by Bible, Jake
“What if they aren’t coming to kill us?” Stella asks. “Camille has said the one thing she wants is her daughter back.”
“She also wants world domination,” I say.
“She never said that,” Stella replies.
“Every bigger than life bad guy wants world domination,” I say. “That’s how it works.”
“They are in range to kill us if they want,” Stuart says.
I shield my eyes and look at the incoming helicopter. It’s a big one. A Huey? Is that what they’re called? No, those were in Vietnam. This thing is a...
“Blackhawk,” Stuart says. “No rockets, which is good. Looks pretty stripped down.” He pauses. “El, don’t shoot.”
“Not going to,” Elsbeth responds. “That’s not my mother.”
“No, it’s not,” Stuart says.
Then the roof door gives way. Oh, fuckety fuck.
The Zs come at us fast. Really fast. Fast, fast, fast.
These are the new ones, the strange ones, the ones that don’t act like they are supposed to. They hit the roof and it is on like Donkey Kong.
Man, I miss Donkey Kong. Fuck PlayStation. I want to play some old school ColecoVision and shit.
“Dad! No one cares about your video game nostalgia!” Charlie yells as he braces for the attack.
Elsbeth, not one for bracing, dives right into the swarm that comes at us. She stabs and slices, moving from foot to foot, spinning and pivoting back and forth, cutting off arms and taking Zs out at the legs. The undead fall around her, but there are so many I know she won’t be able to keep up.
Stuart jumps in. He drops three Zs with the rounds left in one of the revolvers then clubs two more in the skulls, sending putrid brains spilling everywhere. Four try to jump him at once, but Charlie shows up with the bat that had been holding the door closed. I am going to say the bat failed. I know, I’m going out on a limb with this statement.
Charlie takes a couple heads off with the bat then impales two together through their rotted bellies with it. They twist and yank the bat from his hands. My son is now weaponless which is not what a father wants to see when a crazed horde of Zs is running at him.
“Down!” Stella yells.
She fires one of the revolvers and two Zs crumple. Charlie quickly retreats next to her as she fires until the revolver is empty and clicking. She missed twice, but took out two more Zs. That only leaves an ass load to kill.
Never slowing, still spinning like a whirling Dervish, Elsbeth hacks her way through the swarm of Zs until she reaches the two impaled Zs. She takes the Zs’ heads off with her blade in one swipe, sending them to the ground. She kneels, grabs up the fallen baseball bat, and comes up so fast it’s a good thing I didn’t blink or I would have missed everything.
Armed with two weapons, Elsbeth works her way back through the swarm, shouting and yelling the whole time so the Zs focus on her. She’s crushing skulls and lopping off heads, never slowing, never resting, barely looking like she’s even breaking a sweat. Not that a person could sweat out in this cold.
Everyone is fighting their asses off except me. I’m just sitting here in my wheelchair, useless, pointless, a pitiful- Oh, fuck here comes a Z! What do I do? What do I do?
I grab one wheel and start pushing as hard as I can. Hey...my arm works again! Awesome! Except a one-armed man pushing a wheelchair is not exactly an efficient way to move. It is, however, a very efficient way to turn in a circle.
I’ve spun myself halfway around before I get my panic under control. Unfortunately, that means my back is to the Z coming at me. Fuck.
I do see the chopper getting closer, though. Like really close.
I barely register the gunshot before I feel something splatter against my neck and scalp. The Z collapses at my side, half of its head missing.
While I’m grateful the Z is dead, I also have to wonder if maybe the shot was intended for me and not the zombie. Maybe the guy in the chopper is a shitty shot?
I spin my chair back again so I’m facing my peeps. Dammit! I hate saying peeps! I blame fucking Barfly, that asshole canny gang leader back in Knoxville, for getting that stuck in my head. Next time Stenkler is rummaging around in my brainpan, I’ll ask if he can remove that word from my vocabulary permanently. That’s how brain surgery works, right?
Elsbeth is fucking crushing it and Charlie isn’t doing so bad himself. Stuart has a hunting knife in his hand and is stabbing the Zs through their skulls at close range. Not the safest of strategies, but highly effective if you don’t get a nasty little love bite from one of the zombies. Those Zs do like their love bites.
The wind picks up and I’m having a hard time staying in my wheelchair. Before I can call out for help, I’ve collapsed on to the roof, dirt and grit flying all about me.
It’s a twister! It’s a twister!
Oh, shit, and a couple more Zs!
ROTOR WASH. THAT’S what it’s called. I don’t think I’ve ever felt rotor wash before. Have I? Fuck if I know anymore.
It’s rotor wash, not wind that is whipping about me. I realize this as I lie here on the roof and look up to see the chopper hovering over us. Two men are leaning out, rifles in hands, firing down at the Zs, dropping them quickly. The ones coming for me become headless in seconds and black blood starts to whirl around everywhere as the rotor wash turns the air into a Z fluid rinse cycle.
“Grab the rope!” someone yells down at us through a bullhorn.
How do I know it’s a bullhorn? Puh-lease, this is the apocalypse. Half the assholes that have tried to kill me have used a bullhorn. It must be in the apocalyptic asshole manual or something.
Which means I need to figure out if these assholes are going to try to kill me. Are they even assholes? They have a bullhorn, so that goes in the Yes column, but they also blew the heads off the Zs coming to get me Barbara.
“Come on,” Charlie says as he hooks an arm under me and gets me to my feet.
The roof swims and swirls, not because of the rotor wash, but because of the dental surgery to my brain. I wonder if Stenkler and Dr. FuckerDeShitfarts gave my cerebellum a nice fluoride rinse? I probably should have waited forty-five minutes before thinking. Dammit! Now I’ll have brain plaque!
Wait, that’s not funny. You can actually get plaque on your brain. Or in your brain. Close to the general vicinity of your brain. Brain plaque is bad.
“Dad!” Charles shouts. “Pay attention! Fucking shut up about the brain plaque!”
“I miss it when all I could say was aaayyy!”
“That was out loud!” Charlie replies.
“I know!” I yell back. “I wanted it to be!”
Several lines of black rope drop next to us and Charlie wraps one around my waist then up under my shoulders. I only have the one hand, which isn’t even close to being at full strength, but I think it’s enough to hang on with.
We both look up at the men with the rifles. One looks close to Charlie’s age, more a teenager than a man, with dark, curly hair and black skin crisscrossed with lots of white scars. A second teenager is right by his side, just as scarred, but he has thick dreadlocks pulled back into a ponytail. The two boys look exactly alike except for their hairstyle choices.
And speaking of look a likes, the third man could be Stuart’s twin, except he’s not a man, but a woman and she is glaring at us like we totally fucked up her apocalypse. So, by looking like Stuart’s twin, I mean she could be ex-military and I have zero plans on calling her Jimmy unless I want to eat smoothies the rest of my life.
Man, I miss smoothies.
The rope goes taught and I’m pulled off my feet. I squint into the bright sunlight and see a heavy duty winch struggling to pull my ass up into the chopper. Don’t know why it’s struggling, I’m not that heavy.
Then I get parallel with the Scar Boys and Ms. Glare and see why the winch is struggling. It’s old and rusty. So is the rest of the helicopter. This does not bode well.
“Sit your ass down and do not move!”
Ms. Glare shouts over the deafening sound of the rotors. “You move, you get tossed out the doors!”
“Not moving!” I yell back as I’m shoved into the center of the Chopper’s hold.
Is it called a hold? I don’t know. There are three more people with rifles inside the chopper and one of them shoves me into a seat and straps me in while the other two cover me with their rifles. You know, just in case the one-armed man who is obviously bleeding a lot from his scalp tries to hijack this here fine specimen of aerial machinery.
The Scar Boys and Ms. Glare keep their eyes on the roof below as the winch gets back to work. Stella is up next and she scrambles over to me, her hands feeling all over my body for wounds and/or bites. Which I guess are wounds, too.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“Right as acid rain,” I smile then nod (ow) at the gentlemen watching us. “Have you met our hosts? They say there will be hor d’oeuvres and cocktails later.”
The men with rifles trained on us frown and look at each other.
“What did he say?” one of the men asks.
“Something about cocktails!” the other replies.
“You got booze, man?” the first yells at me.
“No, I don’t have booze!” I yell back. “Do I look like I fucking have booze? Where the fuck would I have booze? I don’t even have a fucking pack on, dipshit!”
“Jace,” Stella hisses in my ear. “Don’t piss off the people with rifles that are saving us.”
“Whatever,” I grumble. “Booze. Fucking idiot.”
The third person to climb into the chopper is Stuart.
“Where is Charlie?” Stella yells. “You left him down there?”
“He’s coming,” Stuart says. “He’s trying to get Elsbeth to stop fighting. She’s in one of her moods.”
“You call that a mood, dude?” dreadlocked Scar Boy asks. “Shit, man, we could use a few more like her if they all are in that kind of mood.”
I can’t see what she’s doing, but I have a pretty good idea.
Finally, the winch gets working again and Charlie climbs up next to us. He glances at the guys with rifles, but dismisses them instantly. He and Stuart share a look and I raise an eyebrow. They both shake their heads.
There’s a loud whirring noise then a crunch and the hold fills with smoke.
“Winch is shot!” Ms. Glare yells. “Your friend will have to climb up!”
Stuart scrambles to the edge of the chopper and cups his hands. “El! Elsbeth! The winch is broken! You have to climb!”
He watches for a few seconds then looks at Ms. Glare.
“Drop down and circle close to the north side of the building. Get the skids level with the roof,” he insists.
“You want us to do what?” Ms. Glare shouts. “Are you nuts?”
“I’m not,” Stuart smiles and points down to the roof. “But she is.”
Ms. Glare hesitates, confused by Stuart’s order.
“Do it!” Stella yells.
Ms. Glare snaps her head around and does my nickname for her proud by giving my wife a look of death that would drop a horde of Zs instantly.
“You do not give orders around here, lady!” Ms. Glare shouts. “Not unless you want to learn how to fly!”
“Please, ma’am,” Charlie says in such an innocent voice that I have to wonder if maybe demon possession is now a thing in the apocalypse. “That’s my cousin and she means everything to me. Please help her. Please.”
“Nice try, kid,” Ms. Glare says. “But sweet talk ended the day the dead started walking.”
“Fine. Fuck it,” Charlie says and moves so fast I again have to wonder about the possession thing.
He slams a fist into one of the rifle boys, snags the weapon and hands it back to Stuart. He grabs the rifle from the other guy and points it at third rifle man, the one that strapped me in. Stuart has his rifle aimed at the spot between Ms. Glare’s eyes. The Scar Boys just stare with their mouths open.
Ms. Glare thinks for a second then sets her rifle down slowly and crawls towards the pilot. She barks some orders, barks them again when she’s questioned, then crawls back to us. She casually picks her rifle back up, but leaves it resting across her legs.
“Wouldn’t want it to slide out,” she says. “Waste of a good gun.”
“Understood,” Stuart says.
The chopper banks and heads out away from the building then banks again and lowers closer to the roof, but just off to the side. Now I have a great view of what Elsbeth is busy doing. She’s kicking Z ass. You know, doing her thang.
We wait for a couple of minutes as Elsbeth continues to do her thang and chop and hack Zs into tiny pieces. Not having to worry about my life (I think) means I get to watch the show. And holy shit, what a show.
She spins and slashes, taking as many Zs out at the legs as possible, using the Z piles as cover as she dodges the fast little fuckers. I have no idea how the Zs got so fast, but it really puts a damper on my entire outlook on this fucking apocalypse. One thing we always had going for us was the fact we could outrun the undead bastards if we had to. Now? Not so much.
“EL!” Stuart yells. “Time to go!”
She glances over her shoulder at us and I can see her eyes assessing the situation. A smirk plays at her lips, but she turns back and keeps fighting the Zs. Stuart looks over at Stella and my wife sighs.
“Elsbeth Carly Michelle Thornberg!” Stella shouts. “Get your ass in this helicopter right the fuck now!”
Elsbeth stiffens at the use of her full name. She grabs a Z and snaps it in half with her bare hands then tosses it into a group lunging for her. She turns quickly and sprints across the roof right at us.
“You’ll want to move!” Stuart yells, warning the Scar Boys and Ms. Glare.
They scoot out of the way as Elsbeth reaches the edge of the roof and jumps, diving right into the hold. Charlie and Stella grab her to keep her from sliding out the other side.
That’s when chaos erupts. You know, because it was so calm and orderly before.
The rifle men jump at Charlie and the Scar Boys try to bring up their rifles at Stuart. A shot goes off then everything is a blur as fists and feet start flying this way and that. I have a hard time keeping track of it all.
Why? Oh, no real reason. Except I caught a fucking bullet in my shoulder! It’s my right shoulder; Stumpageddon’s shoulder. Man, that arm just can’t catch a fucking break.
Elsbeth has two men in head locks and one of the Scar Boys in a leg lock. By leg lock, I don’t mean she has the boy’s leg locked; I mean her legs are locked around his neck, his face darkening as all the blood is squeezed up into his skull. I sure know how that feels.
“Knock it off!” Ms. Glare yells. “We saved you! We don’t want to fight!”
“Tell it to dipshit and fucknut over there!” Stuart yells, pointing at the men head locked by Elsbeth. “They came at us.”
“After you took their rifles and pointed them at us,” Ms. Glare says.
“You wouldn’t save our friend,” Stuart says.
“Hey, guys,” I try to interrupt. They ignore me. I just met half these people and already I’m getting ignored. You’d think they’d get to know me before they start ignoring me. “Guys?”
“Count of three?” Ms. Glare asks.
“Count of three,” Stuart says. He looks at Elsbeth. “Got it?”
“I can count,” she snaps. “I ain’t stupid.”
Stuart just sighs and shakes his head.
“One,” Ms. Glare says.
“Two,” Stuart says.
“Three,” they say together.
All rifles are lowered and Elsbeth lets the rifle guys go.
Nobody tries anything and everybody stays cool. I wait a couple minutes and let the mood in the chopper stabilize before I speak up again.
“Um, not to be a whiner, but I could use some help,” I say. “I got shot.”
Everyone looks at me and the bleeding wound in my shoulder. In secon
ds hands are flying over my body and I have faces close to me, bandages being whipped about, people talking to me and asking me all sorts of questions.
I reply, “It hurts.”
“Through and through,” one of the rifle guys says as he gently pulls me forward so he can look at my back. He shines a penlight into the wound and smiles. “I don’t see any bone. Looks like it’s a flesh wound. Nothing major nicked. We’ll get him stitched up when we get back to—”
“We aren’t going back there,” Ms. Glare says. “We land at the UC Hospital. Get this guy cleaned up and have a long talk with our new friends.”
“UC Hospital?” Stella asks. “Is that close to a children’s hospital?”
“About a block away,” Ms. Glare says. “Why?”
“That’s where the rest of our convoy is at,” Stella says. “We need to find them and talk to them.”
“Your convoy?” short haired Scar Boy asks. “How many you got with you?”
“Enough,” Stuart says.
“Never enough,” Ms. Glare says. “And if they’re at the Anschutz then you don’t have a convoy anymore. That place is locked tight for a reason.” She glances out the chopper’s doors at the Denver streets below and the thousands upon thousands of Zs that fill almost every inch. “Not that it matters considering the shit storm you all brought with you.”
“Not our shit storm,” Stuart says. “We’re just being blown along with it.”
“And our friends will have that place cleared,” Stella insists.
“They should have just gone to the UC Hospital,” Ms. Glare shrugs. “We cleared that months ago. First three floors are gutted with no access to any of the upper floors.”
“Then how do you get in there?” Charlie asks. Everyone looks at him as he realizes we are riding in it. “Oh. Right.”
“We’ll set down and get peg arm fixed up then we’ll see about your friends,” Ms. Glare says. She hesitates then holds out her hand to Stuart. “Amy. Amy Lowden.”
“James,” Stuart says. “James Stuart.”
One of the Scar Boys starts to open his mouth, but Amy holds up a hand. “I don’t think he’s a Jimmy, so don’t say it.”
