Z-Burbia 2: Parkway To Hell (14 page)

I hit the ground and do what any self-respecting hero would do: I cover my head with my arms. Men are shouting, cursing, screaming,
and dying. I do notice I haven’t heard a woman scream or call out, so Elsbeth, and I guess Foster, must be doing alright. Not really going to look up and find out. Just fine cowering right here for now, thank you very much.

A man falls dead next me, most of his head gone, and I snag his rifle and roll over on my back, ready to shoot any mother fucker coming at me. Except there aren’t any. Oh, there’s plenty of men I could shoot, but they aren’t coming after me; they’re busy with Elsbeth, Foster, Critter, and John. No, what I get to deal with are the Zs that didn’t get run over.

And, hey, look! They brought friends!

Fifteen is my quick guesstimation. Fuck it. I start firing.

Now, I have fired a lot of weapons since Z-Day. Sure, I’d fired a couple hand guns before that, but you don’t really get familiar with firearms until you’re thrust into the middle of the apocalypse. But, despite my experience, I am not ready for what I am holding in my hands.

Especially since the thing is set to full auto. I have no idea what kind of rifle it is, some special boom boom stick that contractors use, I guess. But with just the press of my finger it unloads everything on the Zs. And whatever is behind them. Because, honestly, I miss completely.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, I hit the fuckers, for sure. Hard not to with all those bullets. But, I don’t get a single headshot. Not one. I just shred some already shredded looking rib cages and kill empty air. Good one, Jace. Way to be a hero.

The rifle clicks empty, but I don’t waste time. If everyone is too busy shooting at each other to take care of the undead fucks
, then I guess I’ll have to do it. I get up, turn the rifle around, burn the fuck out of my hand on the smoking barrel, scream, and cover my burnt hand with my sleeve, take hold of the barrel (Ow! Still hot!) and start swinging.

Really, I’m better with melee weapons. I can crush a Z’s head like a mother fucker.

I take two down before I have to retreat backwards to avoid getting caught and surrounded. I feel the hot sting of a bullet graze my cheek and cry out. Okay, I scream. Fucking hurts!

“Just get down, Long Pork!” Elsbeth yells, shoving me to the pavement. She leapfrogs over me and takes off six Z heads before she has both feet back on the ground. It still leaves plenty of Zs, though.

I look about for another weapon, but there’s nothing within reach. A hand grabs me and I almost start to pound the face that goes with it, but stop as Critter yanks me to my feet.

“Good to see ya, Long Pork,” Critter grins. “I’ll add this ass saving to the list.”

“List? What list?” I ask. “There’s a list?”

“There is now,” Critter says.

“Look out!” I shout, but it’s too late. Critter takes the butt of Cowboy’s rifle to the back of his head and crumples.

He swipes at me, but I stumble back and trip over my own feet, landing right back on the pavement. Cowboy just smiles and takes aim, but the smile falls away quickly as he ducks under a blade that just misses his head. I look up and see Elsbeth standing over me, plenty of Z goo dripping off of her. Which drips right onto me. Dammit.

“You get to running, Long Pork,” Elsbeth says. “I got this. Toy soldiers don’t scare me.”

“Toy soldiers?” Cowboy laughs. “Girl, I’m about to teach you how scary toys can be.”

“I know how scary they can be,” Elsbeth replies, her lips pulled back into a snarl. “I had a clown once.”

“That’s scary,” I say. “Can’t deny that, Cowboy.”

“The name is Jameson, you little annoying bitch,” he snaps.

“Don’t call her a bitch!” I shout. He just shakes his head. “Oh, you were calling me a bitch. Right. Elsbeth kill him.”

She steps past me, but stops as Cowboy presses the barrel of his rifle to Critter’s unconscious temple.

“You sure you want to do that, girl?” Cowboy says. “I mean, go right ahead. I don’t really care. Of course, if you take one more step
, I blow his fucking head off.”

Elsbeth stops.

“He isn’t a very nice man,” Elsbeth says.

Cowboy looks at me. “Who’s she talking about? Me or the hillbilly here?”

“Both,” Elsbeth says, “but he’s helped me. What do I do, Long Pork?”

I glance around and see that the fighting has stopped. There are bodies everywhere; blood coats the asphalt. On her knees, with one eye already swollen shut and blood pouring from a gash on her scalp, is Foster. The one eye she has open is burning a hole in the back of Cowboy’s head.

“I’ll count to three, girl,” Cowboy says. “At three, this scrawny fuck dies. Then you and your buddy on the ground die. You may be able to get to me, but you won’t get to everyone behind me. You don’t stand a chance.”

I make a quick count and realize he’s right; even with Elsbeth’s speed and skills she can’t take them all. We’re dead.

“Put them down, El,” I say.

“But, Long Pork,” she protests
, “I can do this.”

“No, you can’t,” I say.

She glances down at me and I see the wounded hurt in her eyes. Fuck, I’m just crushing her soul today.

“Why?” she asks.

There’s so much in that one word that I don’t know how to answer. So I shrug. It’s the go to gesture when you’ve betrayed one of your closest friends.

The blades clatter against the pavement and Cowboy smiles.

“Good,” he says, “the President will be pleased. Foster and now this chick in the arena? Talk about entertainment.”

“Fuck you, Jameson,” Foster spits behind him.

“Shut her the fuck up,” he orders, his eyes still watching Elsbeth.

A pistol slams into the back of Foster’s head and she collapses. Cowboy steps away from Critter, his rifle to his shoulder.

“On your knees, bitch,” he says to Elsbeth. A low growl comes from her throat. “Do it or you and your Long Pork die!”

“Please, El,” I say. “They have Stella. They have Charlie and Greta.”

“I know,” Elsbeth says as she gets on her knees.

Cowboy rushes forward and nails Elsbeth in the face with the butt of his rifle. She goes down, but she’s not out. For a split
second, I think she’s going to fight back, but she just looks at me as the second blow comes. Then her eyes close and I look up at Cowboy.

“You gonna smack me too?” I ask.

“You gonna be trouble?” he replies.

“I always am,” I say. “Don’t try to be, but fuck if I don’t just breed trouble.”

Cowboy watches me a second then smiles. “Nah, I’ll let you get into the vehicle on your own steam,” Cowboy says. “Easier that way. Plus, I want you to be thinking about what a fucking cowardly little pussy you are while we drive back to the Grove Park. And also think about what it’s going to be like to watch your family get eaten by zeds tonight. That’s gonna be a show and a half.”

“What?” I shout, getting to my feet in an instant. Where the fuck is John? Why hasn’t he put a bullet in this fucking asshole’s head?

“You didn’t think you were getting out of this unscathed, did you?” Cowboy asks as he shoves me towards an SUV that isn’t shot to shit. “Everyone pays the piper, pussy. And you are going to be paying for a long time.”

I want to fight; I want to kill the fuck. But all my strength just leaves me as Cowboy pushes me into the SUV. What can I do? I’m good at killing Zs and I know how to fight cannies and even crazies like Vance and his goons. But professional soldiers? People, man. People.

They suck.

***

The working  SUVs speed off down Charlotte St and around the corner, heading up to the Grove Park Inn. John counts out the seconds, double checks the area, and then cautiously makes his way down to the street. One hand is holding his empty sniper rifle, while the other is clamped to his wounded left shoulder. He kneels next to one of the dead PCs and rifles through the man’s vest.

He finds extra magazines and checks the cartridges inside.

“Fuck,” he mutters. Not compatible with his M110. He looks at his weapon and shakes his head. “Sorry, girl.”

He picks up the
rifle lying next to the PC. He grunts in disgust at the imperfect weapon, knowing he can still be lethal with it, but won’t have anywhere near the range and accuracy that he needs. He slings the rifle over his shoulder, gets up, and gathers as many magazines as he can. Once he has them jammed into his pockets, he starts to go through the dead men’s gear until he finds what he’s looking for.

He hops into the backseat of an SUV and closes the door behind him, his eyes catching sight of a new group of Zs heading his way. He sets his gear down on the floor of the SUV and pulls his uniform away from his shoulder.

Grimacing at what he sees, he readies himself for what he has to do. Pulling two shotgun shells from his gear, he cracks them open and pours the powder into his wound. It’s a through and through, luckily, so he doesn’t have to worry about a stray slug stuck inside. But that’s little comfort as he picks up a glove and jams it into his mouth. He mentally counts to three and then lights the powder.

God, he tries not to scream too loudly, but there’s no way to stay quiet as the flesh around and inside the wound is cauterized by burning gunpowder. The Zs in the street hear him and start their slow shuffle towards the SUV. John knows he has to move or he’ll be trapped, but he can’t get his legs to work.

The wound keeps burning and burning and soon his head is spinning. He leans back into the seat, planning on resting for just a second, just enough to catch his breath. But his eyes instantly roll up into his head and he passes out, slumping down out of sight.

The Zs make it to the SUV and their undead hands claw at the windows. They groan and hiss, trying to get inside at the source of the smell of burning flesh. They smack the glass, the doors; they rock the SUV, but they can’t get in. And John isn’t coming out. As the sun starts to dip
lower in the sky, and John hasn’t moved an inch, more Zs crowd around the SUV. One by one, they shamble up to it, called by the swarming of their kind, continuing their never ending search for food, for the flesh that drives their hunger.

Chapter Seven

Stunned into silence, Big Daddy reaches back, catching Pup’s hand so he can be helped onto the bale of hay behind him.
Not
stunned into silence is Brenda Kelly as she rails at him, pacing back and forth, her hands moving frantically, alternating between pointing at the PCs trussed up on the barn floor and the now seated Big Daddy.

“The President of the United States! We fought against the President of the United States! How are you not full of shame? Why are these men still tied up? We need to free them immediately and contact President Mondello!” Brenda shouts, turning to the bound men. “What kind of name is Mondello? Is that Mexican? Italian? What?” She then spins about, glaring at Big Daddy. “Why are these men still tied up? I just asked you that and you refuse to answer! If I have to have my Head of Security come in here and untie them I will, Mr. Fitzpatrick! Mark my words, I’ll have Mindy Sterling set these men free!”

“Are you quite finished, ma’am?” Big Daddy asks, a sheen of cold sweat on his forehead. “Because I have similar questions, just without all of the spit and vinegar.”

“Spit and vinegar? Spit and vinegar! What are you babbling about now, you dumb redneck?” Brenda yells. “There’s a reason I wanted Whispering Pines secure! And not just because of the Zs! It was to keep away from ignorant yokels like you, Mr. Fitzpatrick! Spit and vinegar!”

“Ma’am, please calm down,” Pup says. “And don’t be insulting my daddy. You’re our guest here, but not for long if you continue to act like a-”

“That’s enough, Pup,” Big Daddy says
, “she’s a silly fool and fools can’t help what they are.”

“How dare you? How dare you!” Brenda screeches.

“Ma’am, please be quiet,” Big Daddy says. “I shouldn’t have to remind you every single, gosh darn time I see you that there is no need for this behavior. We can all be adults and discuss this without resorting to hysterics and name calling.”

“Oh, hysterics is it? Why? Because I’m a woman and lesser than you? You think any time a woman exerts her power she’s hysterical?”

“Well, I think you’re pretty hysterical,” Melissa Fitzpatrick says from the barn door. “A down right hoot. Personally, I could laugh at your pompous face all day long. There’s just something about the way you look. Kinda like a watermelon with legs and arms.”

Brenda tries to respond, but just sputters and fumes. Melissa smiles at this. The designated head of the Whispering Pines scavenger crew, Melissa
, has seen horrors that Brenda can’t imagine. While protected in the relative (and former) safety of Whispering Pines, Brenda Kelly used her bluster and ruthlessness to intimidate most of the residents and HOA; especially since the majority of them didn’t set foot outside the gate, ever.

But Melissa does step outside, risking her life to obtain desperately needed supplies and materials for the be
nefit of Whispering Pines. Being Big Daddy’s only daughter, raised with six brothers, a woman like Brenda Kelly is an inconvenience only, not a source of intimidation or fear. And Melissa has no problem reminding the HOA Board Chair of that any chance she gets.

“The fact that Whispering Pines was destroyed should be evidence enough that you have no place criticizing others for the decisions they make,” Melissa states. “So just close your mouth and listen. Or I’ll close it for you, Brenda. I will promise you that. And then you’ll wish things were hysterical.”

“Sweetie Mel,” Big Daddy says, “I believe you’ve made your point. Unfortunately, I think you added to the spit and vinegar.” He holds up a hand to stay his daughter’s objections. “So how about you ladies let me handle this for a minute? If I don’t do an adequate job, then I’ll let each of you have your turns, your ways.”

Melissa nods while Brenda just snorts in disgust.

“Good enough,” Big Daddy says getting back to his feet with Pup’s help. His leg throbs and sharp pains make him want to cry out, but he’s a lifetime farmer and it isn’t enough to slow him down, even at his age.

“Gentlemen,” Big Daddy addresses the men at his feet
, “I’m sure you have been listening to what Ms. Kelly has been railing on about. This is wholly unbelievable, to say the least. I’m sure you can appreciate that.” He smiles down at the men; they do not smile back.

“Anthony Mondello is the Secretary of Homeland Security,” Platt acknowledges, having been silent until now. Standing above them all at the edge of the
hayloft, Platt has his arms behind his back, his face showing zero emotion.

“Thank you, Master Sergeant,” Big Daddy says. “So we know that part is true. The rest? Can’t be verified. Not right this moment, you understand. While I’d like to believe you, the problem I have is that you’ve already admitted you’re hired guns.”

“Private contractors,” one of the men replies.

“I believe that there is known as splitting hairs, sir,” Big Daddy responds. “Whatever you boys like to be called, you and your boss have been paid to provide a service to a man that calls himself President. I’m fairly certain that if he paid you enough you’d call him the Easter Bunny. Although I believe that particular holy day should be reserved for the memory of our Lord and Savior
, and not a rodent handing out chocolates.”

“We knew he was President before we were hired,” another man says. “He’s been President for over a year now.”

“At least,” a third man agrees.

“Funny,” Platt says
, “I don’t remember voting for him.”

“I don’t neither,” Big Daddy says. “But I do believe that is besides the proverbial point.”

“This i
s
al
l
besides the point!” Brenda snaps. “So how about you get to it, Mr. Fitzpatrick!”

“Shrill,” Big Daddy says.

“Tell me about it,” Melissa agrees.

“But, to satisfy you, Ms. Kelly,” Big Daddy continues before she can protest further. “I will get to the point. Why were the Stanfords taken? What does this so called President want with them?”

“Don’t know,” the first man answers, “I didn’t ask him.”

“Did he give you the orders or did your boss?” Big Daddy asks.

The men stay quiet.

“Their boss,” Platt says. Big Daddy nods at this.

The men all look up at Platt, their eyes filled with malice and anger.

“What?” Platt asks. “Are the private contractors afraid of regular military?”

“We may be hired,” the first man says. “But you aren’t. Pretty sure President Mondello is your Commander-in-Chief. Pretty sure that this is sedition. Considering he knows your team has been here. I doubt you didn’t know about him.”

“This true?” Big Daddy asks.

“Irrelevant,” Platt says. “It takes more than just saying so to be President. If he knew about us, he could have reached out at any time and made contact, showing proof of his right to the presidency.”

“An argument can be made both ways,” Big Daddy says.

“Hardly,” Platt replies. “Making contact would have compromised the team. Through some convoluted back channels we heard what was going on in Charlottesville-”

“Charlottesville?” Brenda Kelly snorts. “The man doesn’t even know where the capitol is!”

“He’s right, lady,” the first man says. “Charlottesville is the new seat of the government. But Atlanta is where the action is at.”

“Dumb shit,” the second man says.

“What? Atlanta isn’t a secret.”

“It is to us,” Platt says
, “what’s in Atlanta?”

“Fuck,” the first man says.

“We’re gonna be here a while,” Melissa says, plopping down on a bale of hay. “Guess I should get comfortable.”

***

“Why are we hiding here again?” Harlan asks, as he and Shep stay hidden under the rhododendron bushes next to one of the mansions on Kimberly Ave, across the road from the Grove Park Inn’s golf course, and in sight of the Inn itself. “Didn’t the gunfire come from over on Charlotte? Sounded like it to me.”

“Do you still hear gunfire?” Stuart asks, binoculars to his eyes, focused on the Grove Park. “I don’t. We’ll check it out soon, but right now
, I want to watch the GPI.”

“Entrance is on the other side,” Shep says. “All we see here are the same guards walking back and forth.”

“No, Shep, not the same guards,” Stuart replies, handing him the binoculars. “Take a look.”

Shep takes the binoculars and has a look, but just shrugs and hands them back. “They all look the same to me, man. Black armor and big guns.”

“You like those biceps, eh Shep?” Harlan laughs.

“Knock it off,” Stuart says. “They changed shifts, trust me. Those are new guards.” Stuart checks his watch. “Two hours early.”

“How the fuck do you know that?” Harlan asks. “How many times have you come here?”

“I’ve been a few,” Stuart says. “So have some of Leeds’s team. Between us
, we’ve figured out a schedule. They’ve stuck to it until today.”

“What do you think it means?” Harlan asks.

“I don’t know,” Stuart says, “but it’s strange. There must have been a disruption somewhere.”

“Like all that damn gunfire?” Harlan laughs. “That the disruption you’re looking for?”

“That could be,” Stuart says. “But it can’t just be that. Something else is going on.”

“We gonna find out?” Shep asks. “Or we gonna go check out Charlotte St?”

“Both,” Stuart says. “The entrance is easier to observe if we come at it from Charlotte.”

“Yeah,” Harlan agrees. “But we could take Country Club Dr and go up the back way.”

“More patrols that way,” Shep says. “Right?”

“Right,” Stuart says, thinking it over. “No, we go Charlotte. See what the dust up was over. Then to the Grove Park.”

“Lead the way,” Harlan says.

Stuart does.

***

The sun beams down on John as he kicks back in the deck chair, his feet up, and a cold beer in his hand. He hasn’t caught a thing
all day, but the fact that he’s on leave and away from Fort Bragg for a few days makes up for that. He’s happy just to enjoy the gentle rocking of the small boat on the intercoastal waterway as he sips his beer and watches the swaying of the fishing pole locked in place. Gulls fly overhead, making strange, low noises, but again, John is just happy to be somewhere that isn’t overrun by Zs.

By Zs?

He sets his beer down and shields his eyes. Why would he think of Zs? He’s on leave, enjoying some much needed rest and relaxation. Zs aren’t his problem. Then more gulls fly overhead and the sounds coming from them chill John’s bones. Gulls don’t moan. They don’t hiss and snarl. And are they getting louder?

He starts to stand up, but the gentle rocking of the boat turns into some seriously rough rocking, and he falls back on his ass. Pain shoots out from his shoulder and he glances down, surprised at the blood blooming through his t-shirt.

What the fuck? Is there a storm coming? He crawls to the side of the boat and looks into the water. It is completely still and calm, not a wave. Yet the boat keeps rocking. He starts to look away then realizes the reflection in the water isn’t of his face. The face staring back at him is missing one eye and most of its nose. And it isn’t alone. More faces stare back at him, their mouths opening, timed with the sounds of the groans and hisses.

John scrambles back from the side, his hands frantically searching behind him for his pack and his cell phone. He has to call this in. Something is very wrong in the North Carolina outer banks. Crazy sounding gulls? Dead people looking at him from under the water? What the hell?

His hand finds his pack, but something finds his hand. He looks back over his shoulder as a shadow passes over him. Looking up, against the sun, he can barely make out the features of the person that has taken hold of his arm.

“What the hell is going on?” John shouts. “Who are you?”

The person leans forward and John wants to scream. The face that is pressing close to his doesn’t have any flesh; nothing holds its jaw on except for a couple strands of dry tendon. Its tongue is black and swollen, coated in wiggling maggots that squirm off of it and fall onto the boat’s deck. John finally does scream as he sees the thing’s eyes.

Eyes he has seen in the mirror every single day of his life.

Still screaming, John bolts awake, thrust back into the true nightmare of real life. Panicked, he looks around, realizing he’s still in the SUV, surrounded by Zs, with a shoulder that, while no longer literally on fire, fucking hurts like it.

Oh, and the SUV is rocking back
and forth rather violently as dozens and dozens of Zs try to break inside to get at John’s living tastiness. The windows are holding fine even with the pounding they are taking from the Zs due to the bulletproof glass they are made from. John is pretty sure the SUVs are reinforced, so he doesn’t think there’s any way the Zs can get to him. But that doesn’t solve the problem of being surrounded by the undead without any supplies. He forces himself to move and search the vehicle, but he comes up with nothing; not even a canteen of water. Which he so desperately could use right now.