Cajun Zombie Chronicles (Book 2): Island Dead

by Smith, S. L.

  Copyright © 2019

  Scott L. Smith.

  All rights reserved.

  Cajun Zombie Chronicles: Book Two

  The Island Dead

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9983603-7-9 (Holy Water Books)

  HOLY WATER BOOKS

  At the unexpected horizons of the New Evangelization

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written permission of the author(s) and/or editor(s).

  Cover design by Holy Water Books

  Cajun Zombie Chronicles: Book Two

  THE ISLAND DEAD

  PROLOGUE: BROOKS PLANTATION

  CHAPTER ONE: THE TOWER

  CHAPTER TWO: PLAN CHICKEN

  CHAPTER THREE: THE BRIDGE

  CHAPTER FOUR: THINGS FALL APART

  CHAPTER FIVE: RINGLING BROTHERS

  CHAPTER SIX: THE CAMP

  CHAPTER SEVEN: BARNSTOKK

  CHAPTER EIGHT: OMAHA BEACH

  CHAPTER NINE: EVENTUALLY

  CHAPTER TEN: MOBY DEAD

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: LIVONIA

  CHAPTER TWELVE: THE RETURN

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: COFFEE AND CHICKENS

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: FENCE DUTY

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: TRANSMISSIONS

  EPILOGUE: WILSON

  PROLOGUE: BROOKS PLANTATION

  The five vehicles bumped along a dirt road. The road led back behind a line of large white homes that overlooked the glittering sweep of False River. The land beyond and behind the homes was filled with pastures and orchards. Beyond this, there lay a mile or more of thick woodland. It was creased here and there by shooting lanes for deer-hunting, but, other than this, it had been untouched for over a hundred years.

  The shadows of the trees fell across the line of vehicles as they followed the dirt road about a thousand yards into the forest. There, the dirt road formed a circle driveway around the old Moore plantation. The road grew quite a bit bumpier as the roots of ancient live oak trees emerged from the hard-packed soil. The caravan of trucks slowed to a stop. They had spaced themselves around the house so that they surrounded it on four sides, leaving the lead vehicle, Old Blue, pointing back out the direction they had come.

  Isherwood slid out the front seat of the Jeep that he had chosen from the dealership. It, along with two of the other vehicles, had been heavily modified for the world’s changed circumstances. Spare tires were mounted along the sides and back of the Jeep to provide for quick pit stops as well as a buffer between the car and oncoming swarms of the undead. Turrets had been cut in the rooftops of the Jeep, as well as Old Blue and an Escalade. Gun racks had been mounted on the insides of the vehicles, grill guards installed, chain link fencing installed along the windows, and they’d all been sprayed down with black paint. They had left the other two vehicles as-is. These were an armored troop transport and a Humvee that had been liberated from the local National Guard armory.

  Isherwood thumbed his radio on. “St. Mary’s, this is Isherwood. Whoever’s listening – I think we’ve found ourselves a new bug-out location. We’ve just arrived at the home of Brooks Moore. Over.”

  “Roger that.” A voice came back. It was Vanessa, a black woman that they’d found near death in what remained of the National Guard Armory. Miraculously, they had also found her boy, Le’Marcus, among very few other survivors. “I’ll tell Sara and the others. Over and out.” Click-shhh.

  Sara was Isherwood’s wife. She was the one who had directed the men to the Moore plantation to search as a possible weapons cache. The men were on their way to rescue Sara’s family, which were trapped at their camp in Whiskey Bay, surrounded by a massive swarm of thousands of zombies.

  The other men were getting out of their vehicles, too. There was Justin getting out of the Escalade with his trusty ArmaLite rifles. Justin and his family, as well as Patrick, who was driving Old Blue, and his family had been found by Isherwood about a week ago, as Isherwood was leading a long line of zombies out of the town like the Pied Piper of St. Maryville. They had been friends for years and were each extremely lucky to have survived, let alone together and with their families. This group of three men and their families had formed the nucleus of a small but growing community of survivors sheltering behind the high fences of St. Mary’s Church. The community was led by Monsignor Bellarmine, an older priest who had provided an indomitable spirit to the community as well as vision for its future.

  They had been joined only days ago by Father Simeon and Marshall, who were getting out of the Humvee and troop transport, respectively. Father Simeon, who was called “Padre” by most everyone, had been the young pastor of a church in Morganza, not far from St. Maryville. The others were slowly discovering that the priest, who always wore a black cassock, seemed to be strangely well-suited for the Apocalypse.

  Vanessa had achieved radio contact with Glenn LaGrange, Sara’s father trapped with his family at Whiskey Bay, within a day’s span of the men fighting off back to back calamities. The first had been the two or three thousand zombies belched out of the Mississippi River and advancing on St. Anne’s Church in Morganza. The second had been rescuing Isherwood’s daughter, Emma Claire, after she had been kidnapped by a radical group of survivors who had become, they later found out, something of a doomsday cult. The men and the community had weathered both of these calamities seemingly unscathed. However, their supplies of ammunition had been radically depleted just in time to hear Glenn’s calls for help.

  Now, as they traveled to Whiskey Bay, they were being slowed by the need to replenish their stores of ammo. There was just no telling how many zombies would need to be killed near Whiskey Bay, as it lay directly adjacent to the raised roadway of Interstate 10. They had developed a low-tech strategy to fight the zombies designed to use their own numbers and corpses against them. They would establish a kill zone at a specified radius, typically seventy-five yards from where they circled the wagons. There was still good skull penetration, they had found, at this range for their .22 rifles. Of course, after successfully employing this strategy several times, they were now mostly out of .22-caliber bullets. They would drop the zombies at seventy-five yards, where they would begin to mound up. Eventually, once the mound became difficult to climb, the zombies would start spilling around the edges. The piles of corpses would grow and grow until they formed a circular barricade all around their position. Once this happened, they’d just shoot the zombies’ heads as they crested the mounds.

  The raids they had already undertaken along the way had been oddly fruitful. Though they had raided the National Guard armory early on, they had yet to visit the police and sheriff’s stations. The police station, though otherwise destroyed in what appeared to be the officers’ last stand, was a veritable honey pot of 9mm ammunition. All of the police station’s firearms, whether pistol or rifle, had been made for 9mm, as well. They thanked God for the chief’s foresight, or whoever had made the decision to stick with the 9mm. Isherwood was especially grateful, as the score perfectly matched his own stockpile of pistol ammo. There were enough 9mm rifles found at the police station, in addition to what they already had – Justin’s AR-15 were sized for 9mm, as well – to fully re-equip each man of their group with two rifles. They had to alternate rifles due to over-heated during sustained use.

  Unlike the police station, the sheriff’s office had already been picked clean. This worried Isherwood, but there were signs that the sheriff’s armory had been raided early on during the apocalypse. This was now the third residence they had raided en route to Whiskey Bay. The raids had been fruitfu
l. These had been the homes of known hunters, but the rescue party had been slowed there by the burials.

  “Who lives here, again?” Patrick asked. “The Vampire Lestat?”

  Father Simeon called over to them in a hushed tone. He was rounding one corner of the large house and had stopped outside the carport. “Did y’all see these?” He asked, pointing with a Glock 19 to a row of two nearly brand new and matching Land Rovers and a much older work truck. He pressed a finger along the back window of the first Land Rover, and showed it to the others.

  “What is it, Padre?” Marshall asked approaching from around the other side of the house.

  “I’d say about two weeks of dust,” the priest answered. “Watch out. Possible suicides.”

  Isherwood had started climbing up the wide steps that led up to the back porch. A deep porch wrapped around the entire house and was raised a whole story above ground level. Isherwood’s booted feet made hollow, booming thuds on the steps as he ascended them. “Guess that works as well as knocking on the door,” Justin remarked on the heavy footfalls.

  Isherwood put one boot on the porch and waited. He stood still, listening for the clumsy sounds of undead within. There was some kind of movement, he decided. It wasn’t moving, though, so it must be isolated or confined.

  Isherwood had both feet on the gray boards of the porch now. The others were starting to follow him up the stairs behind him. The back door was broad and heavy. The top half of it was beveled glass, but easy enough to see through. He angled his head to stare into the crack between the door and the jam. Hmmph. He mumbled quizzically and reached for the oval brass door knob. It was unlocked! He turned back in surprise to the others. He turned the knob and, though it was a heavy oak door, it swung open smoothly and lightly.

  The door opened into a broad hallway that ran the full length of the house to the front door, which was a twin to the back door. A heavy fog of dust reflected in the light that shined through the two doors. Isherwood placed one tentative foot onto the dark, wide-planked floor boards of the hallway. There was only a soft thud, so he brought his other foot forward. This one creaked loudly, a deafening noise through the cavernous home.

  Instead of more heavy footfalls coming in behind him, Isherwood’s heart leapt as the pitter-pat of little feet erupted from the other end of the hallway. It was a little girl, barefoot, and in her night clothes. She was moving fast, just fast enough for Isherwood to question whether she was living or dead. The light of the front doorway cast her face in shadow. He didn’t know what was coming for him. He started backing up, retreating to the half-light of the porch.

  “What’cha got there?” Justin asked from the porch.

  “Not sure. Can’t see. Guns at the ready – she’s coming too fast.”

  They waited outside the door in a semi-circle. Their pistols were drawn and pointing low into the darkness of the open door. They waited. The sound of the bare feet grew softer and was gone.

  “Nah-uh,” Patrick grunted. “What was that?”

  “It was a little girl. Y’all didn’t see her?” Isherwood was shaking his head. “I would’ve bet she was one of them.”

  “I don’t know.” Marshall said. “They don’t usually stop coming, y’know?”

  “Shoot, man.” Patrick said with a look of revulsion. “I don’t want to go in some old Anne Rice house with little half-zombie girls running around, just waiting to jump out from old settees and rip out my Achilles’. It’s like Pet Sematary or something.”

  Justin rolled his eyes. “Well, thanks for putting that in my head.”

  “Think she could be feral?” Padre asked.

  “Feral?” Justin asked. “S’that some kind of new zombie?”

  “Nah,” Isherwood shook his head. He hadn’t taken his eyes on the doorway. “It’s like Nell, you know that weird movie with Jodie Foster. A wild child. I don’t, Padre. Could just be some kind of psychotic break. What the heck happened here?”

  “Only one way to find out.” Justin said leading the others through the door.

  “Right,” Isherwood said, following him into the hallway. “We need to get on to Whiskey Bay.”

  “We could just skip this place,” Marshall suggested. He was still standing on the porch, watching the line of trees that encircled the house.

  “If Sara’s right,” Isherwood said, turning into the house’s back parlor. “What we find here might be the difference between success and zombie food around I-10.”

  They were all soon inside the house. They had searched the first floor and found very little. There was a well-stocked kitchen and a refrigerator that was still cool on the inside. The rest of the floor was decorated with antiques, heirloom furniture, and window dressings, but nothing useful for wholesale zombie slaughter.

  Isherwood was back in the hallway and looking through the front door. Justin was standing near him, facing down the hallway. “No sign of that little girl, Isherwood. You sure that Jeep wasn’t pushing some monoxide through the vents? Some ‘shrooms, maybe? But, seriously, what if you saw a ghost – I mean, I’m open to believing a lot of new things since the dead starting walking.”

  “Dude,” Isherwood said shaking his head absentmindedly. “I don’t know what’s going on around here.”

  Heavy footfalls began converging on the hallway. Padre and Marshall entered the hallway from opposite sides. Marshall was shaking his head, indicating that the place was a bust. They just stood there looking at each other awkwardly for a moment until Padre wrinkled his brow, and asked, “Where’s Patrick?” His absence had apparently escaped everyone else’s notice.

  “That’s a very good question.” Isherwood said tilting his head to listen.

  “Wow, anyone else’s head feel funny?” Justin asked. “I’m not sure I would’ve even noticed he was missing, if you hadn’t said anything.”

  Marshall had turned to look behind him. “He was just in the dining room with me. It was just a second ago.” The other men followed Marshall into room. The table was set. Twelve place settings were symmetrically spaced around the long table. It must have been the family’s finest porcelain and crystal, or else the family was wealthy enough to have jettisoned the idea of casual dining. “He’s just gone.” Marshall said looking around the room.

  “Who’s gone?” A new voice asked suddenly. It was Patrick walking out of the shadowy corner of the dining room where two long ornate cupboards appeared to converge.

  “You, actually.” Padre said matter-of-factly.

  “My bad! Sorry, guys.” Patrick said excitedly. “I think I found something. That corner is sort of an optical illusion – the walls don’t exactly meet right and there’s a passage that –” He stopped speaking suddenly. If there had been more light, they might have seen the color drain from his cheeks.

  They all looked around to see what Patrick was seeing. They realized with a jolt that there was more than just the five men standing around the table. There was a shadow standing at the head of the table. Her small silhouette was illuminated by the dim light passing through the white gauze draped across the windows.

  The men were frozen by the shock of the moment. They started backing away almost unconsciously. They were moving towards Patrick and his corner. The girl must have sensed their fear and apprehension, and she lunged for the one nearest her. Isherwood and most of the others blinked at the violence of the child’s movements. They heard, rather than saw, what came next. There was a sharp smack and the girl was suddenly lost from view. Padre had been the one closest to her. He had moved quickly and decisively, knocking the girl’s head with the butt of his pistol.

  “Cold, Padre. Stone cold.” Justin was nodding in appreciation. “Glad you did that, ‘cause I was about to scream like a little girl.”

  “At least she’s not a ghost,” Isherwood added. “Zombies and humans are all I can handle right now.”

  Marshall rummaged something out of his pocket. “Here, use these.” They were two black plastic zip ties. “You know, for her
feet and hands.”

  “Dude,” Patrick complained. “It’s just a little girl.”

  Justin rounded on his friend. “Little girl? Did you not just see that? That little thing had fangs!”

  Padre quietly took the zip ties and secured the girl, also placing her in a chair so she would be comfortable. “Patrick? Tell me you’ve found the bat cave.”

  Patrick shook his head as if lost in fog. “Right, yeah. This way.”

  They followed Patrick into and through the corner of the room. The walls seemed to meet at the corner but didn’t, somehow. They passed around a wall into what first appeared to be a dark pit, but which they soon discovered, as the floor fell away beneath them, was a stairway.

  “Why did you even go down into all these freaky darkness, Patrick, with that little girl still running around?” Justin asked. “Pet Sematary, hello?”

  “Tell you the truth, I sorta fell into this thing, and—!” He said with a flourish. “There’s this.” As he said it, they abruptly became aware of the line of light at the bottom of a doorway at the foot of the stairs. The line grew suddenly larger, blinding them. As their eyes adjusted, they realized the room beyond was lit and with electric lights.

  “No friggin’ way,” Justin mumbled as his jaw slackened in awe and surprise. Marshall whistled as he clamped his hands around another stair railing as they overlooked the two-story expanse.

  Isherwood was nodding, dazed as before. “This oughta put us over the top for Whiskey Bay.”

  As they looked around, they tried to believe what they were seeing. All the various armories they had raided, including the trip to Wal-Mart, was maybe half of what they were now seeing. It was an enormous man cave. Despite being in southern Louisiana where the water table was basically at ground level, the basement they had entered included a sub-basement. They were surrounded by something of a museum. The walls were studded with examples of the best hunting rifles the world had to offer. Most all of the assembled weapons were modern, but they were several antique military pieces, as well. One wall was dedicated to hand-to-hand combat weapons.