Z-Burbia 2: Parkway To Hell

by Bible, Jake

  “No Jace?”

  “You’re gonna have to really redeem yourself to get to that name,” Leeds says. “Until then, it’s Long Pork.”

  “Great,” I say, “thanks.”

  We both stare at the pillars of smoke off in the east.

  “Not good,” Leeds says. “Ready for a trip?”

  “A trip? What?” I ask. “Shouldn’t we get back to Whispering Pines and meet up with the others?”

  “That’ll take time we may not have,” Leeds says. “We need to reconnoiter the explosions and gather intel on the situation. We have to know what was damaged and how bad it is. If there’s a blaze out of control, then we’ll hustle back to Whispering Pines and warn the others.”

  “Just the two of us? Not liking the sound of that.”

  “I know you can handle yourself,” Leeds says, “and I’m no slouch in the field. We’ll move fast and stay quiet. We should get there by this afternoon at the latest.”

  “What about the others? They’ll be looking for us?”

  Leeds pulls his knife and kneels down, making what look like random marks on the concrete. “John’ll know what to do when he sees this. To anyone else, it’ll just be more marks in the ground.”

  “We’ll be out of food and water by the time we get there,” I say, trying to find any excuse not to go. I really hate field trips into the Z infested unknown.

  “Listen, if you want to stay here or go back to Whispering Pines, then do it,” Leeds says as he starts walking. “But I’m going that way. Do your thing or join me, Long Pork. Your decision. You’re not one of my men, so I can’t force you, or order you to come.”

  I hurry to catch up. “No, of course not. You’ll just shame me into it.”

  “Your shame is your problem, not mine,” Leeds smiles. “But glad you’re coming. It’ll give us a chance to talk.”

  “We had all night to talk,” I say.

  “Yes, but I wanted to pound your face in last night,” Leeds says. “The fresh air has cleared my head. Now we can talk.”

  “It’s a wonder what getting away from the stench of rot will do for one’s disposition.”

  We walk for a while without talking, though. Our eyes and ears are busy searching for approaching Zs, as we wind our way along Riverside Dr and the French Broad River, heading towards what was called the River Arts District pre-Z. Old industrial buildings that had been refurbished and turned into art studios, cafes, and lofts. We could cut up through Asheville and probably get to the smoke faster, but that would mean cutting through downtown. Between the Zs and the cannies, not the best idea. So we stick to Riverside.

  We’re just past an old BBQ restaurant called 12 Bones when we see our first group of Zs. I’m actually surprised we didn’t come across more sooner. Maybe Leeds was right and the explosions drew them towards the east, which is the direction we are headed, so we’ll catch up eventually. Joy.

  The Zs are hunkered down, feeding, and don’t even notice us come up on them. By the time they do, they only get a few hisses out before Leeds and I take them down. Only four, so not too hard.

  We look at the remains of the unlucky victim they were snacking on.

  “Canny?” Leeds asks.

  “Not sure,” I say, nudging the corpses with the toe of my boot.

  It’s a woman, we can see that, and she’s dressed in nasty looking rags, but something sticks out that troubles me. Her boots. Not nasty like her clothes, but almost new, steel-toed work boots.

  Leeds notices them too and crouches down, getting a closer look. He lifts up her foot and checks the sole, then lets it fall back to the ground.

  “Not a canny,” I say.

  “No,” Leeds says.

  Her torso is pretty much ripped apart and her head is attached by a tendon or two and nothing more. Leeds doesn’t let this stop him as he pushes up her sleeves to examine her arms. He sighs and gets to his feet.

  “TF,” he says. “She has the bar code tattooed on the inside of her arm.”

  “TF? What the fuck is TF?”

  “Tersch-Foster,” he answers, “Private military contractors.”

  “Mercenaries?” I ask.

  “No, no, they are legit,” Leeds says. “Well, that’s debatable in some circles. They tackled the civilian jobs we couldn’t tackle.”

  “So black ops for hire?”

  “Close enough,” Leeds says, looking around.

  “You think she’s on her own?” I ask, having my own look. Every rustle of a bush, every creak of a tree branch has me twitching. I thought looking out for Zs was stressful, not even close to looking out for highly trained, very deadly people. People are the worst, man.

  “She’s on a mission, that’s for sure,” Leeds says. “Her boots are off market Danners. You have to have a behind the scenes contract to get those. And they are pretty new.”

  “Are you saying a company is still making military boots?” I laugh.

  “No, don’t be dense,” Leeds says. “I’m saying she had access to a fresh supply. I doubt she’s just carrying them around with her.”

  “So ratty clothes to blend in, look like a survivor, but new boots to keep her alive? And somewhere is a supply of boots? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Oh, I’m sure there’s a supply of more than just boots,” Leeds says. He walks a few feet away and kneels down, coming up with a small, black piece of plastic. He sighs deeply as he puts it in his ear. The normal frown on his face turns to a seriously troubled frown. He pulls out the plastic and tosses it towards the river. “Time to jog.”

  “What? Why?”

  “That com earpiece was active,” he replies as he starts jogging down the road. I catch up to him quickly, but don’t know exactly how long I’ll be able to keep the pace.

  “Active? Earpiece? What the fuck, Captain?”

  “Whoever was on the other end was trying to get her to answer,” Leeds says. “That was state of the art. They’ll track it to her location, which means they’ll track it to us if we don’t put some pavement between her body and our bodies.”

  “Fucking great,” I say. “Just what we need: tourists.”

  “Maybe these are the people Stuart and John were going to look in on,” Leeds says. “The ones at the Grove Park?”

  “Could be,” I say. “I never saw their boots as we were fleeing Vance that day. Too busy shouting and pissing my pants.”

  “At least you can admit it,” Leeds smiles. He hasn’t even broken a sweat yet. While I’m starting to cramp up in my side. “You gonna make it, Long Pork?”

  “Probably not,” I huff, “but at least I’ll die miserable.”

  “Good man.”

  I think I make it a mile before I want to collapse. I’d toss my pack, since the weight of it is not helping, but it holds the last of my water and the little food I have. Plus some needed med supplies. Not that I expect to live much longer if we keep up this pace. I really should be in better shape, and I was at one point, but I took quite a beating when I fought Vance a couple months ago. I’m still not 100%. But I don’t say a word, I just keep pushing, trying to keep pace with Leeds. Never let ‘em see ya sweat, right? Isn’t that how the old commercial went? Or was it never let them see you cry like a baby because your guts are on fire and you’re going to puke any second? Tomayto, tomahto.

  “Here,” Leeds says, and turns to a stand of trees off to our left. I follow and barely manage to keep my feet under me. While he looks like he could do this all day. Fucker.

  We get through the trees and head to one of the dozens of concrete buildings covering the area. Old railroad buildings. Leeds stops and holds up his hand. I stop and gulp air. He looks way more professional than I do, but I haven’t puked yet, so points for me.

  “In there,” he says, pointing to one of the buildings.

  He jogs (more jogging!) over to the building and forces the door open, waving me inside. We are in quickly and he has the door closed when I hear it: a vehicle.

  “You hear
that?” I ask.

  “Shhhh,” he warns.

  It sounds like a truck and I hear the crunch of gravel as it drives past. It’s not out on the road, but driving next to the buildings. Did it see us? Does it know where we’re hiding? Fuck. Now instead of feeling like I’m gonna puke, I feel like I’m gonna shit my pants. My guts are messed up.

  We wait until the sound of the truck is long gone. It’s probably twenty minutes before Leeds opens the door and peers outside.

  “Clear,” he says. I follow him outside and we stick close to the buildings as we continue our course.

  “Can we just walk?” I ask. He gives me a look. “What? I’m fucking dying, man.”

  “We just took a break we couldn’t afford to,” Leeds says. “We need to make up that time.”

  “How much time will we lose if you have to fucking carry me?” I ask. I’m serious.

  He shakes his head. “Fast walk,” he says, “like really fast. Can you handle that?”

  “I’m all for a brisk hike,” I reply. “Just no more jogging. I beg of you, Captain. Please, sir, no more.”

  “Stop being a melodramatic pussy,” he says, but smiles in spite of himself.

  Brisk hike, my ass. He pretty much pushes us back to a slow jog. If my arms have to bend and pump to keep going, then we are neither walking nor hiking, we’re fucking jogging. Fucker.

  Another mile and we’re facing the overpass that lets Riverside cross over the rows of railroad tracks that make up the main depot area in Asheville. We cross the tracks and head under the overpass, our eyes on the shadows, looking for Zs and people. Have I mentioned how much people have made the apocalypse suck? I can handle Zs, they’re easy. You see a Z and you know what it wants; you know where you stand. People? Who fucking knows?

  We follow the tracks until we get to Biltmore Ave. If we turn left we can make our way into downtown; turn right, and it becomes Hendersonville Rd and the former sprawl of South Asheville. Or what’s left of it. But ahead is Swannanoa River Rd. This will take us further east and towards the smoke.

  We stand in the shadows of an old gas station and listen. Neither of us wants to cross the street without knowing for sure we’re alone. It’s at least thirty yards of open space before we can get to cover. Swannanoa River Rd has plenty of trees and we can even duck down into the ravine the small river flows through, but until we get there, we are sitting ducks.

  I look over my shoulder, back towards the tracks and can see the entrance to the Biltmore Estate just past them. Was that movement? I could swear I saw something. I tap Leeds’s shoulder and he follows my line of sight, raising his eyebrows. I shrug. We watch for a few minutes, but see nothing. I shake my head in apology and he nods.

  When Z-Day hit, the Biltmore locked its gates and as far as I know, no one has gone onto the estate to check it out. Even Critter just shakes his head when anyone brings it up, and he and his people have “scavenged” every inch of the area. I don’t fault him for staying away, really. It was a Sunday when Z-Day hit. That’s a pretty busy day for the estate. My guess? There were at least a few thousand tourists on the property when it all went to hell.

  They can keep those gates closed, thank you.

  Leeds takes off first and runs in a crouch across the street. He gets to the side of an old Wendy’s restaurant and flattens himself against the wall. We wait. After a few minutes, he waves me over. I run/crouch the same way, but highly doubt I look as good doing it. I get to him and my heart is pounding a mile a minute. We both wait and listen.

  Nothing.

  “Let’s go,” he says and we walk around the Wendy’s and onto Swannanoa River Rd.

  And run right into a small horde of Zs. And I’m actually surprised. I’m so focused on watching out for paramilitary types, that I almost forget that I live in the zombie apocalypse. Hello! Flesh eating undead walking about! Duh!

  “I count fifteen,” Leeds says, not bothering to keep quiet since the Zs spotted us instantly. “You go right, I’ll go left. Take down what you can and I’ll finish up the rest.”

  Basically, he’s telling me to flail like I do and he’ll rescue my ass when I get outnumbered and surrounded. Confidence boost!

  But fuck it, I have The Bitch and I know how to use her. Leeds can keep his condescension and cram it up his-

  “Jace!” Leeds yells as five come at me. “Batter up!”

  Damn skippy.

  I raise The Bitch and take my shot. The closest Z gets a caved in skull for her effort. Putrid brains splatter all over the Zs next to her and they hiss and snarl at me.

  “What? You got a problem, mother fuckers?” I yell, taking down Z number two with an upswing to its head, ripping the entire front of its skull off. I’m a little stunned as I watch its brain slide right out the front and splat on the pavement.

  However, the Zs aren’t stunned. Takes a lot to impress a Z, let me tell you. Three Zs converge on me and I swing out, knocking one back, but letting the other two in. A hard kick to the knee drops one and an elbow to the temple drops the other. They aren’t finished, by any stretch of the imagination, but they’re delayed enough so I can crush the forehead of the first one.

  Its head makes a loud pop and it crumples. I jump over the corpse and turn, putting my momentum into my swing. The timing is perfect and I watch the kneecapped Z’s head spin away, tumbling through the air like a bloody volleyball. Wilson, come back!

  The last Z grabs me by the legs and I go down hard. My head slams into the asphalt and I see stars a poppin’ before my eyes. The thing crawls up me, its fingers trying to push through the denim of my jeans to get at my tasty, tasty legs. I go to smash it, but The Bitch is out of my grasp and out of my reach. I stretch for it, but it’s no use.

  “Fuck you!” I yell as I pound my fist into the top of the Zs skull, over and over.

  I hear the crunching of bones and when the pain explodes in my hand, I realize it’s not just the Z’s skull that’s breaking. Fuck. This sucks. You know, just once, I’d like to get through a fight without getting injured. Is that too much to ask?

  The Z flies off me as Leeds kicks it in the ribs, sending it rolling across the pavement. He raises his sharpened baton and plunges it into the Z’s eye socket, stilling the abomination instantly. He pulls it out, flicks off the goo, then collapses it and offers me a hand. I start to reach with my right one, but it’s on fire.

  “What happened?” Leeds asks.

  “Thought I could beat it off me,” I say then laugh. “Ha. Beat it off.”

  “Seriously?” Leeds frowns. He pulls me up by my left hand, then takes my right carefully. “Let me look. Could just be a sprain.”

  He presses the bones of my hand together and I nearly scream. Only years of living with the threat of Zs keeps me from crying out.

  “Nope, not a sprain,” he says. “Sorry.”

  Leeds opens his pack and pulls out a med kit. He finds a bandage and then looks me in the eye.

  “This is going to hurt like a mother fucker,” he warns me. “Just grit down and take it. You’ll feel better once I get it wrapped. The bones won’t shift and grind together.”

  “Good. Grinding bones is bad. Unless you’re making bread. And a giant. I guess only giants make bread by grinding bones. Why would they do that? Is bone meal a traditional- MOTHER FUCKER!”

  I fail on the quiet part that time. Jesus F-ing Christ, that shit fucking hurts. Cold sweat breaks out all over my body and I start to shiver. Leeds purses his lips.

  “Suck it up, Long Pork,” he chides. “You broke your fucking hand, that’s all. You didn’t get shot or stabbed. Keep the shock in check, will you please?”

  “Sorry,” I say. “Not trying to puss out or anything.”

  “There. Done,” he says.

  He walks over and grabs The Bitch, handing it to me. I take it with my left hand and test the weight. I am hopelessly right handed, so this injury is going to suck. My batting average is gonna go way down.

  “You going to be able to
use that?” he asks, nodding towards The Bitch.

  “Let’s hope so,” I say. “Come on. We need to get to the smoke before it gets dark. I’m not feeling too secure with only one hand. I want to make sure we are locked down tight tonight.”

  “I’m sure we’ll find a place we can hole up in,” Leeds says.

  We start out, keeping to the riverside of Swannanoa River Rd. My hand throbs and I’d give anything for some ibuprofen. Or morphine. Shit, I’d take some moonshine right about now. But that would slow me down. I’m already slower than Leeds and with an injured hand, I’m really just dead weight. What’s the point of me even being here? Why the hell did I agree to come investigate this shit? What the fuck is wrong with me?

  “You want to go for a swim?” Leeds asks, just as I start to step off the road and almost fall down the embankment to the river below. “Get out of your head, Long Pork.”

  “Come on, Captain,” I say. “Can you knock it off with the Long Pork crap? I get it, I fucked up. I shouldn’t have turned anything on until I understood the system fully. My bad. Just one more fuck up to add to the Jason Stanford list of fuck ups.”

  “Self-pity doesn’t become you,” Leeds scolds. “Accept your mistake and move on. Keep dwelling in the past and you won’t see the present.”

  “Like the river to my right,” I reply.

  “Exactly.”

  “Fine. No more self-pity if you stop calling me Long Pork. I really hate that nickname.”

  “Even when Elsbeth calls you that?”

  “She can’t help it. It’s just her way. But it does suck that my kids call me that now.”

  “What about Stella?”

  “She pretends to hate it, but I caught her smiling once when the kids were really laying it on thick.”

  “It is funny,” Leeds smiles, “sorry, but it is.”

  “Bite me.”

  “No thanks. Long pork isn’t to my taste.”

  “Ha ha, you are so fucking fun--- Oh…”

  “Weapons on the ground,” the man says. “Packs too.”

  He’s muscled, tall, wide, dressed in black body armor. Did I mention the muscles? Fuck. I guess he’d have to be muscled to carry the very large rifle in his hands. Doesn’t look like an AR-15, but something more specialized.