by Jake Bible
Fuck it.
I start boxing his head with both hands, screaming each time my right hand smashes into him. Leeds tries to shake it off, but I keep at it, knocking that Z brain of his around, sending it bouncing back and forth against the inside of his skull. It doesn’t quell his Z rage, but it does disorient him enough that he loses focus. I shove hard with my leg and he tumbles off me.
Rolling, rolling, rolling, I put space between us. And The Bitch. Which sucks. Dammit.
I get to my feet just as he does, and I start to run. I mean fuck it, why not? Around and around in circles we go, me running for my life, him running for a meal. The crowd begins to boo at the lack of action. And I thought this was North Carolina? The home of NASCAR? Don’t these fuckers like watching people go around and around and around, over and over and over? It’s the Apocalypse 500, y’all!
The running in circles is making me dizzy, or that could be blood loss from my shoulder, and I stumble just enough for Leeds to catch up to me. His hands grab my shoulders and he brings me down like a mother fucking undead lion does to a gazelle. I don’t really want to be the gazelle in this scenario. Not that there’s any scenario where I’d want to be the gazelle.
I use our momentum and tuck my shoulder, sending us into a rolling dive. Leeds ends up on his back, under me, but his head is close enough that I feel the air tickle my ear hairs, as his jaws chomp closed. I slam my elbow into his face and shove myself to my feet, screaming again as I put all my weight on my broken hand.
Holding my hand to my chest, I book ass to The Bitch, scooping it up just as Leeds gets up and comes at me. I don’t stop, I don’t think, I just swing. And connect. I feel the spikes dig into the soft flesh of his cheek and I pull back, shredding his face.
The crowd goes, “Ooooooooooooohhhhhh!” then erupts into cheers. Guess they liked that. Fuckers.
Leeds hisses at me, but that’s all he gets to do as I swing again, shredding the other cheek. Then again, ripping the top of his scalp off. He staggers back, regroups, and lunges for me. But I’ve got him figured out. The Bitch connects solidly with the top of his head and he stops in his tracks. His grey eyes find mine and for a split second, I think I see the real Leeds. Then he falls to his knees, The Bitch still embedded in his skull; he grunts and crumples to his side.
Leeds is dead. Totally dead.
The crowd is stamping their feet and slapping their hands together. I can just see them past the lights and their faces are filled with bloodlust and violence. And I get it. I understand what this is all about. Mondello keeps them wanting death, craving to see it played out night after night. That way when they experience it during the day, whether by accident or possibly on purpose, they are desensitized; it means nothing.
No wonder the Romans lasted as long as they did. Not a bad strategy.
While not a bad strategy, it is an evil one. I bend down and yank The Bitch from Leeds’s skull. It makes a cracking noise as bone splinters under his scalp. I’ll remember that sound the rest of my life.
“That all you got, asshole?” I yell as I walk to the center of the arena, spinning around, looking as many people in the eye as I can. “Some pitiful Zs and an old soldier? You think that’s what will take me down? Do you, motherfucker? DO YOU?”
The crowd quiets down, all waiting for Mondello’s response.
“Well done, Mr. Stanford,” he says and I can hear his mocking golf clap. “I honestly didn’t think you’d take him. I’ve watched freshly turned soldiers decimate entire groups of people; they are something to see. But you handled Leeds like a pro. I have underestimated you, and I apologize for that.”
The crowd is now silent. Pretty sure they’ve never heard the cocksucker apologize before.
“I don’t accept your apology,” I say.
“Nor would I expect you to,” Mondello responds, “but, out of respect for your performance tonight, I will agree to your previous request.”
“You’re letting me go?” I ask. “Great. It was fun. Seriously. We’ll do it again sometime.”
“Okay, okay,” Mondello laughs, “maybe not your full request. But I will let you live, and get a good night’s rest, before I put you back in there tomorrow night. How does that sound?”
The crowd begins to chant my name, “Loooong Pooooork! Looooong Poooork!”
Awesome…
“And what happens tomorrow night?” I yell over the crowd.
“That, Mr. Stanford, is entirely up to you,” Mondello replies, his voice barely audible over the chanting.
Chapter Five
They try to use only melee weapons, knowing stealth and silence are the best way to get through downtown, but as the Zs keep coming, they have to switch to firearms, which mean noise, and more Zs.
“I’m out!” one of Critter’s men shouts, the slide on his pistol locking back, just before his arm is flayed open by Z teeth. “AAAAAAAAAAAA!”
He falls under one then two, three, four Zs, his screams mixing with the hisses and groans of the undead that surround the group.
Elsbeth dances, like a deadly dervish made of anger and sharp steel, cutting down Z after Z that gets in her path. A blade in each hand, she slices off heads, splitting them in two before they touch the ground. She shoves a blade deep into the guts of a Z and yanks up, dissecting the thing up the middle, right through its chest, neck, and skull. Without hesitating, she turns about and pierces the ocular cavity of a Z that is reaching for her.
“I need ammo!” another of Critter’s men yells. He slams the empty pistol into the face of a Z, hoping to kill it, but instead, killing himself as the Zs teeth shred the flesh off one of his fingers. He pushes the thing away and pulls the hand to his chest. “I been kilt!”
Critter doesn’t waiver one bit and puts a bullet in the man’s brain. The body drops to the ground and he kicks it with his foot, sending it rolling down the sidewalk towards more Zs. They jump on the still warm body and begin to rip the flesh off it with their teeth and hands, jamming as much meat into their undead mouth as can fit. Most don’t bother to chew, just swallow the bites whole, going in for more.
“Here,” John calls out from a side alley, as he kicks in the back door to one of the many businesses that once populated the vibrant downtown of Asheville, North Carolina. “Come on!”
Critter doesn’t wait and sprints his way to John. He slaps John on the shoulder and ducks inside, turning to say, “Lay down some fire and get her out of there!”
John takes aim with his rifle, and despite the darkness, takes out six Zs before Elsbeth gets the hint and runs towards him. Critter’s men follow, but only two make it, the others getting a few feet before being cut off by swarming Zs. John doesn’t bother to look back as they scream and plead for help, he just hurries the two men inside and slams the door shut.
Critter is already there with furniture to barricade the door. He hands it to John and they both secure the entrance before turning and heading up the narrow stairway behind them.
“Where’s Elsbeth?” John asks, but doesn’t wonder for long as a body falls from a floor above, banging and smashing against the railing on its way down. “Oh.”
“Clear up here now,” Elsbeth says, peeking over and waving at them.
“Jesus that girl is strange,” Critter says as they take the steps two at time.
Instead of stopping on the floor Elsbeth is on, John proceeds up one more flight of stairs and onto the roof. He sprints to the side and looks down, taking aim with his rifle. Two shots and the men suffering below are no more.
“That was nice of you,” Elsbeth says from the door to the stairs.
“A waste of ammo, if you ask me,” Critter says, right behind her.
“I didn’t ask you,” John says. “And I’d hope you waste a bullet on me one day if it comes to it.”
Critter just shrugs.
“Are we sleeping inside, or up here?” Elsbeth asks.
“Sleeping? How the fuck can you sleep with those things down there?” one of
the men asks.
“I curl up and put my arms under my head,” Elsbeth responds, “then I close my eyes. How do you sleep with those things down there?”
“Fucked up, man,” the man says, turns, and walks back down the stairs.
The other man looks from Critter to John to Elsbeth and back. “So? Where are we sleeping?”
A scream below sends them rushing inside.
Elsbeth and John look over the railing and can see the first man struggling with a Z two floors below.
“I thought you cleared it?” John says.
“Me too,” Elsbeth answers.
“Guess we’re sleeping on the roof,” Critter says. “I’d love to find a blanket or two, but maybe that ain’t such a good idea.”
They all head back up, shutting the door behind them. John looks around, but there’s nothing to barricade the door with.
“We keep watch,” John says. “Two at a time so that way we don’t risk someone falling asleep. Two hour shifts. No one’s eyes stray from that door.”
“I’ll take first watch,” Critter says. “Who’s gonna join me?”
“Elsbeth?” John asks, then sees the young woman curled up all the way across in a corner of the roof, her eyes closed and arms under her head. “I’ll join you then. Let your guy here get a little sleep.”
“That means I have to stand watch with her,” the man says.
“I hire only fucking geniuses,” Critter snorts.
***
The gunshots get louder and louder as Melissa and her brothers make their way through the underground cave that connects to a secret entrance inside the Farm. The entire acreage is surrounded by row after row of barbed and concertina wire, so there are only a couple ways in and out other than the main entrance used by vehicles. But that entrance is under siege as the convoy of trucks that passed them earlier in the day tries to push into the Farm.
“Sounds like Daddy is making a stand,” Pup says.
“Or trying to,” Buzz replies.
“Hush now,” Melissa scolds them, “focus.”
They get to the door that leads them into the Farm proper and Melissa instinctively finds the latch that’s hidden in the rock wall. With a sharp click, the door swings open and the Fitzpatricks hurry through, their weapons ready. After following a long, curving stone corridor, they come to a set of stairs that leads them up into a small, stone shed. They all hurry through and burst into the barnyard.
Fire is everywhere and those that aren’t fighting it with hoses and buckets, are fighting the armed men that have abandoned their trucks and are now rushing up the road towards the farmhouse. Melissa puts her rifle to her shoulder and squeezes off round after round as she runs towards the fighting, while trying to ignore the chaos about her.
Pup and Porky follow her, almost mirroring her step for step, but Buzz dashes off to the back of the farmhouse and into the huge kitchen.
“Daddy!” he shouts.
“On the porch!” Stella cries as she huddles with Greta and Charlie by the iron stove.
Buzz looks around and realizes that most of the children that live on the Farm are all inside the kitchen. Probably the safest place for them, he thinks.
“Ya’ll stay here,” he says, “don’t you dare go outside.”
“Wasn’t thinking of it,” Stella says.
“I want to fight,” Charlie shouts. “I can shoot. Give me a rifle and I’ll kill some of those mother fuckers!”
“You’re staying here with your mother, young man,” Buzz orders. “You want to shoot?” He pulls a pistol from his belt. “You shoot this. You kill anyone that comes in this kitchen that you don’t know. Got it?”
“Got it,” Charlie says as he takes the pistol in both hands.
“Safety’s on the side,” Buzz says, “but be careful, hear me? Don’t shoot yourself or any of these kids.”
Charlie nods as Buzz runs from the kitchen. He ducks down in a crouch when plaster kicks up by his head as a bullet just misses him. More bullets slam into the wall and Buzz hits the ground, crawling elbow over elbow into the front room.
“There ya are,” Big Daddy says from the front window, a rifle to his shoulder. “Your brothers and sister with ya?”
“Yes, sir,” Buzz replies. “They’re outside in the thick of it.”
“Well, I’d be there with them, but I decided to wrassle with a bullet and lost,” Big Daddy says.
Buzz can see a dark stain on his father’s thigh.
“Ain’t nothing but a muscle wound,” Big Daddy says, seeing the look on Buzz’s face. “Missed the artery. I’ll be just fine once I get stitched up.”
“Which he won’t let me do,” Dr. McCormick says from a corner of the room, her hands blood deep in a woman’s belly. There are more wounded lying about being tended to by whoever is at hand. “Stubborn old bull.”
“You got more important business, doc,” Big Daddy says, ducking as a round of slugs slam into the house just outside the window. “Keep that one alive, if you can.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do,” Dr. McCormick snaps. “Not exactly ideal circumstances.”
“No, ‘spect it ain’t,” Big Daddy says.
“Ha, your accent gets thicker when you’re in pain,” Buzz says, crouching next to his father. “Sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine, son. Don’t bother about me.”
“Fine, I’ll take your word for it. How many out there?”
“We counted at least thirty,” Big Daddy says. “I think we whittled them down to a dozen or so.”
“How many of ours have we lost?”
“More than I’d like,” Big Daddy says.
“Fifteen at last count,” Dr. McCormick says. “Three children.”
“Mother Mary,” Buzz says. “Can we hold them?”
“Well, your brothers are out there now trying to flank them,” Big Daddy says, “while we keep them distracted up here. Where do you want to be?”
“Sir?”
“You want to help with the distraction or you want in the thick of it?”
“This is the thick of it,” Dr. McCormick says as a geyser of blood spurts from the woman’s abdomen. “Mother fucking piece of shit!”
“Doctor, language,” Big Daddy says.
“Fuck your language!” Dr. McCormick says. “I lost her!”
The doctor shoves the corpse away and turns on her knee, ready for the next person. She dives right in, not bothering with new gloves. In the zombie apocalypse, blood transmitted diseases are the least of one’s worries.
“I better get out there,” Buzz says. “You’ve got enough in here.”
Buzz works his way back through the house and out the kitchen, giving a thumbs up to Charlie as he goes by. Mainly because he’s glad Charlie doesn’t accidentally shoot him.
He steps outside and finds Emmanuel Fertig waiting for him, AR-15 in hand. Manny, as he’s known, is a tall black man, in his late thirties and in good shape. He and his family have been staying on the Farm since just after Z-Day. Being good friends, it’s a nice surprise for Buzz to see him with a big smile on his face.
“Hey, Manny. Sarah and the kids safe?” Buzz asks.
“They are,” Manny replies. “Got them holed up in one of the bunkers out in field six.”
“Good. What’s with the shit eating grin?”
“Don’t let your daddy hear you cussing like that,” Manny smiles wider. “I think I found their weak spot. Care to join me?”
“Gladly,” Buzz says.
They hurry around the farmhouse and back to the stone shed that leads down to the secret entrance in and out of the Farm. Two of Buzz’s brothers are waiting for them, rifles ready.
“Gunga, Toad,” Buzz nods. The two men, just as big as Buzz, nod back.
“They look like pros, but they don’t know shit about the way these hills work. They’re thinking linearly. We don’t have to,” Manny says.
“Show me the way,” Buzz says. “We don’t need more men?”
“Nah,” Manny smiles.
***
I know someone is there without opening my eyes. Living post-Z tends to heighten the senses. But I keep my eyes closed and listen, waiting to see if I can catch any info before the nightmare begins again. My thoughts drift back to Leeds and what I had to do; what Mondello made me do.
President of the United States, my dick. More like President of the Sick Fuckers Union. And that’s a pretty fucking big union these days.
“Please open your eyes, Stanford,” Foster says. “Your breathing changed exactly two minutes ago. I know you are awake.”
“Oh, hey there,” I say, opening my eyes and squinting against the harsh sunlight coming in through the windows. I’m back in the same room as before, all alone, strapped to a cot. And my head is killing me almost as much as my hand. “When’s breakfast?”
“I have to hand it to you, Stanford,” Foster says, “you are something else. Just killed your friend, got the fuck all beaten out of you, and you still find time for sarcasm. That’s quite a defense mechanism.”
“It’s my defense mecha- Oh, right, you just said that,” I say. “Way to steal my thunder, Ms. Foster.”
“I thought I’d give you a chance to make things right,” Foster says. “We are having a tiny bit of a problem with your people out at that farm.”
“The Farm,” I say.
“Yeah, I just said that.”
“No, no, it’s the Farm. Big F. Around here, there’s only one Farm now.”
Foster tilts her head and looks at me strangely. “Why does that matter?”
“Because it matters to Big Daddy,” I say, “and he’s probably the closest thing to a real President that we have. If it matters to him, then it matters to me.”
“Interesting,” Foster nods. “So how about a little help then?”
“I’m thinking…no,” I reply. “Nothing personal.”