We walk down the road where the business and bars stand on each side of us like silent watchers. There’s cars parked in the diagonal spots in front of them, their windshields dusty and dirty. A large and faded Coca-Cola sign is painted on the side of the tallest building which is only two stories. This was probably the most popular bar in town. The sign on the door reads OPEN.
“Well, take your pick,” Norm says to us, motioning to the buildings. “Which one of these do you think has weapons or medicine?”
“None of them,” Abby says.
“Probably right,” he says. “But it’s worth a shot.”
“Why don’t we split up?” I say.
“I don’t think so,” Abby says. “Might not be a good idea.”
Norm waves his hands around to the empty street. “Look around! Ain’t nobody here.”
I think of the signs. I think of Tony’s warnings.
“Me and Norm and you and Darlene?” I say.
“Fine,” Abby says. “Darlene and I will take the shops over there,” she points to the side opposite the large Coca-Cola sign and Sharon’s most popular saloon, “and you two take over here.”
“Sounds good. Ready, little brother?” Norm says.
I watch Abby and Darlene disappear into the dark shops.
“Hey, don’t worry about them, little bro,” Norm says. “That Abby’s got a mouth on her, but she’s tough as nails. Darlene’ll be all right. Let’s go find us something useful.”
14
The first thing I notice is the smell. That always seems to be the first thing you notice nowadays. It’s not the rotten smell of decaying corpses, but it’s a clean smell. A smell of the old world. It’s spilled beer long since soaked into the wooden floor and bar top, of stale cigarette smoke, of puke, and bad, drunken decisions.
It’s a smell I relish and welcome.
The stools are empty. The televisions are black except for the faint reflections of ourselves and the outside light behind us. I’ve never been in a bar in the early morning. It’s something as a writer I always expected to do. Don’t get me wrong, I love the occasional drink, especially when times are tough, and there hasn’t been tougher times than now. Without Darlene in my life, the occasional drink would’ve become the occasional no-drink. She keeps me grounded. She makes me better.
“Huh?” Norm says. “End of the world and all, I would’ve thought more people would’ve come to drown the pain with some whiskey.”
“Maybe you got people wrong,” I say.
Really, they were probably too sick to go anywhere.
“No, we’re all the same,” he says as he walks behind the bar and grabs a dusty bottle of Jack Daniels off the shelf. “We cry when we’re upset, piss our pants when we’re scared, and drink ourselves to death when none of the other shit works.”
“Words of a true genius,” I say. “Shakespeare would be proud.” I look at the bottle. “You’re not really going to drink — ”
He downs a large swallow of whiskey as if it were water, not even grimacing, then he shrugs. “You pick up a thing or two in the Army,” he says. “Best thing for a hangover is more booze.”
“Yeah, I bet,” I say.
He holds the bottle out to me. “A little warm, but it’s better than nothing.”
“No, thanks. I’m gonna check the back.”
“All right, little bro. Just holler if you need me. I’m gonna do a little drinking…you know, drown my sorrows.” He pours the whiskey on the floor, then points to the ceiling. “That’s for Shelly.”
Shelly was his Jeep. Ridiculous, I know.
I push through a door that reads EMPLOYEES ONLY.
The kitchen is about as quaint as the bar. There’s a microwave, a shelf of snack foods like chips, packaged brownies, and Slim Jim’s, some cans of nacho cheese, a refrigerator straight out of the 1970s. The health inspector must not have been due for another year because the counter is spotted with dry bits of chili and cheese, and other crumbs. Beyond the kitchen is a small hallway which leads to an emergency door. There’s a window where the Florida morning streams in, lighting my way, but there’s no people, dead or otherwise.
I turn around to head out into the bar. The door squeaks, and Norm shushes me. He’s squatted down behind a couple of stools, waving me to do the same. I instantly drop. Maybe six months ago, I would’ve asked questions, but not anymore. When Norm is like this, or anyone in the group for that matter, it means the dead are near.
I see a figure through the dusty bar window. A head bobs between the stenciled letters on the glass which read HOME BASE BAR AND GRILL, except it doesn’t move like the dead. It moves like —
The figure turns toward the bar. I hear his voice, quiet, but deep. It carries on the wind. “…saw them go in here, I did. Maybe the book store. I”ll check it, yes I will!” Almost singsongy.
Norm glances at me, that fiery look in his eyes. I nod. He pulls the hammer back on his Magnum, and I get to position with my machete, nimbly walking over the wooden floor, fearing for the creak that will put the nail in my coffin. No such creak comes and I put my back to the wall between window and door. My heartbeat thuds in my chest.
The door opens.
Norm is positioned at the bottom left corner of the bar, his gun raised.
The man comes in through the door with his own gun leading the way. It’s a shabby revolver, something a widowed old woman would keep on top of her nightstand in a bad neighborhood. Still, a gun is a gun.
“Drop your weapon,” Norm says. “We mean no — ”
A gunshot cuts him off. My eyes jam close and when I open them, I see a chunk of the wood floor go up in a spray of splinters. Norm dives out of the way, takes cover behind a few chairs. He’s quick, and the table he’s nearest falls over, giving him more cover.
I’m not as quick, but I act too.
The person behind the revolver is a large black man, wearing a sweaty wife-beater tank top. His mouth is wide open, eyes closed in pain, as I swing the handle of the machete at his head.
This guy lets out a blood-curdling scream, almost like a whining puppy. It makes me queasy, and when a spray of blood dots my face, I feel even sicker.
The machete handle thunks against the guy’s skull. I feel the twanging vibrations of the metal.
The gun drops to the floor, and I’m quick to kick it toward Norm. There’s a large gash in the man’s scalp. Fresh red dribbles from the wound.
“Why did you d-do that?” the large man yells, blubbering. “Oh my god! My head, you broke-ed my head! Help! Lawd, help me!”
Norm gets out from behind the toppled over table. He picks up the small revolver which pales in comparison to Norm’s Magnum, then he looks at the bleeding man on his knees.
We are both stunned to see a man this size crying.
Guilt invades me. “What was I supposed to do? He shot at you!”
Norm shrugs. “I mean, couldn’t you have just punched him in the face? You didn’t have to rock his bell that hard, champ.”
“He’s ginormous!” I say.
“No, no, no, please don’t hit me a-g-g-g-gain,” the guy says.
“You shot at us,” I say, this time calmly. “It wasn’t personal.”
This doesn’t seem to register because he screams louder.
I look to the wound. “Not fatal, I say. “It’ll be sore for a couple days, but some stitches will do the trick.”
“Yeah, why don’t we just call 911 and have ‘em come over and patch him right up,” Norm says.
I offer him a sarcastic smile. “It was an accident,” I say. Then I turn to the large man, “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry. You just spooked us.”
The big guy nods, tears in his eyes. The blubbering has calmed to a constant buzz, so I lean down and help him up. Behind the bar is a stack of clean rags. I lead him over to it and hand him a wad. He looks at the towels like he doesn’t know what to do.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” I say.
“It h-hurts,” he answers.
“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
I end up doing it for him the way I’d imagine my father would’ve done for me had he been around while I grew up. After a moment, the cries subside. So I say, “Do you know anything about Eden?”
This large black man looks at me as if I’m talking about ghosts.
15
“D-Don’t take me back to Eden, mister. Please,” the man says. He is sitting on a bar stool, the legs groaning and creaking under his weight.
Well, that’s two strikes. Three strikes and we’re out. It’s looking more and more like Tony Richards wasn’t as delusional as I thought. Eden might be lost, but that doesn’t mean I won’t fight for it.
“I’m not gonna take you back,” I say, sticking out my hand. “I’m Jack, by the way, Jack Jupiter. This here is my older brother, Norm.”
The man smiles. “I had a brother once. He was older, too! One time, he took me to the waterpark. I rode the slides until they closed! It was the best day ever!” He looks at his boots longingly.
Norm gives me that scrunched-brow look.
“That’s very nice,” I say. Obviously this guy is not all there. I just hope my whack to his head wasn’t the cause of it. “What is your name?”
“I’m Herbert. My friends call me Herb or Herbie. You can call me whatever you like! Just as long as you promise not to take me back.” He looks up at me, eyes wide and shiny with tears. Man, it’s a tough sight to see — a man this big, this scared. Looking at him, I wouldn’t take him back now even you paid me a million bucks.
