Z-Burbia 4: Cannibal Road (14 page)

She took off right away without waiting for an answer. We struggled to keep up with her, as she was still faster than fuck even in a weird crouch run. I’m not sure why we were crouch running, since anyone could see us whether we were running upright or with our bodies bent over. But Elsbeth was crouch running so we crouch ran too until we got to the corner of the building and stopped.

The Zs dangling from the sign saw us though, and their hisses and moans filled the air. Being veterans of the zombie apocalypse, we knew it was only a matter of time before their noises drew more Zs to us. We had a very small window of time to get from the medical center to the railroad tracks or we’d end up cut off like before.

Unfortunately, that window of time went out the window as soon as a side door opened up and five people dressed in surgical scrubs stepped out.

“Patients shouldn’t be roaming around,” a man said. His face was obscured by a surgical mask and his head was shaved except for random spots where hair was left in the shape of crosses and dyed red. All the others had the same stylish hairdos going on as well.

Red crosses. Are you fucking kidding me? The crazy fucks (I don’t think I was assuming much by calling them that) had left spots of hair on their heads in the shape of red crosses? Sure. Why the fuck not?

“Time for your medicine,” a woman said, as she pulled a large bone saw from behind her back and shook it menacingly at us.

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Stella said as she pulled her pistol and shot all five between the eyes. Their bodies dropped to the ground and their perfectly clean scrubs soon did what they did best, soaking up the blood that poured from the corpses’ heads.

“Well, that handles that,” I said. “Now we run!”

We didn’t hang around for the next rotation of nutjobs to show up and proceeded to throw all caution to the wind. In other words, we ran our asses off. We booked it away from the medical center and out onto Laurel Ave. Elsbeth took the lead again and steered us towards 20th Street. She turned up that street and we passed Highland Ave then Forest Ave and were about to hit Grand Ave, which was the last street before the railroad tracks, when suddenly, we were cut off by several cars coming to a screeching halt in front of us.

Now, let me make this clear, because it is important to understanding the whole Knoxville experience. The streets were not clogged with cars like in Asheville. Someone had taken the time to make sure vehicles were pulled to the side or had been removed completely. Even back in Asheville we didn’t bother moving all the abandoned vehicles until Lourdes and her PCs arrived. Even then, we only moved them from the main arteries.

However, Knoxville’s abandoned cars were arranged in an orderly fashion. All parked in spaces along the streets or in parking lots and driveways. Not a single Prius sat sideways with its doors open and a desiccated corpse hanging out like half the cars in Asheville.

That was why the bright pink, bright green, bright red, bright yellow and bright blue compact cars that stopped in front of us had no trouble zooming down the street to head us off.

“Hey!” a woman yelled from her bright pink Volkswagen Jetta. “Those ladies are now pledges! Back away, guys, or we’ll cut your balls off and feed them to you!”

The woman stepped from her car and my mouth dropped. She had to be at least in her mid to late fifties, but she was dressed like a sorority girl on meth: mismatched knee high leather boots with thigh high multi-colored striped socks. Short shorts that didn’t exactly leave anything to the imagination, and a tight blouse tied up around her boobs so her less than flat belly could pooch out.

Oh, and did I forget the AK-47 she held and pointed right at us? Sorry. Yeah, she had one of those and it was painted pink to match her car

The drivers of the other cars all got out and weren’t dressed nearly so out of place slutty, but they still were a shock. None of them was under fifty. No way, no how. Miniskirts, pleated khaki capris, half-tees, hair done up in ponytails, pigtails, tucked under a Hello Kitty trucker cap. They were women trying to wear girl’s clothing as their post-apocalyptic uniform.

Oh, and another for the record: pretty sick of the post-apocalyptic uniform thing going on in Knoxville. That shit was annoying as hell pre-Z. It was a million times more annoying as I stood with my hands up and jaw hanging open.

“I like your hat,” Elsbeth said as she pointed to the woman wearing the Hello Kitty trucker cap. “I had one of those once. I lost it somewhere. Can I have yours?”

“Shut the fuck up, pledge!” the woman yelled then looked to their leade r.I assumed she was their leader since her car was in front and she started talking first. “Should I mow them down, Bitsy?”

“Only if the men don’t step away nice and slow,” Bitsy replied. She reached back and unceremoniously pulled a wedgie from her ass. “Hear that, males? Back away from our new pledges or we kill you all.”

“I heard,” I said, “but I’m not sure my ladies want to be pledges. Can they think about it for a day or two and get back to you?”

Bitsy cocked her hip and waved her rifle around as if it wasn’t a deadly weapon that could go off at any second. Firearms safety was not her number one priority. That was obvious.

“You the funny man who thinks he’s in charge?” she asked as she stepped towards me. “You the frat president? That you, douchebag?”

“Frat president?” I asked. “I’m pretty sure those guys hated it when people called their houses ‘frats’. Would you call your country a cunt?”

The other women lifted their rifles and the sound of slides being pulled back echoed through the street and against the railcars that were only a football field’s length away across the road.

“Chill, ladies, chill,” Bitsy said, her voice a whiskey gravel mixed with insulin sweetness. “Mr. President is just being funny. Is that your thing?”

“That’s my thing,” I said and glanced at my wife, daughter, and Elsbeth. Not saying Elsbeth is mine That was just the order in which I glanced at them. “Know what else is my thing? Keeping my family together. So, if you don’t mind, we’re going to follow those train tracks out of town. You can hijack the next group of survivors for your pledge week, okay?”

“Not okay,” Bitsy said. “Duffy?” The one in the capris stiffened. “Poof-Poof?” The miniskirt smiled. “Sleenie?” Cut-off jean shorts with most of her ass hanging out. “Take them.”

“Boys over there!” Duffy yelled, her rifle jabbing forward as if she was trying to fend off a wild tiger or something.

“Yeah! Over there!” Poof-Poof echoed.

“I could just gut shoot ‘em,” Sleenie said as she twisted her hips, obviously working on her own wedgie problem. “Let ‘em die in the street or get ate by the zombies”

“No gut shooting,” Bitsy said. “Just load the ladies up.”

Elsbeth started to move, but Stella held out her arm.

“No killing, Elsbeth,” Stella said. “Wait.”

“Uh-oh,” Bitsy said as she sneered at Stella. “I think there’s another hen that thinks she’s top of the roost. That’s my job, sweetheart. I rule Sorority Village, so don’t get no ideas in your head.”

“No ideas!” Poof-Poof yelled.

Bitsy, Poof-Poof, and Duffy pulled key remotes from their pockets. At least, I assume they were in their pockets, although, considering how tight some the clothes they wore were, I had to wonder if they didn’t pull them from someplace more intimate. They each pressed a button and the trunks on the first three cars popped open.

“Get in,” Bitsy said. “We don’t have all day. Got a herd coming through in about fifteen minutes.”

“No way,” Elsbeth said. “Not getting in there. No, no, no.”

“You climb in, pretty thing, or I shoot your people,” Bitsy warned. “Starting with the young bippy twat here.”

“Me?” Greta asked. “Did you call me a bippy twat?”

“If the insult fits,” Bisty said. “One day, you’ll grow up to be a real woman like me, but you may not make it to that day if your friend with the crazy eyes doesn’t chill, chill, chill.”

“Crazy eyes?” Elsbeth frowned. “Now you’re just being mean.”

“You aren’t all there in the head, are you?” Bitsy asked Elsbeth.

“Says the circus stripper,” I respond. “Listen, Bitsy, you don’t need to do this. Just let us go. We’ll be out of the city and out of your hair by sunset. We never wanted to stop in Knoxville, but things got in the way.”

“Hey, Mr. President,” Bitsy said. “You think I care? Not my fault you took a wrong turn. Not my fault your friends got all blown to shit. Not my fault the Orangies didn’t want y’all to come to our kegger. Not. My. Fault.”

“Not her fault!” Poof-Poof yelled then spat a huge, yellow loogie on the ground. “Not! Her! Fault!”

“So, ladies? Get in the fucking trunks, will ya? I don’t have all day,” Bitsy ordered. “And you have until the count of five or I slice the nuts off your boys.”

“Fine,” Stella growled.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. It took all of my willpower to keep from freaking out and going after the twisted Sisters. When I opened my eyes again, Stella was being shoved into the trunk of Bitsy’s car, Greta was shoved into Poof-Poof’s and Elsbeth was just standing by Duffy’s while their packs and weapons were tossed into the backseats of their respective vehicles.

“El,” I said. “Get in. We’ll be okay. We’ll figure out how to get out of this.”

“No, you won’t,” Bitsy said, “but that’s sweet of you to say.”

“Don’t want to get in the trunk,” Elsbeth stated.

“Tough titty said the kitty when the milk ran dry,” Bitsy cackled. “Get in the fucking trunk!”

“You die first,” Elsbeth said as we watched the trunk lids get shut on Stella and then Greta. “Do you hear me, ugly boots? You die first.”

“Probably,” Bitsy said. “I have heart problems.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Elsbeth snapped.

“I know,” Bitsy said, “but I don’t care. I’ve had more crazy bitches than you can count try to step to me and take the Village over. Not one could do it. You look like you can handle yourself, but so can I. No fear.”

“No brains,” Elsbeth said as she got into the trunk. She looked over at me and I nodded. “See you soon, Long Pork?”

“See you soon, El,” I nodded back.

“Long Pork?” Bitsy laughed. “I knew you were in a frat. Only a frat would give someone a shitty nickname like that.” She got into her car and looked over her shoulder at the one woman that hadn’t said anything yet. “Marge? Stay here with Long Pork and the boy. Once the herd shows, move your fine ass back to the Village.”

“You’re gonna let us die?” Charlie snapped.

“I’m going to let you live,” Bitsy said as she revved her engine. “Whether you get away from the zombies and stay alive is your problem, not mine. Toodles!”

She sped off down the street, followed by Poof-Poof, Duffy, and Sleenie. Marge just stood there, her AK-47 pointed right at my crotch. She was the tallest of the five women, with long black hair that was obviously a wig, dark skin, and eyes that were blacker than her faux hair. Dressed in a miniskirt that was one twitch from showing Charlie and me everything, Marge had legs that probably would pop my head off with just a squeeze. Her belly wasn’t soft at all and her arms were tight.

The woman may have been in her late fifties, but she worked out, that was for sure.

“So...lived in Knoxville long?” I asked.

“All my life,” Marge replied, her voice surprisingly high for a woman her size. I was also surprised by the fact she spoke, having not said a single syllable the whole time Bitsy and the others were there. “Where you from?”

“Asheville,” I said. Her eyes went wide. “Something wrong?”

“We heard Asheville was gone,” Marge said. “Nuked.”

“Well, yes and no,” I replied. “It sorta burned to the ground at the same time a dirty bomb went off. So, no nuke, but yes gone and filled with radiation.”

“Bummer,” she said. “I liked Asheville when we went there as kids.”

“Why are you with those crazy women?” Charlie asked. “You don’t seem half as crazy as they do?”

“Jesus, dude,” I sighed.

Marge clammed up and glared at my son.

“He’s young,” I said. “He forgets to check his mouth sometimes.”

“Like most men,” Marge said.

“But he has a point,” I continued. “You were all quiet before, but we started having a nice conversation as soon as Bitsy and the gang took off. It may have been small talk, but post-Z, even small talk can be a relief. You know what I mean?”

“They aren’t crazy,” Marge said. “We all have our ways of coping and dealing with traumatic events. The Sisters at Sorority Village have saved a lot of lives over the years, and Bitsy is why.”

“Cool, cool, I get that,” I said. “No offense meant. I was just wondering why you didn’t say anything until they left.”

Marge glared at me then her eyes softened slightly.

“It’s my voice,” she replied. “Poof-Poof makes fun of my voice because it’s so high and I’m so tall. I hate that.”

“Then tell her to stop,” I said. “Be upfront and direct with her. I’m sure if you explained it in the right way, she’d understand.”

“Are you two fucking kidding me?” Charlie asked as he looked from Marge to me, and back. “Is this fucking conversation even happening? Dad! We have to go get Mom and Greta and Elsbeth!”

Marge sighed. “The young are hotheaded. Probably best if I just shoot you two so I can get back in time for cocktail hour.”

“Whoa whoa whoa!” I shouted. “No shooting! You can totally bail for cocktail hour without the shooting!”

“No, I don’t think so,” Marge responded. “I’m gonna shoot you two. I don’t want to wait around for the herd to show up. That could take forever. I shoot you and the smell of blood will bring them around in just a few minutes. Besides, it’s margarita night tonight. I love margaritas. We found some limes…”

The sound of rapid gunfire a few blocks away distracted us and Marge turned her head towards the sound. Charlie used the distraction and rushed Marge before I could stop him. He tackled the tall woman and I quickly got a glimpse of something I didn’t need to see as Marge’s legs went out from under her and she slammed down onto the pavement.

For the record, I’m not a fan of going commando in the apocalypse. Wear underwear, people. The world is scary enough.