From beside our pilot, I heard Ally’s unabashedly bitter voice. “Before shuttin’ down Gonzales, da scum in town cleared most of da streets an’ houses of any undead – an’ anyone else who got in da way.” Quietly, she added, “I jus’ hope Bert’s not in one of doze piles. He deserves a proper burial.”
“Jesus,” I replied, stepping around the front of my van to get a closer look. “I always knew humanity was pathetic, but I never expected it to fall apart this quickly.”
“Yep,” Tonya replied from the bow. “People pretty much suck.”
“Yeah, but we went from normal assholery straight to post-apocalyptic tyranny in, what, two fucking days?”
True, I was repeating myself, but despite my lifelong mistrust of humanity, I found it hard to fathom, much less accept, such depravity.
Predictably, none of the women responded. They simply focused on scanning our surroundings or rechecking their weapons. They might not have possessed quite as many guns as I did, but watching those zombie heads explode on the dead-end street had convinced me they were packing some powerful firearms. And based on what I’d observed so far, the ladies understood how to use them.
As it turned out, we’d driven quite a stretch south of Gonzales, near the town of St. Amant, to reach the barge. Consequently, our northward journey would take longer than I’d hoped. Particularly since we weren’t alone.
Every few minutes, gunshots sounded in the distance, and I could’ve sworn I heard growling of the undead variety amid the shadowy foliage. Once we veered from the New River, onto Black Bayou, we began spotting meddlesome zombies along both shores.
Crap.
If we’d piqued the curiosity of those fuckers, we’d likely roused the interest of other folks as well.
And by folks, I mean assholes with guns wishing to do us harm.
Unfortunately, the moon had vanished behind some clouds, making it more difficult for us to get our bearings – or keep a close eye on either bank. I wished we could’ve stayed on the wider, deeper river, but doing so would’ve left us out in the open for too long – a particular concern as we neared Gonzales. So, I understood why Gretchen had chosen to navigate us along narrower, shallower, more sheltered waterways like Black Bayou and Bayou Narcisse.
Ever since moving to southern Louisiana, I’d always loved how the bayous looked, especially at night. With giant cypress and oak trees dangling their Spanish moss over the water, it was downright picturesque.
But actually floating down them in a world gone mad was beyond creepifying. Even under my long-sleeved shirt, the hairs along my forearms stood at full attention.
So, of course, it didn’t ease my mind each time the pontoons got hooked on the bottom or beached on the shore. True, Gretchen and the rest of us always managed to keep the curious zombies at bay, free the barge, and guide it back onto open water, but at some point, our luck was going to run out.
Naturally, just as that thought popped into my brain, a large splash sounded in the darkened water ahead.
Ally sighed behind me. “Would it be too much to hope dat’s just a gator?”
The barge jerked violently in the slow-moving bayou, and a few of the women almost tumbled over the useless railing. To stabilize my own shaky stance, I instinctively grabbed the carnage-covered grill of my van – and immediately wished I’d fallen into the water instead. At least my hands and clothes would’ve been cleaner.
“Don’t think that was a gator,” Gigi shouted from the bow.
Given the moaning and rustling along both banks of the bayou, I suspected she was right. But without the moonlight from earlier, I knew nothing for certain.
After wiping my hands on my jeans and raising the Mossberg, I gazed around the barge in an effort to make out the seven silhouettes of my new friends. Although I hadn’t heard a telltale yelp, I wanted to ensure none of them had slipped overboard.
Regretting I hadn’t grabbed a flashlight – or, better yet, Ray’s night-vision goggles – I strained my eyes in the darkness. Fortunately (or not), the universe granted my unspoken wish. Just as my companions and I needed it most, the moon emerged from behind a cloud and illuminated our current situation.
Good news: All seven ladies seemed to be present and accounted for.
Bad news: We were definitely not alone. In fact, we were in serious trouble. Zombies lined both shores of the bayou, and the water surrounding us churned with the foul creatures. Given the inconvenient fact that the barge presently slogged through waist-deep water, our undead interlopers were wading directly toward our vessel and trying to clamber aboard.
Although I’d heard a bit of the typical moaning and hissing on either side, most of the noise on the bayou had been due to the four barge motors currently running. While not incredibly loud – as they would’ve been if Gretchen had pushed them to full throttle – the low rumble had been significant enough to drown out most of the zombified assailants. Or at least make it tough to know exactly how many of the fuckers had surrounded us.
Any concern for the evil assholes of Gonzales flitted from my mind. As the collective moans and groans from hundreds of hungry zombies finally overtook the sounds of our engines, the possibility of being discovered by selfish, trigger-happy humans was no longer my primary worry. Apparently, my fellow boaters had also rearranged their priorities, as all seven women started unloading on the zombie horde engulfing us.
Following suit, I aimed my shotgun at a disintegrating man inches from Tonya’s feet, pulled the trigger, and splattered his brain matter onto the deck – and across Tonya’s sneakers. Oblivious to the foul-smelling goo on her shoes, she expressed her gratitude with a curt nod before turning her attention to another encroaching zombie.
After several minutes of deafening gunfire and some much-needed assistance from the zombie-churning engine propellers behind me, the eight of us had managed to reduce numerous wading corpses into little more than inanimate body parts, tattered clothing, and varied blood and goo slicks on the bayou.
There’s a great name for a zydeco song: “Zombie Goo Slick on the Bayou.”
Shaking my head clear of such idiotic thoughts (and other symptoms of supreme exhaustion), I targeted a teenage zombie headed for Bertha.
Focus, Joe. For fuck’s sake.
Exhaling, I pulled the trigger, and Bertha was temporarily safe again.
Alternately reloading and taking aim, we continued trying to stop the inevitable flow of undead toward our barge. We even shot at some of the zombies ambling along the two shores, hoping to prevent them from joining their fellow fiends in the water.
But frankly, it was all for naught. There were just too damn many of them – and too fucking few of us. So, by the time the first zombie managed to crawl over the railing and stumble onto the deck, I suspected we wouldn’t make it to Gonzales alive.
Sorry, Clare. I tried. I really fucking did.
Apparently refusing to surrender without a fight, Bertha executed the waterlogged zombie with one well-aimed shot. A spray of gore painted the SUV as the zombie slumped to the deck. Meanwhile, Ellen, Tonya, and Gigi lowered their guns, unsheathed their machetes, and started swinging haphazardly at the creatures scrabbling at the railing and struggling to yank themselves on board.
Soon, an abundance of loose fingers, hands, and arms lay scattered across the barge. I couldn’t get an accurate count (not that I needed one), but after I nearly slipped on a zombie thumb, I decided I’d had enough.
Also, news flash: I’m not ready to die.
“Alright, that’s it,” I shouted amid the cacophony of moans and gunshots. “All of you, get in the vehicles! Now!”
“Someone has to steer the boat,” Gretchen yelled, “or we’ll just get trapped on a turn, and they’ll overwhelm us.”
When Ally and Sally switched their weapons to full-automatic mode and unleashed holy hell on the hundreds of zombies surrounding us, I figured they hadn’t heard me or Gretchen. So, I hollered as loud as I could – a deep, guttural bark that cam
e from the gnarled pit of desperation in my gut.
“Get inside the fucking cars! NOW!”
That did it. Ellen, Tonya, Ally, and Sally abandoned their posts and bolted toward the SUV. Bertha, meanwhile, retreated backwards from the railing, shooting any undead creatures still walking or crawling on the deck.
As I yanked aside the door of my van, I noticed Gretchen hadn’t yet budged from the helm.
“But someone still needs to steer the boat,” she protested again.
Maybe so, but I sure as shit don’t wanna do it.
Chapter
6
“Bitch is hardcore.” – Jack MacReady, Slither (2006)
As much as I didn’t want to admit it… Gretchen was right: If we couldn’t steer the makeshift barge, we’d get caught up on the next bend in the bayou. Then, the undead would completely engulf us, and I would never again see Clare alive.
“Motherfucker,” I hissed. “Can’t we catch a goddamn break?”
“I’ll drive us,” Gigi announced as she kicked another dead zombie into the water.
“You can’t,” Bertha said, her tone incredulous. “They’ll eat you alive.”
“Too late for that,” she said, holding up her left forearm in grim explanation.
I stared at her wounded limb, which was now missing a sizable chunk of flesh. Blood flowed freely down her arm, staining her clothes and splattering her shoes.
That’s not the break I was hoping for.
Gigi caught my pitying gaze and sighed. “I ain’t making it.”
Bertha grunted in return. “Goddammit.”
“Oh, Gigi, no,” Gretchen said, shifting forward as if longing to hug her friend but reluctant to leave her post.
“Shit,” I added, then promptly took out two zombies stumbling toward my van.
“Just rescue our men,” Gigi said as she executed her own pair of nervy zombies. “And make those bastards pay for what they did.” With her less bloody right hand, she pulled a chain off her neck and handed it to Bertha. “Tell Wayne… well, just tell him.”
An unspoken understanding seemed to pass between the two women. They were the toughest broads I’d ever encountered. I felt grateful – and lucky – to have met them. In fact, while I’d only known Gigi for less than two hours, my chest tightened with regret.
What a terrible thing to go through. What a horrible way to die.
Following a quick hug, Gretchen let Gigi take the steering wheel, then bolted toward the SUV. Bertha and I, meanwhile, exchanged respectful nods with our mortally wounded cohort – mere seconds before scrambling into my van and securing the doors. We rolled the windows down about halfway, just enough to keep shooting any zombies on the barge. From the sounds outside, I could tell the five women in the SUV were doing the same.
Of course, my van was a much safer place for such stationary target practice. Not only did she tower over the SUV, allowing me and Bertha to stand while firing, but the steel bars fixed across the windows kept roving undead fingers from reaching us. The ladies sitting in the SUV could only roll their windows down a couple inches and try halting the eager zombies with their handguns. Less effective perhaps but still helpful to poor Gigi.
As Bertha and I continued reloading and shooting any zombies who’d managed to make it on board, I glanced down at our doomed pilot. If I hadn’t known she’d been bitten, I might never have guessed. Despite the spreading infection within her, she gritted her teeth and continued to steer the barge while simultaneously taking out any zombies that neared her.
Damn, that woman’s a real badass.
Occasionally, the barge glided against one bank or the other, but Gigi would simply gun the motors and right our course. Eventually, though, her multitasking skills proved to be less than adequate.
About half a dozen zombies had surrounded her. Blood splattered against the console as they sampled parts of her flesh. She screamed but kept one hand on the steering wheel. Since my van wasn’t far from the helm, Bertha and I huddled near the driver’s-side window and did our best to thin the herd attacking her.
A few moments later, Gigi managed to shoot the last zombie standing. With an enraged yell, she kicked the corpse overboard and accelerated the barge into deeper water. Scanning my grimy mirrors and windows, I sighed with relief. The horde of zombies waded several hundred feet behind us, and after a couple minutes, no more stowaways appeared on the deck.
Once the immediate danger had passed, Gigi exhaled heavily and collapsed against the steering console. Bertha slid open the door of my van and darted toward her friend. In an instant, she had pulled Gigi toward the deck, where she cradled the woman in her arms. Behind me, I heard car doors slamming, and a few seconds later, the five other ladies had joined the two sitting beside the helm.
I stepped onto the deck but remained beside my van, reluctant to intrude upon the intimate scene. Even from my vantage point, I could discern bleeding lacerations along both of Gigi’s arms, plus a nasty wound on her right shoulder, so deep you could probably see the offending zombie’s teeth marks on her bones.
As her eyelids fluttered, and a soft moan escaped her lips, the six women surrounding her responded in different ways. Ellen and Ally wept and wailed freely. Gretchen, who had reclaimed her place at the helm, wore a visage of shattered disbelief. Tonya and Bertha cursed the unfairness of the situation, and Sally tried to soothe them all with a mumbled prayer.
Though understandably upset about Gigi’s condition, my new companions were still unabashed badasses. Not one of them tried to comfort the unfortunate victim with white lies and false promises. They all knew that nothing could be done to save Gigi from her inevitable fate. Even she knew it.
Despite the engines, I heard her rasping for breath. Her eyes opened, and she gazed at the women surrounding her.
“It’s OK, girls. It was a good run. Had to end sometime.”
The others merely responded with sighs and sobs, apparently too angry and sad to vocalize their feelings.
With trembling fingers, Gigi managed to unbuckle the straps holding her varied handguns across her pelvis and chest. “Take my guns,” she rasped. “Just not the 9mm.”
Bertha complied by tugging the straps away from Gigi’s torso and handing her the requested piece. With a grateful grin, Gigi used her last burst of energy to roll out of her friend’s lap – a move that momentarily surprised everyone, including me. Then, before any of us could stop her, she scrambled over the nearest railing and plopped into the bayou on the starboard side of the barge. Ally darted toward the edge and leaned over the railing, perhaps hoping to grab her friend before she could drift away. In her haste, her foot slipped in a pool of watery zombie blood, and she almost tumbled into the bayou. Luckily, Sally pulled her upright and restrained her arms as she wriggled toward the railing.
“It’s her choice,” the older woman said.
Gigi gazed at Sally and nodded, then as the gap grew between her and the barge, she scanned each of our faces in turn – even mine. As if exchanging farewell glances with all of us.
Suddenly, I felt a soft pressure against my back. Turning, I spotted Azazel sitting in my chair. Typically an affectionate cat (at least with me and Clare), she was obviously in need of some comfort. Perhaps she sensed what was coming.
I longed to pick her up and cradle her against my shoulder, as I often did, but my hands and clothes were once again covered in zombie filth, and I didn’t want to risk contaminating her.
A gasp from the helm pulled my attention back to the bayou. Following Gretchen’s concerned gaze, I spotted Gigi still floating in the water. The moonlight glinted off a bit of metal beneath her jaw, and I realized why she’d insisted on keeping one of her guns. Certainly not for self-defense or sentimental reasons.
“Fuck,” I whispered.
Gigi closed her eyes and pulled the trigger. Despite the din of whirring motors, the gunshot seemed to reverberate in the night air – as if the tragic and momentous nature of what had occurred magically a
mplified the sound.
I had just witnessed my first real-life suicide. A horrible experience, yes, but if I were honest, I’d admit that Gigi’s death wasn’t really a suicide. As soon as the initial zombie had bitten her, she was already dead. With one well-placed bullet, she’d offered an invaluable gift of mercy – to herself as well as to the rest of us. Knowing her end was near, she needed to ensure she wouldn’t return as one of those rotten pieces of shit and possibly hurt her friends – and she didn’t want any of them to bear that responsibility.
Damn, these ladies are tough.
Reflecting on such ballsy women inspired me to check on Azazel, but the seat behind me was empty. I glanced around the front area of my van, but I couldn’t see my cat anywhere. Not a tail, not a whisker, nothing.
As feisty as she often seemed to be, she’d never been fond of loud noises, especially fireworks, trucks, and thunderstorms (all prevalent outside our home in the French Quarter). No doubt a single, meaningful gunshot, following our cacophonous battle against the zombies, had sent her over the edge. I just hoped that, wherever she’d hidden herself in the van, she was safe and secure – and ready to get this fucking show on the road. Cuz I sure as hell was.
Chapter
7
“Nice moves there, Clint Eastwood. You the new sheriff come riding in to clean up the town?” – Glenn Rhee, The Walking Dead (2010)
Azazel and I might’ve been ready to move on, but unfortunately, the show had to wait. Our work in Gonzales wasn’t quite done. In truth, it hadn’t even fucking started yet.
“Mr. Jimmy,” Bertha said, pressing the side button of a camo-style walkie-talkie – similar to the long-range, waterproof ones I’d purchased during a prepper-type shopping spree two weeks earlier (and recently used in another ill-advised rescue attempt). “We’re nearing our destination.”
Zombie Chaos (Book 3): Terror on the Bayou Page 4