Z-Burbia: A Zombie Novel

by Bible, Jake

  “They’re making a herd,” I say. “They are weaponizing the Zs.”

  “Weaponizing? What for? There’s no one to fight. Are they gonna use the Zs against other Zs? Zs don’t fight each other. This doesn’t make sense.”

  “Sure it does,” I say, tired of looking down into the lake of undead. I roll over onto my back, which makes my leg feel better, and look up at the blue sky above us. “Resources are finite. That includes armaments. If you wanted to lay siege to a place, you’d need a lot of resources to do it. You have to have more resources than the place you are laying siege to. You have to be able to wait them out.”

  I turn my head and see Jon watching me, waiting for me to go on. I do.

  “But in this day, no one can afford to waste all of their resources at one time. The key to survival post-Z, is conservation of resources. So you look for a resource that is not only plentiful, but renewable. And the only resource like that anymore is?”

  “Zs,” Jon replies. “You don’t mean?”

  “Yep,” I answer.

  “They are coming for us,” Stuart says. “I didn’t know it before, but I know it now. When I saw that lake empty and those guys building the wall around it, I figured at first it was for us.”

  “That they’d come and take Whispering Pines and throw us in there,” I say.

  “Yeah,” Stuart nods. “But the more I thought about it, the more it didn’t make sense. Why keep us alive? They’d have to feed us and give us water. It goes back to a waste of resources.”

  “You knew we’d find this?” Jon asks. “And you still brought us here?”

  “I had hoped we wouldn’t find this,” Stuart says, shaking his head. “And I didn’t want to bring you. But after talking with Brenda-”

  “Who else knows?” I ask.

  “No one in Whispering Pines,” Stuart replies. “Unless Brenda told someone. I told her I’d keep it secret until everyone absolutely needed to know.”

  “So you talked to Brenda and she changed your mind about coming back alone,” I say.

  “She said that you two would be the best to bring and help figure this out,” Stuart nods. “Padre here can look and see what the structural integrity of the wall is. Maybe find some weak spots. Maybe see if it has a dual purpose.”

  “Dual purpose?” Jon asks. “Like what?”

  “I don’t know,” Stuart says. “That’s one of the reason you’re here.”

  “And I’m here why?” I ask. “You have always known I’m full of shit and just winging it, Stuart. You’ve never come out and said so, but I’ve guessed that you don’t think very highly of my position in Whispering Pines.”

  Stuart looks at me for a long time. Long enough for me to grow uncomfortable.

  “I’ve stopped trying to figure you out, Jace,” he finally says. “You don’t fit any mold I know of. I’m a military man and I like everything to fit perfectly. Everything in its place and all that. But you are all over the place.”

  “Thanks?” I smile.

  “You can seem like the laziest asshole in Whispering Pines, but then you show these bursts of creativity and industry, and all of a sudden, we have a new innovation in the neighborhood. Wi-Fi communication. You spearheaded that. The gate structure. That was you. And the razor wire and fencing is quite possibly the simplest, most genius use of natural topography I have seen.”

  “I didn’t come up with any of that,” I say. “Those ideas have already been invented. I just put them into use.”

  “No, what you did was search through that wild, information hoarding brain of yours and found solutions, and then,” Stuart said. “And post-Z, solutions are as valuable as bullets.”

  “More so,” Jon says. “You can run out of bullets. There’s always a solution.”

  “Not always,” Stuart says. He points towards the lake of the undead. “But I’m really hoping there’s a solution to that. I’m counting on it.”

  We watch the lake for a long while, each lost in our thoughts. Unfortunately, this internal focus screws us. I know Stuart’s senses are tuned to pick up anything coming for us. He has a sixth sense about danger. But no matter how well trained he is, he never sees this coming.

  “There is a gate,” Jon says and we look over at him.

  I don’t see the problem at first, but Stuart does. He grabs the binoculars away from Jon’s face and shoves back from the edge.

  “Move! Move!” he hisses.

  “What? What is your problem?” Jon asks.

  “The reflection, you moron!” Stuart says, standing up and hurrying down the stairs. “They saw the damn reflection off your binoculars!”

  “How do you know they saw it?” I ask as Jon and I follow him down to the street.

  The sound of motorcycle engines revving up answers my question.

  “Fuck,” I say as we follow Stuart across the street and up a muddy incline. “Fuck fuck fuck.”

  Chapter Three

  I lied to Jon, obviously. My leg isn’t right as rain. It hurts like a motherfucker, and I know I only have so much in it before I fall behind. There’s a stabbing pain where the spikes pierced my flesh and I have to wonder if there wasn’t something on the metal more than just dirt. Did that crazy little bitch poison me?

  Doesn’t matter. I have to shove the burning agony from my mind. I have to focus on Stuart and Jon scrambling hand over hand in the mud above. I have to pay attention to where I grab and where I set my feet. I can’t fall.

  But…

  Of course, I do fall. I feel my leg giving out just as I reach for a rhododendron root only inches from my hand. My leg slips and I swear I can feel the flesh around the wound tearing. Years of living in the zombie apocalypse keeps me from crying out, but also keeps me from alerting Jon and Stuart to my situation. I’ve slid halfway down the hill before Jon glances over his shoulder.

  “Stuart!” he hisses. “Jace is going down!”

  “Fuck,” I hear Stuart grumble just as he gets to the top of the hill. He looks down at me as I slide the last few feet back to the road. He raises his eyebrows; I shake my head. He nods.

  “Where are you going?” Jon screeches, looking up at Stuart and then down at me. “Stuart? We have to wait for Jace!”

  “Go,” I say, “go!”

  Jon begins to protest, but the sounds of motorcycle engines make his eyes go wide. I can see the conflict in those eyes.

  “GO!” I shout, waving him on. “I’ll be okay! Fucking go!”

  Stuart doesn’t even wait; he’s already gone.

  “You want to die too?” I say to Jon. The motorcycles are so close I don’t know if Jon can hear me over the engines. “Save yourself, dammit! FUCKING MOVE!”

  Jon hesitates, and then closes his eyes. I see his lips moving and I know he’s said a prayer for me. Then he’s scrambling the last few feet and up over the hill.

  So…on my own with some crazies heading in my direction. What to do?

  I take off my shirt and tear one of the sleeves off, pulling and tying it tight around my wound. The pain is excruciating. But it also does what I need it to do: clear my head and pump me full of adrenaline.

  I’d be lying if I said I was lucky enough to live the post-apocalyptic, suburban life without getting my hands bloody. Before we secured Whispering Pines, I had to make some hard choices and do some morally questionable things to keep my family and myself safe and alive. Most of us did. I think back on those first few weeks of Hell as I prepare for the motorcycles.

  SS in one hand, my pistol in the other, I pound my fist against my wound, over and over and over, letting the white hot pain drive me, change me, get me ready for-

  “THERE!” a man yells over the sound of his motorcycle, as he sees me standing in the middle of the road. Half his face is covered by goggles so I can’t see his eyes (why do these guys always wear goggles? Is it the cool thing to do?), but his mouth is twisted in a grin of blistered lips and snaggleteeth.

  I plan on helping him with his dental issues.
>
  He revs the engine and guns his bike for me. He pulls a machine pistol from his waist, but never has time to use it. The dipshit is going too fast and gets to me before he can pull the trigger, but not before I slam SS into his face. He flies off the motorcycle and the bike drives up the muddy hill and flips over, the engine cutting off instantly. I make note of where the bike is, but don’t waste time in finishing the guy off. Two hard whacks from SS and his face has less solidity than the mud behind me.

  Two more motorcycles crest the hill and fly at me. I lift my pistol and fire before they can do the same. I tag one rider in the chest, his shirt blooming with blood, and he tumbles from his bike. The second rider, a mad-eyed (no goggles!) woman, with a mass of tangled, matted hair, ducks to her right and avoids my shot. Not a problem. I duck under her arm as she swings a huge knife at my head and SS shreds her left leg as she tries to speed past me.

  Three down. Three motorcycles to choose from.

  Okay, quick admission: I’ve only ridden three-wheelers, four-wheelers and scooters. Never a motorcycle or dirt bike like the one the woman fell from. But no time like the present to learn, right?

  I grab her bike and swing my leg over. Of course, the ignition button doesn’t work. Looks like I’ll have to kick start the thing. With my bad leg. I wail on that foot lever and gas it until the engine catches and the motorcycle roars back to life. I briefly think about heading down the hill and towards home, but the sound of more engines means I have to go deeper into Asheville. Sucks to have your options taken from you.

  I spin the bike around and twist the gas. It takes all of my strength and balance not to topple right over. I get it under control and realize the engine is whining in a way it shouldn’t. Fuck, this thing isn’t an automatic. I haven’t had to hand clutch and foot shift since my three-wheeler days when I was twelve. But when your life is at stake, it’s funny what memories and skills come back to you. Like riding a bike.

  I shift into second and fly up over the hill, nearly missing the turn in the road. I lean into the turn and avoid plummeting down to Lakeshore below and the fence. With the guards. And the lake of the undead. Part of my plan is to stay as far away from all of that as possible. Not in the mood to put a pretty bow on my head and present myself as a gift to the crazies.

  I assume they’re crazies. They look like crazies (did I mention the stupid goggles?) and from their screams of rage and anger behind me, I’m guessing they really are crazy. At least these ones are. I have a sinking feeling that whoever is behind the organization and planning of the lake of the undead, isn’t so crazy. Well, maybe insane, since there’s, well, a lake of undead! But not the unstable crazy of the perpetually goggled motorcycle gang on my ass.

  I race down the long, twisting road until I’m suddenly spit out onto Merrimon Ave. The street is still clogged with cars from Z-Day. The bodies the Zs haven’t eaten lay half out of their vehicles, mummified and still. I crush the skull of what had been a toddler, as I kick my rear wheel out and fit my bike between a row of cars. I’m racing along, watching in front of me while also trying to keep track of my pursuers. I don’t know how many are after me, but one is too many in my book.

  I see ahead that a car is cutting me off and I hit the brakes. I slowly wiggle the bike between the car’s front bumper and SUV to my left. I just get it clear when I hear the shot and then the ricochet, as a bullet takes off the side mirror of the SUV. Then I hear more shots. I gun the engine and hunker down over the handlebars, as I turn left down Evelyn St.

  The street takes me deeper into the more affluent neighborhoods of North Asheville. On both sides, houses start changing from one and two story brick ranch style to two and three story brick and stone mansions. The yards get bigger and the abandoned cars get more expensive. I race past a Land Rover and really wish I had time to switch vehicles. My leg is not happy with my pitiful Easy Rider impression, and I’d much rather be escaping in a heated leather seat than on a Yamaha, whose shocks have seen better days.

  More shots and I see the bullets hit the asphalt in front of me. I would do that dodge and weave thing I used to see in action movie chases, but my leg won’t take it and I don’t have the control to pull it off. I’d just crash and break my neck. Which might be better and quicker than taking a crazy bullet in the back. But sometimes, you don’t get to choose.

  The street has become more and more choked with weeds and plants. It looks like someone’s “decorative” ivy has decided to move across the street, and I see a blanket of green ahead of me. I’m not too worried since I’m riding a dirt bike, which is supposed to be able to handle all types of terrain. Why worry about some ivy?

  Then I see it’s not really ivy so much as kudzu gone rogue. Covering the trees and stone mansions just isn’t enough for this overachiever of the plant world. Nope, Mr. Kudzu has to take the street too. But, no worries, right? I have a dirt bike!

  But a dirt bike, just like all motorcycles, has open wheels. No hubcaps on a dirt bike. Nothing to keep the kudzu from kicking up and wrapping itself like a tight, green ball inside the wheels as I speed over the greenery. I feel the pull and can tell I’m in trouble just before the bike is yanked from underneath me, and I go flying over the handle bars.

  I’m able to tuck my shoulder and roll, but that doesn’t help much. Even though I land in the kudzu, it does nothing against the hard asphalt beneath. I scream as I feel my right shoulder separate. The pain is white hot. Just like the pain from my leg as it slams into the ground. I watch the sky above me tumble past as I roll and roll, and then come to a spine-crunching stop against the (kudzu covered!) curb.

  Shit, I’m fucked.

  Four motorcycles are coming at me. They’ve seen what the kudzu can do to their bikes, so they stop just before it, grab their various weapons of chains and sledgehammers, machetes and sharpened rebar, and take a casual stroll towards me.

  “Oh, you gonna pay,” the lead biker snarls. His skin is so bad that he looks like a serious case of acne is trying to take human form. “You think you can spy and kill ours and not get fed?”

  Get fed? Does he mean they’re going to feed me? I am a little hungry. We never stopped to eat. But I don’t think he means that. I’m pretty sure he meant to say that I was going to be fed to the lake of the undead. You know what? Just because the world comes to an end, doesn’t mean we have to let our communication skills go. How did this dipshit speak before Z-day? I mean he couldn’t have been this stu-

  The kick to my ribs brings me out of my thought loop right quick. I guess my mind tried to take a vacation from the pain and forgot to tell me. Suddenly, they are all standing over me, their weapons raised and their lips back, showing their less than stellar dental hygiene. Take care of your teeth, people! The world is over, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t floss!

  Another kick brings me around again. Damn, mind! Stop trying to check out!

  “You hear me, meat?” the biker asks. “We are going to fuck you up and hurt you. But we ain’t gonna kill you. We’ll leave that to the flock.”

  “Flock?” I ask. “Of seagulls?”

  This makes me laugh. Nothing like some good old-fashioned sarcasm when facing death.

  They don’t get the joke and tell me so by lifting me up, punching me in the face, lifting me again, punching me in the gut, lifting me and kicking me in the nuts, lifting me- Well, you get the picture.

  This lift and beat routine goes on for a while. These guys are good. They keep me in agony, but don’t let me pass out. Stuart would probably applaud their professionalism. Then he’d rip their throats out. Man, I wish Stuart was here right now. He’d be a sight for sore eyes.

  “What you looking at, scrounge?” the main biker asks.

  This question confuses me. I’m not looking at anything, because both of my eyes are swollen shut. You know, the beatings and all.

  “Move along,” the biker orders, “this ain’t your concern. Be glad about that. We’re letting you live. Unless you want this to be your co
ncern? Then we co-”

  I don’t hear the rest of his words. I do hear gagging and choking. Very wet. Then the hands on my right side let go. I’m able to get my eyes open a slit and see the bikers spinning about, pulling out pistols and unslinging rifles. Then one by one, they drop. Blood pours from their throats. The shafts of crossbow bolts bounce and wiggle as the bikers take their last struggling breaths.

  So, if they are dead on the ground, then who is holding me up?

  I turn my head and see a beautiful, yet extremely dirty, young woman next to me. Her hand is on my upper arm and is surprisingly strong.

  “How are you doing that?” I ask. The look on her face tells me that my words actually sound like, “Hew uh ya duh det?”

  She cocks her head a little and smiles, as she looks me up and down. I try to smile back at her. Then I realize she isn’t holding me up. It’s the hand on my other arm that’s really holding my weight. I turn my head and see the opposite of the young woman. Sure, this person is just as dirty, but not a beautiful young woman. More of a grizzled, old man. With one eye, no hair, and half of the right side of his face flayed open and healed in a horrifying tangle of skin and tendons.

  “I can see your tongue,” I say. He just nods. I don’t think he understands me, but oh well.

  Then he smiles and I really wish he hadn’t. Smiling with only one intact cheek and half your face gone, is not flattering. Not in the least. I get over my shock at the grin and then wonder what he’s smiling at. I’m not really given the opportunity to find out, as the next thing I see, is his fist up close and personal.

  Then it’s goodnight, Jace, sleep tight.

  I dream of tacos.

  I can smell the crispy corn tortillas. I hear the sizzle of the taco meat in the pain.

  “Better stir that or it will scorch,” I say to the nothing of my dreamscape. The taco meat is stirred.

  Onions, cilantro, garlic, and then tomatoes. All it needs is some salt and it’ll be an amazing salsa. Fresh and refreshing. Yum!