Z-Burbia Box Set | Books 1-3 [The Asheville Trilogy]

by Bible, Jake

  “Get moving,” Elsbeth says, “Now.”

  The sisters are cutting a path to us, and Stuart and Elsbeth are fighting harder than ever to meet them. But I can barely move. My entire right side is in agony. With every step, I think I’m going to die. All I have to do is breathe and the sensation of a trillion huge needles stabs into my shoulder, my side, my chest.

  I fall to my knees.

  “Long Pork!” Elsbeth shouts. “Move!”

  “I can’t,” I say. “Go. You know I can’t really stay with you.”

  “Get up, asshole!” Stuart yells as he runs back to me. “Stop being a drama queen!”

  “I’m not!” I shout back, which brings on another round of KILL ME NOW pain. “I’m dead already, man!”

  He stops and looks at me.

  “What the fuck?” he asks as Elsbeth decapitates two Zs that lunge at us.

  “He’s been bit,” she says. “He’s dead.”

  “I’M ALREADY DEAD,” Platt says, “get out of here.”

  The struggle on Antoinette’s face is obvious and Platt smiles up at her as he grabs onto the ladder that led down into the massive pool in the Biltmore House basement.

  “Go help your sister,” he says. “Save yourselves. I’m going to get this down in there and wait it out. If what John has said is true, Atlanta is going to blow this soon.”

  “You don’t know that,” Antoinette says.

  “I don’t,” Platt says, “but I have to plan for it.”

  He gets to the bottom and takes a few deep breaths as he unslings the pack with the dirty bomb and sets it at his feet. He reaches up and Antoinette drops him a pistol that he catches with barely a bobble. Even wounded he’s the soldier he was trained to be.

  “What if they get past us?” Antoinette asks. “They’ll just kill you and take the pack back up top.”

  Platt aims the pistol at the pack and shakes his head. “They won’t get close enough. That’s why you have to go. Get as far away as you can, as fast as you can. You don’t want to be around here when this goes off.”

  Antoinette nods, turns, turns back, nods again, then runs out of the pool room. Platt watches her go then pushes the pack along with his foot, too exhausted to bend down and pick it up.

  THE FIRST BULLET ENTERS Stacy right above the right breast. Her body twists, but she keeps her feet and lashes out with her baton, crushing the man’s skull that holds the smoking pistol. The second bullet hits her left thigh and that takes her down. Her knee slams into the concrete of the Biltmore House’s main entrance and she grunts, but doesn’t cry out. She won’t give them the satisfaction.

  The third bullet hits her in the throat just as Antoinette makes it upstairs and gets to the massive doorway. Stacy is hit again in the chest, dead center, and her body spins about. Her eyes meet Antoinette’s and then glaze over as her heart beats one last time. She falls forward and collapses onto the floor, another body added to the dozens that she already killed.

  Antoinette screams, but doesn’t slow down. She grabs up a rifle and sprints past the entrance, pulling the trigger and emptying the gun into the men rushing at the house. They dance and shake as they are hit, but she doesn’t see them as she tosses the empty rifle to the ground and runs as fast as she can to the billiards room.

  Dashing into the room, she leaps and slides across the antique snooker table, and hits the ground running. Her hand reaches out and she slaps the wall, triggering yet another hidden door. In she goes and takes the small set of steps that leads down to the servant’s quarters.

  She’s down the steps and still moving, hurrying past educational displays of what life was like for the people that used to work the estate during its glory days. She doesn’t stop to look at the plastic fruit or empty milk cans; she doesn’t give two shits about history right now. Her future is all she cares about

  She finds the back doors where suppliers used to make deliveries and lowers her shoulder, slamming into the old wood and snapping the chain that secures the doors. The clean air of summer hits her face as she runs from the house out towards the fields beyond.

  She hears shouts and gunfire and knows she’s being pursued, so instead of running down towards the river, she turns and heads for the front of the estate.

  And the field of undead still standing.

  “YOU STUPID FUCK!” STUART yells as he drags me to my feet. “You were trying to die, weren’t you?”

  “Maybe,” I say as he pulls me along.

  The sisters have cleared us a path and are busy keeping it clear as Stuart yanks me along, his fist lashing out at the random Z that get’s past the women.

  “You selfish son of a bitch!” he shouts.

  We reach the truck and Critter is hollering for us to get on since we’re wasting gas. Stuart shoves me into the ladder and I cry out, but I climb up, not wanting to take anymore shit from him. I get to the top and Stella is glaring.

  “I got it moved,” I say. “For Charlie.”

  “It was a suicide mission,” Stuart snarls from behind me. “He was bitten and has been hiding it.”

  “What?” Reaper asks. “Jace? What happened? What haven’t you told us?”

  “It was back at the Biltmore,” I say, tears filling my eyes. “A Z bit me.”

  “God,” Reaper says. “What symptoms do you have?”

  “My shoulder is black and fucked up,” I say. “There’s pus and shit. I can barely move it.”

  “I knew something was wrong, but thought it was just the stress,” Reaper says. “What else?”

  “What do you mean?” I say. “I was bitten, man!”

  Reaper’s eyes narrow. “Let me see.”

  “COME ON!” Critter yells from the cab.

  “Go,” Elsbeth says, “they’re on the ladder.”

  Critter puts the truck into drive and gets us moving. I grab onto the rail as the machine lurches and give everyone an apologetic smile.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Reaper says, “what else? What other symptoms?”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s been two days,” I sigh, “I could turn at any second.”

  “Let me see,” Reaper says and reaches for my shoulder. Elsbeth grabs his hand. “Seriously, El?” She lets go.

  He flicks open a knife and cuts the shirt away from my shoulder. An intake of breath whistles through his teeth as he sees the mess that is my shoulder. I watch his eyes, noting how they study the wound. I’m ready for him to give me that knowing nod that everyone gets when they are told they will die.

  But I don’t get that nod. Instead, his face scrunches up, pissed.

  “You fucking moron,” Reaper says as he probes the wound with his fingers, “it didn’t even fucking break the skin!”

  “What?” I cry from the pressure he’s putting on my shoulder. “But look at it! See the holes? See the pus? Fucking pus, man!”

  I look down and can see how black and puffy the whole area is. The pain is beyond intense and I know he’s wrong. I’m a dead man standing.

  “The Z fucking shattered your clavicle,” he says and smacks me across the face. “You have a fractured collar bone, dipshit! And the bone fragments have dug through your flesh and it’s infected! Jesus, you fuck! You aren’t dying from a fucking Z bite, you’re dying from fucking blood poisoning!”

  “What?” I whisper. “Wait...I’m still dying?”

  “Unless I can dig out the fragments and cut out the infection,” Reaper says. “And we can get you on some antibiotics.”

  “Critter has plenty,” Elsbeth says and looks into the cab. “Don’t you?”

  “Plenty, little lady,” Critter says. “And don’t hit me for callin’ ya that. It’s a term of endearment.”

  “You get us to your place now, Critter Fitzpatrick,” Stella says, her eyes filled with fire. “You stop for nothing, you hear me?”

  “That’s the plan, ma’am,” Critter says.

  “DON’T STOP, DON’T STOP,” Antoinette sa
ys to herself as she weaves and dodges through the sea of staked Zs.

  Black blood spurts around her as the pursuing men fire shot after shot in her direction. But she ignores it as she reaches down and grabs up spikes on the run, tossing them aside without slowing down.

  Zs that have been staked in place for years are suddenly free. And so very, very hungry.

  She sees a specific Z up ahead and aims right for it.

  “Here ya go, Cecil,” she says as she sets the zombie free, pausing just long enough to give the thing a smile. “Eat up.”

  She takes off again and in a matter of minutes, Antoinette is lost to her pursuers. Changing directions, she circles back around and down to the barn with the kayaks.

  Only a few minutes more and she hears the screams as the Zs finally get to have dinner.

  “Good for you, Cecil,” Antoinette whispers. “Good boy.”

  “I ADVISE YOU STOP RIGHT there, gentlemen,” Platt says from the bottom of the pool, his pistol pressed against the pack. “Just turn around and leave. I have zero intention of letting you take this.”

  Six men crowd around the doorway to the pool room, all armed to the teeth. They look ragged and malnourished except for one man. He steps forward and raises his hand as he crouches slowly and sets his rifle down.

  “Just want to talk, Master Sergeant,” the man says. “I’m Terry Logan. Can I call you Platt? Will that work?”

  “Don’t bother, buddy,” Platt smiles. “You can talk all you want, but I know what I have to do.”

  Logan pulls a phone out of his pocket and holds it up. “If you won’t listen to me, will you listen to my boss? She’s a fair lady. In fact, she’s the mother of a friend of yours. Carly Thornberg? You know her as Elsbeth.”

  This gets Platt’s attention and he eyes Logan carefully. “Don’t know who you’re talking about. So how about you turn around and leave? I’m blowing this pack no matter what, so I’ll give you five minutes.”

  “That’s all I’m asking too,” Logan says, walking down the platform to the pool ladder. “Five minutes. I’ll send my guys away and set a timer. If after five minutes you aren’t convinced then I’ll stand right here as you blow us all to Hell.”

  “Weapons down,” Platt says.

  “I’m unarmed,” Logan replies, lifting his shirt and turning about. He then lifts both legs of his jeans to show no backup pistol. “Let me bring you the phone and we go from there. That cool?”

  Platt thinks it over and then nods. Logan looks at his men and motions for them to leave; they do so in a hurry, none wanting to be radioactive dust. Logan carefully makes his way down the pool towards the deep end, but Platt turns his pistol on him.

  “That’s close enough,” Platt says. “Slide the phone to me.”

  Logan smiles and bends over, sending the phone sliding across the tile to Platt. Platt picks it up and looks at it for a second before putting it to his ear. He turns the pistol back to the pack, his eyes locked on Logan’s.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Platt, sir,” Camille’s voice coos. “It’s nice to speak with you since I’ve only seen you at a distance on security footage.”

  “It’s Master Sergeant Platt,” Platt says.

  “Right, yes, my misunderstanding,” she apologizes. “You know Mr. Logan there was in the Army. He was a captain pre-Z. I think you two would get along and find you have a lot in common.”

  “I’m not an officer, I work for a living, so I highly doubt we’d have anything in common,” Platt snaps. “Get to the fucking point, lady. I’m not up for chit chat.”

  “Fine,” Camille says, her voice ice and gravel. “I have no intention of detonating that bomb anytime soon, Sergeant. I simply need it to be in Asheville. You let Logan take it and put it where I want and you can go free.”

  “I doubt that,” Platt laughs.

  “You shouldn’t,” Camille replies. “I’ll let you go free and join your friends, wherever they may be. I lost contact with them after speaking to my daughter. And after they killed several of my people. Unfortunate, but emotions run high in the heat of battle. Being a long time soldier, I’m sure you know that. How long have you been in the Army, Sergeant?”

  “Twenty-five years,” Platt replies, “I’m retiring today.”

  “I should hope not, Sergeant,” Camille responds. “I believe you have a lot to still offer this world. Your skills will be invaluable during the coming months and years.”

  “You have two minutes, lady,” Platt says. “And so far you haven’t said anything to make me give a shit about you.”

  “That bomb is a deterrent, Platt,” Camille says, all pleasantries gone from her voice. “There is a war coming and it’s about to run right over Asheville. That bomb needs to be there as a buffer.”

  “A deterrent?” Platt laughs. “I don’t know if anyone has told you, but the apocalypse has already happened. There’s nothing to deter!”

  “You don’t know how wrong you are,” Camille says. “I plan on fighting for what is left. I plan on fighting for my daughter, whether she wants me to or not. I plan on fighting for those other young women, some of whom still have very influential families...living families... that would pay anything to know where they are. As long as there is leverage, Platt, there is still society. It isn’t over yet.”

  “One minute left,” Platt says, “and I don’t give a shit. Tell me all you want, but this bomb is going off in about fifty seconds.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” Camille says. “May I speak to Logan first, please?”

  “Sure,” Platt says, “knock yourself out.”

  Platt tosses the phone towards Logan, but the man ignores it and instead drops and slides down the pool to Platt. Before the Master Sergeant knows it, he has a knife buried to the hilt in his gut.

  “You could have gotten out alive,” Logan says. “You had a choice.”

  Blood bubbles from between Platt’s lips and he grins.

  “You had a choice too,” Platt coughs and splutters. “But you chose to bring a knife to a bomb fight.”

  Platt pulls the trigger and there is nothing but light.

  THE GROUND SHAKES HARD and Antoinette is thrown off her feet and into the water. She coughs and chokes as she takes a mouthful of the French Broad, but she spits it out, gets her footing and wades quickly to the kayak that is slowly floating away. She climbs in and grabs up the paddle.

  Behind her, America’s largest home crumbles in on itself. Flames reach high into the air briefly before several tons of old concrete and brick collapse upon the conflagration, leaving nothing but black smoke.

  Antoinette paddles as hard and fast as she can, knowing that what is in that smoke may not kill her today, but it will kill her at some point. And that death will be slow and painful. She digs with all her strength and is soon shooting down the river, her eyes watching the riverbanks for gunmen, but all she sees are the dead.

  The thousands and thousands of dead.

  THOSE IN THE HAUL TRUCK don’t even notice the tremor from the Biltmore explosion. It’s hard to notice anything when crushing cars and trucks while speeding as fast as possible down I-40.

  “He’s not going to make it,” Stella sobs. “Please, Reaper, Alex, do something. You are a medic; you’ve treated wounds like this, right? You’ve had to deal with people blown apart by IEDs, right? Right?”

  “He’ll make it, Stella,” Dr. McCormick says. “He’s a strong young man. If he wants to live then he’ll live.”

  Reaper doesn’t say anything as he studies Charlie’s wound and looks at all options.

  “You don’t know that!” Stella shouts at the doctor. “You fixed assholes, not bleeding chest wounds!”

  “Hey, hey,” I say as I hold her tight. “This isn’t her fault.”

  “It’s okay, Jace,” Dr. McCormick says. “I don’t take it personally. I’d do anything to be dealing with colonoscopies these days. Compared to the zombie apocalypse, assholes look pretty good right now.”

&
nbsp; “I’m sorry,” Stella says. “I’m sorry. It’s just that he was so brave. He was our hero. He can’t die.” She looks up at me, her pained filled eyes nearly ripping my heart out of my chest. “You would have been so proud of him, Jace. He took over when Red was hurt and just started driving the truck.”

  “Who’s Red?” I ask. Dr. McCormick gives me a look. “Right. Never mind. Wait, when did Charlie learn how to drive a stick?”

  “I don’t know,” Stella says, “but he was amazing.”

  “That Patel girl,” Critter says from the cab as the truck crushes another stray car, along with a few dozen Zs. But those numbers are dwindling and the ride gets smoother as we get further from Asheville. “They were always tooling around the Farm together in an old semi.”

  “Never knew that,” I say. “So he was the hero of the day?”

  “He was!” Stella cries, her voice wavering between a mother’s pride and a mother’s fear. “Then he did the unthinkable, Jace! He shot down one of those helicopters! Shot it right out of the sky!”

  “Damn,” I say.

  “Got a chest full of metal for his trouble,” Critter says. “Ain’t fair. Not that I believe in fair, mind ya, but that shouldn’t happen to a good kid like your boy.”

  “Critter?” Reaper says. “How much further? I need you to go as fast as possible.”

  “I’m doing that,” Critter says. “But we don’t have enough gas to get us all the way. Don’t you worry none, ‘cause I have my men coming this way. Gonna meet us at the bottom of the hill.”

  “What’s wrong, Reaper?” Stella asks. “Is it the blood loss? I’ll give him my blood.” She looks at Dr. McCormick. “You did that before with Jace and Stuart. Hook me up! He can take all of my blood!”

  “We don’t have the equipment here,” Reaper says. “We need to get him into surgery ASAP. That’s his only hope.”

  I look down at the still form of my son, covered in his own blood, his skin pale white. You live in the zombie apocalypse and you brace yourself for all kinds of things, especially the deaths of your loved ones. I’ve gone over a million scenarios in my head of how my family would die. But not one of those scenarios involved a crazy hunk of a helicopter rotor sticking straight out of Charlie’s chest.