“There were so many,” she whispered, her voice wavering. “It was like a hurricane and an earthquake hit at the same time.”
“So many?” I asked. “Zombies, you mean?”
She nodded. “A giant swarm of ’em swept through town… Mr. Davis…” She choked on the name. “My old neighbor… he tried to get me out. We pulled in here to grab a few supplies before leaving, but it was a madhouse. So many desperate people.” She sniffled. “Then, the swarm came down the street. Too big, too fast.” Another sniffle. “We were planning to take 51 north, but when Mr. Davis saw the massive horde, he panicked and hit the memorial out there. We didn’t know where to go, so he helped me into the dumpster. To hide, until the mob passed.”
She took another gulp of water, then continued relaying her terrible tale. “I think he was planning to hide in there, too, but a few seconds after he closed the lid…” A horrified look crossed her face. “I heard him scream. I lifted the lid and stood up to see if I could help him, but one of those things tried to get me. I fell back down, and the lid shut on top of the zombie’s head. He was about to crawl inside when I heard a loud bang and the side of the dumpster crumpled toward me.”
Casey smiled. “That would be when another truck crashed into it.”
She glanced at him, her shoulders relaxing a little. Almost as if she’d just noticed that one of us was about her age. She smiled shyly and then nodded.
I chuckled. “When the truck crushed the dumpster inward, the lid must’ve slammed down so hard, it pinched the zombie’s head off.”
A detail no one needed to hear.
What can I say? I like to paint an accurate picture.
Clare and George both flashed me annoyed expressions. Casey likely would have, too, if he hadn’t been so preoccupied with the pretty newcomer.
Jessica glanced at me and nodded again. “Guess so. Anyway, it… the head, was still trying to bite me, so I scrambled away from it, to the side with all the nasty trash. I waited a while, until the awful noises outside faded away… even Mr. Davis’s screams.” She sighed sadly. “Then I tried to stand up and get out, but the lids wouldn’t budge. I could hear the head still moving around, but it was too dark to see anything inside the dumpster. Eventually, it stopped making noises, and I fell asleep. By the time I heard voices outside, I’d forgotten it was in there with me.”
“Jesus, how long were you trapped?” Casey asked.
“I’m not sure. What time is it?”
He glanced at his watch. “About five a.m. November 4th.”
“November 4th?!” She shook her head, disbelief etched upon her young face. “Almost two days then.” She glanced at the empty bottle in her hand. “No wonder I was so thirsty.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Clare lamented, “what a nightmare.”
Jessica shrugged. “Could’ve been worse, I guess. I mean, it was gross and scary. But at least I’m still alive. Unlike Mr. Davis… and everybody else I know.”
“Anyway,” she continued, “when I heard you guys, I didn’t know if I should say anything. I didn’t want to starve to death in there, but then again…” She offered Casey a sheepish grin. “I didn’t know who you were. If you’d hurt me or not. So, I crawled into the corner and tried to stay as quiet as possible.”
“We heard you sneeze,” Casey said.
She bit her lip. “Yeah, I tried to hold it in, but the air wasn’t exactly fresh in there.”
I chuckled again. “It’s not exactly fresh in here either.”
“Better than a dumpster,” she replied. “Anyway… I was afraid y’all might’ve heard me. So, I tried hard not to move, but then that disgusting thing tried to bite my foot.”
In unison, Clare, George, Casey, and I all glanced down at her feet—as if expecting to spy a nasty wound that would prove to be the girl’s death sentence.
From the collective sigh in the van, it seemed we were all delighted to spy her bloodstained-but-intact leather boots.
“He didn’t get me,” she assured us. Just in case anyone still had doubts.
George’s smile faded. “Jessica—”
“Jess,” she insisted. “Everybody calls me Jess.”
George grinned. “OK, Jess… where’s your family?”
Suddenly, another explosion rocked the van. Somehow, I doubted we’d be able to retrace our steps back to MS-28.
“It’s just me and my dad,” Jess replied, ignoring the nearby rumbles.
“Where is he?” Clare asked.
“He’s the captain of a car ferry. Captain Sal.” As if that answered everything.
“Uh, guys,” I said, “I hate to interrupt, but we really should get back on the road.”
No one paid attention to me. Not even Clare. They were all too busy waiting for Jess to continue.
“He ferries vehicles up and down the Mississippi River,” she explained. “That’s where he could be right now. On the Stargazer. That’s the name of his ship. Anyway, Mr. Davis was gonna take me to Natchez, to meet up with him, but…”
“The undead shitstorm hit,” I offered.
She sighed wearily. “Yep.”
“Well, we could take you there,” Casey said, his impulsive hormones volunteering us all for taxicab duty.
Before I could object to the detour, Clare and George vehemently agreed. Naturally, Jess beamed with gratitude, and I didn’t have the heart to burst her bubble.
Besides, while we had yet to spy any zombies or evil humans approaching the van, I realized the longer we sat in the Walgreens parking lot, the more likely that could change. The more likely, too, another explosion would do more than merely knock us around a bit.
So, we needed a plan. I-55 North was blocked. MS-28 likely was, too. Since our ultimate destination in northern Michigan lay northeast of us, I didn’t want to waste time heading south—or, in the case of Natchez, southwest—but perhaps west was the only viable choice from Hazlehurst.
As it happened, Jess preferred that direction as well. Heading west would lead us to the Mississippi, America’s greatest river—where she believed her dad currently steered his enormous ferryboat. After dropping her off, we could simply trace the serpentine waterway toward Memphis and beyond.
“You don’t, by any chance, have a radio I could use to call him?” she asked. “I was supposed to meet him… well, two days ago.”
In less than five minutes, Jess, with Casey acting as her eager assistant, had set up all the shortwave radio gear on the dining table. Tested it, too.
It took a few minutes of repeated efforts for Jess to get through to the Stargazer, but as soon as the radio operator answered the call and promised to alert her dad, the radiant smile on the young woman’s face could’ve rivaled the sun.
“Jess?” Captain Sal asked breathlessly. “Is that you?”
I detected his relief, even over the static. Given the mayhem that had overtaken the country over the past few days, he’d likely believed her to be dead… or dead-adjacent.
Briefly, Jess told her father what had befallen her—and who had ultimately rescued her. He was so delighted to hear her voice—and so grateful to us—that we finally caught our first big break. For our willingness to reunite Sal with his daughter, he offered to ferry us (and our home-on-wheels) up the Mississippi River, onto the Ohio River, and all the way to Louisville, Kentucky, where Jess and Sal planned to connect with some surviving relatives.
Thanks to the appreciative ferryboat captain, we wouldn’t have to traverse the nation’s treacherous highways and byways, fending off hordes of the undead, to reach our final destination alive. Or rather, with Sal’s help, we wouldn’t have to travel quite as many perilous roads over the course of our long-ass journey.
My family’s homestead in northern Michigan lay about eleven hundred and sixty miles from Port Gibson, but the upriver trip would shave off roughly fifty percent of our remaining mileage. We just needed to make it to an old ferry ramp situated over forty miles north of Natchez.
Captain Sal exp
lained that, for the past two days, he’d been piloting his vessel up and down a hundred-mile stretch of the river, hoping to hear from his daughter—who, in his own words, was “one resourceful kid.” Although he presently had over thirty people and a dozen vehicles on board the Stargazer, he’d staunchly refused to leave the area and head north without Jess in tow—despite the near-mutinous demands to do so.
“Right now, I’m closer to Port Gibson,” he said. “And I couldn’t send you down to Natchez anyway. It’s not safe.”
What the hell is these days?
Apparently, Captain Sal had witnessed the fall of Natchez firsthand—when “a hurricane of the undead” blasted the city apart. He told us the town was still too dangerous for him to dock the boat safely. Unfortunately, the undead storm stretched much farther north, meaning the ramp west of Port Gibson wouldn’t be zombie-free either. Just less problematic than the towns of Natchez to the south and Vicksburg to the north.
Despite the sleep-deprived delirium that threatened to knock me on my ass, I felt a renewed burst of adrenaline at the thought of heading for the Stargazer—as well as a mega-dose of gratitude for Casey, who had spotted the two fully fueled pickup trucks, heard a telling sneeze, and insisted on investigating the smelly dumpster. Even Clare admitted that she was ultimately thankful for the Hazlehurst detour.
True, I was hesitant to trust a stranger to haul me and my people up two major rivers. For all I knew, Jess’s dad was a psycho, and Jess herself merely served as bait. I’d certainly encountered my fair share of assholes since waking up in my New Orleans courtyard.
On the other hand, I’d met several decent folks, too. The Summers clan at Home Depot. Ray and his kids down in Gramercy. Two voodoo-practicing sisters. The fearsome ladies of Gonzales. And of course, George and Casey.
Besides, hiding out in a nasty dumpster, trapped with a hungry zombified head, seemed like a ridiculous way to ensnare some well-armed, well-supplied dupes.
Even so, having a skeptical attitude seemed necessary in a zombie apocalypse—especially if I wanted to keep Clare and Azazel alive.
I had a good feeling, though, about Sal and Jess, and honestly, my biggest concern didn’t stem from them but, rather, from having to rely on a mighty waterway like the Mississippi. Yes, I’d already done that back on the bayous near Gonzales: Despite my reasonable fear of drowning, I’d trusted Bertha and her buddies to transport me, Azazel, and my van via a makeshift Cajun barge—and I had indeed lived to tell the crazy tale. A river-worthy ferryboat would ensure an infinitely safer, steadier ride. But as a non-swimmer, I still found the proposal unsettling.
Eh, what the hell. You only live once.
Traveling via water might unnerve me, but so would driving along zombie-choked roadways. And since Hazlehurst had turned out to be a bust, I knew it was time to go. At least before something else decided to blow up and ruin our day.
I didn’t have a better option than the one offered by Jess and her father, so once they’d both signed off and Casey had stowed the shortwave equipment, I spun around, secured my seatbelt, and headed for U.S. 51, hoping, as usual, for the best.
Chapter
23
“That is the most real, authentic, hysterical laugh of my entire life because THAT IS NOT A PLAN!” – Rocket Raccoon, Guardians of the Galaxy (2014)
Assuming MS-28 was a no-go—thanks to the varied explosions in Hazlehurst—I drove north on U.S. 51 to the town of Gallman. From there, I opted for a roundabout route, first west and then south, to reach Dentville Road, a paved, two-lane thoroughfare slicing through yet another dense forest.
After that, the drive to Port Gibson—which would’ve usually required about fifty minutes—ate up almost two hours, courtesy of numerous pileups and undead herds that forced me to slow down and weave through various, infinitely disturbing obstacle courses. Otherwise, though, the trip was uneventful—at least by post-apocalyptic standards.
While I made my plodding way to MS-18, Clare and George took the opportunity to grab some shut-eye—the former in her customary passenger seat, the latter on a freshly blanketed sofa. Naturally, Azazel snoozed away the morning in her carrier.
Casey, meanwhile, used the time to grab a snack and chat with his new pal. In fact, except for one quick break, during which Jess tidied up in the bathroom, the pair of them spent the entire ride sitting at the dining table, talking and laughing nonstop. Given all the trials and tribulations the two teenagers had endured over the past few days, I marveled at their seemingly boundless energy and resilience—and then remembered what hormones could do.
I glanced at my wife, her head resting on a neck pillow, her eyes closed to the world. Besides the fact that I wanted Clare to get some much-needed rest, I was grateful that she couldn’t see Jess in the T-shirt and jeans I’d lent her.
With the same slender frame that Jill had had, the girl had easily fit into my mother-in-law’s old clothes. I trusted Clare would want them to get some use, but I also knew seeing a veritable stranger wearing them mere hours after losing her mom might trigger another uncontrollable crying jag. So, I stayed as alert as possible and did my best not to jolt her awake.
During the trip, the night sky gradually lightened, which made it much easier for me to avoid dozing off. I could’ve asked someone else to take the wheel, but since we were all too exhausted to drive safely, I figured I might as well have the honors. Besides, I’d never been able to rest comfortably as a passenger—as Clare knew all too well.
By the time we reached the outskirts of Port Gibson, the sun had already risen. As I turned onto U.S. 61, the main highway through town, I realized I was on the same damn road known as Airline Highway in Louisiana—the one, in other words, that the assholes of Gonzales had blockaded. If not for them, I would’ve reached Baton Rouge much sooner—maybe in time to spare Jill from such a terrible fate.
Then again, if the bastards hadn’t waylaid me, I never would’ve been able to assist Bertha and her pals in taking them down. Clare and I never would’ve befriended George and Casey, Jess might indeed have stayed inside that dumpster until she starved to death, and we wouldn’t have a chance to shave six hundred miles off our northward journey.
“Wake up, gang!” I hollered. “We’re here!”
Casey and Jess immediately ceased their chitchat, rose from the dining table, and crowded into the cockpit for their first look at Port Gibson. Clare and George roused themselves, too.
I braked atop the bridge that arched above Bayou Pierre. Overlooking the small town, we had a decent view of the maddening scene that spread out before us.
The undead storm had indeed preceded our arrival, and it was mightier than even I, with my lifelong pessimistic streak, had anticipated. Thousands of zombies, maybe even tens of thousands, crowded the roadways. Flames engulfed half of the buildings, and the air crackled with sporadic gunfire and heart-wrenching screams.
Worse, we spied several humans running for their lives and ultimately losing the race.
An utter, mind-numbing nightmare… and somehow, we had to find our way to the other side of it.
Fucking figures.
Then, just as I nearly succumbed to fatigue and despair, the good-luck stick once again hit us square in the face.
I didn’t want to be a pessimist for the rest of my life, but I hesitated to embrace complacency either—especially when I was about to drive through a town besieged by hordes of the undead. From what I could see through the binoculars I’d plucked from my glove compartment, even daylight hadn’t given the poor residents much of an edge.
As I scanned the teeming streets, my gaze paused on Port Gibson’s old county courthouse. Likely dating back to the early 1800s and sporting a tall tower at its center, the historic, whitewashed structure might’ve seemed quite lovely and inviting had hundreds of zombies not presently surrounded it. The relentless creatures pushed against one another to breach the building, undulating in twenty concentric rings of bodies, like an enormous amoeba preparing to eng
ulf its food.
Like many antebellum edifices that had survived the American Civil War, the courthouse seemed stalwart enough to withstand the undead pressure. But looks could certainly deceive.
In fact, as I passed the binoculars to Clare so she could have a look, the zombie horde shoved the facade so hard that part of the front wall collapsed. As the creatures streamed inside, the main doors opened and two dozen or so people rushed out, their guns blasting everything in sight.
I respected their moxie—or was that desperation?—but they were sorely outnumbered. Even more so when countless other zombies—preoccupied with breaking into other buildings, smashing car windows, and chowing down on the locals—suddenly noted the gunshots, screams, and cries of despair and made a beeline for the beleaguered courthouse.
“Jesus,” George whispered. “It never ends, does it?”
“Not for them,” I replied. “And not for us either.”
It wouldn’t take the zombies long to decimate the survivors, no matter how well armed they might seem.
In other words, our window of opportunity was closing.
“Hang on, everybody!”
I didn’t even wait for my passengers to reclaim their seats and brace themselves before I gunned the engine. By the time we reached the first nonoperational stoplight, the van had hit eighty miles per hour. I tried to avoid colliding with the roving zombies in my path, but for the most part, I focused my attention on less pliable obstacles, like abandoned vehicles, as I careened down Church Street, only two blocks from the raging battle at the courthouse.
As we crossed Orange Street, I glanced to the right, past the Confederate monument standing on a grassy knoll in front of the courthouse—and discovered the brief skirmish had become a definitive bloodbath. We hadn’t even made it halfway through town when the gunfire ceased, and all the humans had presumably perished.
Naturally, we became the new target for the insatiable undead. Thousands of the fuckers converged upon us as we barreled through town. In keeping with their usual mode of operation, they moaned, hissed, and tried to ram our van with their reanimated bodies. I attempted to knock aside as many as possible, but it wasn’t an easy feat.
Zombie Chaos Box Set | Books 1-4 Page 64