Z-Burbia 3: Estate Of The Dead

by Bible, Jake

  I’m sure he thinks he’s doing me a favor by holding my half-arm instead of restricting my mobility on my other arm. Yeah, uh, I’ll thank him later.

  We’ve obviously been spotted by the Zs since I can hear the tone of their grunts and groans changing.

  Instead of, “Hey, Bob, beautiful day out, eh?” groans it’s more like “Hey, Bob, I see a buffet with legs over there. Wanna join me?” groans.

  Yes, I speak Z. Fuck off.

  It doesn’t really matter, though, because Cassie led us to a small cut in the chain link fence that borders the railroad tracks. We slip through and book it across the baked dirt and old gravel of what used to be the Wedge Brewery’s parking lot. Skirting the brewery, which has sadly been empty of beer since about two months post-Z (yes, I checked), we find the narrow concrete steps at the far end of the building.

  Which are very much occupied by a group of Zs at the top.

  Cassie holds out her hand and we freeze. They haven’t seen us, at least not yet. It’ll just be a matter of minutes. But Cassie nods to Dehlia and she silently scurries off back the way we came. None of us move. We all control our breathing, waiting for whatever’s going to happen to happen.

  Something grabs the Zs’ attention and they start to shuffle off, leaving the steps clear. Cassie leads us up to Roberts St. We hurry across and into the shadows of what once was a bustling glass studio, but is now just a busted pile of glass. And brick and wood and other crap. Down the street, we see the Zs shambling after Dehlia as she casually jogs, leading them away. The sun is getting higher already and I can tell it’s going to be a hot one. Which isn’t so fun when dealing with the undead. The stench is rising with the temperature.

  We pause for only a minute before we’re hustling down Roberts St and onto Haywood Rd. There’s a fun little roundabout that fills the intersection, but it stopped being fun once the circle got choked with cars trying to flee the city. Over the years, we’ve done some selective clearing of roadways, but never touched this one. It’s easy to get cars into a roundabout, but not so easy to get them out.

  Especially when they still have Zs inside them.

  One has a family of four that have pretty much mummified. Although there’s a slight movement coming from the Z driving. I’m sure he’s saying, “Look kids, Big Ben, Parlimment!” over and over in his undead head. I know I would be if I was him. How could you not have that quote going through your head when you get trapped in a roundabout in your car during the apocalypse?

  I don’t know what Elsbeth is talking about, I’m still funny. To me. In my head.

  Stuart grunts and rips me back to Earth. We get past the cars and are trucking it up Haywood Rd when Dehlia comes sprinting from Clingman Ave. She must have circled around and gotten ahead of us once she lost the Zs.

  Yet, her body language is telling me there may have been a hitch in that plan.

  “Go,” Cassie hisses. “Go go go!”

  We don’t ask why, just start sprinting up the hill towards downtown. As we pass Clingman Ave, and Dehlia joins us, I look over and see why she’s booking ass.

  That small group of Zs multiplied. Into a very, very large group of Zs. I knew it was too fucking easy so far!

  The roar of a thousand moans fills the air as they catch sight of our group.

  Feets don’t fail me now!

  Chapter Seven

  The Jeep rolls to a stop and Critter puts a finger to his lips. Dr. McCormick gives him a puzzled look, but he just smiles and shakes his head. He quietly gets out and tiptoes his way down the dirt road, crouched low. It takes her minute to figure out what he reminds her of, but then she gets it: the Grinch. Critter looks like the Grinch sneaking along to steal all the Whoville Christmas presents.

  But why is he sneaking? She’d get out and follow, but there is only a foot of road on her side before it takes a sudden drop of about 500 feet. She has a feeling Critter did that on purpose since the road is plenty wide. Wide enough in fact to drive two large trucks on side by side.

  “I ain’t asleep, Critter,” a man’s voice grumbles. “Hard to sleep when you come tearing up the road in that thing.

  Dr. McCormick jumps at the voice, searching the road and the surroundings for the source. Then she sees him, sitting against a large oak up the road. He’s dressed in camouflage gear from head to toe and blends right in with foliage at the base of the tree.

  “Shit,” Critter says, “thought I had you that time, Red.”

  “Ain’t nobody can sneak up on me,” the man says as he stands and tilts a cowboy hat back on his head. Even the cowboy hat is camo.

  The man holds out his hand and Critter shakes it vigorously. Looking past Critter, the man named Red spots Dr. McCormick and nods, tipping his hat to her.

  “Ma’am,” he says.

  “Come on,” Critter says, turns, and walks back to the Jeep. “Meet the lady doctor.”

  “Howdy,” Red says when they get to the Jeep. “Pleasure. Are you really a lady doctor or just a doctor that’s a lady?”

  This puzzles her for a second until she realizes what he’s asking. “Oh, no, I’m not a gynecologist. I’m actually, or was, a proctologist.”

  “Oh,” Red nods, “a butthole doctor. Well, medicine is medicine.”

  “Red here is my guard dog,” Critter says. “He stays out here night and day. And no matter how hard I try I never catch him sleeping.”

  The man is tall and Dr. McCormick can see that he’s muscular. Maybe mid-forties with a little bit of grey stubble showing from under his hat. But it’s the large splotch of red across his left cheek that’s his most distinguishing feature.

  “You looking at my beauty mark?” Red smiles.

  “Sorry,” Dr. McCormick says. “Occupational hazard. It’s actually called a port-wine…”

  “Nevus flammeus,” Red interrupts. “But, yeah, it’s also called a port-wine stain. I’m well aware.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you,” Dr. McCormick apologizes.

  “None taken,” Red smiles. “I just like to show off.”

  “Red has a PhD,” Critter grins, “in assholery.”

  “Comparative literature,” Red nods.

  “Oh, wow,” Dr, McCormick says, surprised. “I didn’t know UNCA offered that.”

  “I didn’t either,” Red says, “that’s why I got mine at Cornell.”

  “Oh,” she says, her face turning almost as red as the mark on Red’s cheek.

  “See,” Critter nods, “Assholery.”

  “What’s with the ride?” Red asks. “Thought you were keeping that in town.”

  “Circumstances done changed,” Critter says and fills Red in on the details.

  “Holy wow,” Red says, shaking his head. “Big Daddy? Dead? That’s just gonna be more bad news for your nephew.”

  “My nephew?” Critter asks. “Which one?”

  “Gunga,” Red replies. “Got here last night with a handful of folks from the Farm. Said the place had been overrun. I didn’t believe it at first so I sent a couple guys to check it out. Now I know why they haven’t come back.”

  “Who’d you send?”

  “Malcolm and Whitey.”

  “Those two? They’d get themselves killed picking blueberries.”

  “Which is why I sent them and not any of the good ones,” Red says. “We can spare those morons.”

  “That’s horrible,” Dr. McCormick says. “Two men have probably lost their lives and you talk about them as if they were just chickens waiting to be slaughtered.”

  Critter and Red look at her, look at each other then look back at her.

  “So?” they say together.

  “Sick,” she says and leans into her seat. “Are we sitting here all day or what?”

  “I like her,” Red says, “and she’s right. What’s up, Critter? You could have just driven right past.”

  “I need you to take the lady doctor into the holler proper,” Critter says and hooks a thumb up over his shoulder. “I’m gonna hoo
f it and pick up my truck.”

  “Oh,” Red nods, “not feeling it today, Crit.”

  “I don’t care,” Critter says. “I need you to do this. Take her in, fetch her some food and let her get cleaned up, then sit tight until I get there.”

  “Nope,” Red says, “not today.”

  Critter sighs and rubs his face. “Listen…”

  “Nope.”

  “Dammit, Red!” Critter yells. “Ain’t no time for your craziness! I give you a lot of leeway ‘round here, but right now, right this very minute, I am all out of leeway!”

  Red leans his hand against the hood of the Jeep, careful to keep his body clear of the blades. He drums his fingers over and over and over.

  “Why won’t he take me?” Dr. McCormick asks. “Why won’t you take me?”

  “Not a matter of won’t, ma’am,” Red says. “It’s a matter of can’t.”

  “Red don’t go near others,” Critter says. “At least not if there are more than three people within…what is it?”

  “Exactly seventeen square feet,” Red says.

  “Right,” Critter grunts. “That. It’s why he’s out here all the time.”

  “I’m not so good around people,” Red states.

  “PTSD?” Dr. McCormick asks.

  “Post-traumatic stress?” Red laughs. “Nah, not that. I was like this before Z-Day. Been this way my whole life. Severe agoraphobia. I rank a 25 on the PDSS.”

  “Twenty-five on the panic disorder severity scale?” Dr. McCormick asks. “I’m surprised you’re out here in the open.”

  “Just groups of people,” Red says. “Not open spaces. I don’t have a problem with that.” He smiles and looks at Critter. “Funny thing is Zs don’t count. I can be around hundreds and they don’t freak me out.”

  “The man is cool as a cucumber,” Critter says. “While others be pissin’ in their britches, Red here is calm and collected.”

  “I get calmer the more dangerous it gets,” Red says. “Which may sound good, but nearly backfired once.”

  “I found him ready to go in for a group hug,” Critter says. “Few weeks after Z-Day. Thought the guy had lost his marbles. Turns out he never had any.”

  “Born this way,” Red smiles. “Homeschooled.”

  “How’d you get your PhD?” Dr. McCormick asks.

  “Creatively,” Red says. “Americans with Disabilities Act. It took some work, but I made it. Needless to say I skipped commencement.”

  “Well, suck it up, nutty,” Critter says, “there’s no time to waste.”

  “Critter, I can’t,” Red says. “I’m sorry. It’s so bad today that I’m a little queasy just talking to the new person.”

  “What’s it going to take?” Critter asks.

  “I could get the truck,” Red suggests.

  Critter narrows his eyes and studies Red for a minute.

  “You better not be fakin’ just so you can drive my baby,” Critter says. “I’ll be pissed like you ain’t never seen me pissed before, boy.”

  “I don’t fake, Critter. You know that.”

  Critter takes a deep breath. “Fine! You know where the keys are?”

  Red nods.

  “Then go ahead,” Critter says. “I’ll send someone up here to watch the road. Send them back when you have it. We’ll be ready.”

  “That’ll work,” Red smiles and nods again at Dr. McCormick. “Ma’am. I’ll see you soon. Been a pleasure.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Dr. McCormick responds, not sure at all.

  Red takes off back down the dirt road and Critter and the doctor watch him until he’s lost around a turn. Then Critter gets back in the Jeep and starts it up.

  “He was interesting,” Dr. McCormick says as they continue along the road.

  “He is at that,” Critter says. “Mean chess player.”

  “Oh, really? I love chess. Maybe we can play…”

  “No, I said he’s a mean chess player,” Critter says. “Ain’t no fun playin’ with the guy. He just snaps at you the whole time and makes ya feel like shit.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yep,” Critter says. “But ain’t no one done snuck past him, so I let the guy stay.”

  “You’re a strange man, Critter Fitzpatrick,” Dr. McCormick says.

  “And that’s how I like it,” he laughs.

  They drive about a half mile before the road dips and turns then opens onto a small valley tucked between two sheer cliffs.

  “Oh, wow,” Dr. McCormick whispers. “Critter, it’s gorgeous.”

  “Ain’t it?”

  The valley is about the size of three football fields laid end to end and about as wide as one. A bubbling creek runs straight down the middle, coming from a trickle of a waterfall at the far end of the valley. Tall, green grass blows in the slight breeze that rolls down off the cliffs. Along those cliffs, on either side and almost halfway up, are platforms with buildings made from various materials. Walkways of wood and steel connect the buildings, which as they drive closer, look like trailers and modular houses.

  “How did you get them up there?” Dr. McCormick asks.

  “Crane,” Critter replies, but doesn’t elaborate.

  They turn to the left and pull up next to a long row of vehicles.

  “End of the line, doc,” Critter says. “Let’s go get us some food and a shower. Not together mind you, I ain’t that kind of guy.” Critter chuckles. “You can rest up for an hour or so. It’ll take Red a bit to get the truck.”

  “What’s so important about this truck?” she asks as she gets out and stretches.

  Critter just smiles.

  ***

  “I thought we were going to gunk up before taking on the Zs!” I yell as we sprint up Haywood Rd towards Hilliard Ave. “Wasn’t that the plan?”

  “Still is!” Cassie yells back from the front of the group. “Just going to do it on the fly!”

  On the fly? What the hell does that mean?

  Oh, I see…

  We get to Hilliard Ave and turn right, which points us to the heart of Asheville. But we aren’t the only ones thinking about taking a leisurely stroll through downtown. A good few hundred Zs have decided to take in the sights. The herd covers the entire street, from sidewalk to sidewalk, and up over into the parking lots and yards of the businesses and former residences.

  Cassie and the sisters don’t even hesitate, they just wade in, blades out, and start hacking. They’ve cut a fifteen foot swath of destruction before the rest of us even get to the edge of the herd.

  “Here’s your gunk,” Elsbeth says as she reaches down and scoops out a handful of putrid guts from a fallen Z. She slaps it onto my head and starts mushing it around. “Close your eyes, stupid.”

  Yeah, I didn’t really need to be told that, but I nod anyway and close my eyes. The smell is beyond disgusting. But, being a modern man post-Z, I take it and deal. She splats more onto my chest and arms. I wince and almost cry out when she smacks a gob of guts onto my shoulder.

  “There,” she says as she grabs my right arm (the upper part of course) and pulls me down the street right into the throng of undead. I open my eyes and catch her watching me. “You’re hurt worse than you said.”

  She looks at the half-arm she’s holding and gives it a tug.

  FUCKING BITCH!

  I don’t say that outloud, but it’s obvious it shows on my face. I can feel pain sweat start to slicken the already slick Z guts on my forehead. The shit’s gonna drip in my eyes soon. Fun!

  Pausing only to give me that knowing cannibal savant look of hers, Elsbeth scoops up some Z guts for herself and smears the offal all over her body. With one hand since she won’t let go of my arm with the other. I look about and see the rest of our group gunking up, while the sisters keep cutting, chopping, and hacking through the herd. I start to worry they’ll get attacked because they didn’t stop to get covered in the sweet, sweet innards of our zombie overlords.

  But with the damage they are doing, they don’t need to
stop. I can see black blood and flesh dripping off their ever-moving bodies. They are like a fucking Cuisinart made of arms and legs and lady parts. And steel. Plenty of steel. But someone forgot to put the lid on that food processor and shit is spraying everywhere.

  Man, using a food prep metaphor is making me fucking hungry. Even with the stench I’m covered in. When was the last time I fucking ate?

  “OW!” I yell as Elsbeth gives my arm an extra squeeze.

  “Stop dreaming,” she says and finally lets go, pushing me forward. “Act dead.”

  The Zs are attracted to the movement of the sisters ahead, but confused by their smell. Some look towards me, eager to investigate the new kid in school, but none take more than a casual step in my direction before their nostrils inform them I’m one of the gang.

  I do my best Z impression and stagger and stumble my way along Hilliard. Loud groans from behind make me look over my shoulder (the one not fucking killing me!) and I see the River Arts herd coming up behind us. More fun!

  But I keep it calm; keep it cool. I’m a cucumber on the wind!

  The problem with pretending to be a Z is that you can’t show pain. You can’t, say, get your shoulder that is festering with Z death slammed into over and over by a fuck ton of uncaring, unfeeling, and, if I do say so, rude Zs then be all like “Ow, knock it off!” Can’t do that. What you can do is hiss and groan right along with them. Which, and this may sound strange, is actually quite liberating. It’s a strange type of stress release even when not trying to hide the fact you and agony are shaking hands.

  Okay, maybe shaking hands isn’t the best metaphor for me to use.

  My groans need a little work, but my hisses are top notch. The only problem is I seem to be getting the Zs riled up around me. They aren’t quite as docile as they should be. Every time air escapes between my teeth because I’m about to scream, a Z cocks its head in my direction. I don’t know if it senses my life giving livingness or if it’s just a fan of my sibilant techniques.

  I can see the sisters getting farther and farther away, shoving and fighting through the herd, making it easier for the rest of us to keep going with a bit more elbow room. Elsbeth pushes past me and I cringe, thinking I don’t have anyone at my back. But with a casual stutter-step and a twist of my neck, I can see that guy there. You know the one with the body armor and the rifle? Fuck…uh. Shit, you know, what’s his name? That guy.