Cajun Zombie Chronicles (Book 2): Island Dead

by Smith, S. L.

  “Just the essentials,” Patrick smiled.

  “Think we can launch the boat right here?” Isherwood asked them as they walked under the little roof that the boat was stored under.

  “Maybe,” Marshall answered appearing from inside the cabin of the sport fishing boat. “Can one of y’all wade out into the water to check the depth?”

  “Don’t think we’ll have the time,” Patrick said pointing back up the roadway. They all looked. They could see between the two neighboring camps and through to the road as it curved away to the south. A sizeable crowd of zombies had emerged, drawn either by the moans of their brethren or the sound of the boat motor.

  “Alright,” Marshall said. The sound of panic was audible in his voice, though still far off. “Y’all knock away those blocks behind the tires of the trailer. We’ll roll her right in. The trailer will just have to take care of itself.”

  After throwing their bags of gear haphazardly into the boat, they began pushing the trailer backward toward the water. There was only a slight slope and not much of a bank. It look like the trailer would just roll backward without much issue. “You released all the straps, right?” Isherwood asked Marshall.

  “Yup, nothing keeping this boat on this trailer but gravity.” Marshall nodded. “Ought to float right off. Trailer will get pretty moist, though, I’d imagine.”

  “Crap!” Patrick said, pointing to the oncoming zombies. He was struggling with the others to both push the trailer backward and push in down, keeping it level and balanced. “They’re spilling down the little hill coming off the road. Coming faster.”

  The back half of the trailer was now cantilevered over the water. The wheels of the trailer finally rolled into the water, and they found that the bank started dropping off precipitously. The trailer started rolling on its own without needing to be pushed, and the four men started slipping against the wet grass of the bank chasing after the trailer. The grass quickly turned into slick mud.

  “Whoa-ho, guys.” Marshall yelled. “Jus’ let her go. Let her do her thing.”

  Whether they wanted to or not, they had to let the trailer go. Justin slid onto his back into the water, though he only sank a few feet. The trailer quickly disappeared into the depths of the water. They saw it turn a bit into the current before it disappeared altogether. The boat bobbed a little, but slid right out into open water. Marshall went to the motor to crank it back up again before it was lost to the current.

  Just as Marshall started turning the ignition key in the crew quarters, Justin felt a tug on his leg below the waterline. He was still laying on his back, with just his head and kneecaps sticking out of the water. “Ah, hell!” He yelled, trying to crawl backwards out of the water.

  A head burst out from the water between Justin’s legs. The flesh as well as water was dripping from the zombie’s water-logged face. Putrid water poured from its open mouth, as it gurgled a choked and soggy moan. A hand reached out to Justin’s face. The flesh was almost entirely rotted off. The fingers were just bare phalange bones.

  BLLLARRONNG!! A shot rang out, briefly quieting the splashing water and oncoming moans. Isherwood looked back to see Padre standing at the bank with smoke rising from the rifle he had pulled from across his back. “Nice, Padre!” Isherwood called out. Padre just nodded and re-slung the rifle into its harness.

  Justin was still scrambling backward and onto the bank. The others were getting ready to wade towards the boat, assuming Marshall could get it back to them. “Whoa, whoa, whoa –!” Justin was stammering. “Wait – hey! Don’t go in there. There were other hands. Other things scratching at me.”

  “Maybe so, but we ain’t got much of a choice. Look.” Isherwood answered pointing backward. There were about twenty or thirty zombies within ten yards of the bank, and possibly a hundred more pressing in behind them.

  “Screw that.” Justin said, looking around madly. “You don’t get it. Look – get in that. Over there!” He was pointing to a little flat-bottomed piroque boat. It had no motor, but there was a paddle, possibly. “Don’t get too close, Marshall!” Justin was yelling at the boat beginning to work its way back upstream.

  The piroque was half-submerged along the other end of the property, near the property line with the neighbor. The men made a break for it as the line of zombies closed in. They turned it over. Padre was muttering a prayer or blessing, probably that the boat had no leaks.

  Isherwood was the last to get on board. He pushed them off into the water. He didn’t look back, but looking forward all the rifles and pistols seemed to be aimed at him. He tried keeping his eyes open as they opened fire. They were aiming all around him, but it felt like a firing line. He thought Justin might’ve even been aiming between Isherwood’s legs. He fought hard against instinct to lunge toward the gunfire, but he couldn’t. He lost his footing and tripped towards the boat. His head hit the side of the boat. Bewildered, he regained consciousness choking on a mouthful of water. He felt hands pulling at him from opposite directions. He hoped to God that the right direction won.

  Eventually, Isherwood opened his eyes to the blue sky. He was lying face up along the bottom of the boat, but there was water sloshing against the sides of his head. He was alternately deafened, one ear at a time, as the water lolled back and force. He could hear Justin’s and Patrick’s voices. They were speaking calmly, and he was instantly reassured.

  He sat upright at the bottom of the boat, rubbing his head. He immediately noticed that the water he had been lying in – it was just a little too deep for the sake of comfort. Patrick was doing his best with the oar, but they had been taken swiftly into the current. He saw, too, that the other boat was not far off now. He could hear Marshall shouting instructions now. He tapped the water from his ear canals and could hear even better.

  “Y’all be quick,” Marshall was saying. “When I bring her in, the swell of water will likely capsize that little guy, especially seeing as how it’s half-sunk already.”

  “Alright, we got it.” Patrick answered back. “Ish, you got all that?”

  Isherwood squinted towards what he thought was Patrick and nodded. He began shifting his legs into a squatting position. Padre was up and over the side of the larger boat before Isherwood even realized the boat was close enough. The priest had no problem with the climb despite the long black cassock. The rifles stayed secured in their holsters at his back.

  Justin and Patrick guided Isherwood as he grabbed the railing of the fishing boat. They helped boost him up and over. The upward pressure brought water spilling over the sides of the piroque. They jumped up together against the side of the boat. Isherwood tumbled over onto the deck, while Padre helped pull Justin and Patrick up into the boat.

  As they all sat huddled and catching their breath on the deck of the boat, squeezing in between the heavy sacks of ammo and supplies, they were watching the short stretch of shoreline they had just narrowly escaped from. The swarm of zombies was rushing headlong into the water after them. They seemed completely unaware of the water. Their eyes never wavered from the men and the boat, even as they slipped under the water. The water by the shore also seemed unaware of the rush of walking corpses. It wasn’t churning, as with a hoard of swimmers rushing off the beach. The water was unnaturally still. Soon, there would be no sign at all of what lay beneath the surface.

  CHAPTER THREE: THE BRIDGE

  The Interstate 10 bridge soon loomed overhead. It stood large on the horizon as soon as they turned their attention away from the shoreline, where the zombies were still spilling into the water after them.

  “Does this thing have a horn on it? Like a foghorn or something?” Isherwood asked. He had quickly forgotten the blow to his head, even though a lump was steadily swelling from his scalp. As he watched the zombies spilling into the water after him, he again felt the rush of anxiety for his in-laws. Though they were only in-laws, they were family to him. Now that the rescue party had arrived, more or less, he was itching to sound the trumpets and relieve the
siege. He smiled, whispering to himself that the cavalry had arrived.

  “Be my guest,” Marshall answered from the captain’s seat behind the wheel. “I think it’s that one,” he said pointing to a switch on the console just under the marine compass.

  “Sweet,” Isherwood smiled. “Let’s get this thing started.” He looked ahead to the bridge so he could watch the reaction of the zombies to the horn. Even before he flipped the switch, he saw the silhouette of a body tumbling over the side of the bridge. He flipped the switch.

  The horn sounded small as it echoed across the rumbling Pilot Channel. It was little more than a car horn. It did the trick, though. More bodies started falling over the side of the bridge.

  “Man, we need something louder than that, right?” Patrick was asking from the afterdeck.

  “How about some live bait?” Isherwood mumbled as he climbed the ladder to the fishing tower about the cabin. Holding onto the rail, he started hollering and carrying on, beckoning the zombies to come to the boat.

  “Hey, this oughta do the trick,” Marshall said rummaging through the cabinets inside the cabin. Isherwood’s screams were soon overwhelmed by a much louder blaring sound. Marshall had stepped out of the cabin to lean over the side rail of the boat.

  Isherwood jumped at the sound of the fog horn, nearly losing his footing and falling from the platform. The fog horn echoed against the sides of the Pilot Channel and down the waterway, to the bridge and beyond. By the time Marshall had released the trigger, the sound of the moans was already gathering in strength. The thousands of zombies up and down the interstate moaned in reply. The sound of the horn was like a rock being thrown into the middle of a still pond. The moans rippled outward for miles.

  “Wow.” Isherwood said, climbing back down from the fishing tower. “That oughtta do it. Now, I sure hope we’ve got a good anchor or we just signed our own death warrant.”

  The four men all looked around. Confusion and then panic seized their faces. They could see no anchor.

  “Anchor?” Marshall asked. “Oh yeah, that should be up there,” he said, pointing forward. Sure enough, there was an anchor and a windlass mounted to the front deck of the boat. “Let me get a little closer to the bridge first. If we anchor here and slowly feed out line all the way to the bridge, this current might smack us from bank to bank.”

  “Oh yeah, just a little closer. No big.” Justin said shaking his head. He was spinning back and forth in a vinyl chair mounted on the deck.

  Isherwood climbed over to where the anchor was secured. He let out a big sigh of relief, and then tilted his head in thought. “Hey, this thing got a radio?” He said turning back to Marshall. The older man nodded and pointed to an area on the console just beside Isherwood’s hand. “Oh,” he said. “I see.”

  Isherwood turned his head to the others, but it was just Justin still sitting on the vinyl seat and Patrick rummaging through the supply bags. Padre had disappeared. “What the heck?” He said, dropping the radio handset and looking overboard.

  “What?” Justin said, still swiveling in place. “Oh, Padre went below decks or whatever you say in ship jargon.”

  “Huh?” Isherwood said, looking at Justin like he was a mad man. “But this thing’s too small for below–”

  “Look through the little door there.” Justin said pointing. The door was right beside Isherwood.

  “What? How’d they get by me? I was right here.”

  “Dude, did you hit your head or something?” Justin said chuckling. He winked at Patrick.

  “Yeah, actually.”

  “Why don’t you come sit down, buddy.” Justin said, standing up to give up his seat to Isherwood.

  “Nah, that’s okay. If it is a concussion, I better stay active. I’ll stay over here with the radio. Can you or Patrick try contacting the camp with the portable radio? Or have you already done that and I missed it?”

  “Yeah, we did that like five minutes ago, dude.” Justin said, irritated. “Just kidding. You’re not that far gone. Yeah, we’ll help out with the radio.”

  “Good Lord,” Patrick said, looking up from the bags. The other two turned to see Marshall climbing up onto the forward deck of the boat to drop the anchor. But that wasn’t what Patrick was pointing at. The bridge was now only about two hundred yards away. They could see the zombies reaching for them from the bridge deck. They were in a frenzy, scrambling over the sides to get to them. They were falling into the channel now, dozens at a time. There was a steady stream of them falling over the side.

  Isherwood caught a glimpse of one falling head first into the water. Though it was still too far away, he felt like he connected eyes with it for just a split second. Even as it fell, it was still reaching for him, completely oblivious to the water or the impact below.

  Few resurfaced. There was no trail of zombies treading water as they were forced downstream. They appeared to just sink, as though weighted down. But on the far side of the bridge, the water became more turbulent. Clumps of zombies came roiling back up to the surface, only to re-submerge. The channel was washing away their filth and rot.

  The zombies were filling the banks, as well. The undead were staggering straight down the bank into the water, just as they had where they had launched the boat.

  “My God, it can’t be this easy, can it?” Patrick asked.

  “Dude!” Justin yelled indignantly. He threw an empty beer can at his friend, even as Padre re-emerged from below decks. “Don’t say stuff like that. You’ll jinx us.”

  Padre was admiring the scene, as well. His gaze drifted from the bridge down to Marshall. They were still edging closer and closer to the bridge. “Marshall?” Padre asked. “How’s that anchor coming?”

  “You see?” Justin said, cursing. “What’d I tell you? You hear Padre? He never says anything unless something terrible is happening. Now something’s gonna happen. Mark it.”

  “S’all good,” Marshall called back. He was beginning to crawl back across the forward deck to the cabin.

  “Uh-huh.” Patrick said, mocking Justin.

  “Just saw the first tug on the anchor line.” Marshall continued. “Hold on to something. The anchor’s about to spin us around.”

  “Did he just say hold on?” Justin asked. “Yup, ‘hold on,’ he says. That’s how it begins. Then there’s yelling and screaming.”

  “You keeping the motors on through this?” Isherwood asked ignoring Justin. “Just idling?”

  “Yeah, thought it’d be good to draw them in. And if’n we get in a jam, we can just drive back up the channel.”

  All went according to their plan. The just sat there watching the zombies hurtle themselves off the bridge. The original trickle of plummeting undead at the center of the bridge broadened across nearly the whole channel, as the oncoming throngs grew thicker and thicker. Zombies even came falling off the far side of the bridge, likely pushed off by the onslaught of undead pushing in from both directions.

  After another half hour or so, Isherwood finally figured out he was trying to make contact with his in-laws’ camp using a marine radio and not a CB. Luckily, the radio was a combination job. Marshall showed him how to switch frequencies, and within ten minutes, he’d made contact.

  He heard a crackle of static on the radio and a fuzzy voice. After reporting his frequency, the voice on the other end grew much clearer. “Glenn? Is this Glenn? Missy? Over. Click-shhh.”

  “This is Glenn, Isherwood. About time y’all showed up! Click-shhh.” At the sound of his voice, the others started hollering, excited that the other group was still alive.

  “So glad to hear your voice, Mr. Glenn! How are the Z’s at the camp? Over. Click-shhh.”

  “Hey, whatever y’all’re doing is working. They’ve started drifting off. We’re almost to the point where we could clear them off ourselves. If we’d eaten, anyway. Click-shhh.”

  “Roger that.” Isherwood replied. “We’ll keep it up for now. Maybe even until morning, depending on gas. Y’all gonna be
able to meet us or do we need to come and get you? Over. Click-shhh.”

  “I think y’all had better swing by the camp. Click-shhh.”

  “Roger that. We’ll hurry, okay? Over. Click-shhh.”

  “Good. Please do.” The radio stopped crackling and Glenn said no more.

  “Dang.” Isherwood said, shaking his head. “They didn’t sound too good at all. There’s gotta be a way I can just slip ashore with a pack of food without drawing attention. Bringing them to the channel would be a heck of a lot easier than vice-versa, right?”

  “Look, man.” Patrick said. “I get that you want to charge in, but we’ve got to stick together. We may need to carry some of them out on stretchers.”

  “We may need to bury some of them if I don’t bring them some food.” Isherwood shot back.

  “Okay, let’s think this through,” Justin said. “You go in to deliver emergency food and then we follow you in once the zombies are cleared out. How do we find the camp? You’re the only one that can get us there.”

  “That’s no problem.” Isherwood answered. “Glenn could give you directions from the Interstate.”

  “We don’t want directions from the Interstate.” Padre answered. “That’s the last route we’d want to take inland.”

  “From the pipeline, then.” Isherwood continued. “Just as good.”

  “Pipeline?” Patrick asked. “What pipeline?”

  “That big ol’ sucker on the far side of the bridge?” Marshall asked.

  “That’s the one,” Isherwood answered. “Y’all see it, too?” He pointed to a two- or three-foot diameter pipe suspended about thirty feet from the water, about level with the bridge. Long cables ran from the pipe sections up to two tall towers on either bank. The towers rose high into the air, as tall or taller as the cell phone tower had been. From where the pipeline emerged from the ground on one side of the Pilot Channel to where it submerged on the Island, it likely stretched over a mile.