Z-Burbia Box Set | Books 1-3 [The Asheville Trilogy]

by Bible, Jake

  “Not what family is for,” Elsbeth whispers. “They aren’t my real sisters, but they are my sisters. I don’t remember them, not really. Just bits and pieces. But I feel it.” She thumps her chest. “They are my sisters.”

  “Good,” I say, “we could use more family.”

  “No, no,” she says, shaking her head, fresh tears welling up in her eyes. “No, not for you. Not sisters for the Stanfords.” She looks over her shoulder and glances around. “They aren’t safe for the Stanfords.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask. “Are we in danger?”

  “No...I don’t think so,” she says then stands up abruptly. “I’ll show you.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  We go back inside, but instead of joining the others, Elsbeth takes my hand and leads me to the back of the grand staircase and the door to the basement. We go down through the rock passageways until we are in what’s called the Halloween Room (told you I used to come to the Biltmore a lot). The room is massive, with faded paintings of cats and bats, witches and princesses, castles and flocks of geese, covering the walls. There’s nothing in here, not even the displays that used to tell tourists all about the grand parties that were thrown down here during the Biltmore’s heyday.

  But there is something in the corner. On a pedestal.

  We walk closer and it doesn’t take me long to figure out what I’m looking at.

  “Holy fuck,” I say, “is that...”

  “Yeah,” Elsbeth nods, “that’s Ms. Foster.”

  “Well, just her head,” Cassie says from behind us.

  I spin quickly and see all of the women there. Even Stuart, Melissa and..., shit, what’s his name, uh, Jeff! Yes, Jeff is there too.

  “I bet you’d like me to explain,” Cassie says.

  Chapter Four

  “Get them in the gate!” Stella screams as she hurries past the lines of wounded. “Move it! We have to get this closed, NOW!”

  Her eyes go wide as she see’s Big Daddy Fitzpatrick being carried into Whispering Pines, half his face a torn mess and his clothes scorched and smoking. Her hand goes to her mouth, but she fights the gorge that wants to rise.

  Shit needs to get done and Stella gets shit done.

  “Buzz!” she yells as she sees one of Big Daddy’s sons help push people from Highway 251 and into Whispering Pines. “BUZZ!”

  “Holy shit, Stella,” he says as he runs up to her, “they’re everywhere!”

  “What is going on?”

  “Zs,” he says, “herds of them.”

  “Herds...?” She lets the plural sink in. “But...how?”

  “We don’t know the how, ma’am,” Critter says as he joins them after shouting orders to his crew. “But we know the numbers.” He glances at Buzz. “You want to tell her?”

  “Thousands,” he says, “maybe tens of thousands.”

  “Mom? Mom!” Charlie yells from behind. “The Wi-Fi is down! We can’t communicate with the Grove Park!”

  “Shit,” Stella says, wiping a blood-coated hand across her brow. “What the fuck is happening?”

  “We’re under attack,” Critter says. “My guess? The powers that be are sick of our little rebuild effort. They are clearing the area of the living.”

  “Powers that be?” Stella asks. “You mean the Consortium?”

  Critter shrugs, his bony shoulders nearly touching his ears. “Just a guess from my gut.”

  “I trust your gut,” Buzz says.

  “Me too,” Stella says. She can see the way Buzz keeps looking around. “Your father? He’s being hurried up to the infirmary. How’d he get burned?”

  “Truck flipped,” Buzz says, tears welling in his eyes. “My fault. We came around a bend and they were just there. A wall of Zs. I tried to keep control, but we went into a ditch and then it was all downhill from there.”

  “Literally,” Critter adds. “I watched them roll a hundred feet.”

  “We lost the Fertigs, the Santiagos,” Buzz says, “the Patels, and they were going to move into the Grove Park so the girls could take advantage of the school being set up there.”

  “The Patels?” Stella gasps. “Jennifer too?” Buzz nods. “Oh, God...Charlie...”

  She spins and sees her son standing there. His face is ashen and his jaw hangs open as he slowly shakes his head. Jennifer Patel. His girlfriend.

  “You’re wrong,” he growls, his eyes on Buzz, “they weren’t moving until tomorrow. She said so last night.”

  “Sorry, bud,” Buzz says, “they decided to train over with everyone going to the Counsel meeting. More room to haul their stuff that way.”

  “No. No!” Charlie snaps. “NO! FUCK YOU, BUZZ!”

  He leaps at the man, his seventeen year old teenage body slamming into the farm bred brick house that is Buzz Fitzpatrick. Buzz takes it in stride, let’s Charlie slam his fists against him over and over until the boy is exhausted and ready to collapse. Buzz takes him in his arms and holds him tight, his eyes filled with tears for the pain he feels. For the pain they all feel.

  “I know, I know,” Buzz says, “I’m sorry.”

  Stella has her hands to her mouth, her eyes wide with fear.

  “Where’s your man?” Critter asks then stops. “Wait...what’re you doin’ here, boss lady? Why ain’t you at the Grove Park for the meeting?”

  “My stomach wasn’t feeling well,” she answers, “Jace went for me.”

  “Shit,” Critter says, “then he’s out there and not here.”

  “He’s out there,” Stella says, stunned with the reality of that statement, “with the Zs.”

  Pup and Porky, the Fitzpatrick twins that are easily as big as their older brother is, come running up to them.

  “We can’t get the Farm,” Pup says.

  “Wi-Fi won’t work,” Porky adds.

  “How the hell is it out everywhere?” Critter asks, rubbing the grizzled stubble on his head. “It was working this morning.”

  “We didn’t have herds of Zs this morning,” Buzz says.

  Charlie pushes away and wipes his eyes. “Cutting off enemy communications is step one in a major attack. Then cut off supplies and if possible, overwhelm with numbers.”

  “I’d say it’s more than possible,” Critter says. “Sheee-it. This is fucking war.”

  “And the soldiers are at the Grove Park,” Buzz says, “right?”

  Stella nods. “There’s some PCs here, but Lourdes is at the GPI. And we can’t call her.”

  “I WANT A STATUS REPORT!” Lourdes Torres shouts as she slams her hand down on the table. “Somebody tell me something!”

  “We can’t,” one of the PCs, Hermes “Shots” Leonides says, “com is down. Radio is static. Wi-Fi is nothing. We are dead in the water.”

  Lourdes rubs her face and looks at her command team. “As of right now we will consider this an all out attack. Asheville is under siege. I want all assault Teams geared up and ready in ten minutes. Pack for the field because once we leave here we may not be back for a while.”

  “Jesus,” Barbara “Babs” Carlyle says, “this is fucking Cleveland all over again.”

  “Hardly,” Sean “Poker Face” Booker replies. “Don’t smell half as bad as Cleveland.”

  “Ten minutes,” Lourdes says. “Go!”

  THE BODY ARMOR PROTECTS his forearm as the Z chomps down, but Joe T still cries out, more from rage than pain. He swings his arm, lifting the Z like a terrier hanging onto a chew toy, and flings the thing halfway across the water transfer station.

  Men and women scream about him, whether because they are fighting for their lives or losing their lives, Joe T can’t tell. All he knows is everything has gone to shit in a fucking hand basket in seconds. His instincts tell him to abandon the station and get his ass back to base, back to the Grove Park, but his duty tells him he has to fight and fight and fight until he kills every last Z or is killed by them.

  “Joe!” a man yells close by. “I’m out! I need ammo!”

  Joe T has on
e magazine left for his M-4 and tosses it to the man, letting his rifle drop as he pulls his Desert Eagle from his hip. He fires once and vaporizes a Z’s skull as it lurches towards him. He fires again, ripping the top half of a Z’s head off. He fires a third time, but only nails a Z’s chest as the things get too close to get a good shot off. Joe T is about to go down under a pile of the undead.

  “Fall back!” Joe T yells. “Get the fuck out of here!”

  He runs backward, firing until his pistol clicks empty. A quick glance over his shoulder tells him he’s close to where he wants to be and that’s by the main valve system.

  “Let’s purge,” he scowls.

  He bashes a Z over the head with his empty pistol, crushing the thing’s skull. Kicking out, he knocks another Z against the ever encroaching herd. It gives him enough time to hop up onto a metal platform and turn his attention to a large valve prominently painted red. The warning sign by the valve reads, “Danger. Do not open fully. High pressure. Do not open fully. Danger.”

  “Let’s schedule some maintenance,” Joe T says. “HEADS UP!”

  Those men and women still alive glance his way, see what he’s about to do, and book it to higher ground. They jump up on vehicles, climb utility poles, scramble on top of the trailer used as an office. They all get anywhere that isn’t the ground.

  Joe T twists the valve with all his might. It doesn’t move. He braces his legs and readjusts his grip. His muscles strain, tendons in his neck close to snapping, as he cranks, and cranks, and cranks. Finally, the valve starts to ease. He turns as fast as he can and a loud warning claxon rings out across the station.

  Joe T steps back, grabs a fresh magazine, ejects the spent one from his Desert Eagle, and slams the fresh one home. The Zs surround his little platform, their hungry faces looking up at him, their arms outstretched, needing, wanting, yearning.

  “Hungry, fuckers?” Joe T asks. “Too bad because all we got is drinks tonight.”

  There’s a groaning within the complex of pipes and Joe T smiles down at the undead herd.

  Then everything bursts around him, enveloping his body in an explosion of water and iron.

  “I WANT ALL BITTEN IN the house next door!” Dr. McCormick shouts. “I don’t care what their other wounds are! The infirmary is for people I can fucking save, not for the already dead!”

  “We can’t just leave them to die,” Greta Stanford snaps. Fourteen years old, she is a tall, long legged mix of her mother and father. “They need help!”

  “There’s nothing I can help them with!” Dr. McCormick snaps. “A bite is death!”

  “My dad was bitten and he cut off his own arm! We can help them!” Greta says.

  A woman screams as she is dragged into the infirmary, clutching at her stomach as her intestines spill from between her fingers. A man wails as he stares at what used to be his hands, but are now mangled twists of bone and flesh.

  Dr. McCormick looks around and realizes what she’s seeing and it’s like a veil has been lifted.

  They’ve all been bitten.

  She turns to Greta. “I need every saw we have. I want blowtorches, propane stoves, anything that can cauterize a wound. Get me axes, machetes, whatever I can start hacking with. And I need more people! We’ll start at this end and work down. Someone hacks and someone burns. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Greta nods as she runs from the infirmary.

  “Sweet, God, help me,” Dr. McCormick whispers, “God help us all.”

  “CLOSE IT UP!” STELLA yells. “Close the gates!”

  She stands at the top of the watchtower next to the massive gate that marks the entrance to Whispering Pines. The wounded keep coming, most of them clutching others that are in even worse shape than they are. She knows that if she closes the gates she’ll strand dozens outside. But she has no choice.

  The Zs are right behind them. She can see hundreds coming, shuffling and moaning their way to the buffet on legs.

  She has no choice.

  “AAAAAAAAAHHHH!” A MAN screams as Greta hacks off his leg at the knee.

  “Burn that!” she yells to the woman standing next to her with a hand held butane torch. “Don’t fucking stand there! Close that wound!”

  “But I...I can’t,” the woman says.

  Greta grabs the torch from the woman and presses the blue flame against the man’s leg. He screams again then passes out.

  “Fuck you,” Greta says to the woman, “get your useless fucking ass away from me.”

  Hatchet in one hand, torch in the other, Greta moves to the next man. He looks from the hatchet to the torch as he clutches his wrist.

  “Take the whole arm,” he grunts, “only way to be sure.”

  “Fucking A right it is,” Great says as she raises the hatchet.

  THE HUMVEE HOPS THE curb and races up the front lawn of a large Victorian house on Charlotte Street, followed closely by a second Humvee.

  “No com, nothing,” the driver says as men and women jump out of the Humvees and take up positions along the house’s front porch. “Radios won’t work.”

  “Full jamming,” Shots says. “Fuck it. I don’t need a radio to kill some zeds! Take ‘em!”

  The ten PCs open fire on the front wave of the herd that fills the street. Undead bodies shudder and dance as they are ripped apart by .223 caliber rounds. Someone tosses a grenade and yells, “Frag!” just before the thing goes off. Putrid limbs and offal fly everywhere. One of the PCs steps forward and unleashes a geyser of flame from his thrower. The herd turns into a burning wall of flesh.

  “Keep it going!” Shots yells. “Do not stop until you go Winchester! Then get in the Humvees!”

  Huey Team keeps firing, emptying every magazine they have on them. When every last cartridge is spent, the Team jumps back in the Humvees and speeds off, turning up a side road, ready to flank the endless column of Zs that marches towards the Grove Park Inn.

  DUEY TEAM STAND ON top of the old Claxton Elementary school building, rifles to their shoulders. Two of them hold RPG launchers at the ready.

  “Just give us the go ahead, chief,” a man says as he glances over at Babs.

  “Don’t worry, Connor,” she says, “I will.”

  The herd of Zs fills every square inch of available space on Merrimon Ave as it stretches as far back as downtown where she can see them pouring over the sides of the I-240 overpass, falling to the road and joining their undead comrades.

  “Mother of God,” she whispers then takes a deep breath.

  She turns to her Team and smiles.

  “What day is a good day to die?” she yells.

  “TODAY!” they all yell back.

  “Then send them to Hell,” she orders.

  Duey Team opens fire. Bullets fly down into the herd, rockets spit flames as they scream into the mass. Zs fall, RPGs explode. Duey Team screams at the top of their lungs, never stopping, telling the Zs that Hell is above them, not down on the gore covered pavement.

  And to come and get it!

  “CHARGES SET, SIR,” a PC whispers as he crawls up to Poker Face.

  “Good,” Poker Face nods, “on my mark.”

  He stares at the mass of Zs coming from downtown, joining the other Zs that fall from the I-240 overpass that stretches across Broadway.

  “Three.”

  He looks across the street and sees part of his Team there. He glances down Broadway and sees the rest set and ready to charge once the shit hits.

  “Two.”

  To say this is the largest herd he’s seen would be a lie. There was Detroit, Toronto, Chicago, Indianapolis. Cleveland. Fucking Cleveland. Way more Zs there. But they had choppers then for air extraction. No choppers now. He hasn’t seen a chopper in over a year. Fuel, parts, pilots. Just too much to maintain.

  “One.”

  Poker Face raises his rifle to his shoulder and tucks a knee up underneath himself, ready to get up and move.

  “Mark.”

  Brick buildings all up and down Broadway e
xplode. Fire, stone and smoke fill the air. Poker Face feels the heat, gasps as the breath is almost sucked from his lungs. He’s up and sprinting towards the chaos before the last explosion has left his ears.

  Through the haze, he sees shapes moving forward.

  “Headshots! HEADSHOTS!” he screams. “Make it count, motherfuckers!”

  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN?” Buzz asks as he stands next to the cot draped with a bloody sheet. “He can’t be gone.”

  “He wasn’t a young man anymore,” Dr. McCormick says. “The shock of his wounds was too much for his heart to take. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, Lord,” Buzz says, “what now?”

  “I don’t know,” Dr. McCormick says as she hurries away.

  “But the Farm?” Buzz mumbles. “I can’t run that by myself. I can’t.”

  “BUZZ!” Charlie yells as he runs into the infirmary. “We need you down at the gate! It may not hold!”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Buzz says.

  Charlie catches sight of the cot and frowns. “That’s not...”

  “Yeah, it is,” Buzz says.

  “This day sucks dick,” Charlie says.

  “Yep,” Buzz says as he turns from his father’s covered corpse. “Let’s go.”

  “MOTHER OF GOD, WHERE did they come from?” The driver asks as Lourdes stands by the railing of the Elk Mountian Rd overpass, her scope to her eye as she studies the herd of Zs that pushes past the abandoned cars and trucks on I-26.

  “South, obviously,” Lourdes says, watching Zs stumble up and down off/on ramps, spilling into the neighborhoods like a virus spreading through arteries. “We need to move.”

  “You think Whispering Pines will hold?” the driver asks.

  “I don’t know,” Lourdes replies, “maybe. They might have a chance if the zeds don’t make it all the way to them. They might disperse enough that we can manage a few waves.”