by Bible, Jake
“There is a way to fix them,” I say. “But we have to capture them, and do a little bumping on their noggins.”
“Oh, I would advise against that,” Dr. Kramer says. “What happened to Ms. Thornberg was a complete accident. Even if you manage to capture the girls, being able to reverse the conditioning physically would take the knowledge of a skilled neurosurgeon. Where are you going to...?”
“Yeah,” I smile, and glance over where Dr. Stenkler is sitting and chatting with Greta.
Chatting with Greta. Sitting and chatting with Greta. Sitting really close to her and chatting. A twenty-nine year old man and my teenage daughter are sitting close and chatting.
“Jace? Chill,” Stuart says, and grips my shoulder.
“That was all out loud, huh?” I ask.
“No, but the look on your face says it all,” he replies.
“I’ll go get him,” Stella says, and marches over to break up whatever is happening between my teenage daughter and the twenty-nine year old man. Teenage daughter and twenty-nine year old man. Sitting and chatting.
“Okay, that’s out loud,” Stuart says. “Maybe go hang back and rest some? We’re all pretty sure we know where you’re going with this.”
“I’m good,” I say. “I’m totally good.”
“You sure?” Stuart asks.
“I’m sure,” I say as I watch Dr. Stenkler come towards us while Stella stays with Greta and has a nice little talk, mom to daughter.
“What do you need?” Dr. Stenkler asks.
I look at Dr. Kramer and smile. “I believe you were about to say we will need a skilled neurosurgeon, but where will we find one? Guess what, Doc? We have one of those. Now, how about you spill the beans, and tell this guy everything you know on how to reverse the conditioning.”
“You can’t reverse the conditioning,” Dr. Kramer says.
The blur that rushes past me is Elsbeth shaped, and the next thing we know Dr. Kramer is dangling with his feet several inches off the floor. Elsbeth has her hand around his throat and holds him up. Then she lowers him slowly, and pulls him in close.
“You will be honest,” she says. “You will be helpful. You will do what they want and stop confusing them.”
“You can’t reverse the conditioning,” he gasps. “But you can cut off the influence. If they decide not to kill you, then it’ll be of their own free will.”
“But they could still decide to kill us, right?” I ask.
“That’s up to them,” Dr. Kramer says. “I can’t help with that.”
That’s believable. We all know Elsbeth. We live because she lets us live. No doubt there.
“Fine,” I say. “El? Drop him.” She does. “Dr. Stinkler?”
“It’s Stenkler,” Dr. Stenkler frowns.
“Not anymore,” I grin. “Didn’t you hear? We all get shitty nicknames in the apocalypse?”
WE STAY IN THAT LIBRARY for a day as Dr. Stenkler grills Dr. Kramer on everything. I understand about ten percent of what they talk about. The rest makes my head hurt.
Which seems to be the new thing. The talking out loud thing lessens, but debilitating headaches increase. I hardly notice when we get back on the road and finally reach Kansas City after a few days of skirting the mass Z migration.
“Well, the asshole wasn’t lying about this,” Stuart grumbles as we stand and stare at the hole that had once been Kansas City. “If anything, the guy downplayed the destruction.”
“Nuke?” I ask Lourdes. “Is that what did this? I mean, look at it, it’s just a crater.”
“No nuke,” Lourdes says. “We’d be sick from radiation poisoning by now. And there’d be singes of the blast where we’re standing. No, I think when we get closer we’ll see it was a lot of smaller explosions that cleared out the city.”
She’s right. We get the convoy rolling again, and the closer we get the more the ex-city looks like a teenager’s pizza face, all pocked with craters and shit.
There really aren’t words for what we witness. And that’s saying a lot, coming from me.
Nothing but total destruction. It makes St. Louis look like a simple remodel. KC? It’s just plain gone.
“I guess the Combine didn’t know how to play nice,” Critter says. “They either pissed off the wrong people, or they got in the worst bicker fight ever. Don’t matter none which way now. They’s just plain gone.”
See? Even Critter agrees with me. Just. Plain. Gone.
“So we head on to Boulder?” I ask, looking over at Critter and Lourdes as the scorched Kansas landscape rolls by outside the RV. “Go to the Stronghold?”
“For now,” Lourdes says. “But we have to also consider what’s behind us. At some point, we may need to dig in and get ready to defend ourselves. That point could come before we reach Colorado and the Rockies.”
We all know what she means by what’s behind us. No matter how fast we move, which isn’t all that fast considering how blocked the interstate and other roads are, the Z herd is going to catch up. That’s just reality. They don’t have to stop and hunt for fuel or food, they don’t have to sleep or deal with crazies. Hell, they eat crazies!
And there’re also the sisters coming. Elsbeth can’t say where they are, but I’m almost certain she feels them somehow when they are close. I let everyone else worry about moving forward and about the Z herd, while I keep my attention on Elsbeth and that sisterhood sixth sense.
THE DAYS ROLL BY, THE plains keep going, and it’s almost like we don’t make any progress at all. Then after eight hundred years of being stuck in this stinky RV, as we lead a bunch of other stinky RVs, we see a sign that gives us just a little hope.
“Welcome To Colorado,” the sign says. Well, kind of. It’s sort of ripped in half and semi-melted, but we figure out the full message without a problem.
“Aren’t there supposed to be mountains?” Charlie asks.
“You can’t see them from here,” Lourdes replies. “We have a couple hundred more miles to go before we can start catching a glimpse.”
“A couple hundred? Fuck me,” Charlie sighs.
“You all see that?” Critter asks as he points out the windshield. “Tell me that isn’t what I think it is.”
We drive past the welcome sign, and Lourdes moves up front with a pair of binoculars. She studies the horizon for a minute, then hands the binoculars to Stuart.
“Shit,” he says. “Another herd. Looks bigger than the one we passed. Where are they all coming from?”
“Two thirds of the population of the US is behind us,” Charlie says. “I bet they’re migrating to find food. The East Coast has been picked clean.”
“Maybe,” Lourdes says. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll deal with them when we get there.” She grabs a radio and calls one of the other RVs. “John? You seeing this?”
“Roger,” John replies. “I’m estimating five or six thousand.”
There are a few gasps in the RV.
“That’s what I see too,” Lourdes says. “Pass the word that we stay the course and move forward. We have at least a few hours before we catch up to them. Keep your eyes peeled for a spot to hunker down and strategize.”
“Will do,” John replies. “Out.”
I can see Elsbeth is not happy with the hunker down part, but we have no choice. We are the meat in a Z herd sandwich. No going back without dealing with a shit ton of Zs, and no going forward without dealing with a shit ton of Zs. Limited supplies, getting low on ammunition, and about to jump out of our own skins from being trapped in these RVs for so long, options aren’t exactly a luxury we have.
So, I’ll take the luxuries I do have: friends, family, a badass killer always having my back. I push away the thoughts of my brain lesions, of crazy ninja chicks, of Z herd sandwiches. I let go of the constant feeling of anxiety in my gut as we continue our flight away from the Consortium and towards something we don’t even know still exists. I lean back against the wall of the RV and decide that at the next stop, I’m going to grab my wi
fe, find someplace private, and show her just how much I love her while I have the chance. That’s a luxury I do have, and I plan on taking advantage of.
“Gross,” Greta says, and I blink and look around. Oops, out loud again.
“Shut the fuck up, Greta,” Stella says, and squeezes my hand. “I’ll take that luxury if my man is wanting to give it.”
“Damn skippy,” I grin, and kiss her.
Hey, you know what? Maybe talking out loud isn’t so bad after all.
“Yes, it is,” everyone says.
Fine. Whatever. I don’t care.
Man, people in the zombie apocalypse can be so mean sometimes.
Z-Burbia 6: Rocky Mountain Die
Jake Bible
Copyright 2021 Jake Bible
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Chapter One
You know that thing you see on TV shows and movies where someone has their skull cracked open by a neurosurgeon and there’s like this draped sheet that halos their head while nurses and other doctors stand around and point and make serious sounding comments about the patient’s exposed brain?
And you know how they all ask the patient questions because the patient has to be awake so they can make sure they don’t short circuit his brain? Also, since the brain doesn’t feel pain, the doctors and nurses can poke around all they want and said patient won’t piss himself while screaming?
You know what I’m talking about?
Yeah, I really wish that scenario was real. I sure as fuck do.
Because the scenario I’m in now is nowhere near as fun. Not even close, folks. Nope. Not at all.
You see, while there are certain similarities to the movie/TV version, there are a lot more differences.
Such as?
Okay, well, first, there are no nurses standing behind me. There are two doctors, but one of them is kind of a mad scientist dickhole and the other is a guy I just met that is crushing on my teenage (underage, motherfucker!) daughter. The other people standing there are all holding lanterns and flashlights so the two doctors don’t slice my brainpan in bad ways. None of the light holders have any medical experience.
But they are making plenty of comments.
“I think your brain is your best looking part, Short Pork,” Critter Fitzpatrick snorts. “They should cut off a slice and glue it to your face.”
“Quiet, please,” Dr. Kramer says. He’s the mad scientist dickhole. I don’t like him.
“Don’t call him Short Pork,” Stella snaps. That’s my wife. I love that she has my back. “Just because Elsbeth isn’t in the room doesn’t mean you can call him that. His nickname is Long Pork. Call him that.”
Thanks, babe. Way to protect my good name.
“Should that thing be that color?” someone asks.
“Shit, we have another bleeder,” Dr. James Stenkler growls. “Cauterize that, Dr. Kramer. Hurry!”
“I know what to do, Dr. Stenkler,” Dr. Kramer replies. “I am your senior by several decades. I’ve had my hands in brains a lot longer than you have.”
Stenkler is the guy crushing on my daughter. A daughter that isn’t even sixteen yet. Or is she? Fuck if I know anymore. I lost my calendar a few life-threatening escapes ago. What I do know is I do not like the crushing. Have I mentioned I do not like that? Let me say it again. I. Do. Not. Fucking. Like. That.
“There. Got it,” Stenkler says. “Bleeder is cauterized. Jace? Can you hear me? Give me a sign you can hear me?”
I flip him off.
“Daddy,” Greta, my maybe sixteen-year-old daughter, snaps. “Don’t be an asshole.”
“Greta, leave your father alone,” Stella responds. “He’s sitting there with half his skull on a table. Cut him some slack.”
“Oh, there’s another one,” that same person says. Who is this guy?
“Good catch, Boyd,” Stenkler says. “You should think of going into medicine. I’d be happy to train you when we get through this and finally up into Boulder.”
“That’d be cool,” Boyd replies.
Boyd? Holy shit! I’m in the same room with Boyd and I can’t turn around and see what he looks like? All this time I’ve been thinking people are fucking with me. I’ve been thinking that Boyd is just some joke to play on Jace. At no point did I think Boyd was a real person.
Now here he is? Talking and helping the doctors keep my brain from bleeding out everywhere? Fuck this shit!
Second, and yes, I am still counting, not only are we not in a proper medical environment, we have a lot of Zs hanging out downstairs. I mean a lot. Close to, um, let’s see, add the four, carry the one and add the two, subtract sixty and multiply by four and that brings us to a FUCK TON! And by FUCK TON, I mean close to a hundred thousand, easy.
They’re milling around the doors downstairs. The glass doors. The glass doors to a boring old office building that happens to have a dental surgery office in it. That’s where I’m at. Sitting in a motherfucking dentist’s chair with my brain all naked and shit.
Third (still counting!), this situation isn’t like on TV because we don’t have a cavalry coming to get us. On TV, or in the movies, there would be some heroic force that the audience has forgotten about that will show up at the last second and save the day. That’s not happening.
All we have behind us are around a thousand military types hired by the Consortium to hunt us down and kill us. They have rifles and pistols and flame throwers and Humvees and maybe a tank or two. Oh, and rocket launchers and grenades and really, really sharp knives. Not to mention they have a power mad, crazy bitch leader named Camille Thornberg who has said she will stop at nothing to stop us.
That’s a lot of stopping and not stopping. Wouldn’t the not stopping cancel out the stopping? If you think about it, maybe she means nothing will happen. I’m trying not to think about it since thinking lately really hurts. Hence the two doctors with their fingers in my grey matter.
Am I done with the list? No fucking way. We haven’t gotten to the really fucking awesome part. So, I have my brain open like a tin can while people mock me and Boyd saves the day. Thousands of zombies knocking at the doors that aren’t there to make a FedEx drop off. A megalomaniacal twat with her own army.
But, wait! There’s more!
All of that shit pales in comparison to the fact that we have a group of mentally-conditioned young women who are trained in the art of killing anything that moves and are following us while picking off our people one by one just for le shits and le giggles. They have made it very clear that we won’t need to worry about the Consortium’s folks because we’ll be dead a long time before they show up. At least all the people they’ve snagged have only been cannies. Okay, okay, that was mean. People are people, even if some of those people used to eat other people.
Sigh.
Good times in the apocalypse, yo. Good times.
Oh, oh, oh! The best part is that one of the sisters, our very own Elsbeth, has pulled another motherfucking disappearing act! The woman has mad skills and can kill people with a look, which would be handy right now, except no one knows where she is.
She left several hours ago as soon as we got to the outskirts of Denver. Elsbeth’s job was to scout for a med center or hospital that we could use for my brain issues. She didn’t come back before I started to do a little body samba. I had a seizure. That’s why we’re in a dental surgery office. No time to find a better facility.
Ready for more? Because there’s more!
My son Charlie is missing. Stella is doing a great job of not totally freaking out, but I can hear the stress in her voice. No idea why she’s stressed. Missing son, husband with a naked brain for all to see, zombie herd rocking an undead street party, psycho Hitler bitch chasing us, even more psycho brainwashed assassin chicks hu
nting us.
Lists suck.
“Jace?” Stenkler asks. “Jace, can you hear me?”
I flip him off again.
“Dad!” Greta snaps.
“Jace, I need you to try to speak, if you can,” Stenkler continues. “I know you’ve had some difficulty with that lately, but it’s important that I hear your voice.”
“Why ruin a good thing, doc?” Critter asks. “For once in his damn life, Jace Stanford is quiet. You ain’t seein’ the bright side to this?”
I flip Critter off.
“See? The man communicates just fine without that damned voice of his,” Critter says. “Let’s not get hasty and flip his Jabberjaws switch back on, okay?”
“Critter,” Stella growls. “Shut the fuck up.”
“Now, Stella, I ain’t sayin’—”
“Shut the fuck up!” she roars.
“Yes, ma’am,” Critter replies. “I was just playin’. Tryin’ to lighten the mood.”
“Will everyone please stop talking?” Dr. Kramer sighs. “This is not like baking a cake. This is actual brain surgery. The only person that should be talking is Mr. Stanford.”
“Jace? Just try to say a couple of words, if you can,” Stenkler says. “Sounds are good too, but words are better.”
Ah, words. They used to be my best friend. I miss words. Why? Well, you see, I’ve been having a bit of a speech problem.
I’ve always been a chatty fella. Prone to running my mouth off and inserting my foot at all possible times. I have a pathological inability to shut the fuck up, as many folks have pointed out to me through the years. This wouldn’t have been so bad except then Z-Day happened and, well, Zs kinda like sounds. My talky talkiness became a liability.
I learned to control it somewhat, but fate is a cruel bitch and one hell of a practical joker. Turns out that over the years I may have bumped my head one too many times. Or two too many times. More like five too many times. My brain was more concussed than an NC State linebacker. Go Wolfpack!
