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

by Bible, Jake

  That question hangs in the air as Antoinette stands and says, “Time’s up. Get out.”

  “GREAT,” STELLA SAYS. “We have a dump truck. Now what?”

  Everyone sits close together inside what had been planned as the community clubhouse, but hadn’t been fully finished before Z-Day hit. It looks like the new residents of Reynolds Mountain tried to fix it up with some paint, but really, it is just a large room with drywall and a concrete floor. Outside, a hundred yards down the mountain, the sound of the Zs at the gates continues. A monotonous drone of hunger that fills the air as the sun begins its slow climb from out behind the mountain.

  Stella is standing before everyone as they huddle on the cold concrete, each looking miserable, hungry, distrustful.

  “Where do we go?” Stella asks. “Whispering Pines is overrun. The Grove Park is gone.”

  “We don’t know that,” someone says.

  “We don’t know that it isn’t,” Lourdes responds, “and can’t take the chance of getting stuck there if it is.”

  “Which still leaves the question of where to go,” Stella repeats, “I’m open to suggestions.”

  “Doesn’t sound like it,” a woman mutters.

  “What’s that?” Stella snaps. “Speak up if you have something to say.”

  The woman stands and looks at Stella. “I said it doesn’t sound like you’re open to suggestions. Everything we say you shoot down. You’re no better than Brenda is. Just another bitch wishing she had a dick.”

  “Hey!” Buzz shouts. “No need for that!”

  The room explodes into arguments as people get to their feet, and in each other’s face, and begin shouting and yelling. It’s Whispering Pines versus Reynolds Mountain, civilian versus private military contractor.

  “Stop it,” Charlie says. “Stop it. Stop it! Stop it! STOP IT! STOPITSTOPITSTOPIT!”

  He flies through the throng and starts randomly slapping people across the face. He doesn’t care who he hits, so long as they shut the fuck up after he smacks them.

  “I SAID STOP IT!” he screams at the top of his lungs.

  The room goes quiet.

  “Good,” he says, “we go north.”

  They all stare at him.

  He shakes his head and looks at everyone like they are idiots and his mother is not immune to the look.

  “We can’t go south because that’s where the Zs are coming from,” Charlie says now that he has everyone’s attention. “We go north as far and fast as we can. Once we’re clear of the Z herd we turn and head west. My dad told me that there are other places with people. He heard about somewhere out in the Plains, maybe.”

  “Kansas City,” Greta says.

  “Yeah, Kansas City,” Charlie nods. “We load everyone up in that dump truck and we go north. Then west. And keep going until we are a long way from here.”

  “What’ll we do for food?” someone asks.

  “We’ll have that same issue here,” Charlie replies.

  “What about the Farm?” another suggests.

  Charlie looks over at Buzz. “No,” the big man says, shaking his head. “The Zs had already taken Pierson Bridge. They’ll be to the Farm about now. Even if it holds, we won’t get through. Not with all the Zs the cows and pigs attract.”

  “North,” Charlie says.

  “Sweetie,” Stella says, “it’s not that easy.”

  “No shit, Mom,” Charlie snaps. “Nothing is in this fucking world. I know most of you think kids like me and Greta have been sheltered from the worst since we were able to spend a few years in Whispering Pines.” He holds up his hands and uses air quotes. “Because it was ‘safe’.” A hollow laugh bubbles up out of his throat. “But have you forgotten what we had to do before gates were built and fences put up?”

  “Or after,” Greta says, “in that fight cage. Or up on the Blue Ridge Parkway?”

  “I don’t sleep,” Charlie says. “I doze a little, but I haven’t had a full night’s sleep since Z-Day. That was years ago. You know why? Because I lay awake, listening. I wait for the sounds of the Zs breaking through the fences, through the gates, breaking down our doors and coming up the stairs to fucking eat my face.”

  Everyone is silent, watching him closely.

  “I’m sure most of you know how that feels,” he continues. “I highly doubt I’m the only one that lies there in their bed knowing that the sheet and blanket draped across them won’t do shit when the Zs break down the door.” His voice catches and he falters.

  Greta grabs his hand and squeezes it tight, giving him the strength to go on.

  “There is no certainty in this world,” he says. “There’s no real safety. A lot of you do that thing adults do and just put on blinders and move forward. That’s how you were raised. That’s how you got through the old world of bills and shitty jobs and stupid politics and all that crap. But that shit doesn’t fly anymore!

  “You know what the best advice my dad ever gave me was? It was to keep your eyes open and look at the world because it can all be gone in a blink. Guess what, people? The world fucking blinked. It’s over. So we keep going until we can’t go any further.”

  “Farther,” Greta says.

  “It’s further,” Charlie counters.

  “I don’t think so,” Greta frowns.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Charlie smiles at her. “It sucks no matter what.”

  The room is filled with wet eyes and sniffles. Stella grabs onto her children and hugs them tightly.

  “When did you get so grown up?” she asks Charlie.

  “When the dead started eating people, Mom,” he says.

  “Duh,” Greta adds.

  THE MORNING LIGHT HITS the French Broad just as Critter drives the Jeep across the Fletcher Martin Rd Bridge up by Alexander. Dr. McCormick is passed out in the passenger seat, twitching and groaning as her brain tries to process the nightmare of the last twenty-four hours.

  He taps the steering wheel with his fingers, drumming them in time with a wordless tune he’s busy humming. The air around him begins to warm as the sun rises so he turns down the Jeep heat that blows on his feet. He’s still humming when he comes to a four way stop. Normally he’d go straight and take Old Turkey Creek Rd up to New Leicester Highway then follow that all the way into the Pisgah National Forest. After a few turns on small roads named things like Panther Branch and Poplar Gap, he’d be just a few hidden twists from his holler.

  Critter’s holler: The place to be when trying to forget the Zs.

  It was a motto he came up with when he decided to add a casino to the other illegal activities he provided. Not that anything is truly illegal anymore. Hard to break laws when there aren’t any more laws to break. Or anyone to enforce them.

  But Critter doesn’t go straight to Old Turkey Creek Rd. Instead, he turns left and follows the winding country highway until he sees a rusted old gate off to his right. He stops the Jeep just in front and hops out, wincing as his knees protest and crack like gunshots.

  “Ain’t as spry as I used to be,” he says then smiles as Dr. McCormick mutters back at him in her sleep.

  The gate takes a little coaxing, but he gets it open, hops back into the Jeep, and drives up a barely perceptible, overgrown road. It’s really more of a glorified trail, but the Jeep fits, so he thinks of it as a road. It’s a long climb uphill, and Critter gets slightly anxious about the amount of gas he’s using, but he doesn’t slow down, taking the twists and turns while barely touching the brakes.

  When he gets to his destination, he shuts off the engine, grabs a pair of binoculars, and steps from the Jeep. He focuses the binoculars and smiles, even though most wouldn’t smile at the sight below. But Critter isn’t most, and his smiles aren’t really smiles, more mischievous turns of his lips.

  Asheville.

  The city sits there in its mountain valley, with pillars of smoke coming from several locations as buildings burn, the streets overrun with Zs. Critter does a quick estimate as he scans the city and realiz
es there are easily ten thousand Zs moving about. Ten thousand that he can see. He gives out a low whistle.

  “Everyone’s dead, aren’t they?” Dr. McCormick asks sleepily from back in the Jeep.

  “No way to know,” Critter says without taking the binoculars from his eyes. “But could be.”

  Then something catches his eyes and his smile of mischief turns to one of delight.

  “Well, I’ll be dipped in shit,” he says.

  “What?” Dr. McCormick asks.

  Critter finally takes the binoculars away from his face and glances over his shoulder. Then looks quickly away.

  “Sorry,” he says.

  “What?” Dr. McCormick says as she stands from peeing by the Jeep and pulls up her jeans. “Never seen a woman drop trou before?” She comes up to him and holds out her hand. “May I?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Critter says as he hands over the binoculars.

  “My, God,” she says as she studies the almost endless numbers of Zs that fill the city.

  “Now look down at the river,” he says, “close to your two o’clock.”

  “My what?” Dr. McCormick asks. “Dammit Jim, I’m a doctor not a clock!”

  “That’s a good one,” Critter chuckles. “I get that joke. Nice to have someone that knows things that happened before the internets turned it all to cats in damn shark costumes.”

  “I’ll admit I liked that too,” Dr. McCormick says. “Now stop making me hunt for it. Tell me what I’m looking for?”

  But Critter doesn’t need to.

  “I’ll also be dipped in shit,” she laughs. “Is that who I think it is?”

  “You know anyone else with a shiny spike for an arm?” Critter laughs. “Hard to miss that even from this distance.”

  Dr. McCormick hands him the binoculars. “So what does this mean?”

  “Means we know someone we give a shit about is alive down there,” Critter says. “And, as usual, the moron is heading into trouble, not away from it.”

  “Where are they going?” Dr. McCormick asks. “Why are they in rafts?”

  “Best way to travel when the road’s full of undead,” Critter says.

  “Now what?”

  “I think they’ll need a little help,” Critter says.

  “You have something that can help them? With all of those Zs?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I do.” Critter gives her a puzzled look. “Hold on now. Did you think I was just runnin’ away?”

  Dr. McCormick blushes.

  “Well, I’ll be,” Critter says, nodding his head. “You don’t have a very high opinion of me, do ya?”

  “It’s not that, Critter,” Dr. McCormick replies. “No one really has a very high opinion of you. Except Jace, I think.”

  “Huh,” Critter says, scratching the stubble on his chin. “Well, guess I best be provin’ ya wrong then. Let’s go.”

  “Where are we going?” she asks as they get back in the Jeep and Critter turns them around.

  “Gonna swing by my place,” Critter smiles. “Round up the gang.” His smile widens. “And get my truck.”

  “WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?” Elsbeth asks as we quietly paddle down the French Broad.

  Or, as she quietly paddles. I forgot to bring my rafting adaptor for Stumpageddon. Right now, I’m sporting Mr. Spikey. Which everyone eyes nervously since one slip and I’ll put a hole in the raft. The raft I’m floating in has Elsbeth, Melissa, What’s-His-Name, and three sisters. That’s one more than capacity, but I don’t think it matters much. The second raft, close behind us, has Stuart, Reaper, John and three sisters. There are two kayaks leading the way, and one behind us, each with a sister. Antoinette and Stacy stayed behind with Platt.

  I really wish I had a cooler of beers and some sunflower seeds to split and spit. That was kinda my floating thing pre-Z. Stella and I would take the kids down the French Broad in these tricked out tubes that could hold snacks and even had a built in cooler. That was the life.

  The raft we’re in is pretty sweet, and tricked out with fun things like holders for your rifles and straps so you can handcuff prisoners to the side, but it’s just not the same as a nice blue and white tube on a Saturday afternoon. Unless today is Saturday. Is it? I can’t fucking remember anymore.

  “What do you mean?” I reply finally. “Nothing’s wrong with me. I’m fine.”

  “You suck at lying,” Elsbeth says. Melissa, up front, looks over her shoulder at us, but Elsbeth gives her a “fuck off” look. She shrugs and turns back around; everyone’s used to Elsbeth’s “fuck off” looks.

  “I’m not lying,” I say. Which is a lie, of course. I’m not fine. My shoulder is about to send me over the edge. “I’m just tired.”

  “I’m tired too,” Elsbeth says, “but I’m still me. You aren’t being you.”

  Okay...I’m confused.

  “Okay, I’m confused,” I say. It’s better to say the words out loud. “What are you talking about?”

  “The Long Pork I rescued had funny pink pants on and a butterfly shirt,” Elsbeth says. “You were going to be eaten, but you were funny at it.”

  “Thanks,” I say, “I try to keep it light in the apocalypse.”

  “See,” she nods, “that’s funny. But it’s not enough.”

  “El, just come out and say it,” I plead. “I’m not following you.”

  “No, you ain’t,” she says. “You’re in the raft with me. How could you follow me if you are right here? Stop being stupid and answer me.”

  “I can’t answer you if I don’t know what you are talking about!” I snap.

  “Shhhh,” one of the sisters scolds. I think it’s a Tracy. Or a Lacy. Right, because Stacy is back at the Biltmore. I think. I don’t know. I’m too afraid to ask. They get a tad irritated when I don’t know their names.

  “Just tell me what you mean,” I whisper to Elsbeth.

  “You were funny,” she says. “You made me laugh. When me and Pa had you all trussed up you were making me laugh.”

  “Oh, was that what I was doing?” I say. “And here I thought my comedy routine didn’t go over well because of all the pissing in my pants I did.”

  “That’s funny,” one of the sisters observes.

  “Thanks,” I say. “See? I’m still funny.”

  “No, you aren’t,” Elsbeth says. “You’re being funny now because you don’t want to answer me. So answer me, Long Pork. What’s wrong with you?”

  About fifty sarcastic comments go through my head. Things like:

  “We don’t have enough time in the day to explain everything wrong with me.”

  Or:

  “Oh, nothing, just enjoying a float on the way to my doom.”

  Or, the perennial favorite of all teenagers:

  “Nothing. What’s wrong with you?”

  I have a ton more, but none of them come out of my mouth. What does come out surprises even me.

  “I’m scared,” I say. “With every day I get more and more scared. Petrified.”

  “Once I was afraid, I was petrified,” a sister starts to hum.

  “Good one,” I smile. “But I’ve tried the Gloria Gaynor therapy and I still don’t feel like I’ll survive.”

  “We’re all scared,” Elsbeth says.

  “Oh, I know that intellectually,” I say, tapping my head. “But that’s the problem. I’m intellectually terrified. Ever since Mondello dropped the bomb about the Consortium and there being other places like that, I haven’t slept worth a shit.”

  “Then suck it up, Long Pork,” she says, “stop being scared.”

  “I’ve tried,” I protest. “I’m usually really good at burying things deep down and locking them away for later. But here’s the problem, El, now is that later.”

  She frowns at me.

  “Do you get what I’m saying?” I ask. “The vault of Jace is all full. I gots terrors leaking out my ears.”

  “No, you don’t,” she says, obviously checking out my ears.

  “It’s a sayi
ng,” a sister says, “he doesn’t mean he actually...”

  “I know,” Elsbeth growls, “I’m not the stupid one. He is.”

  “You wanted to know what’s wrong with me and that’s it,” I say. “My mind is working overtime on the Consortium issue. I can’t think straight half the time. I haven’t come up with a great idea or inspiration in months.”

  “You’ve been doing great with the Whispering Pines rebuild,” Melissa says.

  “That’s just robot work,” I say and hold up a finger to Elsbeth. “Yes, I know we don’t have robots. What I mean is I don’t have to think to use a hammer. I don’t have to think to stack boards. I don’t even have to think when we’re rebuilding a house. There are plenty of people better at that than me. I just grab some wood and nails and get to work.”

  “What are you talking about?” Melissa asks. “You improved the gates.”

  “No, I didn’t,” I admit, “that was Charlie and Greta. I was stuck and they started brainstorming.”

  Melissa shakes her head. “You ripped off your kids’ ideas? Have you no shame?”

  “Ha ha,” I smirk. “What else was I going to do? People look to me to be the Big Brain of Whispering Pines. When all I want to be is the Curled Up in a Fetal Position Brain of Whispering Pines.”

  “Anxiety,” Elsbeth says. “Greta taught me that word. She says I have it and it’s why I don’t relax like normal people.”

  “Just a wild guess here,” I say, “but I’m going with it’s the captured by a canny and also being a trained killer element that makes it hard to relax.”

  Elsbeth glares. “Anxiety.”

  “Got it. Anxiety,” I agree. “My bad.”

  “That’s what you have,” Elsbeth nods. “You need to close your eyes and go to your quiet place.”

  I stare at her.

  “I’m sorry, but did you just tell me to go to my ‘quiet place’?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you have been doing this? Going to your quiet place?”

  “No.”

  “I’m confused,” I sigh.

  “I don’t have a quiet place,” Elsbeth says. “No place to go. All noise.”

  She smacks herself in the side of the head like she used to do when I first found her. Or she found me. Whatever, we’ll share the credit.