Z-Burbia 5: The Bleeding Heartland Read online

  Bish bash me? Are cannies in here too?

  “Yeah,” Greta sighs. “And they can hear you. Whatever this is, it’s hitting the whole convoy, including the cannies.” She pats my shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Okay,” is all I say. What else is there to say?

  “NOTHING!” everyone shouts.

  Okay, gonna stop thinking now.

  “THANK GOD!” they shout again.

  ***

  Fever dreams, man. Fever dreams.

  A person’s mind can really make up some weird shit when it’s being cooked at one hundred and four degrees. Add the surreal existence the zombie apocalypse affords, and hoo-doggy, you got yourself some seriously fucked up brain magic.

  That’s what I call dreams now. Brain magic. I just made it up. Like this second. I just made it up this second.

  Huh ... no one is yelling for me to shut the fuck up. Maybe I’m actually talking in my head. That has to be a good sign.

  My throat is raw as hell, and I push myself up onto my elbows and look around the RV. Pretty much all the furniture has been stripped out to make room for all of us to lie down. All I see are long lumps in the dark that must be my fellow stricken. There are some murmurs and some snores, which tells me it’s late into the night. I must have fallen asleep at some point.

  In fact, I know I did because of the fever dreams. I’d tell you about them, but they have already faded. All I remember are the sounds. The moans and groans of the undead; the slapping of their putrid hands on the side of the RV; their broken nails and bony fingers clawing at the doors.

  I can almost still hear the noises, making me think maybe I didn’t dream them. But in my dreams there weren’t gunshots. Now that I’m awake there are plenty of gunshots.

  Gunshots?

  Oh, fuck me…

  I hear one of the doors open, and the moans and groans of the undead get louder.

  “Wake up, people!” Porky Fitzpatrick yells. “We are under siege and getting out of here now!”

  Lights come on as Porky starts up the RV and guns the engine. People pry themselves from their own fever dreams and start looking around, their glazed eyes, and glazed minds barely able to focus on what’s happening.

  I can focus. It’s the blessing/curse of having an active, never fucking shuts up, mind. When push comes to shove, I can push and shove my mind to behave and focus on the crisis at hand.

  “What’s the situation, Porky?” I ask as I try to crawl my way around the stirring sickies so I can get to the passenger seat. “How bad is it?”

  “Bad,” Porky says. “Lourdes and the rest are trying to hold them off, but there’re just too damn many of them, pardon my French.” The Fitzpatricks don’t really cuss, so “damn” is a big deal coming from Porky’s mouth.

  “Which way are they coming from?” I ask as I climb into the passenger seat. I look down and realize I only have a blanket on me. Nothing else. It’s a clean blanket, though, so I got that going. Take the pluses where you can.

  “They’re coming from the East,” Porky says as he slides open the driver’s window, picks up a machete from the floor of the RV, and hacks away at half a dozen Zs clawing at the door before he pulls his arm back in, and slams the window shut. “Too dark to see for sure, but looks like a pretty big herd.”

  “That’s like the sixth herd we’ve come across since we left Nashville,” I say.

  “Eight,” Porky says as he switches on the headlights and turns off the interior lights. “You’re forgetting the two small ones we dodged after Louisville.”

  “Right,” I say quietly as I look out the front windows of the RV at the swarming Zs. “They’re everywhere.”

  “Yep,” Porky nods.

  “Who’s still out there?” I ask.

  “Just Lourdes, her military contractors, John, Stuart, Critter’s guys, and Mel,” Porky says. “My brothers are starting up the RVs along with some of the cannies.”

  “The cannies?” I ask. “Seriously?”

  “They had to ditch their vehicles,” Porky replies. “Nothing smaller than a full size pick up will get through these things now. And they all know how to drive like pros.”

  “Yeah, cannies are good apocalyptic drivers,” I nod. “I’ll give them that.”

  “Your family is in the RV up ahead,” Porky says, reading my mind. “Buzz is driving that one.” He picks up a radio and puts it to his mouth. “Buzz? You read me?”

  “Loud and clear, brother,” Buzz replies. “You ready?”

  “Ready,” Porky says. “Lead the way.”

  The RV in front of us lurches, then turns to the left and shoves a small pickup truck out of its way as it breaks from our wagon train circle. I watch as quite a few zombies are crushed between the RV and the pickup. More than a couple of rotting heads pop right off their rotting necks and fly up into the air. Guts splatter everywhere, and Porky turns on the windshield wipers as a few squirts of green pus zigzag across the glass in front of him.

  “Yuck,” he says.

  “True dat,” I reply, and wrap the blanket around me tighter. I shiver and shudder as a wave of nausea washes over me, but luckily I keep both ends stoppered and just close my eyes until it passes.

  “If you need to throw up, best you stick your head out the window,” Porky says.

  Dead hands reach up and smack against the glass to my right.

  “Yeah, probably not gonna do that,” I reply. “I’ll use a bucket.”

  “Buckets are all full,” someone says from behind us. There’s a clunk and a splash as Porky hits the gas and our RV follows behind the first. “Okay, now there’s an empty one.”

  A dripping bucket is handed up to me, and I can see Porky struggle to keep himself from vomiting.

  “It’s probably safe to crack your window,” I say to him.

  “Praise Jesus,” he mutters as he mouth breathes and rolls down his window a couple of inches.

  Porky barely navigates us around a Charger covered in primer and spray paint. He nudges it out of the way a little, then falls in behind the first RV. Everywhere the headlights shine, all I can see are Zs. There have to be thousands of them. Luckily, because of the open land, they aren’t all densely packed together like they’d be in a city. There are thick clumps here and there, but mostly they are spread thin.

  Except that the movement of the RVs is giving them purpose and direction (other than just the ever-present drive to eat our sweet, sweet flesh), and as we work our way across the rough ground of the field, the density of the Zs starts to increase. Clumps become large groups, which become small hordes, and soon I can see the gauntlet of Zs we are going to have to drive through.

  “I know,” Porky says, his hands gripping the steering wheel so hard that his skin looks like it’s gonna split. He picks up his radio. “Hey, Buzz?”

  “I know, I know,” Buzz replies over the radio. “We’ll need to get side by side until we hit the road. Better protection that way.”

  “Except for the RVs on the outsides,” I say, but shut up as Porky gives me a “gonna tear your lungs out your throat” look. Melissa is the one that’s perfected it, but apparently all the Fitzpatricks are versed in the art of that glare. “Sorry.”

  “I heard him,” Buzz says. “He’s right, but there’s nothing we can do. Come up on my left. Everyone else join, alternating sides until we’re lined up.”

  Porky swerves and thumps over a good eight Zs. We can hear their bodies crunch and pop from under the RV. For a few feet there is a loud scraping, but then it goes away as whatever was hanging on is shaken loose.

  As we get up next to Buzz’s RV, I give him a wave, but he only scowls at me. I do see Stella in the passenger seat, and I assume Charlie and Greta are somewhere else inside. Stella’s hands are gripping the dash as she leans forward and stares out the windshield at the ever growing herd.

  “We’re climbing up,” Lourdes’s voice says over the radio. “Don’t slow down. We can grab the ladders and ride on top until
we get clear.”

  “Going to be a cold ride,” Buzz says.

  “Better cold than eaten by Zs,” Lourdes replies.

  “Amen, sister,” I say, and give a thumbs up.

  “No one can see that, Jace,” Porky says.

  “Oh, right,” I smile, and return my thumb to its not up position. Which I guess is down. I, uh, put my thumb down. Yeah, I think I’m still a little feverish.

  There’s a loud crunching noise, then the sound of screaming over the radio, which is quickly cut off.

  “Dammit!” Buzz shouts. “We just lost two RVs!”

  “We can’t leave them,” someone yells over the radio.

  I get up and slowly wind my way between the people and the puke buckets until I get to the back bedroom. I slide the partition open and see quite a few more people lying on the floor, the bed having been removed. But my attention is drawn to Critter as he stands at the back window, rifle in hand, and eyes locked onto the scene from behind us.

  “How bad?” I ask.

  “Already over,” Critter says. “Looks like one of the cannies turned too fast and rolled his RV. He got rammed by a second one. Both are covered with fucking Zs. The stupid things just crawled over them like ants.”

  “Slow ants,” I say.

  Critter turns and looks at me, his face scrunched up with anger, but also something else. Fear? Oh, fuck. It’s not good if Critter is scared.

  “They ain’t movin’ as slow as I’d like,” Critter says. “In this cold they should be barely shufflin’. They ain’t. Some are downright hustlin’.”

  “Hustlin’?” I ask. “Zs don’t hustle. They shamble, they shuffle, they stumble, but they don’t hustle.”

  “These are,” Critter says, and taps the barrel of his rifle against the window. “That ain’t good.”

  “What ya see, Uncle Crit?” Porky calls back.

  “Just you keep drivin’!” Critter shouts, making some of the sick at our feet moan and grumble. “Ah, shut the hell up.”

  “You’re nothing but love, Critter,” I say. He looks at me and shakes his head. “What?”

  “You’re blanket’s open,” he smirks. “Not that there’s anythin’ to see there.”

  “What?” I snap as I look down. “Shrinkage, asshole. I’m sick, and it’s cold.”

  “Whatever you want to believe, Long Pork,” Critter says. “Hold on. Don’t think I’ll call you Long Pork no more.”

  “Well, thanks, Crit,” I smile.

  “I think Short Pork is your new name,” Critter cackles. “Maybe even Tiny Pork.”

  “You fucking suck,” I mumble as I turn and leave. “I’m going to go sit with Porky. He’s one of the nice Fitzpatricks.”

  “You ain’t gonna be able to just run from your deficiency, Short Pork,” Critter calls after me.

  “Fuck off!” I shout back as I work my way through the sick and take my seat again.

  “What was that?” Porky asks.

  “Critter’s being a jerk,” I reply.

  “Is he making fun of your small penis?” Porky laughs.

  “It’s cold, and I’m sick!” I yell. “Sheesh!”

  ***

  The RVs wedge their way through the Z herd until we come to an old country road, and are forced back into a two by two configuration. The convoy now only consists of eight RVs. A few of the cannies tried to get away with their freaky cars and motorcycles, but the herd wasn’t having any of that. They were all swarmed and taken down faster than we could keep track. At least that means no more motorcycle riding, goggle-wearing, post-apocalyptic clichés! Yes!

  Okay, that was mean. People died. I’m a bad person.

  But, fuck yeah, to no more goggled cannies!

  Sorry, there I go again.

  Once out on the road, we have it pretty clear for a good couple of miles, which lets us put some distance between us and the Z herd. Stuart’s voice gets on the radio, and he starts asking for a roll call in each RV. Even though every life is worth something, I do sigh with relief as I hear all of the Fitzpatrick brothers, Melissa, Dr. McCormick, my family (of course), John, Reaper, Lourdes and her people, and quite a few others I know.

  “Boyd’s with us,” Stella says. “But he’s still passed out from that bug.”

  “Who the fuck is Boyd?” I ask.

  “You know Boyd,” Porky says. “Everyone knows Boyd.”

  “I have no idea who the hell Boyd is,” I say.

  “Where’s Kramer?” Stuart asks. “Anyone seen Kramer?”

  “Wouldn’t mind losing that asshole,” Critter says from right behind me, making me jump and let out a little fart. It’s dry. Good thing. “Damn, Short Pork. That was a violent one. Smells worse than all this puke. Roll down your window more.”

  “I’m not rolling down shit if you keep calling me Short Pork,” I snap. “And when Elsbeth hears you’ve changed my nickname, she’s gonna be pissed.”

  “I’m here,” a voice croaks from the floor.

  “Kramer’s with us,” Critter sighs as he takes the radio from Porky. “Ain’t we lucky fuckin’ ducks?”

  “You still need me, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” Kramer groans. “As much as you may think to the contrary.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you just keep flappin’ yer gums, and we’ll see how contrary things get,” Critter sneers.

  “No need for violence,” Kramer replies. “I’m already in a weakened state. I hardly pose a threat.”

  “You’re always a threat,” Critter says. “I ain’t kiddin’ myself about that. So just shut the hell up, and stop annoyin’ me. Short Pork is doin’ that already.”

  “Fuck off!” I yell, and then get yelled at by those trying to rest. “Sorry.”

  Then something hits me.

  “Uh, did Elsbeth sound off?” I ask.

  Porky looks over at me and then back at his uncle really quick. “I didn’t hear her name.”

  “Give me that,” I snap as I reach for the radio in Critter’s hand.

  He yanks it away and almost punches me, but I think his fear of touching any part of my sick body is all that stops him.

  “No way your diseased ass is gettin’ this radio,” Critter says, then puts it to his mouth. “Hey, y’all, anyone got Elsbeth with them?”

  “Maybe she’s sick and lying down,” Porky suggests. “They could have just missed her.”

  “She isn’t sick,” Kramer says.

  “I told you to keep your mouth shut,” Critter snaps. “Y’all check the sick, she’s probably one of them.”

  “She is not sick,” Kramer insists. “You are wasting your time.”

  “Why isn’t she sick?” I ask before Critter can snap at the mad scientist asshole again. “How do you know?”

  “Her conditioning does not allow for illness,” Kramer says.

  “That’s bullshit,” I reply. “I’ve seen her sick before.”

  “I highly doubt that,” Kramer says. “But I am intrigued. What was she sick from?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, and look up at Critter. “Ask Dr. McCormick.”

  Critter shrugs, but doesn’t argue. “Hey, Doc? You ever seen Elsbeth sick?”

  “Not that I can recall,” Dr. McCormick responds over the radio. “But knowing her, she probably wouldn’t have come to me if she was. She’d just tough it out.”

  “She has not been sick,” Kramer says. “Please believe me when I tell you this. Her unique physiology does not allow for illness. She may have the occasional stomach upset by tainted food or unclean water, but since she left my facility there is no chance of her contracting any type of virus or disease. She, along with her sisters, are fit as a fiddle, to use one of your quaint colloquialisms. You do know what a colloquialism is, do you not?”

  “I know what a colloquialism is, you smug fuck,” I reply.

  “I was speaking to Mr. Fitzpatrick,” Kramer says.

  “I know what the hell it means,” Critter replies, then looks at me. “And you ain’t exactly the one to be callin’ anybod
y else smug, Short Pork.”

  “I hate you, Critter,” I say. “I so fucking hate you.”

  “Looks like we have a farm with a good sized barn up ahead on the left,” Lourdes announces over the radio. “I say we check it out. We need to regroup and assess what supplies we still have. There may be a diesel tank close by if the farm used any heavy machinery.”

  “We still don’t know where Elsbeth is,” I say, and Critter relays the message.

  “We stop and get secured, then we’ll know who made it and who didn’t make it,” Lourdes says.

  “She made it!” I yell.

  “I have to agree with Mr. Stanford,” Kramer says. “Considering the young woman’s history, I highly doubt she succumbed to the undead. More than likely, if she is not on one of the RVs, she is hiding until daylight. Then she’ll do her own assessment and catch up to us. It is how she is trained and programmed.”

  “Call her programmed again, and you’re going to get out and walk from here,” I snap.

  “Considering we are now approaching the barn, your threat is fairly empty, Mr. Stanford,” Kramer laughs. “But I understand your intended meaning, and apologize for insulting your friend, despite your misguided belief that a woman such as Ms. Thornberg could ever be a real friend, considering her true nature.”

  “I’ll be sure to mention you said that as soon as we stop and find her,” I say. “She’ll love to hear you tell her all about her true nature.”

  “I’d pay money to watch that,” Critter laughs.

  ***

  “Nowhere?” I bark. “How can that be?”

  “Calm down, Jace,” Stella says and looks at Lourdes as we stand by the large doors to the huge barn that currently houses our rag tag bunch of less than able survivors. “Are you sure?”

  Lourdes doesn’t even glance at the clipboard in her hand. “If Elsbeth was here, then we’d know. She has no reason to stay hidden and keep quiet, even if I thought she was capable of either of those things. Elsbeth isn’t exactly an inconspicuous presence.”

  “I can’t believe we left her back there,” I say. “What the fuck, people?”

  “She wasn’t in the camp when the Z herd hit,” John says as he walks up to our group. “She took off on one of her recons.”