Z-Burbia 5: The Bleeding Heartland (14 page)

“No, you are not,” Kelvin says. “I know what God wants from me, and that idea is as far from the truth as you can get.”

“When you say truth, do you mean with a big T or a little T? I only ask because it helps me know just how whackadoo you are. People that use the big T are kinda off the charts with the whackadooness, so-.”

“Elsbeth,” Kelvin interrupts. “What makes her special?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I’m not a scientist. Kramer is the guy you want to talk to. He can give you the lowdown on Elsbeth and her sisters.”

“Sisters?” Kelvin asks. “So you know about the other girls that were part of that program?”

Son of a bitch.

“Isn’t exhaustion a wonderful thing?” Kelvin asks as he reaches between my legs. “It makes you sloppy. Sloppy enough that even the most guarded bits of intel start to come spilling out.”

He yanks the catheter out of my dick, and I scream, scream, scream. Oh, do I scream.

“I’m going to let you leak on yourself for a couple minutes while I go freshen up and check in with Maury,” Kelvin says. “I’ll let you sit here and wonder if I am ordering him to start prepping your daughter or not. When I get back, I expect no more stalling and no more omissions. Is that clear, Jace?”

“Crystal,” I croak as I feel warm piss wet the chair and pool around my ass.

“Good,” Kelvin says. “Sit tight.”

Yeah, I think I’ll do that.

***

I drift in and out of consciousness as I wait for Reptile Jesus to return. I don’t exactly sleep, since that really isn’t possible when strapped to a barber’s chair and sitting in your own piss. It’s more like when you are watching TV, and you don’t want to fall asleep, so you keep snapping awake every few seconds.

You know what I forgot to ask Reptile Jesus? Why he insisted on calling cookies biscuits. And why he had that lame British accent for a split second there. What the fuck was that all about? If the guy is CIA, then what was up with that?

Unless maybe he isn’t CIA, and it’s all some elaborate rouse. The fucker could totally be faking the whole not faking the actor thing. What if this guys is actually some Second City wannabe? Wouldn’t that be the shit?

Except that doesn’t make sense. He knows too much about the Consortium and Camille Thornberg. He knows about Ms. Foster and the sisters. I think he knows about Kramer, but I haven’t confirmed that yet. Maybe that’s where his whole line of questioning about Elsbeth was going. Maybe, just maybe, it’s Kramer he’s after.

Nah. Nobody wants that asshole. He might be a mad scientist, but after three seconds with the jerk everybody wants to fucking kill him. He’s bigger slime than Reptile Jesus is.

Which means I have zero answers to any of my questions. I have plenty of piss, though. Not a problem in that department. I think I heard somewhere that when they remove catheters, the ureter stays expanded and you pretty much leak from your dick for a while. I’d like to know how long that while is, because this is really growing uncomfortable. Each time I shift I leak a little more.

It’s been a great few days, huh? Shitting and puking and pissing. I really know how to party in the apocalypse.

The door opens, and Kelvin comes in. He looks tired and frustrated. I’m about to ask him some smart ass question when I see the metal snips in his hand. He tosses them on the cart, and the blood that coats the blades splatters across the rest of the shiny torture tools, instantly making them less than shiny. Kelvin just stands there and looks down at the cart, his eyes kind of glazed and far off.

“Uh, everything alright?” is what I want to ask, but I can’t get the words to form. Strange, I know, since it’s me, and I seem to have zero problem saying whatever comes to mind no matter what the moment may be. But those bloody snips. They freeze my throat, and I start to feel like it’s hard to breathe.

Why are they coated in blood? Whose blood is it?

Dear God, please don’t let it be…

Kelvin turns around and meets my eye. The look on my face must convey all the thoughts in my head because he rolls his eyes and takes a seat on the stool next to my chair.

“No, no, that’s not your daughter’s blood,” Kelvin says. “One of my followers decided that now was the time to challenge my authority. Which means he was challenging God’s authority. I couldn’t allow that.”

“Oh, thank fucking God,” I say. “Uh, I mean, praise Jesus. Even Reptile Jesus.”

“Shut up, Jace,” Kelvin says. “I no longer have the patience for your mouth. Just stay quiet for a minute while I gather my thoughts and get myself centered and right with God, please.”

Oh, crap. This guy just asked me to stay quiet. How the hell am I going to do that? It was easy when he was interrogating me because my obvious natural inclination is to blabber away. And the fact that my internal filter is shot to shit didn’t make a damn bit of difference then. Now? Yeah, it makes a huge fucking bit of difference!

Please, please, please don’t let me start talking out loud. Please.

I watch Kelvin closely, my eyes locked onto his face, looking for any sign that what is in my head is coming out of my mouth. But he doesn’t even flinch, just sits there, his head hung, his eyes closed, as he ‘centers’ himself.

What does that even mean? Sure, I know all about yoga and meditation, but that’s positive stuff. What does a religious crackpot like Reptile Jesus do when he needs to center himself? Picture burning lakes of fire? Think of pits of damned souls roasting in flames for all eternity?

“I think of a small meadow near where I grew up,” Kelvin says. “And please don’t call me a religious crackpot. That’s disrespectful and will lead to my order to mutilate your daughter.”

“Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know that-.”

“I do not care, Jace,” Kelvin says. “Your neurological affliction is not my concern.”

He looks up, and I know everything has changed. This next session isn’t going to be a hearty chat like last time.

“Tell me about Elsbeth,” he says. ”Hold nothing back. If you do, I will know. If I know, then you pay. If you pay, your daughter pays. Then we start again. Are we understood, Jace?”

“Yes, sir,” I reply. I don’t know why I call him sir. It just slips out.

So, without hesitation or any sort of editing, I start in and tell him everything I know about Carly “Elsbeth” Thornberg. From the first moment I saw her in North Asheville, to the last time I saw her a few days ago before she went missing on the road. He gets it all. Not one small attempt at subterfuge or misinformation. He gets the real deal.

Yet, when I’m all done and watching him expectantly, he doesn’t look pleased. He doesn’t look anything. It’s like the life and will has been drained out of him.

“That is quite the story,” he says finally and stands up. He stretches and looks about the room as if it holds better secrets than the ones I just told him. “I was told you interacted with Cole on your journey back here.”

“Cole?” I ask.

“The man that assaulted you on the RV,” Kelvin says.

“Oh, right, that guy,” I nod. “Yeah, we had an interaction. It was a bit one sided.”

“Yes, that does sound like Cole,” Kelvin says. “Or did.” He glances at the bloody tools. “Nothing except eternal silence sounds like the man now. I hope he finds peace in the afterlife that he couldn’t find in this one.”

“You killed him?” I ask.

“I ended his existence on this plane,” Kelvin says. “But his journey doesn’t end yet. He is now a part of the pit, as are all that are deemed unworthy of a final death.”

“Wait, he’s in the pit now?” I ask. “As a zombie? You killed him and let him come back?”

“Only the truly righteous are allowed a final death,” Kelvin says. “Cole was far from righteous.”

“Yeah, but didn’t you say that my friends are in the pit?” I snap. “Are you fucking telling me you killed them too?”

“No, Jace, they have not been killed,” Kelvin says. “At least, not to my knowledge.”

“Then I don’t understand,” I say. “How can you have zombies in the pit and also have my friends there too?”

“The pit is not some simple hole,” Kelvin says. “It is one of those great mysteries that God likes to tease us with. Over millions of years, water seeped down into the mine, the Tomb, and carved out a place that is vast and terrifying. A great underground depression that threatens to collapse the entire mine structure. It’s one reason this mine was shut down. The wrong use of the wrong machinery, a buildup and sudden release of gas, an engineer’s miscalculation on drill depth. Any one of those things could have caused the mine to collapse into the pit.”

“The mine can collapse into the pit? How fucking big is this pit?” I ask.

“Were you not listening? I said it was vast and terrifying,” Kelvin frowns. “Listen up, Jace. I do not enjoy repeating myself.”

“Sorry. My bad,” I say quickly. “The place is vast and terrifying. Got it. So, if my friends work hard enough, they can avoid the Zs you’ve stuck down there with them, right? Is that what you are saying?”

“Yes, exactly,” Kelvin replies. “Many people have been put in there to pay their penance, and then come out unscathed. There are nooks and crannies they can hide in. There are boulders and rock outcroppings. Pillars of stone they can climb. In fact, there are stones of all sizes everywhere. In the right hands, there are more than enough weapons at the ready.”

“Oh, okay,” I say. “Critter and Stuart are good with their hands. They know how to kill Zs. I’m sure they are fine.”

“Yes, I’m sure they are,” Kelvin sighs. “So, where were we?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I just told you everything I know about Elsbeth. What else do you want to know?”

“Why the Stronghold?” he asks. “Why are you going there?”

“Because Kansas City is scorched, apparently,” I reply. “Kramer says it doesn’t exist anymore. Your guy Maury says it doesn’t exist anymore. Same with St. Louis, but we had no intention of going there. We were just going around it.”

“Why did you want to go to Kansas City?” he asks.

“We don’t care where we go,” I say. “We just needed to get out of Asheville because of the radiation, and because the Consortium was going to come for us. Kramer seems to think that Camille has control over the sisters. That is quite the motivation to get the fuck out of Dodge.”

“Control? Like how?” Kelvin asks, and the depression seems to lift like a curtain. Suddenly, the old Reptile Jesus is back and staring right at me. “Tell me all you know about how to control the sisters.”

Great. Here we go again.

So, I tell him. It’s a much shorter conversation than what I told him about Elsbeth, mainly because I don’t really know shit about the sisters. He figures that out in seconds, and the mood goes back to sad Reptile Jesus. This guy is all ups and downs. Kinda getting tired of it. I miss the crazies like Vance who was all bluster and confidence. Or Mondello. That guy had a big enough ego to actually think he could be President and everyone would go along with it. Hell, I’m sure Camille Thornberg doesn’t go from happy sappy to grumbly bumbly in point zero one seconds like this guy. Psychopaths rarely do.

Which is what is troubling me. This guy is obviously psycho, but is he a psychopath? I don’t know. I can’t tell. True psychopaths don’t tend towards these types of manic/depression mood swings. They are so narcissistically self-centered that this kind of back and forth depression is beneath them. That’s for regular people. For victims.

“Yes, it is,” Kelvin says quietly. “Regular people. Am I not a regular person, Jace? Just a man trying to be right with God? A man called upon to do the impossible? To be the Word of God on Earth? I believe you would feel the weight of all Creation if you had the burden on your shoulders that I have on mine.”

“I’m missing an arm, so that burden would be even harder for me,” I say. “Trust me on that one.”

“Your jokes are sad, Jace,” Kelvin says as he places a hand on my forehead. It’s cold against my hot and clammy skin. “They are a pitiful attempt to ward off the inevitable.”

“Which is?” I ask. “Death? I don’t joke to ward off death, dude. I joke because I want to live.”

“Same thing, Jace,” Kelvin sighs. “Same thing.”

“Hardly,” I snap. “One is running away, while the other is walking towards. I’ve never been the running away type. Well, unless I’m running from Zs. Or cannies. Or crazies. Or soldiers. Okay, okay, I run away from lots of things. But not metaphorically. Metaphorically I run towards stuff. Life, love, family, friends, the sheer will to exist.”

“The sheer will to exist,” Kelvin laughs. “That is not what God wants from us, Jace. He wants us to bring back Eden. He wants us to live in His grace and light. Just existing is for the wicked and unjust. But, in talking with you, Jace, I see that is exactly the man you are—wicked and unjust.”

“Sticks and stones, brother,” I reply. “Sticks and stones. And trust me, I’m not wicked. I’m pretty fucking boring.”

“Not very convincing when you curse, Jace,” Kelvin says. He looks down at the torture tools then picks up what looks like an ice pick, but way sharper than any ice pick I’ve ever seen. More like a diamond pick with that fucking point. “If you cannot see God’s intentions for you, then what is the point of seeing at all?”