by Bible, Jake
“Kelvin wants to give you a shot at surviving,” Oscar says. “I’d rather see you get your face eaten off right now. Guess which option you get?”
“While your scenario is so welcoming, I’m hoping for Kelvin’s,” I say. “A shot is way better than getting my face eaten off. But that’s just me. I can’t speak for everyone you toss down here.”
“Yeah, you’re getting your shot.” Oscar grins, then punches me in my bad leg.
That’s an official ow, right there. Like some serious, serious ow. In fact, the ow is best expressed with this poem: MOTHERFUCKING ASSHOLE PRICK FUCKING DICK FUCKER BITCH TURD NICKEL!”
I’m rather proud of ending with turd nickel. That’s creativity, bitches!
“Shut the fuck up,” Oscar yells as he shoves me off the steps’ landing and into the pit proper.
Needless to say, the Zs take a liking to my presence, and all come to greet me with open arms. And open mouths. Open mouths that drip gooey gunks and stuffs.
I try to scurry back from them, but between the Reptile Jesus cocktail, which is still hanging on tight, and the ow in my leg, I’m not doing so well with the scurrying.
Not that I have to.
The pit gets really fucking warm, really fucking fast, as a jet of fire roars above me and streams down on the approaching Zs. I look up, and see Oscar with a flamethrower attached to a large barrel, tucked away in the corner of the stairs’ landing. He works that hot magic back and forth, back and forth, until only a couple of Zs are left standing. Those two just kind of bump up against each other as hot bits of dead flesh drip from their bodies.
Good times.
I can see a few more Zs stumble out of the darkness, drawn by the action, noise, and amazing aroma of cooked Z, but Oscar doesn’t bother with them. He just sets the flamethrower aside, and glares down at me.
“That’s your head start, asshole,” he says, standing at least six feet above me. “Better get your gimp ass up and use it. Those new biters are gonna be all riled up by the time they get to you. And once the others stop burning, it’ll be darker than a witch’s colon in here.”
“Is that a thing?” I ask. “A witch’s colon? I haven’t heard that one before. Oh, and I doubt it’s a good idea to use a flamethrower in a coal mine. Coal burns, ya know.”
Oscar just shakes his head, glances at the moaning, shambling Zs coming my way, then slams a gate closed on the landing, pretty much blocking any chance I might have of climbing out. He looks down at me and flips me off, then turns, and is gone from my sight. I guess setting the mine on fire really isn’t much of a concern for him. Oh well.
“I’ll miss you, bologna man!” I call after him. “Don’t forget me! I won’t ever forget you!”
Okay, well I’m sure glad he’s gone. He was such a fucking bummer, right?
Then the lights go out, and all I’m left with are burning Z corpses to see by. I kinda wish Oscar was back now. I’d call for him, since I have no pride, but that would just bring more Zs. And I have plenty to deal with as it is.
Okay, Jace, time to get up off your ass, and get to work.
I get up off my ass. No, I don’t. I do try, though. Oh, how I try.
One arm, bad leg, no weapon, and hopped up on goofballs is not how you want to be when thrust into a pit where there seems to be an endless supply of hungry Zs coming out of the dark. Add the oppressive stench of the still smoldering Zs, and it just keeps getting better.
You can do this, Jace. You can so fucking do this. You’ve been in worse situations. You’ve been captured by cannies. Stuck in a dump truck with Zs crashing through the window. Chased by motorcycle crazies (oooh, how I hate motorcycle crazies!). Nearly blown up, lost an arm, again with the captured by cannies, made to run some psycho gauntlet. Oh, and I can’t forget the Whispering Pines HOA. That was probably the worst of the apocalyptic experiences. Zs, cannies, and crazies are one thing, but I draw the line at bureaucrats.
I get my one hand under me and push, which gets me to my knees. Okay, knees are good. I push again and favor my good leg, and actually get upright. If you count hunched over and gasping for breath because of the daggers of fun shooting through my bad leg. I count it. They’re almost the same thing.
I can hear more Zs coming. The fires still flickering from the Z corpses cast shadows across the infinite black of the pit’s walls behind me. It’s like shadow puppet theatre, just with things that want to eat my face. And my guts. And my legs. And my ass. Okay, they want to eat all of me. But who can blame them?
I’m one tasty Jace.
So ... the Zs.
I straighten up and clench my teeth against the pain. First thing to do is try to maintain my light. I hobble over to one of the Zs that’s been burned down to almost nothing, and wrench off a leg. With the right amount of twisting and force with my good leg, I’m able to get the blackened femur free. I snag some strips of cloth from a different Z, rub those in bubbling fat from a whole other Z right next to it, wrap the strips around the femur, and stick it into the flames of yet another Z.
Zs are our country’s greatest resource! And they’re renewable!
The Zs moan and groan, and I realize I’ve been talking out loud again. Not good when dealing with flesh-eaters attracted by sound.
First thing accomplished (Z-fat torch), now for the second thing. A weapon!
One problem: I only have one hand. Gonna be hard to carry the torch and wield a weapon. Some might say impossible. I would be one of the some that says impossible. Shit, I can’t hold a book and wipe my ass at the same time when I go to the crapper, how the fuck can I carry a torch and fight off Zs?
So I scrap the second part of my plan, and learn to be happy with the first part. At least I’ll see the Zs coming before they overwhelm me and devour my succulent, supple, oh so delicious innards.
What? It’s my story so I’m gonna sell myself. No one wants to hear about a guy that tastes like one of those savory Jell-O molds with celery and green olives in it. Yuck.
I raise my torch and limp my way to the right, hoping to flank the oncoming undead. But after a few dozen yards I realize that they don’t call this place the pit for nothing. I’m not reaching a side wall. I keep going and going and going. Still no side wall, just more of that inky black darkness.
Now, for the silver lining. The Zs aren’t gaining on me. I know they can see my light, which attracts them, but not as much as sound, yet they don’t seem to be in a hurry. They just shamble along, taking a nice, leisurely stroll through a coal mine. No worries, no hurries. This is good.
I clench my teeth as my foot hits a large rock, and pain reverberates up and down my bad leg like a cymbal crash from a middle school band. Middle school band parents will understand that reference. It’s painful. Trust me.
The torch keeps burning, but I know it’s gonna give at some point. Little drops of Z-fat follow behind me like the Devil’s breadcrumbs. I’m not exactly covering my trail as I go. But I am hoping I’ll find one of those outcroppings Reptile Jesus talked about. If I can scramble up onto one of those, then I can take a second and figure out exactly what my situation is.
(Spoiler alert: my situation is Grade A fuck-a-rooni.)
Hey, what’s that?
I stop for a second and hold my torch out ahead of me. Hmmm, could that be more Zs? Why, yes, it is more Zs! Lucky fucking me!
Zs in front of me, Zs behind of me, and I’m stuck in the middle with no idea where I should go. I turn and face the ebony expanse of unknown that is the great vastness of the pit. I can’t go back, I can’t go forward, so I guess I’ll just have to go deep (that’s what she said).
One step. Two steps. Three, four, five, and I’m off, heading straight into the middle of the pit. No clue how far across it is, or if there will be anything except for Zs, and possibly old bones. I’m sure there have got to be old bones everywhere. I doubt they send a janitor down to clean up after the less fortunate folks that don’t make it out. Or maybe they do. I wouldn’t put anything pas
t Reptile Jesus and his culty goodness. That guy will surprise ya.
Even at my limping speed, I get ahead of the Zs hankering for my tasty yum yums. After a few near falls, I figure out a weird balance between looking where I’m walking, and staring straight ahead into the nothing. I have to watch out for the stray rocks, chunks of coal, and random holes in the ground, but I also can’t just look at my feet because every once in a while I come across the stray Z. Not sure why, but the farther I go into the center of the pit (I assume I’m going towards the center) the fewer Zs I find.
Maybe the Zs have learned to stay close to the stairs because that’s where the food is. Or maybe most of them do that wandering herd thing that Zs like to do, and end up bunching up by the wall because they can’t go any farther. That would explain why some were so close, and I ran into others while moving parallel with the wall.
None of it explains why they are moving so slowly. Sure, up on the surface they are getting faster, but down here in the dark they are slowing down. I mean, it’s not like light is the factor, right? That would be like the Zs have started to gain energy from the sun or something. Wouldn’t that be the shit? Kryptonian zombies, strengthened by our yellow sun! Oh, joy!
Nah, couldn’t be.
Kramer hinted that maybe the Consortium had been fucking with whatever the cause was that started all this. That’s probably why the Zs up top are getting faster. Better living through chemicals!
I stop as my words echo through the pit. Fuck, I have got to be more quiet.
A couple Zs shamble towards me, and I move to the side while trying to watch my footing and look out for more Zs. I don’t quite juggle the task correctly, and my foot hits a small hole, sending me slamming into the ground. My trusty forehead hits the dirt, because that’s what my forehead likes to do, and the cut that had finally stopped bleeding starts up again.
Of course, the Zs smell the blood, and they groan and hiss, their rotten mouths opening wide, ready to get their snack on. The torch is still lit, since I saved that instead of saving my forehead, and I swing it at them as I try to scramble back to my feet. They both lunge at me, and I swing again, catching one of them across the legs where an old, ancient skirt still clings to the thing’s desiccated skin. That skirt lights up like an adman after a six-martini lunch, and in a flash (literally) there’s a lot more light as the Jack O’ Z starts stumbling about this way and that. It bumps into the other Z, and the threadbare shirt that one still wears goes up as well.
This does not mean that I am out of the woods. Far from it. The flaming Zs get used to their new heated existence, and remember that lunch is right ahead. They each turn, their skin melting and dripping, and open their mouths wide for one hell of a hissing duet. I’m still not on my feet since the one arm thing really can be a handicap, no matter what the after school specials tell you.
I’m doing this scramble/butt scoot away from the flaming Zs (dibs on that band name!) when my back hits something a lot more solid than putrid flesh. I turn and look behind me, and am close to crying when I see the nice sized boulder.
“Yes!” I shout, and do a fist pump. Well, a torch pump since I sure as shit am not letting go of Mr. Torchy. The Zs moan loudly in return. “Fuck you guys!”
Now, here’s the tricky part: how does one climb a boulder with one hand while holding a torch? And here I thought life in the pit was going to be easy.
I do have one option, and it is not an appetizing one, but one option is better than no options.
Taking a deep breath, and saying a silent prayer (I think), I open my jaw wide and grip the torch in my mouth. This wouldn’t be so bad if the torch was made of wood or metal. But I have fashioned this particular beauty from a femur. An honest to goodness femur. Hurray.
It tastes about what you would expect a scorched Z’s femur to taste like. Yes, it tastes just like an Arby’s roast beef sandwich. It could use some of that Horsey sauce.
Femur torch in hand, gorge building at the back of my throat, I reach up and get a good hand hold, set my foot in an easy nook, and then heft myself up onto the boulder. Well, it takes a couple of hefts to get up top, but I make it just as the flaming Zs reach where I had been standing. Their hot and gooey hands claw at the rock, their mouths snapping and spitting.
“Kiss my non-flaming ass,” I yell down at them. “I’m on a boulder and you’re not! Neener neener!”
That’s when I hear the hiss behind me.
The Z tumbles on top of me just as I spin about. I get the torch between us, jamming it up under the thing’s chin to keep its very nasty looking teeth from trimming my eyebrows. The blood that still leaks from my forehead sends the monster into a frenzy, and I have to use every ounce of my strength to keep it from taking me out. Carefully, I scoot myself to the side, then shove up and to the right as hard as I can. It doesn’t take too much strength since the Z is pretty emaciated.
The Z goes falling off the boulder, taking my torch with it as the thing’s mouth makes one more play for my face. I stare in horror as my only light source falls about seven feet to the pit floor, then goes out as the Z rolls over on it and snuffs out its precious, precious flames. Sure, the two flaming Zs are still trying to get at me, but they aren’t up on the boulder with me. If I move just a few feet away from the edge then I’m plunged back into semi-darkness.
After the surprise Z attack, semi-darkness is not very comforting. But, I guess it’s better than total darkness. I should feel blessed. I do not.
Carefully, I feel my way across the boulder. I’m really hoping there aren’t any more Zs up here. I doubt there are. I have a feeling that last one was someone that started off living, escaped onto the boulder, then got stuck up here and pretty much starved to death. That would explain why it was so easy for me to lift and toss. Too bad more Zs aren’t as Karen Carpenter.
Okay, that was awful, even for me. I take that joke back. No need to rack up bad karma while fumbling about on a boulder in the middle of an ancient pit deep inside an old coal mine. I need positive universe points, not negative ones.
I reach the other side of the boulder and try to see what’s down below me, but the illumination from the flaming Zs doesn’t reach, and all I see is a whole lotta nada. I work my way back to the middle of the boulder and rest for a minute. It feels good to just lie here and look up into the emptiness above. I assume it’s empty. Shit, there could be a whole nest of vampires hanging upside down watching me, for all I know. Not that vampires exist. That would be crazy talk. Zombies, sure, but vampires? Puh-lease.
Note to self: do not think of mythical monsters while trapped in the dark. That’s just dumb. Stop being dumb.
I wriggle about on the boulder which, by the way, is not some smooth boulder you find at the top of a peaceful mountain. This is a coal miner’s boulder, motherfuckers! It has ridges and grooves and really, really uncomfortable pieces that feel the need to jam themselves up my ass. So the wriggling takes a while before I can get even close to a semblance of comfort.
I lie there, listening to the moans and scraping from the flaming Zs, whose flames are slowly, slowly, slowly dying. And then gone.
I now understand what complete darkness is.
I didn’t get it even when Oscar was first leading me down here, because there was always the hint of some type of light. Now? No hint. There is a distinct lack of hinting.
My eyes are wide open, yet I can’t see anything. I place my hand right up to my nose, and it’s as if it isn’t even there. I wave it around, but all that does is shift my body so I have to spend the next few minutes chasing down a comfortable position again. I do, and it probably isn’t long after that I fall asleep, even with the formerly flaming Zs’ (such a great band name) moans echoing up to me.
THERE ARE NO DREAMS, no nightmares, no thoughts whatsoever while I sleep. The only way I actually know that I sleep is that something wakes me up. I feel a light touch which, in the zombie apocalypse, is plenty of touch to bring me out of a sleep. I have the presence of
mind not to panic and try to scramble away, since I know I’m up on a boulder in the pitch blackness, and any move could send me tumbling down to the Zs.
The Zs? Did they make it up to the top?
I listen, but don’t hear the telltale hissing, or moaning, or shuffling.
What I do hear is a soft snuffling sound. Like a dog sniffing its food dish. There is no doubt that whatever touched me is also sniffing me. Jesus, are there animals down here in this mine? Did some possum work its way into the pit and is living off the scraps of those that don’t make it? Great.
The snuffling gets louder until it is right next to my ear. I can feel something next to me, but the feeling I’m getting is that it’s much larger than a possum. I can also feel warmth coming off it from its breath and body heat. And the distinct smell of ... BO?
So, it’s a large possum with warm breath and body odor. That totally makes sense.
Then it licks me.
“Motherfucker!” I scream, and start swatting blindly in the dark.
“Ow! Hey! Stop!” a voice shouts.
A voice I recognize.
“Rafe?” I ask. “Is that you?”
“Short Pork? Holy shit, man! How’d you get down here?” Rafe replies, only inches from me.
“Fuck how I got down here. Did you sniff and then lick me?” I ask.
Rafe doesn’t answer for a while then quietly says, “Maybe.”
“You fucking asshole! You were totally going to try to eat me! You can take the canny out of Cannibal Road, but you can’t take Cannibal Road out of the canny! You fucking piece of shit!”
“I wasn’t going to eat you, honest,” Rafe pleads. “I was just checking to make sure you were living. You know, like as in not a Z. I can’t see shit, so I sniffed you. You smell like Z, by the way. Then I licked you, just to see if you tasted like a Z. Also, to see if you were warm.”
