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

by Bible, Jake

  We all see the break in the trees and head for it in the hopes (there’s that word again) it will lead us to the quarry. Not sure why I think a quarry is a good place to go, but it at least gives us a destination. Maybe we can find someplace in it to hide. Or maybe there’s machinery or supplies around it that we can use as weapons. I don’t fucking know. My mind is a hazy mess of pain and hunger.

  But I can’t let on to my family that I’m not thinking straight. I’m supposed to be the big brain that is always figuring ways out of shitty situations. That’s what I’ve been known for since Z-Day hit. I was the guy in Whispering Pines that could strategize and engineer the solutions we needed to stay alive. I was the generalist that may not have had all the answers, but I at least had some of the answers.

  The only generalist I am now is generally fucked, which doesn’t make a lick of sense. See?

  We break from the trees into an open meadow. The meadow is ringed by pine trees except for the far side which just disappears. I’m guessing that’s the edge of the quarry.

  I glance over my shoulder, but it’s too dark to really see anything in the woods. The fucking cannies don’t even use torches or anything so we can see them coming after us. They’re all night stealth and shit. Fuck, as far as I know, they’re standing at the edge of the trees flipping me off.

  Oh, wait, never mind, here they come!

  “Go! Go!” I shout at my family as we all stumble towards the edge of the meadow. “Just run!”

  “Where, Jace?” Stella shouts. “What are we going to do? Jump in?”

  “If we have to!” I reply, my one arm at the small of her back, urging her to go faster.

  “Wait...what?” Charlie yells. “We’re jumping? Fuck that shit, Dad!”

  “It’ll be like Butch and Sundance!” I yell at him. “Bad guys on our asses and we have to jump into the raging waters!”

  “I hated that movie!” Greta shouts. “It was boring!”

  I don’t respond because no self-respecting person would give a statement like that the time of day. Butch and Sundance a boring movie? That’s crazy talk! It has all the elements of great cinema! Charisma, humor, adventure, drama, romance...

  “Jace! Keep up!” Stella shouts.

  Dammit, I was spacing again. Can’t blame me, though. I love Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid. Just a fucking great movie. I am totally psyched to jump off the edge of a quarry cliff into the water below. That will be some seriously cool, post-apocalyptic hero shit!

  “Well...that solves that,” Charlie says as we skid to a halt at the edge of the meadow, which is at the top of the quarry, and look down into an empty pit of dirt and rock.

  No water. Nothing.

  “I thought quarries had standing water in them,” I say to no one in particular. “Holes in the ground fill up with water. Rain comes from sky, water fills quarry. It’s an unspoken law of the industrialized world we live in. I mean what is the fucking point of digging a fucking hole if it isn’t going to fill up with water and become an unsanitary and unsafe place for local rednecks to hang out in? What has this world come to?”

  “Yeah, we’ve lost Dad,” Greta says. “Anyone else have any ideas?”

  “Can we climb down?” Charlie asks.

  “I can’t see three feet in front of me, Charlie,” Stella replies. “There’s no way we can see to climb down into there.”

  “And it’s like two hundred feet down, dumbass,” Greta adds.

  “Be nice,” Stella snaps.

  “Well, he’s the one with the stupid idea, not me,” Greta snaps back.

  “You asked for other ideas!” Charlie shouts. “I gave one! What’s your bright idea then, genius?”

  “We run that way until we find a trail down or someplace to hide,” Greta snarls.

  “Oh, wow!” Charlie laughs. “That’s the best idea anyone has ever had! Find someplace to hide! No one in the history of ever has anyone thought about finding someplace to hide when being chased by fucking cannibals!”

  “Better than climbing down a fucking cliff in the dark!”

  “Kids! STOP!” Stella roars. “Jace? What do we do? How do we get out of this?”

  “We go that way,” I say and point to where the woods meet the edge of the meadow and the edge of the quarry. “We dive back into the woods and hope we can get back out.”

  “That doesn’t reassure me,” Stella says.

  “That makes two of us,” I reply as I grab her arm and start pulling her to our left. Or right. It depends on where you are standing. “Come on, kids! Move ass!”

  They both groan and I wonder at the capacity teenagers have to complain about anything in any situation. It’s like they are hard-wired to just be pains in the asses.

  “Is running from the cannies too much work?” I snap.

  “Jace, not now,” Stella hisses.

  “Sorry,” I reply as we skirt the edge of the quarry, which isn’t exactly a straight line. We are only one wrong step from plummeting to our deaths.

  Which is probably where we are headed anyway since several shapes come out of the woods in front of us and step into the meadow. Looks like the cannies know how to flank their prey.

  What am I saying? Of course they do. They are pack hunters that chase down humans so they can slaughter them and eat them in a fucking stew. They know how to flank, press, surround, and trap and all the good huntery stuffs that huntery types do.

  Fucking huntery types...

  “Now what?” Stella asks.

  I would like to stop right now and declare that the words “now what” make up my least favorite sentence ever. I have come to detest those words.

  But I would never say that to Stella.

  “Back the other way,” I say and spin about to see that the kids have already had that idea and are sprinting in the opposite direction, leaving us behind. Fucking kids...

  But they only get back to where we first stopped at the edge of the quarry before another set of shapes step from the woods on the other side of the meadow.

  See? Cannies know their business. Unfortunately, business seems to be good.

  “Where ya goin’, Long Pork bro?” a voice cries out from the main group that slows to a casual walk as they come at us through the meadow. “Why ya runnin’? Ya could have had it good, bro! Ya could have fixed the power and the plumbin’ and been able to live your life with us! But you had to go and fuck it up, bro! Not cool, bro!”

  Ugh. I know that voice.

  Barfly.

  Leader of the Crossville Cookers.

  Yeah, I said “Crossville Cookers.” Mother fucking cannies have gang names and shit.

  Been like that since we got past Knoxville. Only a few miles after the connection to what was once I-75, we started seeing cannibal gang names spray-painted on billboards. Names like Tennessee Hunger Brigade, Kingston Queens, The Droolers , and my favorite, The Thigh Boners.

  I laughed for a good while after seeing that, until we started coming to the human hides with the name branded into them. The crazy fucks skinned people, tanned their skins, and stretched the hides out along the road with their gang name and other messages for those unlucky enough to happen by.

  What messages?

  “Dark meat is the best!”, “Eat more Pete!”, “Ain’t no thing but a human wing!”, and last but not least, “We make our own sauce!”

  All of those messages led up to such a fun time in such a fun place- Cannibal Road.

  “Hey, Barfly,” I sigh as he pushes through the cannies and walks up to me. Oh, and look, they’ve lit some torches. I guess it’s a real party now. “What’s up?”

  “Long Pork! Bro!” Barfly smiles as he shakes his head. “What were ya thinkin’, bro?”

  “I was thinking that I’d get my family out of here so you wouldn’t kill them and skin me like you said you would,” I reply honestly as I step forward, putting myself between the cannies and my family.

  You don’t lie or bullshit Barfly. The guy is creepy perceptive wh
en it comes to deception. I have no idea who or what he was pre-Z, but I’m guessing his talents were wasted. It’s why I hate the guy so much. I’m all about bullshit and sarcasm, it’s how I roll. Took me a few smacks to the head with a steel rod before I figured out that my brand of humor was not Barfly’s brand of humor.

  It’s that steel rod in Barfly’s right hand that I focus on as I shrug.

  “You said you were done with me and were going to skin me alive, Barfly,” I say. “Sorry, man, no disrespect meant. I just had to look out for me and my own, ya know?”

  “I dig that, I dig that, bro,” Barfly nods. “I see yer point, but it ain’t my point, so I don’t care, bro.”

  Like all cannies, Barfly is scrawny, but scrappy. He’s lean and mean with wiry muscles and a gaunt look that sharpens his features while sending his eyes back into his skull in two pools of shadow. Almost six feet, but not quite, he stands before me wearing only a pair of cutoffs (front pockets hanging out, I shit you not) and wearing Hello Kitty flip-flops on his feet. Where he found Hello Kitty flip-flops that fit his size eleven feet, I have no idea.

  The steel rod hits my left thigh before I even know it and I cry out in pain. Stella moves towards me, but I wave her off. The hit wasn’t hard enough to take me down, but I know the next one will be. I have the bruises all over my thighs to prove it.

  “Bro, stop,” I hiss as I rub my leg. “Just protecting what’s mine, you know? You respect that, right? Always worth a try.”

  “I get ya, I get ya,” Barfly nods. His head is shaved (of course) and he has various tattoos of badly drawn cartoon characters all across his scalp. It’s too dark to really see, but I think Tweety Bird winks at me each time Barfly bobs his head.

  “Sooo...we good?” I ask, thinking the direct question might take him off guard. I’m an optimist that way.

  “No, bro, we ain’t good!” Barfly says. “You tried to play me, Long Pork bro! Then you killed six of my peeps before you stole my Bronco, bro. Why you have to go and do that?”

  I watch him for a second, thinking maybe my exceptional skills as a sarcastic bastard have rubbed off on him, but he’s dead serious.

  “Six? What the hell are you talking about, bro?” I ask. “We didn’t kill anyone. You got to believe me, Barfly. We jacked the Bronco without seeing a single soul until we crashed the gate, man. Last we saw of your peeps was them running around to put out all those fires.”

  “You fucking, bro?” he asks as he cocks his head like a beagle. “Six bros dead.”

  “Two girls!” someone shouts from the cannie crowd.

  “Yeah, yeah, Spitty is right,” Barfly nods. “Two them bodies was lady bro bodies. You killed two lady bros, bro.”

  “I’m telling you I didn’t kill a single bro, lady bro or man bro, Barfly,” I insist.

  The hit to my right thigh makes me totter, but I hold myself up and stay on my feet.

  “Dead bodies don’t lie, bro,” Barfly says. “Unless you be tellin’ me that crazy chick bro did them in. One crazy chick bro killin’ six of my bros? My bros got skills, Long Pork bro. Don’t think crazy chick bro got that good of skills.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask. “She is a crazy chick, you know.”

  Barfly grins and wags his steel rod in front of my face.

  “Oh, Long Pork,” he replies. “Bro, bro, bro.”

  The rod nails me a little higher and I clutch my right hipbone as excruciating pain radiates through my skeleton, but I don’t fall down. I do that and it’s all over. I’ve been falling down too much lately; time to stay standing like a man.

  “I’m gettin’ tired of your shit, Long Pork,” Barfly says. “You keep layin’ on the bullshit and I’ll have to do somethin’ about it.”

  He looks past me and zeroes in on Stella and the kids.

  “Maybe have us an impromptu cookout, bro,” he laughs. “Dig us a pit, get us a fire goin’, and then dump your pretty pretties in there so they roast up all nice. I’ll make you and your boy do the diggin’,”

  “Take too long! They weak!” someone yells and the gang breaks out laughing.

  “Yeah! What am I thinkin’, bro?” Barfly cackles. “Long Pork only got one arm.”

  He tucks one arm behind his back and mimes trying to dig with the other. The whole gang copies him and in seconds, we are standing there, close to pissing ourselves with fear, as a couple dozen cannibals hop about a meadow at night pretending to only have one arm and dig imaginary holes while close to pissing themselves with laughter.

  It takes them a long time to get it out of their systems. Like a really long time.

  “Maybe I make the lady bros dig and we cook you bros up,” Barfly says as he suddenly stops with the digging act and stabs me in the chest with the rod. “Maybe we let those lady bros of yours show you what a little piece of shit bro you are. Would you like that, little piece of shit bro? Would you?”

  “No need for name calling, bro,” I say as the rod keeps on stabbing, stabbing, stabbing right into my sternum. “I haven’t done a thing to warrant that.”

  “You did so,” Barfly states.

  “How can I get you to believe me, Barfly?” I ask. “What evidence do you need to see that we didn’t kill anyone? We got away fair and square.”

  “Fair and square,” a few of the cannies say and Barfly whirls on them, his steel rod snapping through the open space between him and the front of the gang.

  “Ain’t no fair and square!” Barfly shouts. “They stole my ride, peeps! Took it without permission! No fair and square for stealers!”

  “No fair and square for stealers!” the gang yells in unison.

  “And I applaud your sense of right and wrong as well as your established code of conduct,” I say. “It’s not easy keeping order post-Z. You have to have rules. I get that. And I’m sorry for breaking them when we stole your ride, Barfly. I’ll make that up to you, if you let me.”

  “Make it up?” Barfly asks. “How you gonna do that, Long Pork bro? You’ll be too busy diggin’!”

  The gang starts back up with the pantomimes and I just sigh. It’s like dealing with fucked up, full grown toddlers. How these people lost their minds so fast after Z-Day, I don’t know. Sure, we had our share of cannies in Asheville, but not whacked out gangs like this. It’s like they have created their own society and language in just a few years.

  I weep for the youth of today.

  Oh, and speaking of, I’m pretty sure the Crossville Cookers are all under thirty years old, easy. I haven’t seen a single one that I would say is even close to thirty. Some may look like they are fifty because of their lack of proper nutrition and all, not to mention some of their less than healthy extracurricular habits, but I would swear on the lives of my family that the gang before me is made up of late teens and early twenties psychos.

  Except for maybe Barfly. I can’t get a read on that guy’s age. He could be twenties, he could be thirties, or he could be in his forties like me. He has this ageless quality that adds to the creep factor by a billion. Kinda like he gets strength from eating his foes’ hearts or something. Shit, maybe he does; weirder shit has happened over the years.

  “We didn’t hurt your ride,” I say to Barfly, trying to get the discussion back on track. “Can’t be mad about that.”

  The hopping and faux digging is making me nervous. Well, more nervous than I already am. Okay, maybe nervous isn’t the right word. How about they are annoying the living shit out of me? Yeah, that’s way more accurate.

  “No, no, you didn’t hurt my ride,” Barfly agrees. “I checked. Just no go juice in it no more.”

  Greta snorts behind me and I wince.

  “You think of a funny, little girl bro?” Barfly asks as he looks past me to my daughter. “What your funny, little girl bro?”

  “Don’t answer,” Stella whispers.

  “Go juice,” Greta says. “That cracks me up.”

  My daughter has unfortunately inherited my inability to shut the fuck up. It was endearing
pre-Z, but has lost some of its appeal since the dead started to walk the Earth and try to eat us all.

  And, as if on cue...

  Several long moans get everyone’s attention and the gang turns around to see quite a few shadows come shambling out of the woods and into the meadow.

  “Dammit, Long Pork bro!” Barfly snaps, forgetting that Greta said anything. “You brought the fatties after us.”

  “That is the stupidest name ever,” Greta says.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Greta!” Stella snaps. “Shut the hell up!”

  “You don’t like the name fatties?” Barfly asks as he focuses his attention back on us. “Why not? We call ‘em fatties because they never stop eatin’!”

  A few members of the gang laugh, but most just watch the Zs come towards us. Hands grip weapons tighter and I can smell the adrenaline start to pump.

  “But Zs don’t get fat,” Greta says. “Just because they don’t ever stop eating doesn’t mean they are fat. It’s a dumb name.”

  “Like Zs is better, little girl bro?” Barfly asks. “That’s one letter! Z!”

  “It’s short for zombie,” Greta snaps.

  “If you do not stop talking now then I will shut you up myself,” Stella says as she grabs Greta’s arm.

  “No, no, lady bro, it’s all good,” Barfly says. “Little girl bro is just havin’ a debate. Better than some of these poop stains. They just want to hunt and fight and sniff fumes.”

  “And fuck!” someone yells.

  “And fuck,” Barfly nods. “Lots of fuckin’ ‘round here, but no babies. I know what makes babies and all the fuckin’ don’t make none. Ain’t that weird?”

  That line of thought shuts Greta up. Apparently, one way to make a teenage girl be quiet is to talk about cannies having sex. It’s like talking about parents having sex. Ewwwww!

  “Maybe there’s some pollutant in the water,” I suggest. “I bet a factory or some waste treatment dump broke down and all the industrial waste got into the ground water. Could have made all of you sterile.”

  “Which ones?” Barfly asks. “The guy bros or the lady bros?”

  “Uh, I don’t know,” I shrug. “I was just making a suggestion, bro.”