Z-Burbia: A Zombie Novel (8 page)

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.”

“Dick
head.”

“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 he
ar boards and brick 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 pistol
s (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?”

“You mean Bullhorn?” I ask.

“I prefer Wall Street,” Jon says. “Anyone can have a bullhorn. Then it gets confusing.”

“Why do you get to name him?” I ask.

“Shut the fuck up,” Stuart says. “Padre is right. Wall Street is best.”

We demolish a stone fountain and bits of rock and sludge water splash up against the windshield. Stuart casually turns on the wipers, smiling slig
htly when washer fluid comes squirting out.

“It’s the little things,” he says quietly. We nod in agreement.

We get to Farrwood Dr. and Stuart hooks a right. The street is pretty clear, so he keeps to the asphalt. We can still hear motorcycles, but they are a ways back.

“Where
are we heading?” Jon asks.

“Campus,” Stuart says.

“The fuck we are,” I protest, “that’s Z central, man!”

“We’d have had to go there if this mission really was about batteries,” Stuart says.

“Which would have been a quiet mission,” I say. “Three guys creeping along, taking care not to wake the undead co-eds.”

“You know of a better route?” Stuart asks as we cross Merrimon Ave and
up Edgewood. Stuart downshifts to get us up the hill. We crest it and he hits the gas as we speed downhill. “If you do, then I’m all ears, Jace.”

“Jesus,” I say, knowing he’s right. “We can hit the field behind the athletic training center. Then cut down to
251.”

“Why not head to the meadow?” Jon asks. “Ditch the truck up there and use the path to get through the razor wire and ditches.”

“Because we want this thing,” I say. “Right, Stuart?”

“Right,” Stuart says.

“Something I need to know?” Jon asks. More ricochets and part of the side mirror by Jon is torn off. “Fuck these guys! Give me your pistol!”

Stuart hands it over without taking hi
s eyes off the road. Jon leans out the passenger window and starts firing. Stuart glances in his side mirror and frowns.

“You’re missing,” he says. “Stop that.”

“Shut up,” Jon replies as he takes aim and squeezes the trigger. I hear a crash then a whump as the motorcycle goes up in flames. “How’s that?”

“Still two more,” Stuart says, taking a hard curve to the left before having to take an immediate right. Jon and I slam into each other, our heads knocking together. “Quit fucking around and fire.”

“You suck,” I say as I rub my head.

Jon leans back out and
hits another biker as the guy comes around the corner. We wait, but the third motorcycle is nowhere.

“Lost the last one,” Jon says
, “must not have been good enough to take those turns.”

“You were saying?” Stuart says as we watch a motorcycle fly off the hill to our right, directly in front of us.

It is a spectacular stunt, and everything kind of goes in slow motion as the guy, still in the air, aims his pistol right at us. Jon and I open our mouths to scream, but bring our arms up to cover our face instead, as the world goes back to regular speed and the truck nails the motorcycle in midair.

The rider tumbles across the hood, his clothes on fire from the burning gas of the motorcycle. He looks at us, shocked and confused. Then looks around at his situation.

“Hey.” Jon waves as he leans out the window and puts two bullets in the guy’s face.

Stuart is happy he gets to use the windshield wipers again.

We take another hard right and the truck struggles up the next hill as the engine starts to make a loud banging noise. Ahead is the University of North Carolina-Asheville sports arena (Go Bulldogs!). To our right is the road to the athletic training center. To our left is a horde of Zs, probably a hundred strong.

“Oh, crap,” I say, looking past Stuart. “Homecoming committee is here.”

“Go team?” Jon says. “Can we go faster now?”

“The truck didn’t like eating that motorcycle,” Stuart answers.

“I don’t like getting eaten,” Jon replies. “We could get out and run faster than this thing!”

“Speak for yourself,” I say, my wounds reminding me that running isn’t
at the top of my options.

“We’ll make it,” Stuart says
, “I want this truck.”

“Why?” Jon says. “Not like we can go joyriding in it! And it makes a shit ton of noise! Every time we start it up it’ll bring the Zs, so why keep it? We might as well park it in front of the gate and leave it there!”

Stuart glances over at Jon.

“What?”

“We won’t park it in front of the gate,” I say. “We’ll park it on one side, blocking Hwy 251. Then when they come for us, we’ll only have to worry about the other side of the road.”

“Oh, good idea,” Jon nods. “Wait…when they come for us?”

“Wall Street,” Stuart says. “This shit ain’t done yet. Trust me.”

The horde of Zs is almost too us. I can actually make out the logos on some of the kids’ clothes. Popular brands pre-Z. But this ain’t no Benetton ad. This is real life and the kid
s are really just one color of dead grey.

“Move, move, move,” Stuart says as his hand rhythmically slams against the steering wheel.
The Zs get closer and we can hear their moans over the engine. “Come on!”

“MOVE!” we all shout.

The truck crests the hill and Stuart aims for the sports center. He tries to steer around the building, but we’re blocked by a long steel bar across the access road. The brakes squeal and we stop.

“Rock, paper, scissors?” I ask.

“I’m on it,” Jon says as he opens the door and jumps from the truck. He sprints to the bar and pulls on it, trying to swing it out of the way, but it won’t budge. “Rusted!”

“Can’t we ram it?” I ask.

“9-11,” Stuart says.

“Not following.”

“It looks harmless, but after 9-11, shit like that was reinforced.” He looks at his side mirror. “We hit that and the already groaning engine will be toast.”

“Shit,” I say as I hop down from the truck too.

I limp over to Jon and we both start shoving against the bar. We can feel it start to give, but it’s not fast enough. Behind the truck, the horde gets closer and closer. We shove more, putting our whole bodies into it. No dice. Just a creak and a cloud of red dust from the hinge.

“We’ll have to figure something else out,” Jon says. “We’re out of time!”

Stuart shakes his head and we hear the truck’s gears grind. Then the thing starts moving in reverse with Stuart looking at his side mirror. The dump truck plows into the Z horde and squashes about twenty of them before Stuart pulls forward again.

It gives us a minute longer and we use that to our full
advantage. Jon and I get our hands against the bar and dig with our legs. It creaks, it groans, metal on metal shrieks, and then finally, it starts to move out towards the truck. Just as we get it clear, Stuart hits the gas and starts rolling quickly. Jon jumps into the cab and reaches for me.

I catch his hand and am almost up when I slip, my legs dragging on the ground.