The Jack Zombie Collection: Volume 1, page 7
From the hallway, bangs come from the other side of the walls, almost like gunshots. It’s the zombies outside — my mind’s eye imagines Fred and Stacy, Mayor Gunther, and whoever else was bit. They want in; they want us.
“Everything all right?” the old man says from the front desk.
“Not really,” Kevin says, poking his head around the door frame into the hallway.
“What the fuck’s goin on back there, y’all? I heard gunshots.”
“Yeah, you did,” I holler. “Kevin, go let them know what’s going on.” He does. Then I look at Abby, and in a quieter voice, I say: “How many other doors are there? How many other ways can those things get in?”
She cups her left elbow with her right hand, looks up to the ceiling. “Uh, let’s see…there’s the front doors, but we got those barricaded. This exit, which I locked, exits on the opposite side of the building near the basketball courts, the other near the indoor soccer field, and the loading bay. Yeah, I think that’s it,” she says.
They all lead to a place too close to the front of the building which kills my delusions of escape.
“Are they all locked?” I ask.
“Should be.”
“Should be? Go check,” I say. There’s venom in my voice, but I’m sorry, I don’t want to end up like Doaks or Toby. I don’t want to be shot three times and still be alive and craving human flesh.
Abby leaves.
It’s me and Doaks in the small athletic training room. Every time he squirms, the legs of the wooden table creak under his weight. I put my hand on his, and tell him it’s going to be okay.
He shakes his head.
“It burns, son. You have to help me. Please,” he says.
This man is beyond saving. He wouldn’t make the trip to the ambulance even if the damn bus backed up over all those freaks outside, crashed through the building, and opened their doors right here in this very room.
So I lie again.
“It’s going to be okay. We’re gonna get you some help.”
He scrunches up his face. His eyes take on the same look of a deflated balloon. Then the look passes. He’s kind of normal, almost serene-looking.
“Just shoot me, kid. Just s-shoot me in the fuckin head.”
My eyes drift toward the gun I have in my waistband — his gun — and I think about it, like really think about it. I know where this is going, this day, this night. We aren’t going to get any help unless we help ourselves, and the odds are stacked against us.
He shudders again, creaking the table with the movement. It’s like the scream of a small animal caught in the spokes of a bike tire. I almost can’t take it.
“Please, kid. Please. It burns.”
The screams get louder now. My head pounds with the force of the now-deceased marching band drum.
I got to get out of here, got to get away from this guy.
“We’re going to get you help,” I say. “I promise, Sheriff Doaks.” But even a deaf man could hear the lie in my voice.
He shakes again, this time bringing his arms up and crossing them over his body as if trying to keep himself together. It’s a sad sight to see — a man at the end of his rope, begging for death. I turn to leave, to not put myself through this any longer.
I am no Johnny Deadslayer. I am Jack Jupiter, and it’s so much harder to kill someone who isn’t already dead.
I leave him there, bucking and screaming in pain, locking and closing the door behind me.
“Please kill me…pleaseeeeee.”
13
The front doors are secured. I see through a crack in the stacked equipment and couches that most of the people outside haven’t figured out how to work a doorknob, and haven’t even broken into the lobby yet.
But there’s more than before. They moan and death rattle together so it’s loud enough to hear on the inside. Hands and faces press against the glass. I see teeth, yellow eyes, disfigured faces.
Soon, they will break that glass, and soon they’ll be closer to getting in.
The old man, dressed in his basketball jersey, stands against the waist-high brick wall that separates the running track from the waiting area opposite the front desk. He shakes his head, runs a hand through his white hair. I watch this from the door that leads to the front desk. He doesn’t see me, either. His lips move silently and he looks up to the high ceiling with its dimmed lights and he does the sign of the cross.
God can’t help us now.
“Give us the gun!” someone yells.
My head snaps to the left, where the crowd of survivors is grouped in the cafeteria area. It’s the sweaty guy who’s yelling. Pat is his name, and I can already tell he’s a total asshole, the type of guy who bullies people thirty years out of high school and cheats on his wife when the opportunity presents itself.
I could be wrong.
Kevin towers over the man by at least nine inches, and he probably weighs about fifty pounds more, all muscle. Yet, Kevin is pressed up against the door that leads behind the food stand. He has his hands up as if to say he’s innocent.
Pat points a finger at his face.
“I don’t have it,” Kevin says.
“Oh, please, gentlemen, this is not the time to fight. Please, for the love of God, settle down,” Miss Fox says.
I forgot about Miss Fox, but she looks like she found her way to the women’s restroom to clean up.
I know Pat is playing with fire. Kevin is liable to snap at any moment, and in the process, snap Pat’s neck. We don’t want that. There’s enough death outside.
I jog over. My lungs burn from the short trip. I really should’ve started this whole workout thing a long time ago.
In the cafeteria, is everyone but the old man. — Miss Fox, Kevin, the black guy whose name I think is Isaiah, Pat, and the young man who I think is a janitor. Abby is off locking the doors.
“Hey, I have the gun,” I say, as I round the corner of the cafeteria, as the rubber flooring of the track breaks into white and gray tile.
Pat stops pointing his finger at Kevin, and wheels around to look at me.
“Hand it over, son,” he says, doing his best to impersonate a fatherly figure.
“No.”
“Goddamn it, kid, if you don’t hand it over a lot of bad shit is going to happen.”
“A lot of bad shit already happened,” I say. And I’m going to make sure there’ll be no more.
Everyone’s eyes blaze into me. It’s like I’m on a stage and they’re the crowd.
“Someone who can handle a weapon should be in charge of it,” the janitor says. He’s leaning on a cart chock full of toilet paper, fresh-white rags, and various other cleaning supplies, below the supplies is an ancient radio, beaten and cracked. Maybe he’s twenty, but I’d say he’s still in high school, judging by the scraggly patches of hair on his face. Not too much younger than me, but I feel like I really grew up in the last half-hour.
“What makes you think I don’t know how to handle a gun?” I say to the janitor kid, taking a step closer. His name tag reads: RYAN JEFFERSON.
“Ain’t you that writer guy? Jack something? I seen your picture in the paper a couple years ago.”
“Yeah, so what?”
“Why would we expect you to know how to handle a piece?”
“Ryan,” Miss Fox hisses. “Don’t talk like them.”
The black guy’s eye widen. “Uh, excuse me? What’s that supposed to mean?”
Ryan ignores them both.
Abby walks in from the other side of the cafeteria, where the basketball courts stand empty and dark, devoid of all bouncing balls. “He handled it just fine,” she says.
“That’s what you were doing outside? Target practice?” Pat asks. His nostrils flare on each syllable, and he’s turning a shade of red I associate with the blood on Sheriff Doaks’s neck.
“I was saving our asses,” I say.
“Hand it over, son. You aren’t fit to handle a weapon,” Pat says.
“And you are?” I ask. “What do I have to go on to believe you’re our best choice?”
He doesn’t answer, just tilts his head at me.
“We have bigger problems than who gets the gun,” I say.
“You may be right. Just another reason why you give the gun to a true adult,” Pat says. “This isn’t one of your fantasy stories. This is real life.” He turns to the others, who are all bunched together. “Obviously Jack here has a big imagination. He can’t even separate fact from fiction!”
A couple people nod in agreement. The others stare with blank looks on their faces. Faces full of fear and uncertainty. They don’t look bright, but they’re the realists. I know because I’m one of them.
“Come on, man,” Isaiah says, then shakes his head. “We don’t need all this negativity.”
I get an idea. Obviously I’m not going to reason with Pat. He’s one of those “I’m so much better than you” dickweeds all because he makes six figures a year and wears a suit and tie to work.
I point at Isaiah. “Here, you take the gun.”
His eyes grow wide. “Me? C’mon, man, quit playin.”
I reach into my waistband, pull the gun free. “You really gonna argue with the dude who has a gun?” I flash him a smile to show him I’m not totally crazy, but thinking from his point of view, I probably look almost as crazy as dead people craving human flesh.
“Take it,” I say.
Pat’s shaking next to him. He’s not scared; he’s just royally pissed.
“Why?” Isaiah says. “Because I’m black.”
That catches me off-guard. “Race has nothing to do with it. You’re an outside party. You don’t lean one way or the other if you catch my drift. You’re middle ground.”
“Then give it to Miss Fox here,” he says.
The smile on my face evaporates. “She won’t take it,” I say.
“Nuh-uh,” Miss Fox echoes.
He chuckles, nodding his head. “You’re right. Both you white boys is crazy, and I ain’t crazy.”
“Then take the gun,” I say.
He reaches for it.
“Great, now we’re all screwed,” Pat says, throwing his arms up and walking out of the cafeteria.
“Wait,” I say, “we have to talk about what we’re up against. Obviously everyone knows about zombies, but I think a refresher course might do us some good.”
Pat laughs out loud. “Zombies! Not real, my friend.”
“Go outside and tell me they’re not real,” I say, but he ignores me.
“If anyone wants to go about this in a rational way, follow me,” Pat says, and heads for the men’s locker room to the left of the three basketball courts.
Zombies might not be real, but whatever’s outside is.
14
When Pat left, Ryan Jefferson and the old man in his tattered basketball jersey went with him.
That left me, Abby, Isaiah, Kevin, and Miss Fox in the cafeteria. We have one gun. I’m not even sure what the hell it is, I just know that it does the trick as long as you hit the bastards in the head.
And outside, there’s a lot of bastards.
“It’s a Glock 22,” Isaiah says.
He must’ve seen me eyeing it in his hand.
“I’ve been at the wrong end of this bad boy too many times to count,” he says.
No one meets his eyes except me.
So I just nod. “I don’t care what it is as long as it keeps me alive enough to get to my fiancé.”
“How many times you shoot it?” he asks. “I counted three.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. Doaks talked about shooting down at the festival.”
“He could be carrying an extra magazine on him. I’m not about to go in there and find out, though,” Isaiah says.
Good idea, I think.
“I don’t think it’ll matter. Those things get in here, then we’re going to need a lot more shots than that.”
Miss Fox squeaks like a mouse at the table next to the rest of us. I catch Abby’s eyes. They’re wet and shiny. Kevin looks a little pale, but otherwise, he’s his normal strong-self, which I’m still having trouble adjusting to.
“So headshots,” Kevin says. “Zombies and headshots, huh?”
My finger comes up to linger in the middle of my forehead, between the eyes. “Right here,” I say.
“Enough!” Miss Fox says. “I don’t want to hear this. Enough!”
The guilt hits me full-force now. She’s right. This is nothing to brag about. But I can’t help it. Growing up killing all kinds of crazy creatures in video games, seeing people shoot people on TV and in movies like it’s nothing has taken a toll on my psyche. I’m practically living my wildest dreams. The Deadslayer may not have been well-received by critics, but it has a soft spot in my heart.
“These are people you’re talking about,” Miss Fox continues. “Toby was the kindest man I knew. He gave me a job when no one else would. I went nearly thirty years as a homemaker. I raised my kids, practically raised a grandkid, too. Being a wife and a mom and a grandmother was all I knew.”
Her old lady perfume hits my nostrils hard enough to give me a headache — it reminds me of my mom, and if it smelled a little better, it would remind me of Darlene.
“I was in my fifties. Never touched a computer in my life. Didn’t own a cell phone. No discernible skills whatsoever. All I had with me was the grace of God in my heart and hope in my pocket. Steve died of a heart attack. My kids are gone, off doing their own thing, and here I am, alone and afraid. It’s like I’m sixteen again only this time with bad knees. Toby hired me on the spot. He’s been nothing but nice and pleasant to me. A man like him doesn’t deserve to die the way he did. To be mutilated. And Becky, don’t even get me started on Becky — she went to school with my oldest girl. She was a star athlete. A gentle soul.”
Her eyes blaze with fire, except the back of my mind tells me that it’s not fire, but it’s actually the wrath of God.
I don’t speak. Can’t speak.
“Mr. Huber is right. This is a fantasy. It has to be,” Miss Fox moans.
“Hold on. Who’s Mr. Huber?” I ask.
“Pat,” Miss Fox says.
“Son of a bitch,” I say under my breath. Now I know why that asshole looks familiar. He’s Freddy Huber’s father. My hand absentmindedly goes up to the bandage under my eye. Leave it to me to get trapped in a place with my high school bully’s equally asshole-ish father.
“If you think Pat’s right, Fiona, then go right ahead and join him,” Abby says, bringing me back to earth. “You know where he went. This place isn’t that big.” She narrows her eyes at the old woman, who seems to tower over all of us. If she holds her chin any higher, I’m afraid her head might roll down her back.
“Perhaps I will,” she says.
“Just remember, lady, we have the gun,” Isaiah says. He tilts it in his hand so some of the dim lighting flashes off of the barrel.
“And you remember, sir, I have God. There’s no better defense than His grace,” she says and turns to walk away. That awful perfume goes with her, and I say a silent prayer of thanks.
“Get it together, y’all,” Isaiah snaps. “We got bigger fish to fry than what side people are on.”
“He’s right,” Kevin says.
“What do we do?” Abby asks. That gleam of tears is back in her eyes.
“Not too many options,” I say. “We can wait it out, hope the Army shows up and blows them all to hell. Or we make an escape. Those doors won’t hold forever.”
“You think the Army will show?” Kevin asks, his eyebrows moving closer together on his spray-tanned face.
I think of my brother and how selfish he was growing up, how selfish he probably still is. He’s Army, and really, I wouldn’t want my fate in his hands. If he’s been eaten by now, let’s just say I wouldn’t be devastated.
“Nah, man, they ain’t coming. Think of where we are at right now,” Isaiah says.
Nobody talks.
“We are in the middle of nowhere. Woodhaven, Ohio isn’t D.C. All the people here are old, retired white folk or trailer trash. They’re gonna be gone within the next decade.”
“So?” I say.
“That means we ain’t top priority. America is a big, big place if you ain’t notice. They’ll try to save the cities first. Their precious Fortune 500 companies, big-wigs in their air conditioned, million-dollar offices. A small country town like Woodhaven is shit on the bottom of their boots, man.”
The thought depresses me because it’s true.
“Besides, man, all I saw is one person go crazy and rip someone to shreds. Just one person,” Isaiah says. “The rest are just banging against the doors like dummies.
“Yeah, but there’s tons of them out there,” I say. Maybe if there was one or two, we’d be okay.
“They were still coming before we got in and locked the emergency exit,” Abby says.
“One attacked me!” Kevin says defensively.
“Don’t you hear them?” I ask.
“No, I don’t hear them. And now I don’t see them because this whole place is made of brick and there’s like one damn window, not to mention you made us block the front doors.”
“Be my guest, Isaiah, go look.”
“Whoa, cool it, Jack. I’m just sayin’ if they were all like that cop was then why wouldn’t they be inside by now?”
“Dead people aren’t properly adept at using a door handle,” I say. “Go look, Isaiah. You’ve got the gun. Go take a peek outside.”
I’m challenging him. He seems like the kind of fellow who’ll eat up any challenge. Besides, I want to confirm my sanity. If I’m going to lead this group to safety and in turn lead myself to Darlene, I need them all behind me.
He cocks the gun back, looks me dead in the eyes. “Where’s the nearest exit, Abby?” he asks.
She shakes her head. “You can’t be serious? I saw what’s out there. You don’t want to, believe me.”
“Nearest exit, Abby, or I’m going through the front doors.”
She sighs, knowing he’ll find it himself if she doesn’t answer. “Around the corner, past the first basketball court.”
