Z-Burbia 2: Parkway To Hell

by Bible, Jake

  “We’re going to leave that up to your new Board Chairperson,” Platt says. “Best to keep some semblance of democracy.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” I say.

  We work our way through Asheville, our eyes watching the shadows between buildings, always alert for an attack. I finger the grip of a 9mm Glock that Stuart gave me. He says it has decent stopping power, but won’t be too much to handle with only, well, one hand. My only problem is getting used to my left hand as my primary. Dr. McCormick says that I’ll adapt quickly.

  Zs are here and there, but the numbers aren’t huge, even when we hit the center of town. Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of the fuckers shambling around, but not enough to present a problem. We drive around those we can and drive over those we can’t. Just no hordes to deal with.

  Which is fucking fine by me. I’ve had my fill of Z hordes for a while. Stumpageddon has too.

  “According to city records,” Platt says, “Asheville has three water treatment plants, 40 pump stations, and 32 reservoirs.”

  “Jesus, seriously?” I ask. “That’s a lot of infrastructure.”

  “Yeah, it is,” Lourdes says, turning down Hilliard St., “and I’m taking you to my guy to talk about it.”

  Platt laughs.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Look at you,” he laughs some more. “You don’t find it ironic that you killed the President of the United States, and now you’re being chauffeured around like you’re his successor?”

  “Yeah, I totally find it ironic,” I smile. “Want me to drive?”

  “Not particularly,” Platt says. “Not sure you’ll have the response skills needed.”

  “Stella can’t tell me to put both hands on the wheel anymore, at least,” I say. “So I have that.”

  “It’ll be hard to change music on your iPod while driving too,” Lourdes says.

  “Good one,” I laugh.

  “Here we are,” she says as we pull up to a guarded chain link gate. Two men roll it back and we drive through, parking next to a beat up looking trailer.

  A large black man, not fat, but large, like twenty feet tall and about six feet wide, comes out of the trailer, his hand up in greeting. Okay, he’s maybe closer to seven feet, but the fucker is tall.

  “Joseph Tennant,” the man says, offering his hand as I get out of the Humvee. “Call me Joe T. Everyone else does.”

  “Jason Stanford,” I say. “Call me Jace.”

  “Will do, Jace,” he smiles. It’s a warm smile, genuine. But knowing that he’s part of Lourdes’s crew means I won’t ever underestimate him. “Care to see where we’re at so far?”

  “Please,” I say.

  He walks around the pump station and points out the various parts. I’ll be honest and say most of it goes in one ear and out the other. I should be paying more attention, but there’s one problem: pain. I’ve been trying not to admit it, but losing an arm hurts. I have some painkillers I can take and they’re in my pocket, but I’m saving them for when it’s really bad. Dr. McCormick warned me not to get dependent and also that they are scarce, so use them wisely.

  We check things out and Joe T explains that he did six private tours in Iraq and specialized in infrastructure security. In order to keep that infrastructure secure, he had to know what was vital and what was not. He basically taught himself hydro-engineering. Nice.

  As we come to the end of the unbelievably detailed tour, Lourdes lays out the plan.

  “I have three man teams going out to each of the 40 pump stations,” Lourdes says. “They have instructions from Joe T on how to make sure they’re shut off.”

  “Shut off? Why?” I ask. “Isn’t the point to get the water turned on?”

  “It sure is, Jace,” Joe T says, “but how many people do you think thought to turn their faucets off as they were escaping zeds? Or how many pipes have busted and toilets started leaking over the years? We turn it all on at once and we’ll flood this city and the whole system will collapse.”

  “Right. Got it,” I nod, “one step at a time.”

  “Exactly, my man,” Joe T smiles. “We’ll start here, learn quite a few things, then take what we learn and apply it to the rest of the stations. It won’t be fast, probably take a couple years to work our way through every single one, but we’ll get there.”

  “So you’re here for the long haul?” I ask. “No reason to bail and head back to Charlottesville?”

  “My reasons died in Baltimore,” Joe T says.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too,” he nods. “But now I’m here and a good thing too, because y’all can use me.”

  “True dat,” Lourdes says, slapping Joe T on the back. “We’re off to Lake Julian now. Have you heard from Shumway?”

  “Yeah,” Joe T laughs, “he’s been busy.”

  “Zeds?” she asks.

  “Oh, yeah, plenty,” Joe T says. “Whatever it is about power plants, they seem to attract zeds like flies on shit.”

  “They do? You’ve seen it at other places?” I ask.

  “Every place,” Lourdes answers. “It’s weird.”

  “Then let’s go lend a hand,” Platt says, then looks at me. “Sorry.”

  “What?” I ask then look at my arm. “Oh, don’t worry, Stumpageddon doesn’t care.”

  They all stare at me for what seems like a very long time.

  “What? What did I say?”

  “Dude, did you name your stump?” Joe T asks.

  “Yeah,” I nod. “He has lots of names, but I settled on Stumpageddon, Lord of All Stumps.”

  “Dude,” Joe T says, shaking his head. “That is fucked up. And awesome. But mostly fucked up.”

  “White folks,” Lourdes laughs.

  “Kiss my white ass,” Platt says. “Don’t lump me in with Long Pork.”

  “Ah, man,” I sigh. “I thought we’d dropped that nickname.”

  “Not if you’re going to call your stump Stumpageddon,” Platt says. “And don’t expect me or any of my team to address it as such.”

  “You will all kneel before Stumpageddon!” I announce, raising my truncated arm.

  “I like this guy,” Joe T says. “I like you.”

  “Right back atcha, Joe T,” I say. “Now, where to next?”

  “Lake Julian,” Lourdes says. “The power plant.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I say.

  We get in the Humvee and Lourdes steers us back to Biltmore Ave. Heading south we see more and more Zs. Close to the train tracks, where Biltmore turns into Hendersonville Rd, we get stuck. A large horde has gathered and decides that surrounding our Humvee is a fun way to spend the day. I close my ears while Lourdes stops and Platt opens a top hatch and unloads on them. Using the mounted .50 caliber, part of the supplies Lourdes and the PCs brought with them, Platt mows down row after row of Zs.

  He drops enough that Lourdes can get the Humvee moving again. Undead crunch under the tires as we cross the train racks and get through Biltmore Village. I look to my right and see the entrance to the Biltmore Estate.

  “Stop,” I say, “stop the Humvee.”

  “We can’t stop right here, Jace,” Platt says. “We just got clear. We’ll be surrounded in seconds and have to start all over.”

  “What is it?” Lourdes asks. “What do you see?”

  “I don’t know,” I say as we keep going. “I thought I saw someone by the Biltmore.”

  “It was a zed,” Lourdes says. “Or maybe a stray survivor. We’re gonna be stirring them up as we search the city more.”

  “Yeah, could be,” I say. But I don’t think so. The way the person looked wasn’t like other survivors. He or she, I couldn’t quite tell, looked…clean. But it was a ways off. I’m probably not thinking or seeing clearly because of the pain.

  It’s a long drive down to Lake Julian and the power plant. We have to stop twice to get clear of Zs, and then a third time to refuel. Lourdes already has caches of fuel stashed throughout the city so her teams don�
�t get stranded.

  By the time we get to Lake Julian, my arm is on fire. I keep wanting to wring my hands together, but I can’t, even though I feel my other hand. That phantom limb syndrome? Yeah, it’s real. It wakes me up at night sometimes, the feeling like I have both arms still intact. Pretty much half my day is spent trying to scratch an itch that isn’t there. It’s infuriating.

  “You good?” Platt asks as we get past the power plant security and pull up in front of the main offices. “You’re sweating and it’s 45 degrees out.”

  “All good,” I smile.

  Platt and Lourdes exchange looks.

  “Come on guys, I’m fine,” I say, “just tired. It’s my first day out and about. Cut me some slack.”

  “Where’s it at on the scale?” Lourdes asks.

  “What scale?”

  “The pain scale,” she says. “I know a little something about amputees. You just lost your arm two weeks ago. You should still be in bed resting. Or at the very least chilling out on that giant back porch at the Grove Park. Not out here.”

  “Now you decide to tell me this?” I laugh.

  “I told Platt back at the Inn, but he said it was useless,” she replies. “You’d just fight and whine and still come with us.”

  “I don’t know about the whining,” I say.

  “I do,” Platt says, “you would have whined.”

  “Well, we’re here now,” I say, “let’s have a looksee.”

  The Lake Julian power plant is a coal-fired power plant, which I knew, but can be converted to natural gas with some work. A lot of work. Okay, I’m not doing it justice. It will take a metric fuck ton of work to convert the power plant. In fact, as I stand and listen to the man Lourdes put in charge of the conversion, it sounds like it could be like building the thing all over again.

  His name is Albert Shumway and he’s as short as Joe T is tall. This guy borders on being a Little Person. But holy fuck is he cut. It’s 45 degrees out and the man is wearing a tank top, showing off muscles that are on top of muscles and bullying the muscles they’re on top of. Crazy to look at.

  “We have maybe one third of the parts we need to start,” Shumway says. I quickly learn he does not like to be called Albert or Al. Shumway or go fuck yourself were his exact words, I believe.

  “Only a third?” I ask. “Where do we get the rest?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he replies, “at the power plant store? Do you mind popping on down there and picking me up eighteen new couplings for generator three? That would be swell, Mr. Stanford.”

  “It’s Jace,” I say, “and I get the point.”

  “Do you, Mr. Stanford?” Shumway asks. “Gee, great, now my problems are solved. Because you get the point.”

  “Shumway,” Lourdes warns, “stop being a dick.”

  “Why? Because this guy killed Mondello?” Shumway laughs. “Isn’t that called a presidential assassination? Shouldn’t he be hanged for that?”

  “There were extenuating circumstances,” I say. “Like the fucker needed to die. So I fucking killed the fucker with my bare hands.” I look at Stumpageddon. “And, oh, look! I lost one in the mother fucking process, you GOD DAM FUCKING OOMPA LOOMPA ON FUCKING STERIODS!”

  “Okay, we’re done for the day,” Platt says, grabbing me by the shoulders as I close on Shumway. The short fuck doesn’t even flinch. I’ll give him that. “Come on, Jace.”

  “What? Are we done here?” I ask, glaring at Shumway. “I haven’t seen the chocolate river yet! Or the everlasting gobstoppers! Aren’t you going to sing me a song with a hidden lesson, you ORANGE FUCK!”

  “He’s not orange,” Platt says, “you’re just pissed. And tired. And I’m going to have to deal with your wife when I get you back. She didn’t want you to go either.”

  “She’s not the boss of me,” I say as I collapse into the backseat of the Humvee, my arm throbbing and throbbing.

  “Seriously?” Platt says.

  “Okay, she is the boss of me,” I say. “But I can go where I want when I want.”

  “Seriously?” he says again.

  “Shut up,” I frown. “Take me home, Jeeves. I’ll be late for tea.”

  “You are one crazy fuck,” Lourdes says. “No wonder you’ve survived this long.”

  I don’t really remember much of the ride back. There was some shooting and some yelling and then a bit of speeding through the streets as we dodged around quite a fucking herd of Zs. But then we’re at the Grove Park Inn and it takes all of my strength to get from the Humvee and up to the suite.

  The next thing I know, Stella is shaking me awake.

  “Jace? Baby? Wake up,” she says, “we have to go to Whispering Pines.”

  “Already?” I ask. “But I just got back.”

  “That was fourteen hours ago,” she says. “You slept through everything.”

  “That explains why my bladder hurts and my belly is growling,” I say. “I need a piss and some food.”

  “They taste the same here,” Greta says. “Someone needs to learn how to cook around this place.”

  “The food is fine,” Stella says.

  “I could do better than these hacks,” Greta replies.

  “Then go do better,” Stella snaps.

  “Really? Can I?” Greta asks.

  “You go for it!” I say. “And while you’re at your new career, how about you rustle me up some ham and eggs?”

  “Dad, I’m not going now,” she says.

  “Then you are worth nothing to me,” I say. “Begone! Stumpageddon commands it!”

  “Oh, God, not this again,” Greta says and walks out of the room.

  “Stumpageddon will not tolerate your insolence!” I shout after her then look at Stella. “Is she coming with us?”

  “No,” Stella says. “Thank God. She’s been a brat all morning.”

  I get up, get dressed (with some help) and follow Stella downstairs. Quite a few of my fellow Whispering Pines homeowners are waiting for us. Most of them haven’t seen me since I’ve come out of quarantine and I get a few friendly smiles, but mostly just cautious nods as we get loaded up in the caravan and head out.

  The way to Whispering Pines has been cleared since I last drove it. I don’t know who was in charge, but they did a great job. No cars or debris block the road, and we only have to take out maybe a dozen Zs. Nice. Jace likey.

  Julio is waiting for us at the main gate into Whispering Pines and he waves us through, then makes sure the gate is secured before hopping on one of the vehicles for the ride up to the Church of Jesus of the Light.

  “Preacher Carrey isn’t having a fit over this?” I ask.

  “Oh, he is,” Stella says, “but Julio and Elsbeth had a chat with him and he calmed down quickly.”

  “Does he still have all of his fingers and toes?” I laugh.

  “It was touch and go, but, yes, he still has all of his fingers and toes,” Stella says.

  We get inside and walk to the large meeting room we used to use for all of our regular HOA meetings. Preacher Carrey isn’t anywhere in sight, which is nice, but Brenda Kelly is front and center, which sucks. She’s busy talking to the other members of the Board, but stops when she sees us. In her waddling way, she stomps over to us.

  “I just want to go on record and say that this vote is not legal under the covenants of the HOA,” Brenda says. “Elect whomever you’d like, but it will not be binding. Once the residents realize their mistake, you can bet I will take my position back immediately.”

  “What? You think you’re going to lose, Brenda?” I smile. “That’s not a very positive attitude, now is it?”

  “You can go to Hell, Jason Stanford,” she snaps, turns, and waddles away.

  “You handled that well,” Stella says.

  “I thought so,” I nod. “Shall we take our seats?”

  We do and wait as the residents staying at the Farm show up. By the time everyone is settled I have to grit my teeth against the pain. Fucking Stumpageddon! Always t
urning on me at the most inappropriate times. Bastard.

  “I call this meeting to order,” Brenda says, “under extreme protest.”

  “Noted,” someone on the Board says. Fuck if I care who. My arm hurts.

  “This irregular meeting has been called to elect a new Board Chair,” Brenda says. “So I’d rather not drag this out forever. If you’d like to put forth a nomination, then please stand and do so now. You are welcome to nominate yourself, but you will need a second.” Her eyes lock on me. I wave Stumpageddon at her. I think she gags a little.

  “You ready?” Stella asks me. “Jace, can you do this?”

  “I can,” I nod. “I’m fine. I’m ready. Let’s make this happen.”

  I stand up and clear my throat. I hurt like a mother fucker, but for this I can push the pain away. I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time.

  “As a resident of Whispering Pines, I’d like to nominate,” I say, “my wife, Stella Stanford.”

  Brenda’s eyes go wide. “You…what?”

  Yeah, she wasn’t expecting that.

  “I second,” Stuart says.

  “Me too,” Melissa says.

  More voices add to the seconds. I guess they become thirds and fourths and shit?

  “Fine,” Brenda says, “Stella Stanford has been added to the list of nominees. Is there anyone else?”

  The room is quiet.

  “Okay,” Brenda says, “then I’d like to officially nominate myself. Who will second?”

  The room is quiet.

  “Excuse me? I am nominating myself. I will need someone to second the nomination. You don’t have to vote for me. It’s just common courtesy.”

  The room is quiet.

  Brenda loses her shit.

  “People! I have served you well for years! If not for me, many of you would be dead! I deserve, I EXPECT, A SECOND! SOMEONE WILL STAND UP RIGHT NOW AND SECOND MY NOMINATION!”

  Nope. Not happening.

  “So what now?” I ask.

  “WHAT NOW?” she screams. “NOW…NOW…now…now…”

  “Damn,” Stuart says, “she’s broken.”

  “Now…,” she says as she sits down, “we vote.”

  “Do we need to?” one of the Board members asks. “There’s only one nominee?”