Z-Burbia 5: The Bleeding Heartland (15 page)

“Whoa there, Hoss,” I cry. “I can see God’s intentions! I totally see them! He’s intentioning all over me, dude!”

“I don’t think so, Jace,” Kelvin sighs again. “I don’t think so.”

He pulls up his stool and leans in close. I start to thrash about, but the dope in my system is still working enough that all I do is twitch a bunch. But I know it’s worn off to the point where I’ll feel that ice pick’s point. Too many points! TOO MANY POINTS!

“Hush,” Kelvin cringes as my words echo in the dark room. “It’ll be over before you know it.”

The ice pick starts moving in slowly, deliberately, as Kelvin keeps his hand steady and calm. I think he’s done this before. The little light in this room glints off the metal of the pick, and I realize that glint is the last thing my right eye will ever see. Fuck me.

The ice pick is less than a millimeter from my cornea when a loud knock at the door makes me scream. Okay, I was already screaming, I’ll admit that. The knock really just turns my scream into a startled squawk. Kelvin hesitates as another knock comes, even louder. He rolls his eyes, like this is some joke between us. It’s not. Not a joke. I know jokes, as we have established, and this is not one of those.

“What?” Kelvin calls over his shoulder as he leans away from me, taking that ice pick with him.

I stop screaming. It’s the courteous thing to do when someone removes an ice pick from your cornea.

The door opens slowly, and a man peeks in.

“Where’s Maury?” Kelvin snaps. “He should be coming to me, not you.”

“Sorry, Kelvin,” the man replies, his eyes going to the ice pick in Kelvin’s hand. “I, uh, well, Maury sent me.”

“For a specific reason, I assume,” Kelvin says.

“Yes, exactly,” the man nods. “The storm is about to hit us hard. The snow is coming down fast, and the wind is picking up. Maury suggests we all seek shelter in the Tomb for the night until we know how bad it is. He’s moving supplies in there now. Most of the women are inside.” The man’s eyes finally leave the ice pick and meet mine. “His daughter is still with Dr. Stenkler. Maury wants to know if she should stay up top or if he can move her as well.”

“He can move her,” Kelvin says. “Is the storm really that bad?”

“Yes, Kelvin, it is,” the man replies. “I’ve lived around here my whole life. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it look this bad. We could be down in the Tomb for a couple days.”

“Well, then, thank Maury for me, and tell him to plan accordingly,” Kelvin says as he sets the ice pick on the cart. “Also tell him I will need some men to help transport Jace here to the pit.”

“Oh, you so suck,” I say. “Sending a one armed man into the pit? You just can’t play fair, can you?”

“There is nothing fair about our destiny, Jace,” Kelvin says. “Fair is a concept created by man to argue against the Will of God.”

“Tell that to a two year old,” I say.

“With you, Jace, I think I may be,” Kelvin says.

“Funny,” I smirk.

“I’m not joking,” Kelvin says. “You are a child, Jace. A spoiled child that refuses to listen to the Father.”

“I also hate broccoli,” I reply.

“Do you?” Kelvin asks.

“Uh ... no, not really,” I respond. “That was a joke.”

“In so many ways,” he says, which makes no sense to me.

Kelvin looks at the man at the door. “Anything else, Jeffrey?”

“No, Kelvin,” the man says, and ducks out of the room pretty fucking fast.

“I can’t put my finger on that one,” Kelvin says. “He has been around for as long as I can remember, but has never warmed up to me. Too much fear, and not enough faith.”

“Kids, man,” I reply.

“Shut up, Jace,” he grumbles. “Our time is done, and your usefulness is at its end. I’ll place you in the pit, and you can decide your own fate, although we both know it is up to Him and not you.”

“Again, I’m going to have to call dick move on sending a one armed man into a pit filled with zombies,” I say. “Bad form, sir, bad form.”

“Perhaps,” Kelvin shrugs. “But you may get lucky and bump into your friends down there. I have a feeling your strange brand of luck might shine in that darkness.”

His last few words echo in my mind, but I can’t quite grasp why. We just stay as we are, him sulking, me trying to not freak out. Then a sudden realization slams into my brain, and I gasp so loudly that Kelvin jumps a little.

“Dear Lord, what is wrong with you?” Kelvin asks, taking a step back. “You are truly troubled.”

“You said my light may shine in the darkness,” I say. “Exactly how dark are we talking about when we talk about this darkness you talk about?”

“You do ramble so,” Kelvin says. Then that Reptile Jesus smile comes back with a vengeance. “But, to answer your question, I am talking about total darkness. It is a coal mine, after all. And I see no reason on wasting energy on lighting a place where the unjust are sent to contemplate their actions and behavior. That would not be a good use of resources.”

“Son of a bitch,” I say. “How the hell can anyone fight Zs if they can’t see them?”

“People figure it out,” Kelvin says. “Many do survive.”

“Many?”

“Well, perhaps not many. More like some,” Kelvin replies. “A few. A handful. Now and then.”

“Now and then,” I whisper. “Awesome.”

“Being in the presence of God’s plan is always awesome, Jace,” Kelvin nods, that Reptile Jesus smile like a blinding strobe light of assholeness. “As you shall see very soon.”

***

Fucking A, it’s motherfucking cold! Holy shitballs, people! I thought I knew cold, but when a couple of Maury’s goons yank me from Kelvin’s holy cluster of anointed trailers, I fucking learn what cold really is. Shit fuck!

The wonder dope has my muscles all wobbly, so I can’t really walk on my own, and since Maury’s men won’t give me a piggyback ride, I’m sort of dragged along between the two guys. The snow is several inches thick from the first storm, and is coming down so hard and fast that it’s piling up as we cross the compound towards the mouth of the Tomb. I have snow in my boots and it sucks.

“You ever fought biters in the dark?” one of the men asks.

“Sure” I reply from between chattering teeth. “Not pitch dark, but I’ve had more than my fair share of midnight encounters with Zs.”

“This ain’t no full moon fight, mister,” the other man says. “You can’t see your hand in front of your face down there once the lights are turned off.”

“Well, I only have the one hand,” I say.

“What’s that got to do with it?” the first man asks.

“I have half the chance of seeing a hand when I only have one,” I say.

“That’s not right,” the other replies. “It doesn’t matter how many hands you have.”

“Really? Oh, okay, then I should be able to see just fine,” I chuckle. “Thanks, guys. Good talk.”

“What the hell are you babbling about?” the second man asks. “We just told you that you won’t be able to see a thing once the lights go out.”

“Right, sorry, I’m a little confused,” I respond.

“Yeah you are,” the first man says. “You won’t be confused when the biters get ya, though. You’ll be dead.”

“Or undead,” the second man says. “They only eat ya until you die, then they walk away and let you comeback as one of them.”

“How nice of them,” I say. “Those Zs are so gracious. But instead of walking away, they should work on maybe a gift basket or welcome sign. I have been around this apocalypse since the beginning, and I have to say that the Zs’ social skills are sorely lacking. It’s common courtesy to do a little something for newbies. A friendly note on a plate of cookies, or even just a big smile and a pat on the back. I’ll see what I can do when I get down there. This could be good for everyone involved.”

“This guy has lost his fucking mind,” the first man says.

“Hey, no cursing,” the second man says. “It’s foul and goes against God.”

“Oh, don’t give me that crap,” the first man says. “You know Kelvin is just playin’ us, right? Not that I care. We get a warm bed, plenty of food, and a little slice of sweetness when we’re good. Better than that dead end job I had before the biters came along.”

The second man stops, forcing us all to stop, and looks past me at the first man. I wouldn’t mind if they addressed each other. That way I could have a couple names to use instead of “first man” and “second man,” but, alas, they do not let me in on their monikers.

“Shut up,” the second man says to me before turning his attention back to the first. “You know I should report you to Maury for saying that, right?”

“What? You’re buying Kelvin’s Voice of God crap?” the first man asks.

“I am not buying anything,” the second man says. “I am just receiving the truth from a man that has shown us the way in this wicked world.”

“A thesaurus is what you guys need,” I say. “You all keep using the word wicked like it’s the only one available. There are plenty of other words that mean the same thing-.”

“Shut up,” both men say.

I do. Mostly because it is becoming hard to talk while my teeth chatter. I wouldn’t mind if they started walking again, even if it means getting closer to my time in the pit. But the pit sounds like a warm blanket compared to this motherfucking cold snow that is all down my back and in my pants. Did I mention I no longer have my heavy coat? Nope. That puppy is long gone.

“Shut up!” the second man shouts, and clocks me in the face with his elbow.

“You weren’t supposed to hit him,” the first man says. “Maury said not to hit him. I’ll keep quiet on that if you keep quiet on what I said.”

“There is no keeping quiet in the eyes of God,” the second man says. “But I won’t tell Maury. Your faith is between you and the heavenly Father.”

“Are you Mormon?” I ask.

“What?” the second man responds. “Mormon?”

“Yeah, they call God the Heavenly Father,” I say. “That’s like their official handle for Him and shit.”

“I’m not Mormon,” the second man replies. “I’m Methodist.”

“That’s totally not the same thing,” I say.

“No, it’s not,” the second man says, and starts walking again. Yay for movement!

The first man falls in step, and the mouth of the Tomb gets bigger and bigger as we get closer and closer. Soon it looms over us, and then we are swallowed whole, like slimy oysters down a yuppie’s throat.

No, wait, I don’t like that analogy.

Soon we are swallowed whole, like tadpoles in a snapping turtle’s jaws.

Nope, that one sucks too.

Soon we are swallowed whole like krill in a baleen whale’s, uh, baleen. Is that what you’d call that? Baleen? Or is there a name for the filter stuff those whales have? There has to be. No way it would just be called baleen. Maybe it is. I don’t know, really. I’ll need to look that up when-.

“SHUT UP!” the two men roar, and I get an elbow from each of them.

So, we get inside the Tomb, and it is all I have ever dreamed it would be. Black and dirty and dark and miserable. Woo-fucking-hoo. Can’t wait to see the pit.

Chapter Seven

I could have totally waited to see the pit.

No, seriously, I could have waited my whole life to see it. Or, better yet, I could have gone my whole life without seeing it. That’s the best scenario, right there. Just not seeing the pit.

Once inside the Tomb, the men aren’t as gentle as when we were out in the feet deep snow and freezing wind. I’m made to stand on my own, which takes pretty much all of my willpower, and navigate the swirling bustle of activity that is the main entrance to the Tomb.

People are scurrying about left and right, carrying boxes and mattresses, bags of food, and stacks of blankets. Men are shouting at women to hustle, and the women are just taking it, keeping their heads down, going about their work with deep frowns on their faces, and their eyes averted. More than a few of the women keep to the sides of the mine, making sure there is plenty of room between them and the men. I don’t blame them; I can see how the men are leering at them.

You see, this is what happens when you separate the genders, man. The men get all worked up, and then as soon as they are around the ladies all they do is think with their dicks. Like that guy there. He’s totally staring at that young woman in the ugly white sweatshirt with cats all over it. He might as well just whip out his wang and announce he wants to put it in her.

Hold on, I know that young woman.

“GRETA!” I shout, and her head goes from being bowed to snapping upright, her eyes searching for me in the throng. “GRETA!”

For one split second, Greta almost drops the bundle of towels in her arms, and rushes at me. Her left foot is moving forward, and I can see the tension in her shoulders start to give. But the sudden attention my yells bring on us means that pretty much everyone is watching to see what we’ll do.

What I do is fall flat on my face as I catch a shotgun butt to the middle of my back. What Greta does is control herself and move closer to a group of women that are closest to the mine wall. She burrows between them, and they close ranks quickly, whether to shield her from her wicked, wicked father that is bleeding from a gash on his forehead (I’m talking about me) or to shield her from the increasing amount of attention she’s getting from some of the men. Either way, I am almost grateful for that little slice of protectiveness, even if it means absolutely nothing in the grand scheme of this crazy place.

“Get your ass up,” the first man says as he kicks me in the ass.

“That’s not helping,” I say as I try to push up with my arm, but my muscles just don’t want to behave. Reptile Jesus’s whacky juice is still doing a number on me.

“Get up,” the second man says. “Get up, or we make you get up.”

“Uh, you guys making me get up might speed this along,” I say as I kind of scootch my knees under me so my ass is in the air. Only problem is it makes me dizzy, and I end up with my forehead pressed against the coal black ground. And that’s not just a description, that’s the truth. My forehead is actually on ground that is truly coal black. Funky. I thought that color only existed in boxes of crayons.

“The way I’m going to make you get up is by going over to that new girl and taking her right in front of you,” the first man says. “Is she your daughter? Is that it? She’s pretty. Kelvin hasn’t promised her to anyone yet, has he? I should probably try her out and let the other guys know what they’re in for. It’ll be good for the rest of the women to see. They need reminding about who is in charge here. It sure ain’t them.”

“Go fuck yourself instead,” I say. “The whole post-apocalyptic rapey thing is old, man. Did all you crazy fucks forget how to masturbate or something? Just whack off, and let the ladies alone, okay? None of them want your hairy, little wieners anywhere near them. I bet you haven’t washed down there in like months. You probably smell like old bologna that’s been set out in the sun. Hey, that’s it! I’ll call you Oscar and your buddy here I’ll call Meyer! I love it when inspiration hits! Now the bologna dicks have two names!”

Then I focus all my strength into my right leg and kick back as hard as I can. Meyer cries out as my boot nails him right in the shin. Then Oscar’s boot nails me in the ribs, and I’m tumbling over on my side.

I look about quickly, and see the women pulling Greta away from the violence as fast as possible. There’s a young woman at my daughter’s side that looks familiar, but I can’t quite place her. Is she one of ours? Are there more of the Asheville convoy folk here than just Critter and Stuart? That would be good and bad. Good, because misery loves company. Bad, because that means I have to figure out how to save more people than just Greta, Stuart, and Critter.

“You ain’t saving shit, asshole. Her name is Tara,” Oscar says as he grabs me by the neck and yanks me up on my feet. Oh, right, Tara. The tea and biscuits girl. “You’re going to the pit and that’s that, motherfucker.”

There are quite a few gasps from the people around us, but no one vocally objects to Oscar’s cursing. That’s probably wise since the guy is just a hair ticked off at the moment.

So, the pit. Let’s move right along to that fun hole of funny fun fun.

Oscar single handedly carries, drags, pushes, shoves, and kicks my ass through the winding tunnels of the Tomb and down to a weird, ramshackle set of stairs. The stairs just sort of show up in the side of one of the tunnels. They twist and turn in on themselves as they take us down deeper into the Tomb. Before I know it, the world is plunged into pure blackness. A blackness I have never experienced before. Oscar and Meyer weren’t kidding about that.

We finally stop, and Oscar shoves me against the wall, his hand clenching my throat in a way that says, “Move, and I snap your fucking neck, Chatty Kathy.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Oscar growls. “I’m the one that tells you not to move, you stupid idiot.”

“Ignore me,” I say.

“That’s the plan,” Oscar says as suddenly I’m blinded by light so bright I think I feel my skin start to photosynthesize. Wouldn’t that be a trick?

After a few blinks, I’m able to see that the pit is exactly as Kelvin described it. It’s this vast depression in the floor of the mine that goes on forever. There are boulders and stone columns, piles of various sized rocks, and more than a few Zs. Hell, why be modest? There are a fuck ton of Zs!

“Kelvin wants to give you a shot at surviving,” Oscar says. “I’d rather see you get your face eaten off right now. Guess which option you get?”

“While your scenario is so welcoming, I’m hoping for Kelvin’s,” I say. “A shot is way better than getting my face eaten off. But that’s just me. I can’t speak for everyone you toss down here.”

“Yeah, you’re getting your shot.” Oscar grins, then punches me in my bad leg.

That’s an official ow, right there. Like some serious, serious ow. In fact, the ow is best expressed with this poem: MOTHERFUCKING ASSHOLE PRICK FUCKING DICK FUCKER BITCH TURD NICKEL!”

I’m rather proud of ending with turd nickel. That’s creativity, bitches!

“Shut the fuck up,” Oscar yells as he shoves me off the steps’ landing and into the pit proper.

Needless to say, the Zs take a liking to my presence, and all come to greet me with open arms. And open mouths. Open mouths that drip gooey gunks and stuffs.

I try to scurry back from them, but between the Reptile Jesus cocktail, which is still hanging on tight, and the ow in my leg, I’m not doing so well with the scurrying.

Not that I have to.

The pit gets really fucking warm, really fucking fast, as a jet of fire roars above me and streams down on the approaching Zs. I look up, and see Oscar with a flamethrower attached to a large barrel, tucked away in the corner of the stairs’ landing. He works that hot magic back and forth, back and forth, until only a couple of Zs are left standing. Those two just kind of bump up against each other as hot bits of dead flesh drip from their bodies.

Good times.

I can see a few more Zs stumble out of the darkness, drawn by the action, noise, and amazing aroma of cooked Z, but Oscar doesn’t bother with them. He just sets the flamethrower aside, and glares down at me.

“That’s your head start, asshole,” he says, standing at least six feet above me. “Better get your gimp ass up and use it. Those new biters are gonna be all riled up by the time they get to you. And once the others stop burning, it’ll be darker than a witch’s colon in here.”

“Is that a thing?” I ask. “A witch’s colon? I haven’t heard that one before. Oh, and I doubt it’s a good idea to use a flamethrower in a coal mine. Coal burns, ya know.”

Oscar just shakes his head, glances at the moaning, shambling Zs coming my way, then slams a gate closed on the landing, pretty much blocking any chance I might have of climbing out. He looks down at me and flips me off, then turns, and is gone from my sight. I guess setting the mine on fire really isn’t much of a concern for him. Oh well.

“I’ll miss you, bologna man!” I call after him. “Don’t forget me! I won’t ever forget you!”

Okay, well I’m sure glad he’s gone. He was such a fucking bummer, right?

Then the lights go out, and all I’m left with are burning Z corpses to see by. I kinda wish Oscar was back now. I’d call for him, since I have no pride, but that would just bring more Zs. And I have plenty to deal with as it is.

Okay, Jace, time to get up off your ass, and get to work.

I get up off my ass. No, I don’t. I do try, though. Oh, how I try.

One arm, bad leg, no weapon, and hopped up on goofballs is not how you want to be when thrust into a pit where there seems to be an endless supply of hungry Zs coming out of the dark. Add the oppressive stench of the still smoldering Zs, and it just keeps getting better.

You can do this, Jace. You can so fucking do this. You’ve been in worse situations. You’ve been captured by cannies. Stuck in a dump truck with Zs crashing through the window. Chased by motorcycle crazies (oooh, how I hate motorcycle crazies!). Nearly blown up, lost an arm, again with the captured by cannies, made to run some psycho gauntlet. Oh, and I can’t forget the Whispering Pines HOA. That was probably the worst of the apocalyptic experiences. Zs, cannies, and crazies are one thing, but I draw the line at bureaucrats.

I get my one hand under me and push, which gets me to my knees. Okay, knees are good. I push again and favor my good leg, and actually get upright. If you count hunched over and gasping for breath because of the daggers of fun shooting through my bad leg. I count it. They’re almost the same thing.

I can hear more Zs coming. The fires still flickering from the Z corpses cast shadows across the infinite black of the pit’s walls behind me. It’s like shadow puppet theatre, just with things that want to eat my face. And my guts. And my legs. And my ass. Okay, they want to eat all of me. But who can blame them?

I’m one tasty Jace.

So ... the Zs.

I straighten up and clench my teeth against the pain. First thing to do is try to maintain my light. I hobble over to one of the Zs that’s been burned down to almost nothing, and wrench off a leg. With the right amount of twisting and force with my good leg, I’m able to get the blackened femur free. I snag some strips of cloth from a different Z, rub those in bubbling fat from a whole other Z right next to it, wrap the strips around the femur, and stick it into the flames of yet another Z.

Zs are our country’s greatest resource! And they’re renewable!

The Zs moan and groan, and I realize I’ve been talking out loud again. Not good when dealing with flesh-eaters attracted by sound.

First thing accomplished (Z-fat torch), now for the second thing. A weapon!

One problem: I only have one hand. Gonna be hard to carry the torch and wield a weapon. Some might say impossible. I would be one of the some that says impossible. Shit, I can’t hold a book and wipe my ass at the same time when I go to the crapper, how the fuck can I carry a torch and fight off Zs?

So I scrap the second part of my plan, and learn to be happy with the first part. At least I’ll see the Zs coming before they overwhelm me and devour my succulent, supple, oh so delicious innards.

What? It’s my story so I’m gonna sell myself. No one wants to hear about a guy that tastes like one of those savory Jell-O molds with celery and green olives in it. Yuck.

I raise my torch and limp my way to the right, hoping to flank the oncoming undead. But after a few dozen yards I realize that they don’t call this place the pit for nothing. I’m not reaching a side wall. I keep going and going and going. Still no side wall, just more of that inky black darkness.

Now, for the silver lining. The Zs aren’t gaining on me. I know they can see my light, which attracts them, but not as much as sound, yet they don’t seem to be in a hurry. They just shamble along, taking a nice, leisurely stroll through a coal mine. No worries, no hurries. This is good.

I clench my teeth as my foot hits a large rock, and pain reverberates up and down my bad leg like a cymbal crash from a middle school band. Middle school band parents will understand that reference. It’s painful. Trust me.

The torch keeps burning, but I know it’s gonna give at some point. Little drops of Z-fat follow behind me like the Devil’s breadcrumbs. I’m not exactly covering my trail as I go. But I am hoping I’ll find one of those outcroppings Reptile Jesus talked about. If I can scramble up onto one of those, then I can take a second and figure out exactly what my situation is.