“Fucking cocksuckers,” one of the old men grumbled.
“Couldn’t agree more,” I said, returning to the view through my grimy windshield.
Little had changed. Tom still stood in front of our armed group, bravely daring our adversaries to make a move. Ally whispered something into Bertha’s ear. A few of the men on the other side were doing the same with their cohorts.
As an afterthought, I turned back to my passengers. “By the way, have any of you seen my cat?”
Just then, I noticed movement inside the litter box beyond the dining area. Fleet-footed as a gazelle, Azazel hopped through the opening, bits of litter spraying onto the van floor, and darted toward the front seats. Her intuition – and selective hearing – constantly amazed me.
“There she is,” the young woman exclaimed.
I resisted the urge to make a sarcastic remark, focusing instead on my wayward feline. “I should’ve known you were hiding in there.”
On long road trips, Azazel would often find comfort inside her litter box, whether or not she had to use the bathroom. I’d always considered toilets necessary evils (useful yet uncomfortable), but then, I wasn’t a cat. So, who was I to question her preferences?
Azazel leapt onto the dashboard and gazed at the crowded street below. I didn’t feel secure with her up there, exposed to possible gunfire, but unfortunately, I had other concerns. An additional eight men, all armed, were approaching their compatriots from behind.
Jesus, how many of these fuckers are there?
Technically, we still outnumbered the bastards, but only if I started dispersing my own firearms, which I wasn’t yet willing to do. I only hoped we could resolve the stressful situation before more scumbags joined the party. If the shooting incident on Airline Highway was any indication, the sheriff surely commanded a lot more men, many of whom were likely waiting at their guard posts along the town’s perimeter – and clearly had no qualms about executing the innocent.
Of course, I didn’t need to confirm that assumption. I just wanted to get the hell out of there before the scales tipped in their favor.
Perhaps feeling emboldened by his reinforcements, a sixtysomething man dressed in National Guard attire stepped around the sheriff and the local police chief. With his M16 pointed at Tom, he said, “Son, you’re bluffing. Put down your weapons, and nobody else will get hurt.”
That proved to be too much for Ally.
“You piece of shit,” she seethed. “Not only did y’all shut out doze of us who lived here our whole lives, but you killed my husband, too.” To punctuate her anger, she spat at the man, the spittle impressively landing on his boot.
He shook his head condescendingly and turned to whisper something to the head cops.
“You know, Lieutenant,” Tom added, lowering his arm, “the men were right about you. You really are an idiot. All your C4’s missing, and I was trained in demolition, so you know I’m not bluffing.”
“Stop right there, you little punk,” the fatter of the two head honchos said. “We’re trying to survive this shitstorm like everybody else.”
“No, not like everybody else,” Tom replied. “You’re fucking cowards. All of you.”
“Yeah,” Ally shouted, aiming her gun at the man who’d dared to speak, “an’ you’re da mudderfucker who’s really to blame. You da one shot my Bert an’ abandoned everyone outside your little barriers.”
I could only assume he was the Sheriff Arston she’d mentioned earlier. He sure looked like an arse – and given his out-of-shape physique, he’d probably never met a donut he didn’t like.
Not that I can talk. I’m not a fan of diets either.
“OK, that’s it,” Bertha said, “everyone needs to calm down. Including you, Ally.” She glanced pointedly at her friend and then turned back to the sheriff. “We’re just taking our people outta here. Let us do that, and you’re right, nobody else needs to get hurt. Or killed.”
“How do we know you won’t be back to make more trouble?” the police chief demanded.
“You don’t,” Bertha said. She nodded toward the detonator in Tom’s left hand. “But you know what’ll happen if you try to stop us.”
While the sheriff and his cronies mulled over their limited options, my new friends moved on with their plan.
Keeping her rifle at the ready, Gretchen bravely sidestepped toward the SUV, lowered herself into the driver’s seat, and eased the door shut. With one hand on the steering wheel, she used the other to balance her rifle on the dashboard, the deadly end sticking through the opening where the blasted-out windshield had formerly been. Ellen, Tonya, and Sally soon joined her, keeping their own guns trained on the enemy through the glassless front and side windows.
It took Gretchen a few tries to start the compromised engine, but once done, she carefully reversed on the busted tires and turned the vehicle around. Impressive move, considering the damage the SUV had sustained. As the vehicle slowly advanced down the street, the frame trembling with every foot forward, Gretchen’s passengers shifted their attention – and weapons – to the rear of the vehicle.
My gaze drifted back to the standoff, where I noticed Bertha gazing at me. When our eyes locked, she gave me a curt nod.
Shit, girl, that’s all you had to say.
Nodding in return, I twisted the key in the ignition, yanked the gearshift, and started rolling forward, directly behind the crawling SUV. Glancing in my side-view mirror, I spotted several unarmed people trudging along the driver’s side of my van – likely hoping to keep a barrier between themselves and the sheriff’s crew. Meanwhile, Bertha, Ally, Tom, and their fellow armed rebels started walking backwards along the passenger side and rear of my van, their weapons still trained on the assholes behind us.
Most of our adversaries, in turn, began advancing down the street, trailing my taillights, their weapons also at the ready. In my side-view mirror, I spotted a couple of young guys darting into the spacious parking lot to my left. I figured they’d decided to flee, until I glanced out my window and watched them climbing into two police vans. With a cacophony of screeching tires, they veered out of the lot and pulled in behind their compatriots.
Soon, our plodding procession rolled along the streets of Gonzales, retracing our steps back to the barge. The ridiculous scenario would’ve been laughable – like some bizarre, do-it-yourself Mardi Gras parade – if it hadn’t felt like a ticking time bomb about to go off.
I kept hoping the fat-ass sheriff and his police chief buddy would give up and turn back, but they were determined to “escort” us out of town. I wanted so badly to step on the gas and leave the idiots in my wake, but doing so would’ve sparked a fatal frenzy and left Bertha, Ally, and the others dangerously exposed. Besides, I wasn’t so sure the SUV ahead of me could safely travel more than ten miles an hour.
Although it only took twenty minutes to cover the three miles between the sheriff’s office and our turnoff, it felt like hours. Worrying could make time stretch like that. And I had a lot of fucking shit to worry about: that the murderous sheriff or his cronies would start firing, that a random zombie or two would disrupt the strange little procession, and, worst of all, that the barge would be gone.
Fortunately, though, no one pulled the trigger. No zombies appeared. And as we neared Bayou Narcisse, I exhaled a sigh of relief: The barge was exactly where we’d left it.
Sparks flew from one side of the SUV as it rode on two rims, the tires fully deflated. Likely knowing it made no sense to keep the vehicle, Gretchen pulled it off to one side. After she and the other four ladies emerged, bearing as many weapons and supplies as they could, I stopped to give them some cover as they darted up the ramp, which was luckily still locked in position. Once they’d deposited their gear and taken up guard positions along the port side of the barge, I carefully rolled onto the ramp. I would’ve preferred to reverse onto it, as before, but I didn’t want to confuse the people still walking on either side of my van.
The barge rocked da
ngerously, but I managed to reach the center and set the parking brake without capsizing the whole operation. Once again, I heard thunks on either side and figured the ladies were locking my wheels in place.
Before turning off the taillights and shutting down the engine, I gazed at my side-view mirror and watched as the rest of the rebels boarded the barge, which continued to rock with the added weight. After Bertha and her armed compatriots reversed up the ramp, I quieted my rumbling van and reloaded my Mossberg.
“What now, Mr. Joe?”
I turned to the young woman. “Just sit tight. We’ll be on the move soon.” Shifting my gaze to Azazel and setting down my shotgun, I said, “As for you, little girl…”
Speedier than I usually felt at a quarter to six in the goddamn morning, I managed to scoop her off the dashboard and guide the squirming, disgruntled feline into her carrier.
As soon as I shut the gate, the inevitable whining began.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know you’re pissed, but you’re safer in there.”
I grabbed the shotgun, told my passengers to keep their heads down, and slipped out of the van. After wading through several of the unarmed folks still hugging the sides of my vehicle, I rejoined my friends near the shore. Gretchen and Sally had already retracted the ramp and were edging toward the ropes they’d secured on the crumbling bank.
In the pale, pre-dawn light, I could see Bertha, Ally, Tom, and the other armed rebels still aiming their guns toward the men who had doggedly pursued our caravan and were still pointing their weapons at us.
Fucking unreal no one’s fired a shot yet.
Suddenly, I heard the four motors spring to life. Pivoting toward the sound, I noted a burly man standing at the helm – the same man I’d spotted hugging Gretchen. Probably her husband.
Gretchen and Sally, meanwhile, released the ropes, and the barge drifted away from the shore.
“We see you again,” Sheriff Arston shouted over the noisy engines, “we will fucking kill you!”
I figured we were in the clear, that the assholes had finally conceded, letting us leave town without further injury or loss.
But Ally had other plans. With her rifle still aimed at the sheriff, she stepped toward Tom, snatched the detonator from his hand, and focused all her rage on the man who’d murdered her husband.
“Sorry, mudderfucker,” she yelled. “You’ll never get da chance!” Then she held the detonator aloft and pushed the button.
My breath caught in my throat, but even after a few seconds, nothing happened. The conceited smirk widened on Sheriff Arston’s face, then as his reasoning caught up to his ego, the arrogance morphed into fury. With a fierce glare and gritted teeth, he shifted his rifle toward the petite spitfire who’d attempted to undo all his unholy work.
Fucking hell, Ally. We’re all dead now.
Then, all at once, explosions started rocking the town of Gonzales. Enormous fireballs leapt above the distant trees and buildings. The barricades were disintegrating, presumably inviting hordes of the undead across the perimeter.
Given the enraged looks on their faces, I knew the men on shore were itching to pull their triggers and open fire on the barge, but our helmsman had already widened the gap between them and us. Besides, they had a much bigger problem: Even over the barge’s motors, we could hear a collective moaning, loudening with every passing second.
Suddenly, the two police vans, which had brought up the rear of our procession and were likely intended to carry everyone back to headquarters, reversed haphazardly down the road, leaving the rest of the men behind. Although I could no longer see the faces of the sheriff and his cronies, I imagined their dumbfounded, panicked expressions as they began screaming and fleeing the shore. They might’ve been heavily armed against us – mere humans – but their guns would do them little good against the thousands of ravenous zombies pouring into Gonzales, and they fucking knew it.
I wasn’t sure where they were running. To temporary safety? To their families? Or maybe to another town altogether.
Ally, who stood cackling beside me, obviously didn’t care. Sure, she probably regretted not shooting the smug stupidity off Sheriff Arston’s fat face, but after all the horrible shit he’d done, he didn’t deserve a merciful death. Knowing his last moments would likely be full of terror made her revenge much sweeter.
After all the horrors I’d endured since the previous morning, I didn’t lament his fate either – or that of his cohorts.
Cuz fuck them.
An undead world was bad enough without having to face selfish, evil humans, too. But unfortunately, the Gonzales assholes wouldn’t be the last villains I’d encounter.
I’d have to prepare myself for other battles and be willing to survive at all costs. No matter what peace-loving do-gooders preached, the all-life-is-precious philosophy was utter bullshit. And dangerous, too. Thinking everyone had a right to live could get you and your loved ones killed.
Don’t misunderstand me: I didn’t believe in taking down just anyone, but wicked people fond of lording over others needed to die to preserve the rest of us. It was that fucking simple.
My wife, Clare, had a kinder heart than I did, and even she would’ve agreed that Ally had done the right thing. The sheriff and his cronies didn’t deserve to live. She might’ve felt guilty for the spouses and children hunkered down in their homes, but their survival had come at the high price of innocent deaths.
So, if I ever faced a choice like Ally had, I wouldn’t hesitate either.
Cuz fuck them… Maybe I should just get that tattooed on my forehead.
Chapter
10
“Are you crazy… is that your problem?” – Jack Burton, Big Trouble in Little China (1986)
Once the barge had cleared the upper edge of the burning town of Gonzales, our voyage northward became a classic swamp tour. As the moon gave way to an early-morning sky, we glided up Bayou Narcisse, slowly navigating the turns, passing between oak and cypress trees dripping with Spanish moss, and veering around several curious alligators. Having already experienced a few similar excursions with my wife, I no doubt would’ve enjoyed that one, too – if not for the gunfire and screams behind us in Gonzales and the hordes of moaning zombies along both shores.
Except for Azazel, still in her carrier inside the van, everyone sat or stood on the outer deck. Although the idea of leaving strangers inside my rig unnerved me, especially given my plethora of concealed supplies and firearms, I wouldn’t have minded letting the weakest members of the group continue to rest on my sofa and benches, but Bertha had thought it best to clear them out. After all, I planned to disembark soon, and given the presence of countless zombies between Gonzales and Baton Rouge, she wanted to make my departure as smooth as possible.
In other words, once the ladies had locked the ramp in place, I’d need to be ready to hit the gas.
For a while, no one on the barge spoke. But even without the sound of human voices, the zombies along both banks had noticed our floating meat tray. The four motors had given us away, and the sudden presence of a barge full of tasty food had predictably riled up the roving undead.
Luckily, though, the zombies seemed less driven to follow us and more intent on heading in the opposite direction, toward the sporadic gunfire and horrendous screams to the south. If not for Ally’s unexpected use of the detonator, we might’ve been in serious trouble.
Both sides of the bayou teemed with thousands of zombies, ranging widely in age, gender, size, shape, and level of deterioration. For all of us on the barge, watching wave after wave of so many undead was almost too much to bear, especially when we caught glimpses of the youngest victims.
Even the toughest members of the group turned away at the sight of a zombified girl watching us from beside a run-down shed. Perhaps no more than six years old, she was blonde and barefoot, dressed in pink pajamas, and still clutching a light blue bunny, what had likely been her favorite stuffed animal in life. Adorable only a couple days befor
e, she now resembled a mini-monster, with gore splattered across her face, hair, and PJs. Sadly, her other arm, the one not towing her blood-spotted rabbit, had been bitten off at the elbow.
Yeah, some pretty sick shit.
Still, despite the dismaying, disgusting creatures around us, we all remained silent while Gretchen’s husband, Clete, carefully navigated the barge up the narrow bayou, beyond the reach of that bunny-toting zombie and her oodles of ravenous cohorts. Eventually, he guided the vessel into a wider, deeper body of water, a relatively new man-made lake, where fewer zombies meandered along the shore.
There, the tension seemed to lift, and many of those on board relaxed enough to chat with one another about their recent experiences and immediate intentions. Our latest ordeal appeared to be over.
I stood beside my open passenger-side door, surveying my fellow bargemates.
Turning to Bertha and her husband, Carl, also in observation mode, I said, “This is the world we now live in. A dead world, where tyrants take advantage of the weak, and nobody knows if it’s even worth surviving.”
Although we had lived through the crazy-ass jailbreak, I wasn’t exactly in a cheery mood. Extreme fatigue, hunger, and worry could do that to a person. And let’s be honest: I hadn’t exactly been the most optimistic individual before Zombiegeddon hit.
“You need to survive,” Bertha replied. “You have to get to your wife, and get yourselves somewhere safe.” She glanced at Carl, then back at me. “At times like this, being with the ones you love is all that matters.”
I was tempted to point out that there had never been a time quite like this in the history of mankind, but I kept quiet until reason caught up to my mouth. Cuz Bertha was right. From that moment until the end of time, I had only one main concern, one main goal: getting me and my family to safety, which, for us, meant the isolated woods of northern Michigan, where my parents had owned a lakeside property for several decades.
Zombie Chaos (Book 3): Terror on the Bayou Page 7