Zombie Chaos (Book 3): Terror on the Bayou

by Martone, D. L.

  “Which part?”

  “That thing,” she emphasized.

  “You mean that scary not-a-zombie?”

  “Yes, that. When the doors of the church opened, I expected to see a tidal wave of undead parishioners. Not a weird-ass werewolf.”

  I pulled into a parking space, shut off the engine, and met Clare’s concerned gaze.

  “That’s what I told you about. The wildlings. I’ve seen them three times now. And at the clinic, I unloaded a shot into the thing’s chest. It barely flinched.”

  Sadie’s explanation seemed more and more plausible. Both the wildlings and the zombies hadn’t originated on Earth. They hailed from somewhere else and, according to the Beauvoir sisters, had initiated the infection that had nearly destroyed the human race.

  “Great,” Jill said from the couch, clearly not laughing now. “Another thing trying to kill us.”

  “Joe,” George said, unknowingly interrupting our conversation, “let’s figure this out quickly. Before we attract more zombies. Or something worse.”

  She had pulled into an adjacent parking space but left her motor running. I couldn’t really blame her for wanting to keep the break short. Sunset was only a few minutes away, and none of us wanted to be on the road after dark, especially in a widespread power outage. I’d done enough nighttime driving since leaving New Orleans. Foolish and dangerous, yes, but reaching Clare in time had seemed like a decent reason to gamble with my life – and Azazel’s, too. Now that the three of us had reunited, though, it would’ve been foolish to keep taking such risks.

  “Hang on,” I replied, powering up my tablet. “Lemme check the map.”

  Unfortunately, it had taken us a long time to make it only fifteen miles north of the Mississippi border. Twice the time, in fact, the same drive would’ve taken prior to the zombie apocalypse. That was partly due to our perilous supply run in Centreville, and partly due to the fact that, thanks to vehicle pileups and roving zombies, we’d often had to bypass the small towns north of Baton Rouge. A time-consuming but necessary evil.

  Better safe than sorry, right?

  “OK, genius,” Clare said playfully, “where are we headed?”

  “Not sure,” I said. “I was kinda hoping we’d stumble onto a nice secure warehouse. Or maybe even a fortress.”

  Jill laughed. “In southern Mississippi? Keep dreaming.”

  I was only half-serious, but it seemed pointless to tell my mother-in-law that. Especially in her current state.

  “Well, guys,” I said into the walkie-talkie, “looks like there’s a place called Brushy Creek Ranch. About twelve miles northeast of Gloster. Might be nice to stay in a cabin tonight.”

  “Maybe,” Casey said, “but other folks could’ve had the same idea.”

  “Besides,” George added, “too easy to get trapped in a place like that.”

  In the end, the two of them convinced me we’d be better off sleeping in our vehicles, in a secluded spot in the woods, as far from civilization as possible. Easier to secure such a locale, using makeshift tripwires to warn us if anybody or anything approached. Also easier to ensure a viable escape route.

  So, after a quick bathroom break for me and Clare, we got back on the road. While I drove, my wife cleaned and redressed her mom’s wound.

  Peering into the bulky drawstring bag from the clinic, she said, “Wow, baby, you and Casey did good. Plenty of useful meds in here.” She opened one of the bottles. “Here, Mom, take this.”

  “What is it?”

  “An antibiotic. It might ease the infection. And here are a couple of painkillers, too. Maybe they’ll help you get some rest.”

  Despite her vehement protests earlier, Jill said nothing.

  “Come on, Mom. Joe risked his life for these.”

  A moment passed, and Clare said, “Thanks for humoring me. Now, why don’t you lie down?”

  The fact that Jill ultimately took the meds and didn’t put up a fight convinced me that she was truly ill. I wondered if she’d even survive the journey north.

  And whether I should tie her down while we sleep tonight.

  Rejoining me up front, Clare settled into the passenger seat and stroked Azazel’s head through the top of her carrier. The subsequent purring almost rivaled the van’s engine… until I hit a sizable pothole and jostled the vehicle.

  “Christ,” my mother-in-law shouted, her voice somewhat muffled by the sofa cushion. “Try to keep it on the road, idiot.”

  So, Jill hadn’t fallen asleep yet or turned into a zombie. But getting scratched sure hadn’t improved her personality. She might’ve been too sick to resist her daughter’s mothering, but she still had spunk enough to test her son-in-law’s patience – which, incidentally, had worn pretty thin.

  “For fuck’s sake,” I shouted back. “I’m doing the best I can to keep you, Clare, and Azazel alive. You don’t like how I do things? Well, tough. Just do me a favor and keep the bitching to a minimum.”

  “Kiss my ass, Joe.”

  An awkward silence descended upon the van. Even Azazel had gone quiet. I’d never blown up at my mother-in-law before, though I’d wanted to many times over the years. Relief flooded my brain, but as I listened to the hum of the engine, I could feel Clare’s eyes on my face, which involuntarily flushed in response.

  Turning, I grimaced. Clare was giving me “the look” that every guy knew well. The one that indicated, in no uncertain terms, if you didn’t behave as your wife or girlfriend expected, you’d lose your sex privileges for the night – if not longer.

  Naturally, I knew Clare was firing a blank when it came to that threat. My wife had always been a sensual creature, and she’d never used intimacy as a bargaining chip.

  But still, why rock the boat if you don’t have to?

  “I’m sorry for losing it, Clare, but I’m fucking exhausted, and my head is killing me.”

  I glanced at the road, then back at my wife. Her face softened, and the steely gaze transformed into one of sadness and resignation. Well aware of her mother’s shortcomings, she was obviously still worried about Jill’s deteriorating condition.

  Nodding, she whispered, “I know, baby, but let’s try not to upset her anymore.”

  Jill had had it coming for a long time. No matter how much I adored her daughter, I’d always felt unnecessarily tense around my mother-in-law, and the fact that she would likely turn into an undead carnivore only made it worse.

  But instead of voicing my thoughts, I simply nodded and turned my attention back to the road.

  Jill, meanwhile, remained quiet. No doubt sulking on the sofa.

  A moment passed, and Clare said, “Maybe we could let Azazel out. She’s been cooped up for a while.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed, “she can keep your mom company while I find a way around Gloster.”

  I’d made the suggestion in jest, but it tickled me to imagine my little warrior kitty engaging in a battle against Jill… letting Azazel unleash a barrage of swipes with her unfortunately declawed front paws and finally springing in for the bite.

  Yeah, I know. I have problems.

  “I heard that,” Jill mumbled. “I see that cat on this couch, and I’m kicking her across the van.”

  “And your ass’ll be walking back to Baton Rouge,” my wife snapped.

  Funny how Clare was allowed to dispute her mother’s bullshit. Of course, she’d had to endure a lot more of it over the past four decades. Besides, it was always dangerous to threaten a woman’s child – whether human or furry.

  Right or wrong, my baby’s reply finally shut Jill up. A shit-eating grin spread across my face. Clare responded with a playful punch to my shoulder.

  “Ow,” I said, feigning a wounded look. “I’m driving here.”

  She smiled, and I savored the moment of levity. But, sadly, it was fleeting.

  Gazing down at Azazel’s carrier, Clare frowned. “Doesn’t matter anyway. We can’t let her out yet. If animals really can turn, then we need to wipe everything down
. Surfaces, weapons, anything that might have zombie germs on it.”

  “We’re gonna run out of disinfectant and hand sanitizer before we hit Tennessee.” Sighing, I glanced at the little green eyes staring at me. “But our girl’s worth it.”

  “She sure is,” Clare agreed.

  Of course, I didn’t have the heart to tell my wife that all the disinfectant in the world wouldn’t cure the biggest zombie germ in the van. Stuck in her carrier, Azazel was actually safer than we were.

  Chapter

  24

  “After everything we’ve seen, there isn’t much that rattles either of us anymore.” – Lorraine Warren, The Conjuring 2 (2016)

  Even though the town of Gloster lay only a few miles south of Homochitto National Forest, it took us another forty fucking minutes to reach our destination. Prior to the zombie epidemic, we could’ve easily relied on MS-33 to get us there quickly, but as with several of the other locales north of Baton Rouge, we were compelled to turn off the main thoroughfare before entering the community itself.

  Cuz, unlike Centreville, Gloster was no ghost town. At least not in the sense of being seemingly devoid of all but a few scary creatures.

  As far as thriving communities went, Gloster was virtually dead. Its dangers were simply more obvious.

  Sunset had come and gone, but between my headlights and the fading glow of twilight, I could see a small cluster of vehicles parked at an upcoming intersection. Given the ever-present power outage, the nonoperational stoplights weren’t to blame for the traffic jam.

  No, that honor went to a sizable group of zombies currently ripping into someone that must’ve been dragged from one of the stalled cars. Despite all the horrors I’d already seen, such carnage was still difficult to witness. Sad, too, to think that people weren’t even safe in the rural areas. The ravenous undead were everywhere.

  I just hoped there were fewer up north, in the woods surrounding the Michigan lake we were headed for.

  But that’s a worry for another day.

  Without catching anyone’s attention, I turned west onto a single-lane road and made sure George took the same detour. We then embarked on a half-hour trek through the labyrinth of back streets around Gloster. At several points, it seemed as though we were headed back to MS-33, which would’ve led us north of town, when we’d suddenly encounter a dead end or a southward route.

  Frustrated with going around in circles and getting nowhere fast, I was ready to find an empty garage and call it a night when Jill abruptly appeared up front, startling the shit out of me.

  “Jesus, Jill! Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

  For a second, I worried that she’d turned into a zombie and stumbled up for a taste of Joe-meat. But then she let loose a mean-spirited laugh – a typically irritating sound that, for once, comforted me.

  “Hey, dummy,” she said, “why don’t you drive across that field?”

  Although my step van wasn’t exactly an all-terrain vehicle, I figured my big-ass tires could handle the uneven ground. Back in New Orleans, I’d rolled across a pile of bodies without toppling, so without even thinking, I took my mother-in-law’s advice.

  True, I probably shouldn’t have swerved off the road as hard and as haphazardly as I did, but I needed some speed to maintain traction across the muddy field and reconnect with MS-33. As a bonus, my reckless driving caused Jill to lose her footing and tumble backward into a heap beside the sofa.

  A wicked grin spread across my face, and in the faint glow from the dashboard lights, I even saw a mischievous twinkle in Clare’s eyes before she shot me a half-hearted look of disapproval.

  “Be careful, idiot!” Jill shouted from the floor. “We don’t want to get stuck here.”

  “I know,” I said. “That’s why I can’t go slow.”

  In the craziness of the moment, I’d totally forgotten about George and Casey. A quick glance in my side-view mirror, however, put my mind at ease. George had skillfully followed me onto the moonlit field.

  While keeping my foot on the gas, I picked up the handheld radio and checked in with our friends. “Sorry for the abrupt turnoff.”

  “No worries, Mr. Joe,” Casey replied. “We were sick of driving in circles, too.”

  Navigating the overgrown field wasn’t easy, as we had to continuously dodge tree stumps and lopsided hills. Recalling my troublesome encounter with a Mardi Gras Indian, I didn’t love the idea of snagging the van on a stump, but I liked the notion of driving through a horde of zombies even less. Especially in the dark.

  Luckily, though, despite the rough ride, neither vehicle got hung up on anything, and ten minutes later, we had pulled back onto MS-33 north of Gloster. A minute after that, we passed a large sign: Welcome to Homochitto National Forest.

  The narrow, two-lane highway seemed to shrink even more as the trees graduated from sparse to so dense that I could only see the road via the van’s headlights. Not even the moonlight permeated the forest.

  “What the hell is that?” Jill asked, having righted herself and reclaimed her spot between me and Clare.

  An ancient VW Beetle, painted in a vivid, tie-dye scheme, rocketed toward us, swerving back and forth across both lanes. Two wrinkly-faced, long-haired, zombified hippies clung to each side of the tiny car – both reaching through the open windows, clawing at the driver even as the pavement scraped the flesh from their legs. The bloodied, gray-haired woman behind the wheel screamed in terror as she futilely tried to maintain control of the Bug.

  A third undead hippy – I shit you not – was standing on the roof of the careening car. Turned sideways, knees bent and arms spread outward, he looked as if he were surfing down the rustic road.

  I might’ve laughed at the ridiculous sight if it hadn’t been so horrifying – and if I hadn’t been so focused on avoiding a fatal accident. As it was, I only had the wherewithal to yank the steering wheel to the right, veering onto the criminally narrow shoulder, which offered barely enough room to avoid colliding with the horror-show-on-wheels.

  Once George and I had safely passed the ill-fated vehicle, I slowed down and glanced in my side-view mirror. The surfing zombie finally lost his balance, bounced off the rear window, and ground himself into hamburger meat as he rolled across the asphalt.

  Meanwhile, with an ear-splitting shriek, the driver turned too hard to the right and slammed into a pine tree.

  Like many movie lovers, I had long believed that car explosions were an uncommon occurrence, staged by stunt guys and faked by visual-effects crews for the sake of pure entertainment. Well, in that moment, I realized how wrong I might’ve been.

  Cuz that fucker immediately burst into flames, killing the driver and turning her would-be devourers into twitching sacks of scorched undead flesh.

  Shaking off the momentary shock, I drove further into the forest. In stunned silence, Jill returned to her makeshift bed, and a few seconds later, the walkie-talkie crackled.

  “Jesus,” Casey said, “I sure hope that wasn’t a sign.”

  Fucking hell, I hope so, too.

  Instinctively glancing at Clare, I noticed a calm, unreadable expression on her face. No doubt she’d witnessed her fair share of horrors since the zombie madness began, and she was smart enough to know that we were bound to see a hell of a lot more. So, maybe she was unfazed by the horrific accident – or perhaps she was just too shell-shocked to react.

  “You OK, baby?”

  Clare snapped out of her mild catatonia. “I guess so. Just scared that I’ll get so used to seeing shit like that, it won’t upset me anymore.” She sighed. “But mainly, I’m just grateful that wasn’t us.”

  I gazed back at the road. “Yeah, me, too.”

  I was hungry, exhausted, and aching all over. Clare likely was as well. I wished we could sleep for twenty-four hours straight, but we didn’t have that luxury. Our little caravan still had twelve hundred miles to traverse between Mississippi and Michigan – even more if we needed to bypass a bunch of traffic jams, undead
zones, and unforeseen obstacles.

  Anything could happen along the way, but all that presently mattered was that the first leg of my journey had ended. Clare, Azazel, and I were together again. For the moment, that would have to give me the strength I needed to keep going – and sustain my naive hope that, no matter how long it took and what horrors we faced, we’d eventually reach Michigan in three intact, uneaten pieces.

  Survive the Zombie Chaos

  CONTINUE THE CHAOS

  Scout’s Horror: Zombie Chaos Book 4

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  About the Authors

  D.L. Martone is the joint pen name of husband-wife duo Daniel and Laura Martone. Part-time residents of New Orleans and northern Michigan, the Martones travel the country in their mobile writing studio, a cozy RV dubbed Serenity. As you might have guessed, they’re huge fans of Firefly, which is why they remodeled the interior of their travel trailer to resemble Captain Reynolds’ beloved spaceship. Together, they enjoy writing space opera, LitRPG GameLit, urban fantasy, cozy mysteries, and, of course, post-apocalyptic zombie tales.