Z-Burbia (Book 2): Parkway To Hell Page 14

  “How the fuck do you know that?” Harlan asks. “How many times have you come here?”

  “I’ve been a few,” Stuart says. “So have some of Leeds’s team. Between us, we’ve figured out a schedule. They’ve stuck to it until today.”

  “What do you think it means?” Harlan asks.

  “I don’t know,” Stuart says, “but it’s strange. There must have been a disruption somewhere.”

  “Like all that damn gunfire?” Harlan laughs. “That the disruption you’re looking for?”

  “That could be,” Stuart says. “But it can’t just be that. Something else is going on.”

  “We gonna find out?” Shep asks. “Or we gonna go check out Charlotte St?”

  “Both,” Stuart says. “The entrance is easier to observe if we come at it from Charlotte.”

  “Yeah,” Harlan agrees. “But we could take Country Club Dr and go up the back way.”

  “More patrols that way,” Shep says. “Right?”

  “Right,” Stuart says, thinking it over. “No, we go Charlotte. See what the dust up was over. Then to the Grove Park.”

  “Lead the way,” Harlan says.

  Stuart does.

  ***

  The sun beams down on John as he kicks back in the deck chair, his feet up, and a cold beer in his hand. He hasn’t caught a thing all day, but the fact that he’s on leave and away from Fort Bragg for a few days makes up for that. He’s happy just to enjoy the gentle rocking of the small boat on the intercoastal waterway as he sips his beer and watches the swaying of the fishing pole locked in place. Gulls fly overhead, making strange, low noises, but again, John is just happy to be somewhere that isn’t overrun by Zs.

  By Zs?

  He sets his beer down and shields his eyes. Why would he think of Zs? He’s on leave, enjoying some much needed rest and relaxation. Zs aren’t his problem. Then more gulls fly overhead and the sounds coming from them chill John’s bones. Gulls don’t moan. They don’t hiss and snarl. And are they getting louder?

  He starts to stand up, but the gentle rocking of the boat turns into some seriously rough rocking, and he falls back on his ass. Pain shoots out from his shoulder and he glances down, surprised at the blood blooming through his t-shirt.

  What the fuck? Is there a storm coming? He crawls to the side of the boat and looks into the water. It is completely still and calm, not a wave. Yet the boat keeps rocking. He starts to look away then realizes the reflection in the water isn’t of his face. The face staring back at him is missing one eye and most of its nose. And it isn’t alone. More faces stare back at him, their mouths opening, timed with the sounds of the groans and hisses.

  John scrambles back from the side, his hands frantically searching behind him for his pack and his cell phone. He has to call this in. Something is very wrong in the North Carolina outer banks. Crazy sounding gulls? Dead people looking at him from under the water? What the hell?

  His hand finds his pack, but something finds his hand. He looks back over his shoulder as a shadow passes over him. Looking up, against the sun, he can barely make out the features of the person that has taken hold of his arm.

  “What the hell is going on?” John shouts. “Who are you?”

  The person leans forward and John wants to scream. The face that is pressing close to his doesn’t have any flesh; nothing holds its jaw on except for a couple strands of dry tendon. Its tongue is black and swollen, coated in wiggling maggots that squirm off of it and fall onto the boat’s deck. John finally does scream as he sees the thing’s eyes.

  Eyes he has seen in the mirror every single day of his life.

  Still screaming, John bolts awake, thrust back into the true nightmare of real life. Panicked, he looks around, realizing he’s still in the SUV, surrounded by Zs, with a shoulder that, while no longer literally on fire, fucking hurts like it.

  Oh, and the SUV is rocking back and forth rather violently as dozens and dozens of Zs try to break inside to get at John’s living tastiness. The windows are holding fine even with the pounding they are taking from the Zs due to the bulletproof glass they are made from. John is pretty sure the SUVs are reinforced, so he doesn’t think there’s any way the Zs can get to him. But that doesn’t solve the problem of being surrounded by the undead without any supplies. He forces himself to move and search the vehicle, but he comes up with nothing; not even a canteen of water. Which he so desperately could use right now.

  “Fuck,” he croaks, his throat raw and dry. Then he looks at the undead faces. “I thought you guys would have left by now.” He figures he must have been making noise in his sleep, which kept the Zs interested. That and the smell of his burning flesh.

  The sound of his voice just eggs them on. The Zs double their attack, clawing over each other as they catch sight of him inside. He tries to slide down in the seat and rest in the shadows of the fading evening light, but it doesn’t make a difference. As long as one Z sees him and shows interest, then they all will. Zs aren’t known for their independent thinking abilities.

  There is one thing John is happy about: all the ammunition he has. He knows that when the time comes, he can shoot his way out of the SUV. He has no idea how far he’ll get, but he doesn’t have to die trapped if he doesn’t want to. No, he has lots of choices. Such as dying out in the street, or making it to a house and dying there, or possibly being picked up by some of the private contractor fucks and dying in a brutal firefight.

  He is busy thinking through his next move, separating the full magazines from the partial ones, when he stops and cocks his head. The light outside the SUV has almost completely faded, so it’s hard to see, but John swears there’s movement out there. Movement not very Z-like. He picks up the highly modified M4 rifle he snagged from a dead PC and slaps a magazine home.

  Some of the Zs start to hiss loudly and turn from the SUV, their attention drawn to whatever is out there. John keeps the rifle butt pressed to his right shoulder, glad that it’s his left that is wounded. Well, not really glad… He watches carefully, tracking the changing behavior and movements of the Zs. Soon most are gone from the SUV and John can hear the distinctive sounds of skulls being crushed and bodies dropping to the pavement.

  The sun has hit the crest of the mountains and the bright sunset glare nearly blinds him as he tries to make out what is happening outside the tinted windows of the SUV. Not all of the Zs have left the vehicle; some just refuse to give up, knowing the prey inside is theirs for the picking if they could just get in.

  But even those drop and John takes a deep breath and slowly, very slowly, lets it out as his finger lightly touches the trigger of the rifle. A light knock at the driver’s window, makes John turn quickly, ready to fire.

  “Hello?” a voice calls quietly, trying not to draw more Zs to the SUV. “Is someone alive in there?”

  John knows that voice, but can’t quite place it.

  “Hey! Whoever is in there, don’t shoot!” the voice says. “I’m going to open this door and check on you. Just hold your fire, okay?”

  John is about to place the voice when the door opens. He readies himself and is one squeeze away from blowing away the head that looks inside.

  “Fuck me, Stuart,” John says, “am I glad to see you.”

  John lowers his rifle and lets out a grateful sigh.

  “John? What the fuck?” Stuart asks. “How’d get yourself stuck in here? And what the fuck is that smell?”

  “Needed a secure place to pass out,” John says, nodding his head towards the mess that is his left shoulder. “Had to perform some emergency surgery.”

  “Smells like you cauterized the wound,” Stuart replies, his nose crinkling even more from the stench. “Damn, soldier, that takes guts.”

  “I was passed out until you showed up,” John says. “I was about to make my move when you took care of the Zs for me.”

  “Yeah, you were,” Stuart laughs. “No offense, but you wouldn’t have made it ten feet before they would have taken you dow
n. At least in the state you’re in now.”

  “No offense taken,” John smiles. “You’re probably right.”

  “Hey, dude, why ain’t you using your own rifle?” Shep asks from behind Stuart, looking at John’s M110.

  “I’m out of ammo,” John says. “Critter has some back at his holler, but doesn’t do me any good out here.”

  “Carry that,” Stuart says to Shep. “He’ll want it later. That M4 he’s holding will just piss him off.”

  “Already has,” John says. “You guys come for me specifically? Or is this just a happy accident?”

  “On our way to scope out the entrance to the Grove Park,” Stuart says. “See what they are up to there.”

  “They are up to a lot,” John replies. “I’ll come with and fill you in.” He looks past Stuart at Shep and then Harlan’s face. “You trust these two to be stealthy? We’re gonna have to go in full silent or we’ll be spotted before we hit the main road.”

  “Why? What do you know?” Stuart asks, looking over his shoulder at the carnage around them. “I’m guessing all of this is connected to the Grove Park?”

  “They have Elsbeth, Long Pork, and his family,” John says. “And I think the President is there.”

  “What?” Stuart exclaims.

  “Help me out of here and I’ll fill you in,” John says. “And please tell me you have some water.”

  ***

  Normally, I would be glad I’m not the one in the fight cage, but tonight there is no normality or gladness to be fucking found. Not when I’m looking at the terrified faces of my family pressed against the chain link, their eyes darting to the crowd, to the Zs moaning inside the cage, and at each other. The floodlights that shine down on the cage make it impossible for them to see me, and I have been told that if I cry out to them, they’ll die right there, so I have to just sit here, my hands tucked away, my mouth shut, and watch in horror.

  “Look, Mr. Stanford,” Mondello says from my side. “I’m a fair man. Tell me why Ms. Foster needed you with her and I’ll let them go.”

  “I already told you,” I reply, “she wanted me to draw in my friend.”

  “This Elsbeth woman?” Mondello asks. “Why her?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, “honestly, man, I don’t.”

  “I can’t believe that,” Mondello says. “Do you believe that, Mr. Jameson?”

  Cowboy is standing two feet from us, his rifle in the crook of his arm, his eyes tracking the Zs inside the cage.

  “Could be he’s telling the truth,” Cowboy says. “Foster did have his family. Now we do. I say we send them in one at a time. I’m sure once he sees that little girl of his go down as zed chow, he’ll remember a few things. But if he doesn’t, then we’ll know he’s not lying. Ain’t a father in the world that will stay quiet after watching his daughter get torn apart.”

  “Don’t you fucking dare,” I snarl.

  “I will dare,” Mondello says. “But I’m not cruel like Mr. Jameson here. I’m going to put them in there together. The family that fights zeds together, may not die together.”

  “Come on!” I say. “Charlie is sixteen! Greta is thirteen! Don’t do this! You can have the Blue Ridge Parkway. Do whatever the fuck you want! Make it your slave highway and move supplies back and forth from Charlottesville to Hotlanta! Fuck if I care. Just let my family go. We’ll slip away and you’ll never see us again.”

  “Right,” Mondello says. “Do you think you’re the first man to beg in front of me? You’ll say anything. But as soon as I let you go, you’ll crawl back to your subdivision, regroup, and make my life difficult. I didn’t just come here to secure the Parkway. You seem to forget that. I came here to secure a labor force. This Foster business is just a distraction.” Mondello leans in close to me, his eyes intense and hard to look at. “I am not a man that has time for distractions. But I’m also not a man to let loose threads unravel everything. I need to know what Ms. Foster is up to. And you will tell me.”

  “I don’t fucking know!” I shout.

  Even over the loud chatter of the crowd, Greta hears me. I see her elbow Stella and point up towards where I’m sitting.

  “Dad!” Greta calls out. Stella tries to hush her, but she keeps it up. “DAD! HELP US!”

  “Dad! Help us!” the crowd starts to mock until it becomes an unbearable chant.

  Dear God, people are fucked up.

  “Oh, now look what you did,” Mondello says. “Mr. Jameson? If you will.”

  Cowboy lets out a long whistle and guards open the cage, shoving my family inside. They toss in a few weapons as an afterthought, and then secure the cage and step back, ready to watch the show with everyone else. I want to close my eyes and let it just be over, but I can’t. I have to watch. I have to do something. I have to think.

  “Have you talked to Elsbeth?” I ask.

  “What’s that?” Mondello replies, turning from the cage. “The canny woman? Of course we have. But she refuses to say anything. Just keeps asking to be fed.”

  “She what?” I ask, my eyes tracking my family’s movements. The Zs have spotted them, but Mondello obviously put slow ones in there.

  “She keeps saying she wants long pork,” Cowboy laughs. “How fucked up is that? Like we’re going to feed her human flesh to get her to talk.”

  There it is. I smile.

  “What?” Cowboy asks. “What did I say?”

  “She’s not asking for long pork to eat,” I say. “She’s asking to see me. I’m Long Pork. That’s what she calls me.”

  “She calls you Long Pork?” Mondello frowns. “Do I want to know?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I say, trying to keep my anxiety under check as I watch the Zs get closer to Stella and the kids. Stella is holding a cracked baseball bat while Greta has a length of rebar and Charlie holds a 2x4 with a nail in it.

  Are you fucking kidding me? They actually gave him a fucking board with a nail in it? What the fuck is this? A Simpson’s Halloween special?

  “Let them go and I’ll talk to her,” I say. “Do it now. If they are harmed one bit, then fuck you.”

  “I don’t think that will be the case, Mr. Stanford,” Mondello says. “I’m fairly certain that you’d still help if only two of them are left.”

  “Take them out of there,” I say. “The only way Elsbeth will talk is if she knows my family hasn’t been harmed. She loves them. Got that? She may want to talk only to me, but she won’t say shit if she knows I let them get hurt. She’ll blame me for it. Trust me on this shit, man. Don’t fuck up your chance.”

  Mondello studies me for a moment then nods. “Tell you what, Mr. Stanford; this is what I’ll do.” He looks at Cowboy and some hidden communication passes between them. Cowboy starts to speak into his com while Mondello turns back to me. “I’ll have the young canny woman join us here and she can decide your family’s fate. She talks to you and they are set free. She doesn’t and they have to fight. I will make this very clear to her in simple terms she can understand.”

  “She isn’t stupid,” I say, “she’ll understand complex terms too.”

  “No need to get ahead of ourselves,” Mondello says.

  He stands up and raises his hand. Instantly, the cage is opened and guards rush in to separate my family from the encroaching Zs. The Zs are secured with catchpoles and my family is pushed back against the fence. For a split second there, I swear Stella is going to bury the broken baseball bat in the skull of the guard that grabs her, but luckily, she restrains herself.

  The crowd boos and calls out, aiming their disappointment at Mondello. He takes it in good nature, but guards step forward and the crowd quiets down.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please,” Mondello says. “Not to worry, tonight’s entertainment will commence shortly. In fact, we’ll add to it.”

  The cage is opened and Critter and Ms. Foster are pushed inside. No extra weapons are offered to them. But, from the other side of the cage, guards with several more Zs enter, adding to the number
s of undead.

  Critter looks about, his eyes taking everything in. He looks pretty badly beaten, but he holds his head up and doesn’t even flinch as some of the guards let a couple Zs get close to him.

  Ms. Foster, on the other hand, looks like she’s had better days. Just as beaten as Critter, she hangs her head, refusing to look up at the crowd or over at Mondello. She just lets a guard lead her to my family and stays still as the restraints on her hands are cut loose. Critter walks up to Stella, but he’s told to shut the fuck up by one of the guards.

  This is getting better and better by the second. Fuck.

  “Long Pork?” Elsbeth asks as she’s brought over to us. “Why are they doing this? Are they gonna eat us up? Those people look like cannies.” Her hands bound in front of her, she nods towards the crowd. “I’d know that crazy anywhere.”

  “Please, Ms. Elsbeth, is it? We do not feed human flesh to our labor force,” Mondello says. “Too much of a chance for the spread of disease. A sick worker is a useless worker.”

  “This man says you want to talk,” Elsbeth says, looking over her shoulder at Cowboy. “What you want to talk about?”

  “You see that woman down there?” Mondello asks, pointing towards Foster. “She was very keen to get a hold of you. I’d like you to tell me why.”

  “I don’t know her,” Elsbeth says.

  And for the first time since I’ve known her, I think Elsbeth is lying. Or at the very least, unsure of the truth of her answer.

  “El,” I say. “I know you’re mad at me right now-”

  “I’m hopping pissed as shit at you,” Elsbeth says. “This is your fault.”

  “I don’t’ know about that,” I say. “I was taken prisoner. I haven’t exactly had freedom of choice the past couple of days.”

  “You messed with the gas,” Elsbeth states. She leaves it at that.

  Fuck. She’s right. I did mess with the gas, which led me to get captured by Cowboy in the first place, and taken to Foster. It did all snowball from that moment where I thought flipping switches would fix things. I officially fucking hate switches and swear on my soul I’ll never flip them again.