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

by Bible, Jake

  There’s a thunk, and then the shotgun goes off once more just before I hear a soft thud. I wait a second, and then push up out of the snow. I notice the spray of blood on the white before I notice the indentation in the snow and Shotgun Guy’s body.

  “Grab that shotgun before it gets too wet,” Rafe yells. “I’ll be right down.”

  I hobble over to Shotgun Guy and see a lot more red than I was expecting to. Carefully, I get closer until I can snatch up the shotgun. I put it to my shoulder, and limp back a step or two and wait. Rafe comes barreling out of the house’s backdoor and jumps into the snow, then scrambles to the man and flips his body over. He pulls his knife from the guy’s left eye socket, and wipes it on the man’s coat, then looks over at me and grins.

  “That wasn’t a lucky shot,” Rafe says as he slides the knife into his boot. “I can make those all day. Easy way to take down meat, right through the eye.”

  “We are not eating this guy,” I say, and fight the urge to turn the shotgun on the kid. “I don’t give a fuck how hungry I am, we are not eating this guy.”

  “Fucking relax, Short Pork,” Rafe says. “My people eating days are behind me. We’ll leave him here for the Zs. It’ll buy us some time.” He glances at my bleeding leg. “Which it looks like we’ll need.”

  He’s right, we do need some time, because my leg hurts like hell, and the Zs are closing in on us. Rafe hurries over to me, takes the shotgun, and then throws my one arm over his shoulders. He points with the shotgun at a decent sized gap in the herd, and we both head for it.

  “Where’s that baton of yours?” Rafe asks. “We may need it in a sec.”

  “Dropped it somewhere,” I say. “I was sort of busy running from Shotgun Guy.”

  “You were busy leaving my ass behind, is what you were doing,” Rafe says. “Good thing I know how to play possum. He smacked me hard, but not hard enough to knock me out. Takes a lot to turn off my lights.”

  “Not me,” I say. “I’ve been knocked out by pretty much everyone in the apocalypse. You look at me the wrong way, and I go unconscious.”

  “Uh, that can’t be good for you,” Rafe says, glancing at me. “You probably have some brain damage.

  “Nah, I’m good,” I say.

  “How many times have you been knocked out?” he asks.

  “Jeez, close to eight or nine times in the last couple of years,” I reply. “I think I’ve been knocked out by cannies at least three times. Then there have been a couple of explosions I’ve been too close to. I’m actually surprised I can still hear. Mondello’s people knocked me out at least once, maybe twice. Three times?”

  “Mondello?” Rafe asks.

  “Wannabe POTUS,” I say.

  “POTUS?”

  “President of the US.”

  “Why would the President want to knock you out?”

  “Long story,” I say. “Doesn’t really matter, since I never considered him the real POTUS anyway.”

  We get through most of the Z herd without much issue, and find ourselves out on a road. I know it’s a road, because the snow isn’t quite as deep as it is in the field we just crossed. Gotta love the warming properties of asphalt. Except in the summer, then you gotta hate the warming properties of asphalt. I have a love/hate relationship with asphalt, as you can tell.

  Rafe is looking at me like I’m crazy.

  “I think all those concussions are why you talk out loud all the time,” Rafe says.

  “What? That’s crazy,” I laugh. “I don’t talk out loud all the time. Just some of the time. I wasn’t talking out loud right now, was I?”

  “You have a love/hate relationship with asphalt,” Rafe says.

  “Oh,” I frown. “Huh. Well, maybe I do talk out loud a little more than I intend to. But lots of geniuses have talked out loud.”

  “Geniuses?” Rafe asks. “Uh, no offense, man, but I’m not sure you fit in that category.”

  “Hey, kid, listen up,” I snap. “I’ve been tested. I’m a certifiable genius.”

  “You’re certifiable,” Rafe says. “That’s not exactly a secret.”

  “Lame joke, dude,” I say. “Don’t try to be funny if you’re gonna recycle old humor. Go for something original. Life’s too short for stale laughs.”

  “Yeah, okay, whatever,” Rafe says as we stop in the road. He looks down and shakes his head. “Those aren’t tire tracks.”

  “Nope,” I say as I look at the road. “Those are snowmobile tracks. Shotgun Guy’s friends were ready for the snowstorm.”

  “Guess you’d have to be if you live around this place,” Rafe says.

  Tracks are good since they are easy to, well, track. But these go in both directions, which makes me think the people that took Stuart and Critter just happened by our hidey-hole and weren’t out looking for us specifically. The problem is, I have no idea which way they went. The snowmobile tracks don’t exactly have arrows pointing us in the right direction. They just look like tracks in the snow.

  “What the hell is that?” Rafe asks, squinting into the bright glare. He points to our left. “Do you see something coming?”

  I squint too and do see something coming. It’s a couple more minutes before I realize what that something is.

  “RVs!” I shout, and then flinch as several Zs moan from behind us. I glance over my shoulder and see that the herd has turned itself around and is trying to come for us. “Oops.”

  “Don’t worry,” Rafe says. “The RVs will get to us before the Zs do. But maybe we should cross the road.”

  “Good idea,” I say, and limp across the road so we can face the herd instead of having it at our backs. I stick my thumb out and smile. “Nothing like the freedom of the open road.”

  “You are one weird motherfucker,” Rafe says.

  “Says the canny kid,” I reply.

  My arm tires out quickly, so the whole sticking out my thumb for a ride thing gets old pretty fast. We both just stand there calf-deep in snow and wait for the RVs to get to us. I really fucking hope my family is in one of them. Please, please, please let Stella and the kids be alright.

  I shield my eyes from the glare of the sun off the snow and off the shiny RVs. The vehicles get closer and closer until they are only a couple hundred yards away.

  That’s when I notice that we are fucked.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” I say. “We gotta go.”

  “What?” Rafe asks. “Why? Those are our RVs.”

  “They were our RVs,” I correct. “They’re the ones we left back at that farm! Unless our people went back to get them, then whoever is driving probably isn’t a friendly face.”

  “Oh, fuck, you’re right,” Rafe says and frantically starts looking this way and that. Then he stops and his shoulders sag. “There’s nowhere to go. We are so screwed.”

  “Hand me the shotgun,” I say. “They’ll think twice about messing with a one armed guy with a shotgun.”

  “Why? How are you any different than a two armed guy with a shotgun?” Rafe asks.

  “I look scarier,” I say.

  “No, you don’t,” Rafe states. “Trust me, Short Pork, you do not look scary. I look scarier than you do.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s a matter of opinion,” I snap. “And don’t call me Short Pork. That’s just dick, kid.”

  “Don’t call me kid,” Rafe replies, refusing to hand me the shotgun.

  “Give me your knife,” I say.

  “No way! I love my knife!”

  “I need some kind of weapon!” I yell. “I can’t stand here with my dick in my hand!”

  “Make a snowball!”

  “Ha ha!” I growl. “Tell the one armed man to make a snowball! Real fucking nice, you canny asshole!”

  The RVs are almost on us, and there is no doubt we look like Dumb and Dumber standing on the side of the road arguing.

  Oh, well, nothing we can do about it now.

  “I know,” Rafe says.

  “Was that out loud too?” I ask.


  “Yep,” he replies as the RVs slow and then stop about five yards away.

  We’re on the opposite side of the road from the side doors, so we hear the doors open and close, then the sound of boots crunching on snow well before we see anyone.

  Guess what? Guys with shotguns.

  “Uh, hey there,” I say, and wave. “Nice RVs.”

  “You boys lost?” a man asks from the front of the pack. And there is a pack. About eight of them in all. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you around here before.”

  “We’re passing through,” I say. “On our way to Kansas City.”

  “KC is gone,” the man replies, his shotgun aimed right at my belly.

  “We heard that,” I say. “But you can’t always believe what you hear, right?”

  The man doesn’t respond, just keeps pointing the shotgun at my belly.

  “Nice RVs,” I say again.

  “You boys want a ride?” the man asks. “We aren’t going to KC, but we can give you a lift part of the way.”

  To say I’m a little surprised is an understatement.

  “Uh, yeah, that would be great,” I say. “How far are you going? St. Louis?”

  “No, not that far, either,” the man says. “No point. St. Louis is gone too. The biters took that place over from the gangs a long time ago.”

  “Oh,” I nod. “So how far then?”

  “Far enough,” the man says.

  “Right,” I smile. “But, let’s say we were playing some type of game where telling the other person the actual distance was how you win. You’d probably score some serious points if you actually told me how far you could take us.”

  The man looks past me and at Rafe.

  “What’s wrong with your friend here?” he asks.

  “I have no idea, mister,” Rafe shrugs. “I barely know the guy.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I say.

  “Well, when you think about it, it’s true,” Rafe says to me.

  I start to protest, but realize he’s right. We do barely know each other. I probably know more about Boyd than I do about Rafe. Boyd...

  “Get in the RVs,” the man orders.

  “Small talk is done, I guess,” I say.

  “You’re wasting time,” the man says. “There’s another storm on the way, and we need to get to ground before it hits. We’ve got a couple hours of traveling to do before that.”

  “Can’t move as fast as the snowmobiles,” one of the men says, and gets a stern look from the lead man. “Sorry.”

  “Oh, you know the guys on the snowmobiles?” I ask.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Rafe sighs.

  “Shut the fuck up, kid,” I snap. “People with snowmobiles are good people. We like to keep snowmobile people happy, right?”

  Everyone, including Rafe, looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. Which I probably have, but that is beside the point.

  “Which RV?” I ask, resigned to our fate.

  “This one here will do,” the man says, and steps aside.

  The whole shotgunned group steps aside also, and several of the shoguns start waving us on, as if we needed help figuring out which RV was which.

  “Hey. Hi. How’s it going? Nice gun. Ooh, that one’s shiny. You polish it yourself or is it new? Howdy. I’m Jace. You guys brothers?”

  “Shut the hell up,” the lead man says. “Just get in the damned RV.”

  “The RV is damned?” I ask. “Like cursed? That would explain a lot, trust me.”

  A shotgun is jammed in the small of my back, and I shut up as the RV side door opens. More shotguns greet me and move aside so Rafe and I can step up into the vehicle.

  The first thing I notice is the bleach smell from the RV being cleaned after Pukeapalooza. The second thing I notice is that we aren’t the only hitchhikers.

  “Daddy!” Greta shouts, but doesn’t move as several of the shotguns get racked and pointed at my face. “Daddy?”

  “Daddy’s here to save you, sweetheart,” I smile. “Just as soon as I figure a few things out.”

  “Daddy?” the lead man asks as he steps up into the RV behind me. “Too bad.”

  “Why’s that?” I ask as I turn to look at him.

  All I see is the butt of his shotgun flying at my face.

  I guess I’m adding one more concussion to the list. Night night.

  NOT A FUCKING CLUE how long I’m unconscious. Could be a couple hours, could be a couple days. All I fucking know is my head hurts, and the stink of bleach is burning the fuck out of my nostrils.

  “Yeah, it stinks,” Greta says.

  And apparently I’m talking out loud again.

  My eyes pop open at the sound of my daughter’s voice, and glance about. She’s sitting right next to me, her arm looped in mine.

  “Hey, baby,” I smile, then wince from the pain in my head.

  “Hey, Daddy,” she frowns. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like someone clocked me with the ass end of a shotgun,” I reply.

  “Good thing,” Rafe says from my other side. “Because that’s how you look.”

  “Where are we?” I ask.

  “In our RV,” Greta replies.

  I glance about and sure enough, it really is one of the RVs we left behind. But since we didn’t have to make room for a bunch of extra passengers and supplies, all the furniture is still inside. I am not on any of the furniture. The guys with shotguns are on the furniture, while I’m on the floor with my daughter and Rafe. Furniture hogging assholes with shotguns can suck my balls.

  “Dude,” Rafe says. “You seriously need a filter for that brain to mouth thing.”

  “Was the furniture hogging assholes with shotguns suck part out loud too?” I ask.

  “Yeah, it was,” the leader of the shotgun people says as he swivels in the passenger seat and points his oh so holy weapon at me. I think these guys sleep with their shotguns, that’s how attached they look to them. “That was out loud also.”

  “Son of a bitch!” I snap. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”

  “It’s been getting worse,” Rafe says more to the guys with shotguns than to me. I think he’s worried my mouth is going to get us killed. Which is a completely valid worry, since I have no idea what I say in my head, and what I say outside my head.

  I look around and wait. No one responds. Good.

  “We have a doctor back at the Tomb,” the leader says. “He can look you over. You taken a lot of hits to the head?”

  “I don’t know,” I reply. “There have been a few over the years.”

  “Concussions add up,” the man nods. “I used to coach football. I’ve seen my share of head trauma.”

  “You ain’t seen shit, Maury,” another man says, his eyes locked on me. “I was in Iraq and Afghanistan. That’s some serious head trauma shit there, man.”

  “You should probably shut your mouth, Cole,” Maury, the shotgun people leader, says. “Ain’t a good thing to talk shit in front of the captives.”

  “By captives, I’m hoping you don’t mean dinner,” I say. “Rafe used to be a canny, so karma says he should totally be barbecued, but my daughter and I have never eaten of the human flesh. Sure, they call me Long Pork, but that’s a, well, long story.”

  “They call him Short Pork now,” Rafe says, glaring at me. “And thanks for throwing me under the bus.”

  “It’s an RV,” Cole says. “Recreational vehicle. Not a bus.”

  “Figure of speech, Cole,” Maury says. “He wasn’t talking about this as the bus.”

  “Although you could probably use the short bus, eh, Cole?” I say.

  “Daddy, hush,” Greta whispers.

  Yeah, probably not the best thing to say to a big guy with a shotgun, but that damned filter part of my brain really, really isn’t working so hot right now. Maybe this Maury guy is right, and all the lumps to my skull have finally caught up with me. Although, I seem to be thinking fine. I can reason and figure shit out. My only problem is my internal voice is be
coming my external voice. Maybe I should just stop thinking to myself, and then I wouldn’t have to worry?

  Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

  “Your bud has lost his shit,” Maury says to Rafe.

  “He’s fine,” Greta snaps.

  “I ain’t so sure about that, little girl,” Maury says.

  “Why’s he laughing?” Cole asks. “Is it because he thinks that short bus crack is funny? I know what the short bus is asshole! My brother had to ride the short bus!”

  Then Cole is up and coming at me fast. Yet, I’m still laughing. I can’t seem to stop.

  He shoves Greta away from me as his fist hits me square in the jaw. That stops the laughs pretty fucking fast. This Cole guys is built like the proverbial brick shithouse. Although, was there ever a proverb about brick shithouses? I guess I can’t really call it proverbial unless there is an actual proverb involved.

  “Get off my daddy!” Greta screams, but Rafe holds her back as she tries to lunge at Cole. “He doesn’t know he’s talking!”

  “Shut him up!” Cole shouts as he grabs me by the neck, and then brings his fist down so hard and fast that I don’t even see it coming. All I see is a pinkish blur, then stars.

  So many stars. Lots and lots and lots of stars.

  “Shut the fuck up about the stars!” Cole yells, and both of his hands are around my neck. Even if I wanted to cough up a couple more words or laughs I can’t because I am quickly losing air.

  “Let him go, Cole,” Maury orders loud enough to drown out my daughter’s pleas. “I won’t ask again. I’ll count to five, and if you’re still strangling that man, then it’ll be your time in the pit.”

  Cole’s hands loosen, and he slowly lets me go, then backs up and takes his seat. There are even more stars now, along with spots and streaks of lights that blur my vision. I feel Greta wrap her arms around me, and I try to soothe her, but I can barely stay conscious.

  When I can finally see well enough to trust my eyes, I notice that no one is looking at Cole. Not Maury, and not any of the other shotgun guys. I have a feeling the threat of the “pit” holds some serious weight with these folks.