Cajun Zombie Chronicles (Book 1): The River Dead

by Smith, S. L.

  The garden had often served as a backdrop to their relationship. It was full of stone and cast iron benches, which Sara thought were very romantic. They had had a couple dates here. They had even taken some of their engagement pictures there. Even now that it had become their backyard, it seemed like it had always been so.

  Isherwood was smiling and nodding. “Yeah, it really helps me clear my mind for the day. Helps me think straight.”

  “What are you thinking about doing today?” She asked, as Uncle Jerry’s tractor hummed in the fields somewhere beyond the garden.

  “Might just help with the planting. Maybe raid Tractor Supply for seed potatoes and seed packets. Hey, what if we needed to chop down some of the pine trees around the garden?”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “For more sunlight on the fields.”

  Sara was shaking her head. “I’d say no, but I don’t think I’ll do to,” she said mysteriously. Isherwood chuckled and nodded in resignation. He knew better than to prod the momma bear.

  After a moment, he asked, “So?”

  “So what?”

  “Sooo?” Isherwood asked again.

  Comprehension suddenly warmed across Sara’s face. Her whole face broke into a smile, and she pulled Isherwood’s arm in for a tighter embrace. “You mean my bowhunting gear? You remembered! That was so thoughtful of you – three hundred pounds of thoughtful. You took everything they had, didn’t you?”

  Isherwood was basking in the warmth of his wife’s appreciation. He was nodding with pride and smiling stupidly. “Oh yeah. Like the Grinch who stole the last can of Who-hash.”

  Sara took a moment to go over all the different pieces of equipment that had first caught her eye. Then, shaking her head as if remembering something important, he looked down at her watch. “Uh-oh! Come on,” she said, tugging Isherwood behind her. “We’ll be late for morning prayer!”

  “Morning what?”

  *****

  Monsignor had tapped Isherwood on the shoulder after morning prayer. They were talking together in the sacristy, a small room adjacent to the altar of the church, where the priest’s robes were stored, as well as the gold dishes for Mass. Monsignor was nodding, as he prepared the dishes for Mass. “That’s right, Isherwood. I’ll be continuing to celebrate Mass every day at noon – priests are really supposed to say or go to Mass every day. But I’ve added morning and evening prayer, as well – actually, I’m going easy on everybody. It’s technically mid-morning prayer, “Terce,” and Vespers at 6pm, either before or after dinner depending on when you all can finishing wiping off the guts and gore.”

  Isherwood laughed at that. “I’m not sure one ever finishes cleaning off some things. Just ask Patrick about the eye juice.”

  Monsignor fell quiet as he walked glass pitchers of wine and water up a couple steps to the altar. “Oh, let me help you with that,” Isherwood said, taking the pitchers to the side table beside the altar. “I suppose I’ll be helping as an altar boy, anyway. But Monsignor, I was thinking about it just now during prayer. I really think you’re on to something. We really need things like this to bring our community together, and to order and structure the day – even the year, as the liturgical calendar goes. Otherwise, why keep a seven-day week, or a twelve month calendar, or any of it?”

  “You thought through all that just during morning prayer?” Monsignor asked in his way.

  Isherwood had to laugh, knowing that the old priest always perceived much more than he let on. “No, you’re right. I’ve been thinking a lot about how we go forward. Who ‘we’ is and will be.”

  “I’m sure it’s already occurred to you, Isherwood, that this is not the first time mankind has faced a plague or even a cataclysmic event.”

  Isherwood was quiet for a long time mulling over Monsignor’s words. “Monsignor, you know – I was wondering about apostolic succession during all this, this stuff. Apostles elected new apostles, the bishops elected new bishops, the pope began appointing new bishops – and unbroken chain back to the beginning, but what happens now? If the pope is gone and the cardinals are gone, too, without anybody to elect a new pope, if all or mostly all of the bishops are gone, who names new bishops? Are you the de facto bishop now?”

  “An interesting question, given the state of things. I think I know somebody who could figure out the answer to that question.”

  Isherwood opened his eyes wide in surprise. “Really? Another survivor? A priest? You’ve heard from him somehow? Who is it?”

  Monsignor was chuckling to himself. “It’s you, Isherwood.”

  Isherwood dropped his head to his chest in mock exasperation, and Monsignor threw his head backward in laughter. Isherwood tried to resist, but couldn’t help joining in.

  “You will let me know if I’m a bishop, won’t you?” Monsignor kept laughing.

  “You’ll need a change of headgear, for sure.”

  “And a staff.”

  “I know a guy with a pretty fierce frog-gigging pole.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: COUNTDOWN

  Isherwood’s mind was humming with what Monsignor had said for the rest of the day. He had some more things he wanted to talk over with Monsignor, but they would have to wait. He forcibly cleared his mind.

  The “Three Amigos,” as Justin had taken to calling them over everyone’s objections, were tasked with exploring the eastern end of Main Street. Tadd had taken Isherwood aside for a very one-directional discussion. Thereafter, it appeared Jerry would be staying within the church grounds for the time being. This was just as good, Isherwood thought, as he knew Jerry would be busy tilling the ground from safe inside the cab of his new tractor.

  The plan for the Three Amigos was to call out for any survivors that might still be hiding along the road between Langlois’ grocery and the township of Waterloo. They had taken a map of the parish and divided it into a search grid. They would take one section per day, calling out for survivors. They would also catalogue possible honey pots of supplies and undertake a general survey of the area.

  Before they could start down the road east, however, there were two places on their list to visit: the car dealership and the National Guard armory. Justin had also mentioned the sheriff’s and police stations would likely have armories, too, but these would have to wait.

  “Let’s just all go inside,” Patrick said, as Isherwood succeeded in prying open the glass door of the Maggio Oldsmobile showroom. “If the zombies get thick on this side, we’ll just tap on the glass and guide them to the other side.”

  “You know, my family used to own this dealership. My great grandfather, Bert Lieux, started it. Lieux Chevrolet, it was called. If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a second to reclaim it.” Justin and Patrick looked down in surprise at Isherwood’s left hand. He had taken out a can of black spray paint from somewhere inside his hands and was shaking it, rattling the ball inside ferociously.

  Justin tilted his hands back in a sign of indifference. “That’s cool, man. But you better make me a cherry deal on a new Caddie, or I’m walking.”

  “Gonna rename the town, too?” Patrick asked, tapping his elbow into Justin’s side as they laughed quietly at Isherwood behind his back. Isherwood was spray painting in large, eight-foot letters across the solid wall of windows that marked the front of the dealership.

  “Actually, funny you should mention it,” Isherwood laughed as he swept out the cross bar of the ‘T’ in Smith, and soon to be the ‘T’ in “Smith Chevrolet.” “But I’ve been thinking about that.”

  “Of course he has,” Justin said shaking his head. “This guy.”

  “Let’s do it, Patrick said dramatically. “We’ll break in to City Hall – I mean, it’s only a block from the church. We’ll do it in the City Council chambers. We’ll elect a new mayor and council members, also granting to each councilman plenary powers and ownership over their precinct. We’ll change the town charter. No big.”

  Isherwood rocked his head back and forth in semi-agreemen
t. “That could work. Not sure about plenary powers and ownership, though. We’ll probably be living communally for the foreseeable future.”

  “Socialism. Always socialism.” Justin announced with mock fury.

  “More like a monastery.” Isherwood winked back at them. Noticing something in his voice, Justin and Patrick just looked at each other in quiet confusion.

  “Well,” Justin said, shaking it off. He turned around to behold the glittering edifice that stood at the center of the showroom. A fully loaded Cadillac Escalade. A thin skin of dust was coating the $80,000 vehicle.

  “Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale.” Patrick said, following Justin.

  “It is the east, and my Caddie the sun.” Justin remarked as he popped open the door, and filled his lungs with a deep breath of the new car smell.

  “Hey!” Patrick frowned. “Yesterday, you asked what a bard was and today you’re quoting Shakespeare?”

  “That’s right! And don’t call me Shirley.” Justin was reaching to other side of the steering column. “I wonder,” he said. “Could we be so luck—?” He was interrupted by the twinkling sound of keys waiting for him in the ignition. Justin hopped in the vehicle, giddy as a schoolboy. He turning the keys in the ignition and listened to the engine roar to life with an ethereal look on his face. “Dibs.” He said.

  *****

  Patrick passed on picking out a new vehicle, opting instead to take Justin’s Old Blue. Justin barely noticed the passing of Old Blue from his possession, as he was clearly having some sort of religious experience inside his new vehicle.

  Isherwood knew exactly what he wanted – had always wanted since watching MacGyver as a kid. A Jeep Wrangler. There’s was only one Jeep among the dealership’s used car inventory, judging from the rows of keys hanging inside the general manager’s office. It just happened to be exactly what Isherwood wanted for the Apocalypse. He stood holding the laminated yellow key tag as if it were a Wonka Golden Ticket. The tag read “Jeep Wrangler Ext.” It wasn’t exactly what “Mac” drove, Isherwood explained, but they needed the extra space.

  They realized that, even if they found armored vehicles at the National Guard Armory, they were each already driving a vehicle. They decided to hold off on the armory until the next day, and push east along Main Street. Besides, to frustrate thieves, the dealership kept less than an eighth a tank of gasoline in each of the vehicles. They would need to stop at the LA Express station along the way.

  Patrick took point, and Justin in his new Escalade and Isherwood in his jeep followed behind him. They followed New Roads Street down past the dealership and around the corner where Regions Bank stood. They turned back on to Main Street and it was a short trip, less than a mile, to the gas station.

  Thanks to Jerry modifications, Old Blue had become exceedingly efficient at mowing down the zombies. Isherwood observed the remnants of zombies left in the truck’s wake. Skulls weren’t always crushed in the process, but every zombie that encountered Old Blue was permanently slowed down. Problem was, Isherwood mused, these zombies would become a menace. They were the kind that would drag themselves off somewhere to rot. Later, when searching a backyard, they would suddenly emerge from underneath a bush or raised house, disturbing a little pile of dog and cat bones, and bite through a foot or calf.

  There were fewer zombies the farther they went along Main Street. Only two or three could be seen hobbling about in the vicinity of the LA Express. Patrick parked Old Blue in the middle of the street. He slid out of Old Blue and jumped into the bed where he would have a full 360 degree view of the area. He took one of the .22 rifles from the gun rack hanging against the back window. “A little target practice,” he whispered to himself.

  Isherwood and Justin pulled into the center of the LA Express parking lot, facing opposite directions around what looked like the cover to the underground gas tank. Isherwood opened up the back of the jeep and pulled out the hand pump they had picked up at Wal-Mart. Isherwood fed one of the eight-foot black rubber hoses down into the tank. Justin took the other one and fed it into his gas tank. Isherwood began turning the crank. It wasn’t turning as quickly or as quietly as it had the other day.

  “Ten turns per gallon, eh?” Justin asked. “Look. I’m gonna run into the store and get you some WD-40.”

  “I need your help, Justin. Wouldn’t mind somebody watching my back, too.”

  “It’s okay, man. You’ve got Patrick in the crow’s nest over there.”

  “He can’t see between the vehicles, though.”

  “I’ll be right back.” Justin said, grabbing a crow bar and disappearing around the jeep.

  Isherwood rolled his eyes. “Thanks, buddy.”

  Isherwood listened and waited to the strange orchestra of Patrick’s periodic firing and the rhythmic cranking of the pump. He was counting to two hundred, maybe two hundred fifty, estimating the Escalade’s fuel tank to be somewhere between twenty and twenty-five gallons.

  At about 90, Justin popped the lock open on the metal frame glass door. Around 120, a hunk of re-animated flesh fell from the underside of the Cadillac. By 140, the bloody torso, arm stump, and head had become aware of Isherwood, and began dragging itself towards the cranking. At 160, the thing had emerged from under the vehicle. At 165, Justin located the WD-40 and immediately began thinking to himself how good a Snickers bar would taste. At 180, the half zombie was a foot behind Isherwood and swung a bloody stump towards him. The bone protruding from the end of the stump was just millimeters from grazing Isherwood’s back. At 200, Justin thought to himself, Screw it, I want a Coke, too. At 215, a splash of gas spurted out the Escalade’s gas tank.

  Isherwood stood up to remove the hose from the tank, and shook violently as he first noticed the thing that had crept up behind him and the long blood streak trailing away from it. He dropped the hose and gasoline began dribbling out of the end. He pulled out his 9mm from its holster and aimed. At what would have been 225 turns of the crank, Justin had reached Isherwood with a Snickers bar still hanging out of his mouth.

  Justin grabbed Isherwood’s arm. “Donnadoitstopputcannitseealluvagas.” He mumbled from a full mouth. He pushed Isherwood behind him, grabbed a knife from his belt, and shoved it into the thing’s skull.

  “Whoa. What gives?” Even as Isherwood said it, he realized that the gas had spilled near enough the half zombie that even a small spark could have sent a column of flame streaking down to the tank beneath them.

  Justin swallowed hard. “You almost just launched us to the moon. I can’t leave you anywhere.”

  “That’s exactly –” Isherwood grumbled in frustration. He stopped short as he noticed the extra Snickers bars hanging out of Justin’s jeans pocket. “Hey, give me one of those. I need something to do while I watch you fill up my gas tank.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: UNION

  “You know,” Isherwood said, as Justin finished filling the jeep and the rest of the spare gas tanks. “If we just went to Wickcliffe, the country club, and back looking for survivors, we might still have enough daylight left to check out the armory.”

  “What?” Justin asked, smiling as he placed the full fuel tanks in the back of the jeep. “Your little brush with death, making you rethink your life?”

  “A little bit, yeah. Did you lock the store back up?” Justin looked suddenly suspicious and went back to the door to seal it up. As he did, Isherwood whistled over to Patrick to let him know they were saddling up the horses. Patrick gave a thumbs-up and racked the rifle.

  After another mile or so they cross Patin Dyke, which under normal conditions helped regulate the water level of False River. They stopped briefly here to survey the operation, as well as the intersection of Main Street and the road that led to Ventress and Jarreau, the two smallish towns on the far side of False River. The long lake, for all intents and purposes ended near the dyke and fed into two small bayous, which continued the lake’s outline into the Mississippi River levee. The same thing happened on the other side of the lake
as well.

  Half an hour later, they were passing back through the same spot. Surprisingly, however, they had picked up another passenger on their way back. It was a young black boy, maybe seven or eight years old. Patrick had to swerve hard to prevent hitting him, as he ran right into the road as though something was pursuing him. And probably was. His eyes opened wide as he realized a pack of white guys were his savior. He looked like he might even turn back toward whatever he’d been running from, but Justin scooped him up and put him in the passenger seat of the Escalade. The boy had yet to say anything to any of them.

  *****

  “Don’t forget the flashlights,” Isherwood advised, as they climbed out of their vehicles at the National Guard Armory. They had parked a half block away from the armory. The number of zombies was visibly thicker here, Patrick had noticed still driving the lead vehicle.

  “Hey, little buddy.” Justin asked the little black boy, they had found on the way back into St. Maryville. “You gonna come with us? Or stay here?” The little boy suddenly shifted in his seat at the sound of gunfire. It was Patrick beginning to clear the area from the bed of Old Blue. The truck was parked facing the armory, so the roof of the cab provided an excellent rifle rest.

  The little boy shifted again. This time he slid from the seat to the carpeted floor. He tucked himself so far under the dashboard that Justin could only see the boy’s scared eyes peering out at him. “Okay, little bro. Stay there and stay quiet, and you should be fine. I’d leave you with a pistol, but that seems like a bad idea, somehow. Take this knife, though. Okay?”

  The little boy shook his head. “Come on, little man. Just in case, okay? It won’t bite you.”

  The little boy shook his head again. Justin couldn’t tell what the boy was doing, until something shined out of the darkness. The boy was showing him he already had a knife – a big one, too.