Unfortunately, the design also made it difficult for us to conceal ourselves. With the aid of several electric lanterns peppered throughout the bullpen, I observed five armed men standing or crouching near the partially open front doors, shooting at someone outside. Probably Gretchen and the other three women. And if I could discern the five “officers” in the poor lighting, it wouldn’t take much for one of the bastards to spot us.
Thankfully, Tom guided us out of sight before a new problem had reared its untimely head. As tempting as it might’ve seemed to shoot the five men from behind and spare the ladies out front, we couldn’t be sure they were the only on-site enemies – and we still had prisoners to spring. In short, we couldn’t afford to ignite another firefight.
Not yet anyway.
I couldn’t help but wonder, though, if any of the men gathered near the front doors was the infamous sheriff, the one that had killed Ally’s husband. Her pinched face made it hard to tell; she probably wanted to shoot them all.
Just for good measure.
But, thankfully, she didn’t even ready her gun, much less fire. None of us did.
Instead, we kept our heads down, our guns aimed at the tiled floor, and our footsteps as soft as possible. Taking advantage of the distraction our friends had staged out front, we slipped into a stairwell on the right side of the corridor.
Lined in concrete, the staircase guided us downward to a windowless level partially situated underground and doubtlessly fortified against flooding. Architecture in southern Louisiana, after all, wasn’t known for sporting basements, thanks to the high water table.
All the way down the stairs, we could hear the shouts of angry men and women, and as we emerged into a sixty-foot-long corridor, the shouts naturally loudened in intensity. Directly across from the stairwell lay an empty guard station. If a similar station existed at the far end of the corridor, it was likely empty, too. All hands were surely needed elsewhere – and despite the prisoners’ impressive vocal cords, they weren’t exactly a flight risk.
Between us and a staircase at the far end, which presumably led to the front of the building, stood eight barred jail cells – four on each side – apparently all filled. Even in a space barely lit by electric lanterns, I could see the knuckles of at least a dozen people gripping the bars. So, it seemed we were liberating more than just the husbands of my new friends. As problematic as that might be, it comforted me that Bertha, Ally, and the other women had an actual rebel army on their side.
So, maybe we’ll survive this insanity after all.
The four of us had taken such careful steps onto the lower level that none of the prisoners had noticed us yet. They were yelling toward the other staircase, the one that curved around the concrete wall and probably led to the men still shooting upstairs.
As soon as one of them spotted us creeping along the corridor, though, the jig would be up. Sure enough, a scruffy, red-haired man swiveled his head toward us, and following his telltale yell, nearly all the cell occupants focused their attention on their four would-be rescuers. It didn’t take long for the feistiest ones to begin demanding we free them from their asinine captors.
“Quiet, y’all,” Tom pleaded, using his rifle-free hand to point upward. As if to remind them of their captors’ presence. As if they needed reminding. “No one knows we’re here yet.”
Prior to the zombie apocalypse, Gonzales (the so-called “jambalaya capital of the world”) had boasted around ten thousand residents. Not exactly a small town, but still tight-knit enough that the young man likely knew each one of the prisoners. So, not surprisingly, they took little time to comply. Unfortunately, the sudden silence was what gave us away.
An overweight, middle-aged guard, who must’ve been at the top of the curving staircase, thundered down the steps. “What the fuck?”
But before he’d alerted his cronies up top or even removed his gun from its holster, Bertha stepped beside me, aimed her rifle, and sent two shots into his chest. His face grimacing in pain, he stumbled down the stairs and landed with a resounding thud at the bottom.
“Fuck you, coward,” she spat.
“That must be my Bertha,” a man’s deep voice exclaimed. It had come from the farthest cell on the left.
An unabashed smile broke across Bertha’s formerly grim face. I’d been right: She was an attractive woman. Just hard to tell when her gun had been pointed at me.
Even with the ongoing gunfire upstairs, someone had no doubt heard the gunshots on the lower level – which meant they surely knew that intruders had breached the premises. We had to move fast before they, like us, decided to divide and conquer.
So, while Ally grabbed a large keyring from the wall beside the front guard station and began unlocking the cells, Tom ascended the front staircase and fired his rifle around the corner, no doubt hoping to keep the rest of the assholes busy. Bertha and I remained in the corridor, keeping an eye on the staircase. As backup for Tom.
Frankly, our uneventful entrance through the building’s rear door had surprised me. I’d expected to meet some kind of resistance – an armed guard, a makeshift barricade, something. But perhaps the Gonzales assholes were too arrogant to believe the rebels would risk such a ballsy move.
They sure as shit won’t make that mistake twice.
I turned to Bertha. “You know, they’ll probably cut us off at the other end.”
She nodded. Apparently needing no other hint, she spun around and headed toward the rear staircase, and I followed suit. We’d barely made it to the top of the stairs when several bullets splintered the doorframe of the open stairwell.
Bertha aimed her rifle around the doorjamb and unleashed a few short bursts toward the front of the building. Despite my protesting knees, I crouched below her and let the rather loud Mossberg do some talking. I didn’t expect to hit anyone or do any real damage. Bertha likely didn’t either. But at the very least, I hoped our rifle and shotgun blasts would keep the sheriff and his cowardly cronies at bay – especially since they had to split their attention between us, Tom, and the women out front.
Heavy footsteps and even heavier exhalations sounded below, and within minutes, Ally, Tom, and the former prisoners had joined us in the stairwell. Glancing over my shoulder, I discerned roughly two dozen silhouettes squished together on the dimly lit stairs. Several glints indicated that Ally had armed a few of them.
Shit. How am I gonna squeeze all these people into my van? She ain’t that big!
My knees creaked and popped as I rose to my feet. Amid the ongoing gunfire, I leaned toward Ally. “Is that everyone?”
She nodded. “Looks to be.”
“Good. Me, Tom, and Bertha can distract the fucktards while you lead the rest outside.”
She nodded again, then turned to the bedraggled group behind her. “OK, boys an’ girls. We’re gonna head out back. Anyone got a gun, don’t be afraid to use it.” She crept toward the doorway. “Let’s go.”
As she guided the men and a few women to the back doors, Bertha and I unleashed holy hell on the three guards targeting the fleeing rebels. Saving our noble intentions for better folks, we managed to kill one of them and wound another, and soon, nearly our entire group (despite a few bullet grazes) had slipped outside. Tom, in turn, covered for us while Bertha and I bolted toward the open door.
Once we reached the bottom of the outer steps, I opened my mouth again. “I thought we were just springing your husbands. That’s a lot more people than I expected.”
“Sorry,” Bertha said. “We should’ve explained. Our men weren’t the only ones considered public enemies. The rest of them…” She swept her weapon-free arm toward the men and women huddled in the street. “Well, they’re the National Guardsmen and their spouses who dared to defy the bastards, too.”
Given my badass bargemates, I figured the few female prisoners in the group were just as likely to be members of the National Guard as the spouses she’d mentioned.
Clare would’ve been proud of my nons
exist moment.
“Look, that’s great and all, but there’s no fucking way we can fit thirty people in my van.”
Bertha smirked. “Not a problem.”
My brow furrowed, but I kept my mouth shut for once.
As soon as Tom emerged, everyone moved toward my vehicle, which happily looked just as I’d left her. Intact and unmolested.
Thank the fucking universe for small favors.
While Tom and Ally kept their rifles trained on the building, Bertha briefly explained the situation to her fellow rebels.
“Unfortunately, we can’t fit you all inside the van, so most of you will have to walk on the other side as we make our way back up to the barge.”
I unlocked the rear doors and helped the oldest, most feeble, and most injured men and women into the vehicle. Soon, roughly twelve people occupied my sofa, the two dining benches, and various spots on the floor.
“If you see anything moving inside,” I said to my newest passengers, “it’s probably just my cat. She’s not fond of strangers, but pretty harmless if you don’t try to pet her.”
With that, I closed and locked the rear doors. I still didn’t know where Azazel had hidden herself, but I hoped she wasn’t too petrified. I wasn’t kidding when I’d said she had an antisocial streak.
As I headed for the driver’s-side door, an incredibly skinny, sixtysomething man with an unbelievable, two-foot-long, salt-and-pepper beard darted toward Bertha and embraced her. Although his lanky appearance didn’t quite match the baritone voice I’d heard in the jail, he certainly hugged Bertha like a relieved husband. It was a touching reunion, but seriously… I thought his beard was going to smother her.
“Damn fool,” she said, pulling back to look at him. “I told you not to…”
But she didn’t finish her thought. The man had silenced her with a kiss.
After a moment, she came up for air. With tears of joy streaming down her cheeks, she mumbled, “Sorry for taking so long.”
“Nothing to be sorry about,” he said, wiping some of the tears away. “You made it. We’re free. That’s all that matters.”
Free? Not yet, I’m afraid.
Just then, as the warning hovered in my throat, the SUV careened around the southern side of the complex and headed our way. Amid smoke and squeals, it screeched to a stop not far from my van.
“Jesus,” I said.
The vehicle had definitely seen better days. Bullets had cracked or blasted apart all of the windows, riddled the driver’s-side doors, and punctured two of the tires, which were so flat I was shocked Gretchen had managed to drive the damn thing at all. How the hell would it survive the journey back to the barge?
Luckily, Gretchen, Ellen, Tonya, and Sally were fine. All alive, with mere grazes and bruises. Not a threatening wound among them.
As the ladies tumbled out of the trashed SUV, some of the men – presumably their husbands – stepped from the herd and hugged them. Once Ellen had finished squeezing her own partner in crime, she grabbed Tom and yanked him into a tight embrace. As if to say, I’m your mother, and I never want you to be in danger again.
A noble sentiment, perhaps, but an unlikely wish in an undead world.
As I glanced around the group, sensing the love and relief, I knew we had little time to relax. Any of the assholes left alive inside or those headed back to the complex would do their damnedest to kill every last one of us.
I opened my mouth to say as much, but my throat tightened when I caught sight of a tall, broad-shouldered black man standing near the SUV, looking frantically at the faces surrounding him in the moonlight.
Nudging Bertha, I asked, “Is that Wayne? Gigi’s Wayne?”
She followed my gaze, and the smile faded from her face. After reluctantly releasing her husband, she took a deep breath and made a beeline for the distraught man.
Although I couldn’t hear the words exchanged between them, their body language said enough. Bertha’s forehead furrowed in pity. Wayne’s frown deepened, and his shoulders hunched in sorrow. When Bertha handed him Gigi’s necklace, he leaned against her, almost knocking her over. Stronger than she seemed, though, she held her ground, wrapped her arms around his torso, and said nothing as his large frame shuddered with silent sobs.
Chapter
9
“Yeah, fuck you, too!” – MacReady, The Thing (1982)
Even though I stood on a public street, amid a heartening reunion of friends and relatives, it felt intrusive to watch the slender brunette comforting the hefty widower, but I couldn’t look away.
The men in my family didn’t typically cry in front of others – at least not voluntarily.
Don’t get me wrong: Any guy would get teary-eyed after a kick to the nutsack. But my father and my two brothers had never done so out of emotion.
As in so many other ways, though, I was cut from a different cloth.
Yes, Clare had often teased me for my “manly” disdain of professional male athletes who’d break down after upsetting losses, but that hadn’t stopped me from shamelessly weeping beside her when our first cat passed away at a vet’s office in Los Angeles.
Still, even if I’d been the type of guy who hated to see grown men crying right in front of him, I wouldn’t have expressed such thoughts outside the sheriff’s office. For one thing, I wasn’t that callous or judgmental – at least to people’s faces. And for another, Wayne was an enormous guy.
I might be an idiot sometimes, but I don’t have a fucking death wish.
And let’s be honest: If someone had just told me what Bertha had said to Wayne, I’d be balling my eyes out. Life meant nothing without Clare in it – Wayne probably felt the same way about poor Gigi.
Of course, I’d also be looking for some serious fucking payback against the dicks who’d put her in that fatal situation. Zombies might’ve taken Gigi’s life, but it was the assholes in town who’d ultimately been responsible.
Suddenly, I spotted movement in the waning moonlight. Several armed men had burst through the rear doors of the sheriff’s office and were headed straight for us.
“Look alive, everyone,” I said. “The love fest is great, but we’ve got trouble again.”
Normally, I wouldn’t have disturbed such a sweet reunion, but as I’d already noted several times during the past twenty-three hours, sentimentality had little place in the new zombified world. Especially when a bunch of fucktards were pointing guns at us.
Pulling away from Wayne, Bertha readied her rifle. “Anyone unarmed, get behind Joe’s van. Everyone else, aim for the fuckers headed our way.”
Several men and a couple women bolted for the rear and driver’s side of my van. Foolish or not, I remained with those left to defend the escapees: Tom, my six bargemates, and a handful of armed prisoners, including Bertha’s husband and Gigi’s widower (who’d immediately sobered in the face of imminent danger).
“Back the fuck off,” Tom shouted as he pulled a device from his pocket and held it above his head.
Not a gun, but something threatening enough to halt the armed men in their tracks. As a tense, awkwardly silent standoff ensued, I surveyed both sides of the stalled battle. A dozen adversaries, more than I’d spotted still alive (and standing) inside the complex, presently faced us, so I had to assume the police chief and his men had returned from the diversion at the town barriers. Luckily, we had an equal number of armed rebels on our side – and if the need arose, some of the unarmed ones would likely do their part, too. At least I hoped so.
“I will blow the shit out of all your barricades,” Tom said, waving the device above his head – presumably a long-range detonator. “This place’ll be crawling with the dead in minutes.”
The faces of our enemies expressed a range of emotions, from fear to anger to disbelief, but no one said a word – including the two middle-aged men in front who pretty much embodied the cliche of fat-ass sheriffs. Some of the men surely doubted that anything would happen, while others were probably calculating t
he odds of shooting Tom before he could press the fateful button.
Since no one rushed to open fire, I figured they had little confidence in their chances. A few of the fools might’ve even been smart enough to realize that killing Tom would simply ensure that one of his fellow rebels would pick up the detonator and finish the job for him.
While the standoff continued, Ally turned toward me and nodded in the direction of my van.
Taking the hint, I slowly retreated toward my baby, unlocked the driver’s-side door, and climbed inside. As I carefully shut the door, I silently cursed the grating sound of metal on metal, but resisted the temptation to start the engine. I didn’t want its deep rumbling to startle one of the trigger-happy cowards and fast-track the inevitable mayhem.
So, I waited with my frightened passengers and hoped for the best. While sitting in the driver’s seat, I took a moment to wipe copious amounts of sanitizer on my hands, weapons, steering wheel, and door handles. I must’ve seemed insane to the folks sitting in my rig, but I didn’t care. If I planned to stave off the zombie infection and avoid passing it to Azazel (wherever she might be), I needed to be diligent in my sanitizing habits. For all I knew, it would only take a mere touch of my tainted palms and one obsessive grooming session for my furbaby to become a zombified feline from hell.
Frankly, her personality was already devilish enough.
Of course, all that sanitizing would dry out my skin in no time. If only I’d thought to stock up on lotion, too.
“Mr. Joe, is it?”
The whisper had come from the dining area. Turning, I spotted a petite young woman in the murkiness.
“Just Joe will do.”
“What’s happening out there?”
“Oh, you know, your typical standoff.” I nodded toward the people outside. “Your pal Tom’s threatening to blow up the barriers. Maybe that’ll be enough for them to let us go. Maybe not.” I sighed. “All we can do is sit tight and wait for a signal.”
Zombie Chaos (Book 3): Terror on the Bayou Page 6