Z-Burbia 2: Parkway To Hell (25 page)

“It’s Jace,” I say, “please.”

She nods
at me then nods towards the front door and starts walking. I follow and Platt catches up.

“Not going for diplomacy these days, are you?” Platt states.

“No time,” I say.

“As a career soldier
, I would agree,” Platt says. “I’ve seen useless diplomacy waste valuable time. But also as a career soldier, I have to disagree. There is a place for it, Jace. You’d be wise to study where and when that place is.”

“You and Big Daddy rehearse this?”

“Could be,” Platt says. “What we are about to undertake is complex in the best of times. Now? Post-Z? It’s mindboggling.”

“We’ll tackle it one step at a time,” I say. “That’s all we can do.”

“I agree,” Platt says as we get to the Humvee waiting for us, with Lourdes at the wheel. “Let’s just hope we don’t trip too much while taking those steps.”

Platt takes the passenger seat and I hop in the back as we roll out. Just in two weeks
, the area around the Grove Park Inn has been secured and the needed repairs have begun. We weave through a system of barricades before getting out to the road. Lourdes nods at the armed guards manning the entrance/exit.

“Quite a system,” I say.
“You’ve improved on it.”

“We need it,” Lourdes says. “We aren’t just talking about zeds now. We have people to contend with. The barricades help slow vehicles as well as create choke points for zeds. With the amount of people living in the Grove Park, it is a ripe target for both.”

“How many people are living there?” I ask.

“Most of Whispering Pines,” Platt says. “That’s a few dozen.  Edgar gave me a count this morning and we have 150 laborers staying on.”

“Count my crew of fifty and that’s a lot of warm bodies,” Lourdes says. “That kind of concentration will attract zeds.”

“And it’ll attract those survivors in Asheville that haven’t come out of the woodwork yet,” I add.

“Precisely,” Platt says. “We almost have the Grove Park locked down tight. Then we move on to the water plant and power plant. Which is what we’re going to look at today.”

“What about Whispering Pines?” I ask.

“We’re going to leave that up to your new Board Chairperson,” Platt says. “Best to keep some semblance of democracy.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” I say.

We work our way through Asheville, our eyes watching the shadows between buildings, always alert for an attack. I finger the grip of a 9mm Glock that Stuart gave me. He says it has decent stopping power, but won’t be too much to handle with only, well, one hand. My only problem is getting used to my left hand as my primary. Dr. McCormick says that I’ll adapt quickly.

Zs are here and there, but the numbers aren’t huge, even when we hit the center of town.
Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of the fuckers shambling around, but not enough to present a problem. We drive around those we can and drive over those we can’t. Just no hordes to deal with.

Which is fucking fine by me. I’ve had my fill of Z hordes for a while. Stumpageddon has too.

“According to city records,” Platt says, “Asheville has three water treatment plants, 40 pump stations, and 32 reservoirs.”

“Jesus, seriously?” I ask. “That’s a lot of infrastructure.”

“Yeah, it is,” Lourdes says, turning down Hilliard St., “and I’m taking you to my guy to talk about it.”

Platt laughs.

“What?” I ask.

“Look at you,” he laughs some more. “You don’t find it ironic that you killed the President of the United States
, and now you’re being chauffeured around like you’re his successor?”

“Yeah, I totally find it ironic,” I smile. “Want me to drive?”

“Not particularly,” Platt says. “Not sure you’ll have the response skills needed.”

“Stella can’t tell me to put both hands on the wheel anymore, at least,” I say. “So I have that.”

“It’ll be hard to change music on your iPod while driving too,” Lourdes says.

“Good one,” I laugh.

“Here we are,” she says as we pull up to a guarded chain link gate. Two men roll it back and we drive through, parking next to a beat up looking trailer.

A large black man, not fat, but large, like twenty feet tall and about six feet wide, comes out of the trailer, his hand up in greeting. Okay, he’s
maybe closer to seven feet, but the fucker is tall.

“Joseph Tennant,” the man says, offering his hand as I get out of the
Humvee. “Call me Joe T. Everyone else does.”

“Jason Stanford,” I say. “Call me Jace.”

“Will do, Jace,” he smiles. It’s a warm smile, genuine. But knowing that he’s part of Lourdes’s crew means I won’t ever underestimate him. “Care to see where we’re at so far?”

“Please,” I say.

He walks around the pump station and points out the various parts. I’ll be honest and say most of it goes in one ear and out the other. I should be paying more attention, but there’s one problem: pain. I’ve been trying not to admit it, but losing an arm hurts. I have some painkillers I can take and they’re in my pocket, but I’m saving them for when it’s really bad. Dr. McCormick warned me not to get dependent and also that they are scarce, so use them wisely.

We check things out and Joe T explains that he did six private tours in Iraq and specialized in infrastructure security. In order to keep that infrastructure secure
, he had to know what was vital and what was not. He basically taught himself hydro-engineering. Nice.

As we come to the end of the unbelievably detailed tour, Lourdes lays out the plan.

“I have three man teams going out to each of the 40 pump stations,” Lourdes says. “They have instructions from Joe T on how to make sure they’re shut off.”

“Shut off? Why?” I ask. “Isn’t the point to get the water turned on?”

“It sure is, Jace,” Joe T says, “but how many people do you think thought to turn their faucets off as they were escaping zeds? Or how many pipes have busted and toilets started leaking over the years? We turn it all on at once and we’ll flood this city and the whole system will collapse.”

“Right. Got it,” I nod
, “one step at a time.”

“Exactly, my man,” Joe T smiles. “We’ll start here, learn quite a few things, then take what we learn and apply it to the rest of the stations. It won’t be fast, probably take a couple years to work our way through every single one, but we’ll get there.”

“So you’re here for the long haul?” I ask. “No reason to bail and head back to Charlottesville?”

“My reasons died
in Baltimore,” Joe T says.

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” he nods. “But now I’m here and a good thing too, because y’all can use me.”

“True dat,” Lourdes says, slapping Joe T on the back. “We’re off to Lake Julian now. Have you heard from Shumway?”

“Yeah,” Joe T laughs, “he’s been busy.”

“Zeds?” she asks.

“Oh, yeah, plenty,” Joe T says. “Whatever it is about power plants, they seem to attract zeds like flies on shit.”

“They do? You’ve seen it
at other places?” I ask.

“Every place,” Lourdes answers. “It’s weird.”

“Then let’s go lend a hand,” Platt says, then looks at me. “Sorry.”

“What?” I ask then look at my arm. “Oh, don’t worry, Stumpageddon doesn’t care.”

They all stare at me for what seems like a very long time.

“What? What did I say?”

“Dude, did you name your stump?” Joe T asks.

“Yeah,” I nod. “He has lots of names, but I se
ttled on Stumpageddon, Lord of All Stumps.”

“Dude,” Joe T says, shaking his head. “That is fucked up. And awesome. But mostly fucked up.”

“White folks,” Lourdes laughs.

“K
iss my white ass,” Platt says. “Don’t lump me in with Long Pork.”

“Ah, man,” I sigh. “
I thought we’d dropped that nickname.”

“Not if you’re going to call your stump Stumpageddon,” Platt says. “And don’t expect me or any of my team to address it as such.”

“You will all kneel before Stumpageddon!” I announce, raising my truncated arm.

“I like this guy,” Joe T says. “
I like you.”

“Right back atcha, Joe T,” I say. “Now, where to next?”

“Lake Julian,” Lourdes says. “The power plant.”

“Sounds good to me,” I say.

We get in the Humvee and Lourdes steers us back to Biltmore Ave. Heading south we see more and more Zs. Close to the train tracks, where Biltmore turns into Hendersonville Rd, we get stuck. A large horde has gathered and decides that surrounding our Humvee is a fun way to spend the day. I close my ears while Lourdes stops and Platt opens a top hatch and unloads on them. Using the mounted .50 caliber, part of the supplies Lourdes and the PCs brought with them, Platt mows down row after row of Zs.

He drops enough that Lourdes can get the
Humvee moving again. Undead crunch under the tires as we cross the train racks and get through Biltmore Village. I look to my right and see the entrance to the Biltmore Estate.

“Stop,” I say
, “stop the Humvee.”

“We can’t stop
right here, Jace,” Platt says. “We just got clear. We’ll be surrounded in seconds and have to start all over.”

“What is it?” Lourdes asks. “What do you see?”

“I don’t know,” I say as we keep going. “I thought I saw someone by the Biltmore.”

“It was a zed,” Lourdes says. “Or maybe a stray survivor. We’re gonna be stirring them up as we search the city more.”

“Yeah, could be,” I say. But I don’t think so. The way the person looked wasn’t like other survivors. He or she, I couldn’t quite tell, looked…clean. But it was a ways off. I’m probably not thinking or seeing clearly because of the pain.

It’s a long drive down to Lake Julian and the power plant. We have to stop twice to get clear of Zs
, and then a third time to refuel. Lourdes already has caches of fuel stashed throughout the city so her teams don’t get stranded.

By the time we get to Lake Julian, my arm is on fire.
I keep wanting to wring my hands together, but I can’t, even though I feel my other hand. That phantom limb syndrome? Yeah, it’s real. It wakes me up at night sometimes, the feeling like I have both arms still intact. Pretty much half my day is spent trying to scratch an itch that isn’t there. It’s infuriating.

“You good?” Platt asks as we get past
the power plant security and pull up in front of the main offices. “You’re sweating and it’s 45 degrees out.”

“All good,” I smile.

Platt and Lourdes exchange looks.

“Come on guys, I’m fine,” I say
, “just tired. It’s my first day out and about. Cut me some slack.”

“Where’s it at on the scale?” Lourdes asks.

“What scale?”

“The pain scale,” she says. “I know a little something about amputees. You just lost your arm two weeks ago. You should still be in bed resting. Or at the very least chilling out on that giant back porch at the Grove Park. Not out here.”

“Now you decide to tell me this?” I laugh.

“I told Platt back at the Inn, but he said it was useless,” she replies. “You’d just fight and whine and still come with us.”

“I don’t know about the whining,” I say.

“I do,” Platt says
, “you would have whined.”

“Well, we’re here now,” I say
, “let’s have a looksee.”

The Lake Julian power plant is a coal-fired power plant, which I knew, but can be converted to natural gas with some work. A lot of work. Okay, I’m not doing it justice. It will take a metric fuck ton of work to convert the power plant. In fact, as I stand and listen to the man Lourdes put in charge of the conversion, it sounds like it could be like building the
thing all over again.

His name is Albert Shumway and he’s a
s short as Joe T is tall. This guy borders on being a Little Person. But holy fuck is he cut. It’s 45 degrees out and the man is wearing a tank top, showing off muscles that are on top of muscles and bullying the muscles they’re on top of. Crazy to look at.

“We have maybe one third of the parts we need to start,” Shumway says. I quickly learn he does not like to be called Albert or Al. Shumway or go fuck yourself were his
exact words, I believe.

“Only a third?” I ask. “Where do we get the rest?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he replies, “at the power plant store?  Do you mind popping on down there and picking me up eighteen new couplings for generator three? That would be swell, Mr. Stanford.”

“It’s Jace,” I say
, “and I get the point.”

“Do you, Mr. Stanford?” Shumway asks. “Gee, great, now my problems are solv
ed. Because you get the point.”

“Shumway,” Lourdes warns
, “stop being a dick.”

“Why? Because this guy killed Mondello?” Shumway laughs. “Isn’t that called a presidential assassination? Shouldn’t he be hanged for that?”