Cajun Zombie Chronicles (Book 1): The River Dead

by Smith, S. L.

  “Sure you don’t want to just stick to your original plan, Isherwood?” Patrick answered on the radio. “It may still work, click-shhh.”

  “Nah, I think an alternate route will be safer. Justin, didn’t you say you were working on something? Over. click-shhh.”

  “Yeah, I gotcha back, buddy. Chelsea and I threw this together. Listen, then tell me what you think. We head south down US-61 a few miles until Country Road 126. We’ll take a left there, and it’ll take us straight up to Highway 966, which loops back onto US-61 about a half mile north of the road back to the bridge. What d’y’all think? We’d be leading those things so far from the bridge they’d never find their way back in sizeable numbers. They’d all scatter through the woods and hills up there, click-shhh.”

  Justin clicked back on a moment later. “Over. click-shhh.”

  “Yeah,” Isherwood answered. “I think that’s a solid plan, circling back around on the north side of 61. That should be good. Real good. Okay, here comes a tricky part. We’re gonna need to consolidate vehicles. We’ve gotta leave something behind to finish blocking off the other lane up here. We could just leave it on the way back, but I think blocking off this other lane again is the smart play. We can’t have these jerks clogging up our escape route. Patrick, would your family mind jumping in with us or Justin? Over. click-shhh.”

  There was a pause. It seemed Patrick must be discussing the question with his wife. “We gotta do what we gotta do. click-shhh.”

  There was radio silence for a while. They were all soon distracted by the nightmare that had begun to grow in their rear view mirrors. They could see the horde cresting over the smaller bridge behind them. Patrick was trying to distract his kids by pointing to the bridge. His wife had grown almost catatonic.

  Isherwood called to them again on the radio, directing Patrick around the funnel and up the southbound lane and Justin up the northbound lane.

  “Look kids,” Patrick was saying. “Daddy’s going the wrong way down the road.”

  “You can say that again,” his wife mumbled under her breath.

  Patrick made the sharp turn around the funnel that Isherwood and Jerry had made with the abandoned vehicles. Coming around the far side, a zombie suddenly appeared in front of them. The kids squealed in horror and his wife’s eyes rolled back into her head. Patrick didn’t mind, though. He was about to say goodbye to his vehicle forever, even though he had just finished paying it off. He hit the accelerator and the lone zombie thumped across the hood and up the windshield. They could hear it thudding against the roof and off the passenger side.

  Patrick barely took his foot off the accelerator the rest of the way up the bridge. He screeched to a halt near the eighteen-wheeler as Isherwood had directed. He slid neatly into the last gap of the barricade, as the back end of his Tahoe fishtailed into position against the concrete divider. He sheared off just a millimeter or so of his bumper doing so.

  “That was some James Bond crap right there,” Isherwood was applauding as Patrick jumped out of the vehicle.

  “Come on, lady. Kids,” Jerry was saying. “There’s room for y’all in the cab with me.” Patrick and his wife handed their kids to Isherwood over the barrier. Everybody was soon over the wall. Patrick joined Isherwood in the bed of the truck. The caravan was soon on its way again. During the delay, however, the horde had narrowed the gap. Despite walking up an incline, the horde had closed to within a hundred yards.

  There were soon watching the horde’s progress through their rear view mirrors. The parents weren’t even trying to stop their children from watching now. Despite the choke point made by the eighteen-wheeler and the Taurus, the zombie horde showed no signs of slowing. Amazingly, every last rotting corpse was staying confined to the northbound lanes of the bridge, thanks to Isherwood’s funnel and the concrete barrier, itself. If anything, a corpse now and then tumbled over the side of the bridge.

  It was a sight to behold in the light of the setting sun. The northbound lanes were packed with corpses. A quarter mile of the corpses stretched down from the highest stretch of the bridge, and they were still coming.

  “Don’t start doubting yourself now, okay?” Patrick said, reading Isherwood’s thoughts as they sat together in the bed of Jerry’s truck. “There should be plenty of time to take this extra loop. Plus, we can take that opposite lane pretty fast on the way back. I don’t remember seeing any, well maybe just one wreck. We might get by them before they’re any wiser. Know what else? If we make good time, the last bit of the sunset will be shining in the zombies’ eyes right as we’re making our getaway back up the bridge. They might not even see us, only hear us, but by then we’ll have passed them by. Let’s just hope we don’t need to use our headlights.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I think you’re right. Leading those things a bit farther from the bridge is the smart play, assuming the back roads aren’t blocked. We’ll get through it, come hell or high water, click-shhh.”

  “Wish you hadn’t included that last part,” Patrick added. “Either of those two last parts, click-shhh.”

  They spent the next thirty or so minutes traveling between five and ten miles per hour. The two trucks were basically huge carrots leading the zombies toward the intersection of LA-10 and US-61. When they finally arrived at the intersection, it was about 4:30pm. There was still plenty of daylight left. They stopped their vehicles in the intersection to allow the horde to get within spitting distance. If the horde began to break apart now, they might not be able to drive back through this intersection on their way out.

  They did not have to wait long. The head of the zombie snake was less than a quarter of a mile behind them when they reached the intersection.

  “How long do you think that thing is?” Isherwood asked over the radio. “Two miles maybe? click-shhh.”

  “At least.” Justin answered. “I thought it was gonna lengthen passing through the narrower roadway and that choke point by the eighteen wheeler, but somehow it thickened up and shortened, click-shhh.”

  “I’d say two miles almost to the dot.” Patrick added. “You can almost count the green distance markers, click-shhh.” Isherwood took mental note that Patrick, since he was the local track coach, probably had a good idea of local distances.

  The radios grew quiet as the hordes finally reached the end of the concrete divider. “All right, guys. Let’s ease on down the highway some more. Over. Click-shhh.” The radio static was drowned out by the sound of their car horns honking.

  Miraculously, an hour later, they were looking at the intersection from the opposite direction. They had led the horde a few miles down the highway before exiting quickly onto a side road and looping back around. They were able to drive at pretty much whatever speed they wanted once they had let the horde behind. There were some abandoned vehicles and zombies loitering around, but these were easily avoided or knocked aside. It took them less than a half hour to loop back around. By that time, the sun was setting, as Patrick had predicted.

  Patrick shivered as he and Isherwood looked across the intersection of LA-10 and US-61. “Less than an hour ago, this place was packed with thousands of zombies. Can you believe that? And now, it’s empty. Look down that road. No sign of them.”

  “That’s really creepy, man. Let’s not think about just now, so long as the road back to the bridge looks clear. And it does.”

  Except the two trucks, there was no sign of life up or down the highway. Papers and trash were tossed around on the wind. The stoplights were black-eyed dead things waiting to rust. A few abandoned cars served only as wind blocks now. One perhaps held either a desiccated body or a trapped zombie, which couldn’t be bothered to even moan at their passing.

  “You can tell death passed this way, though,” Isherwood said. “Wind or no wind, it’s still smells like it.” Then, raising the radio, he said, “Let’s get out of here, guys. Real quiet like. Click-shhh.”

  The tires of the trucks crept along, declining to shout a last good bye to the former re
sidents of their town. Slowly, they accelerated back up the southbound lane. This time, Justin took point in his blue Chevy truck. His kids were no longer shooting their .22s from the bed, but were buckled in. He slowed down to forty or so miles per hour once he released how few of the zombies had been left behind by the main group. They were maybe a dozen all told. They could see many dozens more that the passing horde had flattened. Even now, the bones of the zombies must have softened, because very little remained of the trampled bodies. Justin later regretted never once firing his AR-15 into the crowd or at any zombies blocking his path. Their plan had worked to perfection.

  When they reached the center of the bridge, the trucks parked just past the eighteen-wheeler and the Taurus. They all got out again, as they had when the zombies were still ascending the bridge. It was much quieter now.

  “Can somebody help me get over this divider?” Jerry asked.

  “Don’t worry about it, Mister Jerry. I can maneuver the semi into place.” Justin offered.

  “Good.” Isherwood nodded. “Can you shimmy the Taurus up under it, too?”

  “No problem.”

  “I guess you’ll be asking about Old Red, too, huh?” Jerry said with a tone more appropriate for a funeral. It was obvious that, even with all the vehicles already spanning the roodway, another one was still needed. “I suppose her time has finally come,” he said.

  “I suppose so, Uncle Jerry. I promise we’ll make a shopping trip over to the dealership.”

  “Get me to the tractor dealership and we’ll be more’n even,” Jerry said.

  “No problem. Deal. Can you and Patrick hold down the fort while I ride down the road real quick?”

  “You bet, brother,” Patrick nodded. “Hurry back.”

  When Justin’s blue truck returned following a Ford Focus, the Tahoe and Old Red were pinned in, perfectly blocking all the southbound lanes. Justin, too, had rammed the semi in sideways as far as could, and was working on squeezing the Taurus underneath the trailer, as well. The roof was beginning to collapse in, as he pushed farther and farther under the eighteen-wheeler. “This is sorta fun!” Justin called out, laughing his screechy laugh. “National Lampoon’s made this look a lot easier, though.”

  “Alright, buddy.” Isherwood called over from the southbound lane. “Come help us flip over these trucks. We’ve got four grown men and two ladies. I think we can do it. That little Focus might help finish the job, either by pushing or as a buttress when it’s all done.”

  “Dang,” Justin called out from atop the concrete barrier. “There’s still no sign of ‘em. We can just sit back and enjoy the sunset if we want. Isherwood, you idiot, you’re a genius.”

  In the end, they decided to slide the Focus where the two trucks met in the middle to prevent the onrush of zombies from pivoting the vehicles and making a small gap. They also stopped short of flipping the Focus, leaving it in good working order with the keys under the visor in case they needed a getaway vehicle someday.

  By about six, the job was finished. Justin took another look over their blockades, and spotted an oncoming group of zombies. “Here come the hole pluggers!” He announced.

  “Northbound or southbound?” Isherwood asked.

  “A little bit of both,” Justin answered, but nobody knew if that was good or bad. “Good for plugging holes, anyway.” Justin concluded.

  A few moments later, Isherwood was calling out to one of the zombies. “Okay, ugly. That’s right. Come at me across the hood. Come on. That’s good right there.” Blam. “Alright, next up. Come crawl up on this guy’s carcass. That’s right.” Blam.

  “Just like building with Lincoln logs, am I right?” Justin called out as he slowly wedged bodies into gaps here and there.

  After another couple of minutes, Isherwood called out. “Back off, guys. Let’s see if any of them can get through. We can overdo this, if were not careful. Like at Masada.”

  “I heard you say ‘at Tostada’ under your breath, man.” Patrick said, calling Isherwood out. “Now, you know, nobody has any idea what you’re talking about. That’s just silly, bro. And I’m really hungry, besides. Okay?”

  “Nevermind,” Isherwood said, brushing off the comment. “I think she’s holding. I haven’t heard old Uncle Jerry’s truck even budge. Let’s get out of here ASAP, okay? That’s good enough for a day’s work and it’s still light out.”

  They rode back to the church in Justin’s blue Chevy. They packed the woman, kids, and Jerry inside the cab, while Isherwood, Justin, and Patrick rode guns out in the bed. The sun was just setting as they rolled back onto Main Street. There were still zombie stragglers here and there, but the streets were mostly empty.

  “I want to thank you, buddy, for a good day.” Patrick took Isherwood by the shoulder. “It’s only really been two weeks or so, but I felt like I’d never have another one of those again.”

  “Yeah, hope was growing real thin at our house.” Justin added. “You and your idiot megaphone might’ve come along at the last possible second.”

  Isherwood was just shaking his head. “I can’t believe of all the people to run into, it was you guys. I’m sorry to admit it, but I didn’t even think about passing by your subdivision. I guess I’d just locked away all hope of specific people, let alone friends, surviving. I mean, seriously? That’s incredible. You know what it means? You two, your young families, your skills, your smarts – we can start to rebuild. We might just pull it all off, after all.”

  “What d’you mean, survival? A farm? What?” Patrick asked.

  “No, man.” Isherwood answered. The sunset was twinkling in his eyes. “True blue civilization. Like Monsignor said, a kingdom.”

  “The name could use a little work, maybe an empire or principality or something.” Justin waxed on. “Not duchy, of course. Definitely not grand duchy, sounds like a royal crap. But I like where you’re going with this.”

  CHAPTER NINE: STARTER RAIDS

  “You know, Smithy.” Sara said to her husband, encircling him with her slender arm. It was the morning after Isherwood had found Justin and Patrick’s families and cleansed the town of the hoards.

  After their morning coffee, Sara and Isherwood had found a metal ladder which led up from the office behind the church’s choir loft. It led up to a hole in the ceiling which opened into the bell tower. From there, they were able to survey all of downtown St. Maryville and were at eye level with the clock tower of the Parish Courthouse four blocks east on Main Street. The town looked still and gray. Newspapers and trash fluttered across Main Street and the parking lot beside City Hall. There were still pockets of movement here and there, as the dead shambled aimlessly about, sometimes chasing the odd rat or river vermin. The ducks, what was left of them, were returning to the piers and river landings. The great, long crescent of False River stretched out before them and the Mississippi stretched endlessly in either direction before them.

  “If you make a raid on Wal-Mart today,” Sara continued, smiling up at her husband. “You could pick me up a bowfishing set.”

  Her husband looked up from surveying the town at his feet. “Don’t you think False River’s a little murky for that? Besides, we shouldn’t risk fishing just yet with still so many of those creeps walking around.”

  Sara smiled mischievously. “Oh no, honey. I was thinking I’d go bowfishing for zombies.”

  “Huh?” Isherwood looked down at her in confusion.

  “Don’t you get it? I’m honestly surprised you hadn’t thought of it yet. Your head’s always so full of ideas. You’re planning on drawing the remaining zombies to the church, aren’t you? Like our little chicken feeder-trap back on Delaware Avenue. We can use spears to poke their little skulls far enough away to keep them from piling up against the fence –”

  “Well, yeah, but we’ll probably just start hauling them off to a burn pile.”

  “Sure, but – just listen – I’m limited on how much I can use my bow from inside the fence because of the wasted arrows, right?”<
br />
  “Ohhh, gotcha.”

  “I knew you would.” She laughed girlishly and squeezed him tighter. “If my brothers can haul in six hundred pound alligator gar with the line on those bowfishing arrows, I just know I could get my arrows back. No waste.”

  “I love it! That’s an awesome idea, Sara.” Isherwood said, squeezing his wife tighter. “I love it when you get all zombie killer on me – and preventing waste, too? You’re a geek’s dream come true.”

  “Look at that little guy. He’s waving at us.” Sara pointed down at a zombie that had spotted their bell tower perch from the street below. It was reaching for them and moaning.

  Isherwood looked from the lone zombie that had spotted them, and his eyes began darting from zombie to zombie still shambling along Main Street and the side streets. A burst of caffeine made his heart flutter. “It’s time I got back to work.” He told his wife.

  Sara smiled bitter sweetly. “You’ve gone back in your man cave, haven’t you?” She asked, but it wasn’t really a question.

  *****

  “Listen,” Isherwood was addressing the dining room of the rectory. The number of survivors had quickly outstripped the size of the dining room table. “I know it makes sense – a lot of sense – to start raiding places right here around us first. And it’s true – we need to bring in all the perishables at Langlois’ grocery ASAP and start canning and preserving them. But I really think we need to make a raid on Wal-Mart. It’s pretty much the only source of guns and ammo in this whole area, short of stashes in private homes, and we need to at least check out what effect we’ve had on the population of zombies on Hospital Road.”

  “Come on, buster.” Justin was smiling sarcastically. Isherwood could see he was getting ready to unload one of his screechy howls of laughter. “We know you just want to go on a shopping spree in the gun department. Come on, admit it.”