Insurgent Z: A Zombie Novel

by Scioneaux, Mark C.

  “Sorry, Mayor, but I’m hungry, so I’m going to have to eat in front of you.”

  “Go ahead, Sheriff. How’ve things been?”

  “Can’t complain. Just keeping up with the locals and the simple trouble they seem to love getting into. We could also really use a smaller patrol boat. The one we have is just too hard to navigate through the marshes and swamps.”

  “Well, after the Army finishes with whatever the hell they are doing, maybe we can get two boats.”

  The intercom crackled on Mason’s office phone as Ruth’s voice filled the room. Gentlemen, there is a man to see you.

  “Please send him in, Ruth,” Mason said. Heavy boots stomped on the wooden floor, growing louder and louder with each footfall. He imagined it would be the typical military representative—the ones used to smooth-talk any nosey public officials into complying with whatever plan they had concocted. Just who stepped into the office made Mason almost choke on his lunch.

  The man stood tall, as if at attention. His jawline was sharp, and his eyes a soft brown that seemed intense and battle-tested. His hair was perfectly groomed and the perfect shade of silver gray.

  “Ah, welcome. Sheriff Mason, I’d like to introduce you to—”

  “Hart,” Mason said, “Jonathan fucking Hart.” He felt his pulse race and his hands shake uncontrollably.

  “Mason!” Cotton rattled in his chair. “You know the Colonel?”

  “Do I know this man?” Mason said, rising to his feet. “Yes, I do. This is the man who fucked my entire career. This is the man who sacrificed two of my friends, and, when he found out they died, just shrugged and went about his business. So yes, I know exactly who this man is.”

  “Sheriff, you are out of line,” Cotton said.

  “No, Mayor, it’s all right. The Sheriff has every right to feel the way he does,” Hart said. His voice sounded like a cement mixer full of gravel. He took the empty chair next to the mayor.

  “I’ve been haunted by what you put me through every day and night since I left Iraq. Now you think you can just stroll into my town and do whatever you want because we are some small Podunk off in the middle of nowhere? Not on my watch, pal.”

  Cotton looked dumbfounded at Mason. The sheriff was poised, ready to attack.

  “Colonel Hart, can you please give us a moment in private? There is coffee in the break room a few doors down. Help yourself. I’ll call for you in a minute.”

  “Not a problem,” Hart said, rising. He stared at Mason who returned the icy glare. Hart closed the door behind him, and the footsteps grew softer until the sound could no longer be heard.

  “Christ, Mason! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  “Me? Did you not hear what I said? What he did?”

  “Mason, son, that was years ago, and just like you were following orders, so was he.”

  Mason paused, stung by the words. The mayor, for once, was right. Hart had probably just been following orders, but in the end, Mason was left to deal with years of misery and regret, while Hart was obviously promoted and decorated. It wasn’t fair, but in the game of politics and war, what was? Mason felt his heart rate returning to normal and the tension that coursed through his veins like lightning started to wane.

  “Sheriff, can you please just play nice this time. Tone it down a bit. Don’t be hostile. Let them do what they came here to do, and then they will leave Botte in a much better place.”

  “Fine,” Mason said. “I can play nice, I suppose.”

  “Excellent.” The mayor opened the door. “Colonel Hart, you can come back in now.”

  Hart’s footsteps slapped against the tile floor. Mason’s heartbeat picked up the pace again. Anger swelled, and though he fought to control it, found himself in a losing battle. Hart appeared in the doorway clutching two cups of coffee. He set one on Mason’s desk, and then took the chair next to Cotton.

  “Thought you could use a cup to steady the nerves a bit, soldier,” Hart said, sipping from his own.

  “I’m not a soldier anymore. The Army said I was too damaged to return to active duty. Something about watching my friends being murdered did that to me, I suppose.”

  “Mason. . .” Cotton said, tensing in his seat.

  “It’s all right, Mayor,” Hart said. “Mason has every right to hate me. Luckily, he won’t be working with me or seeing me much, if at all. This is more about the soldiers stationed outside Paradis.”

  “Ah yes, the mystery surrounding Paradis. Maybe you can enlighten me as to what is going on there?” Mason sat back in his chair, hoping the sarcasm in his voice made it out. He refused to touch the coffee.

  “I’ll tell you as much as I can. With the war on terror taking a turn and biological weapons being introduced to the field of battle, the U.S. military is working on a vaccine that will kill any and all agents of warfare: viruses, bacteria, and prions, anything that can cause disease. We presented a proposal to the governor of your great state to test this vaccine. We have contracted with Paradis, and all prisoners used are on a volunteer basis. These are men serving life sentences or destined for the injection chair anyway. This will give their life a little bit of purpose. So far, things have been going quite well, and we don’t expect any issues to arise. We will be stationed right outside the town, and we have a roadblock set up at the parish line. I can assure you this is for directing military supplies only. All pedestrians will be left alone, and can come and go as they please.”

  “So Botte will be the little town to fuck with when you get bored. Is that it?”

  “Not at all, Sheriff. I have instructed my men not to leave the base. If any do, it will only be to purchase some supplies we might be short on, and come back. I just wanted to let you know we will be here to suppress any fear or angst in the citizens of this fine American town. We don’t want to be disturbed, and we certainly don’t want to trouble anyone.”

  “Well, I hope for the prisoners’ sake that this mission goes off smoother than the last one you and I were involved in.”

  “Mason, you’re out of line,” Cotton said. His face turned beet red, and the veins in his neck popped.

  “Sheriff, I know you don’t trust the military, and that’s fine, but I have a signed letter from your governor saying I can do what I want. So, please accept my apologies, but I think I have wasted enough time here. Mayor Cotton, you may see me out.”

  Cotton glared at Mason as they walked out of the office. Mason never took his eyes off Hart, and he hoped the old Colonel was aware of just how badly he wanted to tear him apart. Mason tossed the envelope on his desk and stared at it. Cotton returned after a few minutes.

  “Well, that couldn’t have gone worse.”

  “Sure it could have. I could have broken his fucking neck,” Mason said, refusing to look up.

  Cotton closed the door and walked to the front of the desk. Mason saw him pick up the envelope of money and hold it out.

  “I want you to know that if you take this money, it is an agreement between us that you will stay out of their way. There’ll be more of this, I promise. Don’t think about your personal grudges. Think how good it will be to give your overworked staff a nice pay bump. Y’all deserve it.”

  Mason sighed and took the money. “Fine, Mayor. I’ll play ball. I’ve done it before.”

  “Excellent. Big things are coming for this town. I can feel it.”

  “I guess, but with the Army in charge, they are bound to fuck something up.”

  Cotton shrugged and offered a hand. Mason took it and squeezed hard. The mayor pumped the sheriff’s hand enthusiastically as a smile lit his face. Cotton left the office, and Mason heard the mayor and Ruth laughing as the politician left the building. Mason sighed and sunk back into his chair. He opened the envelope and counted out the money. He set aside a thousand for himself, the rest he would divide among the staff and present to them later. They at least would appreciate it.

  The more he handled the money, the dirtier it felt. When he placed the b
ills down, his fingers felt grimy, as if coated with grit, like the sands of Iraq.

  Chapter 4

  Paradise Lost

  Mitch Blackwell felt uncomfortable in his own skin. At first, when he took the bonus money from Burl, it was under the guise of supplemental pay from the Army. Nothing more than for his compliance with the government-sanctioned experiment. A nice bonus for essentially doing the same job the state was paying him to do. When one had to deal with the shit he dealt with regularly, a little extra money was appreciated, but it was never that simple, was it?

  The situation had turned into something different.

  A man had died—or was close to death. A man who had earned his respect over the years.

  Jeffery Williams had shown repentance for his ghastly crimes by living a peaceful and remorseful life behind bars. Mitch imagined it would have been easy to vote for the death penalty back during Jeffrey’s trial, after learning what he had done to that poor young girl. He would have even volunteered to throw the switch on the electric chair, feeling like a hero for frying a menace to society. Not even giving it a second thought.

  Now, Mitch felt complicit in Jeffrey’s condition. Regrets rushed through his mind for not asking Burl and the Army more invasive questions. Whenever he asked about the possible side effects of the vaccine, he was assured there was nothing to worry about. The worst thing that could happen was a case of mild diarrhea.

  Maybe it wasn’t the chemicals the Army put in the water. Maybe Jeffrey collapsed from a stroke, or some complication from E. coli. He wanted to believe that and wish he could convince himself that were the truth. Jeffery was in the Army’s care now. If Jeffery died, Mitch wondered if they’d ever reveal the cause of his death. Even if they did, how would anyone know if they were telling the truth or not? Or would anyone care what a convict sentenced to life died from behind the iron gates of Paradis?

  He rubbed both temples and sighed heavily. Three vans pulled to the south block where he waited with two other correction officers. The morning shift in the fields had ended. The prisoners had about an hour to cool off before lunch. Eating was the furthest thing from his mind now, despite the fact fried catfish was on the menu. A knot had formed in his gut the size of a cantaloupe, and thoughts of forking down greasy slabs of muddy fish made his stomach to roil.

  The first van came to a stop. The guard riding in the front passenger seat hopped out of the vehicle. “Get ready,” he said. His eyes cast a warning.

  The two officers beside Mitch raised their shotguns across the chest in the ready position.

  “What’s up?” Mitch said.

  “The inmates are restless.” The guard opened the sliding door on the van and pulled it open.

  Disgruntle rants and jeers poured out the van as the inmates fidgeted in their seats and raised hands in protest.

  “Calm down. Calm the fuck down. Get your shit straight and don’t give me any hassle,” the guard said.

  “What happened to Blue? Why’d them Army people haul him off? Is he really dead? What y’all doing to us in here?” One of the inmates demanded.

  Blue was Jeffrey Williams’ middle name. A name he wasn’t fond of at all, but once his fellow inmates realized it bothered him, he was called nothing else from that day forward. Mitch was the only one at Paradis who called Williams by his first name. It was a simple request Jeffrey had asked of him, one that Mitch didn’t deny. A man deserved to be called by his name.

  Mitch raised his hands and waved them slowly. “Jeffrey had something terrible go wrong, I’m sad to say. I’m not certain of his present condition. He’s in the Army’s care now. We’ll just have to wait and get the report when they’re finished with him. Hopefully, we can get him back later this afternoon.”

  “It’s that shit the Army’s putting in our water!” a voice yelled from the back of the van.

  Calls of agreement rose from the inmates. The guards in the other two vans stayed put, obviously watching the outcome of the conflict.

  “Keep it down, and get out of the van. Warden Burl is doing everything he can right now in order to assess the situation. There’s nothing for you to be concerned about. Just do as you’re told, and get cleaned up for lunch.”

  The prison vans had three rows of bench seats with enough room to fit four inmates each. Three inmates were linked together by a single chain, connected to ankle cuffs. To load the van, the last inmate on the chain, ranking from right to left, got in the seat and moved over to the window. The next two would slide in the seat, and then a padlock would bind the chain to a fortified hasp connected to the vehicle’s frame. There wasn’t any chance of escape beyond breaking the chain or cutting off a leg.

  When unloading, the guard removed the lock that bound the first row of prisoners. Reluctantly, the inmate on the end of the row slid off the seat. His feet hit the ground, and he had to wait for the inmate next in line to move across the seat before he could move away from the van.

  Mitch stepped over to him. The inmate slowly lifted his head, locking gazes with Mitch.

  “You gotta problem with me?” the inmate said.

  Mitch studied the inmate’s face. “No. Move up. I need to look at the next in line.”

  The inmate did as he was told. The next looked at him with more of a curious expression than one of agitation.

  “You look okay. Keep it moving.” The inmates in the van started to quiet down. Either intimidated by Mitch’s inspection or realizing that starting a ruckus would gain them nothing.

  When the third row had piled out, Mitch put his hand on the shoulder of the inmate second in line on the chain. He looked tired, fatigued—more so than the others he had examined. His eyes were glassed over, almost cloudy like spilled milk that had soured on the floor, and he acted as if his body functioned on automatic pilot.

  “Unlock this one. I’m going to bring him to the clinic. He doesn’t look right.”

  The guard complied and separated the inmate from the rest, standing him next to one of the correction officers.

  Once that van emptied, Mitch went over to the next and repeated the process. He had two other inmates un-cuffed and moved by the other waiting to go to medical. From the third van, only one showed any abnormal symptoms.

  The six guards escorted the gang of inmates inside the prison hall. Mitch and the other two officers headed for the clinic.

  One of the officers, Gary Johnson, whispered, “What’s up? You noticed something?”

  “Maybe. I can’t be sure, but these guys just look a little . . . different to me. It can’t hurt to get them looked at. Williams falling out like he did has me concerned.”

  “You kill me, Mitch. You treat most of these prisoners like they’re pitiful homeless animals at the pound. If they ain’t complaining, you should just leave them alone. Hell, with the amount of contraband these fuckers sneak into Paradis, it wouldn’t surprise me if they’re going through heroin withdrawals. The Army moving in has probably halted their little drug rings.”

  “I know, Gary. I get shit from others—including Burl—how I treat the inmates. There’s just this little voice inside that gnaws on me. It has something to do with a demon that’s been torturing me since my time in ’Nam. My life . . . the life of others . . . what it means to ‘live’ in general. Now I view all life as precious—to some extent anyway. I still believe a man has to pay for the wrong he does in life. The punishment should equal the crime. I just don’t want to deny another person their rights unjustly. To ruin their chance at happiness. Even if it’s an inmate at Paradis. If the courts deemed them to live their life in prison, then, if they give me respect, I will respect them back. I will help them enjoy whatever quality of life here I can. I don’t want to ruin what life they have left. Not like I ruined mine.” Mitch let his words fade as the group filed down the hall.

  Johnson kept his thoughts to himself, and nudged Mitch in the arm, as he was about to pass the hall that led to the clinic.

  Mitch shyly grinned and pulled up to
the front of the line.

  Doctor Parsons meandered about inside the clinic with an assistant, Richards, by his side. He looked up at Mitch with a confused expression as Mitch escorted in the entourage.

  Parsons looked at Richards. “Did these men have an appointment?”

  “No, Doc. These men were in the field with Williams earlier. I thought it best if you gave them a quick exam. You know, just to make sure everything’s all right,” Mitch said.

  The four inmates stood at loose attention, none seemingly aware of their surroundings, hardly more than cattle being led around by the nose. Mingo, the inmate on the end looked in the worst shape. Buckshot beads of sweat rolled down his cheeks.

  Six examining tables lined the wall. Mitch and the others helped each inmate take a seat on the end of a table. Richards hurried over with four thermometers and placed one in each of the inmate’s mouth.

  Parsons put a stethoscope to Mingo’s chest and listened to his heart. After a minute or so, he removed the stethoscope from his ears. “Could be heat stress.” The thermometer beeped. Parson’s removed it from the inmate’s mouth and read the results. “80 degrees? That’s not possible. That’s almost room temperate in here.” He shot a wary glance at Mitch, and then asked the inmate, “How are you feeling?”

  Mingo, short and thin in frame, only watched the floor, his mouth gaped open, and offered no response.

  Another thermometer beeped, Dickerson’s. Parsons snatched it out to read it. Richards removed the other two when it was time and read them.

  “92 degrees,” Parsons said.

  “This one’s 90, from Walker. Stephens here is . . . 85. Doc, there must be something wrong with the thermometers,” Richards said.

  As if in slow motion, Mingo leaned over, heading face first for the floor.

  Mitch managed to catch him in mid fall, and helped him gently to the floor. Mingo’s body shook like it danced with 2400 volts of electricity surging through him.

  “Doc!” Mitch yelped.

  Parsons and Richards dove to the aid of the fallen inmate. The body stopped shaking, and lay lifeless on the floor.