Rocky Mountain Die

Z-Burbia 6

Rocky Mountain Die

Jake Bible

Copyright 2015 by Jake Bible

Chapter One

You know that thing you see on TV shows and movies where someone has their skull cracked open by a neurosurgeon and there’s like this draped sheet that halos their head while nurses and other doctors stand around and point and make serious-sounding comments about the patient’s exposed brain?

And you know how they all ask the patient questions because the patient has to be awake so they can make sure they don’t short circuit his brain? Also, since the brain doesn’t feel pain, the doctors and nurses can poke around all they want and said patient won’t piss himself while screaming?

You know what I’m talking about?

Yeah, I really wish that scenario was real. I sure as fuck do.

Because the scenario I’m in now is nowhere near as fun. Not even close, folks. Nope. Not at all.

You see, while there are certain similarities to the movie/TV version, there are a lot more differences.

Such as?

Okay, well, first, there are no nurses standing behind me. There are two doctors, but one of them is kind of a mad scientist dickhole and the other is a guy I just met that is crushing on my teenage (underage, motherfucker!) daughter. The other people standing there are all holding lanterns and flashlights so the two doctors don’t slice my brainpan in bad ways. None of the light holders have any medical experience.

But they are making plenty of comments.

“I think your brain is your best looking part, Short Pork,” Critter Fitzpatrick snorts. “They should cut off a slice and glue it to your face.”

“Quiet, please,” Dr. Kramer says. He’s the mad scientist dickhole. I don’t like him.

“Don’t call him Short Pork,” Stella snaps. That’s my wife. I love that she has my back. “Just because Elsbeth isn’t in the room doesn’t mean you can call him that. His nickname is Long Pork. Call him that.”

Thanks, babe. Way to protect my good name.

“Should that thing be that color?” someone asks.

“Shit, we have another bleeder,” Dr. James Stenkler growls. “Cauterize that, Dr. Kramer. Hurry!”

“I know what to do, Dr. Stenkler,” Dr. Kramer replies. “I am your senior by several decades. I’ve had my hands in brains a lot longer than you have.”

Stenkler is the guy crushing on my daughter. A daughter that isn’t even sixteen yet. Or is she? Fuck if I know anymore. I lost my calendar a few life-threatening escapes ago. What I do know is I do not like the crushing. Have I mentioned I do not like that? Let me say it again. I. Do. Not. Fucking. Like. That.

“There. Got it,” Stenkler says. “Bleeder is cauterized. Jace? Can you hear me? Give me a sign you can hear me?”

I flip him off.

“Daddy,” Greta, my maybe sixteen-year-old daughter, snaps. “Don’t be an asshole.”

“Greta, leave your father alone,” Stella responds. “He’s sitting there with half his skull on a table. Cut him some slack.”

“Oh, there’s another one,” that same person says. Who is this guy?

“Good catch, Boyd,” Stenkler says. “You should think of going into medicine. I’d be happy to train you when we get through this and finally up into Boulder.”

“That’d be cool,” Boyd replies.

Boyd? Holy shit! I’m in the same room with Boyd and I can’t turn around and see what he looks like? All this time I’ve been thinking people are fucking with me. I’ve been thinking that Boyd is just some joke to play on Jace. At no point did I think Boyd was a real person.

Now here he is? Talking and helping the doctors keep my brain from bleeding out everywhere? Fuck this shit!

Second, and yes, I am still counting, not only are we not in a proper medical environment, we have a lot of Zs hanging out downstairs. I mean a lot. Close to, um, let’s see, add the four, carry the one and add the two, subtract sixty and multiply by four and that brings us to a FUCK TON! And by FUCK TON, I mean close to a hundred thousand, easy.

They’re milling around the doors downstairs. The glass doors. The glass doors to a boring old office building that happens to have a dental surgery office in it. That’s where I’m at. Sitting in a motherfucking dentist’s chair with my brain all naked and shit.

Third (still counting!), this situation isn’t like on TV because we don’t have a cavalry coming to get us. On TV, or in the movies, there would be some heroic force that the audience has forgotten about that will show up at the last second and save the day. That’s not happening.

All we have behind us are around a thousand military types hired by the Consortium to hunt us down and kill us. They have rifles and pistols and flame throwers and Humvees and maybe a tank or two. Oh, and rocket launchers and grenades and really, really sharp knives. Not to mention they have a power mad, crazy bitch leader named Camille Thornberg who has said she will stop at nothing to stop us.

That’s a lot of stopping and not stopping. Wouldn’t the not stopping cancel out the stopping? If you think about it, maybe she means nothing will happen. I’m trying not to think about it since thinking lately really hurts. Hence the two doctors with their fingers in my grey matter.

Am I done with the list? No fucking way. We haven’t gotten to the really fucking awesome part. So, I have my brain open like a tin can while people mock me and Boyd saves the day. Thousands of zombies knocking at the doors that aren’t there to make a FedEx drop-off. A megalomaniacal twat with her own army.

But, wait! There’s more!

All of that shit pales in comparison to the fact that we have a group of mentally-conditioned young women who are trained in the art of killing anything that moves and are following us while picking off our people one by one just for
le shits
and
le giggles
. They have made it very clear that we won’t need to worry about the Consortium’s folks because we’ll be dead a long time before they show up. At least all the people they’ve snagged have only been cannies. Okay, okay, that was mean. People are people, even if some of those people used to eat other people.

Sigh.

Good times in the apocalypse, yo. Good times.

Oh, oh, oh! The best part is that one of the sisters, our very own Elsbeth, has pulled another motherfucking disappearing act! The woman has mad skills and can kill people with a look, which would be handy right now, except no one knows where she is.

She left several hours ago as soon as we got to the outskirts of Denver. Elsbeth’s job was to scout for a med center or hospital that we could use for my brain issues. She didn’t come back before I started to do a little body samba. I had a seizure. That’s why we’re in a dental surgery office. No time to find a better facility.

Ready for more? Because there’s more!

My son Charlie is missing. Stella is doing a great job of not totally freaking out, but I can hear the stress in her voice. No idea why she’s stressed. Missing son, husband with a naked brain for all to see, zombie herd rocking an undead street party, psycho Hitler bitch chasing us, even more psycho brainwashed assassin chicks hunting us.

Lists suck.

“Jace?” Stenkler asks. “Jace, can you hear me?”

I flip him off again.

“Dad!” Greta snaps.

“Jace, I need you to try to speak, if you can,” Stenkler continues. “I know you’ve had some difficulty with that lately, but it’s important that I hear your voice.”

“Why ruin a good thing, doc?” Critter asks. “For once in his damn life, Jace Stanford is quiet. You ain’t seein’ the bright side to this?”

I flip Critter off.

“See? The man communicates just fine without that damned voice of his,” Critter says. “Let’s not get hasty and flip his Jabberjaws switch back on, okay?”

“Critter,” Stella growls. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Now, Stella, I ain’t sayin’—”

“Shut the fuck up!” she roars.

“Yes, ma’am,” Critter replies. “I was just playin’. Tryin’ to lighten the mood.”

“Will everyone please stop talking?” Dr. Kramer sighs. “This is not like baking a cake. This is actual brain surgery. The only person that should be talking is Mr. Stanford.”

“Jace? Just try to say a couple of words, if you can,” Stenkler says. “Sounds are good too, but words are better.”

Ah, words. They used to be my best friend. I miss words. Why? Well, you see, I’ve been having a bit of a speech problem.

I’ve always been a chatty fella. Prone to running my mouth off and inserting my foot at all possible times. I have a pathological inability to shut the fuck up, as many folks have pointed out to me through the years. This wouldn’t have been so bad except then Z-Day happened and, well, Zs kinda like sounds. My talky talkiness became a liability.

I learned to control it somewhat, but fate is a cruel bitch and one hell of a practical joker. Turns out that over the years I may have bumped my head one too many times. Or two too many times. More like five too many times. My brain was more concussed than an NC State linebacker. Go Wolfpack!

See, having your brain banged around inside your skull is bad. Apparently, brains bleed. Mine sure decided to. It was like a nonstop period in my head. Okay, that was uncalled for. Menstruation is no joke, people! Especially if your brain is menstruating.

I’ll stop.

What alerted everyone to my bruised orange of a brain was that my natural chattiness turned into a constant chattiness. The filter was off and what should have been internal dialogue just became dialogue. Everything I thought came out my mouth in a never-ending commentary on life in the zombie apocalypse.

I did not make new friends and nearly influenced people to kill me and leave me on the side of the road.

But, hey, shit happens when the world is ending, so some folks cut me some slack. The apocalypse cannot be considered “some folks.” The apocalypse decided that not only would slack not be cut, but, hey, how about if we switch things up and make it so I can’t speak at all? Fun!

Long story longer, I lost my ability to speak and then the seizures began. Poopy times, y’all. Poopy times.

“Jace? I need you to pay attention,” Stenkler says. “Stella?”

Hey, Stella is right in front of me! When did that happen? Damn, she’s pretty.

“Jace? Honey? Can you hear me?” Stella asks. Her hand strokes my cheek. “Jace?”

Yes, love of my life, I can hear you. See? Giving you a thumbs-up right now. Or a thumb-up. Can’t really give “thumbs” when I only have one arm.

Huh… Thumb is not going up. I think I have thumbile dysfunction. Wonder if they have a pill for that? If your thumb is all Fonzie for more than four hours, please consult your physician. Or hit a jukebox. Aaayyy!

“He’s smirking,” Stella says, a relieved smile on her face. “So he’s probably being a smart ass and making some stupid joke in his head. Is it funny, Jace?”

It’s fucking hilarious. Aaayyy!

“He’s smiling wider,” Stella says.

“I need him to talk or make a sound,” Stenkler says. “I’ve fixed the lesion on the speech center of his brain. We’ve stopped the excess bleeding and cauterized any vessel that could be a problem down the line. But in order for me to be confident that what we’ve done has worked, I need him to make a sound.”

“Jace? Baby, you have to make a sound, okay?” Stella says.

She’s right in my face and smells like sweat and peppermint. Where’d she get a mint? Nice of her to pop one in her mouth before getting all up close and personal. I’ll have to remember to thank her for that.

“Stop making a kissy face,” Stella smirks. “Now is not the time. The time is for you to make a sound. A grunt or moan. Anything that tells James that the surgery worked.”

James, is it? We’re calling him James? I prefer Stinkler. Has a ring to it.

“The odds are significantly against him showing any improvement right away,” Dr. Kramer says. “It could be hours, or even days, before he—”

“Aaayyy,” I mumble.

“Jace? What did you say?” Stella asks.

“Aaayyy,” I say a little louder.

“Aaayyy?” Stella asks. “What does that mean?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Stenkler laughs. “He’s vocalizing again, so we know something went right.”

“You people about done in here?” a gruff voice asks from the doorway. “Because we need to move and move fast. Some of the Zs have started getting curious about this building. Lourdes and her people are a mile ahead of us and say the Zs haven’t gotten that far yet. We have a small window of time and need to use it.”

It’s Stuart! Yay for James “Don’t Call Me Jimmy” Stuart! He’s like my best friend. Although I think I annoy him more than a best friend should. I’ll have to work on that.

“Jesus, is Jace’s skull still open? Close that shit up, people!” Stuart barks.

“This will take some time and care,” Stenkler says.

“How much time?” Stuart asks.

“An hour, at least,” Stenkler says.

“We have to staple the skull and then suture his scalp back together,” Dr. Kramer adds. “This is not like putting the lid back on a jar, Mr. Stuart.”

“You have fifteen minutes,” Stuart says. “I’m not kidding.”

“The suturing alone will take thirty!” Stenkler exclaims.