Z-Burbia 5: The Bleeding Heartland (3 page)

“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’ anybody 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.”

“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.
“
Lon
g
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 Zombie
s
. 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 for 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 idea. 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.”