Zombie Chaos (Book 3): Terror on the Bayou

by Martone, D. L.

  Wearing a stricken expression, she hurried after her daughter. Against my better judgment, I pulled the door shut before bolting toward the driveway.

  Luckily, George and Casey had little trouble reaching the station wagon and climbing inside before any of the undead got to them. My family and I, however, weren’t as fortunate.

  Just as we approached the rear doors of the step van, two meat-seeking zombies made their move. The first, a hefty black man, bolted up the driveway, past the rumbling station wagon, and lunged for my shoulder. Despite my fatigue, I managed to whirl away from his grasp and kick him squarely in the crotch. Predictably, he stumbled backward onto the grass, but unlike a human male, he recovered more quickly than I’d hoped and, with the stamina of an NFL lineman, moved much faster than his girth would’ve suggested.

  After scrambling to his feet, he stumbled toward me again, just as the second zombie, a skinny, partially eaten Asian teenager, veered up the other side of the driveway, toward my wife and her mother.

  “Baby, look out!”

  While Jill struggled to unlock the rear doors of the van, Clare turned to face her attacker. Still gripping Azazel’s carrier with one hand, she whacked the girl’s skull with her hammer, which barely made the zombie flinch.

  After all I’d endured to reach Clare, I found it hard to accept that I might lose her there, trapped between two vehicles in her mother’s driveway. I wanted to help her, but I was preoccupied, trying to dodge my own walking pus factory. I needed to dispatch him quickly, but he was inconveniently agile for an undead fat guy.

  I shouldn’t have worried, though. Even while slicing at the man’s neck and torso with the machete, I kept an eye on Clare, who did just fine on her own. Quickly, she slipped the hammer behind her waistband, then kicked the girl in the solar plexus as hard as she could. Knocked off-balance, the zombie flew backward and landed across the hood of the battle wagon.

  Just then, Jill opened one of the rear doors and scrambled into the van.

  “Clare,” she shouted, “get your ass in here!”

  Without hesitation, Clare slid Azazel’s carrier into the vehicle and climbed inside after her.

  “Come on, Joe,” she yelled from the safety of our home-on-wheels.

  No need to tell me twice.

  I hadn’t yet taken down the big black zombie, but it didn’t matter. Too many of his undead cohorts were headed our way, converging from all directions, and I certainly couldn’t kill them all. So, with one last bob-and-weave maneuver, I managed to escape the situation and squirm into the van.

  As I started to close the door, though, a large, meaty, grayish-black hand grabbed the edge and tried to yank it back open. Reacting on instinct, I swung the machete and sheared off four of the zombie’s fingers. With only a thumb left, the dude lost his grip on the door, so taking my chance, I slammed it shut and engaged the lock. After tossing my go-bag and weapons on the floor, I grabbed the keys from Jill and slid into the driver’s seat. In a flash, I started the van and shifted into reverse.

  Glancing in my side-view mirror, I watched as Casey backed out onto the street. The zombified girl tumbled off the hood as the battle wagon took a sharp turn, the vehicle coming to rest just past my mother-in-law’s mailbox. Several zombies edged toward the station wagon, but Casey was apparently waiting for me to lead the way.

  Quickly, I stepped on the gas and rolled backward. Thuds bombarded the van, and I felt several bumps as a few of the zombies slipped beneath my tires. As always, the gruesome crunching sounds of their pulverized bodies made me queasy, but I didn’t have time to worry about that.

  Once clear of Jill’s property, I shifted the rig into drive and headed down the road. A quick glance in my side-view mirror assured me that Casey and George were trailing us closely. So was a large herd of eager zombies, but it didn’t take us long to lose them.

  While careening through the neighborhood, veering around stalled vehicles, ambling zombies, and half-eaten corpses, I reflected on our two new friends. Having experienced my share of awful people, including several well-armed thieves, I knew that inviting strangers into your group could be a dangerous proposition.

  But I felt comfortable having George and her son with us, and my gut feelings were usually dead right – a fact that often dismayed my wife. Even after years with a grumpy, misanthropic husband, Clare still tried to see the good in other people. One of her many lovable yet infuriating qualities. I, on the other hand, typically trusted no one – at least at first. So, whenever I did sense an immediate connection with a stranger, I always took notice. And thus far, our two new friends had more than proven their worth and usefulness.

  George was a crack shot with the rifle, and her son was an excellent driver. Beyond that, though, I knew they were both good people, and I figured there was strength in numbers.

  I would do anything to keep Clare and Azazel alive, so if that meant adding a couple folks to our northward posse, then so be it.

  Besides, I had a much bigger concern at the moment. More than twelve hundred miles lay between Baton Rouge and our northern Michigan homestead – and who knew how many obstacles, zombies, and marauders awaited us? Making matters worse, I couldn’t help but wonder how long Jill would survive with that scratch on her arm. Could she fight off the infection, or was her grotesque transformation inevitable?

  As I neared Old Hammond Highway, I looked in the rear-view mirror and spotted Clare and Jill sitting on the sofa. My wife had draped one arm over her mother’s shoulders, and she seemed to be whispering words of comfort to her. Perhaps attempting to soothe her over the loss of yet another home.

  Before shifting my gaze back to the road, I noticed Jill had glanced my way. She didn’t seem happy, her eyes squinting with suspicion. Maybe she unfairly blamed me for the zombie apocalypse. Maybe she believed my northern escape plan was a terrible idea. Or maybe she was simply trying to decide which part of me she wanted to eat first.

  Chapter

  20

  “That’s my mother you’re pissing on.” – Lionel Cosgrove, Dead Alive (1992)

  Traversing Old Hammond Highway wasn’t a simple task – considering all the myriad obstacles in the road – but once I’d reached the T-junction at the end, I had a bigger dilemma: I wasn’t sure where to go. Predictably, US-190 resembled a logjam, but I didn’t know the area well enough to determine an alternate route. So, amid honking horns and marauding zombies, I fought my way across the packed road and pulled into an empty parking lot to consult the local expert.

  Jill might not have been the most skillful driver, but she had lived in Baton Rouge for several years, so she was my best option for navigating through the region. Since I’d luckily known about the zombie apocalypse ahead of time, I had downloaded every bit of information I possibly could, from survival videos to local and regional maps to municipal websites of numerous towns between Louisiana and Michigan. I’d then mounted the data-filled tablet on the dashboard, but though the GPS appeared to be working – helpful for utilizing my various maps – the Internet was defunct, as were real-time traffic reports.

  Hence, I figured Jill’s knowledge of potential snags and viable detours would be slightly more reliable. Besides, it would help her feel useful to Clare.

  As I braked the van, I noticed the station wagon pulling up beside me. After beckoning to George in the passenger seat, I unholstered my 9mm pistol and headed toward the rear of the vehicle.

  Clare met me there as I unlocked one of the doors. “Honey,” she whispered, “why are we stopping? Is something wrong?”

  I shook my head. “Not exactly. I just thought the five of us should have a chat before we go any further.”

  “Oh, OK. Good idea.” She kissed me on the cheek, then returned to the sofa to babysit her mother.

  Meanwhile, I carefully opened the door. George and Casey stood just outside, with their firearms at the ready and a sharp eye on their surroundings.

  “What’s up?” George asked.

  “N
ow that we’re clear of the horde, we need to figure out our route.”

  With an agreeable nod, George hopped on board, and Casey followed suit. While I secured the door, they got comfortable in the dining nook.

  “We shouldn’t stay here long,” George advised. “I noticed a few curious spectators on the sidewalk.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, we’re not out of the woods yet. Just want to make sure we’re all on the same page.” Stepping between the sofa and the dining table, I continued, “I think our best bet is to head through Mississippi. If we stick to the rural areas, we might be able to avoid the bulk of any northward traffic. Plus, I figure there are fewer zombies outside the cities.”

  “Makes sense,” George replied.

  Clare smiled. “I agree.”

  “That’s how it works in all the zombie flicks,” Casey added.

  Naturally, not everyone concurred.

  “How could you possibly know that?” Jill snapped.

  I shifted my focus to her perturbed face. “I don’t. It’s just an educated guess.”

  She sighed melodramatically. “Wonderful.”

  “And of course, we’ll need your help to get out of Louisiana.”

  A smile flickered across her face. As I’d often suspected, the woman simply enjoyed feeling useful, so why not play to her vanity if it helped to keep the peace?

  Several thuds sounded on the driver’s side of the van, startling Clare.

  She whipped her head around and peered out the barred window. “Uh-oh. Looks like our friends have arrived.”

  George rose from the bench and lifted her rifle from the table. “We’d better hit the road again.”

  As she headed for the rear doors, Casey right behind her, I opened the cabinet containing some of my weapons and related supplies.

  “Hang on a second. I need to give you a few things.”

  I grabbed a plastic grocery bag and filled it with two bottles of water, a couple of protein bars, and a box of ammo for George’s rifle. Then, almost as an afterthought, I turned on two of my long-range walkie-talkies, synchronized their channels, and slipped one of them into the bag.

  “So we don’t have to get out of our vehicles every time we need to communicate.”

  Casey accepted the offering. “Thanks, Mr. Joe.”

  “No problem.”

  While Clare stowed her and her mother’s backpacks in the rather stuffed closet, I helped George and Casey take care of the unwanted visitors outside and then stood guard while they scooted inside their station wagon.

  By the time I’d returned to the van and secured the doors, Clare had found a spare pillow, blanket, and water bottle for her mother. Apparently, Jill intended to lie down while tossing out directions. I knew she didn’t feel well – my wife obviously knew it, too – but we had yet to state the obvious.

  Once Jill was settled, Clare buckled herself into the passenger seat and placed Azazel’s carrier on her lap.

  I slid behind the wheel. “Ready?”

  She grimaced. “As I’ll ever be.”

  Our cat chirped, as if in agreement, lowered her head, and curled herself into a standard napping pose.

  I started up the engine, then glanced over my shoulder.

  “Where to, Jill?”

  “Well, I doubt 190 will get much better from here, so you probably need to double back on Old Hammond to Central Throughway.”

  “Sounds good.” I pressed the side button on the walkie-talkie. “You two ready?”

  “Yes, sir,” Casey responded.

  “OK, let’s hit it.”

  I set the walkie-talkie in a shallow, built-in tray on the dashboard for easy access, then exited the lot and bulldozed my way back across US-190, with Casey right on my tail. I couldn’t help but notice the faces of the stalled motorists around us as I returned to Old Hammond Highway. Some responded to my shenanigans with silent curses and obscene gestures, some wore the uncertain look of those wondering if I’d discovered a secret path to freedom, and some clenched their steering wheels in unabashed terror.

  Noting Clare’s pinched expression, I knew she felt sorry for our fellow survivors, particularly those who had no plan and no real destination in mind. But I couldn’t afford to have such feelings – I just needed to get my family and my new friends out of harm’s way.

  So, for the next two hours, I followed Jill’s directions up the back roads and lesser-known highways of southern Louisiana, which ultimately helped us to avoid the more congested routes. In between my mother-in-law’s instructions, Clare attempted to fill me in on what had occurred during the previous two days: specifically, what the local news stations and national networks had reported before permanently going off the air and how government officials and agencies had intended to help people before they, too, had collapsed into silence.

  “Even while the world was falling to shit,” she explained, “some genius had the wherewithal to name the so-called zombie epidemic the Immortui Virus.”

  The mainstream media’s last, unoriginal opportunity to brand and sell disaster. At least we would never again have to hear some blowhard “news” person spew their clever quips and fearmongering across the airwaves.

  So, there’s that.

  “Inevitably,” Clare continued, “the infection spread from India to, well, everywhere else. Just as Samir and Dibya predicted.”

  Once it hit America, many pundits had speculated the epidemic was an orchestrated effort to achieve maximum fatalities – the ultimate terrorist attack. The trouble was… no one had claimed credit for the world-ending crisis – almost as if the usual suspects had wanted to distance themselves from the whole mess. More likely, most of them had already died or turned.

  “I guess it’s possible that someone purposely spread it,” I conceded. “Would explain why our three-week warning wasn’t valid.”

  “Maybe,” Clare said, “but then again, it all went to shit so fast I doubt D.C. had much time to figure out what was really happening before all the news programs went off the air.” Her gaze shifted from the road to my face. “I mean, Jesus, Joe… it was all over in a day. A fucking day? How does anything, short of a wildfire or tsunami, spread that fast? Given how quickly America fell apart, it’s a wonder it took two weeks to cross the globe.”

  I sighed. “Guess Asia did a better job of squashing the epidemic, at least at first.”

  “Yeah, but how? Billions of people lived there. Any one of them could’ve gotten on a plane or a ship and spread the infection to the other side of the world.”

  “The fact is,” I lamented, “we’ll never know what happened. Why it spread so slowly at first – and how they ultimately lost control.”

  “Maybe if the Indian government had told the public the truth,” Clare suggested, “instead of spewing all those stupid cover-up lies, more people would be alive today.”

  Jill laughed from her makeshift bed. “Seriously? Do you really think that would’ve made a difference? You, my own daughter, told me what was coming, and I didn’t believe you until the undead showed up on my doorstep. You really think people would’ve believed official reports about zombies? Everyone would’ve assumed it was one big Halloween joke.”

  As much as I hated agreeing with my mother-in-law, I had to admit… the woman had made a valid point. Would publicizing the truth from the start have made any noticeable difference? Would the general public have believed the strange story that Samir and Dibya had relayed to us? Or would most humans, despite having seen innumerable movies and TV shows about the undead, simply dismissed the news as a hoax?

  “Guess you’re right, Mom,” Clare conceded. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. I just wish it had gone down differently.”

  “You and me both,” I said.

  According to Clare, the U.S. government – in its typically incompetent fashion – had reacted too slowly in dealing with the epidemic. Not surprisingly, both the executive and legislative branches hadn’t prepared for the impending crisis abroad, and they’d even
had the gall to downplay the initial outbreaks on Halloween night as “isolated” incidents.

  “That’s rich,” I grumbled. “I wouldn’t describe the zombie wave that spread through the French Quarter as an isolated anything. Even I knew those fuckers were everywhere.”

  Apparently, on the morning of All Saints’ Day, while I lay unconscious in our courtyard, the Feds had decided, in their infinite wisdom, to set up “safe zones” throughout the country.

  “Only, they failed to institute proper screening protocols,” Clare explained.

  “Big shocker there,” I retorted. “So, lemme guess, the infected quickly overran these so-called safe zones, zombie’d out, and ate their fellow citizens.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “What a colossal cluster fuck.”

  “Yeah, who would’ve thunk it?” Jill mused. “The federal government unable to protect its citizens.”

  “We were never gonna be able to depend on them,” Clare said. “They didn’t prepare well for natural disasters. How could they handle a supernatural one?”

  “Funny you should say that,” I murmured. “A zombie epidemic might seem crazy, but it’s ultimately a biological scourge. Someday, we may find out it really did come from a supernatural source.”

  Clare’s forehead crinkled. “What do you mean?”

  “Remember how Dibya claimed this all started when they picked up a weird signal from somewhere else?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Well…”

  As we continued heading north, I relayed the information I’d received from Myriam and Sadie. Both had mentioned the Infernal, which, according to Sadie, was an entirely different dimension, and both believed the first undead creatures had originated there.

  Clare and I were lifelong atheists, but as hopeful skeptics, we’d always tried to keep an open mind about the oddities of the universe – or, rather, multiverse. So, I knew she could handle the concept of an alternate dimension, especially if explained from a scientific point of view.