Z-Burbia Box Set | Books 1-3 [The Asheville Trilogy] Page 9

  “Look at this,” Jon says. “Come on, guys. I can do this. It’s our only option.”

  “No, the other option is we get to the gate and let the sentries pick off the Zs,” Stuart says.

  We can tell he doesn’t believe his own bullshit. The amount of ammo that would be wasted? It would be devastating. This horde has become a fucking herd. While I’m pretty sure the gate would hold, it would be put to the test.

  And we still have Wall Street and his Day Raiders to deal with.

  “Ha,” I chuckle.

  “What?” Jon asks.

  “Wall Street and the Day Raiders,” I say.

  “Is that some rock band?”

  “Nah, it’s the name I came up with for Wall Street and those bikers.”

  “Good one,” Stuart says. “Clever.”

  “Thanks,” I smile.

  “So...about the bait thing?” Jon asks.

  “No,” Stuart and I repeat.

  “Not even with this?” he says, holding up the tire iron, waving his hand over it like a sales model.

  “No, Vanna, not even with that,” I say.

  “You guys are no fun,” Jon says, “which means, sometimes you have to make your own fun!”

  He grabs the handle and shoves me back against the seat, pinning me so I can’t stop him. Out he jumps, tucking and rolling into the small ditch by the side of the road. Even over the truck engine, I can hear the moans of the herd grow louder as they catch sight of him.

  “You fucker!” I shout and start to go after him, but Stuart’s hand clamps down on my shoulder and pulls me back.

  “No, you don’t,” he says. “He may have a chance, but you won’t limp fast enough. You’ll be eaten before you get twenty yards.”

  “FUCK!” I yell as I slam my fists against the dash. “Ow...”

  We can hear Jon hooting and hollering. I look back at him and he’s waving his hands over his head, getting the Zs attention. He looks at me and winks, then goes back to taunting the Zs. Most of them shuffle towards him, but some stay after us. I guess that’s better than all of them.

  “Come on, come on, go,” I say quietly. “Fucking run. Dumbass, run.”

  “Timing is everything,” Stuart says.

  Finally, FINALLY, Jon turns and books ass up a small side street. I can see him huffing and puffing as he fights the weed-choked road as well as gravity. Maybe three quarters of the Zs go for the bait. That leaves a quarter for us. That’s still a lot of Zs.

  We come around a bend and Stuart points.

  “That downhill grade could give us enough speed to get ahead of the ones that didn’t follow Jon,” he says. “How many do you guess?”

  “Seventy, probably,” I reply, staring straight out the windshield.

  He looks over at me. “Really? That many?”

  I shrug. “That’s my guess. How many can you take?”

  “Jesus,” he sighs, “maybe twenty before my arms give out.”

  “I can probably do that many,” I say and he chuckles. “What? You think you’re better at killing Zs?”

  “I am better at killing Zs,” Stuart replies. “I’m better at killing in general.”

  “Good point,” I say. “So I guess I can take ten.”

  “If I knew the transmission wouldn’t give out, I’d just back over them again,” Stuart says. “But I don’t dare stop this thing and shift into reverse.”

  “How far are we?” I ask.

  “A mile, maybe,” he says.

  “That’s not far. If we are going to stop them, we have to do it now or we’ll be too close to Whispering Pines.”

  Then it hits me.

  “You could run up ahead,” I say. “I’ll keep driving and you run to the gate. Get your crew and head back this way. That’ll give us the numbers to take them and we can still keep the truck.”

  “So we split up even more?” Stuart says. “Bad tactics.”

  “Any other plan you can think of?”

  He sighs and shakes his head. “No.”

  “So we do it,” I say. “Let’s switch.”

  He shifts into neutral and scoots towards me. I crawl over him and get into the driver’s seat. I depress the clutch and shift back into first. The truck lurches and comes close to stalling, but I give it enough gas and it keeps moving.

  “Don’t even try to shift into second,” Stuart says. “I know you, Jace. You like to test things for yourself. Don’t.”

  He opens the passenger door and climbs out onto the steps. He swings the door shut easily, avoiding getting hit. I have a feeling he’s done that move before. He gives me a quick salute, and then jumps down. He may be older, but the man can book it. He pumps his arms and sprints well ahead of me, and then is gone around a curve. But, not before I notice the dark stain on the back of his shirt has grown.

  I reach behind me and can feel the sticky wetness of his blood on the seat.

  “You fucker,” I say. “You knew you were hurt, but went anyway.”

  I keep glancing over at the passenger side mirror and all of the Zs behind me. Is it me or are they getting closer? Can’t be. Zs can’t move fast enough. It’s probably that thing with mirrors where objects are closer than they appear.

  Wait...

  That would be the opposite. God...are they getting closer?

  I try to shove the thought from my mind and focus on the road ahead, but I can’t help and sneak glances. They are gaining. The fucking Zs are gaining on me.

  “At least I’m still moving,” I say aloud. “That’s something.”

  You know what? For a smart guy, I’m pretty fucking stupid. I’m not a big believer in the afterlife or heaven or God or anything like that. But one thing I do believe in is karma. I’ve just experienced it too much to ignore it. My whole life has been one long chain of spiritual cause and effect events. I should know better than to jinx myself by saying, “At least I’m still moving.”

  The truck sputters, sputters, lurches, and dies. I try to turn the ignition as the truck slowly comes to a stop, but it does nothing. I crank and crank and crank, hearing the battery get weaker and weaker.

  “What the fuck?” I say. “What’s wrong now, you piece of shit? Huh? You need a binky? Baby need its fucking binky?”

  I look at the dashboard and slap my forehead.

  No, baby needs to be fed.

  “Out. Of. Fucking. Gas,” I say, “or diesel. Whatever.”

  I can see the mini-herd (mega-horde?) behind me, maybe ten yards back and getting closer. I take inventory of my weapons: The Bitch. I count again and come up with the same number. One. Nothing I can do about that.

  “Better roll ‘em up, kids,” I snicker with nervous laughter as I roll the windows up tight. I lock the doors for good measure. Not that a Z could open the doors, they can’t work latches, but it makes me feel better.

  Dead hands begin to slap against the sides of the truck, and pretty soon I feel the weight of them pressing in. Their bodies, their constant shambling movement, slowly rock the dump truck from side to side. Not a lot. Not like kids jumping on the bumper of a car, but enough that I know there’s trouble in River City. That starts with T and rhymes with Z, and stands for, uh, well, Zs.

  The slapping gets louder. Then the moans, the groans. And that wet sound that happens when their flesh gets stuck on something and rips right off the bone. I hate that sound. That sound is the worst.

  I can see them in the mirror, getting closer to the cab, their mouths hanging open, congealed bloody drool dripping from their lips and chins. Those that have lips and chins, at least. Some don’t even have lower jaws and the viscous fluids just drop from their palates. Flaps of flesh hang in random strips from faces, necks, shoulders, arms, breasts, and bellies.

  Hey, a cheerleader! I can’t wait to tell Stella I saw an undead cheerleader. She’s always hated cheerleaders. Like I hate clowns. Well, maybe not exactly like I hate clowns.

  The slapping! Ugh, I want it just to stop. I try to keep the Stella train of thou
ght going, try to think of the kids, home, the neighborhood. I even try to envision what the next HOA meeting will be like. “Hey, guys! Guess what? We have more neighbors! And they aren’t really into the HOA covenants. In fact, they aren’t into letting us live! Whatcha think of that, huh? Huh? Guys?”

  The face that appears at my window is scorched from the scalp down to the eye sockets. It looks like someone set its hair on fire, but the thing got lucky and dunked itself in a toilet or something. Really weird. Then I have to wonder, looking at the burn pattern, if that isn’t what happened. And the way the skin looks, I then have to wonder if the poor soul was alive when the burning and the dunking happened.

  “Go away please,” I mouth. I don’t say it out loud. Voices, living real voices, tend to get them wound up, stir that hunger and shit.

  The face is pushed aside as more and more Zs get to the window. Scorch Scalp decides to move to the front of the truck and climb on. Hmmm, it’s actually climbing onto the hood. That shows some athleticism. Maybe he died when a hazing went wrong? “Welcome to the lacrosse team! Now we burn your hair off! Oh, shit, and you’re coming back from the dead? Eeeeeeek!”

  Ah, man, Scorch Scalp isn’t wearing pants. Or underwear. Don’t puke, don’t puke.

  It sees me and pushes right up against the windshield. Scorch Scalp hisses, showing his teeth...and the meat stuck in them. He’s fed recently. Like really recently. Jesus. Do you think that makes them stronger? More agile? Like a flesh battery recharge? Fuck, I hope not.

  Slap! Slap! SLAPSLAPSLAPSLAP!

  “Stop it!” I cry, then clamp my hand over my mouth. What the fuck was I thinking? Why? Why did I do that?

  The Zs like it, though. It seems to energize them, give them new hope that they can crack this cab like a walnut and pick the tasty nut meat (me) out and have a tasty treat. The slapping is now banging. The windows don’t look as strong as they did just seconds ago. And look! Scorch Scalp has a buddy! Oh, two buddies? Sure there’s room, why not. Three? Four? Five, six, seven? Fuck...

  Slapping to banging to...cracking?

  Shit, the passenger window is breaking. I stare at the spider cracks that are slowly spreading as hand after undead hand slams against the safety glass. Safety glass? Not feeling so safe, thank you! The cracks spread more, not so slow. Not slow at all. Pretty fast, actually. Huh. I think this shit is going to-

  “FUCK!” I scream as the glass crumbles inward. I kick and kick and kick at the hands that reach for me. I jam The Bitch at the hands, stabbing, gouging, and trying to shred them. “Stay back! Fuck off! Fuck you! FUCK YOU!”

  The hands keep reaching, but there are so many of them attached to so many bodies that they clog the window. They can’t get bodies in. And bodies are where the teeth are. Okay, okay, this could be fine.

  CRACK!

  I slowly turn my head and see the split in the windshield. The Putrescent Seven will not have a problem getting through that window when the glass goes. Not going to get clogged there.

  A hand grabs my foot and I scream. I don’t yell like a man or below in a deep voice. I scream in a high-pitched way only dogs can hear. I’d say I scream like a little girl, but that would be an insult to the marvelous screaming ability that little girls have. My scream can only be described as a supersonic attempt at shattering every piece of glass in the world.

  Speaking of shattering glass... There goes the driver’s side window and here come the Z hands. Not to be confused with jazz hands. Those are kinda fun. Who doesn’t love a little song and dance in the apocalypse?

  Aaaaaaaaaah! The hands that grab my head are wet! Slimy wet! Like a dog bone left out in the rain after a day of gnawing. Not jazz hands! NOT JAZZ HANDS! Skin sloughs off in my hair as I jerk away. Oh, but I can’t jerk too far since there are those supersonic scream inducing hands on the other side of the cab. So I settle in the middle, turning from side to side, smashing what I can with The Bitch. Soon the cab is covered with the oozing drippings of a thousand spike wounds. I keep bashing and smashing with The Bitch, but I’m not really helping my cause. I’m just creating more of a mess. The Zs don’t give a shit if I prick their fingers with my mighty spikes.

  Back and forth, back and forth; smash and bash; spike and drip.

  CRACK!

  The windshield. The fucking windshield! Aren’t dump trucks supposed to have windshields made of like super glass? Indestructible glass that can stop a boulder at sixty miles an hour? I mean, dump trucks are around nothing but construction work. Can’t they stop falling girders and shit?

  CRACK!

  Apparently not.

  CRACK!

  Oh shit, oh fuck, oh shit, oh fuck...oh shit.

  The windshield is buckling under the weight of the Zs on the hood and I can see more climbing up and joining them. Great.

  All I can do is close my eyes and pray I hear gunshots. Come on, Stuart. You were running pretty fast. You have to have gotten to the gate by now. But then, there was that dark stain on his back. Oh, shit, did he fucking keel over and die before getting to the gate? Did a Z catch him in his weakened state? Oh, shit. Please let there be gunshots. Please, I have never wanted to hear the sound of gunpowder igniting so much in my life.

  But as I hear the windshield start to give, the sucking sound of the seal giving way around the frame, the crackcrackcrack of the glass crumpling under the weight of the Zs, all I can think about, besides the fact I’ll never see my family again (which I really try not to think about), is that I’m going to fucking die wearing bright pink yoga pants and a purple shirt with a mother fucking glittery butterfly.

  Fuck!

  Chapter Five

  Okay, so I have to open my eyes. I can’t just die like a fucking pussy, all curled into a ball and whimpering on the bench seat of a dump truck. I have to open my eyes and face death like a man. Yep, just need to open my eyes. Come on now, Jace, open those eyes.

  But I really don’t want to. God, how I don’t want to see what I hear. So I do the next best thing and roll off the bench seat and continue my cowardly curling on the floor, jammed up underneath the dashboard. At least a dump truck has a lot of legroom. I get fully wedged into the passenger’s side and cover my head with my arms, as chunks of windshield fall over me. The hungry groans and moans of the Zs get louder and louder as they crawl through the windshield and the windows.

  Half-rotted, and even fully rotted, fingers grab for me, their blackened nails digging into my forearms. Can I get turned from a scratch? Is that true? I know bites are death, and everyone has been told that being scratched can mean infection from germs and shit, but I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone to turn from a scratch. And I’ve known a lot that have turned since Z-Day.

  What the fuck am I talking about? I’m not going to live long enough to get give a shit! I am only a couple minutes from being buried under a mound of undead bodies all trying to get a piece of my sweet, sweet meat. They are going to fill this cab and eat me bit by bit, as I lie on the floor and scream like a prom queen in a slasher movie. Oh, am I screaming again? Yeah, I may be. Don’t think it’s the Zs hitting those decibels, not with their putrid vocal chords.

  So, here I am, my forearms bleeding from the Z fingers that can reach me, trying not to think of the family that is at home worried about me and may never know my fate, dressed in the most ridiculous outfit a man can die in, screaming like a madman, and what do I hear?

  A war cry.

  That’s the only way I can describe it. This undulating wail of violence and anger. There is no fear in this scream; unlike mine which is pretty much 90% fear and maybe 10% stress relief. This scream/wail/yell/call to kill echoes over the dump truck and I decide now is a good time to open my eyes. The Zs have started to retreat. Well, they try to, but they have jammed themselves in the windows pretty damn good. Too stupid to back out one at a time, the Zs thrash and flail, conflicted between their need to eat me and their need to eat whatever is outside the truck. For being undead, they have a lot of needs and conflicts.
Fucking Zs...

  I feel the truck rocking as Zs start moving towards the war cry. There are too many for me to have any hope that the cab will clear out. I can see rotted bodies climbing over the crushed windshield, trying to get to the floor and my flesh. I try, god how I try, to shove myself up inside the dashboard, but it doesn’t make any difference as cold, cloudy eyes turn on me and rotted mouths open in a single hiss of hunger.

  “Fuck off!” I shout at them. “You want a piece of my pink ass? Come and get it, fuckers!”

  And boy do they. Or try. Engineering not being their forte, the Zs have actually blocked access to me by pushing what’s left of the windshield down against the seat. It won’t hold long, I can see, that but it gives me a few more seconds of screaming time.

  Then I notice that I’m the only one screaming. The war cry is silent. Poor bastard, whoever he was.

  Then a Z is gone. Like gone. Yanked out of the truck. Then a second. And a third. A fourth. The windshield brigade of death is out of sight, pulled away, they are no more. All that’s left are the Zs wedged into the side window frames. And in seconds they start to shudder. First the driver’s side window: gone, gone, gone. No more Zs. Then the passenger window, right above me. Once again, no more Zs.

  “You gots to stop screaming,” a voice says from outside the truck. “I didn’t kill these Zs so you can bring more.”

  I see a couple of hands grab the window frame then a face is there. Hey...I know that face.

  “I know you,” I say. “You’re Elsbeth.”

  “Hey, Long Pork.” She grins and I don’t quite feel safer. But I’m not screaming anymore. “You’re truck is broke. Why’d your friends leave you? They hates you or something?”

  “They didn’t leave me,” I say. “One ran off as a diversion and the other went to get help.”

  She looks over her shoulder. “Help? But there’s only like fifty of the Zs out here. Grown men can’t kill fifty Zs?” Then her eyes light up and the hugest grin comes across her face. “My stick! You got my stick!” She reaches in and snags The Bitch from the seat. “Thanks, Long Pork!”