Z-Burbia Box Set | Books 4-6 [The Road Trip Trilogy] Page 17

  Or something like that.

  So...plenty of gross crap came falling on our heads.

  “Keep going,” I said. “We keep going.”

  There we were, four Stanfords, three with batons and one with a severed Z arm covered in saw blades, pistols tucked away in waistbands. We were filthy, coated with Z blood and the shit that was being thrown at us, but we didn’t stop. We kept going.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” Mr. Flips announced. “I have just been handed a note that says we are deviating from out normal routine and getting right to the individual gang portion of the show! This is highly irregular, but here on Cannibal Road, we like to think we are flexible and open-minded. Change is not something to fear, but to embrace. Am I right?”

  The spectators changed their tune from booing us to cheering for whatever change was about to happen. The rain of shit didn’t stop, though.

  “I have here a top hat filled with the names of our illustrious gangs!” Mr. Flips continued. “I will draw one of those names out of this fine piece of millinery, which came from my own collection, I might add. I hope you lovely folks are ready to get down there and get dirty with the survies! And, speaking of getting dirty, if we could stop throwing poop, that would be great. It’ll just make it worse for our own people. Alright?”

  The rain of shit slackened, but did not stop completely. It became more of a drizzle of shit; a slight mist of feces; a soft poop shower.

  “Thank you, one and all!” Mr. Flips called out. “And now, the moment you have all been waiting for the past minute!” The man stopped talking for a moment, but we kept running, hoping that there was an end to the gauntlet of insanity. “The Jackals! It’s the Jackals, folks! Bungee Betty and her crew will be the first to try to capture, alive hopefully, the four survies making a break for it right this second! Let’s wish Bungee Betty luck as she tries to secure her gang’s meals for the next week!”

  The next week? Jesus, how many people do they eat in a month? How many people have they eaten in a year? If a family of four will only feed one gang for one week, that’s some serious cannibal menu planning math there. Fucking A.

  “I Love Rock And Roll” by Joan Jett and the Blackhearts started to play. Which I thought was kind of cheating since no one can hear that song and not want to sing along. Total psychological warfare.

  “Jace!” that gravelly voiced Bungee Betty yelled. “Jace! Come back, Jace!”

  I risked a glance over my shoulder and nearly crapped my pants. Behind us were about ten people, all stripped to the waist with brown body paint covering their torsos. From their necks to the tips of their fingers, they were painted to look like they were covered in fur.

  However, that was the easy part to deal with. The really, truly, seriously fucked up part was that they wore real dog heads as masks. Some of them had just the snouts strapped around their mouths, with more brown paint covering the rest of their faces, while others had actual dog heads split open and yanked down over their own heads.

  Who fucking does that?

  In the lead was a woman dressed in a brown rubber suit. A fucking rubber suit. Like a latex gimp suit, but no gimp mask, just more fucking brown paint. She held a long bungee cord in each hand, but instead of the classic black hooks, it looked like she had added razor sharp barbs.

  Awesome. Just. Fucking. Awesome.

  Charlie glanced back as well and frowned.

  “Why the fuck is she dressed that way?” he asked. “That makes no sense.”

  “Because the rest of this fucking nightmare makes soooooo much more sense,” Greta snapped.

  “Just run!” Stella growled.

  We ran.

  But we were exhausted from the past few days, from the long walk out of Knoxville, from the fighting already tonight. We were at the ends of our ropes. My legs burned from the exertion of just keeping up a slow, steady jog. I tried to push harder, run faster, but I just didn’t have it in me. From the way my family kept at the same pace, I knew they didn’t have it in them either.

  “Jace! Just stop, Jace!” Bungee Betty shouted. “It’ll all be over...”

  I didn’t stop, but Charlie did. He pulled his 9mm and fired, putting a bullet right between Bungee Betty’s latex covered breasts. The pistol clicked empty and Charlie shook his head as he hurled the empty weapon at the rest of the Jackals. I slid to a stop and grabbed at Charlie’s arm, but he refused to move.

  “Fuck them,” he said. “I don’t want to run anymore.”

  The gang came to a screeching halt as their leader stood there in the middle of the road, her hands coated in blood. She looked down from the gaping wound, then to Charlie, to the wound, then Charlie, over and over until she fell to her knees and crumpled to her side, dead.

  The sound of a needle scratching across vinyl was nearly ear splitting as the music was brought to a screeching halt. Or scratching halt, as it were.

  All of the Jackals’ eyes turned to us. I could feel the hatred from where they stood, but not one made a move to attack. Instead, they knelt and lifted their leader up into the air. With the body secured on their shoulders, the Jackals slowly walked towards us.

  Stella and Greta had stopped as well and we all flattened ourselves against the wall as the fucked up canny funeral procession walked by.

  “You guys are dicks,” a man said. The Jackals stuck to the middle of the road and didn’t even bother to come at us. “Like total dicks.”

  “Yeah,” a woman said. “She only had bungee cords. What fucked up asshole shoots a woman when all she has is bungee cords?”

  “Shame,” another woman said then spat on Charlie. “You disgust me.”

  “Sorry?” Charlie replied. “I think?”

  A part of the wall slid open and the Jackals exited stoically. I am sure they would shed their canine tears later.

  “I don’t...I just...” was all Stella could say.

  “Yeah, no shit,” Greta responded.

  “Who’s next?” I yelled up at the wall. “Which one of your fucked up canny gangs wants a piece of the Stanfords? Huh? We got plenty more death and violence to dish out! Bring it, fuckheads!”

  There was an audible murmur of discontent that started making its way through the spectators up on the walls.

  “Mr. Stanford, there is no need to be rude and cruel,” Mr. Flips said. “These are hard working folks here just looking for a spot of entertainment. Yes, we eat other people. And yes, we force people to fight for their lives before we catch them, kill them, and eat them, but we haven’t been rude at all.”

  “What about the rain of shit?” I shouted.

  “That? That’s a time honored tradition in show business, sir!” Mr. Flips snapped. “Manure and refuse being tossed at performers is as old as time! I am sorry we do not have the proper manure to meet your elitist standards, Mr. Stanford! Not all of us have time to look for cows and pigs and other animals that do not exist anymore! We have to improvise and make do with what we have! And what we have is our own excrement! You, sir, are a snob and we do not like snobs!”

  “Jace...what’s happening?” Stella asked. “Are we being chastised?”

  “I think so,” I replied. “Yeah...it looks we have broken some rule of theater etiquette.”

  “I am making an executive decision to skip the drawing from the hat procedure and go straight to our number one gang leader, our most brilliant fighter, and the man that has never lost a chase- BARFLY!”

  “Barfly? Oh, right, the leader of the Crossville Cookers. Great. Bring it!” I shouted.

  “Oh, it’s been brought, bro,” Barfly said as he stepped from the shadows of one of the walls. “I been here the whole time, watchin’ you survies think you had a chance. But deep down in those guts of yours, you know you don’t. You ain’t strong enough, bro. Not to take on Barfly, bro.”

  I looked about and realized he was on his own. No backup, no gang.

  “Just you?” I snorted. “Did you see what we did to everyone else?”

  �
�I saw,” Barfly nodded as he walked closer to us.

  The man had that emaciated, but strong, canny look to him. Lean and mean with wiry muscles, his eyes were almost hard to see as they sat back in his head while his sharp, gaunt looking cheekbones dominated his face. He was almost six feet tall and didn’t see the need to wear a shirt apparently. Yet he did have cutoff jeans with the pockets hanging out, so maybe the lack of shirt was to accentuate the fashion statement of trashy cutoff jeans.

  Then, as he got closer and I could see him more clearly, I realized the true fashion statement were the Hello Kitty flip-flops on his feet. Hello Kitty. Flip flops. Yep.

  He held a steel rod about four feet long. Almost an inch thick and coated with rust, the rod hung casually in Barfly’s grip. The way he held it told me that the rod was probably about as close to an extension of his body as any of his extremities. And, if I am going to be honest, I really didn’t think that was rust. I just wanted it to be.

  “I still have this,” Greta said as she held up her 9mm. “Did you see this?”

  “I did, little girl bro,” Barfly nodded. He just kept walking towards us, a shit-eating grin on his face.

  “So you know I can put a couple in your chest right now, right?” Greta said, but I could see her hand shaking. “Back off and let us go and I won’t kill you.”

  “Little girl bro is brave,” Barfly chuckled. “She all ready to shoot the shit outta me, ain’t she?”

  We never saw it happen. Later, when I had a second to think back on it, I could swear I never saw the man move.

  “OW!” Greta shouted as she gripped her hand to her chest.

  The pistol fell to the ground and discharged. Someone above us cried out and then a woman’s body fell off the wall at our feet.

  “Damn,” Barfly said, suddenly right in my daughter’s face. “You a stone cold killer, little girl bro.”

  Greta was obviously terrified. She didn’t move a muscle as Barfly gripped his steel rod. He gave her a quick smile, and then she was down on the ground, her legs swept out from under her.

  “Dad!” she screamed and I rushed forward.

  Then there was dirt and pavement. One second, I’m raising my baton and headed right at the crazy fucker wearing Hello Kitty flip flops. The next second, I’m face down on the road with a ringing in my ears so loud I thought it was screaming.

  Which, as it turned out, it was.

  “Mom! Dad!” Greta screamed.

  There was a scuffle and Charlie’s unconscious face was right next to mine. I pushed up with my hand and tried to turn towards Barfly, but all I saw was a rod coming at me.

  Bam. Back on the pavement.

  Blood started to pour from my scalp and I was quickly blinded by red as I struggled to get back up.

  Bam.

  Bam, bam, bam.

  I thought I could hear more screaming, but I wasn’t sure. Fuck, I wasn’t sure if I could hear at all. It took me a minute to gather my thoughts and make a conscious effort to roll over and make sure I wasn’t dead. I also needed to make sure my wife and daughter weren’t dead.

  “Hey, there,” Barfly said as he stood over me. “You ain’t lookin’ so good, bro. How ya feelin’?”

  “Bad?”

  “Bad? What, you ain’t sure?” Barfly laughed. He looked up at the spectators on the walls. “He ain’t sure if he feels bad!”

  There was far off laughter that seemed to come in and out in waves. I got my one arm under me and tried to stand, but my legs didn’t feel like cooperating.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, bro!” Barfly said as he crouched down and hooked an arm under mine. He lifted me to my feet, keeping one arm around my waist while he swung the steel rod back and forth with the other. “Bro, you probably have one of those concussion things, bro. You gotta be careful movin’ around or you’ll mess your brain all up, bro.”

  “You say bro a lot,” I slurred, my eyes barely able to focus.

  “I do, bro, I do,” he grinned. “Now, before I let you go, I need you to look on up at my friends and say how sorry you are for being a dick, bro.”

  “I don’t know what the fuck you are talking about,” I said. “I’m not being a dick. I’m just trying to survive.”

  “Well, yeah, bro! You and your bro family are survies! Tryin’ to survive is what ya do!” Barfly laughed.

  The spectators laughed with him then started to chant, “Apology! Apology! Apology!”

  “The crowd wants ya to be apologizin’, bro,” Barfly said. “So get to the apologizin’.”

  “Where’s my wife?” I mumbled as I started to drift. A hard slap to my cheek brought me about quick. “Fuck you!”

  “Not nice, bro,” Barfly frowned, his rancid breath right in my ear. “You want to know where your wife is? She’s right there, bro.”

  He turned my head, which normally would have pissed me off, but in that instance was actually helpful. Stella stood with her back to the wall and her hands about her throat. I had to struggle to focus on what was happening to her, and when I did, the only thing that kept me from losing my shit was the fact that I could barely stand.

  “She look good to you, bro?” Barfly asked as we watched my wife stand on her tip toes while her body was lifted off the ground by a noose around her neck.

  I couldn’t see who was on the other end of the rope up on the wall, but it didn’t really matter. All that mattered was that with one hard yank, either my wife would have her neck snapped or she’d have her windpipe crushed. Neither of those scenarios filled me with joy.

  “I think the wifey bro is havin’ a hard time breathin’, Jace Stanford bro,” Barfly said. His breath was back against my ear so he could whisper words that only I could hear. “Or do I call you Long Pork bro?”

  That sent a surge of adrenaline flowing through me. How’d he know that was my nick name?

  “Oh, bro, you be shakin’ and shit,” Barfly chuckled. “I think it’s because you know I know who you are. Met some friends of yours, I did. They didn’t run the road because I caught them by my camp, bro. Stumbled right into my lap, bro. Lots of bros and girl bros, all hurt and scared. I said I’d help them if they helped me.”

  “Who?” I asked. “Who’d you find?”

  “You ain’t listenin’, bro,” Barfly snapped. “I didn’t find them, they found me, bro! That’s why they be fair game and I didn’t have to share with the other gangs. Kept them for my peeps and myself. I gots responsibilities, bro. Gotta look out for my peeps’ needs first, bro.”

  “Let my wife go,” I snarled.

  “No, don’t think so, bro,” Barfly said. “Not gonna let her go. Not gonna let little girl bro go neither.”

  “Dad!” Greta yelled.

  I turned to see her being held by two very large women. They waggled their tongues by my daughter’s face, then laughed as if it was the most hilarious and original thing to ever be done.

  Which brings up something I’ve never understood about the world post-Z. Okay, the zombie apocalypse has wiped out civilization as we knew it, but it’s not like it wiped out everyone’s memories. Why do the crazies always act as if they never lived in the world pre-Z? Why do they act as if they’ve always been post-apocalyptic nutjobs? It’s fucked up.

  “You got somethin’ on yer mind, bro?” Barfly asked then addressed the spectators. “I think this bro got somethin’ on his mind!”

  “Spill it! Spill it! Spill it!”

  “Can I put in a musical request?” I shouted. Or I think I did.

  The spectators stopped chanting and Barfly stepped right in front of me. He held up a finger and moved it back and forth by my eyes.

  “You seein’ that, bro?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I replied. “It’s a finger.”

  “So you wantin’ a musical request is for realsies?” Barfly asked. “Like realsy realsies? Because that sounds kinda crazy, bro. I thought maybe you was bleedin’ in your brain, that’s why I fingered your eyes.”

  “Never had my eyes fingered befo
re,” I said. “But yeah, I want a musical request. If you are going to kill me here then I want to go out with the song of my choice.”

  “Bro? Like really, bro?” Barfly asked.

  “Really real, bro,” I replied. “Sweet Caroline by Neil Diamond, please.”

  “Sweet Caroline?” Barfly asked. “By the America song bro, bro?”

  “That’s the one,” I said. “Unless you have Crunchy Granola Suite. I actually prefer that one because the lyrics crack me up, but usually all anyone has is Sweet Caroline.”

  “Bro, they warned me about you,” Barfly said. “They said you be loopy as all shit, but I didn’t think so. Not with the way the crazy chick bro talked you up and your brain in there.” He tapped my forehead. “You got the thinks goin’ on, she said. But you wantin’ the America song bro makes me wonder about those thinks.”

  “So that’s a no?” I asked, hoping my stalling was giving Stella or Greta time to figure something out. Charlie was still in sleepy time land, so he wasn’t figuring anything out except for the proper amount of snore to drool ratio.

  “I ain’t sayin’ no, bro,” Barfly replied then looked down the road at the entrance. “Yo, Flips!”

  “Yes, Barfly?” Mr. Flips responded over the sound system.

  “We got Sweet Caroline?”

  “By Neil Diamond?” Mr. Flips asked. “Let me check.”

  We stood there, me and Barfly, as my wife dangled from a noose and my daughter was held by the Weird Sisters. And, yes, I know there are three Weird Sisters. Not exactly the time to get all technical and shit, but that’s all I could think of calling them.

  “You’re from Asheville, right bro?” Barfly asked as we waited. “You like it there, bro?”

  “Uh...I did,” I said. “Before it became all radioactive and shit.”

  “Oh, right,” Barfly said and smacked himself in the forehead. “I forgot about that, bro. Maybe there’ll end up being some three-legged fatties wandering around, bro. That’d be cool.”

  “Fatties?” I asked.