Z-Burbia 3: Estate Of The Dead (21 page)

“Stop dreaming,” she says and finally lets go, pushing me forward. “Act dead.”

The Zs are attracted to the movement of the sisters ahead, but confused by their smell. Some look towards me, eager to investigate the new kid in school, but none take more than a casual step in my direction before their nostrils inform them I’m one of the gang.

I do my best Z impression and stagger and stumble my way along Hilliard. Loud groans from behind make me look over my shoulder (the one not fucking killing me!) and I see the River Arts herd coming up behind us.
More fun!

But I keep it calm; keep it cool. I’m a cucumber on the wind!

The problem with pretending to be a Z is that you can’t show pain. You can’t, say, get your shoulder that is festering with Z death slammed into over and over by a fuck ton of uncaring, unfeeling, and, if I do say so,
rude
Zs then be all like “Ow, knock it off!” Can’t do that. What you can do is hiss and groan right along with them. Which, and this may sound strange, is actually quite liberating. It’s a strange type of stress release even when not trying to hide the fact you and agony are shaking hands.

Okay, maybe
shaking hands
isn’t the best metaphor for me to use.

My groans need a little work, but my hisses are top notch. The only problem is I seem to be getting the Zs riled up around me. They aren’t quite as docile as they should be. Every time air escapes between my teeth because I’m about to scream, a Z cocks its head in my direction. I don’t know if it sense
s my life giving livingness or if it’s just a fan of my sibilant techniques.

I can see the sisters getting farther and fa
rther away, shoving and fighting through the herd, making it easier for the rest of us to keep going with a bit more elbow room. Elsbeth pushes past me and I cringe, thinking I don’t have anyone at my back. But with a casual stutter-step and a twist of my neck, I can see that guy there. You know the one with the body armor and the rifle? Fuck…uh. Shit, you know, what’s his name? That guy.

Whatever his name is he gives me a look like I’m an idiot then nods. I nod back. He barely shakes his head no, which still attracts some attention, then nods again. I nod back. Just like before. I’m not sure what his issue is. I’m giving him the bro, “Whassup?” nod. That’s still cool post-Z, right? I didn’t miss a bro memo or something did I? I’ve been out of the pop culture social norms loop for a few years. Maybe he’s coming on to me? Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I mean, I’m all about Team Stella, but if he needs to feel loved then
…

Slam!

Ow.

Oh, he was nodding at the lamppost I was shuffling towards.

The skin on my forehead splits wide open and fresh blood starts to poor down my face. Fuck. I can barely see with the sweat and goop and now this shit? I can tell I really fucked myself up as I take a few steps back. But I have the presence of mind not to cry out. I let out a snarly groan then a small hiss for good measure. I’m just one of the Zs here. Move along, undead, move along, nothing to see.

But, as I’ve mentioned before, eyesight isn’t their go to sense. Smell is number one in their book. And right
now, I smell like a dipshit with fresh, delicious blood dripping from his eyebrows. Mmmmmm, blood…

The mood of the Z herd changes instantly. Where there was blind marching, and confusion with the sisters up ahead, there is now raging hunger and directed aggression. And that aggression is directed at said idiot that is always too busy thinking about the next step instead of watching where that next step leads.

The world slows down.

Up ahead I see hunks of Zs flying here and
there as the sisters chop, chop, chop merrily along their way. I can see sunlight glinting off the oil that coats Elsbeth’s hair because she hasn’t had a shower in days. It’s kind of cool. I watch as John and Reaper turn towards me, their eyes wide with shock, their mouths set in a determined grimace that tells me I fucked it all up. A sound finds my ears, but it’s so far off, like a distant echo you can’t place in the night.

Then
there are the Zs.

Each bit of decayed flesh and tattered cloth is outlined in a bright aura. Grey flaps of skin flutter lazily from broken jaws and exposed cheekbones. Hands that are nothing but splintered bone and leather tight sinew start to lift towards me. Teeth of various shapes and sizes begin to make themselves seen from behind shredded lips. Moans and groans, hisses and snarls are a steady drumbeat in my brain as the volume slowly, slowly, slowly starts to ratchet up until
…

“LONG PORK!” Elsbeth screams.

No more slomo. The world slams back into real time.

Spinning and shoving, I try to make some room in the encroaching horde of Zs. They can smell that special Jace spice that brings all the Zs to my yard.
Despite the pain, I bring Stumpageddon up and slam Mr. Spikey into an eye socket. I yank back and hit another Z then another and another. But we all know what is going to happen, don’t we? The numbers are too great. I am like a dead nutria tossed into a gator pit to entertain the fat tourists.

Not that fat tourists exist anymore. Or maybe they do. As far as I know there’s some oblivious family from Wisconsin still putzing around the country in their Ford minivan and hitting all the roadside attractions. I’d love to do that some day. Just pick up and leave with the Fam and go see that biggest ball of twine or the Cadillac graveyard. I bet the lines aren’t very long these days.

But, enough about my travel plans, I should really be thinking about the Zs that are very close to pulling me to the ground.

Stumpageddon slams home over and over while I use my intact arm (don’t have a name for that guy, but I’m taking suggestions) swings wide as I try to push the Zs back. Gunk or no gunk, these guys smell blood and they are coming in for the kill. Stealth time is over, quiet time is up, it’s boom stick time! Or boom twig time since I don’t have a boom stick and only have a 9mm at my hip
that John gave me.

I pull the pistol and fire into one skull then another. Black blood and rotten brain
s fill the air. I’m glad my slomo time is done because no one wants to see that shit splatter through the air at 6 frames per second. That’s just John Woo overkill right there.

Hands have me and I’m going down. Stumpageddon is keeping the fuckers back enough that I can get a couple more shots in. Then just as I pull the trigger, a Z grabs my arm. The shot goes wide.

“Fucker!” John screams. “You almost fucking shot me!”

Good thing that Z grabbed me. I guess I didn’t notice that John had waded in; I just about blew his head off.

Gunfire erupts everywhere and Zs start falling. I empty my pistol and then use it as a club as John pulls on my shoulder, rescuing me from the mosh pit of death. Reaper has his M-4 on full auto and is cutting Zs out at the legs. In fact, as I look around, I see everyone doing that. The sisters, Elsbeth, Stuart, Melissa, Reaper, that guy, all shooting or cutting the legs out from under the Zs. They aren’t going for kill shots as much as incapacitation shots.

Soon there is a makeshift alleyway of Zs we can hurry through. The piles of
crippled undead keep the still mobile ones from overrunning us. John has his hand at the small of my back and is shoving me forward so all I really do is concentrate on my footing and stay moving, making sure I don’t fuck up worse by stumbling.

There’s a loud whistle and I can see Cassie up ahead moving left onto Lexington Ave. The sisters all turn in perfect unison, creating this whirling dervish of slicing and dicing. They ripple around each other, seamlessly working together in an ever moving killing machine. My brain is quickly confused by what my eyes see. There are almost too many blades moving for the amount of hands up there. And where did they get all the blades? I know I saw some knives on the young women, but where did they get all those short swords and machetes and shit? Did they always have them? Man, my observation skills have gone down the crapper.

“Knock it off!” Elsbeth yells, suddenly at my elbow. Where’d John go? Oh, he’s with Reaper and Melissa keeping the Zs from climbing up over their fallen comrades. Sidestepping at a dangerous pace, they move along the line, blasting anything that moves. Heads explode, chests burst open, Zs fall, collapsing across the borders and adding to the volume.

But there are so many of them. Thousands of undead crammed into the tight space of Asheville’s city streets. And they are fucking hungry.

“Down!” Elsbeth shouts and shoves the top of my head towards the ground.

I barely catch a glimpse of a head spinning off to my right as her arm moves with unseen speed. A body rolls over the top of the Z pile and thumps into my legs. The fuckers are figuring out that we aren’t going to come to them; they have to come to us. So despite the best laid plans and all that, the Z alley we are hustling through has become a Z gauntlet as putrid arms reach for us and the faster of the undead start to tumble over the sides. If this keeps up we’ll be trapped in minutes.

But we don’t stop. Gunfire is everywhere and black blood is raining down on us as Elsbeth leaps and turns, bringing her blades home with every swipe. We are now moving slowly up Lexington Ave, only four blocks from the BB&T building. So I focus on that. Ahead, wobbling above the Z herd is a stop sign, an octagonal beacon in a sea of Zs. My eyes are on that. Twenty feet, fifteen feet, ten feet, five feet, there!

The ground is slick with Z gunk and I nearly biff it as I come down on one knee. I’m back up quickly, but the movement has started my forehead bleeding profusely again. I wipe the blood from my eyes and flick it off to the side. And a strange thing happens. The Zs start to fight each other.

Elsbeth notices this the same time as I do. When I flicked the blood off my hand, it splattered against a Z’s chest. And the smell drove other Zs to it. Their attention was instantly diverted to the closest smell of food. Even though we are moving, and breathing, the blood only inches from their noses is what draws their attention.

So I wipe more and flick more. Streamers of bright red blood splatter against the Zs, sending them into a confused frenzy. I like to call it the Jackson Pollack Defense.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see more blood, blood that’s not mine, go flying through the air. I look over and Elsbeth has cut her arm and is flinging her blood around like confetti. With one arm, she keeps fighting the Zs, hacking them to bits, while with the other arm, she sends a hemoglobin distraction in the opposite direction.

“Jesus!” John shouts at my s
ide, his rifle barking. “You two are something else!”

He’s obviously pissed, but there’s a hint of a smile on his lips. I can see he’s digging the action. They don’t recruit soldiers for Special Forces because they get queasy at the sight of blood. They recruit the ones that are adrenaline junkies and violence addicts. We are literally steps away from dying and he’s digging it.

More power to him.

A scream
ahead tells us someone isn’t digging it so much, though. I can see the sisters tighten their formation around one of their own. I think it’s Tracy and I hear her cries of pain and anguish. And the only reason anyone cries out like that is if they’ve been bitten. Shit. The women are too clustered for me to see what’s going on, but I know something is up. None of them are helping their wounded sister. Instead, they are ringed about her, giving her time. But time to do what? If she’s been bitten, then dressing the wound won’t make a difference.

Then the formation breaks and out comes a devil woman.

The sight is enough to make John pause, his rifle going slack for a split second.

Tracy has two blades in each hand, gripped so
the blades extend in either direction from her fists. It’s hard to tell, but it looks like her hands are wrapped in something. Then we get just close enough to see what it is.

“Duct tape,” John says. “Holy fuck.”

The blades are duct tapped into Tracy’s fists so she doesn’t even have to worry about her grip. With wild, yet skilled, abandon, Tracy spins and jumps, turning in the air like a figure skater. Instead of ice, she’s gliding along the entrails of the undead and skating across the congealed blood of a thousand Zs.

And for every ten she takes down she cries out as she cuts herself.

Cuts. Herself.

It’s the same tactic as what I have been doing, and it draws the Zs towards her like a sanguine pied piper. Instead of moving up the last block towards Patton Ave and the BB& T building, she gives us all a sad look and takes the Zs up Aston St past the First Presbyterian Church.

Now, as much as I’d like to say that her sacrifice eases our struggle, I can’t. The sheer volume of Zs is such that all she has done is keep us from getting overwhelmed. We still have to fight for every single foot of progress. And I don’t know how much fight I have left in me. Endorphins flood my bloodstream, but then my bloodstream is getting a little thin from the wound on my head. I’m not dizzy, but I know I will be soon if the gash doesn’t stop bleeding. I really fucking whacked myself.

My legs go out from under me as a fallen Z rolls into my shins. Mr. Spikey meets the asphalt and a searing jolt of pain roars through Stumpageddon and into my shoulder. For like a split second I am nothing. I believe I have finally hit that true Zen state. It’s as if I don’t exist.
And there is nothing but white light. Sensory input is a thing of the past. I am one with the cosmos.