by Bible, Jake
“We need the intel,” Stuart says, “and they are the only ones that can get it and survive to get back to us. Plus, we told them that if they don’t have any new information in two weeks they’re to abandon Atlanta and catch up to us.”
“El?” I ask, looking across the table at the silent ex-canny girl. “Thoughts?”
“People will fight,” she shrugs, “or they die. Anyone that doesn’t fight is stupid and stupid should die.”
“Great, thanks,” I smile, “that helped a lot.”
“Listen, Long Pork,” Critter says, “you’re spooked because Asheville failed. You’re taking it personally and talking out your ego. You gotta let that go.”
“That was even less helpful than what Elsbeth said,” I snap.
“He’s kinda right, Jace,” Melissa says. “You can’t expect to fix everything. It doesn’t matter how many people we have with us. Because once we get out on that road, you won’t be able to think our way out of danger. And that scares the shit out of you.”
“Stella?” I ask. “A little backup?”
“The radiation levels have risen in the French Broad,” Stella says. “It hasn’t drifted here yet, but it will. We can’t stay, Jace, and getting pissy won’t stop that.”
“Getting pissy?” I growl. “What the fuck is this? An intervention?”
“Maybe,” Stuart shrugs. “How about you give that brain a rest and stop looking at all the angles?”
“You have got to be...”
“Shut up, Jason,” Stuart says quietly.
“What?”
“Just shut up,” Stuart says.
He sighs and rubs his face. I can see the strain everything has taken on him; the man looks a thousand years older than he did just last year when we were sitting in Whispering Pines more worried about bums trying to get in than Consortiums or trying to move everyone across country.
“You’ve been a huge part of this group, Jace,” Stuart says. “You came up with ideas that no one else could. You’d have made a great city planner somewhere, but this is a military operation. This is convoy tactics. You need to take a step back and listen to those with the experience. If we try to plan for every single contingency, we’ll never leave.” He leans forward on the table and makes sure he has my attention, which he does. Fully. “And there will be casualties. It’ll be impossible to take a group this size nearly a thousand miles and expect everyone to live. That’s just not possible.”
Stuart leans back and lets that settle in for a minute. It’s more unsettling, actually, but I get what he’s saying.
“So damned if we do and damned if we don’t, eh?” I say.
“Damned if we don’t, for sure,” Stuart says. “Damned if we do then? No way to know.”
“Fine, fine,” I say, “I’ll let y’all work out the rest. I’ve planned as much as I can. The convoy will at least be as efficient as it can be. I have that fucking shit organized.”
“Long Pork is good at organizing fucking shit,” Elsbeth says.
Everyone tries to hold it in, but they burst out laughing. Elsbeth looks around like she doesn’t know what’s going on, but I see a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. I think she likes her role in this group.
“Uh, Uncle Critter?” Gunga says from the doorway.
“Saloon is still closed, Gunga,” Critter says. “Give us a few more minutes, will ya?”
“Sure, right, but...” He trails off and looks back over his shoulder.
“What’s up?” Buzz asks, getting to his feet. “You got me worried, little brother?”
Little brother. Always makes me laugh since Gunga is the size of a tractor trailer.
“There’s a man here,” Gunga says. “A stranger. Just walked into the holler.”
“Walked in?” Critter asks, his face clouding with anger. “Nobody just walks into my holler.”
“Well, uh, he did,” Gunga says. “Ain’t no one seen him ‘til he was walking up the middle of the field.”
“Someone’s getting their ass handed to them,” Critter snarls. “Fallin’ asleep on the job is what gets ya kicked out of the convoy.”
“No need for discipline of that sort,” a man says as he looks around Gunga’s bulk. “I’m naturally stealthy. Been practicing it since before the dead rose.”
The man is in his mid-sixties, short, skinny and has only a few wisps of white hair floating about his bald skull. His skin is weathered, like he’s spent the past few years outside, which is very possible. His clothes are patched and worn, but surprisingly clean.
“May I come in, gentlemen and ladies?” he asks, his tone that of a kindly professor. Which immediately puts me on edge. “I believe I can help with your situation.”
“Sir, I don’t know who the fuck you are, but you...” Critter starts.
“Mr. Fitzpatrick, I can assure you I am an ally here,” the man says. “One that will prove quite valuable. You are all leaving for Kansas City in two days, yes?” He waits for a response, but gets none. “Yes, well, no need to confirm. I know I’m correct.”
There’s a strange growling, low and menacing, from the table and I glance around.
Elsbeth.
“You will be crossing several hundred miles, which will be dangerous in of itself, all without knowing what awaits you,” he continues. “You are going to a settlement that you think will take you in. Let me be very frank, my friends, they will not.”
“Who the fuck are you?” Stuart asks. “And how the hell do you know what Kansas City will do or not do?”
“First, let me address the latter,” the man says. “Kansas City, or the Combine, as it was known, does not exist any longer. It has been wiped out, to use a phrase. All that is left is charred earth and the ghosts of thousands. You’ll want to adjust your plans and head for Boulder, Colorado, and the Stronghold.”
“How do you know this?” I ask.
“That’s of no consequence,” the man says, waving me off. “What is of consequence is no matter where you want to go, whether it’s the Stronghold, the Temple, the Garden, Circuit City, or anywhere else, you will not be allowed in without an invitation.” His smile turns and chills run up and down my spine. “Or without an introduction.”
“Let me guess,” Critter says, “you can get us an invitation to the Stronghold?”
Elsbeth stands up and before we know it, she has her blades out. I didn’t even notice she brought them with her.
“Not him,” she snarls.
“Oh, my, Ms. Thornberg, I didn’t see you there,” the man says, obviously full of shit. “How delightful to be in your presence again. Are your sisters here?”
“El,” I say, standing up and putting my hand carefully –very carefully- on her shoulder. “What’s up? You know this guy?”
“I know him,” she says, her eyes turning to mine. “He’s the Devil.”
“Well, that’s a bit of hyperbole, I believe,” the man chuckles. “I’m just as human as any of you fine folks, let me assure you of that.”
Everyone else gets to their feet, their eyes going from Elsbeth to the short, old man.
“I think you should cut the crap, mister,” Stuart says, “and tell us who you are before we let our friend do to you what her body language is telling me is going to be something very nasty and very violent.”
“Of course, of course,” the man says, taking a small bow. “My name is Kramer.” He stands straight and locks eyes with Elsbeth. “Doctor Stanley Martin Kramer. At your service.”
Elsbeth leaps at the man and it takes every able-bodied person in the saloon to take her down and keep her from chopping the guy up. It also takes all of them to keep from getting chopped themselves.
Not being of the able-bodied ilk, I walk up to the little man and bend down, getting right in his face.
“Who the fuck are you, man?” I ask.
But he doesn’t answer. Instead, he smiles at me and begins to hum some nursery rhyme, which sends Elsbeth into an even bigger frenzy.
&
nbsp; I take a step back, seriously creeped out, and listen to his humming. Is that...Wheels On The Bus?
What. The. Fuck?
About The Author
A Bram Stoker Award nominated-novelist, short story writer, independent screenwriter, podcaster, and inventor of the Drabble Novel, Jake is the author of over sixty-five published novels including the bestselling Z-Burbia zombie apocalypse series, the bestselling Salvage Merc One military scifi series, the bestselling Roak: Galactic Bounty Hunter space crime series, the fan favorite hit Team Grendel/Mega thriller series, and his original post-apocalyptic mech/zombie mash-up, the Apex Trilogy. His other novels include the YA zombie novel, Little Dead Man, the Bram Stoker Award nominated YA horror novel, Intentional Haunting, the middle grade scifi/horror series, ScareScapes, and the historical fiction/space opera mash-up series, Reign of Four, for Permuted Press, as well as Stone Cold Bastards and the Black Box Inc. series for Bell Bridge Books.
Born and raised in the Pacific Northwest, Jake currently lives in Asheville, NC with his wife, two cats, an old dog, and occasionally his college-aged kids. He enjoys the eclectic, outdoorsy attitude of the area and the good ol’ Southern hospitality. But, he really, really wishes the tourists would go away.
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Z-Burbia 4: Cannibal Road
Chapter One
They call me Long Pork.
I wish they wouldn’t since my name is Jason Stanford and I really prefer to be called Jace. But, hey, you can’t pick your shitty nicknames, can ya?
Do you know why my nickname is shitty? To answer that, let me ask another question.
Do you know what long pork is? Human meat, man. Yep. My nickname is a cannibal entree.
Awesome.
You know what else is awesome? The fact that a few dozen fucking cannies are chasing my family and me right now as they scream, “LOOOOOOOOONNNNGGGGGG POOOOORRRRRRRRRK!”
Uber awesome.
Now, let me expand on that uber awesome uber more and explain the whole uber situation:
We are escaping the hellish nightmare of a cannibal compound in an old, open top, Ford Bronco. Like one of the big ones. All roll cage and loud muffler and shit.
In the back of the Bronco are my wife, Stella, and fourteen year old daughter, Greta. Notice I said “back” and not “backseat”? Yeah, there’s no backseat. The cannies ripped it out so they can stand in the back of the Bronco and whoop and holler as they chase down their prey. How very post-apocalyptically clichéd. They also need the room for the bodies once they catch their prey. Gross, but efficient.
We are lucky even to be in this Bronco. It’s not like we had a complicated plan to get away. All I can say is there were pink bracelets involved. It all sort of happened at once and then there we were on the fucking road again, running for our lives. Again.
I’m not complaining, mind you. I’m very happy to have this Bronco, because now we can get the holy fuck away from the crazy cannies and keep our skin intact. Seriously. We want our skin to stay on our bodies. Unfortunately, as I was told only moments before escaping, that wasn’t part of the canny master plan. Their boss was going to have his crew full on exfoliate me down to the bone. I’m sure they were going to do the same to my family. Why wouldn’t they? Pretty sure cannies are equal opportunity skinners.
Okay, so you know who is in the back (recap: Stella and Greta). Up front is where I’m sitting with my seventeen year old son, Charlie. I’m driving and he’s shifting. Why? Because Charlie’s still pretty messed up from getting a hunk of helicopter to the chest and doesn’t have the strength to drive the way we need to. Plus, he took a hard knock to the head only a day before by a canny with a steel rod. Oh, and I have no right arm and can’t shift. So there’s that.
I’m driving, as in steering and controlling the gas pedal, brake, and clutch. Charlie moves the stick when I tell him to. It is far from an ideal situation, but you make do when you have two pickup trucks filled with cannies on your ass.
“Jace!” Stella screams. “We can’t outrun them! Look at the gas gauge!”
I glance down, just after swerving around the burnt out husk of an old VW beetle, and see the gas tank needle aiming towards empty. Not that it’s actually “gasoline” in the Bronco. Probably diesel since that’s easier to make and it keeps longer. We’ve found out the hard way what old, bad gasoline does to an engine. Biodiesel is the fuel of the future, folks! Buy stock!
“Then I’ll have to outdrive them!” I yell back at Stella as she and Greta hang on for their lives. “Downshift to second!”
I hit the clutch and let off the gas as Charlie shifts the stick into second. It gives me the control and grab I need to take a hard left and get us off the main road from Canny Town. Not that it’s actually called Canny Town, I just came up with the name. Making up stupid names is a good way to pass the time and keep from pissing myself.
So, hard left turn and we are off the main road and zipping through a side street that used to be some residential neighborhood. I actually have no idea where we are, other than between Knoxville and Nashville, Tennessee, so I can’t say much about the residential neighborhood other than if they have an HOA then somebody needs to hand out citations for the lack of lawn maintenance. Nothing but weeds, man! That wouldn’t fly in Whispering Pines, I can tell you that.
Ah, yes, good ol’ Whispering Pines.
That was the subdivision we lived in when the zombie apocalypse hit. Turned out not to be such a bad place to hole up in when a few thousand zombies come looking for a snack.
With the other residents of Whispering Pines (by other residents, I mean those that lived past the first couple weeks of zombie hell), we fortified the whole subdivision with razor wire and trenches. We even built a huge gate across the front to keep the Zs out...as well as other less than savory elements that wanted to take our shit and kill our families during the apocalypse.
The Homeowners’ Association (HOA) was run by Brenda Kelly before it all went to ten kinds of hell. Long story short: bad guys kept showing up and our little slice of Americana turned into a scorched nightmare and then a radioactive wasteland. And Brenda Kelly died...but she was an evil bitch and kinda deserved it. Okay, that’s not 100% accurate- she totally deserved to die, no kinda about it.
That little slice of Americana I mentioned was called Asheville, North Carolina. Tucked away in the Blue Ridge Mountains, Asheville was known for being a vacation destination pre-Z. Post-Z? Not so much. Unless you were an egomaniacal madman or zombie herd. They were totally about hitting Asheville for the weekend to kill all the living folk. Fucking tourists.
We tried to rebuild, but outside elements weren’t too keen on that idea and kept getting all, “We have big guns and helicopters! Bang bang! Pew pew! KABOOM!” and shit. The last straw was when a dirty bomb went off -that means a shit ton of explosives wrapped around spent uranium- and tainted the entire area.
We had to hightail it out of there right quick.
Who is we?
Well, after Knoxville, I’m not so sure anymore.
I’ve mentioned Stella and the kids, but there were also a bunch of other survivors.
James “Don’t Call me Jimmy” Stuart was with us. Retired Gunnery Sergeant in the Marines, Stuart is (was?) my best friend and has saved my ass more times than I’d like to say. He’ll be happy to say them, if you ask. He likes talking about my fuck ups. Stuart was head of our defenses at Whispering Pines, but now (maybe?) he’s just head of ass kicking.
Melissa Billings was in charge of our supply scavengers. Her crew would venture outside the safety of Whispering Pines (ha!) and get us what we needed. Or at least try to.
Her brothers -B
uzz, Gunga, Toad, Pup, Porky and Scoot- were with us as well when we left Asheville. They made it through Knoxville, but then I lost track of them after the canny ambush. Except for Scoot. I know what happened to Scoot...
There was also Medical Sergeant Alex “Reaper” Stillwater and Weapons Sergeant Sammy “John” Baptiste from the Special Forces Team ODA Cobra. At one point, there were more of them, but like with most folks that end up hanging around me for any period of time, they bit it. At least we have Reaper and John with us. Or did. No clue where those two went. I lost track when we hit the first wave of ambushy fun.
Lourdes Torres. She is in charge of the PCs (private military contractors) that came down to take over our fair city of Asheville with the impostor POTUS Mondello. Mondello didn’t turn out to be the sanest of leaders and ended up kinda dead, which is how I lost my right arm. Long, painful story. Anyhoo, Lourdes signed on to help us out, and lost a shit ton of her people doing it, but none of that matters since I don’t know where she is or where her people are.
Kinda wish I did since they have all the guns. More awesome.
Who am I leaving out?
Dr. Laura McCormick. Used to be a proctologist pre-Z, but (see what I did there?) specialties are irrelevant in the zombie apocalypse.
Critter. Good, old Critter. He’s Melissa’s and the Fitzpatrick boys’ uncle. Brother to their late father, Hollis “Big Daddy” Fitzpatrick. While he’s a good guy, let’s just say that Critter’s moral and ethical lines are blurred a little more than most of ours. But the guy has had my back a few times, so I’ll always count him in the ally column.
There is a ton more people that I have no clue as to their whereabouts, but the one I’m thinking of the most is Elsbeth.
Carly Michelle Thornberg in a previous life -one that ended up fucked all to hell even pre-Z- Elsbeth became Elsbeth when she was taken captive by Pa. Not sure what that sick, perverted cannibal’s real name was, but Elsbeth called him Pa. Those two took me hostage, and were going to eat me, when Stuart saved my ass. Elsbeth bailed and I didn’t see her again until I got separated from Stuart and she saved my ass as well.