Z-Burbia 2: Parkway To Hell (27 page)

“We’re going to keep working on the fences,” Julio says. “It’ll be hard as the ground freezes, but that will also slow down the Zs.”

“The goal is to have the deck and stairs built before January,” Stuart says, “and then we’ll rebuild the main gate the right way. As it is now, it can stand up to Zs, but not to people.”

“Especially if they have heavy vehicles,” Julio says.

“I want to get that dump truck of yours moved down here,” Stuart says, “make it part of the system. Nothing like a few tons of metal to deter attackers.”

“My dump truck?”
I say. “I have no claim to that.”

“I know that dump truck,” Elsbeth smiles. “It’s where I found Long Pork all curled up and crying with those pink pajamas on.”

“First, I wasn’t crying,” I say. “I wasn’t! And second, those were yoga clothes, thank you. I’m pretty sure they were Juicy Couture, so no making fun.”

We all look at each other for a second then burst out laughing.

“I still hate you for making me wear those,” I say to Stuart.

“I didn’t put a gun to your head,” he says
, “you could have just stayed naked.”

“Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen,” I say.

We BS for a few minutes more, but they can tell I’m getting tired and the pain is too much.

“Come on,” Stuart says
, “let’s find your wife. Someone needs to get you back and tuck you into bed.”

“I’ve been in bed for two weeks,” I protest
, “I don’t wanna go back. You can’t make me.”

“You only have one arm,” Stuart smiles
, “I can pretty much make you do anything I want.”

“Oh, thanks for rubbing that in my face,” I say, fake crying. “You’re mean.”

“That doesn’t sound real at all,” Elsbeth says, “even I know that.”

“Come on,” Stuart says
, “we’ll make sure the prosthetics get packed up and taken back to the Grove Park for you.”

“I can play fashion show later for Stella,” I say.

“I don’t want to know,” Stuart says.

We start to leave, but I can see Elsbeth is hanging back.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“Can I talk with you?” she asks
. The others look from me to her then leave. Julio waits a second, but Elsbeth nods and he goes too.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“I, uh, want to make sure you aren’t angry,” Elsbeth says.

“Angry? Why?”

“Because I am staying here with Julio,” she says. “And not at the fancy place with you.”

“Really? No, that’s totally cool,” I say. “You can stay where you want, El. You’re a grown woman.”

“But you and Stella and the kids are family,” she says. “Aren’t I supposed to stay with family?”

“Not forever,” I laugh. “And you’ll still be family. Families spread out all over the place. It’s normal.”

“But we don’t live in normal,” she says.

“True,” I nod
, “but you’re only going to be a couple miles away. We’ll see you lots. And I’ll be coming and going from here with Stella to check on progress. It’s all good. You stay here with Julio. Live a little.”

“Live a little,” she says quietly. “Yes. I will.”

“Good,” I smile. “Then we’re good?”

“We’re good,” she says. “But not done talking.”

“Okey doke, what else is there?”

“Me,” she says.

“Yeah…not following you.”

“I want to talk about me,” Elsbeth says
, “about where I come from.”

“Oh…that,” I say. I had been wondering when the subject would come up, but I didn’t want to push.

“The president man said I am special,” Elsbeth says. “He said that I was part of something. He didn’t know it about me until the Foster lady gave away the secret.”

“Secret? What secret?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I don’t know,” Elsbeth says. “President guy says there was a school here in Asheville. That Foster taught there. She was an instructor? Instructor, yeah.”

“A school? What kind of school?”

“I don’t know,” Elsbeth says. “The president guy wouldn’t say anymore. He told me he didn’t have details, but had heard rumors because he was big chief of home security.”

“Secretary of Homeland Security,” I say
, “before he was President. Although I don’t really consider him that.”

“Right,” Elsbeth nods. “He said there was a school here and a special program for special girls like me.” She shakes her head. “He says that’s why I fight so well.”

“He said all of that while he was driving? When he escaped with you onto the Parkway?” I ask.

“Yes,” she nods
, “and when I punched him and tied him up. He said more then. But while he was driving too.”

“Did he say where the school was?” She shakes her head. “Did he say how many other girls there were?” Another head shake. “Shit. This is crazy. Maybe Platt knows something about it?”

“Maybe,” she shrugs. “Will you ask him?”

“You don’t want to?”

“No,” she says, “he’s mad at me because I quit and didn’t want to be on his team. He just yelled too much. My pa yelled a lot too. I don’t like it.”

“Yeah, no problem,” I say. “I’ll ask him soon.”

I watch her closely and smile.

“It’s going to be fine, El,” I say. “
This isn’t a bad thing. It’s good. You’ll get to find out something about your past.”

“I thought I knew my past,” Elsbeth replies. “I thought I was Pa’s daughter and I was canny and that was it.”

“But that’s not it,” I say, “and thank goodness. You are more than all of that. I’ll help you find out what that more is, okay?”

“Okay,” she nods. “Thank you, Jace.”

I’m a little stunned that she didn’t call me Long Pork.

“Uh, yeah, you bet,” I smile. “That’s what family is for.”

“Yes it is,” Stella says from the doorway. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I agree.”

“I’ll fill you in later,” I say. “If that’s alright with you, El?”

“Families share,” Elsbeth states.

“Exactly,” Stel
la says. “Now how about we go back to the Inn and share the official news with the kids?”

“Sounds great,” I nod.

“You coming, Elsbeth?” Stella asks.

“Naw, she’s stay
ing here with Julio,” I say.

“No, I’m coming,” Elsbeth says
, “for tonight. Then I’ll come back. I want to see Greta and Charlie.”

“And they want to see you too, I’m sure,” Stella says. “Then let’s get going. Platt is getting fidgety about the time.”

I walk out of the Church with Stella on one side and Elsbeth on the other. Even with only one arm, I’m a pretty fucking lucky guy. I have what many in this day don’t, I have family. And a future.

And a really cool selection of arms for Stumpageddon.

Sweet.

***

The convoy leaves the Church and splits off as they hit 251. The Grove Park half turns right, while the Farm half turns left. The Farm half travels down Hwy 251, also known as Riverside Dr, and comes to Pierson Bridge. As they slow to turn right onto the bridge, a shadow detaches from the bottom of one of the trucks and rolls to the drainage ditch, staying low and still until the convoy is over the bridge and long gone.

The shadow, a young woman, gets up and brushes herself off, starting on her long walk home. She stays to the side of Riverside, off in the cover of the brush and trees, ever mindful of the night sounds that have descended on the area. She avoids the few Zs she comes across, staying still and silent as they shuffle past, and continues on her way.

A couple hours, and several miles later, she comes to a curve in the road, cut into the landscape by the Swannanoa River. Making sure she is unobserved, even though no one would be out at the early morning hour, the young woman fords the river at a specific point, coming up the other side onto another, smaller road.

This road, the smaller one, meanders through a vast estate, once the home of American royalty then
later turned into a destination for tourists and history buffs. She walks for another mile or so and cuts across a wide field that would have been planted with corn, but is now planted with a different crop.

Zs.

The young woman weaves her way through the hundreds of Zs that fill the field. If one didn’t know the secret, they would think she is crazy, but she knows exactly where to walk and what turns to take through the mass of Zs. They reach out for her, and she ducks under rotten arms when she gets too close, but she doesn’t worry about being pursued. Why? Because this truly is a crop of Zs, planted in place by large, steel stakes. The stakes, two feet long, go through the Zs’ feet and deep into the ground, holding them where they are, giving the illusion of a horde of Zs for anyone that makes it onto the estate.

Finally, after crossing the field and making her way through dense woods of pine
s and oaks, the young woman comes to a grand house, America’s largest home: the Biltmore.

“Churned,” a woman’s voice calls out from the shadows.

“Fresh daily,” the young woman responds.

The shadow voice, another young woman of similar build and age, steps forward and hugs the first. “Any trouble?”

“No,” the first says, “I saw her clearly this time.”

“It’s her? She’s one of us?”

“Yes, for sure,” the first says.

“Good, I’ll go tell her.”

“No, I want to do it,” the first says. “I found her and I found our lost sister. I’ll tell her.”

“Okay,” the second says. “They’re in the basement showing off.”

The young women go inside the mansion by a side door. Following a winding set of stone steps down, they come to a wide room, made completely of stone, and decorated with old, faded wall paintings of witches on brooms and black cats; princes and princesses and old castles.

More young women, eight of them, are sitting on the floor of the basement room, towels in front of them, blindfolds on, all hurrying to assemble the parts before them on the towels.

“Time!” one of them yells, ripping off her blindfold and holding up the reassembled pistol.

“Two point three,” a ninth young woman says from the wall, a stopwatch in her hand. “Not bad.” She looks up and sees the two arrivals. “There you are? So?”

“She wants to tell her,” the second says.

“I found her, I get to tell,” the first says.

“Then tell her,” the wall woman smiles. “She’s over there watching the games.”

The first young woman, the one that rolled away from the caravan and walked all the way to the estate, hurries over to a pedestal in the corner. She gets on her knees and smiles at the thing set upon it.

“I found her,” she says, “I found our lost sister. She’s with those people from that neighborhood. And the soldiers and others. She must be so lost without us.”

“Is she their prisoner?” one of the others asks.

“No, I don’t think so,” the first answers, never taking her eyes from the pedestal. “Isn’t that wonderful? That I found her. We’ll be sure to bring her back here, to our new home, so you can see her. You’ll like her as much as you like us. And she’ll love it here.”

“Yeah.”

“For sure.”

“I know I do!”

The young women all hug and smile, glad for the good news. The first turns back to the pedestal and smiles at the thing.

“Once we are all together again
, then we’ll do what we’re supposed to,” she says. “Just like you taught us. We’re all so glad I found you, Ms. Foster.”

The young woman
turns back to the others, happy to be home, happy to be with ones she can trust. The thing on the pedestal just watches, unable to move, unable to do anything but want and need. There is a focus to the thing that it had even during life. And that focus waits; waits for the moment one of the delicious young women will make a mistake and get too close to it.

For
the head of Ms. Foster is hungry. So very hungry.

The End

Read on for a free sample of “The Grave” a fantastic new zombie thriller from Russ Watts author of “Devouring The Dead” and “The Afflicted”

About The Author:

A professional writer since 2009, Jake Bible has a proven record of innovation, invention and creativity. Novelist, short story writer, independent screenwriter, podcaster, and inventor of the Drabble Novel, Jake is able to switch between or mash-up genres with ease to create new and exciting storyscapes that have captivated and built an audience of thousands. He is the author of the horror/military scifi series the Apex Trilogy (
DEAD MECH, The Americans, Metal and Ash
) available from Severed Press. He is also the author of
Bethany and the Zombie Jesus
,
Stark- An Illustrated Novella
and the YA horror novel
Little Dead
. Jake Bible lives in Asheville, NC with his family.
Find him at www.jakebible.com
.

PROLOGUE

The year 2185

“Give it up, they’re not going to tell you anything,” he said wearily. His wrists were sore from the ties, his legs were going numb, and he had been jostled around for hours. The flight had not been smooth; strong winds had buffeted the helicopter and he was thankful his stomach was empty; otherwise, he would have spilled its contents several times over. Like the other prisoners, Franklin Roach’s hands were tied behind his back, his legs were bound together and his feet were chained to the floor. He wore a dusty hood over his head. It had been placed there so he could not tell what direction they were going in, or see where they were flying. He knew though.

“I’m not talking to you, bitch,” came the muffled reply from the unidentified man next to him.

Roach had no idea who else was on the flight. The last year of his life had been spent in a maximum security prison of which the last six months were in solitary confinement. He preferred the solitude to the constant interrogations though. He had endured many since his arrest three years ago, all to no avail. He had nothing to tell them. Agnew had made sure Roach would not see freedom again.

Sixteen hours ago, before ending up in the uncomfortable seat he now occupied, Roach had been given an injection. Protestations and demands to know what he was being given had been met with silence. He woke up some time later with a filthy hood over his head. From the way the room tilted from side to side, he could tell he was on a ship. He could not see, but the sensation of tilting made it obvious that he was out on an ocean somewhere. He had asked for help, where he was, asked for a lawyer, his wife, anyone, but he had received no answers. Evidently, he was back in solitary. He stayed there for another six hours passing in and out of a restless sleep.

Three hours ago, he had been marched out of the bunk he had been kept in and taken up onto the deck of the ship. His captors never once responded to his questions and when he was taken out into the fresh air, with the smell of the ocean so fresh and powerful, he thought he was going to be thrown overboard. However, with his hands and feet bound, he had been walked up the loading ramp of a Mi-17 helicopter and strapped in. That’s when he had finally heard other voices and realised there were other people in the same situation as he was. For the most part, he kept silent and tried to listen to who was around him. He made out three different male voices and two female. Occasionally, a solider would grunt and tell them to shut up, but otherwise, he had no idea of who was surrounding him. The helicopter was transferring them somewhere, but they were being kept in the dark about it, literally.

“I can keep this going all day you know. Where the fuck is my lawyer? Hmm? You can’t do this. You can’t just move me from my cell without letting my lawyer know first. Answer me. God damn you, answer me!”

The voice that spoke was deep and gruff. Roach guessed it was from a male, probably of African descent, although it was blind guesswork at the moment. The speaker sat to Roach’s left.

“They’re not going to answer you,” Roach said. “If they were going to they would’ve answered you hours ago, if only to shut you up.”

“What do you know? Who are you? Are you one of them? I’ll fucking kill you, man, you can’t do this. I will fucking murder your family and...”

“Oh shut up, you’ll do no such thing. You’re a prisoner here as much as I am,” said Roach. He had listened to the pleading and the baiting for hours and could take no more. “It doesn’t matter what you say or what you do. I assume your hands and feet are bound like mine? True? Nice dark hood over your head so you can’t see, right? You might as well sit back and enjoy the ride. If I’m right, then it’s nearly over. I think we’re descending.”

“He’s correct.” A light female voice with a hint of an accent spoke from opposite the men. “The pressure is levelling out and the engine is slowing, you can tell. Wherever we’re going, we’re nearly there.”

Roach had decided this woman was American too, but not from the South like him. She spoke well, clearly, and surprisingly calm, considering the circumstances. He rolled his head on his shoulders, trying to loosen his muscles. If they were headed where he suspected, it would have been better if they had thrown him overboard. Drowning would be a far better way to die than this.

There was the sound of someone walking toward them and the footsteps stopped directly in front of Roach. “Right, we are almost there. Keep your seatbelts fastened, ladies and gentlemen. Turn off all electronic devices and put your seatback trays into the upright position.”

Roach heard laughter from toward the cockpit and then a different voice.

“Don’t you get tired of the same joke every time, Warwick?”

“Never. Now shut up and let me do my work, Brooks.”

Roach wondered why the men had been quiet for so long. The soldiers had hardly spoken for the whole flight, yet suddenly, they were chatting and laughing just as they were landing. They were using each other’s names too. It was as if they suddenly felt free; as if the usual rules of engagement didn’t apply.

“As I was saying before Brooks so rudely interrupted me, we are now entering neutral airspace. That means that from now until we get on the ground, which should be in about five minutes, we are effectively in a dead zone; so no radio, no satellites, no sexy phones, and no internet. That means nobody is listening, nobody is watching, and I am in charge. If you all listen to me and follow my instructions, then we can get this over with quickly and easily.”

“Get what over with, Mr Warwick?” asked the female voice opposite Roach. “We’ve been asking you for the past three or four hours but...”

There was the sound of something being hit, a thud, and then Roach heard the woman sobbing.

“That’s Sergeant Warwick to you, or Sir, if you prefer. Now let me just say this has been a very pleasant flight today. I personally have managed to have a good nap and I intend to be home in time for the lamb rack this evening. So, no more questions please. I’ve had to put up with your constant fucking moaning all the way here. Sit tight, shut up and all will be explained soon. Now buckle up, people, and we’ll have you on the ground in no time.”

Roach heard his neighbour protesting and shouting about his civil rights, but surmised that Sergeant Warwick wasn’t much interested in anyone’s civil rights. The woman was still sobbing and it wasn’t hard to guess that she had been struck with something, most likely a gun. Some of the other voices were shouting now. Roach heard two more men from further down the helicopter. One was gibbering away in Spanish and Roach had no idea what that man was saying. The other voice was Southern like his, but he didn’t recognise the voice as anyone he knew.

Roach stayed silent and waited for the landing. When it came, it was surprisingly smooth. The winds were much stronger higher up it seemed. It was going to be a relief to get the cuffs and hood off. He hadn’t seen daylight for almost twenty four hours now and it was going to be painful when they finally let him see again. What he was going to see was questionable. He had long ago given up hope of seeing his family again. Ever since they had dragged him out of his bed at three a.m. and separated him from his wife, Roach had not seen her or his children. He had never actually been formally charged with anything, but again, he wasn’t surprised. He had made some formidable enemies in his work and Agnew was as powerful as they came.

When they had safely landed, he heard the soldiers laughing and talking before they opened up the back of the helicopter. The chains around his ankles were unlocked as hands grabbed him, raised him up, and forced him down the ramp. Even though he wore the hood, he could tell they were in direct sunlight. His feet dragged across a hard surface that felt solid, like asphalt. The hood was sharply pulled off his head, and instantly, he shut his eyes. The sun was square in his eyes and it took a full minute before he could properly adjust to the light. Even then, it was painful and his eyes watered constantly. The air was cool and the sky blue. He had begun to lose track of time, but estimated it to be late afternoon. There were no streetlights or noise from engines or factories nearby. He could not hear any birds. The place they had landed in was lacking that general hum you get from walking down a busy street, and every second that passed, only reinforced his idea as to where they were.

Whilst he waited for his eyes to get used to light again, the soldiers busied themselves and he felt the ties around his wrists being cut. He heard the snips as his fellow prisoners were cut free too, although their legs were still shackled. They would be able to use their hands and shuffle slowly, but though he thought about trying, he was incapable of running. Where would he even run?

The helicopter’s blades had stilled and the engine was quiet. Apart from the soldiers working, Roach became aware of another noise. It was like a crowd of people talking in low voices, just murmuring and whispering. It was coming from all directions, but as he looked around through squinted eyes, he could not see a crowd. There were four soldiers ahead of him and one sat in the helicopter’s cockpit. They all looked quite relaxed. One was smoking and the others were idly chatting. All were armed to the teeth. The final soldier was silently reading a piece of paper. Roach looked to his left and right. The other prisoners had been lined up alongside him. There were five others: two women and three men. One of the women had a nasty cut on the side of her face and Roach assumed she was the one that Sergeant Warwick struck.

The lone soldier standing in front of the six prisoners slung his automatic weapon over his shoulder and held the piece of paper up. “I am Sergeant Warwick and I’m in charge of this detail. I am hereby legally sworn to read aloud this affidavit, under instruction of Resolution 59, Article 6 of the United Nations Decrees that stipulates that, as the present commanding officer, I am lawfully permitted to advise you that all charges against you have been dropped and you are now free to go. You are hereby released from the custody of the US government. The terms and conditions of your release will further be availed to you upon disembarkation of your transport. Congratulations.”

The four soldiers behind Warwick cheered and clapped. Roach looked on in disdain. Prisoners who were released were usually led out through the front gates and given release forms to sign along with a load of other paperwork. He had worked in an office for ten years and never seen bureaucracy take a day off. There were no legal representatives present here and it did not feel like a release. He looked around him. They had landed on the roof of a building. There was no airport or runway. There were no identifiable features as to their location, just a concrete wall on two sides and a sheer drop on the others. He could see the top of a fence with pointed metal posts and barbed wire running across the top and then nothing. The sunlight was still painful and he wiped the tears with his now free hands. They might have been released from custody, but they were not being given their freedom, not yet.

“So where are we? If we’re free, I want to go home. Where is my family?” The woman to Roach’s left had so far remained quiet.  She had a strong physical presence and although Roach was six feet tall, she stood several inches taller than he did. She was dressed in standard prison uniform, but had striking features; a blunt nose and a thick accent that made Roach think she was not from the US, at least not originally.

“I do not recognise your power, Sergeant. I answer to one power only. After God, there is my people and the Ukrainians who voted for me. My name is Dagrzycksa Izliev and I demand to see...”

“You can demand all you like darlin’, but what you see is what you get,” said Warwick. “You see any Ukrainians here, Brooks?”