by Bible, Jake
She’s nice enough to swivel my wheelchair so I can look out the windshield and see that the windows in the RV in front of us are gone and the sharpened poles are stabbing in and out over and over, clearing as many climby Zs as possible.
“Toss them down!” Antoinette says and sharpened poles start coming through the hatch.
Jesus, how many people are still up there? I totally should have done a head count.
As the metal starts swinging around, I realize I am completely in the way. Stella realizes that too as Antoinette breaks out the windshield and displaces her from her spot in the passenger’s seat.
“Come on,” she says and wheels me through the chaos of the RV and into the back bedroom.
Not that there is a bed back here. The RV has been stripped of all furnishings to make room for as much supplies as we could fit. The walls are lined with boxes and crates and Stella has to wedge me in between a dozen steel drums.
“Will you be fine back here?” she asks.
“Whoa! You’re gonna leave me alone?” I exclaim.
“I’m more use up there,” she says. “Unless you think you need me to stay? How are you feeling? Are you going to pass out?”
“I’m not going to pass out,” I say and flinch as rocks slam into the RV. “But it’s spooky as shit back here by myself. There’s like no light because of all of these boxes.”
“Jace Stanford, are you afraid of the dark?” she smirks.
“No,” I reply. “I just get lonely.”
“Deal,” she smiles and kisses me hard. It hurts my head, but it’s worth it. “You’ll be fine. Scream if you need me.”
Then she’s gone and I’m alone with what look like boxes of machine parts. They smell like it. The scent of grease and that ting of metal is almost too much for my fucked up senses.
I can hear everyone shouting orders at each other, calling out the weak spots they see in the cage and where the most climby Zs are coming from. The two strongest voices are my wife’s and Antoinette’s. John is in there as well, but he’s mostly yelling out at the crazies.
All of the shouting is punctuated by the impacts of rocks, small and large, and the never ending moans and groans from the Z herd.
It’s downright, fucking deafening.
And strangely a little soothing.
With the boxes and crates around me, and not being exposed to the wind like the main part of the RV, I actually get a little sleepy as I warm up somewhat. I have to struggle to keep myself from nodding off. No time to take a nap now, even if Stella wants me to rest.
I OBVIOUSLY FAIL AT staying awake, because the next thing I know my eyes snap open. I heard something. I know it.
The battle is still going on up front, but that isn’t what I heard. Or is it? Maybe my sleepy subconscious confused the sounds of people yelling and stabbing Zs with something else. Something closer.
I wait and listen, sitting in the stuffy gloom of the RV’s back bedroom. Store room. Whatever. I try to tune out the noise of the chaos from up front and from above. Looks like folks have gone back up top. That’s good. Makes killing the climby Zs easier.
I remember that Mr. Flips was going to try to communicate with the crazies. Maybe he got through to them.
The sound of rocks slamming into the RV makes me think otherwise.
There! I hear something again. Not rocks, not Zs on the cage. Something else. A scraping? Yeah. I totally hear a scraping. I listen for a couple more seconds, but it goes away quickly. I’m left with uncertainty in my gut and a slight flutter of panic in my chest.
Do I yell for Stella? Get her to come back here and check it out? It would be the smart thing to do, just in case. But what if it is nothing? Just the shifting of these crates as we trundle along on what is a less than maintained street?
I should call Stella, and I convince myself to, even open my mouth to yell for her, but I hesitate and close my trap. She’s needed up there, not back here holding her infirm husband’s hand. I call her back and maybe someone up there dies because she wasn’t available to help. Maybe a Z gets through where she was supposed to be watching and then we have a bloodbath on our hands.
Sure, there’s Antoinette and John, plus some of the cannies, all people that can handle themselves when it comes to Zs. But these new ones? The fast, weird ones? I bet one of those fuckers can kill a couple of our people before it gets taken down, especially in close quarters like this where John can’t just start shooting.
There’s that shifting sound again and the flutter of panic turns into a full born flapping. I need to call for Stella. I’m an idiot if I don’t. I’m that teenage girl in every horror movie that runs down the middle of the street instead of going up to any one of the houses with their porch lights on.
My head hurts. All this thinking is killing me. And I don’t think I’m being hyperbolic. I honestly think the strain on my brain is shortening my life.
The scraping gets loud and there’s a thunk behind me. A heavy thunk. I feel my wheelchair shift, but the RV lurches at the same time, so maybe the thunk isn’t related.
Then I hear it. Not scraping. Hissing.
“Oh, fuck,” I say then scream, “Stella!”
No Brando joke, here, folks. My screaming of my wife’s name has zero humor or irony to it. I am not wishing I could tear my stained wife beater. Not that I have ever worn a wife beater. Not my style.
“Stella!” I shout again, but at the exact same time as when a burst of gunfire erupts from up front.
Things must be getting heavy for that to be happening. Our ammo isn’t exactly endless.
“Stella!”
I’m drowned out by the squeal of brakes and tires then the sudden acceleration of the RV. I have no fucking clue what is going on right now.
The acceleration makes my wheelchair roll back and bump into the stacks of crates. Stella didn’t put the brake on. Or I didn’t put the brake on. Whose responsibility is that? Is it the person that pushes the wheelchair or the person that is in the wheelchair?
Doesn’t really matter. What does matter is that I’m closer to the stack of crates behind me. Close enough that my back is touching them. Close enough that I can smell the thing that is hissing.
A Z. A nasty rotter of a fucker too. Smells like it’s been baking in the sun while jammed up the ass of a dead cow. Either that or the thing needs to learn how to wipe better. I bet its boxers are all kinds of skid-mark stained. Sucks to do his laundry.
My hand instinctively goes to the tire of my wheelchair and I push as hard as I can. Which is about as hard as a marshmallow fart in a pillow of cotton candy. That’s not very hard.
The wheelchair moves maybe half an inch. Maybe. I’m being generous. Very generous. I actually think I somehow manage to go backwards. That would be classic. I’m the one guy that would fuck up and move my wheelchair backwards when I’m already wedged up against a stack of crates.
No, actually, I am going backwards. How?
I risk the agony and turn my head to the right and see the crates moving, being pushed out of the way. This creates enough space for my wheelchair to creep backwards as the crates shift out of the way.
Out of the way for quite the Z.
Man, I really wish I had a camera. Know when Amy said to take a picture it lasts longer? Yeah, I so want to take a picture right now.
Because, and I shit you not, folks, I am looking at a full on, no way I am making this up, clown zombie. Yeah. A motherfucking clown zombie has crawled in through the shattered back window, shoving past the crates, and staring at me like I’m the bucket of human popcorn he has been waiting for his entire undead life.
The thing hisses at me again and opens its mouth, showing me two rows of cracked and shattered teeth. This guy has been eating way too many marshmallow farts in cotton candy pillows. What? I liked that metaphor. I’m gonna keep using it. He he he, marshmallow farts.
It’s nice my brain can go to a jokey place right now. Otherwise I’d be screaming my head off, and co
nsidering the state my head is in, I could literally scream hard enough for it to fucking fall off.
Speaking of falling, the Z clown loses its footing as the RV lurches and it crashes to the floor, its undead body knocking over a stack of crates. Right onto me. The weight of the crates push me sideways and I teeter precariously. How the fuck do I still have room enough back here to teeter?
Once again, I always find a way to fuck things up.
“Hey there, Giggles,” I say. “Uh, the kids’ birthday party has been cancelled, so we won’t be needing your services today. You can keep the deposit. No worries on that. So, how’s about you just crawl your funny bone way back outside? Cool?”
Not cool. The thing pushes up onto its feet and stares at me, bloody drool dripping down its cracked chin. No, really, its chin is cracked. Almost in half. Makes it look like it’s a Predator or something. You know how those things could split their mouths open and get all fangy and shit? Yeah, like that. Although I don’t think it can split its mouth open.
“Okay, Chuckles,” I say, holding up my hand. “Not only can you keep the deposit, but we’ll pay you half your going rate. No? Fine. You drive a hard bargain, Bubbles. We’ll pay you in full. Hey, it’s not your fault you terrify children and make old ladies cry, right? You’re just a victim of circumstance like everyone else in this damn apocalypse.”
Doesn’t look like Snuggles is in a negotiating mood. Nope. He’s in an ‘eat Jace and then pick his teeth with the staples in my skull’ kind of mood. That’s a mood, trust me. I’m seeing it on Tumbles’ face right now.
“Fuck,” I sigh, looking around for some kind of weapon. Which I do not see.
This is Apocalypse 101 shit. Always have a weapon close by. Even if you are stuck in a wheelchair and barely have the strength of a chronic masturbator after a ten hour wank marathon.
I don’t know if a ten hour wank marathon is a thing. No, I don’t. Fuck you and shut up.
Snickers is on me in a flash and I barely have time to get my forearm up and jammed under his chin to keep him from lunching on my face. He struggles against me, his broken teeth chattering as he snaps his split jaw at me over and over.
I scream as loud as I can, ignoring the broadswords of excruciation that pierce my head. The screams do two things: they just encourage Flipsy here and they give me a surge of adrenaline that I was pretty sure I didn’t have anymore.
I shove Cackles back and yank on the wheel of my chair, trying to get me just a little bit closer to the bedroom door. I scream again and again, but the pain is almost too much and my voice starts getting ragged. You’d think someone would hear me back here, but apparently the grand battle of the Winnebago is just too noisy for anyone to notice.
Tickles grabs my shoulder, my good shoulder, and his fingers dig in. They don’t pierce my coat, but they are strong enough to give me a Vulcan nerve pinch from Hell. I jerk away from him, which is a normal reaction to an undead clown going all Spock on one’s ass. Unfortunately, the jerking causes me to lose my balance and the entire wheelchair weebles, wobbles, then falls down.
Now I’m on the floor of the RV, wedged inside a collapsed wheelchair, with Gobbles the Z Clown climbing on top of me, my good arm pinned, and my tasty Jace flesh exposed for the snacking.
I really, really fucking hate the apocalypse. This shit sucks balls.
Mumbles is almost on me, his freakazoid mouth wide open and ready, but damn if that Jace luck doesn’t kick in.
And by Jace luck, I mean I feel the RV swerve to one side then swerve to the other side, sending both of us slamming back and forth into the crates and boxes. Crates and boxes that are now tumbling on top of us. One of them smacks Wiggles across the back of his undead head.
He falls off of me, howling as the RV lurches sideways, like we’re up on only two wheels. The screech of metal on concrete is so loud that I can’t even hear myself think. Which is something since I am one loud thinker. Right? I don’t have to tell you.
The RV seems to right itself, but the screech of metal doesn’t stop. Whatever happened it sounds like part of our cage has come loose and is dragging along Colfax. The way the RV is shuddering and bumping along tells me that the part that came off is probably stuck under one of the wheels.
Nibbles isn’t done with me.
The howling hunk of undead fun stuffs claws his way over to me. I swear the thing is smiling when it gets to me and opens that God-awful mouth again. Fucking Zs smiling and shit. Fuck them. Smiling is for people and happy dogs, not for undead flesh eaters.
He lunges at me and I know my nose is going to be his appetizer, but the RV foils his plans once again. This time it’s not lurching to the side, but spinning out of control. We slam into something heavy, bounce back the other way, slam into another thing and then start to roll.
Oh, yeah, we roll.
Not my first RV roll. It seems I have the Fast Pass for this particular ride.
It’s just me and Dimples and a few dozen crates and boxes pretending like we’re in the fast cycle of a clothes dryer. I’m on top, he’s on top, crates are on top, we’re all on top. Then the bottom. Then the top. Then the bottom. Then on top.
I’m on top. And alive. And awake.
This is good.
Except for the part that I’m right on Tipples. Like pressed against him, my chest to his chest. My forearm back under his chin, pressed square in his throat. He snaps at me, but my position keeps the thing from getting all chunky with my cheeks.
“I have the higher ground!” I yell at him and shove with all of my strength.
You know, the strength of a marshmallow fart in a cotton candy pillow? That much strength. The funny thing is, that’s all the strength I need because while I landed on him, he landed on an open crate. The back of his neck is right on the edge of the crate and inside are all kinds of machiney-looking things. Sharp machiney-looking things.
I summon up every ounce of marshmallow strength and I push. I shove. I lean into it.
Huggles starts moaning and hissing and groaning and just making a general ruckus under me. He tries to buck me off, but the majority of both of us is covered in more crates and boxes. The great thing is, the more he protests, the better leverage I get. I do my thing, he does his thing, and it is a race to see whose thing finishes first.
“I win,” I grunt as my thing finishes first.
Gruntles is Gruntles no more. He’s not Giggles or Mumbles or Skippy or Jumpy or Blip Blip. Blip Blip is a clown name, right? Sure it is. A French clown. One of those stuck up Cirque de Sole clowns.
Anyhoo, the fucker is dead. His spine snaps across the edge of the crate, which allows enough give for the back of his head to get pierced by all kinds of pointy widgets and wangdangles.
As soon as I know the undead life has left him, I slump forward. I don’t give two fucks how bad he smells or the fact that he’s leaking all types of funky fluids. I’m exhausted. I’m so exhausted I may just put my head on my arm (ow) and rest for a second.
I should give another shout for Stella, but I figure if she survived the crash she’ll think to come find me. If she’s dead then there’s nothing I can do and passing out right now is probably for the best. Just shut it all out, Jace. Shut it all out.
“HE’S BACK HERE!”
“Is he breathing? Oh, God, please let him be breathing!”
“Holy fuck, what the hell is that?”
“It’s a clown. It’s a motherfucking clown.”
“Dad totally killed a clown Z. He’s my hero for sure.”
“What’s with you and clowns?”
“We do not have time for this! Shut up, both of you!”
“Stella! Hurry! They are almost on us!”
“Jace? Jace? Can you hear me, baby?”
“Jacey need sleepy time. People need shutting-up time.”
“Yeah, he’s alive.”
“STELLA!”
“I know! He’s wedged under all of these crates!”
“We need to go! NOW!”
“Here, let me help. Stand back.”
“I’ve got these. Toss them out the side.”
“Jesus, how did he survive? The back end is almost ripped right off!”
“He’s a lucky fucker.”
“Jacey be lucky fucker.”
“Quiet, baby, don’t speak. Oh, shit. Look at the blood. That’s a lot of blood, isn’t it?”
“Head wounds bleed, Mom. Especially when the head is only held together by staples.”
“Staples the Undead Clown.”
“Jace, be quiet!”
“Mom, come on.”
“Sorry. Sorry.”
“We got him, Stella. Belinda? Grab him under the shoulders while I lift. Lacy? Steph? Get his legs. Ready? On three. One, two, three.”
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!”
“Shit, shit shit! He’s got a hunk of metal sticking out of his ribs.”
“Jacey hurts! Jacey hurts!”
“Fucking A, does he always talk about himself in the third person?”
“I don’t think he knows what he’s saying.”
“Antoinette!”
“Will someone tell Stuart to cram it up his ass? We’re not leaving Long Pork!”
“Hey, Stuart? Cram it up your ass! We’re not leaving Long Pork!”
“Thanks, Bel.”
“No problem.”
“I’ll get Dr. Stenkler or Dr. McCormick.”
“Thanks, Marcie. Take your boy with. He can look for one while you look for the other. Hurry!”
“God dammit! Just pick him the fuck up and— Oh, shit. What is that?”
“Looks like a socket wrench.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
“What looks like a socket wrench? Oh, shit! Jace!”
“Stella, get back. Just stay back. There’s nothing you can do. Go help Lourdes and Critter get everyone into the Humvees and the last RV.”
“Jacey will drive.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. The guy has a fucking wrench sticking out of his ribs and he’s still jabbering?”
“Jacey killed Jabbers the Undead Clown.”
“Jesus. I’m going to help John and the rest of your sisters secure the perimeter. We do not have much time. We’re between Z waves for now, but they are coming. John can only pick off the sprinters so fast. They’re going to be on us in minutes.”