Insurgent Z: A Zombie Novel

by Scioneaux, Mark C.

  Mason accepted the position, but in reality, he had no choice. Things had come to a stalemate in New Orleans, including his relationship with Vicky Dupuis, his girlfriend, and their child, Kenneth. Too many times, Mason would howl in the night, blindly stampeding through the house—smashing mirrors and glass, anything that showed his reflection. He simply couldn’t look at himself without seeing the pawn that had gotten his friends killed. He remembered attending their separate funerals and how the eyes of their grieving family members burned into him. Those eyes screamed, ‘Why you? Why did you live and not him?’ Mason wrestled with the same questions every day.

  On the day he received the message from his boss that he would be relocated to Botte, he came home to a note Vicky had left on the kitchen table. It said that she had taken their child and wouldn’t be coming back. Mason scanned the note for any detail of where she might have gone, but there was none. He debated calling the police before realizing he was the police. He picked up the phone to make a call to Vicky’s mother, but decided to set the receiver back down. Maybe it was better this way. Mason’s son wouldn’t remember him as being such a monster and could live a better life away from him.

  He never called anyone, and he didn’t try to find them. Mason figured this was the fresh start he needed to save his life and turn things around, and to one day, have a meaningful impact on his son’s life. The girlfriend he could care less about. Floozy cocktail waitresses at casinos tend not to make the best partners. She was replaceable. His son was not. One day, when he straightened himself out, Mason would find them again and prove he had made the right choices.

  Mason had packed up a tiny U-Haul and moved to Botte, Louisiana. He jumped into his new job with a passion that went out as quickly as it had ignited. There was nothing to do and no crimes of any significance to worry with. It was boring, and as much as he thought peace and quiet was what he needed, Mason was wrong. His staff was small, a handful of deputies, and one foul-mouthed receptionist that amused him, because she swore worse than he did and was fifty years his senior. He had called his boss back in New Orleans and begged him to reconsider. His boss had coldly informed him that the prisoner he had beaten died, and it would be best if Mason never returned. The inmate had been some low-level pimp and drug dealer, so the corrupt New Orleans police had no problem pinning the murder on another inmate who was locked up for life anyway. Mason didn’t care that the man had died, and in fact, he was somewhat pleased with himself that the piece of walking trash wouldn’t hurt another person again. This realization that he didn’t care, scared him a bit. He had hung up with the sheriff, thanking him again for the opportunity, and resumed his job as sheriff of Botte.

  Mason ran a hand through his greasy, black hair. He would need a shower before heading into work. The stale odor of cigarettes and sweet aroma of whisky perfumed the room. It became more pronounced as the humidity rose in the bathroom, the hot shower working wonders on his aching body. The robust scent of sandalwood and vanilla soap quickly replaced it. He exited the shower and stared at the reflection in the mirror. He was a wreck. Black, stubbly hairs dotted his face, steely blue eyes dull and bloodshot. He applied some drops to them to try to tone down the redness. He needed coffee. The small bottle of whisky he polished off, nestled atop the toilet as he relieved himself, wasn’t enough to shift his motor into high gear. A quick shave revealed skin littered with small scars around his lips and eyes. Finally, Mason applied minty toothpaste that promised to whiten his teeth in thirty days to help chase away the rat that died in his mouth.

  Once in the kitchen, small cockroaches and silverfish scattered as he kicked aside empty beer cans and fast food wrappers strewn about the floor. He opened the cabinet and removed the small container of coffee grinds, measuring enough for a couple of large cups. He grabbed the gallon jug of water next to the machine and poured in the right amount. Some townspeople loved Botte’s tap water, for a reason Mason couldn’t understand. To him it tasted like sulphur, or rotten eggs, but the locals didn’t seem to notice. He refused to drink it, or anything made with it, he found it ruined the taste of everything it touched. The smell of coffee percolating into the pot began temporarily to replace the smell of grime infused into the house.

  He sipped the coffee, slowly letting the hot liquid travel down his throat and into his stomach. The rush of heat felt good. He opened the refrigerator and stared at the bleak offerings. A pack of lunchmeat that sprouted a fungal garden was next to a carton of eggs and a twelve-pack of beer. The expiration date on the eggs told him they were still good for another week. He looked around the kitchen noticing his frying pan was still dirty in the sink, where it had been for longer than he could remember. Small dots of rust peppered the surface. Fuck it, he thought. If Stallone can do it, so can I. He cracked an egg on the counter and opened it over his waiting mouth. The egg sloshed to the back of his throat, going down with little effort. It happened so fast that he didn’t even taste it. Not very satisfying. He removed a beer from the fridge and poured the contents into one of the few clean glasses. He cracked three eggs into the glass and drank it down. Not bad. Tastes like beer.

  With breakfast finished, Mason trudged back to his dirty bedroom and stumbled over a pair of work boots. He kicked a pile of clothes out of the way and removed his uniform from the closet. It was standard police issue blues, and he slipped it on. The pants were starting to feel a little snug, as if the years of fast food and drinking had started to catch up to him, though he was still slender and had good muscle tone, the lucky winner of genetic lottery. He gave himself one final look-over in the bathroom mirror. A little aftershave balm to his face and a spritz of cologne added another cover to hide behind. He cleaned up well for a man who was on the verge of giving up.

  Magazines, clothes, and a pair of panties—the owner he could not remember—called themselves to his attention, as he snapped on his duty belt holstering his police issued 9mm. He’d clean up when he got home, he said to himself. He said the same thing every day, and had yet to follow through with the promise. The blades on the box fan in the corner slowed to a stop at the flick of a switch, leaving the humid, swampy air stagnant as Mason closed and locked his door.

  The brutal Louisiana sun beat down. His shirt instantly felt damp and clung to his skin. Botte appeared to have only two seasons: half a month of bitter cold, and 11 and a half months of intense heat. He hated it, and once inside his old black Bronco, Mason cranked the AC and lowered the windows to let the cold air push out the hot from the truck.

  His house was situated just outside downtown Botte, and the drive offered a picturesque view of the bayou. Tall cypress trees jutted out of the water, their crooked knees serving as perches for swamp birds and raccoons. Occasionally, Mason would spot an alligator sunning itself on the bank as he drove. He didn’t see any today. Botte didn’t contain any traditional neighborhoods, and most dwellings were half a mile apart, allowing for plenty of privacy. Past downtown, more homes were nestled on the bayou side of the interstate and resembled fishing camps more than traditional houses. Quite a few of the older residents lived down that way, either retired fisherman, or retired city folks who wanted a place to just get away from it all, and live out the rest of their days in peace. They would get that in Botte. The town was as exciting as going to church, and to Mason that seemed dreadful.

  The sign announcing Downtown Botte loomed ahead. A few cars passed him, hauling fishing boats and offering friendly waves. He waved back. The residents had taken to him quickly, and Mason had chalked that up to the hospitable Southern attitude that seemed to be born into those from the South. His money was no good at the local diner, though he always made sure to take care of the waitress, and he was given little perks at the pharmacy and small grocery store. The kind old man who owned the place, never once questioned the copious amounts of pain pill prescriptions that Mason turned into him.

  He entered the town. His eyes scanned the streets for anything out of place, but all was quiet. It was al
ways so damn quiet. Residents strolled the streets, window-shopping and talking amongst themselves. Several patrons relaxed at a small coffee shop, reading the morning paper, and enjoying iced tea on a hot day. Mason was 40 minutes late for work, but his cell phone hadn’t rung once, and he figured no one would notice anyway. His deputies knew what to do and had their daily routes to patrol. He approached the back gate and punched in a code to open it. The gate slowly slid open, and he pulled the Bronco in, parking it in the spot reserved for Botte’s sheriff. The gate closed behind him with a metallic whine. He spotted Ruth’s car. The potty-mouth receptionist was here. He also noticed two of the three squad cars missing. The prison transport van hid in the shade of a tree. It was very rare that they had to use it. Only once was it needed to help transport a man who was en route to Paradis, but that had been due to the New Orleans prison van breaking down near Botte.

  He walked through the steel front door and entered the police station. He smiled as the crisp, cool air greeted him. Passing down a hall, he turned right, and came up to the receptionist desk. Beyond that, were the offices and a small break room. Ruth was busy typing on the computer and didn’t raise her head when Mason approached.

  “Mornin’, Ruth.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I think you may be in the wrong place. The sheriff normally comes in around 8 o’clock, and here we are pushing on 9 o’clock. I know our sheriff would never be late for his civic duties.”

  “You got me, Ruth. I slept a little past the alarm this morning.”

  “I’ll give you just one more chance, and then I might have to lock you up.” Ruth smiled and looked at herself in the small mirror on her desk, fixing her white perm, which Mason always suspected was a wig. She was a tiny woman, with bright red lips from wearing too much lipstick, and a set of yellow teeth from years of coffee and cigarettes.

  “I have anything on the agenda today?”

  “As a matter of fact, you do. The mayor called and wants to come in around noon for a meeting. Not sure what that’s about. He wouldn’t say.”

  “Great,” Mason said, visibly annoyed.

  “Other than that, there are a few reports on your desk that need a signature. Deputy Ricks and Sheraton are out on patrol. Deputy Caldwell is in his office. He caught some kid poaching crab traps and saved the poor idiot before the owner could shoot him. Kid’s been sent home, but there’s that damn paperwork.”

  “Tell me about it. Well, give me a holler before you go to lunch. May want you to grab me something.”

  “Will do, sweetie.” Ruth smiled, and Mason went on his way.

  He passed by two empty offices on the way to his own. The third was occupied by Troy Caldwell, hunched over his desk, furiously writing a report.

  “Mornin’, Troy. I see you are protecting the good citizens of Botte from poachers.”

  “Huh, tell me about it.” Troy tossed the pen on his desk.

  Mason was surprised Troy could even grip the pen. His hands were huge, as was the rest of his body. He was a gentle giant though, having grown up in a nearby parish. Becoming a police officer shortly after graduating high school seemed like a matter of course. His shoulders were broad and strong, but his heart was in the right place. He was the closest thing to a friend Mason had.

  “One of these days, those stupid kids are going to mess with the wrong fisherman and get killed. What’s worse, is these folks thinking they can just take the law in their own hands. I’m sorry, but I’m going to scream if I have to explain to another one of these dumb fucks why they will go to jail for murder if they shoot someone taking crabs out their traps. Over fucking crabs! Then I get stuck with the paperwork.”

  “It’s one of those days, and it isn’t even lunch time. What else you got going on?”

  “Nothing really, just have to finish some reports. Ricks and Sheraton are out on patrol. I heard you have a meeting with the mayor.”

  “Yeah, can’t wait for that. Well, if you want, you can take off the rest of the day since there isn’t much going on.”

  “Really? That’d be great. Skylar will be happy with that. She wants to look at dining room sets.”

  “The joys of getting married. Seriously, take off once you’re done. Just have your phone on in case I need to reach you.”

  “Thanks, boss. Appreciate it.” Troy smiled, and Mason returned it.

  Mason turned the door handle to the large office at the end of the hall and entered. His office was plain, with only a few framed awards and certificates on the wall. On his desk, next to a stack of manila folders, stood the single picture—a young boy sitting in the lap of a goofy looking Easter Bunny. Mason smiled when he saw it, and the boy’s smile matched his. He sat in the cool leather chair and went to work, sorting through the various reports on his desk. All were for simple offenses: DWI while operating a boat, DWI First Offense while operating a car, speeding, public intoxication, and such. He went through them all, reading the details, and making sure his officers had followed proper procedure. Everything looked to be in order.

  “Going to get lunch, Sheriff. What you want?”

  Mason was so focused on the reports he didn’t hear Ruth enter the office. He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was almost ten past eleven. Time flies when you’re having fun, he thought.

  “Not sure, Ruth. Where you headed?”

  “Just going to the diner across the street. Not many choices around here anyway.”

  “This is true. Pick me up a shrimp po’boy, and I’ll pay you back?”

  “Sure thing, hon’. Anything else you want with it?”

  “Nah, that should be good. Well, if you see Rosella there, can you tell her I said hello.”

  “Back when I was your age, we preferred our men not to be such pussies.” Ruth glared at him.

  “I know, Ruth. I plan to ask her out soon, but can you just do me a favor and tell her hello? Maybe plant the seed in her mind that I might be interested.”

  “I wish someone would plant the seed in me. It’s been a while.”

  “Ruth, you are going to make me lose my appetite.”

  “I’ll be back in a jiff, Sheriff.” She turned and walked down the hall, leaving him to the dwindling stack of reports.

  His interest was actually piqued at one report involving a young man pissing on the side of a building, when Mayor Cotton Woods strutted into the room. He was dressed gallantly in a seersucker suit, complete with a wooden walking cane that he didn’t really need. Beads of sweat ran down the sides of the mayor’s face, and he dabbed at them with a white cloth.

  Surprised, Mason glanced at the clock and saw it was 11:30. The mayor was early for the meeting.

  “Mr. Mayor, please sit down. I wasn’t expecting you for another half hour.”

  “Thank you, Mason,” Cotton said, sitting in one of the chairs that faced the desk. The walking stick rested against his knee. “I’m a bit early, but I wanted to chat with you before our guest arrives.”

  “Oh? I didn’t know anyone else would be joining us.”

  “Yes, a representative from the Army will be here.”

  “What for? The war games aren’t supposed to start for another six months. Me and the deputies have stayed out of their business just like we agreed.”

  “Because, Mason, the Army has already begun a secret project sanctioned by the state. I’ve given them permission to put up a guard station on the highway that leads to town. They will be conducting research and training at Paradis. Working with the lifers.”

  “Experiments on prisoners?”

  “Well, the prisoners signed consent forms, I understand. Most might as well, it’s not like they’re getting out of Paradis ever, so they may as well make themselves useful.”

  “Most of the men there can’t even read.”

  “Mason, ever since you have arrived in Botte, you haven’t been afraid to shake things up. I’m asking, begging you, just to back off and let them do what they want. They are giving the town a huge amount of money, money that wil
l be reflected in your annual bonus, and the bonuses of your staff. Your feelings on the military have been well documented, but I’m asking you, as a favor, to not poke around where you don’t need to.”

  “Mayor, when you talk like that it makes me think I should poke around. I thought the temporary base the Army built last month looked strange. I wasn’t expecting such a large facility.”

  Cotton removed an envelope from his jacket pocket and tossed it on Mason’s desk. Mason opened it and dozens of Ben Franklin’s stared back at him.

  “There is ten thousand dollars in that envelope for you to do with what you please. That’s just the beginning.”

  Mason felt the thickness of the stacked envelope in his hands. Though he prided himself on playing things by the book, the thought of the money—and what it could do for him—overrode his sense of commitment to the job. For a moment, he felt bad that he considered taking the hush money so quickly, but, considering his current situation, he really had no choice but to accept. It appeared Cotton was going to do what he wanted anyway. Mason may as well profit from the scenario as well.

  “So, the Army won’t be doing war simulations this fall, but will be testing inmates at Paradis right now?”

  “Yes, and you won’t have to worry with the town being overrun by the enlisted men. Though they might come into town to eat, or just get away on their time off. I’m really not sure, but our guest will be able to answer those questions.”

  “They were out of shrimp, so I got you catfish—oh, hi, Mayor Cotton!” Ruth said, surprised to see him. “I thought you weren’t coming ’til noon?”

  “Just had a slight change of plans, Ruth. I hope all is going well with you. We’re expecting one more, so just send him in when he arrives.”

  “No problem,” Ruth said, placing the wrapped sandwich on Mason’s desk and leaving the room.