by Chris Lowry
“Most that I know of,” he said. “When they get to the gates, the guards interview them. I don’t hear of too many that get turned away. You are the first people to come on the river, except for pirates from Natchez.”
“What did you do in Gulfport?” Bem asked. “Were you an EMT?”
I thought my little girl was crushing, but saw a squint in her eye. She looked like Zach might try to trick us too.
That made me wonder what happened while I was asleep. What did they overhear? What could they share?
“Where’s the marina?” I asked.
“We didn’t come in a marina,” said the Boy. “They’ve got a suspension bridge across the water.”
“What happened to the Interstate Bridge?”
“It’s still there. Blocked. I went to look at it once. The cars caught on fire and burned the metal, now we can’t use it.”
He pointed in the direction of the bridge.
“There’s the old Bridge,” I told him.
I’m not sure why I said it.
Maybe just to let old Zach know this Dad wasn’t falling for his charm. That this old Dad knew a thing or two about his new hometown.
I’d driven through here on several occasions since I was an adult and over two dozen times as a kid. I remembered the rusted red bridge just north of the Interstate bridge, and wondered if it was a railway connection or if it had been adopted into the trail system and turned pedestrian and bike path.
Zack didn’t need to know any of that.
He licked his lips and smiled.
“It’s still there. But we don’t go over it. Both of the bridges are outside the wall.”
The had a wall.
Keep talking Zach.
“Where’s the wall?”
He turned up a side street and led us half a mile.
I could see it before we got there, a giant metal plate shoved into the ground, twelve feet high.
Closer we could see it was a series of metal plates welded together, the scars of metal bulging with thick iron poles set into the ground to support the great weight of the wall.
Zach opened his mouth to speak. Opened his mouth to spill his guts and tell me everything we needed to know to get out of here.
“Look!” the Boy shouted.
We turned to look as a small plane buzzed over the river and floated down in a smooth landing somewhere we couldn’t see.
“A plane?”
I couldn’t keep the wonder from my voice.
But it made sense. If cars worked, then so would planes. It’s not like we had an EMP. What we lost were the people who knew how to fly them, unless zombies could find the friendly skies.
Z weren’t that friendly to begin with.
Zach’s smile got wider.
Cocky bastard.
“We have a couple of them that land over in the old military park,” he pointed again.
As if we could tell where it was by the direction of his finger.
“Is that in the wall?”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “We can go see it if you like.”
It was my turn to nod. I liked.
I didn’t know how to fly a plane, but if we could borrow a pilot and one, we could make it back to Fort Jasper in an hour. Maybe less.
I was going to ask him who was in charge of the airfield when we heard it.
Bootsteps.
Marching in sync and moving our way fast.
A group of men in black rounded the corner.
I reflexively pawed at my waist for a pistol but there was nothing there. I grabbed the kids instead and pulled them behind me, blocking them with my body and squared off while we waited.
CHAPTER NINE
Someone had my idea.
The cops, if they were cops, surrounded us in a crescent. The men were covered in Riot Gear. Arms and legs protected, faces hidden by thick plastic helmets. If they were dressed like that, I hoped Z weren’t in the city walls that loomed around the community.
We pressed back against the wall.
Closer I could see they were iron plates, like the sides of railway cars welded end to end and bolted to posts in the ground. It was cheap, strong and effective, creating a twelve-foot steel barrier of multicolored metal. Two crews working hard, one cutting, the other locking them in place, could put up a wall this big in a week or so.
Whoever had the idea was smart.
Smarter than me. I hoped to meet him.
Then we watched a man in a white suit pull up in a Golf cart. A silent electric Golf cart.
He rolled his bulky belly from under the steering wheel and fought gravity to make his feet where he tottered between two riot police waiting to catch him if he fell. Or jump out of the way.
I was surprised.
The Zombie apocalypse was the best diet I’d ever been on in my life. I was down forty pounds, maybe more. Each of the kids had dropped fifteen pounds since I had last seen them.
Everyone I knew was always on the verge of starvation since the Z came, hunting for food or running for their life.
The people here looked normal.
Zach looked well fed.
The Doctor, the nurse, the cops now in front of us.
None of them looked hungry.
Normal as in mostly larger than average, which was the norm in southern Louisiana. This man made them look svelte by comparison. His ruddy face was topped with stringy white hair that swept around and over a war with a bald spot peeking under the strands.
He mopped the humidity off his face with an immaculate handkerchief and stuffed it into the breast pocket of the pristine white suit.
“Warren Cotton, King of Mardi Gras,” he held out a fat hand.
I reached to shake it and two men jumped forward to wrap shackles around my wrist.
“We’ve been expecting you,” he said.
CHAPTER TEN
Back before the world went dark, I was a manager in a mid sized company. The title said Director, which put me on the bottom rung of the C-Suite. My bosses were all Army, and if you know what direction the crap slides in, you know the bottom step is one slick rung.
One of my direct reports once asked me how I could stay so stoic, keep such a poker face when they could hear the yelling in the meetings, most of it directed at me.
I would smile and quote something that I thought sounded wise at the time.
"This too shall pass."
I remember my Dad told it to me once when I was sobbing in bed from a teenage broken heart.
This too will be over.
This won't last forever.
Because the ups of corporate leadership were always followed by the downs, and they would come again. It's called a roller coaster for a reason.
The best leaders learn how to even out their moods, and it was something I practiced daily.
It's going to be over soon.
That's how I survived running 100 mile races. It's how I trained to run a 200 mile race that I never got to try. Thank you zombies.
Or the CDC that made them.
Running taught me to focus on the now, and know that no matter how I was feeling, it was going to pass. It prepared me for bonks, crashes and runner high's.
Same thing in the boardroom meetings.
No matter how much they questioned, yelled, cajoled and bitched, it was going to be over and I could get back to the business of making them more money.
"This too will pass."
I told myself. It was a mantra I chanted in time with the swinging of a cage. It was a giant dog crate, thick metal bars chained to the ceiling. A guard stood just at the end of the arc and every couple of swings, he would kick the cage with his boot to keep it going.
I didn't know why they caged me.
"We’ve been expecting you," the man in white told me.
Expecting what?
Who's talking about little old me.
"Do you know why the caged bird sings?" I asked the guard as the crate spun around and we made eye contact.
Technically, the eye contact was mine. His face was hidden behind a face shield.
I thought it was overkill wearing it inside, where there were no zombies, but my sense of fashion had been limited to jeans, layers of shirts and thick jackets since they came to town.
Besides, if he was dressed like that, maybe he expected the Z to come through the door.
If they did, I wondered how long I could cling to the top of the cage before my arms gave out, I fell to the bottom and they could reach me through the wire.
The door opened and I clenched up, ready to jump.
The man in white stepped through.
Warren Cotton, King of Mardi Gras.
He nodded to the guard who left the room. He shut the door behind him, and I relaxed a little. No Z yet.
I wondered what the man in white had planned though. His suit was immaculate, but he did not look like he had a secret recipe with twenty six spices.
"You don't look comfortable," he said.
I was just glad the spinning was stopping.
"Where are the kids?"
"The kids?" he noticed. "Not my kids. Not my children?"
Bastard. I gripped the bars and flexed, testing the metal. It was a dog crate, it couldn't be that strong.
"There are three guards right outside the door," he drawled. "I've ordered them to shoot you if you do something foolish. I hope that won't be necessary."
"That depends Warren," the bars made a creaking noise as I pulled harder. "Did you order them to shoot me if I don't act foolish?"
We locked eyes for a moment and I suspected he was taking a measure of me.
"Your children are fine," he said. "They're finishing the tour."
No way to check. I had to take his word for it. But it was an olive branch. I released the bars and he seemed to relax too.
“I have heard rumors of you.”
“I can’t say the same.”
“One man destroying entire communities just to find his children.”
“When you say it like that, it sounds bad.”
“Now here you are. In my kingdom.”
Cotton shoved the bottom of the cage with the tip of his gleaming cowboy boot. It swung back and forth over the concrete floor, rotating in a slow circle that made balancing on the thin cross bar tough. The muscles in my thighs were on fire.
“What ever will we do with you?” Cotton drawled.
I gripped the pipes of the cage as the room spun around me. The fat man in the white suit twirled into view and out.
“Are you here to destroy my home?” he shoved out a boot and stopped the spinning.
Uh-oh, if you are reading this then something went wrong and the new file for the book isn’t completely loaded yet.
Don’t worry, just shoot me an email at [email protected] and I’ll send you the whole book in a mobi or pdf file.
I’m sorry about the mistake in not getting the new draft loaded up in time.
To make it up, I’ll send you the whole Mardi Gras Zombie book, and a free copy of Epoch for you to enjoy.
Don’t worry, I’m not putting you on an email list: you’ll only get the one email from me with your book.
I apologize for the inconvenience, and the tech glitch should be fixed in just a few hours.
Chris
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Chris Lowry is an avid adventurer and ultrarunning author. He divides his time between Florida, Arkansas and California where he trains for 100 mile Ultramarathons. He has completed over 68 races, including 18 marathon's and 12 Ultramarathons and is planning a Transcontinental Run across the United States from Los Angeles to New York City in 2017. He has kayaked the Mississippi River solo, and biked across the state of Florida. When not outdoors, he is producing and directing a documentary film about adventure and writing. His novels include the Battlefield Z series, the Marshal of Magic Series and the Shadowboxer Files. He loves good craft beer and meeting with reading clubs and running clubs, especially if the aforementioned beer is offered.
Are you a fan of Harry Dresden? Like the Iron Druid? You might fall in love with the Marshal of Magic.
Check out the first chapters below
CHAPTER ONE
A trio of witches gathered on the edge of a parking lot at an abandoned warehouse between the airport and downtown. The property had once housed a furniture supply store in the fifties, but was derelict for the past forty years. The time had not been kind.
Teenage vandals broke the windows with chunks of concrete and rock, which let in the elements. Rain, ice, snow and storms had worked their way through the wooden interior so that all that remained was the brick shell, and the occasional still standing wooden floor in the five story building.
The homeless population of Memphis had scurried through the windows seeking any form of shelter from the harsh winds that roared down the Mississippi River. Some died in collapses, others were killed during infighting, and gang initiation rituals. It was a dead place, a dead building haunted by faded memories.
"Can you feel it?" whispered Hilda.
She was taller than average, beautiful in a cold ice queen manner, and stood in front of her two compatriots at a point of a triangle drizzled in blood on the cracked concrete.
"The ghosts are calling," answered the shorter one on the left.
She had long curly red hair that cascaded down to the small of her back and delicate features that made her look like the youngest, and a small silver necklace made of letters that read Cassidy, her name.
"This is going to be fantastic," growled Hilda in a husky rumble.
The third witch pulled a grimoire, a book of magic, from a messenger bag on her hip.
"This should be enough."
"It will be enough," said Hilda.
She bent down and scratched another symbol onto the ground in front of the triangle. She pulled a small penknife from a pocket on her dress and pricked her finger to infuse the rune with her lifeblood.
A breeze whistled across the lot, stirring up dust and debris.
"Now," she said.
Carla opened the grimoire to a marked page and ran her finger over the text. It was in Latin, written in a faded calligraphy in splotchy brown ink that barely stood out on the parchment.
"We call on thee."
Cassidy mouthed the words with her.
"Again," ordered Hilda.
"We call on thee," they said together.
It flowed into a chant, slow and melodic. Their voices blended in a vibrating harmony that echoed against the pockmarked brick and bounced back toward them.
Wind stirred again, and ghostly apparitions began to gather on the edge of the lot, leaking through the cracked windows in the building, surrounding the trio.
Carla set the grimoire down behind them and pulled a white rabbit out of her pouch.
It squirmed in her hands and she clenched down tighter.
Hilda reached back with one hand and Carla passed the rabbit to her.
She held up the passive bunny and sliced open it's throat with the penknife. She dripped the blood across the rune. Her voice joined the others as she drew a line from the rune to the tip of the triangle.
"We call on thee, we call on thee, we call on thee."
The blood reached the triangle and red light erupted from the rune to burn against the brick wall. Ghostly figures were drawn toward the light and sucked into it.
A black clawed hand reached through the portal and gripped an edge. It pulled the opening a little wider, enough for a second hand to jab through. Now it had two hands on the portal and ripped it open. A sound like fabric tearing accompanied by ghostly moans roared through the air.
A giant head emerged from the dark hole. A massive red face framed by ram's horns and a hyper muscular body, like a caricature of a comic book hero slid through the opening and rolled into a wary stance.
It flexed massive shoulders and turned it's head to the wind to sniff. It was nine feet tall, shoulders broad and d
efined, with a hairy pelt that ran down it's spiny back.
"Sullamaie," Hilda smiled.
She dropped the rabbit and unfastened her dress. It fell to the ground and puddled around her feet.
"Sullamaie," she said again.
The creature turned to face her and leered.
Hilda settled back on the concrete, her feet still at the point of the triangle. She opened her knees and invited the demon to take her.
"Sullamaie," Cassidy and Carla said with her.
The demon rumbled toward them. It kneeled in front of Hilda, planted a hand on the ground and jammed into her.
She bit back a scream.
The demon tilted back its head and roared.
It finished in a moment and rose.
Cassidy dropped her dress and kneeled on all fours into the triangle. The demon sniffed and moved to her next.
Her hair fell across Hilda's face as they stared at each other, eyes locked. Cassidy wasn't as strong and shrieked as the monster took her.
"Sullamaie," Hilda reached up and caressed the young witch's face.
"Sullamaie," said Carla.
The demon growled again and leered at Carla with bloodshot bulbous eyes.
She dropped her dress and fell forward on her hands and knees.
All three witches were in the triangle.
The beast moved to Carla and grabbed her waist with massive hands. She screamed too.
Cassidy and Hilda put their hands on top of hers as they chanted.
It finished again with a roar that split the night air. Carla collapsed beside her fallen coven. The witches stopped their chant.
The beast dug clawed fingertips into the ground gouging claw marks into the concrete as it was slowly drawn back into the portal. It bellowed in defiance.
A shadow darted across the parking lot and scooped up the Grimoire. Cassidy reached for the book thief.
"No," shouted Hilda.
Too late.