Z-Burbia 5: The Bleeding Heartland Page 3

  “Then the puking and shitting started,” Stuart says from John’s side. “So no one was really looking for her.”

  “So we did leave her back there,” I state. “She’s out making sure we are all safe, and we fucking ditch her ass at the first sign of trouble.”

  “Now hold on there,” Buzz says. “No one ditched her. Not one of us would intentionally leave that woman behind. You know that, Jace. And that was hardly a first sign of trouble situation. We haven’t seen a herd that big in long time.”

  “Not to mention how some of those things were moving,” Reaper adds.

  “You saw that too?” Porky asks as he and his twin brother, Pup, lean against the barn. “Something ain’t right here.”

  “You ain’t kiddin’, nephew,” Critter says. “The Zs are changin’.”

  “How?” Lourdes asks. “It’s been years since Z-Day. Why would they start changing now after all this time? I’ve been in the field for most of these years, and haven’t seen them act any differently than they first did.”

  “Until the past few months,” Stuart says. “You have to admit that every once in a while there’s been one or two that have gone off book.”

  “I saw a few more than one or two back yonder,” Critter says. “A whole damn horde was crawlin’ and runnin’, like they were hopped up on goofballs or somethin’.”

  “Goofballs,” I chuckle. “I like that word. Goofballs. Goofballs, goofballs, goof-.”

  “Shut up, Short Pork,” Critter says.

  “So what are we going to do about Elsbeth?” I ask quickly, hoping no one else noticed the new nickname.

  “Short Pork?” Stella asks.

  Dammit.

  Critter is smiling so wide his old, craggy face is about to rip in two.

  “Asshole,” I mutter.

  “To answer your question,” Lourdes says. “We aren’t going to do anything except line the RVs up with these doors, so if we need to leave, we can climb from one to the other without exposing ourselves.”

  “Don’t you worry,” Critter says. “Short Pork has done plenty of exposing for all of us.”

  “Will you shut the fuck up?” I shout. “It was cold and I’m sick!”

  All eyes are on me. Then they move to my crotch, which is covered by a couple of thick blankets, then the eyes move back to mine.

  “Long pork,” I say. “Long Pork.” I look at Stella. “Tell them, baby.”

  “I’d rather not get involved,” Stella grins.

  “Et tu, Stella?” I sigh, and shake my head. “Whatever. I don’t fucking care about a nickname right now. I just care about finding Elsbeth.”

  “That Dr. Kramer was pretty darn sure she’d be fine,” Porky says. “I bet she catches up to us tomorrow.”

  “Porky is probably right,” Buzz says. “It’s not like it’s hard to follow our trail. She’ll find us.”

  “She has until midday,” Lourdes says. “Then we hit the road again.”

  I begin to object, but I can see from the faces around me that I’d be the only one. Apparently, everyone else has more confidence in Elsbeth’s abilities to keep herself safe than I do.

  “Fine,” I say. “Midday. We wait that long.”

  “We’ll have to,” Stuart says. “It’s gonna take us all night and into the day to get the RVs clean.”

  “Everyone looks over at the row of RVs. Yeah, you can pretty much see the stink lines wafting off of them.

  Chapter Two

  It takes a little longer than all night and into the day to get the RVs cleaned up, which is fine by me. Then it takes us all of the next day to scour the vehicles with bleach before Dr. McCormick and Reaper are satisfied that they are sterile. By the time they give the go ahead, the sun has already started to set.

  Which is all good since it gives those of us still recovering time to rest up. Whatever we had, it was just a twenty-four hour thingy. Luckily, no one else has started puking and shitting, so score one for the survivors!

  I’d be happy about that, but there’s still no Elsbeth.

  “Don’t worry, she’ll find us,” John says as he sits down next to me on an old wooden bench just outside the barn doors, and offers me an apple.

  “No, thanks,” I say as I rub my belly. “Still just sticking to water and some of those stale crackers. An apple might do me in.”

  He nods and takes a bite, then chews slowly. And silently.

  “Is that all?” I ask finally. “Don’t worry, she’ll find us?”

  John shrugs. “Not much else to say. You know her better than I do, although I’ve gotten to know her a little better these last few weeks.”

  “Yeah, we all know,” I say. “El isn’t exactly a quiet one.”

  John shrugs again. “Not like I can tell her to hush. Especially not when I’m exposed like that. I like my junk right where it is.”

  “Don’t we all,” I say, then flinch. “I mean, we all like our own junk where it is, not that we like your junk where it is.”

  “I knew what you meant,” John laughs.

  “When did you last see her?” I ask.

  “Three nights ago,” John answers. “She was gone before the stomach bug hit. I remember looking for her most of that day, then gave up when the meeting started. By the time I realized she was really missing, we were neck deep in vomit and Zs.”

  “That’ll be the name of my memoir,” I say. “Neck Deep In Vomit and Zombies. It’ll sell millions.”

  “To who?” John laughs.

  “The people in my head, soldier. The people in my head,” I smirk.

  The wind whips up around us, and I pull my coat up around my neck. I miss my warm blankets, but there are still some folks recovering that need them more than me. A winter coat, some heavy boots, and a pair of thermal underwear beneath my jeans will have to do.

  And a hat. I have a great hat. Found it in Nashville as I was sprinting through a clothing store to avoid the undead yeehaws that were chasing us as we tried to do a little scavenging. The hat is wool felt, pure black with a silver band around it, and fits my head perfectly. It’s not a cowboy hat, more like an Indiana Jones hat.

  “What type of hat is this?” I ask John.

  “A fedora,” he says.

  “No, no, a fedora is smaller,” I say. “This is more like the hat Indiana Jones wore.”

  “Right, which was a fedora,” John replies.

  “No, it wasn’t,” I argue. “A fedora is smaller, like the one he wears at the end of Raiders when he’s dressed in a suit.”

  “There is more than one type of fedora,” John says.

  “But this isn’t a fedora!” I insist. “It’s more like a safari hat. No, it’s an outback hat!”

  “That’s not it,” John says and shakes his head. “An outback hat has a bigger brim in front. That one is too symmetrical. I’m telling you, man, it’s a fedora.”

  “Believe what you want, man,” I say. “But I’m right.”

  “No, you aren’t, but who cares,” John shrugs. “It’s a nice hat.”

  “Yeah, it is,” I smile. “Don’t let it distract you, though.”

  “Huh? What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Like with Indiana Jones,” John says. “You know how his hat is always falling off, and he has to rescue it. It’s a running gag in the movies.”

  “Oh, right, that,” I nod. “No, I know it’s just a hat. If it falls off I’m not going back for it if we are being chased by a zombie horde.”

  “Or cannibal gang,” John adds.

  “That too,” I nod some more.

  “Cannibal gang?” a voice asks behind us. “Anything I need to know?”

  I look back and see Mr. Flips, the de facto leader of the cannies that joined our convoy just outside Cannibal Road back in Knoxville. Mr. Flips is an average looking guy, except for the top hat he always wears, which is part of his whole emcee persona he had created back with the cannibal gangs. He found a niche, and a place with a bunch of people that would have carved him up f
or dinner in a heartbeat.

  Not that I’m condoning his complicity in the running of Cannibal Road. That’s all pretty shitty. But, at the end of the day, Mr. Flips is a nice guy. And he’s kept his promise and not tried to eat me, so that’s a plus. I mean, if you’re gonna keep a promise, that’s the one to keep. He’s also kept the other cannies in line, even when I know for sure some of them have been eyeing me like I’m a cartoon steak or chicken leg.

  “Hey, Flips,” I say, and pat the bench on the other side of me. “Take a load off.”

  Mr. Flips hesitates. “You aren’t still contagious, are you? I hate puking, and it sounds like we’re all out of TP.”

  “We’re all out of TP?” John frowns, and looks at his delicious apple which happens to be filled with wonderful fiber. “Son of a bitch.”

  “Not to worry,” Mr. Flips grins as he does sit down. “I have some people working on the problem.” He nods towards a far off shape in the night. “They’re with Melissa now, and checking out that farmhouse. Stuart’s with them, so no need to worry if my peeps try to turn Melissa into a midnight snack.”

  “Not too worried about that,” John chuckles. “She’s a Fitzpatrick. Your peeps are the ones that should be careful.”

  “Let’s not say the word peeps, okay?” I suggest. “A little too Barfly for my taste.”

  “Fair enough,” Mr. Flips nods. “Nice hat. That was a good find.”

  “Thanks,” I grin. “Wait! You make your own hats, right?”

  “I do at that,” Mr. Flips nods. “Or did.”

  “Okay, then what type of hat is this? What style?” I ask.

  “A fedora,” Mr. Flips replies. “It’s a wide brim fedora. Kinda like what Indiana Jones wore.”

  “See,” John says.

  “Fuck off,” I respond. “Both of you.”

  “I guess you thought it was something else?” Mr. Flips asks.

  “I thought it was an outback hat,” I answer.

  “No, the front brim would be bigger,” Mr. Flips says.

  “See,” John says again.

  “Haven’t you fucked off yet?” I sigh.

  “Not lately,” John says.

  The wind hits us again, and I shiver despite the thickness of my coat. The three of us stare into the darkness, listening to the dry grass rustle in the late fall, almost winter, night.

  “Feels like snow,” John says.

  “Really?” I ask, and sniff. “I don’t smell snow.”

  “No, it doesn’t smell like snow,” John replies. “Not yet. I bet it will in the morning. It’s going to get colder.”

  “You from the north?” Mr. Flips asks John.

  “I’m a soldier,” John says. “I’m from all over the place. But I have spent most of my life where it snows. Trust me, snow is coming.”

  “That’s going to make things harder on the convoy,” I say. “The roads are bad enough with the abandoned cars and shit. Add snow to the mix, and we won’t hit KC until spring.”

  “We need to get through St. Louis first,” Mr. Flips says. “And that may not be so easy. I’ve heard a few things about St. Louis.”

  “Really?” I ask. “Like what?”

  “Not much,” Mr. Flips shrugs. He takes off his top hat and runs his hand through his thinning light brown hair. “Just that there may be some tough survy gangs in a turf war around that area. We had a few refugees stumble into our trap now and then. Doesn’t sound like crazies, just like things might be a tad out of hand.”

  “That would have been good intel to know when we started down this road,” John says, his voice turning as cold as the air. “Anything else you want to share there, Mr. Flips?”

  “Not at the moment,” Mr. Flips replies, and stands up. “Gotta keep a few aces up my sleeve just in case you all decide that me and mine aren’t welcome anymore.”

  “If you are holding back intel and anyone gets killed because of it, then you can be sure I’ll end your ass without blinking,” John snarls as he stands up quickly.

  “Hold on, hold on,” I say, and get between them. “Flips has a point. He’s just keeping some information as leverage. I’d do the same thing.”

  “Thank you,” Mr. Flips says.

  I turn and jab him in the chest. “But if your information can save lives, then I’d advise you spill it. If not to us, then to Critter and Lourdes. You hold back and someone dies, then I’ll be in the line to end your ass.”

  “I understand,” Mr. Flips says, and doffs his hat to me. “We walk a fine line between self-preservation and preservation of the species, don’t we?”

  “Your bunch of cannies didn’t exactly fall into the latter category,” John says, still pissed.

  “I could argue the opposite,” Mr. Flips says. “Hard to preserve the species when you starve to death.”

  “Yeah, this debate is not happening right now,” I say. “It’s going to go nowhere, and eventually one of you will hit the other one. Or more than likely, you’ll try to hit the other one, miss, and end up hitting me. The slapstick writes itself.”

  I watch John slowly calm down and look at Mr. Flips, who always seems to be calm, my eyebrows raised in an “are we cool?” arch.

  “Fine,” John says, then nods towards the far off farmhouse. “I’m going to go check and see what’s over there.”

  “I was actually going to do the same, but I’ll defer to you out of respect,” Mr. Flips says. He bows, turns, and walks back into the barn.

  I watch him go, then see Greta standing there, looking bored as hell like always.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Critter sent me,” Greta says, then switches into a pretty good imitation of Critter’s voice. “Tell Short Pork to get his ass inside the barn so we can close those damn doors. Stupid Short Pork…”

  “Did he say the last part or did you add it?” I ask.

  “What do you think?” Greta smirks.

  “Sounds like Critter,” John laughs.

  “Sounds like my daughter, too,” I say.

  “Know what else sounds like your daughter?” Greta says. Then she flips me off with both fingers and walks away.

  “Those fingers didn’t sound like anything!” I call after her. “That was a lame comeback!”

  “No, it was pretty good,” John says, and claps me on the shoulder. “You head in and close the doors. I’ll go check on the scavenger crew and see what’s up there. Hopefully they found TP that is still useable.”

  “Or sheets or newspaper or something we can cut up,” I say. “I may not have had an apple, but the tum tum still isn’t one hundred percent.”

  “Back in a minute,” John says, and walks off.

  I start to step into the barn when several shouts followed by a gunshot echo across to us from the farmhouse.

  “Shit,” John says, and pulls his pistol from his hip. “Go get Lourdes.”

  “Already here,” Lourdes says as she comes running up to us, her M4 carbine at her shoulder. “What do we got?”

  A few of her PCs, joined by several curious faces, come sprinting over.

  “Heard some shouting, and then the gunshot,” I say, and point at the running figure of John. “Came from the farmhouse.”

  “Stay here,” Lourdes says, and looks to her people. “On me. We go in fast, but safe. No shooting friendlies.”

  “That’s a good plan,” I say.

  They take off running, and I’m left with a bunch of people that really want answers I don’t have.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say, and turn towards the farmhouse.

  “Mom’s going to be pissed,” Greta says.

  “Then don’t tell her,” I say as I walk off. I get a few feet and realize my daughter is still with me. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Coming with,” she replies, all teenage casual like.

  “No,” I say. “You’re going back to the barn.”

  “To tell mom that you’re going against Lourdes’s orders to stay put,” Greta says. “Good id
ea. I’m sure she’s going to be so super thrilled with you when you get back.”

  “You scare me sometimes,” I say.

  “Good,” Greta smiles. “That’s the plan.”

  We walk quickly but cautiously across the small field between the barn and the farmhouse. I can see flashlights whipping about through dirty windows, and I slow us both down as we get to the front porch.

  “Just us,” I call out, not wanting to get shot in the face by a startled PC or scavenger. “No shooty shooty.”

  “Jace, what are you doing?” Stuart asks as he steps out onto the porch. “Didn’t Lourdes tell you to stay put?”

  “How would you know?” I ask.

  “Because she told me she said it, and also told me she expected you to ignore the order and come along anyway,” Stuart sighs, then looks at Greta. “And you brought Greta. Even better thinking.”

  “She was going to rat me out to Stella,” I say. “I had no choice.” I try to look past him and into the farmhouse. “What’s up?”

  “Come see,” Stuart says to me, then blocks Greta’s way. “Not you. You don’t need to see this.”

  “I don’t need to be in the middle of the zombie apocalypse either,” Greta says. “But, hey, guess what? Too fucking late. I think I can handle whatever is in there.”

  He looks at me. “She doesn’t need to see this.”

  “I probably don’t either,” I say. “But what ya gonna do?”

  “Ugh,” Stuart moans. “You two are obviously related. Come on.”

  We follow him into the house, and instantly get hit with the smell of flesh and blood; that sharp, iron tang is impossible to mistake.

  “Back here,” Stuart says as he leads us through a small living room and down a narrow hall.

  We pass a couple of bedrooms and I see some of Lourdes’s PCs clearing the rooms, their carbines up as they yank open closet doors and flip over beds. Stuart steps into a wide kitchen and moves to the side so we can get a good look. I wish I had listened to him. Greta doesn’t need to see this.

  “Not cannies,” Melissa says as she leans back from the corpses that are nailed to the kitchen table. “The skin is all that’s gone, none of the meat.”