Z-Burbia (Book 2): Parkway To Hell

by Jake Bible

  “It’s very personal to all those poor people you know that are getting slaughtered right now,” Foster says. “You help me and I’ll make sure no one else is hurt from here on out.” She pulls a radio from her belt. “I just give the order and my men stand down, give your people some time to tend to their wounded and get their things in order before we move in.”

  “Getting your ass kicked, huh?” I smile. Which hurts a lot. “Why else would you need me to help? Let me guess, you want to know another way into the Farm. You’re getting picked apart left and right and you can’t figure out how. Can I tell you a secret?”

  “Sure, please do,” Foster says.

  “That’s how it’s supposed to work,” I say. “Big Daddy figured out the Z issue right away. You been out to the Farm?”

  “I’ve done some recon.”

  “Then you know that the Zs can’t get through all the fences. You also know there’s enough of them at those fences to deter people from trying to get through. You probably tried a frontal assault through the main driveway and then realized just how boxed in you were, right?”

  Foster doesn’t say anything.

  “Then, once my friends had cut your friends down to a manageable size, the flanking attacks began. Am I close?”

  “Close,” she nods.

  “And just minutes before I woke up, you received a report that all of your friends had been overrun and were just trying to get out of there with their skin intact. Now you think you can trick me into giving you information that I don’t need to give you, because you have nothing to offer.”

  “Not so close anymore,” Foster smiles. “You’re thinking small, Stanford.”

  “Am I?”

  “You are thinking guns and bullets. Which, you are correct, didn’t work. But now I’m moving on to the next level. Rockets and fire.” She smiles big at the look on my face. “You’re smart, I’ll give you that, but you aren’t a soldier. Leave the warfare to the professionals, Stanford. We’re much better at it.”

  “What are you going to do?” I ask, thinking of Stella and the kids.

  “Blow the ever loving fuck out of that farm. Little F, because I don’t give a ffffffffffffuck. Whatever is left after the wave of RPGs will be scorched from this earth as we set fire to every single field on that farm. Again little fffffffffff.”

  She leans forward in her chair and grabs my bandaged hand. Then squeezes. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t scream.

  “All President Mondello wanted to do was secure the farm and its resources for our work crews,” Foster says. “No one had to die. No one else has to now. Just give us a way in and we’ll make sure every single person still alive, stays that way.”

  “Did you think of asking?” I say. “Maybe send one guy up there to knock on the door?”

  “Let’s not be naïve, Stanford. I’m sure you know what immanent domain is.”

  “I’m sure you know what a crock of shit is,” I counter. “You should, because one just fell out of your mouth. Go fuck yourself, Ms. Foster. And tell Mondello he can too. Fuck himself, not fuck you. I don’t condone necrophilia.”

  Foster smirks and nods. “Good one. But you can tell President Mondello yourself. I just thought I’d give you a chance.”

  She gets up and goes to the door. A beefy guard opens it for her. “All yours, sir,” she says as she walks past Mondello.

  The door closes behind her and the guard follows Mondello right up to my cot. Foster could easily handle herself with me, but it looks like Mondello isn’t so sure about his chances. That’s one way to boost my spirits.

  “Not going to cooperate?” Mondello asks me as he pulls the chair back from the cot a couple feet. “May I ask why?”

  “Do you really need to?”

  “No, I suppose not,” Mondello says. “Ms. Foster told you our plans to destroy the farm?”

  “She did.”

  “And that doesn’t bother you?”

  “Yeah, it bothers the fuck out of me. But that doesn’t matter. You’re not going to let anyone on the Farm live anyway.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Stanford,” Mondello says. “I will let everyone live. They are way more valuable alive than dead.”

  He shifts in his chair and smiles at me.

  “Would you like to know why?”

  “Would you like to take a flying fucking leap out that window and kiss your ass on the way down?”

  “I’ll tell you anyway,” he replies. “The world hasn’t changed as much as you think since Z-Day. It just reverted to times in human history thought to be long behind us. Do you know what the most valuable resource on this planet is right now and always has been, Mr. Stanford?”

  “I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

  “Oh, be a sport and play along. Take a guess.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Close. It has to do with the outcome of that. Still don’t want to play? Fine. It’s people. People have been this planet’s most valuable resource since the species first started walking upright. Think of it, Mr. Stanford. All of the innovations people have made.”

  “I’m thinking more of the atrocities they have perpetrated.”

  “Captain Leeds was a soldier. He had one duty and that was to obey orders. Sedition is a capital offense. He made his choice and it was out of my hands.”

  “What about the people at the Farm? Are they being seditious too?”

  “Them? No, they just have what we need.”

  “Right. Food and water. Building materials. Fuel. All that good stuff that makes dictatorships run.”

  “I thought you were so much smarter than that, Mr. Stanford,” Mondello says, shaking his head. “I’m basically spelling it out for you and you’re still thinking small. Yes, food, water, fuel, all of that is helpful. But you know what I really need?”

  Shit. I get it. Yeah, I know what he needs.

  “People,” I reply.

  “People,” he nods, “exactly.”

  That slave comment Foster made back in East Asheville by the Parkway entrance comes back to me. Jesus. The workers haven’t been hired to repair the Blue Ridge Parkway, they’ve been conscripted, enslaved. Foster and her people are here to keep them in line, not protect them from the Zs. What. The. Fuck.

  Then I have to laugh.

  “What’s so funny, Mr. Stanford? Please let me in on the joke,” Mondello says.

  “It’s just that you are thinking too big,” I say. “You’re thinking about the human race over the millennia, when you should be thinking just a couple centuries; not even that. Care for a history lesson a little more recent?”

  “Of course,” Mondello says, “educate me.”

  “Did you know that North Carolina had the highest percentage of Union soldiers of all the Southern states during the civil war?” I ask.

  “I didn’t know that, no.”

  “Did you know that the majority of those soldiers came from Western North Carolina? And that those that didn’t join up hid up here in the mountains, refusing to fight for either side? How about the fact that Western North Carolina hid more escaped slaves than any other region in the South?”

  “All fascinating, Mr. Stanford, but not really relevant to today.”

  “I beg to differ, Tony,” I say. “You don’t mind if I call you Tony, do you?”

  “I do mind,” Mondello says, his smile gone, “Mr. President is more appropriate.”

  “Well, Tony, did you also know that bootlegging began in the late 1800’s up here in the mountains? Not during Prohibition, like everyone thinks, but decades before that? It started when the US government issued a tax on all liquor, including homemade stills. That’s where ‘Revenuers’ came from. Agents of the Department of Revenue came up here and tried to enforce the tax. How do you think they made out?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “They tried hard, but in the end, it proved too costly to fight all the moonshiners. The people up here are resourceful and they don’t take kindly to any
one, especially the government, telling them what to do. When Prohibition finally came about, the hollers here were ready for it; there were more stills in these mountains producing liquor than anywhere else in the country. The Department of Revenue thought they could outgun the moonshiners. Not so much. Then they thought they’d chase them down on their delivery routes and confiscate their vehicles and cargo. Know where I’m going with this?”

  “I have a feeling.”

  “Good. Is it a sinking feeling? A feeling of dread? Because it should be. Remember that NASCAR thing pre-Z? Yeah, came out of the bootleggers and moonshiners modifying their cars so they could outrun the Revenuers. Started a multibillion dollar racing industry. Changed the world.”

  “I’m familiar with the history of NASCAR, Mr. Stanford.”

  “All of that, from bootlegging in the 1800s, to running moonshine in the 1920s, was done by simple folks, most of whom didn’t have a day of formal education. But they had guts, and drive, and a burning need to be free and independent. Just like today. And guess what?”

  “What, Mr. Stanford?”

  “The people left today do have education. They grew up knowing about the world, technology, and concepts their ancestors couldn’t dream of. And they have been fighting to stay alive for years against a menace that doesn’t give two shits about what’s in their head or hearts except for the tasty meat and blood that make them up. Do you, and tell me honestly, do you really believe you will convince any of them to be your slave willingly? For what? What can you possibly offer them?”

  Mondello is quiet for a long time. Long enough for me to get slightly nervous. Shit, did I over play my hand? Did I go too far and embarrass him enough that he’ll have the hulk behind him put a bullet in my brain?

  “What can I possibly offer? Is that the question?” Mondello finally asks.

  “It was kinda rhetorical,” I say.

  “Well, it shouldn’t be,” Mondello says. “Are you comfortable, Mr. Stanford? I hope so. You should settle in because now I’m going to tell you my story.”

  He takes a deep breath and begins.

  “Do you know how far down the totem pole I am in the line of succession? The bottom, pretty much. That means everyone above me had to die for me to become President. Not how I wanted it. Actually, I never wanted it. I was happy serving my time as Secretary of Homeland Security. A couple more years and I would semi-retire and rake in the cash on speaking tours, commencement speeches, and possibly a book or two. I’d worked my way up from laying concrete to CEO of one of the largest construction companies in the world. I was ready to relax.

  “But, as you know, that wasn’t to be. I watched friends, family, and colleagues die horrible deaths. I watched this nation, and the world, crumble. And I had a front row seat. I wasn’t some junior senator or congressman, I was Secretary of Homeland Security. That meant I was right there, every step of the way, as the zeds slowly began to win. We threw everything we had at them. By the time we realized numbers were against us, and it was too late to think of the nuclear option, the President was dead and so was her entire cabinet. Congress was massacred on Bloody Wednesday. You know how? Three fat fucks had heart attacks on the same day. They couldn’t take the stress. They turned and then turned everyone around them.”

  Mondello shakes his head.

  “We had DC locked down. We had the Capitol building locked down. The zeds may have been winning in the suburbs, but on Capitol Hill, we had them beaten. But that’s not how this all works. It isn’t us versus them, Mr. Stanford. Know why? Because we ARE them! I kill you now and leave your brain intact and you come back as a zed. You, me, every human being on this planet! We. Are. Them.”

  “Yeah, I know, trust me,” I reply. The look of pure rage on his face tells me he was expecting a different answer.

  Mondello gets himself under control and continues, “Of course you do, Mr. Stanford. You’re one of the few that has survived and adapted. We’ve been watching what you were trying to accomplish in your little Whispering Pines. It was impressive. Until that buffoon Vance fucked it all up.”

  “Wait…you know Vance?” I ask.

  “In a way,” Mondello says. “There is a business group, a Consortium, if you will, that came together soon after Z-Day. While the US government was busy either tucking its tail between its legs or bickering about who was in charge, they were busy securing resources and the means to survive, and then rebuild once the ashes had settled.”

  “A Consortium?” I ask. Critter and Big Daddy had mentioned there might be others working with Vance, but I thought more along the lines of criminals, mob bosses, that kind of shit.

  “These men and women have been behind most of the big moves this country has made the past few decades,” Mondello says. “Oh, I don’t have to tell you that this is strictly between us, right? Not to leave this room?”

  “Yeah, sure, whatever,” I say. He’s going to kill me so saying that was just BS to try to get me to relax. How this guy was in charge of anything, I don’t know.

  “Good…good,” Mondello says. He rubs his brow and I can watch the emotions play across his face. “Where was I?”

  “Consortium,” I prompt.

  “Exactly,” Mondello says. “The US has always been about business. Even your example of the history around here proves that. The US government wanted in on the moonshine business and the moonshiners didn’t want that. Well, the Consortium didn’t spend their entire lives building their empires of business to have it all come crumbling down because of some walking corpses. Not these folks, Mr. Stanford.”

  “So, what, are you their puppet?”

  “Puppet? Hardly! I’m the President of the United States. And just like every President before me, I’m a facilitator. Do you think roads were built so everyday people could drive around where and when they wanted? Do you think the interstate highway system; Hoover damn, the Keystone pipeline, any of that happened for the common man and woman? I certainly hope not. All of that happened because business wanted it to happen. Do you remember the dismantling of the educational system that was happening just before Z-Day?”

  “Sure, my wife is a teacher,” I reply, “it was bullshit.”

  “Not if you wanted an ignorant, pliable work force that didn’t have the education or context to understand just how doomed they were,” Mondello smiles. “Keep them dumb and broke and you have democratic, capitalistic slavery at its finest. The wheels were already turning, Mr. Stanford. Z-Day just got rid of the pretext and brought the agenda out in the open.”

  “I still don’t see what that has to do with you,” I say. “Or with the Blue Ridge Parkway.”

  “Oh, that’s simple,” Mondello laughs. “The Parkway is an almost direct route from Charlottesville, which is where the new capital of the United States is, down to Atlanta, which is where the new center of business is.”

  “Wait…what?” I ask. “Atlanta is a wasteland. The place is nothing but Zs.”

  “Really? Have you been there since Z-Day?” Mondello asks, a sly smile on his face. “You’ve seen it yourself?”

  “Well…no.”

  “Then you are only repeating to me what the Consortium wants repeated. Quote un quote ‘survivors’ were sent out as far as they could get to tell people to stay away from Atlanta. Woe unto those that venture into the Hell of that city! Nothing but the undead everywhere!” Mondello starts laughing. “It was just too easy.”

  “Jesus…”

  “Yep,” Mondello says, wiping tears from his eyes. “Atlanta never fell. It came close, but it survived. The Consortium is based there and they need a working supply line between Atlanta and Charlottesville. They also need a safe travel route. The Blue Ridge Parkway is perfect. Sure, there’s some space between it and Atlanta that still has to be dealt with, but that will happen. For now, we are clearing and repairing the Parkway. Pretty easy since it is so remote. Not many Zeds except for tourists trapped in their RVs and the stray hiker or camper. Almost impossible for herds to
get to because of the mountains. The perfect trade route.”

  “And Asheville is the perfect base to set up operations and repair and maintain the Parkway,” I say.

  “Yes, it is. Which is why we went into business with Vance. He was going to secure Asheville for us.”

  “But you didn’t count on the crazy,” I smile.

  “Oh, on the contrary, we factored that in,” he answers. “Trust me, you don’t make plans post-Z and forget about the crazy. We just didn’t know the crazy would get him killed so quickly. And unite all of you fine folks. That’s the real issue.”

  “Because you wanted us beaten and broken so you could swoop in and show us a ‘better’ way,” I say.

  “Now you’re getting it,” Mondello says, touching his finger to his nose.

  “Slave labor to rebuild the country in the image the Consortium had been planning on in the first place,” I say. “I do get it. And the US government-” I use air quotes on that one. “-makes sure the infrastructure is in place to make it all happen.”

  “You are smart, Mr. Stanford.”

  “So now what? You kill me?”

  “Kill you?” Mondello asks, truly puzzled. “Why would I do that?”

  “Isn’t that how it goes? The bad guy fills the good guy in on his plans since he’s going to kill him anyway?”

  “Well, the first flaw in that assumption is that I’m the bad guy,” Mondello laughs. “The second flaw is that you are trying to apply what happens in the movies to what happens in real life. Killing you, after I have spent all this time and energy educating you, would be a massive waste. I have zero intention of killing you, Mr. Stanford. I’m going to keep you alive as long as I can.”

  “Then I guess I’m not as smart as you think, because I’m lost here.”

  “Oh, I’m going to kill your family. One at a time. Unless you agree to help me take that farm and secure those resources we need to finish our job with the Parkway. That is why I told you everything. I wanted you to have that big picture in your head so you know that even if you kill me, which is possible, and somehow manage to stop Foster and her people, which is the real hard part, you’re only chopping off heads of the hydra. And there are so many more heads to replace us.”