by Bible, Jake
“No! NO! WAIT! NO PLEASE NO DON’T-!”
I go deaf and blind suddenly as bright flashes fill my eyes and gunshots fill my ears. I’m pretty sure I’m still screaming for mercy when Jon slaps me.
“Will everyone please stop slapping me?” I yell in his face.
“You were hysterical, Hoss,” he says as he cuts my hands loose. “Something had to be done.”
“You hurt?” Stuart asks. I just stare at him. “Besides the leg and the hand and that flap of loose skin on your face, I mean.”
“Nah, I think that covers it,” I say. “But I am going to need some clothes.”
“I’ll see what I can find,” Stuart says as he leaves the basement.
I catch Jon eyeing the meat and shake my head. “Don’t.”
“Looks and smells good,” he says. “Goat? Wild boar?”
“Biker,” I say.
He takes a couple steps back.
I look down at Pa’s body and give it a kick. It hurts my bare toes, more than it does me any emotional good, but it had to be done. I look around, but there is no sign of Elsbeth.
“You looking for the girl?” Jon asks. “Tucked out the window as soon as we hit the stairs. Fast thing, pretty too. Was she his captive? She left this behind. Looks just like yours, but better.”
I see a spiked bat on the ground that he’s pointing at. I guess it’s all the trend for North Asheville cannibal girls to have spiked bats. One gets one, and then the girl down the street has to have one, and pretty soon, they’re more popular than skinny jeans and Uggs. Wonder what that says about me? How soon will I want to wear skinny jeans and Uggs? All the cool girls are!
“Hey!” Jon snaps, his fingers right in my face. “Earth to Jace!”
I blink then glance around again.
“Ugly thing is more like it,” I reply. “And she wasn’t a captive. She was his daughter. They were going to eat me.”
“Well, good thing your girly screams carry,” Jon says. “Stuart heard you and booked it straight for this house. I’m guessing you had seconds before this guy slit your femoral artery. See the nick?”
I look down at my leg and see the tiny trickle of blood on the inside of my thigh.
“Stop looking at my junk,” I say to Jon, and then take a deep breath and struggle not to collapse.
“You okay?” he asks. “Need to sit?”
“No, no, I’m good.”
“I found some clothes that should fit,” Stuart says when he returns. “But you won’t like them.”
“I don’t care what they look like,” I say. “I just want to get dressed.”
“Okay,” Stuart nods as he tosses me a bundle.
I look at the shirt and pants and frown. Looking from the clothes to Stuart to the clothes to Jon to the clothes, I shake my head.
“No way,” I say.
“That’s all I could find that will fit you,” Stuart says. “Must have been a single mom and her kids that owned this place. No men’s clothes.”
I hold in my hands a pair of bright pink yoga pants and a purple t-shirt with a glittery butterfly. I sigh and start to put them on.
“Well, at least we’ll be able to find you in the dark there, My Little Pony,” Jon laughs.
“I’ve had a hard day and could do without the sarcasm,” I say, “it hurts my feelings.”
“Time to go,” Stuart says. “We can’t stay here. Too much noise. The bikers are looking for us. Only a matter of time before they find this place.”
“Where to?” I ask. “We can’t make it back to Whispering Pines before dark.”
“It’s already dark,” Jon says.
“Jesus, how long have I been missing?”
“Hours,” Stuart says, “hours we couldn’t afford to lose.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I snap. “Did I make you miss your flight or something? Did you have someplace better to be?”
Stuart closes on me and I remember just how dangerous he is.
“I think we all have someplace better to be, Jace,” he says, “but we aren’t going to get there by being a little bitch, now are we then?”
I sigh and shake my head. “No, Stuart, we aren’t. My bad. Thanks for saving my ass.”
“Your life,” Stuart says, “I want nothing to do with your ass.”
“A joke!” Jon laughs. “Miracle of miracles!”
“Come on-”
“We need to move,” Jon and I say at the same time.
“I don’t know why I bother,” Stuart says. He looks around the basement. “Anything worth salvaging then?”
“No clue,” I say. “I was busy being prepped for dinner.”
“Fine, let’s go,” Stuart says as he puts a full magazine into his pistol. “You stay close to me, stay down, and don’t make a sound. Got it?”
We both nod at him.
“Good,” Stuart says as he heads for the basement door.
He opens it and then closes it quickly, but quietly, his finger to his lips.
Shit. Guess we didn’t move fast enough.
We all look up at the basement ceiling and that’s when I hear the footsteps. They are careful, moving methodically through the house. There’s a creak over by the far corner telling us there’s two people in the house. Then another creak in the opposite corner. That makes three.
“What now?” I mouth at Stuart.
He cocks his pistol, aims it at the door, and waits. I give him a thumbs up.
“Shit,” Jon hisses, “your leg.”
I look at my leg and see the bandage is soaked with blood. There isn’t a speck of white.
“His face isn’t looking so good either,” Stuart whispers.
I reach up and feel my cheek and my hand comes away drenched in red.
I’m a fucking mess.
“He needs help,” Jon says, his voice barely louder than the crackle of the fire. “We have to get him home.”
“We have to get us all home,” Stuart says. “But we can’t now. Get him settled and redress that leg. See if you can clean his cheek and dress that too.”
“What are you going to do?” Jon asks.
“I’m going to watch that door,” Stuart says.
“We’ll do it in shifts.”
“No, you watch him. If he goes into shock, he could die. You have to make sure he stays breathing and doesn’t bleed out. Watch the wounds, change the dressings, and keep him alive.”
“How will you stay awake?” Jon asks.
Stuart opens his bag and pulls out a blister pack of pink pills. He cracks open two pockets and takes out the pills. He dry swallows them, and then hands Jon the pack.
“You’ll need some too,” he says.
“I can’t swallow these without water,” Jon says, “I’m a pussy that way. Bad gag reflex.”
“There’s water over there,” I say and point at the workbench. My stomach clenches at the sight of the meat. “Can you cover that or something?”
Jon goes to the table and swallows the pills, taking a drink of water from a large gallon jug. He brings it over and hands it to me.
“I’ll do better than cover it up,” Jon says as he goes back to the meat, grabs it, and tosses it on top of Pa’s body. He covers him with a moldy tarp from one of the basement shelves. He stands there and whispers a few words and then nods, looks up at the ceiling, nods again. “Amen.”
“Amen,” Stuart repeats.
“Amen,” I say more out of superstition than any spiritual need. Plus, I have no desire to really send his soul along in peace. Jon and Stuart weren’t here. They didn’t see them, hear what they said, know what they’d done. What they were going to do. He can rot in fucking hell, thank you very much.
“I don’t hear them anymore,” Jon says.
“That means they are good at what they do, not gone from the house,” Stuart says. “They’re either figuring out how to take us or have decided this house is a good place to hole up in until morning.” Stuart looks around the basement then at me. “It is a g
ood house to hunker down in. It’s how we found you. It looked like the right house.”
“That and the screams,” Jon says.
“Those helped,” Stuart says. “Get some rest, Jace. We’ll need you at your best in the morning. We may be doing a lot of running.”
“I’ll try,” I say.
“To rest or run?”
“Both,” I nod.
I lean back and close my eyes, but all I can see is Elsbeth’s laughing face. My eyes shoot open and I see Jon watching me. He cocks his head and I shake mine.
I don’t expect to sleep much at all. Who would?
That’s the last thing I remember until Jon is shaking me awake. I look about and see the basement door open and Stuart gone. I start to speak, but Jon puts a finger to my lips. Then I hear them.
Engines. Big engines.
“Okay, kiddies,” a voice booms from above. Someone has their very own PA system. “You are in there and I would like you not to be. I’ll count to ten, because I’m generous and nothing gets done in five, and then you have to come outside. Arms up. Weapons down. This is something you have to do. Have to.”
“Guys,” Stuart says from the door and waves us over.
Jon still has to help me, but the rest must have done me some good, because I feel stronger than before. We follow Stuart upstairs. The sun is just starting to make an appearance and the front room of the huge house is bathed in pink dawn light. There’s no sign anyone stayed in the house. They must have gone for reinforcements because outside the front window, I can see two huge dump trucks, backed up to the front yard, their tailgates pointing at us.
“I’m at three now,” the voice booms. “Oh, did you think I was going to countdown for you? Why would I do that?” The voice laughs. “That would ruin all the fun.”
The dump truck beds start to lift and the tailgates open. And out come the Zs. Lots of Zs. Like a whole lot of Zs. I would be safe in saying a shit ton of Zs.
Jon and I stare at the Zs, and then cringe as red liquid is sprayed up on the porch, the front windows, the whole house.
“They’re baiting us,” Stuart says. “That’s blood. The Zs will go insane and be in here in minutes.”
“Upstairs?” Jon asks.
Stuart turns and looks at him, puzzled. “Why? You think Zs can’t climb stairs? It’ll just prolong the inevitable.”
Stuart walks past us and we follow him into the kitchen. He looks out through the window over the sink into the sprawling backyard. He sighs. We look too and see men and women wrangling Zs into the backyard, baiting them with hunks of meat. I don’t even want to know where they got the meat. Sucks to be bait.
“Now what?” Jon asks.
Stuart goes to the range and turns one of the knobs. It’s not much of a surprise that the burner flicks to life and blue yellow flames dance before our eyes. As we all know from Whispering Pines, apparently the gas stays on in the zombie apocalypse. Stuart blows out the flames, but keeps the gas flowing. He does the same to all of the burners then opens the oven and gets that gas going.
“Let’s hope the basement will hold,” Stuart says. “This is a pretty old house, which means it wasn’t built by the lowest bidder. Should be strong.”
He starts to tear up a kitchen towel and soak it in olive oil. He ties strip after strip together and pushes us towards the basement door.
“Get down there and get secure,” he says as he closes the door. He pulls a lighter from his pocket and stuffs the oil soaked rags under the door. “To put it in terms you understand, this is going to suck.”
“I’d also understand it if you made booming noises and flashed your hands in the air,” Jon says.
“That would work for me too,” I say. “How much suck, exactly?”
“Big suck,” Stuart says and flashes his hands in the air while making a booming noise. Another joke? Will wonders never cease?
He sets the lighter next to the cloth. We don’t wait to watch him light it and hustle down the stairs and into the farthest corner.
“Should we cover ourselves with something?” I ask.
“Yes, let’s pre-pile the debris,” Jon replies. “Good idea.”
“Asshole.”
“Dickhead.”
“Get down!” Stuart cries as he runs down the stairs.
He’s halfway across the room when all hell breaks loose above us.
Chapter Four
“Get up,” I say as I shove debris from Jon. “Come on. Gotta go, gotta go.”
“Ugh,” Jon grunts as he shoves me away and struggles to his feet on his own. “Are we alive?”
“We are,” Stuart coughs from behind me. “And we have limited time to use our distraction.” He points at a shattered basement window by the top of the wall just above us. “Out. That way. Now.”
He staggers a little, then shakes his head and pushes past us.
“You okay, Stuart?” I ask.
“No one is okay in this Hell,” he snarls as he grabs the sill and heaves himself up and through.
I can see a large wet mark on his lower back, but he is out the window and turned around, his hand extending to us, before I can see how bad he’s wounded.
“Hold on,” I say and look about. The bat. I don’t want to leave it behind and have the neighborhood girls laugh at me because I’m not cool like them.
“Hoss!” Jon calls taking Stuart’s hand and is helped up and through. “What the hell?”
I take a second to look at Elsbeth’s bat. And as much as I hate to admit it, hers is better. Bigger, sharper spikes set more solidly than mine were in SS.
“I dub thee, The Bitch,” I say as I run/limp to the window.
They both reach for me and I’m out of the basement of death and breathing semi-fresh air for the first time in a long time. Stuart motions for us to crouch and follow him around to the front.
“Seriously?” Jon asks, looking at the bat.
“Don’t mock The Bitch,” I smile.
“You are one fucked up dude,” he grins.
“Shut it,” Stuart hisses.
We get to the corner of the house and peer around. Stuart’s plan took out half of the fucking mansion! Zs and bikers lie everywhere in various states of death and woundedness. Men and women are running about, their eyes wide with shock. The bullhorn guy is shouting orders, his bullhorn forgotten and dangling from his hand, pointing at the mansion and waving his hand left and right, trying to organize his people in the face of fiery chaos.
“Good job,” I say as I clap Stuart on the back.
“Job’s not done yet,” Stuart says and stands up and walks right into the chaos.
Jon starts to call to him, but I grab his shoulder and shake my head. Barely anyone notices Stuart as he walks to the closest dump truck. The few people that do look at him, he just snarls and barks orders at; they turn and run, not willing to get in trouble. Stuart is up and in the dump truck, its bed open and holding pieces of flaming debris.
Bullhorn looks over at the truck as the engine roars to life. He watches it back up and turn, coming straight for us. His eyes go wide and he lifts the bullhorn to his mouth, but all that comes out is ear-splitting feedback. He throws it aside and begins to shout and scream, pointing at the dump truck that is almost to us.
Bullhorn is not what I thought he’d look like. Dressed in an immaculate (or was before things went boom) double-breasted suit, his hair is pitch black and slicked back on his head. A long, sharp nose, and piercingly blue eyes, he looks more like an older male model than the guy in charge of these crazies. As Stuart comes to a halt and the passenger door opens, Bullhorn’s eyes meet mine. I want to puke, shiver, and cry at the same time.
“Holy fuck,” I say as Jon and I climb up and jump into the dump truck’s cab.
“What?” Jon asks as Stuart puts the truck into gear and guns the gas.
“I just saw evil,” I answer, “like with a big E.”
The dump truck clips the corner of the mansion and we hear boards and br
ick cracking. Then we hear the gunfire. Bullets ping off the metal beast and we duck our heads. Or Jon and I duck our heads, Stuart is cool as cucumber. Doesn’t even flinch as the sounds of ricochets get more and more frequent.
He glances into his side mirror and turns the truck to the left, taking something out. We hear a scream and a small explosion. I’m guessing one less motorcycle, and rider, to deal with.
Then Jon and I grab the dashboard, bracing ourselves as Stuart heads straight for a line of cedars.
“Uh, Stuart?” I say. “The trees? The trees! THE TREES!”
“Fuck the trees,” Stuart says as we plow through them and into the next yard. He slams his foot down on the accelerator all the way, heading for the wrought iron fence across the huge lawn.
“Okay,” Jon says. “Fuck the trees. Fuck that fence. Fuck the roads.” The ping of bullets echoes in the cab. “And fuck those bullets! Fuck it all!”
“Language, Padre,” Stuart says as we hit the wrought iron fence and rip it from the ground.
A huge chunk is twisted up over the grill and hood of the truck, but it doesn’t slow us. Stuart keeps going, demolishing a white picket fence then a hedge of fire bushes. More cedars, some junipers, and we are out on a side street. Stuart whips the wheel to the left and slams against a Honda sitting halfway across the road. The little Civic never stood a chance.
Stuart casually pulls one of his pistols (the motherfucker is still fully armed where I only have The Bitch and Jon doesn’t look like he has anything, not even his pack) and starts firing through his side window. Two motorcycles drop as their riders take slugs to their chests. He steers us around a rolled over pickup, and then hops the curb into the front yards of the row of houses, avoiding the other vehicles blocking the road.
I look about and realize we are on Kimberley Ave. On our right, set behind the yards we are driving through, is mansion after mansion, huge fucking houses that lookout across the street at the Grove Park Inn and its long dead golf course. I look out Stuart’s window and am amazed to see people lining the balconies of the Grove Park.
“Look,” I say and point. Jon follows my gaze and even Stuart risks a glance.
“The Grove Park has a new owner,” Jon says. “You think it’s Wall Street back there?”
