Z-Burbia 5: The Bleeding Heartland by Jake Bible

Author:Jake Bible [Bible, Jake]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Severed Press
Published: 2015-01-20T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

I could have totally waited to see the pit.

No, seriously, I could have waited my whole life to see it. Or, better yet, I could have gone my whole life without seeing it. That’s the best scenario, right there. Just not seeing the pit.

Once inside the Tomb, the men aren’t as gentle as when we were out in the feet deep snow and freezing wind. I’m made to stand on my own, which takes pretty much all of my willpower, and navigate the swirling bustle of activity that is the main entrance to the Tomb.

People are scurrying about left and right, carrying boxes and mattresses, bags of food, and stacks of blankets. Men are shouting at women to hustle, and the women are just taking it, keeping their heads down, going about their work with deep frowns on their faces, and their eyes averted. More than a few of the women keep to the sides of the mine, making sure there is plenty of room between them and the men. I don’t blame them; I can see how the men are leering at them.

You see, this is what happens when you separate the genders, man. The men get all worked up, and then as soon as they are around the ladies all they do is think with their dicks. Like that guy there. He’s totally staring at that young woman in the ugly white sweatshirt with cats all over it. He might as well just whip out his wang and announce he wants to put it in her.

Hold on, I know that young woman.

“GRETA!” I shout, and her head goes from being bowed to snapping upright, her eyes searching for me in the throng. “GRETA!”

For one split second, Greta almost drops the bundle of towels in her arms, and rushes at me. Her left foot is moving forward, and I can see the tension in her shoulders start to give. But the sudden attention my yells bring on us means that pretty much everyone is watching to see what we’ll do.

What I do is fall flat on my face as I catch a shotgun butt to the middle of my back. What Greta does is control herself and move closer to a group of women that are closest to the mine wall. She burrows between them, and they close ranks quickly, whether to shield her from her wicked, wicked father that is bleeding from a gash on his forehead (I’m talking about me) or to shield her from the increasing amount of attention she’s getting from some of the men. Either way, I am almost grateful for that little slice of protectiveness, even if it means absolutely nothing in the grand scheme of this crazy place.

“Get your ass up,” the first man says as he kicks me in the ass.

“That’s not helping,” I say as I try to push up with my arm, but my muscles just don’t want to behave. Reptile Jesus’s whacky juice is still doing a number on me.

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