Cajun Zombie Chronicles (Book 2): Island Dead

by Smith, S. L.

  “Mother of God!” Isherwood squealed. He was actually clapping his hands in giddiness like a school boy. “This is the only thing I’d trade my Louisville Slugger for,” he said, looking at a tall rack of swords. It was an international collection spanning several centuries of development. There was a short Roman sword, a gladius; a Scottish claymore, like the one Braveheart used in the movie; a Shaolin spade; a Roman pilum, a javelin-like spear; and an assortment of Samurai katanas.

  Isherwood was staring up at the three katanas. They were each labelled. The lowest one read “Heisei” and looked almost new. The label also read “Howard Clark”. The other two looked much older and we’re labelled “Taisho (WWI)” and “Showa (WWII)”.

  In the midst of his mirth and merriment, Justin sidled up to Isherwood. “You’ll shoot your eye out, kid,” he said, briefly shaking Isherwood out of his trance. “You, uh, know how to use any of this stuff?”

  “Those are legit katanas, man.” Isherwood said, pointing. “I’m pretty sure that claymore’s over five hundred years old, too.”

  “Cool, but can you use any of it? I know you’re pretty good with a bat, but this isn’t exactly a good time to start practicing, you know?”

  “I don’t know. I took some Aikido, went to an afternoon demonstration of Kempo. I know the basic motions. Thing is, Justin, these things might be virtually indestructible. Bats break. Guns are just clubs without bullets. But,” he said taking the Howard Clark down from the rack. “This could get me through a lot, a lot of zombies.”

  “Okay, yeah. Sure, so could a lightsaber.” Justin agreed. “But you actually drop one of those things and you’re out a leg or a kid, knowhaddamean?”

  Isherwood nodded at his friend and conceded that he was right. As he did so, he strapped the katana sword and scabbard across his back and placed his nicked and blood-stained Louisville Slugger in its place on the wall.

  “Hey, come check this out,” a voice suddenly boomed through the metal room. It was Father Simeon. He was looking down into a little sitting area, where a Chesterfield leather couch and two matching chairs were centered on a low coffee table. There was a thick drinking glass sitting on the table. A stain marred the wooden table beneath the glass, as though water had been allowed to sit there too long though it had long-since evaporated.

  “You mean, none of us noticed the smell of rot?” Patrick asked incredulously. “We’re getting too soft.” They were all staring down at a withered corpse of a balding man. He was no zombie. He had clearly died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to his head.

  “A suicide?” Justin roared. “Are you kidding me? This guy had everything, everything he needed to survive in the apocalypse and probably for as long as he wanted. All his doors were unlocked, too – no sign of zombies ever even coming out here. Didn’t even have to lift a finger to defend himself. What a waste.”

  Father Simeon spoke up in explanation, as he rarely did. “He had everything. Everything, but the will to live. No wonder that little girl upstairs went nuts. She was all alone in the house with the corpse of her father.”

  Isherwood was shaking his head. “But there were two.”

  “Two?” Marshall asked. “Two what?”

  “Two Land Rovers.” Isherwood answered. “That couldn’t have been an extra, just for the heck of it. That little girl wasn’t driving anything. I’m thinking there’s still more in the house, probably was married.”

  “Yeah? So,” Justin dismissed the idea. “We’ll probably just find her in similar condition beside a long gone glass or bottle of whiskey. She’s probably upstairs all dried out in a claw-footed bathtub.”

  “I’m just saying,” Isherwood put up a hand. “That little girl’s likely been running around with the corpses of both parents just staring back at her. No wonder she’s gone ‘round the bend. What d’we do with her?”

  “All we can,” Padre answered simply. “And for as long as we can. She might even surprise us.”

  Justin kicked the corpse’s leather seat. “Thanks, buddy. You just check out, and we’re left picking up the pieces.”

  “Yeah,” Isherwood smiled. “But they’re some really nice pieces, right? These supplies will get us through Whiskey Bay, most likely, and keep us afloat for a long, long time. Just those katanas are a treasure. Besides, the girl might just come out of it.”

  “Sure,” Patrick smiled uncertainly. “And pour strychnine down the well.”

  “It’s cool.” Marshall shrugged. “She can ride in the troop transport. We can lock her in and she can howl as much as she wants. No one gonna hear her over that diesel engine.”

  Isherwood nodded. “You heard the man. Let’s start loading up. If we can find another 10,000 rounds for the .22LRs and the 9mms, I think we’ll be good. We can round that out with specialty ammo if you take a liking to something, but let’s try to stick to guns of same or similar calibers.” At his instructions, the other four men started spreading back out again. Justin had already found a little cart for wheeling loads to the stairways. “Oh hey, did anyone see any manufacturing stuff?”

  Brooks had apparently preferred the .44 caliber firearms to the 9mm, like Isherwood. One entire wall was dedicated to the caliber. There were about twenty magnum pistols, some long barrel antique and modern Colts, as well as two pairs of the Smith & Wesson Model 29 along with an array of holsters. “Dude, must’ve been a Dirty Harry fan, eh?” Justin remarked.

  “You feel lucky?” Patrick laughed. “Well, do ya, punk?”

  Along with the revolvers, there were about fifteen .44 magnum caliber lever-action rifles. There was a pair of Henry Big Boys, which looked to be straight out of the Wild West, with their shiny brass receivers and octagonal barrels. Padre asked if anybody minded if he claimed these.

  “No problem, Padre.” Patrick winked. “They go well with that cassock. Sort of a Two Mules for Sister Sara look.”

  Isherwood passed back by the .44 caliber wall a few minutes later pushing a load of 9mm ammo boxes. “Good God.” He stammered. Father Simeon had found a double back harness for the Henry rifles and a double holster and gun and ammo belt for the revolvers. “That’s just about the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” Isherwood said, inspecting the harness and how the rifles were held inside the leather sheaths. “Man, that’s awesome. And don’t let anybody tell you brown leather doesn’t go with black. We’ll just let those kinds of rules collapse with civilization.”

  “Agreed,” Padre nodded. “And I’m bringing back beer with breakfast. Speaking of, if we’re building a monastery at St. Mary’s – what’s a monastery without a brewery?”

  “That’s like some true blue Holy Spirit talking right there, man.” Isherwood was smiling and nodding. His head jerked to the side suddenly, distracted by a thought. He held up a finger and walked away mumbling about the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

  “Man,” Patrick was saying, as Padre joined him in a massive storage closet along the armory’s back wall. He was looking up at a two-story mountain of white plastic 20-gallon buckets filled with rice and grains. “That’s a lot of gumbo.”

  Padre was laughing. “Look at these,” he said, opening another bucket full of vacuum-sealed seed packets.

  “Whoa, Father.” Patrick said, turning in the priest’s direction. “That’s like the most BA apocalypse uniform I’ve ever seen.”

  “Cowabunga, dudes!” Isherwood said, smiling like an idiot from the other side of the doorway. Copying Padre, he had found a double back harness for the katana samurai swords he had found earlier. He had taken the Howard Clark and the World War II Showa-period swords, leaving the third one for another day.

  “Leonardo, right?” Justin said, walking up from behind. “I can respect that. Just please never say ‘totally tubular’. Okay, turtle power?”

  After another hour or so of work, they had loaded up the additional munitions and added some additional rations to their supplies. They had also carried out the surprisingly ferocious girl. Miraculously, Padre had succee
ded in getting her to eat and drink something, but the momentary armistice ended quickly. She started lunging at them, snapping her teeth like one of the undead. She actually tore a piece out of Marshall’s shirt. Regretfully, they ended up strapping her to an ironing board and gagging her. They laid her in the bed of the troop transport.

  Padre asked for a moment with her and also asked for Isherwood to join him. The priest brought a small book out from the folds of his cassock and began praying over the girl. From another pocket, he brought out a small bottle of holy water. He asked Isherwood to get out the rosary that he knew Isherwood kept in his pocket and to pray it beside him. Isherwood realized soon thereafter that Padre was exorcising the little girl, or at least beginning to. They would repeat this procedure several times over the next couple of days.

  “Alright, my brothers,” Isherwood said when they had finished packing in the last load. “The next stop is Whiskey Bay, except I’d like to make one last pit stop on the way.”

  CHAPTER ONE: THE TOWER

  Whiskey Bay was less than an hour’s drive from the plantation home under pre-zombie conditions. It took the men considerably more time as many of the back roads they had chosen needed clearing. There were car wrecks everywhere.

  The majority of Sara’s family property lay directly south of Interstate 10. The interstate was mostly one long bridge through this particular stretch of southern Louisiana. There was a mainland portion of their property, but the larger part was called “the Island.” It wasn’t exactly island, but it was surrounded by the Atchafalaya River. The Atchafalaya curved around its western side, while a manmade pilot channel ran straight along its eastern side. The pilot channel was made to divert water from the Atchafalaya and provide a more navigable waterway. The river and the pilot channel re-converged at the southern end of the Island.

  After a full day and a half or preparations, side trips, and back roads since leaving St. Mary’s, they caught sight of smoke rising from the interstate. They had braved Highway 190 after leaving Livonia. This had been the only major road they had taken. They traveled west on it for around twelve miles. They had tried traveling on the Old Highway 190 which paralleled it for a couple miles, but the newer, straighter road proved to be the safer option. Old Blue was still at the head of their caravan and Patrick was driving it. Isherwood had instructed him to stop before any rise in the roadway. He was especially wary of road blocks and ambushes on the highway. Patrick would stop whenever his sight lines for the road ahead were obstructed to less than a half mile. When this happened, one vehicle – usually Isherwood in the Jeep – would scout ahead.

  There was an orange flare gun in each vehicle’s glove box. Thankfully, none were needed for their short trip down Highway 190. Even the wrecks in the road were easy enough to drive around. Isherwood found himself wishing that they would encounter somebody – there’s just no way the pandemic was this widespread. Just how rare had it been for them to survive?

  The caravan came to a full stop when the Krotz Springs double bridge appeared in the distance. It was a natural choke point. If some band of thugs wanted to set up a barricade, this would be the spot. They would not be crossing the bridge, but they would be in range of it as they veered south along the east bank of the Atchafalaya River. From here, they would be taking 975, the river road that followed along the Atchafalaya south through the Sherburne Wildlife Management Area and Atchafalaya National Wildlife Refuge, or at least what used to be refuges.

  “Nah, I can’t see anything, either.” Justin said, looking through the scope of a rifle he’d laid across the hood of the modified Cadillac Escalade he was driving.

  Isherwood nodded and lifted his face from his own scope. “Alright, good enough for me.”

  “Glad we’re not going through Krotz Springs,” Patrick said, getting back in Old Blue. “Place never felt right. Speed trap and all.”

  “They were all bad along this stretch.” Justin agreed. “Wouldn’t mind just hauling butt over that bridge and through town going around ninety or a hundred, just cause.”

  “Maybe next time?” Isherwood asked, closing the Jeep door without waiting for an answer. The rest of them followed suit. As expected, they encountered no resistance as they turned off Highway 190 and onto 975. The biggest obstacle they encountered in the mostly deserted wildlife refuge was a buck chasing a doe across the roadway. They ran right out the woods towards the Pilot Channel, passing inches in front of the giant grill of the troop transport vehicle. Marshall slammed on the brakes and Padre nearly rear-ended the transport. The deer barely noticed as they swept through.

  *****

  The caravan parked in the middle of gravel roadway beside a cell phone tower. The vehicles formed a diamond pattern around the large Army transport truck they had liberated from the National Guard armory nearly a week ago. Old Blue parked out front, as always, while Isherwood’s Jeep and Justin’s Escalade parked on either side of the transport truck. Padre parked behind the transport in the Humvee.

  Marshall got out of the transport and switched positions with Isherwood, getting into the Jeep. Isherwood closed the driver’s side door and left the Jeep. He walked up to the gate of the chain-link fence that surrounded the base of the cell phone and radio tower. They were still about a mile north of I-10 and only slightly northeast of the camp where Glenn and the rest of Sara’s family were trapped.

  They were in the middle of the Sherburne Wildlife Management Area. Just the right spot, Isherwood thought to himself, for a massive cell phone tower. The tower was massive. Standing at the gate, Isherwood looked up at it, shielding his eyes from the bright sky. He had read on the various maps he’d managed to put together that the tower rose over 150 feet.

  Isherwood left the gate and walked back over to the Jeep. He opened the back tailgate to retrieve the set of bolt cutters. “Padlock?” Justin asked from the turret of the Escalade.

  “Yeah,” Isherwood answered. “Thank God, too. I didn’t want to be climbing over that razor wire.”

  “Yeah, buddy. It’s up to you to repopulate the earth.”

  “You okay climbing that thing?” Padre asked.

  Isherwood tried putting on a nonchalant ain’t-no-thing face, but gave up. “Yup. Got to. We talked about it, and I’m the only one that has the slightest chance of recognizing the landmarks from up there. None of y’all have ever even been to the camp, except you, Justin, and that was only once. I’m not gonna lie – y’all better grab your umbrellas, because that’s not gonna be rain that comes sprinkling down. It’s gonna be my pee. My knees are already all wibbly-wobbily.”

  After about another half an hour, Isherwood clipped his harness to the ladder at over one hundred feet. He had climbed as high as his knees would let him. Even though he was tied off, he kept one gloved hand gripped tight to the ladder. He turned ever so slightly and caught a stiff wind. He flung his free hand back to the rung of the ladder. After a moment and a couple more “Hail Marys,” he again let his left hand drop down again. He slowly turned to face Interstate 10 at his back.

  The interstate stretched for miles and miles, from horizon to horizon. He couldn’t believe how high one hundred and fifty feet had taken him into the air. He felt like he could see clear to Texas on a clear day. Isherwood figured he must be five times as high as the St. Mary’s bell tower. He was almost as high as the tops of the towers supporting the Audubon Bridge, which they had led the long snake of zombies across just over a week ago. Had it been only a week?

  His stomach lurched as he thought about how high he was. He pushed the contents of his stomach back down and forced his swirling vision to clear. He dared not look directly down beyond his feet. What he saw stretching out behind him was enough.

  Isherwood had thought he’d seen just about as many zombies as a person could see. He had been so wrong. From the crew he’d led across the bridge to Pickett’s charge at the levee to, just a day or so ago, the swarm coming out of the spillway, he must have dealt with at least five thousand by now. But the
re were still so many more below him.

  As he looked down now, he couldn’t believe the wreckage contained in just one thin strip of roadway. Thin strands of smoke were rising diagonally into the sky from charred wrecks. After all this time, the smoke was still rising. Isherwood could even see flames still spilling out of cars along the roadway. He thought maybe one burned into the next, like a long fuse running all the way to Lafayette or Baton Rouge. The cities sat on either horizon. Thick smoke hung like black shrouds over both of them.

  He was still quite a distance from the interstate. He squinted, but still couldn’t see any sign of the undead. There was something odd about the roadway, though, like the hazy mirage that hangs around a gasoline fire. There was a strange sort of movement along the roadway. He put his binoculars up to his eyes, but he still couldn’t make anything out except for the small lumps of cars – but wait. As his eyes adjusted, he began to understand what he was seeing.

  It was like the videos he’d seen of the ocean floor, where endless fields of kelp or seagrass or whatever just drifted back and forth moved by unseen currents.

  He could see the tops of the cars like flat squares, but not the sides.

  The realization of what he was seeing struck him like a thunder bolt. The funny movement was them, moving listlessly side to side. They were just standing and waiting, some of them. Others seemed to be slowly groping their way toward one horizon or the other. Some seemed to be just drifting back and forth, as though first pulled toward the flames of Lafayette then slowly being distracted backward by Baton Rouge burning. Maybe it was the vibrations of explosions carried along the roadway that drew them first in one direction and then the other, alternating endlessly. They were completely filling the interstate like a slow-moving river pressing past and submerging the endless lines of cars and trucks like small islands in the stream.